After The Dark

“You can stay in the guest room,” Cameron said as they walked toward his front door. He unlocked it and ushered her into the warmth of his house. “Unless, of course...”

She stopped and glanced up at him.

“Unless you want to sleep with me.”

Samantha blinked at those words. She hadn’t been with Cameron—not intimately—in over a year. Not since I met Blake. She and Cameron were safely in the friend zone. A zone she intended to keep occupying. They’d always been better friends than lovers. “I’ll take that guest room.”

His jaw tightened. He pointed down the hallway. “You know where it is.”

Right. Because she knew his place, inside and out, just as he knew hers. “Thanks for being a friend, Cam. I don’t have many of those left.” She turned from him and began to shuffle her way down the hall.

“Blake Gamble is your friend.”

His words stopped her. “I don’t know what Blake is,” she said honestly. “He was my partner—”

“Come on, Sam. He’s just your type. The good kind.”

She looked over her shoulder. Was that an annoyed tone in his voice? Odd, Cameron never sounded angry. Not with her.

“Maybe you don’t really want someone good, though,” he continued, voice nearly growling. “Did you ever think that? You spend so much time profiling others...you should take a long, hard look at yourself. Why do you think you belong with a true-blue sort?”

I know why... “Good night, Cameron.”

“We both know you like the dark. Nothing wrong with that. After all...” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “Isn’t that your name?”

She hurried down the hallway. Shut the guest room door. And—

The bed was already made, the covers pulled back, and a glass of water even sat on the bedside, as if Cameron had known she’d be there that night.

But he said he only brought me here because reporters were at my house.

Samantha hesitated.

Or maybe...maybe Cameron—in his ever-so-controlling way—had always intended for her to stay at his place after he’d learned about the bloody details of her day. She knew his protective instincts had a tendency to kick into overdrive where she was concerned.

She yanked open the door. Cameron was across the hall—about to enter his bedroom. “You know I hate being manipulated.” Her hands were on her hips. Her eyes narrowed on him.

“I do.” He nodded. “And I hate for my only friend to suffer alone.”

“I’m not your only friend.” Cameron had a freaking entourage of women following him around. “Tomorrow, I am so going to kick your ass.”

His lips hitched into a half smile. “No, you aren’t. But thanks for the warning.”

She stepped back and slammed the door shut. Samantha toed off her shoes, ditched her pants, drained that glass of water and fell asleep—wearing just her shirt, her bra and her panties.

* * *

IT WAS THE thirst that woke her later. Always a side effect of whiskey shots. Samantha’s eyes cracked open, and she climbed out of bed, her throat absolutely parched. The empty glass sat by the side of the bed, seeming to mock her. She stumbled to the door, then made her way—as quietly as possible—down the hallway and into the kitchen. After guzzling two glasses of water, she propped back against the counter.

The clock on the microwave told her it was nearing 4:00 a.m. Far too early. Or late, depending on how you wanted to look at it. Unfortunately, now that she was awake, her mind was already spinning, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to shut down again and go back to bed.

No blood on Allan. That was why the scene was so wrong. He had a dead woman at his feet, blood splatter all around her, but no blood was on him.

Not until he’d been shot by Blake. And then—once the guy had killed himself, Allan’s blood had been everywhere. So by the time all of the other agents had swarmed to the scene, the place had looked like a bloodbath.

She put her empty glass in the dishwasher and padded into Cameron’s office. She sat down in his leather chair, and it squeaked softly beneath her weight. She didn’t bother with a light but just moved his mouse so that his computer would wake up. Illumination immediately flooded out from his screen. His two screens. What an ego.

A faint smile curved her lips as she typed in the password for his system. Cameron was such a Greek mythology junkie. She knew that Hades was his password of choice—for pretty much everything.

The password got her access, but before she could click the internet icon...

Another file opened on his desk. A file that must have still been in use when Cameron last operated the computer. And that file...

It’s the dead girl. A close-up shot of Amber Lyle, the girl who’d been sprawled at Allan’s feet. Her eyes were closed, the wound at her neck gaping, and the blood...

