“I’m going to find him, Sam. I’m going to stop him, and that’s not a promise, it’s a guarantee.”

His certainty hung in the air. He sounded so relentlessly convinced that she actually believed him.

She tilted her head and saw his determined brown eyes, the firm set of his wide mouth, and as their gazes locked, the air in the kitchen swiftly changed. It hissed and sizzled, crackled like twigs. She wanted to look away, to walk away, to make it stop, but she stood frozen in place.

A tiny gasp tore from her throat but he covered it with his lips and swallowed it with his kiss. A gentle kiss, the soft brush of his lips against hers, the teasing flick of his tongue. The spicy, masculine scent of him infused her senses, making her woozy with desire. And yet it was a controlled kiss, one that told her he was the type of man who’d never fully let down his guard, never succumb to the pleasures of the flesh before clearing it with his head.

Dear Reader,

I’m absolutely thrilled about the release of Silent Watch, my debut book with Silhouette Romantic Suspense. The idea for this story came to me during a conversation with a friend, after we’d watched a news segment about the latest victim of a serial killer being found.

My friend turned to me and, very frustrated, said, “Why is it always a victim and never a survivor?”

And from that one remark, Silent Watch was born. I wanted to write about a heroine who had suffered at the hands of a madman, but lived to tell the tale. Not only that, but I wanted my survivor to have the strength to face the person who’d hurt her. And of course, who else to help her regain that strength but the gorgeous FBI agent assigned to protect her?

I hope you enjoy Samantha and Blake’s story, and that their romance makes you believe in the healing power of love! I’d also love to hear from you. Drop me a line at www.ellekennedy.com or swing over to sizzlingpens.blogspot.com to see what some of my fellow Harlequin authors and I are blogging about.

Happy reading!

Elle Kennedy

Silent Watch
Elle Kennedy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ELLE KENNEDY

grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, and holds a B.A. in English from York University. From an early age, she knew she wanted to be a writer, and actively began pursuing that dream when she was only a teenager. When she’s not writing, she’s reading. And when she’s not reading, she’s making music with her drummer boyfriend, oil painting, or indulging her love for board games.

Elle loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site www.ellekennedy.com, or stop by her blog, http://sizzlingpens.blogspot.com, to chat with Elle and fellow Harlequin writers.

I could not have written this book without the support of my family and friends, the eagle eyes of my critique partners Lori Borrill, Jennifer Lewis, Kira Sinclair and Amanda White, and the guidance of my brilliant editor, Diana Ventimiglia.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

Blake Corwin was about to raise a woman from the dead.

He didn’t like it, and God knew if he had any viable choices left he would have left Samantha Dawson in peace and found another way to go about this. But there was no other way, no other hope except this woman who had suffered more in six months than most people suffered in a lifetime.

“She won’t talk to us, you know,” his partner murmured.

Blake furrowed his brows, trying to stop the frustration he felt from seeping into his expression. He adjusted the shoulder holster under his sports coat and directed a questioning look at the other man before continuing up the snowy path to the farmhouse up ahead.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, stepping over a fallen log.

“Look around you, man.” Rick Scott gestured to the isolated area. “There’s a reason why she requested a safe house out of the city. No chance of any human contact.”

He tried not to let their surroundings affect his sense of purpose, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Rick’s assessment was accurate. Aside from the rambling white-and-green house, the land stood barren. Very few trees, grass covered by a thin layer of silver frost, and not another structure in sight. The nearest house was a mile away, and when they’d pulled into the long winding driveway earlier, Blake’s chest had tightened with what he could only describe as a sense of doom.

He hated this place, hated everything it represented. Fear. Despair. Torment. The woman living here was isolated from the world, and it tore him up knowing he was partly responsible for it. A madman had put Samantha Dawson in this desolate farmhouse, but Blake’s inability to catch a killer was keeping her there.

“I feel like I’m walking in a freezer.” Rick shivered and pulled the zipper of his light jacket all the way to the collar. “Are you sure we’re in Illinois? Seems like Antarctica.”

Born and raised in Chicago, which boasted some of the coldest winters in the country, Blake merely chuckled. “Poor kid. Why don’t you go back to L.A. and crawl under a palm tree?”

Rick frowned. “Don’t make me pull out my gun, Agent Corwin.”

“Do it. I’d love to see you explain to Knight why you shot his—and I quote—best agent.”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

Blake offered a grin, knowing just how much it pissed Rick off. Funny, how when Blake caught a serial killer he rarely received a word of praise from Michael Knight. But when he found his supervisor’s lost dog? Well, that was almost worthy of promotion.

“Who brings his dog to work anyway?” Rick grumbled. He kicked a pile of slush as he walked.

“Hey, don’t look all upset. It’s not my fault that Jasper was hiding in the storage room when I walked in.”

Rick frowned again. “You didn’t see Knight licking my boots when I brought in Butcher Betty.”

“As I recall, I was there too, slapping the handcuffs on her,” Blake pointed out.

Their good-natured banter died as they reached the rickety wraparound porch. A lone wicker chair sat in the corner, and hanging above the front door was a set of wind chimes that jingled cheerfully each time the cold late autumn breeze swept by. Yet there was nothing cheerful about this house, with its disheveled exterior and the layer of lime-green paint peeling and cracking on the front door.

Blake glanced around and saw that there wasn’t a doorbell. Reaching out, he rapped his knuckles against the solid wood, then turned to Rick as they waited for an answer. “Think she’s home?”

“She’s home.” Rick crooked his finger to the left. “Her car’s here.”

Blake couldn’t believe he’d missed the pale-beige vehicle parked in the detached garage a few feet from the house. Maybe it was just the frigid November air freezing his senses. Or hell, maybe this goddamn case had finally gotten to him.

The sound of footsteps pulled his attention back to the door in front of him. His senses kicked back into place, ears perking up at what sounded like a padlock being scraped open. The clicks that followed told Blake that Samantha Dawson had not one, not two, but a total of five locks on her door, as well as a security system that beeped incessantly as the person inside deactivated it.

A fortress in a farmhouse.

Not that he blamed her for taking such precautions.

“She used to be a swimsuit model, you know,” Rick remarked in a low voice.

“Well aware of that.”

They stood patiently until the door opened. When it did, Blake found himself staring down the barrel of a steel-black shotgun. By instinct, he almost reached for his own gun, but when he met the eyes of the woman in front of them, he reconsidered.

She appeared more frightened than menacing. Her big gray eyes, surrounded by thick sooty eyelashes, looked so haunted that Blake’s throat tightened with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. He’d read her file, knew what haunted her, but somehow he hadn’t expected to see the overwhelming fear lining each delicate feature of her face. And what a face it was. High cheekbones, lush pink lips, a straight aristocratic nose. In the old days men would’ve started wars for a woman like this.

“What do you want?” she demanded, voice deadly and gun still aimed directly at Blake’s heart.

“Samantha Dawson?” he asked, though he didn’t need her hesitant nod of confirmation to know who she was.

Her pictures hardly did her justice. She was a natural beauty, tall and slender, with caramel-colored hair that fell past her shoulders in waves. And damn, those eyes were mesmerizing, so gray they reminded Blake of an overcast sky. She wore jeans and a bulky blue sweatshirt.

“What do you want?” she repeated.

She didn’t lower the gun, not even a fraction of an inch, and he glanced at his partner for help.

Reaching into his pocket for his ID, Rick flashed his badge at the brunette. “Special Agent Rick Scott. The man you’re pointing the gun at is my partner, Blake Corwin. We’re with the FBI.”

Rick’s words had been meant to reassure her, but they obviously fell short of the mark. Her jaw only tightened and her shoulders stiffened as if she were gearing up for a boxing match. “Do you have a warrant to search my house?”

Caught off guard, Blake answered for his partner. “What? No.”

“Are you here to arrest me?”

“Of course not,” Rick said, offering a tentative smile.

Her eyes flashed. “Then I have nothing to say to you.”

The door slammed in their faces so swiftly that Blake blinked in surprise. He heard the padlock scrape shut, but the fact that she didn’t turn any of the other locks told him the woman was still behind the door, waiting for them to leave.

