Prologue
Blinding anguish tore through my arm the moment I smashed my palm through the brittle wood. After stifling a gasp, I hunkered against the wall, listening for any sound of him.
Where the howling wind had been a comfort, allowing me to know I was still alive, now the eerie silence was even more horrifying. The only constant was the drips of water pinging against the metal roof.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Terror prickled across my skin creating goosebumps even in the oppressive heat. Weak from lack of food, my mouth and throat parched, I knew I wouldn’t survive another day. Not that he would allow me to live.
The monster was coming. I could feel it in my aching muscles and shredded skin, all compliments of my tormenter. He was making good on his promise.
Another wave of anguish and I cried out pathetically. My throat was too dry, preventing any sound except a strangled hiss.
Please, help me. Please…
Only there was no one coming to save me.
Just like no one had come for the others.
They were all dead.
Bloodied.
Beaten.
Discarded and left to be eaten by predatory creatures, demons lurking in the shadows.
Which beast was worse? The walking, talking deviant or the ones slithering in the mud?
Laughter tickled my chapped lips and as soon as I darted my tongue across the surface, the taste of blood assaulted my senses. I closed my eyes, fisting my forehead as I counted to ten. Numbers had kept me sane. Now they would be my guide as I tried to escape. I’d only have one shot at freedom.
Every move cautious, I broke away pieces of the boards, slowly at first, ignoring the pain as skin was ripped from my fingers. With every inch gained, my heartrate increased until I was tearing at the wood, gasping every few seconds.
A scream bubbled to the surface and I slapped my hand over my mouth. When the morbid silence returned, my urgency increased. Less than a minute later, I shoved my way through the ragged hole, dropping face first into muck.
Something had called him away. He’d been angry, furious with something. So different. So… terrifying.
This was the only chance I had.
Another wave of agony ripped at my lungs, but I pushed myself free of the mud, taking gasping breaths of the stale, putrid air. The stench was horrific, mold and moss, decay so overpowering I dry heaved.
But I was out of the prison.
Get up. Get moving.
The little voice had been my only friend. At least after the last girl had been taken. Although the echo of her horrifying screams would never leave.
Every muscle ached to the point the moment I tried to stand, I fell hard on my hands and knees. Despair clouded my mind as the tears forming in my eyes did with my vision.
There was no reprieve from the terror, but I willed myself to push forward. Inch by inch, I crawled before I was able to struggle to my feet, leaning against a gnarled tree. The first light of dawn had crested over the horizon, the darkness drifting into shadows.
More monsters.
One. Two. Three. Four.
He’s trudging through the swamp, hungry for more.
No. No!
One step led to three. Then four more. Hope crowded out everything else. I could do this. Another five steps and when I dared to look over my shoulder, the shed seemed far away, as if the nightmare had never occurred.
A sudden separate noise and I was down again, sobs racking my system. I fought with everything I had left to move. To stand. To breathe.
To live.
God, I wanted to live.
Someone was coming, the crackle of leaves and twigs floating through the thick foliage.
No. No. I hung my head, willing myself to move. To fight to the death. I wouldn’t allow him to take me willingly.
An exasperated rush of breath pushed up from my chest. I ran. Hard. Fast.
Stumbling.
Getting back up.
Clinging to a tree. Another hiss. A snap of jaws. I twisted my head from side to side, unable to see anything but ominous shadows. My heart was in my chest.
Run. Run. Run!
Woof.
What?
The sound was nothing that I expected. Had I been hearing things? I stood silently, scanning the forest. I had to be losing my mind. Wait. What was that?
Movement in the shadows.
Coming closer.
Footsteps.
I recoiled, holding my arm over my head, biting my lip to keep from whimpering.
A howl disrupted the silence, stopped short as if commanded to do so. A wild dog? Here?
Fight or flight kicked in and I pushed myself to my feet, fighting to take steps in the opposite direction, only to go down hard once again.
Another crackle and a tiny whimper finally escaped. With my eyes cinched closed, I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my head and wrapping my arms around my legs.
