The look of sheer masculine confidence on his face and in his posture suddenly comforted her, and made her glad he'd be on her side as they hunted down the devil. She wasn't quite ready to admit that to him yet.
"Well, what do you say we get down to work?” Katrina began combining similar supplies in order to streamline the organization process. “We should be ready to meet our contact by one, don't you think?"
"I'd say so."
Powell assessed her with an admiring gaze. Chills ran down her spine as he watched her. It wasn't so much the gaze itself, but what, exactly, he was observing and admiring. Deciding to believe it was her skill and not her body, she continued to work under the scrutiny.
"What?” After about five minutes, her nerves snapped.
"What what? I'm minding my own business, helping you decide what goes and what stays."
"Bull patooey."
"Bull patooey?” His voice rang with laughter.
"You heard me.” Straightening her back, she fisted her hands on her hips. “Why are you watching me?"
A smile curved up the corners of his kissable lips—she had to stop thinking those thoughts—as wicked thoughts flashed in his eyes and across his face before he shuttered down. The man must be a horrible poker player. “I'm merely learning about you. Studying how you move and react so I can respond quickly in the event of an emergency."
Oh, no, he didn't mean just for her safety. She read the body language and facial clues. The man was attracted to her. Big time.
She squelched the hormonal happy dance that broke out at the very notion.
"Well stop it. We need to inventory everything and decide what we need yet. Then we need to be at the office on time."
"Yes, ma'am.” He snapped a salute. “Whatever you say, ma'am."
Lord help her. Their killer had better be an idiot, because if she had to spend too much time alone with Braedon Powell, she'd kill him.
But not before she jumped his bones.
Chapter 2
Braedon's heart raced, threatening to pound out of his chest. Bolting to an upright position in bed, he didn't notice the sweat-soaked sheet clinging to his hips. The dark room obscured his surroundings, forcing him to struggle to orient himself. His heightened senses took in the sounds of city nightlife and the faint smell of humid city air.
Philadelphia. He was in his bedroom in his apartment on the outskirts of the University City section. He was no longer with Air Force Special Operations. He was an FBI Special Agent.
His breathing slowed to normal, until the sensation of running a marathon lugging a full survival pack faded. The painful burn on inhaling disappeared; he no longer waited for his heart to explode out of his chest.
Ten years. It had been more than ten years since his Commanding Officer strode into the conference room where Braedon and several other members of the squadron debriefed, hashing over the details of their just completed training mission. The CO had excused the others, leaving Braedon alone, with a sinking feeling settling in his stomach. He hadn't felt that nauseous since he'd stepped off a roller coaster at one of the Orlando theme parks, or since the chaplain at the Air Force Academy called him out of class to tell him that his sister Margaret had died in a car accident.
Braedon could still hear the soft words, as if his old CO sat in front of him, stoic and grim. The other helicopter involved in the training exercise went down. Not sure why at this time. The pilot and co-pilot were killed on impact.
The co-pilot had been his fiancée, Serena, a kick-ass pilot in one of the other squadrons.
In the months after the January accident, the nightmare had haunted him, invaded his sleep and kept him awake. Over the years, the frequency diminished, but the intensity when it did strike never lessened.
Why now? He hadn't had the dream in over a year. He thought he'd finally moved past the sick subconscious need to relive that horrific moment over and over again.
He knew the answer to that question. The dreaded anniversary date loomed. They were supposed to have married on the first of September, a date two weeks away. That first September, existing through the actual day had been almost unbearable. He still didn't know how he'd made it. But he had. Some years, the date passed by without so much as a twinge, until, remarkably, it was the middle of the month. He feared he wouldn't be so lucky this go-round, on what should have been their tenth anniversary.
Kicking away the sheet, he headed for the living room and his laptop. Insomnia was a foregone conclusion, learned from years of wakefulness after the nightmare, so he'd make the most of the early morning hours. Booting up his computer, he stretched out on the couch and settled the lightweight machine on his lap. Searching through the websites he'd bookmarked, he checked for any updates or advisories about the conditions on the Appalachian Trail.
First thing in the morning, he'd pick up Katrina and they'd head west. They were scheduled to meet with their task force contact, a local Pennsylvania State Police trooper, at noon at the state police barracks near a large outdoor store. He'd heard nothing but amazing things about the mega-retailer and was anxious to check it out while purchasing the few supplies they lacked. Then they'd be dropped off at a parking area near a little town called Port Clinton and begin their journey. The town was just south of one of the murder sites, and they'd hike north and east until they'd investigated all four. Along the way, they planned to chat up the thru-hikers to see if anyone had noticed anything out of the ordinary.
After clicking through several reliable sites on the Appalachian Trail, he learned that the biggest problem facing them was vandalism at some of the parking areas. No big deal for them since his truck would be safely secured back at the police barracks. He continued to surf through sites until he heard his alarm go off in the bedroom. Shutting down his laptop, he smacked at his alarm until it stopped beeping and climbed into the shower.
Hopefully tonight he'd be too tired to dream, much less have nightmares.
