Too Wild to Hold. Julie Leto
was likely getting a kick out of this push-pull, but Michael was losing patience. He might find her strength sexy as hell, but he wasn’t going to let her run headfirst into danger.
“You don’t know where he is, and neither do I,” he confessed, turning her toward the camera while he spoke directly into her ear. “This man ingratiates himself into the lives of his victims long before he sends them a scarf. He learns their habits. He memorizes their routines. He doesn’t have a name or a face, but he’s always around. Maybe he’s the guy who delivers flowers to your neighbor. Maybe he’s the new tenant in the building two doors down. Maybe he’s the guy walking his dog down your street who seems more interested in his text messages than his surroundings. Trust me when I tell you he’s been watching you for weeks, maybe months. If he’s sent you the scarf, he already knows more about you than I do—maybe more than you know about yourself.”
The song ended. Michael stumbled when she drew up short, her cheeks slightly paler than before.
She waited until the next song started before she asked, “You think he’s here?”
“I don’t know.”
He swept her back into his arms. This time the music was slower, more sensual, more intimate, requiring not so much measured movements as close contact swaying. Michael had never been much of a dancer, but moving with her in his arms felt organic. Intoxicating.
“I need a drink,” she said, pulling away.
She spun to the table beside the bed and fumbled with the crystal decanter. With her back to him, he became instantly enraptured by her long, kissable neck, slim shoulder blades and trim waist. And though her skirt adequately hid the curve of her hips and legs, he imagined that underneath the silk was a body just as smooth as the satiny material.
She was pouring generous portions of brandy into the snifters when he approached her from behind. He spared the camera in the air vent a glance. Someone was capturing their every move, their every touch.
This should have worried him.
And yet, it didn’t.
“Brandy?” Claire offered.
Michael did not back away, but accepted the glass with what he hoped was an easy smile. “I take it some people don’t sign up to participate, but just to watch?”
She took a generous sip. “And here I thought you’d come here knowing everything about this place.”
“There wasn’t time for everything. Just enough to get me through the door.”
She spun prettily, then settled herself on a corner of the bed. To the casual observer, the way she let the snifter linger just at the edge of her lips would appear seductive and coy. Michael noticed that as well. But he also recognized that she’d positioned herself so that when he stood across from her, his shoulder braced against the tall bed post, their faces weren’t visible to the camera.
“And how’d you manage that, anyway?” she asked. “It costs a minimum of $10,000 for a man to buy his way in. That doesn’t even count the gifts and gratuities he has to lavish on his mistress of choice. I can’t imagine the FBI fronting you the money just so you can get me out of here.”
“The FBI has no idea I’m here.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Wasn’t time. Once I figured out where you’d gone, which, admittedly, wasn’t easy, I could either follow procedure or find you before the bad guy did. I hope you agree I made the right choice.”
She sipped her brandy again. He hadn’t imagined her to be the thoughtful type—from what he’d read about her, she was more of an act-now, ask-questions-later type of woman. But something about him made her look before she leapt, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad omen.
“Where’d you get the money?” she asked.
“Does it matter?”
“I’m making small talk,” she said, turning her face so that her fake smile flashed at the camera. “Trying to decide whether or not to trust you. It’s not like I had a chance to examine your credentials thoroughly. I barely saw them.”
“Trust me,” he murmured. “Your aunt looked them over carefully. I take it you’ve given her some tips on ferreting out fakes?”
“Ha! Clarice taught me. She may be pushing sixty, but she’s the sharpest woman I know.”
“And she thought it was a good idea for you to come here when a serial psycho is after you? Oh, wait, you left out that part.”
“Your FBI counterparts didn’t say anything about him being a serial psycho,” she pointed out. “They just said he was a stalker. And I didn’t want her to be involved at all, but even I’m not hotheaded enough to come into this place alone. She has my cell phone and can dial 9-1-1 like a pro. She’s also a crack shot and carries a .32 in her purse. I know my plan wasn’t the best, but it’s all I could come up with on short notice. Sound familiar?”
With a chuckle, he toasted her with his snifter, then took a sip of the liqueur, not at all impressed by the taste, but appreciating the fortifying heat. He and Claire did have one very big thing in common—they’d both come here on false pretenses. If either one of them was found out, they’d be in a boatload of trouble. From inside and out.
“Very familiar.”
“Then why didn’t you just wait for me to get home? If I’m lucky, my case will be done tonight. I saw my client’s ex-wife’s alias on a guest list. Once I locate her and get her signature, I’ll be out of here.”
“Unless her fake name is fake.”
“What?”
“In the five cases we’ve connected to the unsub, he takes his victim within forty-eight hours of sending the scarf. You received yours the day before yesterday, right? Maybe if I hadn’t shown up tonight and enticed you to this bedroom, you wouldn’t be coming home. Ever.”
Outside the room, someone moved. Michael turned to the door in time to see shadows dance in the transom window. Voices argued in hushed tones. Maybe his device hadn’t worked as designed, or maybe the music had not been loud enough to mask their conversation.
Or perhaps, the voyeurs behind the video cameras were tired of watching them talk.
He set down his untouched brandy and grabbed Claire by the arm, tugging her close so that their lips were barely an inch apart.
She splayed her hand flat against his chest. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The lock on the door behind them jiggled.
“Taking what I paid for.”
CLAIRE’S SENSES EXPLODED in rapid succession. First, she heard the muffled sound of footsteps outside in the hall. Then Special Agent Murrieta had her on her feet, in his arms, his mouth on hers.
And oh, what a mouth it was.
Unlike in the ballroom, where he’d toyed between gentle and insistent, his touch from both hands and lips was now rough and unyielding. At nearly the same moment, her nostrils inhaled the spiced masculine scent of his cologne and her tongue, slightly numbed by the brandy, swelled with the powerful flavors of coffee, mint and man.
When the door burst open behind them, she did not have to feign a gasp of surprise.
He threw her behind him.
“What is the meaning of this?” he barked.
Claire leaned around his solid frame and saw the dark-skinned woman, flanked by two imposing men who matched Michael in height, but surpassed him in girth by about fifty pounds each.
The woman iced up her spine and spoke first. “I’m afraid we don’t recognize you, sir. Are you on our guest list?”
Claire’s mind whirled with myriad