A twisted need to protect myself as reality settled in.
There was no escaping a madman.
A single crack of wood, closer this time. So close I could feel hot breath cascading across my skin. Only instead of being ripped apart limb by limb, a strange sensation crawled through me that took my senses a few seconds to comprehend.
A lick.
What?
“Max, heel.”
The deep voice was rough around the edges yet soft in tone. Movement. Sounds. Someone standing over me.
“We’ve got her. Good boy, Max.”
Very slowly I lifted my head, wincing from the glare of light. Whimpering, I struggled to back away. Every muscle was stiff, aching. Excruciating pain.
“Get the light out of her eyes, for fuck’s sake,” the man barked and with a gentle touch, brushed hair from my eyes. Where his voice had been commanding before, the sound was now exactly what I needed to hear to know I would survive. “Maria.”
“Yes,” I managed.
His voice. So soft. So compelling. Blinking, I locked eyes with his. So kind.
He nodded, touching my face with utter care and kindness.
“You’re safe now. Nothing is going to happen to you ever again.”
[divider]Chapter One
Thirteen years later…
Alexia
“Keys. Keys!” Where the fuck did I put my goddamn keys?
They’d disappeared. Again. They were always found in the last place I looked. A quick roll of my eyes reminded me of my mother’s singsong voice every time I used the phrase when still living at home.
Of course they were in the last place I looked. Duh.
I was running late, something that rarely happened. I jerked on my second high heel, almost falling over the couch when I yanked one of two sexy decorative pillows from the cushion.
No keys.
As I hopped around, finally the heel fell into position just as I glanced at my watch. Thank God, I didn’t have court this morning. Worse than losing my keys were Tuesdays, which I’d affectionately started calling the new Monday since it seemed I always had an arduous court day on every single Monday. Not only had court run long the day before, but my sweet client had cried on my shoulder for almost two hours after.
There was no way I could be an indecent human being and send her packing after the ridiculously light fine the two-time loser of a human being had received.
Maybe my mood was partially based on the fact I wasn’t used to losing, competition running through my veins. Unfortunately, over the last few months, judges had been prickly bastards, refusing to charge the bastards even with the clear and present volume of evidence I’d provided.
A seriously evil growl replaced my groan.
Tuesdays were especially horrible dark, gloomy days. No matter the severity of the storm, they were almost malevolent in my mind.
At least I no longer needed to curl up under thick blankets, hiding from the rest of the world until the ominous weather event passed. Maybe I was making headway.
But I’d lose all my momentum if I couldn’t find my goddamn keys.
Groaning, I had a mini tantrum, tossing both decorative pillows over the back of the sofa then attacking the cushions themselves. As I held up a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill into the shadowed light, I wondered just how long the chunk of change had been hiding from me. It could have come in very handy the night before when I decided to purchase the five-dollar bottle of wine.
That’s why I was in this predicament with a dull ache surrounding my eyes, fracturing my last nerve. The cheap red wine hangover was a living and breathing entity threatening to ruin my day. So was losing my goddamn keys.
A hard thump hit the floor at the same time a rumble of thunder was followed by a loud crack. I jumped two feet, immediately placing my hand over my heart. “Jesus fucking Christ.” I was jumpier than usual and not only because of the storm.
Sighing, I glared down at the book I’d read well into the late night. Or I should say very early morning. I’d been hooked, so much so I’d almost skipped going to bed altogether. No wine haze had befuddled me either.
With a slight toss of my head, I bent over, grabbing the thick hardback into my fingers. When I pulled it in front of my face, another flash of lightning provided a perfect and very colorful backdrop for the gloriously graphic cover.
I guessed thriller authors didn’t heed the discreet cover cry that had blanketed the romance industry.
Gone Before Dawn.
The perfect title for a terrifying serial killer book. Gory. Bloody. Violent.
Everything I adored in my late-night reads.
