WHAT DO YOU SEE FOR MY FUTURE?”
Emma Castille slowly glanced up from the cards that were spread on the table before her. The young girl who sat across from Emma appeared to be barely sixteen. Her blond hair was secured in a haphazard knot at the nape of her neck, her clothes were faded, and her blue eyes were wide with a fear that couldn’t be controlled.
Emma didn’t reach for the cards that were on her table. She just stared at the girl and said, “I see a family that’s waiting for you. You need to go home to them.”
The girl’s chin jerked. “Wh-What if they won’t have me?”
“You’d be surprised at what they’d have.” Darkness was coming. The night slowly creeping to take over the day. Emma knew that she would have to leave Jackson Square soon. Her time was almost up.
The others around her were already packing up their booths for the day. Psychics. Artists. Musicians. They were a mixed group that assembled every day as they came out to capture the attention of the tourists in New Orleans.
Emma wasn’t psychic. She wasn’t gifted when it came to music or art. But she did have one talent that she used to keep her alive and well fed—she had a talent for reading people.
For noticing what others would too easily miss. Too easily ignore.
“You’re running from someone.” Emma said this flatly. The girl had already glanced over her left shoulder at least four times while they’d been talking. Fear was a living, breathing thing, clinging to the girl like a shroud.
Emma knew what it was like to run. Sometimes it seemed as if she’d always been running from someone or something.
“Will he find me?” the girl asked as she leaned forward.
Emma almost reached for her hand because she wanted to comfort her. Almost. “Go back to your family.” The girl was a runaway. She’d bet her life on it.
The blond girl blanched. “What if it’s the family you fear?”
At those words, Emma stiffened.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that everything will be all right?” the girl asked. She stood then, and her voice rose, breaking with fear. “Aren’t you supposed to tell me that I’ll go to college, marry my dream man, and live happily ever after?”
Others turned their way because the girl was nearly shouting.
“Aren’t you?” the girl demanded.
Emma shook her head. She didn’t believe in happily ever after. “Go to the police.” This she said softly, her words a direct contrast to the girl’s angry tone. “You’re in danger.” There were bruises on the girl’s wrists, bruises peeking out from beneath the long sleeves of her shirt. A long-sleeved shirt in August, in New Orleans? Oh, no, that wasn’t right. What other bruises are you trying to hide?
The girl stumbled back. “Help me.” Now her voice was a desperate whisper.
Emma stood as well. “I’ll go with you—” she began.
But the girl had glanced over her shoulder once more. The blonde’s too-thin body stiffened, and she gasped. Then she was turning and running away. Shoving through the tourists that crowded that busy square. Running as if her very life depended on it.
Because maybe, just maybe, that life did.
Emma called out after her, but the girl didn’t stop.
Let her go, let her go.
But Emma found herself rushing after the girl, going as fast as she could. But New Orleans, oh, New Orleans, it could be such a tricky bitch with its narrow streets and secret paths. She couldn’t find the blonde. She turned to the left and to the right and she just saw men and women laughing, celebrating. Voices were all around her. So many people.
And there was no sign of the terrified blond girl.
Emma paused and her right hand pressed to the brick wall on her right as she fought to catch her breath.
But that wall was . . . wet. Her hand lifted, and in the faint light she could see the red that covered her palm. A red that was—
Blood.
“OH, JULIA, SWEET Julia, why did you try to run?”
He ran the tip of his knife down Julia’s cheek. She was already bleeding, and, before he was done, there would be even more blood.
So much blood.
Behind his left hand, Julia whimpered.
He let the knife slice even deeper into her cheek. “Now I’m just going to have to punish you more. You know that?” His voice was whisper soft because that other woman—the one with the dark hair and too bright eyes—had followed his Julia. The woman was just steps away, less than five feet. She hadn’t realized that they’d ducked into the abandoned bar.
She didn’t know that he had Julia in his arms right then.
The woman was looking at her hand.
Ah, did you see Julia’s blood?
Because he’d slammed Julia’s head into that wall. Stopped her from running.
“You’re not going to get away from me,” he told Julia as the other woman crept closer to the bar. The place’s windows and doors were boarded up, but he’d found a way inside. A way that gave him perfect access to Julia. “I always keep what’s mine.”
The dark-haired woman was almost upon them. Through the thin cracks in those boarded-up windows, he could see the slender shape of her body. The long, flowing dress.
He smiled as the thrill of the hunt filled him once more. “Always . . .”
