Profile for Seduction

by Karen Whiddon

  “Yes, he does,” she agreed. “After all, he knew who I was when he grabbed me.”

  “They don’t expect him to deviate from his prior M.O.”

  Her grim nod told him she agreed.

  “We’ve got to stop him,” she muttered. “The sooner the better. Before he tortures any more women.”

  “We can start by getting set up. Instead of going by the office first, how about we swing by my place, then yours. My gut tells me Feiney is watching us. I’d like to get a feel for things ahead of time.”

  “What about my car? I’ll need to pick it up.”

  “Let’s leave it there for now. We can get it later.”

  Her heavy sigh told him what she thought of that idea. “And that way there’s less chance of me doing anything on my own, right? Let me tell you right now, I’ll need my car. We might be working together, but I’m not going to be dependent on you for anything. Capiche?”

  “Got it.”

  “Fine.” She settled back in her seat. “Then let’s go by your place and then mine. We’ll pick up my car before the end of the day.”

  “We’re nearly there.” He allowed himself the smallest smile. “That’s why we exited Hillcrest. I’m over by Medical City.”

  She nodded, seemingly unconcerned.

  He lived in an apartment a few blocks from the hospital. The brick building was ordinary, so similar to others in the area that he sometimes wondered if they had all been designed by the same architect and built by the same construction company.

  Lea said nothing as he parked.

  “You want to come up?”

  She shrugged. “Why not.”

  Following him to the first-floor apartment, she stood back while he unlocked his door. He held it open and stepped aside, meaning to allow her to precede him, when something caught his eye.

  As she was about to go in, he used his arm to block her and push her aside.

  “Hold off.” Drawing his weapon, he watched while she did the same. “Someone’s been inside my apartment.”

  “One, two…” They moved as one, as though they’d long been a team used to working together. “Police!” Marc shouted.

  A thorough search of the apartment turned up no one.

  “Someone has obviously trashed the place,” Lea said. “Either that or you live like a complete slob.”

  “I don’t. I swear to you, I didn’t leave it like this.” Dragging a hand across his jaw, he looked like he’d like to hit something.

  From her expression, he could tell that she recognized his tone. Pissed and frustrated.

  “Is anything missing?” They’d already completed one circuit of the property.

  “No. At least not that I can tell, which means nothing major.” He slammed a pillow back on the couch. “If it was Feiney, you’d think he’d have left some sort of message.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. Maybe we just haven’t found it yet. Let’s go through each room again.”

  They did, but nothing obvious presented itself.

  “Done,” she announced, sounding as unhappy as he felt. “You know, it might not have been Feiney.”

  “No, but then why isn’t something missing? Plasma TV, still here. Bose stereo and speakers, untouched. Even the stash of cash I keep in my sock drawer is still there.”

  “You keep cash in your sock drawer? And you’re a cop?”

  He shrugged. “I’m also human. It’s my emergency money. Where do you keep yours?”

  “In the bank.”

  “Oh.” For a moment they simply stared at each other. He had the strongest urge to kiss her, which he of course resisted. No sense in ruining the fragile truce they’d built.

  “I need a beer,” he said, his voice as strained as if he spoke through clenched teeth. “Want one?”

  He’d bet she rarely drank, well aware of how easy it would be to fall into that route of escape. Still, this had been one hell of a day. “Sure.”

  In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and recoiled.

  “Damn, I just found it. Feiney’s message.”

  Chapter 4

  “What is it?” Crowding close, she steeled herself for the sight of whatever bizarre talisman Feiney might have left.

  Stepping aside, Marc let her see for herself.

  Inside the fridge, in a large, ziplock bag, was a woman’s severed hand, rings still on two of the fingers. One ring was a large, glittery amethyst set in platinum; the other, diamonds and yellow gold. The hand was covered with blood so red it appeared fake.

  Only this was real. Some poor woman had lost her hand—and no doubt her life—to Feiney mere hours after his escape from prison.

  “It’s horrible.”

  “Yeah.” Marc touched her shoulder, the lightest of touches, making her want to curl into his hand and take the offered comfort. Instead, she sensibly did nothing, just continued inspecting Feiney’s bizarre and bloody gift, reaching deep inside to obtain her professional detachment.

  “He’s already grabbed someone,” she said, turning to Marc. “What have you heard? Who all knows about this?”

  “No one. The team has started monitoring missing person reports. There have been no reports of white females in their mid-to-late twenties disappearing from Fort Worth.”

  “Yet,” she said, her tone dark, “you know and I know it’s just a matter of time now.” She gestured at the bloody hand. “Obviously.”

  “But another question is why? Why here, why me? How did he even know about me and where I live?”

  “And what’s the significance of the hand?”

  Phone already out, Marc dialed and talked quickly. Closing his cell, he grimaced. “Forensics is on its way. The guy I spoke with is going to notify Stan.”

  Standard procedure. But this wasn’t normal Feiney behavior.

  “Man, I wish I could touch that and inspect it.” But she couldn’t. They both knew better than to taint the evidence.

  “Why?” He regarded her curiously. “What do you think you’d find?”