The keys momentarily forgotten, I turned the book over, staring at the photograph of the author on the back. As had happened the first, the second, hell, the tenth time I’d glanced at it, a trickle of desire shot warmth between my legs.
Maverick Callahan.
The name alluded to rough nights of passion and wild kisses in the moonlight. Standing against a palm tree with his arms crossed, the light breeze tousling his shoulder-length whiskey-colored hair, he was the epitome of male perfection.
Plus, an excellent representation for the book’s hero.
Rough and tumble.
Refusing to take shit from anyone.
Savoring acts of violence.
And finalizing the dirty deed by catching the violent criminal red-handed.
With a little blood sprinkled in for good measure.
Exhaling, I gingerly placed the book on the coffee table, brought out of my sweet moment of reverie by another clap of thunder. So much for fantasies.
I continued tearing through the house while the television in my kitchen blared on with the morning news. Why the hell was the man’s deep voice thumping in my brain? Okay, not thumping exactly, but smashing together like two huge cymbals. Oh, my God, my head was killing me.
Why, oh, why did I start my workweek by turning on one of the local stations? There were never any happy stories. No hot firefighters rescuing puppies from a burning house or some swoony cop flying in to save a damsel in distress on the side of a dark, foreboding road the night before. Death and criminal activity. That’s what I was used to hearing.
As I flew into the kitchen, fluffing my curls with my fingers as I did, the next morning news story proved my point.
“The Miami-Dade police have widened their search for Ashley Boudreaux, an attorney from Rogers, Wilkins, and Jacoby, who’s now been missing for almost two weeks.”
“See?” I said out loud, pointing to the small flat screen. I quickly read the corresponding information about the situation scrolling across the bottom. The attorney was a responsible human being, had never simply left without telling anyone where she was going. She didn’t take her phone with her.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
If you asked me, from the way her boyfriend was showing off his crocodile tears, I’d say he should be the number one suspect.
Sighing, I was just about to grab the remote when something shiny caught my eye.
Oh, thank God.
With a hard lunge, I had the keyring in my hand, already mentally chastising myself. Of course they were right by my purse, both tossed onto the counter mere moments after I’d arrived home. All I’d cared about at the time was kicking off my shoes, putting away the few groceries, and cracking open the bottle of wine.
All of which I’d done in record time.
Now I had to get my ass in gear. With my purse slung over my shoulder, I took long strides, snagging the remote. Just before I pressed the ‘off’ button, another story popped on the screen.
An instant lump formed in my throat.
Where the sound of the television had been overwhelmingly and painfully loud before, I smashed my finger on the up button, bringing the sound to just below an explosive level.
“In breaking news, Samuel Wells, known throughout South Florida as the Python Killer has been scheduled for execution two weeks from this Thursday. At this point, without the governor issuing a stay, the act will be carried through on the scheduled date. You might remember the case from over thirteen years ago. Mr. Wells was tried and convicted of kidnapping, torturing, and killing twelve young women all under the age of eighteen.”
One reporter turned to the other morning anchor, nodding as the man finished his statement.
I was forced to grip the edge of the counter, my legs shaking.
“From what I understand, the governor currently has no plans to intervene. This was quite a disturbing case for all Floridians,” the male anchor continued.
The periphery of my vision began to fade.
“I remember the story, John. When the story broke, the killer finally caught, it was my first week here at the station. At the time it seemed everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Those poor girls who were taken and killed. I can’t imagine. I have a daughter that age and it’s crazy to realize how precious life truly is. Thank goodness he was captured.”
“Yes, and by a lone FBI agent and his canine companion. From what I remember, his heroic deed wasn’t well received by his agency.”
“Shame on them,” the female said, laughing.
My God. As the killer’s picture was placed on the screen, I pressed my shaking fingers across my mouth. Maybe to keep from screaming. Or crying hysterically.
He could be anyone. A next-door neighbor. A schoolteacher. A doctor. Anyone. With mousy brown hair and basic features, he was the kind of man who you’d pass on the street and never think twice. I walked closer, studying the killer’s smile.