New Orleans was fucking hot. No other way to describe it. Fucking. Hot. On a late September day the heat was like a damn blanket wrapping around Dean Bannon. He’d rolled up his sleeves, ditched his tie, but those feeble efforts sure hadn’t done any good.
New Orleans was hell, he was convinced of that, and the place was also the site of his latest assignment.
Sixteen-year-old Julia Finney had last been seen in the Big Easy. Her mother was desperate to find the girl, but the local cops weren’t giving any of their time to finding the runaway, and he—well, he was one of the agents from LOST who’d been sent down from Atlanta to find her.
He made his way slowly down Bourbon Street. The sun hadn’t even set yet, and the place was already hopping. Drunk frat boys and drunk sixty-year-old men staggered down the street in near perfect rhythm. And girls—girls that looked far too young—stood in darkened doorways and waved the men inside.
Ann Finney was worried that her daughter Julia was going to become one of those girls. On the streets, with no money, no connections . . . what else could happen to her?
A fucking lot.
Dean lifted the picture he carried of Julia. Showed it to the girls. But their glassy-eyed stares just passed right over the image. No one recognized Julia. No one knew her.
It seemed that no one had ever bothered to look at the girl.
Now he was looking for her, but the clench in Dean’s gut told him that he might already be too late. Still, he kept trudging along, kept turning down the streets until he found himself in Jackson Square.
Street performers were out, some kids playing jazz, others dancing fast and frantic rhythm on cardboard boxes that they’d brought out as they worked for tips.
The crowd there was huge. So many people. Too many.
No wonder a sixteen-year-old girl had vanished without a trace.
“Who are you looking for?”
The voice was feminine, low, husky—and very close. He turned his head and saw her. A woman with a long cascade of black hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. She was sitting beneath the shelter of a big blue umbrella. A small table sat in front of her, and a sign by her said that a “reading” would be twenty dollars.
His eyes narrowed as he studied her.
She smiled at him, flashing dimples in both of her cheeks. “Come now, don’t be afraid of me, handsome, I won’t bite.” Her hand, delicate, tanned, motioned to the chair across from her. “Come closer.”
Why? Did it look like he was some tourist in the mood to be conned? Because that sure as shit wasn’t his style.
But if the woman usually worked the square, if she saw all the people coming and going . . . then maybe, just maybe, she’d seen Julia.
Dean ducked his head and slid under that umbrella. But he didn’t sit. He leaned over her, and the woman tilted her head back as she stared up at him.
Her smile dimmed. Those dimples vanished, and Dean had one thought—
Fucking gorgeous.
The woman’s face was eerily close to perfect. High cheekbones. Straight nose. Wide, amazing eyes. A delicate chin.
Her lips were full, sexy and red. Her face might have made her look like an angel, but those lips and that dark mass of hair . . . oh, it made him think of sin.
Not here, not now.
Dean had a rule about mixing business and pleasure. He damn well never did it.
He was there on a case. For him, the mission always came first. Always.
“Not a cop,” she said as she lifted one eyebrow. “But a government agent . . .” Her lips pursed. “FBI?”
Was he supposed to be impressed? He’d been an FBI agent for ten years, working day and night in the Violent Crimes Division. He’d seen enough shit to give most people never-ending nightmares.
Good thing he didn’t have nightmares. He didn’t have dreams, either. When he slept, there was only darkness.
He pulled out the photo of Julia. He noticed the would-be fortune-teller’s eyes fell to the photo, and she tensed, just for an instant.
“I’m betting you see plenty of people come by this way each day.”
Her gaze lifted back to his. “I don’t work here every day.”
He took a step closer to her. She definitely tensed. Dean put the photo of Julia down on the woman’s table. As he leaned in even closer, he could have sworn that he caught the scent of jasmine. He’d grown up on his grandfather’s farm, a lifetime ago, and jasmine had been there.
She wasn’t looking at the photograph.
“Most people disappear for a reason,” she said, staring into his eyes. “They don’t like to be found.”
Too bad. “My job is to find the lost.”
Her head tilted a bit more, and a dark lock of hair slid over her shoulder. She was wearing gold earrings, hoops that moved faintly as she watched him. Those hoops, her hair, her amazing eyes—yeah, they all came together to give her a seductive, mysterious air. He bet the tourists loved her.
But Dean knew there was no mystery about the woman before him. Just another pretty face hiding lies. The woman was a scammer, out there to bilk the people dumb enough to approach her table.