He sucked in a long breath and looked at Rick.

“Well.” Rick’s voice was quiet.

Feeling the onset of a headache, Blake rubbed his temples. “We can’t leave. You know we can’t leave without speaking to her.”

Samantha Dawson was their last chance, and they both knew it. If she didn’t agree to help them, the Rose Killer might slip out of their grasp and disappear into the shadows forever. How many more women would the guy murder before he was stopped? The death toll currently numbered three. Three women. Women who were somebody’s daughters, somebody’s wives and mothers. All gone. Except for Samantha Dawson, and of course, this latest victim.

Three dead, but two very much alive. Not a moment of mercy and compassion on the creep’s part, of course; he’d left them believing they were dead. And as long as Blake and his fellow agents at the Bureau had anything to say about it, they would continue to be dead. At least until the bastard was caught and thrown behind bars.

“She’s our last hope,” Rick continued with a heavy sigh. “The longer Elaine Woodman stays silent, the more time this psycho has to keep killing.”

The ache in Blake’s temples grew stronger. It had only been three weeks since Elaine Woodman’s attack, but it felt like months, especially considering that drawing information out of the young woman had been all but impossible so far. “We have no guarantee that Samantha will be able to get through to her,” he said.

“But it’s a chance. Elaine is too traumatized to talk about her experience, not with the shrinks, the cops, us. But another victim? Samantha Dawson has a better chance than any of us to get Elaine to open up.”

Blake saw the truth in Rick’s words, felt the same flickering hope that had brought him to this farmhouse, but he couldn’t help but wonder if their need to catch this madman might end up hurting these surviving women.

The fear in Samantha Dawson’s eyes flashed through his brain, agony he couldn’t even imagine. Did they really have the right to make her experience it all over again? Sure, she’d changed her name, she was under the protection of the Bureau and hidden away in this no-horse town, but she sure as hell hadn’t looked at ease when she’d opened that door.

No matter how far the Bureau had gone to keep Samantha Dawson safe, Blake knew without a doubt that she didn’t feel that way.

“Come on, let’s try again,” Rick finally said, reaching out and knocking on her door once more.

“Get off my property,” came the muffled reply.

“Miss Dawson, please—”

She cut Rick off with, “I’m holding the phone in my hands right now. I’ll call the sheriff and have you charged with harassment if I don’t hear the sound of your footsteps leaving my property.”

“Let me talk to her,” Blake said quietly.

With a nod, Rick shoved his hands into his pockets and allowed Blake to take the lead.

“Miss Dawson, you can call the sheriff if you want. Nobody’s stopping you.” He spoke gently, trying to offer comfort he knew she didn’t feel. “I’m just asking you to listen to what we have to say before you make that call.”

In response came a lengthy silence, and he’d almost given up hope when he heard the soft, “I’m listening.”

“We’re not here to make you relive what happened to you.” He almost cringed, seeing the lie in his words. “We just need your help.” With a breath, he continued. “He’s attacked another woman. He left her to die, Samantha, but she didn’t. She fought like hell to stay alive, just as you did.”

Another long silence, this time broken by the sound of a lock being grated open again. When the door opened, she still held the gun, but at her side this time.

“Why are you telling me this?” she whispered, her face wrought with emotion.

“Because you’re the only one who can help us.”

Wariness and fear battled in her gaze. “Help you do what, Agent Corwin?”

He drew in another breath. “Help us catch him.”

She shouldn’t have let them in. She shouldn’t be making coffee for them, shouldn’t allow them to sit in her living room as if they belonged there, as if what they had to say was of any interest to her.

Sam stood at the cedar work island in the middle of the spacious country kitchen, hands trembling as she reached for the handle of the coffee urn. As she poured the hot coffee into one of the mugs she’d grabbed from the cabinet, it spilled over the rim and splashed onto the counter. She watched the brown liquid soak into the wood.

God, when she’d looked out the window and seen those two men charging up her driveway…her heart had nearly stopped beating.

And then when they’d uttered her name—her real name—the fear had tripled. Nobody was supposed to know where she was, just the people sworn to protect her.

She shot a glance through the open doorway at the two men on her beige sofa, then stifled a sigh. FBI. That did make them her protectors. She guessed. But the desperation she’d seen in their eyes once she’d opened that door told her this visit wasn’t about keeping her out of harm’s way.

It was the exact opposite.

She wiped up the coffee stain as best as she could, then quickly filled the other mugs, set them on a tray and walked into the living room.

“Thank you,” said the blond-haired man as she handed him a cup. Rick Scott, he’d said his name was. He looked pleasant enough, his smile genuine, but it was the other man who captured Sam’s attention.

Tall, dark and handsome—a cliché, but one that suited him oh so well. Hair the color of rich chocolate, probably in need of a haircut, since it fell onto his forehead whenever he moved his head. But the scruffy look fit him, made his black trousers, white button-down shirt and sports coat seem less conservative—it gave him an edge. His eyes were a deep whiskey color, but when she looked closer, she could see the flecks of amber around his pupils.

Sinking into the armchair farthest from the sofa, she watched as Blake Corwin reached for his coffee. Even in his sports coat, she could tell that his arms were powerful, muscled. His wide chest and broad shoulders exuded the same power. Even though he was a complete stranger, his big strong body and intense brown eyes made her feel—for the moment—protected.

And…aroused?

No, impossible.

Leaning back in the chair, she would’ve liked to analyze her odd reaction further, that little flicker of heat that sparked in her belly at the sight of him, but Rick Scott spoke before she could do that.

“We apologize for showing up like this,” he said, his voice gentle and soothing, giving Sam the sense that he had a lot of practice talking to victims.

Victim. The word loitered in her brain like a stray dog looking for scraps. Was that what she was? A victim? Swallowing back the acid creeping up her throat, she resisted the urge to shake her head. No, not a victim. A survivor.

“But we’re running out of time,” Blake Corwin finished.

She liked his voice. Not as gentle as his partner’s, it had a husky, almost raspy quality to it. Sexy, most women would probably say.

Blake set down his mug on the small cedar coffee table and directed that intense gaze at her. “He grabbed a woman named Elaine Woodman from her office in downtown Chicago. It was one-thirty in the afternoon, and no one saw a thing.”

Sam fingered the long white scar on the inside of her wrist, disturbed by what he’d said. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? For him, anyway.”

He nodded. “The others were attacked in their homes, always at night. We’re not sure why he just changed his MO like that.”

“And she survived the attack?” She rubbed the scar, its texture jagged and bumpy under the pad of her thumb.

“Miraculously,” Blake answered. His expression grew somber. “He left her in an abandoned warehouse, probably assuming she’d bleed to death. But he underestimated Elaine. Somehow she managed to crawl out and drag herself onto the street. A jogger found her and called 9-1-1.”

“She lost so much blood that the doctors were surprised she managed to recover,” Rick added.

Sam stopped toying with the scar, clasped her hands on her waist and bit her lower lip. Why were they telling her this? Didn’t they care what it was doing to her? When she’d first seen them on her doorstep, she’d assumed they’d come to take yet another statement from her. That’s why she’d been antagonistic, why her guard had shot up. Because the idea of telling her gruesome story even one more time was about as appealing as eating dirt. But no, they were here to tell her about another woman’s horror, which was equally upsetting, if not more so.

Leaning forward, she fumbled for her coffee, gripped the mug between fingers that had suddenly grown icier than the air outside. A puff of steam rose from the cup and moistened the tip of her nose.

After taking a brief sip, she focused her gaze on the two men again. “I’m glad she’s all right,” she finally said, not quite sure why her voice sounded so cold.

“She’s not all right,” Blake corrected, his eyes meeting hers and holding. “Physically, yes, she’s recovering, but—”

The loud ring of the telephone cut him off, but Sam made no move to reach for the cordless phone sitting on the table. Both agents watched her expectantly, waiting, but they sat motionless. It was only when the answering machine switched on that she acted.