Of all the images that had faded to black, I’d never forgotten his smile. However, with the television screen only a few inches away, this time his eyes grabbed my attention. A flash slammed into the forefront of my mind.
Another image and one that hadn’t been shown before.
His eyes. They were… wrong. No. That wasn’t possible.
By the time I blinked, his photograph was no longer on the screen. Gasping, I reached out before I realized what I was doing, almost able to hear his laugh echoing in my mind.
I fisted my hand, bringing it to my mouth. It had been a very long time since I’d experienced such a strong reaction.
The female anchor looked directly at the camera. “Let’s hope his execution brings some peace and closure to the families of the victims.”
A swirl of light formed around my head, vivid colors shimmering as the forms danced and changed shapes every few seconds. I managed to turn off the television. Now the quiet was deafening.
“Do you dream in color?”
“I’m sorry?” I looked up from the book, immediately noticing the stranger’s kind smile.
He nodded toward what I was holding. “Quite a book for someone so young.”
“Oh,” I said, laughing. The title of the book I was holding was All Things Bright and Colorful. “It’s for a school project. The importance of color within poetry.”
He pulled a book from the shelf, fingering the cover. “Absolutely beautiful. Just remember that when you dream in color, all things are possible.”
I watched as he walked away, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
As the memory faded, I could no longer feel my legs.
The man’s upcoming execution had opened floodgates. I could barely breathe.
One. Two. Three. Four.
With my eyes closed, I concentrated on my breathing. And counting. Seconds ticked by.
Maybe minutes. Finally, I was able to take deep breaths as anger replaced terror. I’d worked far too hard in my life to allow the motherfucker to derail everything. Never again. To hell with him.
Still unable to focus, I moved my hands along the counter until I reached the kitchen door. Somehow, I stumbled into the living room and toward the picture window staring out at my front lawn. With rain pelting against the glass, it was impossible to see anything, but just for a few seconds, I could swear a face formed in the distant fog.
A man’s face.
And he was smiling.
[divider]
“Hey, Jessica. Can you do me a favor and set up a meeting with Molly Sims next week?” As soon as I took a sip of coffee, I groaned. Why did I bother drinking the horrible brew from the office? Like ever? I had no idea if our office manager had gotten a deal on a crate of stale Keurig pods, but the java had a bitter acrid taste.
The day had all but gotten away from me. With depositions and an unexpected new client, I was shocked I’d gotten anything accomplished.
Especially since the fog had refused to completely leave.
How many years had I managed to stay free from the horrible vacuum that had come close to destroying my life? Long enough the freedom meant the world to me. That’s why I refused to take the day off, wallowing in self-pity. If I’d done so, the bastard would have won.
One step in front of the other. He could no longer hurt me.
Besides tomorrow was another day, including stepping foot inside a courtroom after the contentious loss. I’d need to be on my game. It made me furious that the wheels of justice seemed to be sliding in every scumbag’s way. I made it my personal mission to keep that from happening.
The reason I signed on for this career was all about getting even in my own way.
“Sure, Alexia,” Jessica said quietly, not even bothering to glance up at me as she’d normally do. Instead, she was staring at her computer screen, the horrible look on her face disturbing.
I moved behind her, glancing over her shoulder, a tickle of ice drifting across my arms. “That’s the missing attorney.”
Images of the morning news show popped into my mind all over again. I had to remind myself once again that the killer was behind bars and had been. He couldn’t hurt anyone ever again.
“Yes. Ashley Bordeaux was my sister’s roommate in college. They were close. Ashley even spent a summer with us. I can’t believe she’s missing.” Jessica was obviously deeply disturbed.
“Do you think it has something to do with that asshole boyfriend of hers?”
Jessica tossed her pen. “He is a jerk, but no. My sister tried to tell her that more than once, but I don’t think he has an abusive bone in his body. He’s too squeaky clean. You can tell by his signature yacht style clothing.”