“Look at the girl,” he said softly.
Her blue gaze fell to the table.
For just a moment her eyes widened. “What has she done?”
Interesting question. “Her family wants her home.”
Her hand rose. Her fingers slid over the photograph. “She should go home. I . . . told her that.”
He caught her hand. Grabbed her wrist in a lightning fast move. “You’ve seen her.” He felt the light ridge of raised skin beneath his fingers. A scar?
She was still looking down at the photograph. “It was at least a week ago. She came here right before sunset.” Her full lips curved down as sadness chased over her face. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’ll be finding her.”
The hell he wouldn’t.
She tugged on her wrist. Dean didn’t let her go.
“That girl is sixteen years old,” he said. “She ran away from her home in Atlanta, and her mother is desperate to find her. Her mother needs her back home.”
“I don’t think she wanted to go back.”
She stood then, moving from beneath the shelter of the umbrella, even as he held onto her wrist. She was smaller than he’d thought. He stood at six-foot-three, and the woman was barely five-foot-four. Maybe five-foot-five. When she tried to slip away from him, he tightened his hold.
“Let me go.”
He didn’t. But his hand slid up her forearm a bit, and he felt more of that raised skin. Just small ridges. Curious now, he looked down as he turned her arm over. Those were scars. Faint lines of white that crossed her skin. The marks were at various points on her inner arm, and . . .
His hand pushed open her clenched fist. There were a few more faint scars there, too. Little slices.
A surge of anger caught him by surprise. “Who did it?”
“It’s rude to ask questions like that.” She actually sounded as if she were chiding him. “Didn’t they teach you a better interview technique at the FBI?”
“I’m not with the FBI.”
“Well, not any longer, of course,” she said. Her smile flashed, only this time he recognized it for the distraction that it was. Hell, he bet plenty of men got lost in that wide smile.
He wasn’t plenty of men.
And he knew better than to fall for a pretty face.
“The girl,” Dean gritted out. “Tell me everything you know about her.”
Her gaze slid to the left. To the right. And Dean realized that the others close by were watching them.
“You are seriously bad for business,” she said, sounding annoyed. “It looks like you’re an angry lover who’s having some public spat with me. You need to let me go, now.”
An angry lover? Okay, so he was holding her pretty close, but he wasn’t backing off. And that sweet jasmine scent was definitely coming from her. “Tell me what I need to know and—”
“Is there a problem here?” A male voice. Close. Sharp.
Dean turned his head just a bit and saw the uniformed police officer, frowning at them.
“Ms. Castille? This guy bothering you?”
Dean mentally filed away the lady’s last name even as he made himself step back and release her. “I’m not bothering her.” Okay, he had been.
The cop came even closer. His face was tight with suspicion, and it was a young face. The guy was in his early twenties and had ROOKIE written all over him. “It looked like you were bothering her, so I’m gonna suggest that you keep walking now, buddy.”
“It’s all right.” Ms. Castille put her hand on the cop’s shoulder. “Thanks, Beau, it sure is nice to know you’re looking out for me.”
Beau smiled at her. Dean figured the cop’s smile flashed because she’d just fired him that megawatt smile of hers, dimples included.
“Always here for you, ma’am,” he told her, flushing a bit. Then the cop glanced back at Dean, and his frown was back. “I’d like to see your ID, mister.”
Hell. But, whatever. Dean tossed the cop his wallet.
Beau pulled out his driver’s license. Ms. Castille was right next to him as the cop read, “Dean Bannon, age thirty-six, from Atlanta, Georgia.” Beau whistled. “Love me some Braves.”
Dean waited.
“What brings you down to Atlanta?” the cop asked him.
“Keep looking in the wallet,” Dean said.
The cop’s brows scrunched when he pulled out one of Dean’s cards. “LOST,” he said, and his frown deepened. “I’ve . . . heard of that group.” His gaze shot to Dean. “The LOST team caught that serial killer over on Dauphin Island a while back!”
Yes, they had. And since Dauphin Island, Alabama, was just a few hours away, Dean wasn’t real surprised that the cop had heard about that incident. “We didn’t bring him in alive,” Dean said. Because the Lady Killer hadn’t given them that option.
“You stopped him,” Beau said, sounding more than impressed. “That’s good enough in my book.”