“Lori, it’s Virginia. I don’t mean to frighten you, but I saw a strange car pulling into your driveway, and I just wanted to make sure—”

Sam clicked the “on” button and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi, Virginia, sorry, I didn’t make it to the phone in time.”

The relief in her elderly neighbor’s voice was unmistakable. “Is everything all right, Lori? I saw an unfamiliar car and I was scared it might be burglars.”

Considering that the town of Wellstock boasted a crime rate of zero, Sam managed a chuckle. “No need to worry, Ginny. I’m fine. Some friends of mine just came to visit, that’s all.”

“Oh, good. You know I don’t like knowing you’re out there in that big house all by yourself.”

“Don’t worry, I’m all right. But thanks for calling.”

Sam said goodbye and hung up, then turned to her visitors. “My neighbor,” she explained.

Neither man commented on the fact that she’d been screening her calls. These days the phone didn’t ring much, but when it did, she never picked up until she heard a familiar voice on the machine. Not until she was absolutely certain that whoever was on the other end couldn’t hurt her. But no matter how recognizable the voice, she still experienced a tremor of fear each time she heard the name Lori Kendall.

God, she wished she could be Lori Kendall. Lori was a writer from Chicago who’d moved out to this farmhouse because she was tired of urban life. She was working on a new novel about the love affair between a Nazi soldier and a Jewish peasant in war-torn Germany, and she was so wrapped up in her work that she never went into town or struck up friendships with the Wellstock residents. But they all understood because writers, after all, were a strange breed.

Sam didn’t know if the cover story made her feel like laughing or crying. The life the Bureau had given her was so different from the one she’d led before the attack, but it was a life she now wished she’d chosen for herself. Lori, the writer, would never have encountered a flesh-and-blood killer, only the ones she wrote about in her books.

But she wasn’t really Lori, was she? No, she was Samantha Dawson, and the alias she’d received from the Witness Protection Program was just another reminder of the danger she still faced. Would probably always face, as long as the man who’d hurt her was on the loose.

Crossing her legs, Sam raked her fingers through her long hair and sighed. “Where were we? Right, his latest victim.”

She sounded cold again, even a little indifferent, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want these men knowing that everything about this visit scared the crap out of her. She didn’t want them to know that talking and hearing about another woman being attacked in the same way paralyzed her with fear. Better to let them think she didn’t care, that she was over it, so far past it she didn’t give a damn anymore.

“Elaine Woodman is in bad shape,” Blake said, the determination in his eyes giving way to weariness. “She refuses to talk about what happened to her, and we know she’s holding back details that could break this investigation. She’s too scared, won’t trust anyone to help her. It’s almost as if she thinks that as long as she pretends it didn’t happen, it will all go away.”

Sam stared at the agent, amazed by his cavalier tone. A slow and steady rush of anger coiled in the pit of her stomach and spiraled up her chest until all she could do was snap, “Of course she’s scared. She’s goddamn terrified!”

Slamming her cup on the table, she jumped out of her chair and took two steps toward Blake Corwin. “You actually blame her for that?” she demanded, her body simmering with rage. “For wanting to forget what happened? Well, she has every right to forget. She has every right not to want to talk to a bunch of egomaniacal shrinks and overeager cops who don’t give a damn about her. You think she wants to spill her guts to a complete stranger and relive every sickening thing that man did to her? Of course she doesn’t.”

Sam snapped her mouth shut and strode toward the window on stiff legs, gluing her gaze to the barren front yard. She couldn’t believe the nerve of these men, looking like a couple of wounded children over the “annoying” notion that a woman who’d nearly died refused to talk to them. Jerks. Insensitive jerks.

Anger continued to swirl inside her, but it was surprisingly welcome. For the first time in months she was experiencing something that wasn’t fear or pain or self-pity. She wondered if it might have helped to be angry all those months ago, if maybe letting out her fury over what happened to her could’ve helped her heal faster.

As it was now, she didn’t feel healed or cured or even convinced in the slightest that she could ever get over this.

But the anger helped. Just a little.

“That’s why we came to see you.”

Blake’s voice remained steady, entirely unaffected by her incensed words. She turned around slowly and let their gazes connect again. Searched his magnetic eyes and found nothing more than that cool, calm and collected glint.

Never breaking eye contact, he clasped his hands on his lap and added, “We want you to see Elaine Woodman. We want you to break her silence.”

Chapter 2

The guard she’d briefly let down snapped back up. With methodical steps, Sam walked back to the armchair and sank into it. “You want me to see her?” The words squeaked out slowly, laced with disbelief rushing through her veins.

Blake simply nodded.

“Why?” was all she asked.

“Because you know better than anyone what Elaine is going through,” Blake said matter-of-factly. He leaned forward, causing the material of his jacket to stretch over his broad shoulders.

This time she couldn’t deny the spark of attraction she felt at the sight of his powerful muscles constricting against his shirt. He was a sexy man. A very sexy man. Yet even admitting the obvious seemed inappropriate under these circumstances, after the bomb he’d just dropped in her lap.

She forced her gaze away from his chest, set her jaw and waited for him to continue.

“Elaine needs to feel safe when she finally decides to talk about her experience.”

A low, bitter laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “Safe? You think she’ll ever really feel safe?”

For the first time since he’d shown up at her door, Blake’s features softened. The sympathy in his gaze reached out and touched her like the caress of a warm hand on her cheek. Ordinarily, she would have grown defensive, sickened by the sympathy, the pity. But strangely enough, the soft understanding in his dark eyes only eased her nerves.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think she’ll ever feel safe, not for a long time at least. But while this guy is still out on the streets, none of the women in Chicago will be safe, either.”

“Why are you so sure Elaine Woodman can give you some information you don’t already have?” She didn’t mean to pose a challenge, yet somehow it came out that way.

“Because she’s different,” Blake replied without hesitation. “He took her in broad daylight and dumped her on the other side of the city, which means he had to have means of transporting her there. He didn’t do that with any of the other victims.”

“Elaine can provide us with details that might help us stop him once and for all,” Rick added. “The kind of car he drives, any places he might have stopped at before dumping her.”

“But she won’t talk,” Sam said grimly.

“Not to us.” Blake paused, watching her. “But she might talk to you.”

She took a breath, suddenly feeling torn. If this were just about her, about her own pain and suffering, she might’ve been able to say no, tell them to leave her alone and to hell with their investigation. But it wasn’t just about her. There was another woman involved. Another survivor.

Her mind flashed back to the first day after the attack. She’d been lying in that hospital bed, staring at the dull white walls, unwilling to let anyone catch a glimpse of what she’d gone through. Even her brother, Beau, her only living relative, hadn’t been able to penetrate the iron shield she’d erected around herself.

For days she’d lain motionless in bed, trying to forget, trying to trick herself into believing that such an unthinkably heinous act hadn’t happened to her, not to her. And if it weren’t for a kindhearted cop named Annette Hanson, she might have drowned in her own pain. Annette had helped her, drawn her out of the shell of self-preservation she’d hidden within, and though it was months before she’d been ready to live her life again, she knew she’d never be able to repay Annette for what she’d done.

Could she really let another woman drown the way she almost had?

Helping Elaine Woodman would no doubt bring back a rush of terrifying memories that Sam desperately wanted to forget, but would it be worth it, knowing she’d contributed to Elaine’s healing process?

Drawing in a long breath, she eyed the men in front of her. “I…I’m going to need some time to think about it.”

“There isn’t any time.” Blake knew his voice sounded harsh, but it needed to be said. The longer Elaine Woodman kept quiet, the greater the danger and the longer this killer had to find himself another victim.

He didn’t blame Samantha for being uncertain. Hell, he’d read her file, seen photos of what that bastard had done to her. The woman had been hovering between life and death before the paramedics had shown up. How she’d managed to call the police, especially in her condition, still amazed him. All he knew was that Samantha Dawson possessed a strength that most people only wished they had.

His heart squeezed as he remembered another woman who’d exuded that same strength. Kate Manning, the woman whose death had caused him to dive headfirst into this case and push himself to the point of exhaustion simply to keep the memories at bay.