“You should know by now looks can be deceiving.” My mind drifted to several cases I’d had over the years since becoming an attorney. Enough that I’d learned a long time ago to trust my instincts. My gut had never steered me wrong. When I paid attention.
The girl was smiling in the photograph, which was Ashley’s professional picture taken for the firm she worked for. She was a lovely girl with long dark hair. She looked a little like me.
Why did another icy shudder skitter down my spine?
She groaned and flicked off the screen. “You’re right, but he swears he hasn’t seen her. I’m so worried about her.”
“Well, hopefully, she’s just cooling off a little. Now, about that meeting.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’ll send you a confirmation email.”
“Perfect.”
“Oh, I sent you something else via email.” Her demeanor had completely changed. A little sly around the edges.
“What have you done?”
“Moi?” Shrugging, she returned to whatever she’d been working on before, purposely tossing me a few looks. She’d been my assistant for almost three years, the best damn paralegal in the business. We’d also gotten very close personally, the cases we worked on together taking a significant toll on our psyches.
There wasn’t a day that went by when we weren’t trying to rationalize how the court system could all but forget about the victims, shoving them aside as if what they’d gone through had been of no consequence. I’d committed my life to working within the confines of the law, fighting against evil.
Jessica was right there with me, a strong fighter. Plus, she reminded me of someone I’d known a very long time ago.
Someone I hadn’t been able to protect.
“Yes, you. Don’t forget who signs your paycheck.”
“Technically, that’s your boss.”
I rolled my eyes. “Talk or I won’t sign off on your next vacation days.”
She rose to her feet, casually swinging her hips back and forth as she moved around the end of her desk. When she slid her hand into my open briefcase, I lifted an eyebrow. I should have known what she was surfing for.
As soon as she pulled the book I’d brought with me into the light, I tried to snatch it from her fingers, but she jerked it away. “Give me that.”
“Not yet. I can see why you always carry one of his books around. He’s a hot-looking man. I hear he’s a very eligible bachelor too. In case you’re interested.”
“I’m not. Men are the last thing on my mind. You sound like my best friend.” I grabbed the book, offering her a distinctive primal growl. “He worked on some amazing FBI cases back in the day. I’ve learned a lot from his books.”
A slow and steady smile crossed her face.
“Not like that. To help with the ones we’re working on.”
“Whatever you say. Anyway, glance at your emails. I still think he’s hot.”
I shoved the book into my briefcase, grumbling as I did and tossed the remainder of the wretched coffee in her trashcan. Yes, he was hot. That much I would admit. The perfect protector. A true hero in my mind.
He was also way out of my league, likely a millionaire a few times over. Not that having money was a bad thing.
I closed my door, dropping my briefcase and immediately heading to my desk, curious to see what Jessica had sent.
“Huh.” I found the email easily enough. When I pulled up the details, I sat back in my seat, tapping my fingers on the fake mahogany.
A book signing at a local bookstore.
What were the odds a New York Times bestselling author would stop by a local brick and mortar store to sign a few copies of his latest bestseller? Well, he hadn’t moved away from Miami after becoming rich and famous.
I would love to meet the man. Maybe karma was trying to slide her grimy little mitts into my world, giving me a shove.
Or maybe karma was actually giving me an opportunity I couldn’t refuse. Especially after seeing the morning news.
While I was thinking about the opportunity, making mental note of the date, my personal cellphone rang. Grabbing it without thinking, I continued reading about the event even as I answered.
“Hello?”
“Do you dream in color?”
It took a full five seconds to realize the question that had rumbled off the man’s tongue. “What did you say?”
His chuckle was long and dark. “I asked if your dreams were in color.”
“Who the fuck is this?” On edge, I immediately rose from my chair, heading toward the window in my office. For some reason, I stood at the corner, peering out at the parking lot, my personal view.
Breathe. Just breathe.
The question was one several people had known about. It would be easy to find. Pain ripped through my eyes as a rush of memories almost brought me to my knees. Hell, no.