LOST. The organization that Dean worked for was gaining more and more attention these days. Last Option Search Team. Dean’s buddy Gabe Spencer had been the one to put the team together. The ex-SEAL had wanted to bring in a group with varied backgrounds, a team that knew how to get the job done.
When local law enforcement gave up the hunt for the missing, when the families still needed hope, they turned to LOST.
Just like Ann Finney had done. No one else had helped her find Julia. Runaways disappeared every day. With Julia being an older teen, the cops hadn’t spent a lot of time looking for her . . .
But Dean wasn’t going to give up.
“There’s a picture of a missing girl on Ms. Castille’s table,” Dean said. “We were just talking because I thought she might know where I could find Julia.”
Beau tossed Dean’s wallet back to him. Then the cop went to stare at the photo.
The woman didn’t move, though. She kept her eyes on Dean. “I haven’t seen Julia in over a week,” she said, voice soft. “But I can tell you this . . . the last time that I did see her, she was scared.”
His muscles locked. “How do you know that?”
The cop’s radio had crackled to life. Beau took a few steps away, turned his back and pulled out that radio.
“Because I know what fear looks like.” Her lips pressed together, then she said, “And I also know what bruises look like. She had bruises on her wrists. Someone had been hurting Julia.”
He lunged toward her. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before?”
She glanced over at Beau. He was on his radio, still staring down at that picture as he paced and talked. “Because you said you wanted to send her back home. Julia didn’t want to go home. She was afraid of her family.” Her eyes darkened with sadness. “There’s a reason people run away, you know. If life were perfect, why would a girl like that leave?”
The cop was coming back toward them. He’d put up his radio. “You need to go down to the station,” he told Dean. “You can check in with the detectives—”
“My partner is already at the station.” While he hit the streets, Sarah Jacobs had wanted to check with the local authorities to see if they might have any leads. Dean wasn’t exactly holding out much hope on that end. But since he had a cop right in front of him, one who worked this beat, he asked, “Have you seen the girl, officer?”
Beau shook his head. “She looks just like a hundred others I see every day. Sorry.” His radio crackled to life once again. “Got to go. See you soon, Ms. Castille.”
Thunder rumbled as the cop headed away. Dean looked up. There were a few dark clouds sprinkling over the sky.
“Storms come up fast down South. They rage hard, then they die away as quickly as they come.” She turned away. Started shutting down her booth. “Good luck finding the girl.”
Did she really think he was just going to walk away? “You’re my best lead.” So far she was the only person who’d actually seen Julia.
Provided, of course, that she hadn’t just been blowing smoke up his ass.
She pulled down her umbrella. “Bourbon Street.”
His brows climbed.
“The last time I saw her, she was headed over there. But then, most folks wind up there eventually, right?”
Dean pulled his card from his wallet. “If you remember anything else, call me.”
She didn’t take the card. “I won’t remember anything.”
He reached for her hand. Put the card in her palm. Stared at the faint scars. “They’re defensive wounds,” he told her as another rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
Her too bright eyes held his.
“Someone attacked you with a knife. You raised your hands, and that someone”—a fucking bastard in his book—“sliced you. The blade cut across your palm. It sliced into your forearm.”
Her fingers closed around the card. “You left the FBI because you got tired of all the death.”
He stiffened.
“You have scars hidden beneath your clothes. Scars on your skin. Scars beneath the skin.” Her head gave a little shake. “You don’t really think you’ll find Julia alive, you don’t think you’ll find any of them alive.”
What the hell?
“But at least you try.” She backed away from him. Collected her bag. Her table. Started walking away. “Good-bye, Dean Bannon.”
“Wait!” He hadn’t meant to call out like that.
She glanced back at him.
“Do you . . . need help?” And why was he stuttering like some kid right then?
“I’ve never needed help.” She turned away. Kept going. “I hope you find her.”
Dean’s legs had locked as he stared after her. He watched as she disappeared, not heading very far away at all, but going toward a little shop on the corner. A small place that he almost hadn’t even seen before.
A crystal shop.
I hope I find her, too.
And the sexy fortune-teller had been wrong. He did want to find Julia alive. He needed to find the missing . . . still alive.
Because he’d found too many dead already.
He tucked the picture of Julia back into his pocket. A drop of rain fell down on him, but Dean didn’t move. The dark-haired woman had vanished now. There had been something familiar about her. Something that kept nagging at him.
Another raindrop fell.
Where have I seen you before, Ms. Castille?
And . . . who the fuck hurt you?