Not that it was helping. The memories continued to assault his mind anyway. It seemed as if everything and everyone reminded him of Kate, and, not for the first time, he wondered if maybe the Bureau shrink was right. Maybe there was no distraction great enough to make him forget.

He clenched his fists at the ominous notion. Lord, he couldn’t do this now, couldn’t think of Kate or that damn shrink. Not now. So he forcibly shoved the unwelcome thoughts from his head and tried to focus on the woman in front of him.

She seemed so cool, so controlled. He saw it in the way she sat, with her hands loosely draped over her lap. The way she spoke in that calm, even voice. The way she looked at him with those unwavering gray eyes. It seriously impressed him, but it didn’t totally convince him, either. The little ragged breaths and the way her shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly at every sound told him that she was still terrified.

“If you’re worried about your own safety,” Rick said, “I can assure you we’ll take every precaution to keep you protected.”

With a chuckle, she muttered, “Right, because I’m supposed to be dead. Wonder how I overlooked that little tidbit?” She focused those haunting eyes on Blake. “How do you plan on taking me into the city without being recognized?”

If Rick was insulted by her intense focus on his partner, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned back and let Blake field that question.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” he said roughly, inwardly wondering why her impenetrable gaze made his palms grow damp. “We’ll get you a disguise, bring you into the hospital after visiting hours, anything to protect your identity.”

“My face will still be familiar—to most men, at least.”

Her tone was dry, almost comical, and Blake fought the tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your face is probably not as recognizable as you think.”

The comment, with its slightly lewd undertones, did not seem to faze her. Instead, she just nodded. “Quite true, Agent Corwin. But I’m not sure I’m willing to take that chance.”

They’d reached an impasse. Blake knew that pushing her any further would only make her less likely to cooperate. Helping them had to be her choice. The ball was in her court now.

Blake exchanged a glance with Rick before rising from the sofa. “All right, we’ll give you some time to think about this then,” he said. “But don’t take too long.”

She offered an odd little smile. “Time is of the essence, right?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He reached into his pocket and removed his card and a pen. He scribbled down both his and Rick’s cell numbers, then handed it to her. She seemed to make an effort not to let their fingers brush as she accepted the card, and, for some reason, that bothered him a little.

“Just give us a call when you’ve made up your mind. But if we haven’t heard from you by tomorrow afternoon, we’ll need to get back to Chicago and explore other avenues.”

The two men said their goodbyes and headed for the door. Samantha followed them, shotgun again in hand. After they’d stepped onto the porch, Blake heard all the various locks and safety mechanisms being clicked back into place.

As they descended the steps, Rick shot him a questioning look. “You think she’ll help us?”

The snow crunching under his boots, Blake simply nodded. “Yes, I think she will.”

“You really don’t need to worry,” Sam told her brother over the phone an hour after Blake and Rick had left the farmhouse.

She settled onto the couch and tucked her knees under her, then reached to flick on the lamp sitting on the end table. The late-afternoon sun was beginning to set and the absence of light streaming in from the windows made her muscles tense. Soon the sun would disappear altogether, leaving nothing but an inky black sky and menacing shadows.

She’d already turned on the main light. It bathed the room in a pale-yellow glow, but she didn’t feel at ease unless every light in the house was on, too.

The darkness still bothered her, ever since that warm May night when she’d walked into her bedroom and seen the dark figure looming in the shadows. She slept with the light on now. Scratch that—she lay in bed with the light on. She didn’t sleep. If she was lucky, she got five hours of rest a night, spread out in twenty-minute intervals because every time the REM cycle kicked in, she’d jerk herself awake. The nights were the hardest, always bringing with them a threat that she couldn’t ignore.

“What do you mean, I don’t have to worry?” Beau replied. “At the moment, that’s exactly what I should be doing.”

She smiled to herself, knowing without having to see him that there was a telltale crease in his forehead. Most times Beau’s face was unreadable. Dark, stoic eyes, firm set of the mouth. But that little crease always gave him away. She’d seen it enough times growing up, and right now she heard it in his voice.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him. “They were FBI agents, no danger to me.”

“I disagree. The very fact that they want you to go into the city is dangerous.”

“They said they’d protect me.”

“Do you believe them?”

Sam remembered Blake Corwin’s determined brown eyes. “Yes. I think they’ll do everything in their power to keep me safe.”

“And what if everything in their power isn’t good enough?” Beau countered, his concern palpable over the airwaves. “What if someone recognizes you and calls the press? If this guy finds out that you didn’t die that night…” He let his voice trail off ominously.

For the thousandth time in six months, Sam wished she’d never chosen such a high-profile career. Why hadn’t she gone into accounting? Why on earth had she decided to model swimsuits of all things? She’d always done well in school, her grades good enough to get her into any college, but it had been the excitement of stardom that appealed to her the most. It helped that she had a body that was, as her friends always told her, designed to make men drool. She’d never minded flaunting it, strutting in front of a camera and making herself a public figure.

But she regretted it now. Although the police had assured her that it was unlikely the guy picked her just because of her celebrity status, she still got the feeling that she might have gone unnoticed, flitted under the bastard’s radar, if she’d just chosen another field.

“It’s a risk, I know.” Her voice softened. “But I keep thinking about that woman, Beau.”

Compassion filled his voice. “I know you want to help her, but at what cost, Sammy? Goddamn it, I can’t let myself even think about losing you. I almost did once—I’d rather not go through that again.”

She understood her brother’s concerns, and knew where they came from. Even before their parents died in a car accident nearly a decade ago, Sam and Beau had only relied on each other. Growing up with workaholic parents who couldn’t concern themselves with their children, she and her brother had formed a strong bond. As kids they’d banded together against their strict nanny, as teenagers they’d rebelled when their parents tried to force law school down their throats, and as adults they’d only grown closer. Beau was her constant pillar of support and the only person in her life who offered the unconditional love her mother and father hadn’t been capable of.

The first couple of months after the attack had been tough for him. For her, too. The Bureau had encouraged her to cut off contact with Beau, worried that the man who’d tried to kill her might be watching her brother. They’d kept surveillance on Beau for as long as they could justify the cost, but after months without any sign of the Rose Killer, they’d finally called off the guards. It was still too dangerous for Beau to drive up to see her, but they were allowed to speak on the phone now. And each time they hung up, he always made sure to tell her he loved her, as if he were afraid that if he didn’t he’d never get the chance again.

She knew he was scared for her, worried, uneasy about this situation. Hell, so was she. But Beau would never understand what Elaine Woodman was feeling at the moment.

Only she understood.

“I want to help her,” she finally said, balancing the cordless on her shoulder so she could wrap her arms tightly around her knees. “I want to help catch this guy.”

“Revenge, justice—is that it?”

“No, not entirely. I’m just…sick of living in fear.” She exhaled shakily. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live in this isolated old house, miles away from civilization. I can’t keep jumping at every noise and shadow. I can’t put my life on hold anymore.”

Beau made a frustrated sound. “Don’t tell me you want to start modeling again.”

Even if I did, I can’t.

The silent reminder only made her eyes sting. No, she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction of crying one more tear. What he’d done to her had ensured that she’d never be able to model again, though only the hospital staff was aware of that. The nurses had seen the scar; of course, they’d been polite enough not to comment. But every time she stepped out of the shower she was reminded that her career was over.

Right now, however, that didn’t matter.

“I’ll never model again. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do something else. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about writing a novel.” She laughed humorlessly. “I’m supposed to be a writer now—might as well live the lie.”

“Then write a book. You don’t need to go back to Chicago to do it. Just lie low until this psychopath is caught.”

“But what if I can help catch him?”

Beau grew silent. She could picture the crease in his forehead growing deeper, more defined. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I have.”

The pressure in Blake’s temples eased the second he hung up the phone. A grim smile crossed his mouth as his partner’s words echoed in his head. She says she’ll do it.

He’d known she would, had sensed that Samantha Dawson wasn’t the type to sit idly by and twiddle her thumbs while the maniac who’d nearly killed her roamed the streets. He hadn’t, however, expected her to make up her mind so soon.

Hadn’t expected her to call Rick, either.

