Most Wanted Woman. Maggie Price
way to her bare feet, then back up again. “You do look good on the surface.”
His intimate scrutiny seared Regan like a blast, an almost palpable force that made her knees weak. God, she had to get away from him.
Clenching her fingers on the knob, she jerked the door open wider. “It’s late, McCall, and I want to go to bed.”
He stepped to her, curled a finger under her chin and nudged it up. “That an invitation?” he murmured.
“For you to leave.” She slapped his hand away while her pulse thrummed. He was all but standing on top of her. Close enough that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the woods to mind one moment and dark, intimate nights the next.
She didn’t want to feel. It was safer that way, easier; if she hadn’t been numb over the past year she couldn’t have survived. Two men were dead because of her. Their murders were an internal wound she didn’t dare touch because it was still bleeding. She wanted to keep the bleak ice inside her frozen.
She took a step back from the man whose hot gaze threatened to crack that ice. “Since you’re apparently Etta’s self-designated watchdog, you might want to stick your nose in an aspect of her life where she is at risk.”
“That would be?”
“Her health. She baked tonight, meaning she spent a lot of time on her feet, which is exactly what she shouldn’t be doing. She broke a bone, she has to keep her weight off her foot as much as possible or complications could set in.”
His eyes were now crimped with concern. “What sort of complications?”
“Are you aware she’s a diabetic?”
“Yeah. Has been since I’ve known her.”
“A diabetic’s immune system isn’t top-notch. That means slower healing. Possible infections.” Regan paused when she heard the emotion begin to break through her voice. She owed everything to the woman who’d given her a job, a place to live. To hide. “I try to get Etta to follow the doctor’s orders, but she’s stubborn.”
His gaze narrowed on her face and Regan could swear she felt it penetrate through her. “You sound like you know a lot about medicine.”
She clenched her fingers tighter on the knife. “I’m just repeating what Doc Zink told me.”
“I’ll talk to Etta tomorrow. Try to get her to behave.”
“Good.”
He stepped out on the balcony. Even as he turned back toward the door, Regan shut it and shot the dead bolt into place.
She walked to the kitchenette, laid the knife on the counter and waited. When she heard his footsteps clatter down the outside staircase, a shiver ran through her, like icy fingers slicking her flesh.
He was curious about her, too damn curious. Like any cop, Josh McCall had numerous law enforcement networks available. Her Regan Ford identity could pass a cursory check, but what if he dug deeper? Standing there, she could almost feel the cold steel of handcuffs lock onto her wrists.
Panic clawed at the base of her throat. It would take mere minutes to cram her clothes into her suitcase, grab her running money and drive away from Sundown.
And go where? a voice inside her asked. Drift through a blur of towns and cities as she’d done when she first went on the run, forever looking over her shoulder to see if Creath was there?
Allowing herself a moment of despair, she dropped her head into her hands. Her life might as well have a sign posted: Danger Behind. Danger Ahead. What the hell should she do? Just the thought of taking off again, of giving up the tenuous life she’d begun in Sundown made her feel physically ill.
So, she would stay, at least for a while. Until she had time to think. To work out a plan.
She looked back at the French doors. It hadn’t been just a cop she feared who’d just walked out of them but the man whose warm touch she could still feel against her flesh. She thought her sensuality had died with Steven, but Josh McCall had proven her wrong.
A vivid premonition of disaster swept over her. “Stay away from me, McCall,” she said, her voice a thready whisper. “Just stay away.”
Payne Creath sat alone in the Homicide detail’s dim squad room amid a maze of steel desks the color of dirty putty. The air carried a stale edge of tobacco. If he concentrated, he could hear the raucous sounds of the French Quarter seeping in through the building’s grubby windows. The computer monitor holding his attention flooded his sharp-angled face with an eerie unnatural hue as his agile fingers worked the keyboard.
He possessed an innate ability to hunt. Combined with a fixed persistence, he could locate anything and anyone, no matter how long it took.
He would find her—it was fated.
Susan. She had smooth skin and liquid brown eyes, small breasts and a slender waist. From his first glimpse of her, he had loved the look of her, the sound of her, the scent. She’d been his one magic person. Only her. He had dealt with his rivals. All of them. That she’d run from him, left him, had been a dagger to the heart. As quick as that, love turned to hate. One year later, his wound still oozed blood.
Was she feeling safe, burrowed in her hiding place? Had she fooled herself into thinking he would fail to keep his promise to share his disappointment with her in the worst way imaginable? Would she feel a shiver race beneath that smooth skin if she knew how much the passage of time had honed his resolve to find her?
“Just got us a homicide call. Gonna be a long night.”
Looking up, Creath met the gaze of the short, stocky man who strode into the squad room, cell phone in hand. Creath had no friends on the police force, just acquaintances. His partner was no exception.
He dipped a hand into the plastic bag on his desk, pulled out a peppermint while his mouth formed the polished smile that pulled people in, making them believe anything he said. “What’d we do, cher, snag us a mass murder?”
“Triple. Two male college tourists and a pimp named Lo-Vell. Lots of blood.”
Creath unwrapped the peppermint. “Well, hell, guess we’ll have to put off eating breakfast.”
“Guess so. I’ll get the car, pick you up out front.”
Creath began shutting down the computer, feeling a tic of regret over interrupting the night’s search. She was smart—not once since she’d run had she used her real name, nor did he think she would. Numbers were something else. The passage of time increased the likelihood she would let down her guard. It was easier to slip back into using one’s real date of birth, maybe risk using her actual social security number a time or two. So, he watched. If any cop radioed in a check to the National Crime Information Center computer, or checked an ID or made any other type of documented contact with a female matching her description who used her real date of birth or social security number, his off-line search would turn it up.
His hunt didn’t stop with law enforcement. Using his home computer, he had hacked into the database of hospitals and ambulance services, searching for new hires. She’d have to work. By now, the amount of money she could make in her chosen profession might outweigh the peril of exposure.
And if anyone—from cop to job recruiter—ran her prints, they’d get a hit on the murder warrant.
Then she’d be his.
He would see she paid for rejecting him. For the pain she’d caused him. He would take pleasure in being the ultimate victor in this struggle.
He felt the power rise inside him as the computer clicked off and the monitor’s single eye went black. The image of him locking handcuffs around her delicate wrists crouched darkly in his brain. For him, it would be the ultimate twisting of the knife to escort her to prison, knowing she’d be spending the rest of her life locked in a cell.
Thinking