DEAN STRIPPED OFF his soaked shirt. Lightning flashed just outside of his hotel room. For an instant his gaze slid to the window. Being on the thirty-eighth floor gave him a killer view of the city. The river was below, dark and turbulent, and the clouds were swirling so close that it looked as if he could reach out and touch them.
Instead, he turned away from that window and reached for his laptop. In seconds he had the thing booted up and he was searching—for her.
Castille.
The name had struck a chord with him, stirring up memories of an old FBI case. Ms. Castille had appeared to be about twenty-five, and he’d first joined the FBI ten years ago.
He started tapping on the keyboard. Going through searches. Accessing records most people didn’t know about but that LOST operatives had managed to reach long ago.
Castille . . .
The memory of that name teased at him.
So he typed in . . . Castille . . . psychic.
The search results were instant.
House of Death . . . Psychic John Castille Arrives Too Late to Save Missing Teens . . .
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered. He leaned forward as he read the first search article.
HE WAS BACK.
Emma kept staring at her client, nodding her head as the woman talked, but her focus was on the tall, dark, and far too dangerous man who stood a few feet away.
Dean Bannon.
He was wearing another dress shirt today. A crisp white shirt in the ridiculous New Orleans heat. He’d rolled up his sleeves, like that was going to do much good. He was also wearing another pair of too expensive pants.
Seriously, the guy was so out of place . . . and he just looked like a federal agent. How had he not expected her to tag him right away?
“Thank you so much, hon,” Mrs. Jones was saying. Mrs. Jones was a weekly client. A sweet grandmother in her early seventies. “I love our talks.”
Emma almost smiled at that. A real smile, but she caught herself just in time.
Mrs. Jones handed her a twenty. Emma reached for the money, but instead of taking it, she leaned close to Mrs. Jones and caught her trembling hand. “I want you to see a doctor tomorrow.”
Mrs. Jones’s dark eyes widened. “Wh-Why?”
Because she could feel the tremble in Mrs. Jones’s hand. Because the woman’s skin was paler than it had been the week before. Because her voice kept getting breathless when it shouldn’t have. “Because you need to be checked out. It’s been far too long since you’ve paid a visit to your doctor.”
“I . . . how did you know?”
Emma stared into her eyes. “I’m worried about you, and I want you to go and see a doctor right away.”
Dean inched closer. Eavesdropping? Sad. So sad.
“I—I think I’m fine . . .”
Emma pushed the money back at Mrs. Jones. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”
The woman shook her head. “That’s why I come to you.”
No, Mrs. Jones came to her because she was lonely and she just wanted to talk with someone who would listen to her.
“Then listen to me now. See a doctor.”
Mrs. Jones nodded. Then she was off, hurrying away, and Dean Bannon was closing in. Great. Emma narrowed her eyes on the man. “You’re terrible for business.” Hadn’t she told the guy that yesterday?
He smiled, but it wasn’t a real smile. Emma knew because she gave plenty of her own, fake smiles. Dean’s smile just lifted his sensual lips, but the smile never lit his dark eyes. The man was handsome, in a too polished sort of way. She’d like to see his hair longer, his tanned cheeks flushed more with a fury or passion, and she’d like—
“You’re not who you pretend to be.”
Uh-oh.
Her gaze slowly swept over his face as she tried to figure out just what the guy could have learned about her. Unfortunately . . . he could know too much. In this Internet-filled world, secrets were just a search engine away.
Dean Bannon had closed in on her, his powerful body moving with a grace that the guy shouldn’t possess. He was controlled—definitely controlled. Everything about him screamed control, and she . . . well, she’d never had much use for control.
Emma let emotions rule her. She lived for passion, she lived for the moment.
Why live for anything else? Especially when nothing else was ever guaranteed. The past is a nightmare. The future could vanish. So why not live in that wonderful here and now?
Only the here and now wasn’t always so wonderful.
His hair was cut a bit too short. His expression was too hard. That deliciously square jaw of his appeared to be clenched—again, and his eyes had locked on her as if he were a predator and she his prey.
“I didn’t think psychics were supposed to tell bad fortunes.”
Now he’d caught her by surprise. I don’t remember saying I was psychic. Emma always tried to choose her words very carefully. Whenever possible, she opted not to lie.
Her father had told too many lies. Emma had discovered that she didn’t really have a taste for them. Even if she had inherited his . . . other . . . talents. Talents that weren’t always savory. Talents that weren’t exactly legal in some places. Most places.