  “This isn’t normal. Why’d Feiney give this to you? What kind of message is he trying to leave? Assuming it is Feiney.”

  “Who else would it be?” Marc made an impatient gesture. “I know we can’t assume anything, but I can’t think of any other whack job out there who’d break into someone’s apartment, steal nothing and leave something like this in the fridge.”

  He had a point. Still…

  “Look, we both know that Feiney always takes something from his victims,” she began.

  “Yeah, and quite often it’s a body part.”

  “True. But he keeps them for trophies. He doesn’t give away his trophies. Nor does he warn his potential victims.”

  “I’m not a potential victim.” Following her train of thought, Marc shifted his weight.

  “No, but I am.” Again she examined the grisly offering as well as she could without actually touching it. “But why the warning? And what exactly is he trying to say?”

  “It’s a left hand. She’s wearing a wedding ring, along with another ring. I assume the rings have some significance, or he wouldn’t have left them.”

  “I agree.” She glanced up at Marc, wondering why she, who couldn’t stand to be crowded by a man, any man, didn’t mind so much when he encroached on her personal space. She didn’t understand how this could be, but the only explanation she could come up with was because they’d decided to be working partners.

  Before the incident with Feiney, she’d made one of the best partners the Bureau had to offer, excelling in undercover work. Now, on her involuntary medical leave, she wondered if she’d ever work undercover again.

  “Too bad he used plastic. That dilutes a lot of the DNA evidence.”

  “I don’t doubt that he knew that, but even if he didn’t, putting the hand inside a paper bag wouldn’t have the same oomph.” He shot her a sideways look.

  That remark nearly made her smile. She’d always had a well-developed sense of gallows humo
r. Nearly all frontline law-enforcement people did. It was either that, or go stark raving crazy.

  Meanwhile, a forensic team was en route to gather evidence. “I’d better leave.”

  “No. Until Feiney is caught, I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”

  Dumbfounded, she stared at him. “What are you talking about? That sounds like you are protecting me. Like I said before—I don’t need a bodyguard… I need a partner.”

  “And that’s what you’ve got. But be reasonable, Cordasic. Feiney’s obviously been here. He wants you. If I’m not around when he makes the attempt to grab you, we’ll never catch him.”

  She lifted her chin. “And you don’t think I’m capable of defending myself?”

  “On the contrary, you’re more than capable. Just maybe not up against him, okay? We agreed to tell each other the truth, so I’m putting this out there right now.” He released a breath. “He messed with your head—hell, he messed with mine. You need me to watch your back.”

  Coolly, she raised one brow. “Are you done with the psychoanalysis?”

  A reluctant attempt to smile tugged up one corner of his well-shaped mouth. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Are you always such a hard-ass?” Marc murmured.

  If he only knew. “I grew up with two older brothers. I learned early on how to take care of myself.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Forensics should be here at any minute.”

  “I’ll stay in the background. If they talk to me, I’ll just be casually friendly. The FBI’s a big office. Though I know most of them, I don’t know every single body in the crime scene investigation unit.”

  He nodded, his expression somber. They both knew there was a strong likelihood she knew someone on this team. But if she played it right, no one would have any suspicions.

  “No mention of Feiney,” he said.

  Relieved, she gave him a tense smile. “My thoughts exactly.”

  “And since this is my place, I’ll have access to whatever they learn about the hand.”

  “You’ll have to tie it to Feiney sometime, you know,” she reminded him.

  “I know, just not with you here.”

  A few minutes later, the forensic people arrived. After exchanging a quick nod with the two-man team—guys she’d worked with in the past—Lea moved to the living room. She listened as Marc explained about the break-in. With him working closely on a high-profile case, he hadn’t wanted to call the local police in, so the FBI people were sent instead.

  Though they nodded, the CSI guys were focused on their work. After the obligatory photographs, they cataloged and removed the evidence.

  Only when they were finished did one of them—a forty-something guy with a handlebar mustache—address Lea.

  “Didn’t know you and Kenyon were friends?” he said, making the statement into a question.

  Rather than answer, Lea settled for a noncommittal smile.

  A few minutes later, the FBI men left.

  “Let me pack a few things and we can be on our way,” Marc said.

  “Okay.” Lea followed him into his bedroom. “I have to tell you, I’m a little worried about what we might find at my place after this.”

  He paused in the act of pulling a large duffel bag out of his closet. “Do you think he broke into your place while we were here? Kinda risky.”

  “I know. And realistically, I don’t think so,” she said. “This message was for me. If I could only figure out what he’s trying to say.”

  “We just need to let it stew awhile. I’m sure something will come to us.”

  Nodding, she watched as he methodically tossed clothing into his duffel. She perched on the edge of his bed when he went into his bathroom to collect toiletries.

  A moment later, he emerged and gave her a big thumbs-up. “All done. Are you ready?”

  Slowly, she got to her feet. When he’d appeared in the bathroom doorway, she’d had the strangest urge to let herself fall back onto his bed and hold out her arms to him.

  As if that was going to happen. Ever.

  “Let’s go,” she said brusquely. “Do you want to get my car first?”

