The Killing Edge. Heather Graham
now gleamed proudly in the night, lit in bright colors that drew the eye. The gentle sound of the surf made a pleasant background, and the breeze was almost dainty, carrying in a cooling note from the water.
How far could they have made it so quickly?
Chloe stopped running. They could have gone anywhere. Their footprints had gotten mingled with all those left over from the day.
She caught her breath as she looked around. They could have gone in a half-dozen different directions. Not only were their footprints impossible to distinguish anymore, she had passed at least five hotels, restaurants and clubs as she ran, and the pair could have ducked into any one of them. Not to mention that a block ahead, the hotels and restaurants shifted, and were all on the other side of the street, providing another range of possible hiding places.
What if this man had something to do with Colleen Rodriguez’s disappearance? Was Rene in danger now, too?
She closed her eyes, fighting a wave of panic.
Every once in a while, hitting so briefly that no one else even noticed, it came. That sensation of absolute terror. A memory of the colors of death that had bathed the world in red and black that night ten years ago.
This had nothing to do with the past, she told herself. Nothing at all.
She fought the panic, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Fighting back had become her way of coping on a day-to-day basis with what had happened a decade before. Her uncle had told her that she could curl up and hide for the rest of her life, or she could learn to live again.
She had chosen to live. And she had taken classes in every form of defensive—and even offensive—fighting that she could. She had also become a crack shot.
She could even string a crossbow.
But all the training in the world couldn’t help if you couldn’t find the person you were trying to protect.
It was time to go back. To admit defeat. To live to fight another day.
Except that this was what she was fighting for. To discover the truth about the Bryson Agency and the disappearance of a young woman who’d had everything to live for.
She turned around to head back and was stunned to find herself staring at Jack Smith.
“Where’s Rene?” she asked, immediately going on the offensive.
“You tell me. And thanks for confirming that that was Rene. At least we know she’s alive at the moment, and presumably well.”
Chloe frowned, watching him. “What is your concern with Rene?”
He shrugged.
He was an interesting man, she decided. Tall and lean, but with broad shoulders and hard-muscled arms, and an abdomen that was probably like steel. And his eyes. They seemed to cut right through her. His face had too much of a hard, rugged edge to be termed handsome, but somehow the conglomeration of all his features made him more attractive than any of the perfect models back at the party. He was undeniably compelling. She was extremely suspicious of him, and yet … being close to him seemed to make the night warmer. She had the sense that touching him now would be like trying to hold on to an electric shock. He’d been courteous when they’d been introduced before … but there was something in his eyes. Something hard. And it made him all the more suspicious—and, somehow, physically appealing.
“She’ll make a great swimsuit model,” he said.
“So great that you were wandering around upstairs—hunting her down?” Chloe demanded.
“You have to break a few rules to get ahead in this world,” he told her. “So, your turn. Why were you chasing me?”
“Because you were chasing Rene.”
“Why wasn’t Rene at the party when she was at the house?” he demanded. “You girls are tight—I assume. Or are you?”
She was a fake, of course.
But the others were the real thing.
“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “Maybe she was afraid that some strange new designer would be looking for her. Some guy who’d gone a little off the deep end, enough to chase her down a trellis and all along the beach.”
He grinned at that. She was surprised to see how that grin made him … even more appealing and … flat-out sexy.
Dangerously so? she wondered. After all, some of the most heinous killers in history had exuded a deadly charm.
“All’s fair in the fashion industry, or so I understand,” he said.
As they stood there, frozen in an odd face-off, someone suddenly emerged from the low foliage that separated the sand from the street.
It was Rene, and she jetted off like a rabbit in alarm.
Jack immediately lost interest in their conversation and turned to go after Rene.
Chloe’s own response was impulsive—and protective. She flew across the sand after him and leaped onto his back. To her amazement, he managed to remain upright and sling her around so that she fell to the sand. He started to run again, and she caught his ankle. Still, he didn’t fall, not until she twisted around in a mixed—martial arts movement that brought him down at last.
She didn’t need to win; she just needed to buy enough time for Rene to disappear somewhere. She didn’t know what was going on, but designers did not chase down models, whether all was fair in fashion or not.
Chloe jumped back to her feet—it was her turn to run.
But apparently he knew he’d lost Rene and had decided to maintain whatever connection he had with her instead. This time he caught her ankle, and she plunged back to the sand. Before she knew it, he was straddling her, pinning her wrists. He wasn’t really trying to hurt her, though. His hold was easy, and he was keeping his full weight off her.
“All right, time for an honest conversation,” he said. He spoke like a man accustomed to being in command, and she resented it. But she was also acutely aware of the way his thighs cradled her body as he held her down. Warmth spread through her, and she was appalled by the way she found herself wondering what he would be like if he cared about a woman… .
She gritted her teeth. They were engaged in a physical battle, she could be in danger, and he could be a monster. What the hell was wrong with her?
The man couldn’t be a monster. Every instinct she had was sure of it.
She told herself not to be an idiot. An untold number of dead women had no doubt told themselves the same thing.
No. There would be no conversation, and no letting him maintain that edge of authority. Her wrists might be pinned, but her legs were free, and she could tell that he wasn’t prepared for her to fight back. She twisted and slammed her knees up at the same time. To her delight, she did take him by surprise, throwing him off to the side.
But he was quick to rebound. He caught her before she could rise. She tried a feint to the left, but he was ready, so she became a flurry of motion. He swore, trying to contain her flying arms and legs, but she got in one good whack to his chin; she heard the thunk and his grunt of pain.
But he didn’t give up. She might be a vicious terrier, but it seemed she had come across a rottweiler.
And he was still trying to restrain her, not knock her out. She had definitely hurt him, but he was just fighting for control—and he was winning.
“Hey, hey, hey! What the hell is going on?”
Chloe knew the voice, and she sighed with relief.
Lieutenant Anthony Stuckey, metro police. Stuckey never had to leave a desk these days unless he wanted to, but he was an old-time cop, and—he wanted to. He was friends with her uncle Leo, and friends with her. He had encouraged her to pursue her interest in art after her sketches had helped solve