There was no one standing staring up at me from the street, but my skin continued to crawl. This was just some jerk hungering for a blip of fame. I’d seen it happen a half dozen times in my career.
“Oh, I think you know who it is. I’ve missed you. Very much.” His laugh was deep, jovial. No. Not the same.
“Look, buddy. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but I’m hanging up now.”
“There was nothing like the hunting of women. No gourmet food. No expensive liquor. No sensual perfume. And no raw, unbridled sexual experience that could hold a candle to the hunt, the capture, and the kill. You were the only woman who wasn’t afraid. That’s when I knew you were special. Very special indeed.”
All the convincing I was trying to do wasn’t working. My skin began to crawl. “What the hell are you insinuating?” I couldn’t stop shaking.
His chuckle kept me on the line. “We’ll meet again very soon. Very soon indeed. Maria.”
[divider]Chapter Two
Maverick
A cautionary tale of diplomacy.
In other words, faking a goddamn smile for hours on end.
If I had another cup of coffee, there would be no way of stopping the reality of my personality from escaping the debonair façade. Oh, who was I kidding? Today I bore the look of an author who’d been stuck inside his house facing one deadline after another. Not exactly disheveled considering my blazer came directly from Italy, but close enough to keep my female fans enamored.
“Are we finished yet?” I asked while managing to preserve the jovial expression even as three women took turns taking pictures with my cardboard self on the other side of the thick velvet rope.
“Look at that line, Mav. Come on. Meeting your fans isn’t the worst thing in the world. I remember your first signing when two people showed up, including my mother. The question I have is do you remember those lean and mean days?”
“Short lived, I seem to recall.”
“This is part of the job,” he continued, his smile bigger than mine. Of course, his entire objective was to make me appear to be something I wasn’t: a handsome bachelor eager to find his forever lady.
According to him, that’s what sold books. I hadn’t known it was such a meat market. I also wasn’t in the market for a relationship.
Carter Blackstone was my agent, a man so highly respected in the industry I continued to be reminded I was one lucky man. He was also the bearer of invisible whips and chains, items needed to drag me to a book signing. My place was behind my laptop, not schmoozing with readers. At least that’s what I continued to tell myself. “Then you do it.” I tossed the coffee, reaching into my pocket for a mint.
Maybe he’d forgotten about how much money I’d added to his bank account over the last few years.
He moved in front of me, the glare on his face favoring admonishment. “You know what? I would love to. I’d absolutely love to be in your position for one week of my life. One week of living in that lavish home nestled in the most pristine beach location in Miami. One week of wind flowing through my hair as I speed down A-1-A in my Lamborghini. One week of waltzing into any five-star restaurant without a reservation and still managing to snag the best seat in the house. And oh, yeah. One week of having one woman on my arm after another. Seven full nights of blissful, hard fucking. Woe is you.”
I glared at him. “I don’t speed down A-1-A. I don’t go out to eat very often and I certainly don’t have a woman a night.”
The chime indicated that the break was over.
We glared at each other for another full minute. Ours was often a hate-hate relationship, but he’d made me millions.
“Sit your ass down in the chair and sign the fucking books.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Sit your ass down and sign the fucking books, please or I’ll find a way to tank your new release.”
I popped the mint, chuckling as I did. “No, you won’t and do you want to know why? Because you like money as much as everyone else.”
“Bastard.”
“You bet I am.”
I slid into the seat just as the magical rope was pulled aside. As people rushed the table, I took a deep breath. Just another hour or so and I could head out. While I was thrilled at the early success of my latest release, including grabbing a number one spot on the New York Times bestseller’s list, my idea of celebrating wasn’t being pinned behind a table signing books until my hand cramped.
You bet I adored my readers, but this was the fifth bookstore I’d been sequestered to in three days.
However, I sat back with the same smile planted on my face and grabbed my Mont Blanc pen, raring to go.
Losing track of time when presented with two hundred people standing in front of you was an easy feat, enough that when I glanced at my watch the next time, almost two hours had passed.