An hour later, Braedon double parked his truck in front of Katrina's building and buzzed her. Hopping back behind the wheel, he waited. He caught sight of her feet first, in her decidedly unsexy hiking boots. The rest of her legs were gloriously bare, all the way up to mid-thigh. There shouldn't have been anything sexy about her practical loose-fitting shorts or her sensible tank top. But there was. Victoria and her secrets had just been replaced as his favorite masturbatory fantasy. Her sports bra strap peeked out from the neckline of her top, teasing him with flashes of white against the olive drab green. Her backpack thrust her chest forward, putting what he'd bet were perfect size B's on display.
No. No. No.
He'd learned his lesson. He'd taken a vow of celibacy after the fiasco with the colonel's daughter, Greta. Being led around by his dick had cost him one career, it wasn't about to cost him another.
She pushed through the double doors of her building. With brains and beauty, she had two legs of an ultimate woman trifecta. Hopefully, being forced into close proximity with her would reveal a serious personality flaw, reminding him the only perfect woman for him had long since been torn from his life.
Swinging his legs, he slid from the cab to help Katrina with her backpack. He crossed in front of the truck to her side.
"I love punctuality.” She smiled up at him, pretty as she pleased.
He hadn't realized how short she actually was, with the top of her head just reaching his chin. She looked much less intimidating without her power suit and pumps, and with her hair snagged back in a ponytail. The Special Agent in Charge, Griffin, had charged Braedon with keeping Boyd safe. Two days ago, he'd wondered why the hell the man thought she needed protection; today he had his answer. There was actually a woman inside the armor she donned every day.
Damn.
"Thirteen years on active duty, most of those on special ops, taught me the importance of being on time.” He tugged open the passenger door for her, waiting while she deposited her pack next to his in the truck bed. So much for needing his
help.
"Thank you.” A genuine smile crossed her face as she grabbed the handle and swung herself into the cab. “A pickup truck isn't exactly a practical city vehicle."
"Maybe not, but she sure is great for splashing through mud and muck. She's my little mule, and gets me where I need to go."
His dick went hard as he watched her stroke the dashboard. Damn early Thursday morning city driving didn't require utmost concentration, allowing him to spend too much time focusing on his passenger.
"I haven't owned a car since I got transferred to Philly. Too expensive and too much trouble.” The back of her knuckles trailed along the console between the seats.
Oh, God. He needed open road rush-hour traffic and soon. He hadn't thought about fooling around in the back of a vehicle since before he left for the Air Force Academy and convinced his girlfriend to give him a goodbye present.
"I don't know what I'd do without a truck. I've had one ever since I turned sixteen.” That first truck had been not-so-affectionately labeled the Clown Truck. With its blue cab and red bed, mix-matched as a result of an accident that happened before he inherited the rattletrap, no AC and no radio, it had pretty much sucked. But it had been wheels and it had been all his. He'd moved up in the world since then, his latest vehicle a top-of-the-line Ford truck.
"I would never have pegged you for a pickup man."
"Tell me, Ms. Profiler extraordinaire, how would you have pegged me?” He tried to tell himself he didn't care about her opinion of him as he waited for the answer.
"I expected to see you in some small, flashy, sports—"
"Oh, man, you thought I was a jet jockey?” He clutched at his heart. “You're killing me here.” Stereotypical fighter pilots drove sports cars, including most of the flyboys he'd worked with over the years.
She chuckled, a sort of giggle that almost sounded flirty and feminine. He wanted to hear it again. “They said you'd been an Air Force pilot—"
"Helicopter pilot. Not some glorified fixed wing flyboy who couldn't keep a craft in the air without the help of a fancy computer.” Not that his Pave Low didn't have the latest technology. It did.
"I'm sorry. It's just that when I hear the phrase Air Force pilot, I think of Tom Cruise."
He groaned, an exaggerated sound, even to his own ears. “Now you've struck the fatal blow. Don't ever compare America's finest to a bunch of squid wannabes. They're not even in the same league. You won't see me, or any other Air Force pilot, jumping up and down on some couch like a raving lunatic."
Her laughter filled the cab, the sound arousing all his nerve endings and making him smile. “I hadn't realized there was such a rivalry between the branches of service."
"Aren't there rivalries between the FBI, and the CIA, and the rest of the alphabet soup that thrives in DC?"
"Well, of course."
"Add guns, bigger toys, and way too much testosterone and that'll give you some feel for the competitiveness between the branches."
She laughed again, a sweet, sexy sound that made him laugh along even as his cock got hard.
Shit. She'd better get cranky when she got hot and tired. Or look fugly-fucking ugly-when she woke up. Or get a serious case of swamp ass when she got sweaty and sticky.
Something, anything, to stomp on his growing lust. Even he was beginning to think the tent might be too small.
Katrina watched the miles tick by in comfortable silence, as they headed north and west to meet their local contact and then hit the Trail. For all her time spent in Pennsylvania, she'd never headed west to explore the state. She spent most of her free time in New Jersey or Delaware. She anticipated trekking up and down this section of the AT. She was even beginning to look forward to spending more time with her coworker, if it weren't for that damn tent.
If it weren't for that damn tent...
"Have you developed any sort of profile on our killer yet?” Thank God Powell had his mind in the right place.