“Were you trying to scare that woman?” he asked, voice sharp.
“I was trying to get her to see a doctor.” Emma shrugged. “Horrible, I know, to want to make certain that a friend is in good health.” Her eyes widened. “I guess that means I’m just a terrible, wretched person on the inside.”
His frown got worse.
Emma sighed. “You’d be so much better looking if you just smiled. Like, a real smile.”
He blinked at her.
“Right, no smile.” So she smiled brightly for them both. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today? Come for a reading, did you?”
Because she really didn’t want to waste time talking with him. As it was, she’d spent most of the night staying up, thinking about Julia.
Now I have a name to go with her face.
And when sleep still hadn’t come at midnight, Emma had slipped away and gone to Bourbon Street, but there had been no sign of Julia.
He pulled out the folding chair that she’d set up. The guy surprised her by tossing a twenty on the table and sitting down in front of her.
Intrigued now, Emma made herself comfortable in her chair, shifting a bit, as she kept her gaze on him.
“A reading . . .” he said. She almost shivered. The guy had one of those amazing voices that, once a woman heard it, she didn’t forget. Deep and rumbly. A voice made for darkness.
And sex.
She’d detected no accent in his voice, and Emma was very good at recognizing accents. Accents, habits, behavior—she noticed them all.
Like the way Dean Bannon had a habit of rubbing his jaw with his index finger and thumb. He did that when he was thinking. When he was annoyed, she’d noticed that a muscle flexed along the left-hand side of his jaw. And—
“Your name is Emma Castille.”
She leaned forward. “I can use the cards if you want. Some people like that part.” She actually did know what all of the cards meant, so she could shuffle them and give a reading, no problem. But she preferred to work in other ways.
“You’re not psychic.”
Were they back to that?
Emma put her hands in her lap. She didn’t believe in making nervous gestures. She didn’t believe in giving away anything at all with her body language.
“What you are . . .” Ah, now he did smile. Her father would have called it a shit-eating grin. The more PC term was probably a Cheshire cat smile. Whatever the name, that smile annoyed her. “What you are, Ms. Castille . . . is a criminal. A fraud.”
Maybe she should grab her chest and dramatically gasp. She didn’t. “Wonderful for you,” Emma said. “You pulled up a background report on me.” She let her eyes widen a bit. “It’s amazing what one can find if a person just knows how to use a search engine.”
A furrow appeared between his eyes.
“How about I say what . . . you are?” Emma asked him. “A washed-up FBI agent who snapped on the job. You held your control tight every single day, but the bad guys—they just didn’t stop, did they? You hunted them, you stopped them, and more appeared. While you were fighting the system, they kept coming, and the bodies kept piling up on your watch.”
He shot right back to his feet. The folding chair slammed down behind him.
“You and your father bilked desperate people,” he accused. “You told them you were psychic, that you could help find their missing children. And you—”
“We found them.” Two girls who’d vanished. They’d found them. “We just didn’t get to them in time.” And she would not go back to that place.
She motioned toward Manuel. He knew the signal meant he could take over her booth. There was no way, no way, that she was going to stay there with this prick while he slammed the most painful moments from her past in her face.
Manuel, pale, tattooed, with piercings in his lips and eyebrows, quickly claimed her spot.
Emma jumped to her feet, muttered her thanks, and fled right past the guy she was starting to think of as Agent Jackass.
She pushed through the crowd. Wasn’t there always a crowd in Jackson Square? And that was why she loved the place. It was so easy to vanish in a crowd. To be anyone.
The crowd closed around her.
To be no one at all.
Emma hurried around the back of the cathedral. She knew the streets so well. Her home was close by. She would get inside and forget Agent Jackass.
I’m being followed.
Emma stilled at the intersection. A horse-drawn carriage rolled by her. Voices called out.
And he touched her.
Emma didn’t flinch. Didn’t scream. She looked down at the hand on her shoulder. “When a woman runs away from you, that means you need to stay the hell away from her.”
His hold tightened on her. “You and I aren’t done.”
She looked up at his face. Had she really thought the man was handsome? Annoying, that was all Dean Bannon was.
“I need to find that girl, and you’re the only lead I have so far.”
“Then you’re not a very good investigator.”
Ah, that muscle flexed in his jaw. Lovely.
“You were heading to your apartment.” He pointed across the street. “One block over, right? Seems like the perfect place for a chat.”