  “Let’s pick it up later. I want to check out your place and make sure it’s secure.”

  The drive from his apartment to hers only took a few minutes. Miraculously, the traffic flowed and a primo parking spot was open, right near her building.

  Marc parked, got out and hefted his duffel bag. She stood frozen, watching him, her mouth inexplicably dry.

  When he glanced at her expectantly, she was able to make herself move in the direction of the stairs. “I’m on the third floor, so it’s a bit of a climb.”

  Once she unlocked the door and led the way in, she refused to give in to nervous chatter. Since she didn’t trust herself to stop if she started talking, she kept her silence.

  Having Marc inside her apartment felt odd. She’d moved here right after the Feiney incident and had never had a man over—not even her brothers. Marc was the first. His large frame filled her living room, making the space appear to shrink.

  “Do you mind if I look around?” he asked.

  Grateful that he wasn’t picking up any of her vibes of discomfort, she shook her head no. “Knock yourself out.”

  “Thanks.” Again with that flash of a surfer-guy smile, he moved off. He reminded her of a big, beautiful panther as he strode from room to room, inquisitive, inspecting, touching her things with his large, graceful hands.

  Those hands… Unwittingly, she wondered how those hands would feel on her body. Odd for her and completely inappropriate. Still…heat suffused her. Glad he had his back to her, she chastised herself, forcing herself to move into the kitchen and let him finish his inspection.

  Watching him, she reminded herself that this was business. Only business.

  Yet, business or no, Marc was the first man inside her new apartment. For the first time, she acknowledged to herself what having him here would do to her. His presence made her feel naked and exposed, through no fault of her own, which made her angry. With herself. Always with herself.

  Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself that she’d do anything to catch Feiney. Even this.

  When he reached her bedroom, he stopped at the door. Turning, she caught a glimpse of his face, rugged features mildly curious as he stared at her bed, and suddenly her chest went tight and she couldn’t breathe.

  Talk about naked and exposed. Here, in her bedroom, she had really let her meager decorating skills explode. Her bed was a sensual oasis, a swirl of colors and textures in an apartment single-mindedly devoid of them. Amethyst silk next to turquoise and cream, fringed and puffed pillows, all against one wall painted black.

  And then there was the bed itself. The massive sleigh bed had been made for two and belonged to another era. When she’d found it in a small furniture shop uptown, she’d been unable to resist. She loved the swirls of darker color in the carefully polished oak, the soft curve where the sleigh bed crested and the comforting softness of the big pillow-top mattress.

  Marc couldn’t fail to notice. The contrast between this and the rest of her impersonal apartment was dramatic. Her bed was a decadent island in a boring, monochromatic sea.

  “Nice bed,” he said, his tone appreciative. She heard no laughter, nothing but a sincere compliment in his deep voice.

  “Thanks.” Inexplicably flustered, she turned away so he wouldn’t see her face. “I, uh, turned the other bedroom into a guest bedroom-slash-office. You’ll be sleeping there.”

  When he didn’t respond, she turned to look at him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, his bright blue gaze touching on her face. The heat in his eyes, whether real or imaginary, made her shiver. Damn.

  “You know what, maybe this is a bad idea,” she said brusquely, suddenly panicking, though she managed to keep from revealing that in her voice.

  “What’s a bad idea?”

  “You s
taying here and all. Maybe we should rethink this.”

  He pinned her with his look. “You can do this, Lea. You won’t notice I’m here, and I’m betting that it won’t be that long before he makes his move.”

  Gritting her teeth, she faced him down, telling herself there was no way he could know that she was afraid. “I’m counting on that,” she said.

  “I know this guy. I’ve studied him exhaustively since his conviction. I suspect you know him, too, probably even better.”

  Dropping this bombshell casually, he didn’t wait for her to react before he turned away and began to explore the rest of the apartment, disappearing into the guest bedroom.

  Damn.

  Desperate for a distraction, she turned away and dug out her cell. Time to call Dom, to find out if he’d had better luck convincing their mother to go to Vegas.

  “She won’t come,” Dom said glumly, answering without even saying hello. “In between the time you left her house and the time I called, she’d worked herself up into a lather.”

  Lea groaned. “She’s furious with me, isn’t she?”

  “I think she’s more worried than mad. Lea, she’s really, really afraid.”

  “That’s why I want her to go to Vegas,” she exploded.

  Silence. Then Dom’s quiet voice. “She’s not frightened for herself, Lea. She’s worried about you.”

  “I’m scared Feiney will try to grab her.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. Though on the plus side, when she hung up with me, she said she was going to the shooting range for target practice.”

  Their mother had inherited their father’s gun collection. She now owned several rifles, a couple of shotguns and numerous pistols. And knew how to use them. She’d even been one of the first women in Texas to get certified to receive her concealed weapon permit.

  “That’s something, right?”

  “Maybe.” Conceding the point, Dom went silent again. But not for long. “Actually, I think she’s planning to try and protect you.”

  Lea nearly choked. “You can’t be serious. She needs to stay as far away from me as possible.”

  Dom swore. “What are you planning to do? And don’t try to pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”