Samantha leaned closer to the screen even as every muscle in her body clenched. Cameron shouldn’t have that picture. It looked like a crime scene photo. It should be classified. It shouldn’t be—

A trophy.

“Samantha?” Cameron’s raspy voice came from the doorway. “You okay?”

Her head snapped up. She was behind the computer screens—his desk faced the door. So he couldn’t see what she was looking at on the monitors.

But he could see her face. Right there, in the glow of the light, and whatever he saw on her face must have given her away because Cameron sighed. “Found out, did you?”

Her profile for the Sorority Slasher ran through her mind.

Highly intelligent... Cameron was a freaking genius, and he had the paperwork to prove it.

Strong. Fit. Cameron worked out every single day. Not just some light gym work. He was into martial arts, boxing. Hell, he’d even taken up Krav Maga in the last year.

Attractive. His features were absolutely perfect. Sharp cheekbones, deep, dark eyes, sensual lips.

In his late twenties or early thirties... Cameron was twenty-eight.

“I left in a rush before,” Cameron mused. “I shut down the computer, but I didn’t stop to think that you’d possibly get up in the middle of the damn night and come snooping on me.” He gave a low hum. “Figured out my password, did you?”

Her lips felt numb as she said, “I’ve always known your password.”

“The Lord of the Underworld.”

Her hands inched toward his desk drawer. It was open, just an inch, and she’d caught the gleam of a letter opener in there.

“How will this end, Sam?” Cameron asked her. “Am I really supposed to kill you now?”

It’s him. It’s him. It’s him. Inside, she was screaming.

Cameron took a step toward her. “What do you see on the screen?” Now he sounded curious, not angry. “Is it her? The last one? And she was going to be my last one, by the way. My experiment was over.”

“Experiment?” Her left hand had slid into the drawer and curled around the letter opener.

“Um. Yes.” He took another step toward her. He hadn’t turned on the lights in the room, so he was just a big, dark shadow. “I wanted to see if I could do it, you see. If I could kill. If I could get away with the crimes. And I wanted to see...what are people like...in that last terrible moment? What is it like when they know that hope is gone and they’re dying?”

Nausea rolled in her stomach. “Cameron?” She said his name as if he were a stranger, and right then, he was. Not the man she knew. Not her ex-lover. Not her friend. Cameron was a respected professional. He was on the fast track to become the head of his department at Georgetown—after only two years there. He charmed his way past everyone’s guard.

He was...a killer.

He took yet another step toward her. She couldn’t see his hands. She wished that she could just see his hands.

“There were some surprising results. Would you like to hear them?”

Cameron always enjoyed bouncing ideas off her.

“I felt alive when I killed those women. Interesting, don’t you think? That death finally made me feel alive? Until that point, I’d only felt that way, well...when I was fucking you. But that ended when you met Blake Gamble.”

She flinched. “Blake and I are just...partners. Nothing more. We haven’t been together.”

His smile was cold. “Not yet. But I know you, Sam. I know what you want.”

This couldn’t be happening.

“It was easy to kill.” Now his voice was almost musing. “I never hesitated. I mean, I always suspected I was a bit of a psychopath, but as we all know...psychopaths aren’t necessarily monsters. They’re just...unemotional. Detached. Able to become such great surgeons, CEOs, lawyers...even profilers for the FBI...”

Her phone was in the guest bedroom, and Cameron didn’t have a landline. She needed to call Blake. Call Bass. Call the cops.

“Covering up the crimes—well, that was easy, too. All so easy. The hardest part? That was staying two steps ahead of you. Because that profile you made up? The one that your boss called shit?” He was in front of the desk now. “It was dead-on.”

She could hear the frantic drumbeat of her heart. Every. Single. Beat. “Show me your hands.”

He laughed. “You think I’ll hurt you?”

“Show me your hands.”

“You were right about Allan.” He watched her with a predatory stare. “Allan did need the money and...the guy was sick, too. Dying. I was really just speeding up the process for him. It was all going to work so perfectly.” For a moment, he almost sounded sad. Almost. “But even when you were drunk...you were figuring shit out.”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“Yeah, you were.” Another sigh. “I think you might have been better at profiling than you realized. But then, I always said you had that killer instinct.”

