Déjà Vu

“I told you,” he reminded her, “that you wouldn’t be able to stay away from me … any more than I can stay away from you. You belong with me.”

She shook her head, trying to deny him, trying to deny her feelings.

He cupped her chin in his hand and tipped her face up. “Look at me. I’m the man you’re meant to be with. You can feel it, too.” He lowered his lips and just brushed them across hers. “When I kiss you …” He trailed his fingers across her cheek, along the length of her neck to the curve of her breast. “When I touch you …”

Her fingers clenched the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer. “I want you.”

Want. It wasn’t love. And what he wanted—needed—was her love.

The soft click of a door opening drew Trent’s attention from his computer screen. He lifted his head as Dietrich stepped inside his room of the hotel suite they shared.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the big man said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your writing.”

“No, that’s fine.” He didn’t want to be writing, anyway; he wanted to be with Alaina. But she had refused his proposition and denied her feelings for him.

Hell, maybe he was wrong about her. Maybe he couldn’t feel what she felt because she felt nothing for him. Maybe this connection between them, this sense of destiny, was only in his mind.

Trent rubbed a hand across his forehead where tension pounded with the onslaught of the emotions of others. “Did you get this floor cleared?”

Dietrich nodded. “The concierge helped convince them to move to the new rooms you’re paying for.”

“And everyone moved?” Because he could still feel the anxiety of someone about to do something … Apply for a new job? Ask someone to marry him?

And the couple that fought …

Trent felt their anger and resentment, the hurt and pain that felt eerily familiar even though he’d never been in a relationship that had lasted beyond a week or two of physical pleasure.

At least, he hadn’t in this life.

Had he lived before? Or was it that through their emotions he lived everyone else’s life right now?

Dietrich nodded. “Everyone on this floor has moved. But there are people on the floor below and in the buildings surrounding this hotel. We should go home, where it’s quiet and peaceful,” he urged. “The city is too much for you.”

Trent closed his eyes as a red haze of emotion rushed over him. Then oblivion, black and comforting, tempted him to slip into unconsciousness. He’d done it before. Blacked out when he was too overwhelmed to deal with the pain of others.

At the crime scene and the morgue, he’d nearly lost consciousness. The terror and pain had been so intense.

But he was stronger now than the kid he’d once been … the kid who’d escaped into his own little world so he wouldn’t have to deal with others. He opened his eyes to the screen of his laptop. The words he’d just written all blurred together unintelligibly.

And he realized it hadn’t been his own little world.

Other people had lived in it with him … Before he had killed them?

Dietrich cleared his throat, drawing Trent’s attention back to where he hovered, like a mother hen, in the doorway of the suite. He spoke hesitantly, dropping each word softly into the silence. “I don’t understand why we’re here.”

Trent leaned back in his chair at the desk. Too weary to speak, he just arched a brow.

“You have that book to finish.”

He’d already missed his deadline.

“Your editor called again today.” Dietrich relayed the message, as much secretary as bodyguard. “Twice.”

Evan was pissed, not just about the deadline but because Trent had told him this book would be the last in the lucrative Thief of Hearts series. It was time to end it. But he’d been struggling before Alaina Paulsen had shattered his peace and quiet and confirmed that his fiction was actually fact.

Fact that Trent didn’t know if he was strong enough yet to face….

“I’ll get the book done,” he promised Dietrich and himself.

“But it’s easier for you to write back at the estate,” his assistant insisted. “You have fewer distractions.”

It wasn’t just his empathy that distracted him now; it was her. And Dietrich must have noticed.

Hell, Trent had left shortly after she had that morning. But it hadn’t been just that he was drawn to her, connected in some way he couldn’t explain. It had been because of the murder. He’d called the Bureau to find out why she’d been called away so abruptly and he’d learned of it. The ritualistic killing that so closely matched the M.O. of the protagonist of his Thief of Hearts novels. He’d had to see for himself if the nightmares he’d hoped were only products of his imagination matched the horrifying reality.

“I was there,” he murmured, the dead woman’s terror gripping him again. “It was just like.” The violent images once again took center stage in his mind.