With my head down, as another book was slid in front of me, I was surprised to see at least three dozen annotations throughout it. Only it wasn’t He Will Come, but my first publication written years before. That caught my attention.
For a few seconds I was taken back in time to the reason I’d quit the FBI and started writing fiction novels in the first place. Gone Before Dawn had been a breakout success, the thriller putting me on the map of bestsellers. The six hundred pages had also been a love-hate relationship, forcing me to face my predatory demons.
Not that I’d shucked them off permanently. They still came back from time to time, biting my ass in the middle of the night. Although with less frequency than before. There wasn’t a member of law enforcement who didn’t have that one case that never left.
When I lifted my head, call me chauvinistic, but I expected to see a man standing in front of me. The reason for my expectation was simple. For the first few books of my career, I’d yet to fully comprehend adding any romance to my books, which had sold thousands of additional copies.
Not that I’d ever give Carter credit, but he’d been right.
The stunning woman peering down at me took my breath away.
I’d experienced my share of beautiful women in my life, although lately passion had taken a backburner to deadlines and promotion. However, someone as stunning as the woman standing in front of me was impossible for any man to ignore.
Curly ebony hair framing a heart-shaped face, thick lashes skimming across her cheeks, eyes the color of the Aegean Sea just before sunset, and soft, voluptuous lips that drew and kept my attention.
“Mr. Callahan. I’ve been very much looking forward to meeting you.” Even her voice kept my rapt attention. There was a sultry, deep huskiness to it, the tone allowing my creative mind to drift away from reality to several dark and filthy places.
I was at a momentary loss for words, something no one would ever accuse me of, and she seemed to sense I was having difficulty deciphering a perfect answer without making a fool of myself.
“It’s a thrill to be able to meet you.” Her slight smile was knowing, the offer bridging the silence to keep my misguided playboy reputation intact.
“And you are?” I noticed she held out her hand, rarely if ever done by readers. As soon as I accepted the gesture, an actual chemical spark occurred.
There was a moment shared between us I should be able to describe given my creative abilities, but not a single word entered my mind. Why was I having such difficulty around a stranger?
“Alexia.” She dragged the tip of her tongue across the plumpness of her bottom lip. “Would you mind signing this for me?”
“A beautiful name and I don’t mind at all. What made you choose Gone Before Dawn?” As I scribbled out her name and short passage of endearment, I expected her to offer a flowery answer, but she remained silent. The air drifting between us was suddenly stale, the only scent traces of vanilla and jasmine, the fragrance warm and subtly seductive.
“The way you captured the essence of the killer, the darkness ebbing and flowing inside his blackened soul called to me. Your descriptions were powerful and raw, a touch graphic while allowing the reader to take a journey into madness. Somehow, you managed to slide into the killer’s mind as if for briefly two sides of the same coin. If only for a little while.”
Everything about her description seemed personal, as if she’d lived in the moment. Compliments of this nature, the sense that through my words on the page the readers had lived the danger suffered by the heroine provided a reason to continue with my art.
A little-known secret. The compliment meant more than the seven-figure checks dropped into my bank account.
However, the wistfulness in her eyes kept my attention. Maybe it had been a long time since I’d served in the capacity of law enforcement, but my instincts and training were the depicted on every page in every book. The lovely woman was hiding something. The look in her eyes appeared as if she was a thousand miles away, reliving a moment. From the book or something else?
“I’m very glad I could provide you with thrilling entertainment.”
My not so decent attempt at making a joke broke the dark and intense spell. She laughed, the sound sweeter than any music tapped into on my satellite radio. “Very much so. While I know your book was a work of fiction, it was based on a true crime. Wasn’t it?”
Her challenge was delicious. “Now, what would make you say that?”
Was I finally catching onto the art of flirtation? I doubted my poker-playing buddies would do anything but chastise my method. However, Alexia was enjoying the banter and that was all that mattered.
“Because I’m an excellent judge of character even within the written word. Plus, you state you’re former a FBI agent in your bio. I can only imagine the stories you have to tell.”