Shrugging out of his shirt, he headed for the motel’s tiny bathroom, which was no bigger than a closet and made him feel slightly claustrophobic. As he tugged at the zipper of his pants, he couldn’t help but frown. It shouldn’t bother him that Samantha had called to tell Rick what she’d decided to do, and not him. Both his and Rick’s numbers had been printed on that business card—so what if she hadn’t dialed his?

Still frowning, he stepped into the minuscule shower and turned on the faucet. He wondered, as the warm water splashed down his body, if it was inappropriate to be turned on by the woman.

Probably.

No, absolutely.

She was a victim, after all. Not to mention a witness in his case, which made his desire for her not only inappropriate but unethical.

You’ve been celibate for too long.

Blake reached for the small complimentary shampoo bottle, squeezed a glob into his hands, then lathered his hair. Celibacy. It wasn’t a state he liked, but since this damn case began sex was the last thing on his mind.

He’d learned the hard way what happened when he indulged in sex and relationships during a case. When he’d first joined the Bureau it had been easy separating his job from his personal life; back then his cases had hardly been life-threatening.

But when he’d transferred to the “Serial Squad,” as Rick jokingly referred to their unit, Blake’s ability to compartmentalize had been blown to bits. Bigger cases meant higher stakes. Higher stakes meant no distractions. And he quickly learned that his personal life was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

If she were alive, Kate Manning could probably vouch for that.

Hard as he tried to stop it, the thought of Kate slid into his head, making him sag against the tiled wall. He’d been thinking about her a lot lately. Too much. Probably because this case reminded him of the case he’d been working when Katie died. The Rose Killer was as sadistic as the man Blake had killed two years ago, the man Kate had been profiling for him.

He dunked his head under the stream of hot water and tried to clear his mind of the serious redhead who’d gotten under his skin and grabbed hold of his heart. The serious redhead who was dead because of him.

This time he paid attention to the authoritative voice in his head. Yes, he had to focus. He had a case to solve. A witness to protect.

And feeling any sort of attraction to that witness was out of the question.

“God help me,” he muttered, his voice sounding oddly muted in the enclosed space.

Shutting off the water, he stepped out of the stall and wrapped a towel around his waist. Then he wiped away the steam on the mirror and examined his foggy reflection, wondering if he appeared as tired to others as he did to himself. Because, hell, he was tired. Tired and bone-weary and so close to the breaking point he could practically feel the ground under him beginning to give in. If they didn’t get a lead in this case—and soon—he knew he’d burn out. He just hoped he could hold on a little while longer.

“Whoa! Keep that towel on, pal,” Rick cried as Blake walked out of the bathroom.

Quickly tightening the terry cloth over his lower body, Blake stared at the blond man sitting on his bed as if he owned it. “How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.

Rick shrugged. “You left the door unlocked.”

“And the concept of privacy never entered your tiny pea of a brain before you waltzed in here?”

“Nope.” Rick grinned. “My pea brain and I wanted to talk to you about Samantha Dawson.”

Blake sighed. “Let me put on some clothes first.”

After he’d changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt, he stepped back into the small room.

Rick was still lounging on the bed, so Blake headed for the stained table in the corner and sat in one of the plastic chairs. The room was far too cramped for his liking, but what else could he expect from the only motel in Wellstock?

“So I figured we’d pass her off as Elaine Woodman’s sister,” Rick started, getting right to the point. He crossed one leg over the other, looking as uncomfortable on the hard mattress as Blake knew he’d feel sleeping on it. “As much as I like the doctor treating Elaine, I don’t want him knowing who Samantha is.”

“He’s been really good about keeping Elaine’s presence a secret,” Blake said, then paused. “Mel’s still posing as a nurse there, right?”

“Knight plans to keep her there until Elaine is ready to be discharged. From what Mel says, Elaine is safe.”

He didn’t miss the way Rick briefly averted his eyes at the mention of Melanie Barnes. A subtle hint, but it wasn’t the first time Blake suspected that Rick and their fellow agent might be romantically involved. He just hoped his partner knew what he was doing. Rick’s divorce wasn’t even final yet, and from what Blake knew about Patty Scott, he had a feeling the woman wouldn’t hesitate to squeeze more cash out of her ex if she knew he was seeing another woman.

“Well, at least the media camped outside have no idea Elaine is alive.”

“Then why don’t they get the hell out of there?” Rick grumbled.

“We both know why. They’re hoping to find someone in the hospital willing to give them details. Maybe even autopsy photos.”

Rick shook his head in disgust. “That’s sick, man.”

“Don’t tell me.” Blake rubbed his eyes. “If even one picture of Samantha is taken, however unintentionally…All we need is one nosy reporter taking a good look and thinking, ‘Hey, she looks familiar.’”

“I know.” Rick’s expression grew serious. “We’ll have to take her in from the back, maybe through a service elevator. Give her some dark glasses, a wig, alter her appearance with makeup.” He shrugged. “Elaine’s doctor won’t object to sneaking her in. We’ll also try to bring her after visiting hours, when fewer reporters will be around, and we’ll make sure Mel is on duty, just in case.”

Blake’s headache reappeared as swiftly as it had disappeared. Temples pounding like a tribal drum, he went over the plan in his head. Chances were, nobody in the hospital would even be aware of Samantha’s presence, and if they were, her cover as the sister of a patient wouldn’t raise any suspicions. Yet it still worried him, plucking Samantha from her safe, isolated farmhouse and shoving her right back into the path of a killer.

“She’ll be okay.” As usual, Rick seemed to read his mind.

“One visit,” Blake muttered. “That’s all we can allow. One visit to try to get Elaine to open up. After that, Samantha returns to this invisible town and goes back to being Lori Kendall until this guy is caught.”

Rick nodded in agreement. “That’s the plan.”

They both grew quiet, somber, and Blake used the silence to go over all the possible risks they might face in bringing Samantha into Chicago. He figured his partner was doing the same, so he was surprised when Rick, in a low voice, uttered, “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

Well, at least he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

“Yeah.” His voice came out rough.

“I subscribed to Sports Illustrated just to see her spreads in the swimsuit edition,” Rick admitted, looking sheepish. “That is, until Patty canceled my subscription. But those photos…man. Always classy, sensual as hell, but classy.”

It struck Blake as odd, even wrong, that they were discussing her in this way. She may have been a sexy model in her past life, but in this life she was a victim and a witness. Hardly deserving of their scrutiny, even if it was appreciative.

“You think she’ll go back to modeling when this is all over?” Rick asked.

The question brought a cheerless smile to his lips. “I doubt it.”

“Because of the scars? There are surgeries available these days that can remove them.”

“After what that bastard did to her, I don’t think she’ll ever want to put herself on display again.”

A lump of sadness lodged in the back of his throat, not so much for Samantha Dawson as for all the other victims. The Rose Killer didn’t try to hide his handiwork—hell, he seemed damn proud of what he did. When Blake saw the first victim’s body, he’d been sickeningly amazed by the sheer intricacy of the carvings. Though they were still unsure of what it all meant, for some inexplicable reason, the bastard had a fascination with roses.

Why else would he carve them into his victims’ skin?

At least Samantha had been spared the full effect of the killer’s madness. Blake had been surprised when he’d studied her photos and seen only one rose. The profilers at Quantico suspected that the lack of mutilation had something to do with the fact that Samantha’s body was “well known.” Maybe the guy wanted to keep her as untainted as possible; maybe he thought a body like hers deserved to remain uncluttered. Who the hell knew? Blake didn’t need to be a profiler to figure out that this killer was a monster. Analyzing his motives didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know.

Yet the guy was human. He had to be. Because humans made mistakes, and this guy had already made two big ones. He’d inadvertently left Samantha Dawson and Elaine Woodman alive, and in the end, that’s what would finally put him behind bars.

Chapter 3

“Where’s your partner?” Sam asked the next afternoon. She peered past Blake’s impressively broad shoulders in search of Rick Scott. All she saw was a heap of fresh powdery snow and her barren yard. A black SUV idled in front of her garage, and when she glanced through the tinted windows, she realized that Blake had come here alone.