“It’s not your fault,” Dietrich said, “if someone copied your book. You can’t be held responsible for someone else’s actions.”

But what if they’d once been his?

He closed his eyes, and passionate images replaced the violent ones. A woman’s nails raking his back, clutching at his butt as he thrust inside her again and again. Alaina Paulsen was more than just an agent investigating murders; she was part of it, too.

She had once been his … and he couldn’t leave until she was again.

Excitement coursed through him, but he fought it down, fought to control his emotions.

But it was all so perfect.

He wanted to scream, wanted to thump his fist in the air in celebration. But he had rejoiced another way, a far more satisfying way….

He lifted the cover from the box. He’d found it, like he had so many other things, when he’d opened that door and allowed the past to come rushing back into his mind.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. Trent Baines had unlocked that door with his books. And until today the man had had no idea that he’d let the monster loose.

He gazed inside that box at the heart he’d stolen. In his mind, it beat yet. For him.

But it wasn’t the heart he really wanted. That heart beat now inside Alaina Paulsen’s chest. But he knew to whom it had once belonged. The woman she had once been and the man she had once loved.

Now he knew who they all were and who they all had once been … before he’d killed them.

He closed the lid on the box, which would soon fill with more hearts. Because now he knew what he had to do, who he had to kill. Again.

Chapter 5

“So did you talk to the director?” Alaina asked as Vonner dropped into the chair across from her desk. Dust danced in the morning sun streaming through the windows. Since she’d forbidden the night-shift cleaners from touching her office, and potentially misplacing some of those files, she’d have to clean it herself soon.

After taking a swig of coffee from his paper cup, Vonner grimaced and shook his head. “No. I talked to Bilski first, like you suggested.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “He doesn’t think Baines is a problem.”

Alaina rubbed her fingers over her tired eyes. She hadn’t slept at all last night, plagued by the images chasing through her mind. Of that poor woman … and Trent, leaning close to her in the hall, his eyes promising her the passion she remembered from another life. Maybe she should have gone with him, wherever he’d wanted to take her. Maybe she should have let him take her….

Maybe then she would have had the answers she’d sought for so many years.

She opened her eyes and focused on the pile of cold cases. Which woman had she been of the twelve murdered at the hands of a sadistic serial killer?

“You and I both know better,” Vonner prodded her.

“What?” Heat flushed her face. She did know better than to trust a man who could have been that killer.

“We both know that Baines is a problem,” Vonner explained. “A big one.”

Yes, a problem for her peace of mind. For her heart.

But was he the killer? God, she hoped not.

“So Bilski wouldn’t speak to the director?” she asked, trying to follow the conversation when she was tempted instead to follow her heart.

“No.” Vonner snorted his disgust. “He figures Baines already left.”

A twinge of regret tightened her chest. She rubbed her knuckles over it, feeling the faint ridge of the scar beneath the thin fabric of her lightweight sweater. She closed her eyes again, as an image taunted her.

Lips on her breast, the skin smooth and clear over her heart. Hands tightening on her hips, lifting her to meet his thrusts.

She opened her eyes, trying to clear her head, and she met his deep green gaze. Trent Baines stood behind Vonner, leaning against the open door of her small office. Heat rushed to her face as if he’d caught her like she’d been in that memory—naked and vulnerable.

“Good morning,” he greeted them.

Startled, Vonner jerked and inadvertently squeezed his paper cup. Coffee surged between the rim and the lid and ran over his fingers. He set the cup on the floor and cursed.

Trent clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I figured you’d have sharper reflexes, being an agent.”

“Damn you.”

He shook his head. “You better run some cold water over that. Looks like it could be a nasty burn.”

Vonner, his dark eyes hot with anger, glanced back at Alaina. “Go ahead,” she assured him. “I can show Mr. Baines out.”

“Show me out?” he asked after Vonner knocked against him, passing him in the door way.

She rose from behind her desk and walked around it, blocking it and those files from his view. This was her personal space; she wanted him nowhere near it. “You must be leaving, right? Heading back to the U.P.?”