“Show me your hands.” It sounded as if she were begging, and Samantha hated that. “Cameron...”

His left hand came up—

And she surged to her feet because she knew he was going to kill her. She swung out with her letter opener, and it caught his hand, sending a wet spray of blood flying.

Cameron bellowed, and then he launched across the desk, coming right at her. They fell back together, slamming into the floor, and that impact was hard enough to knock the breath from her. But she didn’t let go of the letter opener. She kept it locked tight with her fingers, and Samantha shoved it right against his throat.

* * *

“DROP THE WEAPON! Drop the fucking weapon and put your hands up!”

Samantha blinked at that shout, and she realized that she was still holding the letter opener in her left hand. She opened her hand and let it fall—the blood-soaked letter opener fell from her bloodstained fingers.

Blood. Blood everywhere. On the floor. On the desk. On me.

“Samantha?”

That wasn’t the voice of an angry cop. That was a voice she knew. She squinted, and she saw Blake pushing his way past the first responders as he hurried to her. Her body started to shake.

His gaze raked over her, taking in her bare legs, her shirt—the blood.

“Samantha? What happened?”

Slowly, she shook her head. She hurt. Because a lot of that blood...it was hers.

“Samantha!” Blake’s hand closed over her shoulder. “What in the hell happened here?”

She licked her lips. “He...he got away...”

CHAPTER TWO

Four Months Later...

ONCE YOU KNEW that monsters lived in plain sight, it was pretty hard to trust anyone.

Samantha Dark’s feet pounded along the wooden pier. Her breath heaved in and out of her lungs as she ran. The sun was just rising—starting to slide across the morning sky. This was her routine. This was her sanity. Every day was started with a three-mile run that took her along the Fairhope Pier.

Fairhope, Alabama. Her small-town sanctuary. Her haven.

Her hiding spot.

She reached the end of the pier and stopped, her heartbeat drumming in her chest, as she stared out at the bay. The water appeared so dark today—dark and flat. Across the bay, far in the distance, she could see the skyline of Mobile. That city would be coming alive soon enough.

But she wouldn’t be a part of it. She wasn’t in for crowds these days. She avoided contact with others like the plague.

Footsteps beat on the wooden pier behind her. Samantha tensed even as she looked over her shoulder. It was just another runner. A woman with a bobbing blond ponytail. She gave Samantha a friendly wave, then turned and headed back down the pier.

Samantha’s gaze slid toward the water once more. A yacht was out there, anchored in the bay. Had to be about a forty-footer. It had arrived yesterday. Stayed the night. The owner would probably clear out soon. Head on to a new adventure.

Samantha didn’t have adventures any longer. She didn’t want them. She wanted the anonymity of small-town life, and that was exactly what Fairhope gave to her. Sure, some tourists flocked to the area in the summer. But in late winter, it was just the locals. Exactly the way she liked it.

She turned on her sneakered heel and began running back down the pier. She passed Mosley, the guy who was always out with his crab trap. He was throwing it into the water. Two fishermen were organizing their bait. They gave her friendly nods. When she reached the parking lot, Samantha turned right and took the path that would lead her toward the little beach that waited. She loved that beach and the trees that twisted near it. Spanish moss hung in the oak and cypress trees, swaying overhead as she ran. Ducks were up ahead, squawking. This scene was as far away from the hustle and bustle of DC as it was possible to get.

Samantha kept running.

It’s all I’ve been doing for the last four months.

Thirty minutes later, she was back at the parking lot. She headed toward her car, but...a man stood there. He’d propped his hip against her driver’s-side door. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the light morning breeze tousled his dark hair.

She stopped when she saw him. Her muscles were shaky from the run, but just the sight of that man with the sunglasses—with his strong shoulders, that dark hair, that hard jaw—had adrenaline pumping through her body. For a moment, she could only shake her head. He shouldn’t be there. He didn’t belong there.

Samantha realized that she’d frozen, and she forced herself to move forward. Slowly, she closed the distance between them, drawing nearer to the man who’d slipped into more than a few of her dreams...and nightmares. Her breath seemed to burn her lungs. She stopped beside him.