“We came up in separate cars in case one of us needed to leave,” he answered. “Rick drove back to Chicago last night to get a few things in order before we bring you to the hospital.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his faded blue jeans, and her gaze instantly took in how snugly the denim fit against his powerful legs. He looked good in jeans. And the thick cable-knit sweater that stretched over his lean chest looked darn good, too.

She was a little startled to notice how tall he was. He’d been sitting down during most of yesterday’s visit, and now, standing right next to him, she was able to appreciate the sheer size of him. He was at least six-three, but there was nothing bulky about him, just a broad chest that tapered into a lean waist, and a whole slew of sculpted muscles. God, this man had the whole package, didn’t he? Classically handsome features, drool-worthy body.

“Are you ready to go?”

Their eyes locked, and his slightly wry expression told her that he’d caught her studying him. An unexplained rush of heat scorched her cheeks, which only reddened further when she remembered the dream she’d had last night.

Blake. Kissing her. Just a soft, slow kiss, a far cry from those sweeping cinematic kisses that left the audience in breathless awe, but it had enough of an effect on her that she hadn’t been able to get the dream out of her mind all morning.

She hadn’t felt anything close to desire for a man since the attack, and it shocked her that her body was capable of producing such a reaction. Hell, it had surprised her so much she’d actually jarred herself awake from the disturbing dream, heart pounding and brain demanding to know how she could envision such a thing.

Six months ago, the thought of kissing a man wouldn’t have scared her. Though she was far from promiscuous, she’d had her share of lovers, and she’d certainly enjoyed making love. Until her entire life had shattered before her eyes. Now, the thought of being with a man came with fear that gnawed at her like a raccoon in a trash can. Aside from her brother, any man who came into her presence brought on terrifying suspicion, bone-deep worry that he might hurt her.

So why wasn’t she scared of this man?

“Samantha?”

“What? Oh, sure, I’m ready. Let me just lock up.”

She could feel Blake’s intense gaze on her as she stuck her key in a lock and latched the front door. She slung the strap of her overnight bag over her shoulder before following Blake down the porch steps toward his SUV.

She’d already called Virginia and informed her that she’d be out of town for a couple of days. Her excuse had been that she was going to Chicago to do some research for her novel, and her neighbor had wished her luck and demanded a copy of the book when it was released. Although she hadn’t gone out of her way to be friendly with anyone in town, Sam knew the older woman cared about her, and it reassured her knowing that someone would keep an eye out for any strangers who might approach the house in her absence.

“Here, let me put this in the back,” Blake said, reaching for her bag.

Their fingers brushed as he took it, and for one brief second, Sam faltered. It wasn’t as if she’d expected a spark of electricity or anything, but the feel of his warm hand grazing hers was just as alarming.

Trying not to focus on anything other than the reason she was going with him, she sank into the passenger seat of the car and settled into the cushy leather interior. Blake closed the trunk and rounded the vehicle. From the corner of her eye, she saw him slide into the seat next to her.

“How’s your butt?”

Indignation colored her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

For the first time since they’d met, he shot her a grin. “I mean, is it cold or anything? This car has top-of-the-line seat warmers. I could turn yours on if you’d like.”

“Oh. No, that’s okay,” she stammered, still feeling winded by the unexpected smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. Lord, this man looked gorgeous when he smiled.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and turned on the ignition, then pressed a button under the dashboard and gave a contented sigh. “God bless seat warmers.”

Oh to be the seat under that man’s ass.

The sly little thought popped into her head before she could stop it. It was exactly the type of thing she would’ve thought once upon a time, when she’d had a successful modeling career and a parade of men at her door. Her best friend, Susan, had always teased her about the mischievous little comments she’d used to make.

God, she missed the days when she’d been…carefree. Happy. She missed Susan, too, but she knew that temporarily severing ties with the people in her life was for the best.

She leaned against the soft headrest behind her, shooting Blake a sideways glance as he backed out of the driveway and turned the SUV around. They didn’t speak as he drove down the icy road. She listened to the sound of snow crunching underneath the tires and the soft strains of country music floating out of the stereo speakers.

Her pulse quickened the moment they turned onto the main street leading toward the highway. She inhaled slowly, willing her pulse to slow. She didn’t want Blake to know that the thought of returning to civilization scared the crap out of her.

“It’ll be okay, Samantha.”

His quiet voice and words of reassurance made surprise jolt through her. Had he read her mind, or was her fear written on her face? She hadn’t thought it was, but since the idea of her features giving her away wasn’t as unsettling as the idea of Blake finding a way into her head, she preferred to consider herself transparent.

“Sam,” she finally said, not responding to his astute remark. “You can call me Sam.”

“All right. It’ll be okay, Sam,” he repeated.

“I know.” She blew out a shaky breath. “Of course it’ll be okay.”

He shot her a quick glance, the expression in his deep brown eyes telling her that he didn’t quite believe her. “By this time tomorrow, you’ll be back in your farmhouse, doing—what is it you do all the way out there? Puzzles, crosswords? Do you like to read?”

He was trying to distract her and they both knew it. But she welcomed the distraction nevertheless. “I read a lot, actually,” she admitted, playing with the sleeve of her warm wool sweater.

“What do you read?” His voice remained relaxed, even as he turned onto the on ramp of the highway and easily merged with traffic.

Her gaze darted to the window, fixing on the cars and trucks and vans whizzing by. Her pulse accelerated, just a little, at the sounds of tires squealing and horns blaring, at the sight of faceless, nameless people driving alongside them. Overhead, the late-afternoon sun disappeared behind a patch of thick gray clouds the moment they picked up speed. An omen of things to come?

Pushing aside the disturbing notion, she focused on Blake’s question. “I like mysteries. Some romance.”

“Bodice-rippers, huh?”

“Why do men always call them that?”

He chuckled. “Because the covers always depict a half-naked Fabio ripping the bodice off a fair maiden.”

“Well, what do you like to read? Or are you too busy for that?”

“You hit the nail on the head with that one. With my caseload, I’m lucky if I get past the first page of a novel. I used to read a lot of thrillers though.”

“Is that why you do this job, for the thrills?”

The question slipped out before she could stop it, but she regretted it the second his voice turned harsh. “There’s nothing thrilling about chasing monsters.”

She drew in a breath. “I…you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

She heard him take a breath of his own. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Out of newfound habit, her fingers slid down to her wrist and rubbed that irritating scar. For a long while they drove in silence before she said, “You’ve been after him a long time, haven’t you?”

He didn’t need to ask her who he was. “Almost eight months now.”

Since she knew the murders had been going on for at least two months longer, she wrinkled her forehead. “Not from the beginning?”

Blake kept his eyes on the road. “The Chicago PD didn’t call us in until the third victim was discovered. Once they realized they had a serial killer on their hands, they needed all the help they could get.”

The third victim. It bothered her to hear him say that. First victim. Second. Third. As if they were nothing more than numbers. Not women who had once breathed, lived. Just numbers.

Was she a number? The fourth victim? Was that how Blake and his fellow agents referred to her?

“What was her name, the third victim?” she asked softly.

“Diana Barrett.”

A tiny pang of guilt tugged at her insides when she realized that it was the first time she’d heard that name. She’d been so caught up in her own pain, her own ordeal, that she’d never really thought to ask about the others. Diana Barrett. Elaine Woodman. Hearing the names, knowing the identities of the other women, made her feel…less alone.

Another blare of a car horn caught her attention. This time the sound didn’t make her flinch. This time the vehicles driving alongside them didn’t evoke fear, but determination.

A sense of purpose surged through her, bringing with it a flicker of familiarity. She’d once been a woman who wasn’t afraid to charge forward, take action and grab what she wanted out of life. A woman who hadn’t let fear or doubt slow her down, or pulled the covers over her head when things got a little too rough.

She’d thought that woman had abandoned her the night she’d almost died, but she’d been wrong.

After the attack, she’d fled, hid from the world, clung to her fear, but now she found herself clutching the other side of the survival-instinct coin. Fight or flight. Last time she’d chosen the latter.

This time she was going to fight.