“Not yet,” he said, his gaze intent on her face, as if he knew what she’d been thinking, what she’d been seeing.

“There’s no reason for you to stick around,” she pointed out. “You won’t talk.”

“There’s another reason for me to stick around,” he said, leaning close.

She needed to step back, to get away from him, in case he tried to kiss her. Because somehow she knew that if his lips touched hers, she’d be lost.

But instead of kissing her, he murmured, “I need to see those cold-case files.”

She stepped closer to him, tempted to shove him out the door. “You exploited those women enough already,” she said, anger choking her. “You’re not using them anymore.”

“I only have your word that my books match those murders,” he said.

“You were there yesterday, at the crime scene.” It still galled her that he’d beaten her there. “You know those murders match the books.”

“No, I know that murder matched my books.” And it drove him crazy that that woman might have died because of him, because some lunatic had decided to copy what he’d written. Or what he’d done.

“It’s the same as the others,” she insisted. “There’s no need for you to go through the files.”

“You should want me to take a look at them,” he said. “I can help you.”

She shook her head, and while he couldn’t feel her emotions, he glimpsed the fear in the depths of her gray-blue eyes. Maybe, like him, she was afraid of the answers to the questions, afraid of what she would learn about herself. “What makes you think I need your help?”

“You came to me,” he reminded her.

“For answers. You haven’t given me any.” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You have nothing to offer me.”

His lips twitched, and he grinned at her challenge. “We both know I have a lot to offer you.”

He had to touch her, so he reached out to skim his fingertips along her delicate jaw. But she pulled back so his skin just brushed hers. It was enough that he felt her heat. And he knew that if he ever really touched her, passion would burn between them, brighter and hotter than even those images that flashed through his mind. “I can give you pleasure….”

“You arrogant bastard,” she said. “You might be used to women falling at your feet. But I’m not a fan. You don’t impress me.”

“Has any man?” he wondered. Or had she spent her life as he had, searching for something, for someone, he hadn’t been able to find? Until now.

“My personal life is none of your damn business,” she told him.

“Do you have one?” he wondered. “The director told me you’ve been working this case for a long time, almost obsessively.” He narrowed his eyes, studying her face, wishing he could feel what she felt. But only his own emotions—his attraction and fascination with her—consumed him. And others’ emotions edged in: pain, frustration, anger and resentment. “Why does this case mean so much to you, Alaina?”

“Every case means a lot to me,” she said, but her voice lacked the strength of conviction.

“This case is personal to you,” he said. “Why? Was one of those women your mother? Sister? Aunt?” Or, as he suspected, her?

“No.”

“C’mon, Alaina, let me help you,” Trent urged her. “You’ve gone over those files so many times that I’m sure you’ve missed something. I can be your fresh eyes, your fresh perspective.”

“She doesn’t need you,” a deep voice informed him. The surly agent had returned. The cold water must have soothed away the burn of the hot coffee, for his fingers weren’t red anymore.

Yet Trent saw the red in his mind, as if he weren’t the only one with blood on his hands. Maybe he was just projecting, looking for someone else to blame for what he’d caused.

Vonner stated, “I’m her fresh eyes on this case.”

“You just recently got assigned to it?”

Vonner nodded. “Unless you’re willing to tell us who fed you the information from those files, you really have no reason to be here.” The guy’s dark gaze flicked to Alaina, as if staking his claim. “Why don’t you end your little field trip to the FBI and go back home, Baines?”

“I have every reason to be here.” And she stood right in front of him, her eyes narrowed with distrust. She was smart not to trust him when he didn’t even trust himself.

Vonner was right; Trent needed to leave. It was better if he returned to the oblivion in which he’d been living. No emotions, others’ or his own. No desires, like the passion that burned inside him for her.

As he met her gaze, he saw another woman, one with red hair and pale skin, standing naked before him, her lips curved into a smile of pure temptation. Her image superimposed over Alaina’s until the two became one, as if the soul of the red-haired woman lived inside Alaina’s beautiful face and body.

It had to be her….

She shivered, despite the turtleneck she wore beneath her dark suit jacket. She’d worn a high-necked sweater yesterday, too.

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