Hunted

Chapter Two

Casey sidled around the back of the sheriff’s station. Sure, this wasn’t exactly her best moment, sneaking up to the back of the building because she knew that the young deputy, Finn Patrick, was scheduled to get off work at eight o’clock that night. But Finn had been kind enough to share a little inside information with her before and she was hoping that he might feel similarly inclined again...

The back door squeaked open. It was a heavy metal door, and it led from the rear of the station to the small staff parking lot in the back.

Casey made sure her friendly smile was in place as that door opened. She stood in the shadows, waiting to see Finn’s dark hair appear but—

Blond hair.

Her smile froze. She expected Sheriff Hayden Black to exit the building.

But the man who came out wasn’t Hayden. The blond hair was a little too dark.

Josh Duvane shut the door behind him. He tensed and his gaze swept toward the right—toward the shadows. Toward her.

He’d changed his clothes again, and now the guy looked more like an FBI agent. Khaki pants, button-down shirt and a holster. A holster that he was currently reaching for as he kept his narrow-eyed gaze in her direction.

“Wait!” Casey called out. She hurried forward with a clatter of her—yes, still wearing them—heels. “It’s just me.”

If anything, his expression became even darker. “Should have known you’d be skulking around.”

“Skulking?” Casey repeated, not liking that particular word choice.

“Yeah, skulking. Hanging around, hoping for a weak link to appear so you can get another scoop.” He put his hands on his lean hips. “I know Finn tipped you off last time.” Josh gave a sad shake of his head. “You like preying on twenty-year-old deputies? The guy is green and you know it. You got him to spill confidential information to you that could jeopardize the case.”

Furious, she kept marching toward him. “I didn’t jeopardize anything! Finn just told me the number of stab wounds that the victims suffered—”

“And you immediately reported it, opening the door for copycats galore to come out and play.”

Her breath heaved out. “You don’t like me.” Were they really back to that already?

“I don’t know you, as you pointed out earlier.” His gaze swept the dark lot. “And, lady, why would you want to be out here by yourself? You know you match the killer’s victim profile, right?”

“I—” Yes, okay, maybe she did know that. But she was at the sheriff’s station. Shouldn’t that be the safest spot in town?

He grabbed her wrist, surprising her. It wasn’t the quick movement itself that surprised her. Rather, she was surprised by how gentle his touch was. His hand wrapped around her wrist, and she felt the faint caress of his fingertips against her pulse point.

A little shiver slid over her.

“Sheriff Black gave advice for folks to be vigilant. He gave that advice to you. And what do you do? You immediately run out and find the first dimly lit, empty parking lot that you can?”

“I know how to take care of myself.”

“I’m sure the other victims thought that, too.” His gaze slid around the lot. “Where the hell is your car?”

“My hotel is four blocks away. I just walked—”

“Because you have a death wish?”

She silently counted to ten, then said, “You are getting on my bad side.”

He smiled at her, a quick flash that showed the dimple—no, not really dimple, more like a rough slant—in his right cheek. “When you get angry, your voice goes absolutely arctic.”

Then she must be completely freezing him right then.

“Finn isn’t coming out here. He’s pulling a second shift and, even if he weren’t, the sheriff just gave him orders not to speak to any reporter, including pretty brunettes who smell like candy.”

Her eyes widened. “Smell like—candy?”

“Didn’t realize that, huh? You do.”

Her cheeks were burning.

He turned away, but kept his grip on her wrist and he pulled her toward the far side of the lot. A motorcycle waited there, a big black beast of a bike.

“I’ll give you a lift to your hotel. See, I can be a nice guy.”

He climbed onto the motorcycle and tried to tug her on after him. Casey locked her knees and refused to budge.

He sighed. He seemed to do that a lot around her. “Problem?”

“I don’t like motorcycles.” Yes, she sounded prim and disapproving. So what? She wasn’t sure she liked him, either. She certainly didn’t like his ride. “They go too fast. They flip too easily. They offer zero protection to the rider—”

“Not a risk taker, huh? Guess I pegged that part wrong about you.” His gaze dropped down her body and stopped on her three-inch shoes. “It’s the heels. When a woman wears sexy heels like that, it makes a guy think she may have an...adventurous side.”

“Are you hitting on me? Or insulting me again?” She wanted to be clear. “Because earlier, you said I was a vulture. Now you’re saying—”

He let go of her wrist, but only so that he could hand her a helmet. “This will protect your head and that pretty face of yours.”

“You are hitting on me.” She took the helmet. She did not get on the motorcycle. “Your routine needs work. A lot of it.”

“I did a little research on you since our last meeting...”

Her hold tightened on the helmet. Don’t have dug too deep. Don’t have found—

“You’ve won a lot of awards, haven’t you? Seems you’re the investigative journalist to watch. And you make a habit of going after the darkest killers, don’t you?”