My my, but he had been busy. Only instead of spending all his time investigating her, he should have been looking for the missing girl.
Emma took a step forward. He, of course, followed right by her side. They didn’t speak as they made their way to her apartment, a precious little gem that she adored. It was right over a clothing store, nestled up high with a balcony view. She climbed the narrow flight of stairs that led to her room, and then . . .
Emma stopped as her heartbeat increased. The pounding seemed to shake her entire body.
“What are you waiting for?” Dean demanded.
Emma shook her head. “Someone has been here.” Her welcome mat had been moved. Moved over one tiny inch, as if it had been hit by a shoe. She could see the outline where the mat should have been. A bit of dirt, some dust. A marker that showed her something was wrong inside her place.
“How do you know?”
“The mat’s in the wrong spot.” She reached for the knob, and it turned. “And I never leave my door unlocked.” Given the things Emma had seen, she would never have made that kind of mistake.
Never.
But the knob was turning easily in her hand. Far too easily. And as the door swung open, Emma sucked in a sharp breath.
The place was wrecked. Her mirrors were smashed. The furniture had been slashed. Cushion stuffing littered the floor.
Dean swore, and in the next moment he grabbed her and pushed Emma behind him. “Stay back,” he ordered. “The bastard could still be inside.”
Then he was rushing inside. Going through the wreckage, but being careful, she noted, not to actually touch anything. He searched the small place. The studio-style apartment didn’t exactly cover a lot of square footage, so she could see most of her home from her nervous perch in the doorway.
But then Dean disappeared into the little attached room that she’d made into her bedroom. Emma realized that she was holding her breath, waiting for him to reappear. Only he didn’t come right back out.
She crept forward and her right foot slid over the threshold of her home. She glanced down, and her eyes narrowed at the speck of red she saw there. Almost a dot.
Blood?
“He left something for you.”
Her head whipped up.
“The house is clear.” His voice was grim. “We need to call the cops right away. Maybe the guy left some evidence here.” He motioned toward her. “Before they get to the scene, you need to come here.”
She found herself walking toward him. A huge part of Emma was screaming that she needed to run the other way. To get the hell out of there. She didn’t know much at all about Dean Bannon. For all she knew, he could have been the one to destroy her house. He’d known where she lived, after all.
And she stopped advancing.
Dean’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re afraid of me.”
Hell, yes, she was.
Emma took out her phone. Called 911. When the operator answered, she said, “Someone broke into my house. They’ve . . . he destroyed everything, and I—I think there’s blood.”
The operator’s voice stayed calm as she asked for Emma’s address.
“I’m not alone,” Emma said quietly. Because she’d learned not to trust anyone. Not in this life. “A man named Dean Bannon is with me.” She wanted his name on the record. Just in case . . . hell, just in case of what? That he decided to attack her before the cops arrived? Dean was making no move to come toward her. He was just standing there, watching her with those deep dark eyes.
Emma gave the operator her address. “Get the cops to hurry, please.” Hurry.
She lowered the phone and glanced around her apartment once more. Gone. She’d worked so hard to build this place—her sanctuary—and in one night some bastard out there had destroyed everything.
“I won’t hurt you.” Dean’s voice was low. She wanted to believe him. But she’d heard that particular lie from too many men before. “I didn’t do this, Emma. I’m one of the good guys.”
She laughed at that. “There’s no such thing.”
His lips thinned, then he glanced back over his shoulder, toward her bedroom. “You’re going to need a guy like me in your life.”
Goose bumps were on her arms. “I doubt that.”
But Dean nodded and said, “Come with me into the bedroom.”
She shook her head.
“He left something you need to see.”
Her gaze locked on that bedroom doorway and Emma inched toward it. Dean backed up, but his shoulder brushed against her arm as she passed him. For some reason that one brush against his body had her tensing. Heat seeped into her skin, and she hadn’t even realized that she’d been cold. Not until that moment.
“The mirror,” he told her. “Look there.”
But her gaze was on the bed. It appeared as if someone had taken a knife to the mattresses and sliced them open. Feathers from her pillows littered the floor. Her clothes had been taken out of the dresser drawers, and they’d been slashed, too. Her shirts. Her skirts. Her bras. Her panties.
Her breath choked in as her gaze slowly rose to the mirror. It had been shattered. Long cracks covered the surface. As did . . .
Words. Words written in red spray paint.
You’re next.