“Blake.” She said his name like an accusation. Mostly because it was. “What in the hell are you doing here?” When she’d left DC, she hadn’t exactly given anyone a forwarding address. Not even him.

His head tipped back as he straightened. He pulled off his sunglasses, tucking them in his pocket. His eyes—never been able to forget those green eyes—met hers...and he smiled.

She shook her head. “No. Whatever it is...no. Just get in your car. Drive. Get out of here.” She marched toward her car. She’d already pulled out her key and was going to get inside and drive away from him.

But Blake’s hand flew out. His fingers curled around her wrist and held tight. “I missed you.”

What? Her gaze jerked back to his face. Emotion glinted in his eyes. Emotion she didn’t want to read. She couldn’t handle his emotions. On good days, she had trouble dealing with the tangle of her own emotions. She definitely didn’t want to deal with his.

“You can’t hide forever,” he murmured as his thumb stroked along the inside of her wrist. Her pulse immediately increased beneath his touch.

“I’m not hiding.” She could tell lies so easily these days. “I’m living a civilian life. There’s a difference.” Because her suspension had quickly turned into unemployment. Sure, her profile of the Sorority Slasher had been proved accurate. She had perfectly described the perp they were after.

But she’d been found in a serial killer’s house. A killer who’d gotten away on her watch. And on his way out of town, Cameron had killed again. He’d stabbed a cop who’d made the mistake of pulling him over when Cameron had been racing away from the scene. Bass had blamed her for that death. He’d blamed her for plenty of things.

The fact that she’d been found in Cameron’s house, wearing only her shirt and underwear—yes, gossip had spread in the ranks quickly enough about that situation. And that gossip had leaked out to the press. An agent who screwed a serial killer. Whispers had dogged her steps.

But even worse than the condemnation from Bass...her own guilt had eaten away at her. Because...that cop’s death is on me.

She’d let Cameron get away. His escape was on her. She’d kept that secret shame inside for far too long.

“You’re a profiler, Samantha. An FBI agent. You hunt killers. You stop them.”

She gave him a bitter smile. “Haven’t you heard? I fuck them, too.” And that was something else that haunted her. She’d thought she knew killers so well. That she understood the criminal mind, but all along...she’d been blind. How the hell was she supposed to trust her instincts any longer? She’d been dead wrong before.

What if she was again?

His hold tightened on her, became almost bruising. Her breath caught because Blake was never rough, not with her. Not with—

“Jesus, Sam.” He dropped her hand.

Just seeing him hurt right then. She’d walked away from DC for a reason. She sure hadn’t intended to be seeing Blake again anytime soon. Just looking into his eyes made her feel as if someone had ripped open her heart.

The way he’d stared at her...back in DC. When he’d found her, half-naked, covered in blood... Samantha cleared her throat. “Why are you here?” she asked him again.

“Because I need you.”

Those words were rough. All rumbly. Her eyes raked over him. She didn’t think he meant that he needed her in a personal way. No, he had to mean—

“He’s back.” A muscle flexed along Blake’s square jaw. “He’s doing it again.”

For an instant, her heart stopped. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. And then... “No!” A fierce denial. With that cry, her heart began to race in her chest. Her breath came in quick pants. Even though sweat covered her from the run, Samantha was suddenly freezing. “You’re wrong.”

“I wish that I was. Cameron Latham is hunting again. Playing his sick games. Doing his experiments.”

Her chill grew worse.

“And I need you to help me stop him.”

She shook her head. “You came to the wrong woman. I’m not FBI any longer.” Like he’d need that reminder.

“You’re the right woman. You’re exactly the woman I need.”

Her body was so tense her muscles ached.

“No one knows Cameron Latham like you do.”

Her cheeks burned. Yes, she knew him intimately.

“You can stop him, Samantha. You can build a new profile on him. You were in his head before, and I know you can get right back there again.”

She looked away from Blake and grabbed for the handle of her car door. She yanked it open—

“Unless you don’t want to stop him.”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Bass still thinks you let Cameron walk. He doesn’t believe that you wanted to put your lover behind bars.”