"No, not beyond the basics. He's young, thirty max, white, and judging by the crime scene photos, the killings are personal and passionate.” Her mind drew up images of the victims, knifed repeatedly, haphazardly. “I'll feel better when I can walk the areas, get more of a feel for the lay of the land, so to speak."
"So you don't have a feel yet for whether or not these campers were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or targeted?"
"My guess is that they weren't targeted, just very unfortunate."
He snorted. “I'd say that's an understatement, Kat."
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “My name is Katrina."
Hand held up in a gesture of surrender, he shot her a sideways glance. “Whoa! Sorry. I meant no offence."
"None taken.” She'd been “Kat” a lifetime ago. She wasn't that wild, out-of-control party girl anymore. She hadn't been since the accident that claimed the life of her best friend, Meg.
As their path skirted them around the edge of Allentown, she checked out as much of the area as possible when zipping by at sixty miles an hour. She'd like to see more of Pennsylvania before she left the state, hopefully for Quantico, Virginia, and the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime.
Powell let his end of the conversational rope drop and Katrina didn't feel the need to tug on it. The quiet allowed her to think about what waited for them on the Trail—a vicious killer who'd struck four times, in two counties and in four jurisdictions over the past six weeks. One attack every ten to twelve days. They had less than a week to get acclimated to the area and try to determine a pattern in order to prevent two more killings.
All of the victims had been couples, sharing a tent. Three male/female pairings and one male/male. Two of the sets of victims had been in the middle of having sex when attacked. None of the pieces fit into a discernible pattern.
That was part of her job, to discover something, anything, that could be used to catch a madman and save lives. Proving herself worthy of a Supervisory Special Agent slot at NCAVC would be a bonus.
As she stared out the window, she saw a sign for their destination, a place that billed itself as the world's largest outfitter. They didn't need much in terms of supplies. Between the two of them, they had most of the necessities and conveniences. Powell just wanted to stock up on a couple of things—meals, a bigger waterproof tarp. The way he talked about this place as if it were some sort of shopping Mecca, Katrina believed he'd have made up any excuse to go. Heck, she wouldn't put it past him to have “lost” his tarp just so they'd have to go inside the massive store.
As they neared the exit, the electric crackle of excitement popped in the spacious cab. Her stomach churned, a typical reaction at the start of each new investigation. The construction delay on the highway, short though it was, chafed. Her heartbeat increased with her anticipation. She loved matching wits with the scum of the earth, besting them at their own game. This go-round, she had a newbie to train, to share her experience and learn from his. She had the chance to prove, once and for all, that she was leadership material. No more hinting, no more vague promises at evaluations, the time had come for everyone to lay it all out. She'd been with the Bureau since she completed her doctorate work ten years ago. It was time for her career to move onward and upward.
A glance at the clock on the dashboard revealed they had just over an hour before they had to meet their task force contact at the local state police barracks, right across the street from Powell's shopping destination. An hour. What on earth could there possibly be to look at for that long? Energy bounced off of him in waves, reminding her of the stereotypical kid on Christmas morning.
"I've never been in here before.” He slid the truck into a parking space near the front. The massive lot was three-quarters empty, most likely due to the fact that it was a mid-August Thursday morning.
"That makes two of us."
"I've only ever shopped online or through the catalog."
"You got me there. I'd never heard of the place until you mentioned it."
Powell shot her an I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that look that made her laugh. The corners of his lips turned up in a full-fledged mega-watt smile, the kind that would have made the younger-party-girl-her follow him to the ends of the earth. Who was she kidding? It made the more practical woman she'd become want to drag him inside their tent and never come out.
And that wasn't a good thing.
* * * *
Holy cow! Looming in front of her, taking up space in the middle of the store, was a “mountain” covered with stuffed animals. The whole thing reminded her of a song by her favorite Canadian folk group about a mounted animal nature trail. Dang if the display wasn't impressive, in a creepy, why'd they have to stuff every part of the male animals, sort of way.
Hunting gear mixed with camping gear in the main shopping area of the store, allowing Powell to quickly locate the waterproof pad. Then he led her upstairs to the food and cooking section where they selected several days’ worth of meals. Since they'd be meeting with their contact every other day or so, they only had to pack in a limited amount of food. Thank goodness, since consumable supplies weighed down a pack.
They accomplished their mission in less than fifteen minutes, which left her way too much time to wander around the store with Powell. Oh, well. She might as well become accustomed to being alone with him and now was as good a time as any.
Oohing and aahing over backpacks and sleeping bags and assorted paraphernalia, Powell prowled through the aisles. “Quit eyeing up that shower tent."
His comment surprised her. “Huh?” She hadn't thought he'd been paying her any attention, what with all the excitement of rows and rows of camping supplies to enrapture him.
"We have the portable shower you insisted we bring.” She'd pushed for the device that made washing up easier in shallow water. “I'm not lugging that thing around.” He flipped a gesture toward the small tent-like structure meant to serve as a shower while providing privacy. The device tucked in her pack offered no such luxury. “Unless you're willing to look at smaller tents?” He quirked an eyebrow at her, daring her to respond.
Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2] Page 3