And every mile that brought them closer to the city she’d deserted strengthened her conviction that she was doing the right thing.

Blake instantly noticed the change in his passenger, the way her gray eyes had gone from dull to vibrant, the way she’d straightened her back and lifted her chin as if she were walking into battle. Something inside her had shifted, and he wondered if he’d played a part in it. He’d thought that talking about Diana Barrett would cause Sam to crawl back inside herself, but it seemed to have had just the opposite effect. She suddenly looked driven, confident and…sexy.

Don’t even go there, man.

Trying not to admire her delicate profile, he focused on driving, the hour-long journey finally coming to an end as he steered the SUV onto a residential street.

Sam’s demeanor quickly reverted back to the one he’d grown used to. Suspicious and uneasy.

“Where are we?”

“My house,” he replied as he parked in the snow-covered driveway and shut off the engine.

She studied the modest two-story home intently. Her gaze flicked from the dark-red bricks to the white front door to the towering oak trees shielding the house from the road. After she’d finished her scrutiny, she turned to face him, still wary and now a little distrustful.

“Why are we here?”

He unbuckled his seat belt and reached for the door handle. “We can’t take you to a hotel, Sam.” He opened the door and got out, adding, “You’re staying here with me.”

He moved around the vehicle to open her door, but she un-snapped her seat belt and bounded out before he could reach for the handle. “I…why am I staying here?”

He didn’t like the panic he saw in those smoky-gray eyes. Was she afraid of him?

Hell, he realized, of course she was. She was probably afraid of any male who came within a five-mile radius of her. And he didn’t really blame her.

Keeping his tone gentle, he held her worried gaze. “We can’t risk having anyone figure out who you are—you know that. Sending you to a farmhouse miles away from civilization is one thing, but if you waltz into a hotel and check in, even with an alias, you’d be taking a chance that someone might recognize you.”

She swallowed. “I know.”

“This is the only way to keep you safe.” As safe as you can be.

“I know,” she repeated.

Without any more objections, she hugged her chest with her arms and waited as he grabbed her bag from the trunk. Then she quietly followed him up the snowy path leading to the house.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, noting the protective way she held her arms, and his heart squeezed a little. Damn, he didn’t know what it was about this woman, but she brought out a nurturing side in him that he didn’t know he possessed. Every time he looked into those haunted eyes, he just wanted to pull her into his arms. He wanted to tell her that every goddamn thing was going to be all right, that the man who’d hurt her would be caught and punished, and that nothing—nothing—would ever hurt her again.

And he really wanted to kiss her.

A soundless groan lodged in the back of his throat. Great. As if he weren’t stressed out enough. Now he had to deal with ridiculous urges more suited to a fifteen-year-old than a grown man who had a job to do.

He shouldn’t be thinking about kissing this woman. Nobody could deny how stunning she was, but as a federal agent he should know better than to be captivated by a witness.

“Wow…I didn’t expect…this,” she marveled when they stepped into the front hall. She glanced at the wood-paneled walls, then down at the rich, red carpet beneath their feet. “It’s so cozy in here.”

Before he could answer, she shook off her black leather boots and brushed past him, looking, for the first time all day, interested in her surroundings. He suppressed a grin as he unlaced his own boots, then set the security alarm on the wall. When he entered the living room to see Sam examining the large stone fireplace in front of the brown leather couch, he had to smile.

“What were you expecting?” he asked curiously.

She whirled around, a tentative smile reaching her lips. “A bachelor pad,” she admitted. “Bare necessities, couch, TV and table to put the beers on. But this place is amazing. Did you decorate it yourself?”

He chuckled, watching her stare at an oil painting—a landscape—hanging nearby. “I wish I could take credit, but my mother is the interior decorator in the family, not me. She came by and worked her magic. You should see my family home.”

“So you live here in Chicago? Don’t you work out of Quantico?” she asked.

He nodded. “I am in Virginia a lot, but I try to come back here whenever I can. That’s why I bought this house, more of an incentive to come home.”

“I’ve always loved this city,” she confessed, sounding wistful. She moved over to the tall bookshelf in the corner and absently ran her fingers over the spines of the novels stacked there.

“I’d assume in your line of work, you’d be traveling to New York and L.A. quite a lot,” he said. “What made you choose Chicago as your home base?”

He found himself oddly curious about this woman. What he knew about her came from her file, an array of facts compiled on paper. Sure, he was aware that she and her older brother had been orphaned when she was sixteen. Knew she’d gotten her first break when a talent agent discovered her in a shopping mall. Knew she looked damn good in swimsuits, and that her middle name was Corrine. Yet knowing and understanding were two different things.

For some inexplicable reason, he wondered about the woman behind the profile. How had she felt growing up with only her brother? Why had she chosen to become a model? Why hadn’t there been a man in her life to help her heal after the attack?

That those questions should even be important to him was more troubling than he’d have liked to admit.

“I grew up here.” She shrugged and met his eyes. “All the places I’ve traveled never seemed to compare. This is home. At least, it used to be.”

He cleared his throat, knowing that he couldn’t offer assurance that she’d be able to leave her farmhouse anytime soon. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get settled?” he suggested. “You can take the guest room at the end of the hall.”

She nodded. “All right. When are we going to the hospital?”

He glanced at his watch. Quarter to five. “Probably around nine,” he answered. “Visiting hours end at eight but we want to make sure the press isn’t lingering around when we get there. If it were up to me, we’d go much later, but Elaine’s doctor says she needs to rest. No late-night visits.”

“Have you met her before?” Sam’s voice was soft.

“Yes.”

Her knowing gaze told him she’d caught the hitch in his voice. “She’s not in very good shape, is she?”

Blake swallowed. “No. She’s not.”

“Your name is Lois Lawford,” Rick Scott said. He turned the key in the ignition and backed the unmarked sedan out of Blake’s driveway. “You’re Elaine’s sister.”

Sam managed a nod, her heartbeat accelerating and palms growing damp as she stared at Blake’s house in the rearview mirror, slowly disappearing from sight. She felt like a kid on her first day of school, nervous, panicked over leaving behind the familiar and delving into the unknown. Only what lay in store for her wasn’t a strange classroom and a bunch of kids she’d never met—she was about to meet a woman who’d suffered as much as she had. And the thought of looking into another survivor’s eyes and seeing everything she herself had felt mere months ago was unbelievably nerve-wracking.

At least nobody would recognize her in this getup. The frumpy sweater and baggy jeans Rick had asked her to change into were uncomfortable, the short blond wig on her head was making her scalp itch and the thick black eyeglasses pinched her nose. A young female cop from the Chicago PD had stopped by Blake’s house to apply Sam’s makeup, and the woman had done a good job. Sam’s complexion was now darker, hinting at Mediterranean descent. The shadows under her eyes gave her face a sunken look, and there was even a small mole over her top lip now. She’d barely recognized herself when she’d glanced in the mirror. The whole disguise made her feel homely and out of sorts.

Her nerves began to skitter as Rick drove in the direction of Chicago General. The last time she’d been there was as a patient, not a visitor, and those memories were far too fresh, far too raw, to forget. For a second she was tempted to order Rick to turn the car around and drive her back to Blake’s where she’d felt safe, but she quickly tamped down the irrational urge.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help with the investigation. She would do anything to put the man who’d attacked her behind bars. But wanting to help and experiencing her own trauma again were two different things. Sure, she could browse through mug shots, hope to miraculously identify a man whose face she’d never even seen. But staring into the tortured eyes of another victim and hearing the tormenting tale that would no doubt mirror her own?

God, she didn’t know if she could do it.

Hoping that talking about the investigation would ease her anxiety, she glanced at Rick. “Is Lois Elaine’s older or younger sister?”

“Older. You’re a journalist from DC, but weren’t able to get away until now. You and Elaine were never really close.” Rick smiled faintly. “I guess that sort of makes you insensitive, for not coming to see your sister sooner.”

“As long as nobody finds out who I am, I’m fine with being seen as insensitive.” She hesitated, briefly staring at the dark road ahead before turning back to Rick. “Why didn’t Blake come with us?”