“Ex-lover.” How many times had she said that? She glanced up at him, knowing that a glare would be on her face. “As I’ve said before, Cameron and I hadn’t been involved that way in a long time.” She climbed into the car. Her hands fisted around the steering wheel.

“Why not?”

His question was so low that she barely heard it.

And since she was already walking on the tightrope of a whole give-him-hell attitude, she offered her former partner a grim smile. Why not? “Because of you, of course. I met you and didn’t want to be with anyone else.”

His shock was plain to see.

Before he could ask any other questions—questions she didn’t want to answer—Samantha yanked the car door closed. She started the vehicle and headed out of the lot, leaving Blake behind.

She didn’t start shaking until she was nearly home, but then the trembles came, rocking her whole body. He’s doing it again. She hoped that Blake was wrong. He had to be wrong.

Because if Cameron was hunting again, it would only be a matter of time before he came after her.

* * *

BLAKE GAMBLE HAD never been the kind of guy to give up easily. Actually, he didn’t believe in giving up at all. Especially not when it came to...

Her.

Samantha Dark.

Samantha Fucking Dark. The best profiler whom he’d ever met. Wicked, insanely smart—the woman could dissect a killer from a nearly perfect crime scene. She could see evidence that others missed. She saw motives. She saw monsters. She—

She was the one who stopped the Sorority Slasher. She’d gotten hell from Bass because Cameron Latham had vanished, but Samantha’s profile had been dead-on. Every detail she’d given on the killer matched Latham.

His boss thought that Samantha hadn’t just been screwing Cameron. Executive Assistant Director Justin Bass had told Blake—on more than one occasion—that he suspected Samantha might have actually even been involved in the crimes with the killer.

Total bullshit. The EAD was dead wrong.

Because I trust her. I have from the moment we were partnered together. She always had my back. The truth of the matter was...he’d taken one look into Samantha’s golden eyes and pretty much lost a piece of his soul. No one should have eyes like her. So unusual. So deep. Eyes that saw too much.

She was a pretty woman, beautiful, but she’d always tried to restrain that beauty. She wore suits to work, hiding what he knew was a killer body. Her black hair was always pulled back into a twist. She didn’t bother with makeup. Just business, that had been her.

And then everything had been blown to hell for Samantha.

Now here I am, ready to wreck the peace that she’s sought for herself.

He sighed as he got out of his car. Samantha’s cottage waited right up ahead. He hadn’t followed her there. He’d actually gone to the cottage before he tracked her down at the pier. When he’d been her partner, he’d learned her habits pretty well. Samantha always enjoyed her morning runs. And the pier? Well, in this small town, he’d figured she’d head for that spot.

Her car waited a few feet away. No sign of her, though. He exited his vehicle, made sure to grab his backpack and tried to figure out just how the hell he was going to convince Samantha to help him.

He took a few steps toward the cottage—a place that was situated high on the bluff that overlooked the bay. Her cottage was surrounded by massive oak trees and plenty of Spanish moss and—

“Why do you think it’s Cameron?”

He saw her, sitting on the steps that led up to the cottage. Her hands were on her knees, and her head was bent forward so that he couldn’t see her expression.

Her hair was shorter than it had been months before. Her usual twist was gone. The dark locks hung to her jaw, perfectly framing her heart-shaped face. He liked the cut. It made her eyes look bigger and made her look even sexier, though he doubted that had been her intention.

The problem is...I’ve always found everything about her sexy. A big problem, when he was supposed to be only her partner.

“Blake...” She looked up. “What makes you so certain it’s him?”

She hadn’t sounded surprised that he’d followed her. He figured Samantha knew it took a lot more to get him off track. He headed toward her, then lowered his body until he was sitting on the steps beside her. His leg brushed against hers.

“The world is full of twisted killers,” Samantha continued, her voice both sad and stark. Once more, her head lowered. Her delicate shoulders hunched. “How do you know it’s not one of them? Why does it have to be Cameron?”

This was the part that he knew would hurt. “Because he asked for you.”

Her head whipped up and toward him. Her eyes widened as she stared at him. “What?”

“He asked for you, at the kill scene.”

Her lower lip began to tremble.