Her heart was drumming too fast and hard in her chest. “I go where I’m needed. You might not like the work I do, but someone has to give the victims a voice.”

“And that’s what you do.”

It’s what she tried to do.

He revved the engine. The bike sounded like a giant, growling beast. “You said your hotel was four blocks away. Hardly far enough of a distance for me to go too fast on that short drive. And if you’re with me...” He gave her that slow smile again, the one that made him look a little less dangerous. Only a little. “I’ll be extra careful. I promise.”

She looked around the parking lot. It was getting darker. A lot darker. And, yes, she did fit the victim profile; she knew it. She was the right age, a stranger, no close ties in Hope... “Don’t go over the speed limit.”

He laughed. It was a strangely warm sound that caught her off guard. “I’m FBI. Trust me—I’ve got this.”

She climbed onto the motorcycle. Her skirt hiked up—up much higher than she’d anticipated—and she knew she was flashing thigh. Her heels settled along the bike, finding safe purchase. She put on the helmet and then her hands kind of fluttered in the air. Should she put them behind her? There was a bar back there. She should probably just grab on to it and hold tight.

“Hold on to me.”

She’d been afraid he’d say that. Casey slowly wrapped her arms around him.

“Tighter.”

Why? “I thought you said you weren’t going fast.”

“You still need to hold tight, Casey.” It was the first time he’d said her name. It came out rumbly and sexy and she needed to stop thinking the guy was sexy.

He was an FBI agent working a case.

She was a reporter.

She might try to work him to get information, but they were not going to have any sort of real, personal relationship. She didn’t do personal relationships. She kept her distance from people for many, many reasons.

Fumbling a bit, her hands slid around his waist, but she didn’t hold that tight.

“Tell me the name of your hotel.”

There were several just up the road—a line of them that looked out over the beach. “West Winds.”

She would not hold him tighter.

The motorcycle shot forward and her arms tightened around him, holding him in a death grip and smashing her body against his. He zipped through the town, not actually going too fast but...it was strange being on the motorcycle with him. The wind whipped at her, and the motorcycle vibrated beneath her. He was strong and solid in front of her, and Casey found herself thinking that...maybe, if it were a different time, if this were a different place...she and the FBI agent might not have found themselves being adversaries.

They might have been something a whole lot more fun.

Too soon, he was braking in front of her hotel. Other reporters were staying at the hotel, at least five she knew from previous jobs. And both her producer and her camerawoman were there—plenty of people that she knew. It was a safe place.

Josh killed the engine and put down the kickstand. She realized she was still holding him, and Casey let go quickly, nearly jumping from the motorcycle. Josh didn’t move, but she could feel his gaze sweeping over her. A bit nervously, Casey pushed the helmet back at him. “Th-thank you.” She hated that stutter. She never stuttered. Or at least, she worked hard to make sure she didn’t. When she’d been younger, that stutter had always come out when she’d been afraid. Back then, she’d had plenty to fear. The nightmares had plagued her every night for a solid year during college.

He put the helmet on the back of the bike. He studied her a moment and the waves crashed in the distance.

Should she just walk away? Probably.

“You don’t think it’s odd?”

“What?” She wasn’t sure she followed him.

“All of you reporters...” He gestured to the hotel behind her and she knew he’d realized other press personnel were staying in that same location. “You all came rushing down here weeks ago to cover the Theodore Anderson case.”

Theodore Anderson. She crossed her arms over her chest. Yes, he’d been the reason she was first sent to Hope. He’d been arrested and linked to the abduction and disappearance of several young girls in the area. Many of the crimes had occurred years ago, but only recently had he been linked to the kills.

The saddest part of the case? At least to Casey? The man had killed his own daughter. Christy Anderson had been murdered by her father when she was just thirteen years old.

Theodore had made headlines when he was arrested, and, yes, the reporters had all flocked down to cover the case when he went to trial. He’d been found guilty on all counts, and Theodore Anderson would never see the light of day again. Originally, the press had focused on Theodore, but it hadn’t been long before someone else started stealing the Front Page...

The Sandy Shore Killer.

“What are the odds,” Josh continued in that deep voice of his, “that in this sleepy little town, there would be not just one sadistic killer...but two?”

She licked her lips. “Considering how rare serial killers are...I’d say those odds should be astronomically low. But then...you’re FBI. You should know better than I do.”

“They are astronomically low. Coincidences like this one don’t happen.” Flat.

“But...it is happening.”

“Something set this guy off. Something brought him here...” His head turned and he gazed at the hotel behind her. “Can’t help but wonder...if it was you.”