She’d caught me there and I laughed. “I’m not certain if you’re referring to the fictional hero or the man behind the computer screen.”
While I was rewarded with another smile, her eyes were continuously searching mine. A light flush hit her cheeks and my cock stirred.
“Definitely a little of both.”
I stood, the book still in my hand, enjoying every second of basking in her beauty. Since when had I become a lecherous man at my own signing? When I leaned forward, her inhale was quick and far too provocative. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. You’re correct.”
“I thought so. You were the FBI agent who solved the Python Killer case.”
The monster had gained the notoriety based on how he’d tried to eliminate his victims. The case that would forever rattle me.
“In my days serving justice, I was lucky enough to solve several crimes.”
The faraway look appeared again. “Not one so heinous.”
Red flags based on the years I’d worked in the field with the FBI popped up, but I refrained from barraging her with questions as if starting an interrogation. “Perhaps you’re right. Here you go.” Handing her the book, I was already being given the evil eye from the people in line behind Alexia.
She cradled it against her chest. “One last question. The killer. Have you ever thought about the possibility that you convicted the wrong man? I mean if you had, then an innocent man has been languishing in prison for years, soon to be executed.”
Hold on. Was she talking about the Python Killer? While I no longer had regular contact with anyone I used to work with, surely my poker-playing buddies would have shared the news with me. Yes, I’d sequestered myself inside my house for weeks, sometimes months at a time, trying to keep my mojo going. However, with two judges, a DEA agent, and a prosecuting attorney as my best friends, if what Alexia was suggesting was true, I was shocked I’d yet to receive a phone call.
Granted, I’d bagged off two recent poker games based on my deadlines, but a phone worked just as well.
Momentarily stunned, I realized whatever expression I wore had shifted her mindset, allowing her to laugh.
“Within the pages of your book, of course. I could imagine how differently the book would have turned out had you not chosen the person you did.”
“You mean the guilty party or the hero?”
“Maybe both. As with every story, whether real, untold or seen through the eyes of a fantastic author, a single shift in truths, clues, or nuances could alter the outcome of a criminal case. A novel. Real life. Anyway, thank you for all your incredible stories. They keep me sane.”
All FBI agents went through extensive education, including psychological training through the Behavioral Analysis Unit. The focus wasn’t simply about learning skills to catch killers, but also about recognizing characteristics of those who were either lying or in distress.
She wasn’t a killer nor was she lying.
Yet her distress was wrapped solidly in a solid sheet of impenetrable armor. The electric current from before lingered, a pull to the woman that was both unexpected and exciting. Not once in my author career had I invited a reader out for coffee or a drink, but I wasn’t ready for her to walk away.
So I broke out of my comfort zone. “Alexia, you have a fascinating take on the profession.”
“Which one?”
Half laughing, I rubbed my fingers across the two-day stubble on my face, left since I’d been late getting out of the house. “Maybe both. This shindig should be over in about fifteen minutes. Would you like to grab a cup of coffee so we can discuss further? There’s a cool little shop down the street. They have some of the best brews in town.”
Her eyes lit up, shimmers of luminous gold dancing around her irises. “You mean Moxie’s?”
“You know it?”
She rolled her eyes. “I spend way too much time and money in there. The coffee is fabulous and I would love to.”
“Excellent. Just hang around.”
“I will.”
I was thankful for being able to sit behind a table since as soon as I planted my ass in the chair, my cock stiffened.
Fifteen minutes turned into an hour. By the time the store employee snapped the rope in place, I was exhausted and needed something much stronger than coffee.
Immediately, I scanned the oversized room that had held the signing.
“You want to grab a beer?” Carter asked. “We can go over the new contract and save a step.”
I was ready to let him know I had other plans until I realized Alexia had disappeared. Why did I have a feeling our paths would cross again?
Jesus. I was disappointed as hell.
“Sure, Carter. Sounds good.”
And why did I have a terrible sense that when we did, more than just sparks would fly?
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