“He went on ahead. He’s arranging for a couple of cops from the Chicago PD task force to keep an eye on the hospital entrance while you’re inside. Just to make sure any reporters are kept in line.”

“Oh.”

Her hands trembled. She didn’t know why Blake’s absence bothered her, but it did. She’d come to trust Blake Corwin—at least as much as she could trust anyone. Something about his tall, powerful body made her feel protected, feel as if he would step in front of a bullet if it meant saving her life. Which was a little ironic, considering that, one, she barely knew the man, and, two, he’d put her in danger just by bringing her back here. By bringing her back from the dead.

“Wait, reporters?” she said suddenly, focusing on Rick’s last remark. “Why would reporters be there? Elaine was declared dead.”

Rick shrugged. “Hoping to get an interview with her doctor maybe, or find a nurse willing to talk about what happened. Elaine is in the ICU, pretty much the only area those vultures can’t get into, so I don’t think they suspect that she might be alive. I think they just want any scrap of information they can get about this case. A serial killer in Chicago?” His mouth twisted drily. “That’s big news.”

The hospital came into view, its lights illuminating the dark neighborhood. An ambulance whizzed past their car, sirens blaring as it sped toward the emergency entrance of the massive gray building.

Rick drove right past the main lot and toward a narrow alley in the back. The cargo area, she realized.

“He’s not always so intense, by the way,” Rick said suddenly.

She swallowed. “What?”

“Blake.” He grinned. “He’s not as intimidating as he’d like everyone to believe.”

A half-mocking smile reached her lips. “Really? I would never have guessed.”

Rick parked the car. “He’s usually a lot more relaxed. Smiles more often, too. This case is really getting to him.”

Boy, didn’t she know it.

Rick unbuckled his seat belt and searched her face, his pale-blue eyes tinged with encouragement. “Are you ready?”

She took a breath. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Chapter 4

Getting to Elaine Woodman’s room was surprisingly easy and went without a hitch. The orderly who’d met them hadn’t seemed the least bit suspicious by her backdoor arrival. As it turned out, a few reporters were still hanging around the lobby, but on an unrelated case. Apparently, a popular movie star’s wife had been admitted earlier in the evening, experiencing complications from a much-publicized pregnancy. Whether the orderly who let them in thought Sam was connected to that particular story, she didn’t know. She didn’t care, either, as long as she entered and left this hospital undetected.

She and Rick rode a service elevator up to the brightly lit ICU, where they were met by Henry Darwitz, Elaine’s doctor. Sam introduced herself as Elaine’s sister, and with a brisk nod, the doctor left her and Rick in front of Elaine’s private room.

“Kira Lawford,” she muttered, reading the chart hanging by the door. She turned to the agent beside her. “Huh. Her alias is almost like mine, but with the initials flipped.”

Rick shrugged. “I don’t pick the names.”

The sound of footsteps echoed in the deserted corridor and Sam instinctively glanced up. A petite blonde in a nurse’s uniform walked past them, heading toward the nurses’ station nearby. Sam’s nerves eased as she saw the woman rummage around on the desk, her gaze never once drifting in their direction.

Turning around, Sam stared at the closed blinds over the window of Elaine’s room, wishing she could peer through them to get a look at the woman inside. She wanted to be prepared when she walked in, wanted to see Elaine’s face before she stirred up painful wounds.

“Do you think she’ll talk to me?” she asked quietly.

Rick looked grim. “Let’s hope so.”

Taking a steadying breath, she reached for the door and slowly pushed it open.

Darkness engulfed her, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Her gaze was drawn to the bed in the center of the room. Elaine Woodman lay there, a thin sheet pulled all the way up to her chin, her eyes closed. The way Elaine’s honey-brown hair fanned across the stark white pillow made her look like a sleeping angel. Like nothing more than a pretty young woman dozing in her bed.

A voice suddenly ripped through the darkness. “Who are you?”

Sam took a step closer and found a pair of sharp green eyes zeroing in on her. Wary. Fearful. The slice of moonlight filtering in through the filmy curtains made those eyes appear larger, brighter, a vivid emerald tint that gave them a catlike quality.

“Did I wake you?” Sam asked, stepping toward the bed.

Elaine reached out and grasped the top of the sheet tighter, pulling it higher, and that’s when Sam noticed the bandages on her slender wrists. Almost unconsciously, she glanced down at her own wrists, making out the jagged white scars even in the darkness.

“Who are you?” Elaine repeated, sliding up into a sitting position. “What do you want?”

The woman looked suspicious and terrified and reminded Sam so much of herself that she almost turned away. She’d been mistrustful of anyone who’d come into her hospital room, too, wondering if they wanted yet another statement, wishing they would let her lick her wounds in peace.

Knowing she was walking on eggshells, she simply stood next to the bed and offered a gentle smile. “My name is Samantha Dawson. You can call me Sam, though.”

A flicker of recognition. “Do I know you?” Elaine sounded uncertain.

“No, we’ve never met. But if my name sounds familiar to you, it might be because you’ve heard it before. It probably came up when the detectives spoke to you.”

Elaine went still, then broke the short silence with a sharp intake of breath. “You’re…dead.” Her pale face grew even paler. “Oh, Jesus, are you a ghost?”

Sam had to chuckle at that. With a smile, she sank onto the small metal chair next to the bed. “No, I can assure you that I’m not a ghost. See?” She reached out and lightly touched Elaine’s upper arm, not surprised when the young woman recoiled. Pulling her hand back, she fought to keep the smile on her lips. “Flesh and blood, just like you.”

“He attacked you, too,” Elaine said bleakly. She wrapped her arms around her chest. “But you survived? Like me?”

“Yes. The police sent me into hiding after I left the hospital.”

“So why are you here? Aren’t you scared that…”

Elaine didn’t finish her sentence, but Sam knew what she’d been going to say. Aren’t you scared that he’ll come after you again?

Her heart squeezed. Elaine’s voice sounded so forlorn, so tortured. The voice of a woman who’d been hurt badly, whose youthful vitality had been sucked out of her. Sam knew the girl was twenty-three, but her tiny body, barely taking up any space on that narrow bed, made her appear younger, more vulnerable. The last thing Sam wanted to do was hurt this girl any more than she’d already been hurt.

Yet she didn’t have a choice.

“Rick Scott and his partner asked me to come see you. You met them, right?”

Elaine nodded.

“Well, they thought I might be able to help you.”

The girl’s mouth twisted in self-loathing. “Nobody can help me.”

Sam swallowed hard and raked her fingers through her hair, finding its texture different and remembering that she was wearing a wig.

“That’s what I thought,” she finally responded, “when I was lying here, in this same hospital, with those same bandages on my wrists. I thought my life was over. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about what happened.”

When Elaine remained quiet, she went on. “It’s a terrible feeling, isn’t it? Helplessness. Hopelessness.”

Those big green circles penetrated her face. “You forgot fear.”

“Trust me, I didn’t forget.”

“You’re still scared?” The sheet covering Elaine’s chest drooped as she leaned forward slightly, revealing another bandage, a bigger one, on her neck.

Sam knew exactly what lay beneath that gauze, but she forced herself to stay focused. “Yes, I’m still scared. The FBI has been keeping me hidden, but—” she took a breath “—I don’t feel safe.”

“Me, either,” Elaine murmured. Her eyes grew glassy, and Sam knew she was on the verge of tears. “I’m leaving the hospital soon. Or at least, Kira Lawford is. I don’t know where they’re taking me.”

“They’re trying to protect you.”

“By showing up here every day and trying to force me to talk to them?” Sarcasm laced her tone. “It doesn’t feel like protection. More like pressure.”

“I know.”

“Did you enjoy it? Sitting there and spilling your guts, while some unfeeling cop took notes?”

“No, I didn’t.” She leaned forward and touched Elaine’s hand. This time, the girl didn’t pull away. “I hated it. I hated all of them. Except Annette Hanson. She was a cop, the only cop who was patient with me, who didn’t force me to talk, didn’t force me to do anything. She relocated to Indiana a few months ago, which is a shame. You would’ve liked her. It was Annette I finally confided in.”

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