She backed up a step. He knows. He dug into my past. He dug too deep. He found out what I did—

“You and all the reporters,” he continued as his hazel gaze slid back to her. “He didn’t like the fame that Theodore Anderson was getting, so he decided to steal the spotlight. And you and your buddies—with your twenty-four-seven news coverage—you just fed his beast. You made him more determined to get the attention he wanted.”

Casey shook her head. “You think this guy came here because of the reporters? Is that the theory the FBI is running with?”

His hand lifted and his fingers curved under her cheek. “We’re off the record. Way, way off...”

His fingers were faintly callused, a little rough against her skin.

“As I said, it’s highly unlikely we’d have two serial killers in the same town. That just doesn’t happen. Serial killers are rare to begin with and this...it isn’t by chance. Your ‘Sandy Shore Killer’ was drawn here for a reason.”

“Have the victims been connected in any way?” She had to press for more details.

“You know about the victims already. Attractive women in their twenties, all single, all visiting the area—no close personal ties here. And that’s all I will say about them now.”

His hand dropped away from her cheek and curved back around his handlebar. He revved the engine again.

Right. He was leaving. “Thanks for the ride.”

His gaze raked over her. She wondered... Did he feel that odd, thick tension between them? The heated attraction that seemed to fill the air?

His hazel stare burned.

He did.

“Good night, Casey.”

He felt the attraction, but Josh just wasn’t going to do anything about it. Those rule-following FBI guys. They weren’t her type. Or at least, they shouldn’t be.

“I’ll wait until you’re inside before I leave.” He paused a beat. “A gentleman never leaves before a lady is safely inside.”

“Is that what you are? A gentleman?”

He seemed to consider that. “Perhaps I could be whatever you want me to be.”

Casey turned away and hurried up the steps that led to the hotel. When she was in the lobby, she glanced back at him. He was still sitting on the motorcycle, still staring at her. Still looking far too sexy.

She lifted her hand and waved.

He frowned, gave her a small wave back, then drove away.

A few people who she recognized filled the lobby, and she inclined her head toward them as she headed for the elevator. The doors dinged open and when she slipped inside, Casey immediately ditched her heels. So much better. When she reached her floor, she carried her shoes in one hand, letting them dangle and bump against her leg. She was on the top floor, one that gave her a great view of the beach. She used her key card and slipped inside. The room was dark and ice-cold because she’d left the air-conditioning unit on earlier that day.

Casey turned on the light by the door. The maid had been in to clean—the room was spotless. Her pillows were all fluffed. New towels were waiting and the room had a fresh, lemony scent. She dropped her shoes and headed for the balcony door. She flipped the lock on it and slipped outside. The crash of the waves hit her first. The sound, then the scent. Stars glittered in the distance and she could see a handful of people walking on the beach.

She stood there a moment, lost in the sight. It didn’t seem right for something so beautiful to be linked to so much death. But if she’d learned anything in life...it was that beauty often hid darkness. A smile hid terror. Pain always waited. So did evil.

She turned from the view and reached for the balcony door. But...

Hadn’t she turned on the light in her room? Because the interior was pitch-black. She could see the darkness through the glass.

I turned it on when I walked inside. I always do that.

At least, she thought she had. But maybe there was a short or some kind of electrical problem. She’d have to call the front desk if there was trouble.

She opened the door and slipped inside. A little light spilled in from behind her, providing enough illumination for her to make her way to the small table near the bed. There was a lamp waiting there. She’d turn it on and then—

Hard hands wrapped around her from behind just as a bitter, thick odor hit her. “Got you.”

She opened her mouth to scream, but her attacker drove her forward, slamming her head into the wall just above the lamp. The impact was hard and she staggered. Casey didn’t get to scream. She didn’t even get to fight.

He rammed her head into the wall a second time.

Just like before...

No!

Her body was going limp. She was passing out.

His rough laughter was the last sound she heard.

Chapter Three

He drove for miles, just riding the motorcycle and letting the wind brush across his face. In his head, he kept reliving the day’s dive. Sinking deep beneath the water, searching even as he hoped that he wouldn’t find the body. He’d hoped that the victim was still alive. That she still had a chance.

Then he’d seen her hair. That was the way it often was on those dives. If he was searching for a woman, her hair would float up from her head. It would drift in the water around her, as if it were trying to reach out for the surface.

He’d seen Tonya’s hair, then he’d seen her face. Not the pretty face from her picture—chalk white, bloated.

Dead.

He turned off his engine and sat near the edge of the beach, almost surprised to find himself so close to Casey’s hotel. He hadn’t meant to come back there, had he?

Casey Quinn.

He’d seen her news stories before, most folks had. She didn’t work for some local channel—Casey was the big time. Prime-time TV on a major network. When he’d done some digging on her, he’d realized her pieces were always dark, focusing on the worst criminals out there. Not scare pieces, though, but reports that showed the broken lives that had been left in a monster’s wake.

He knew she’d come down to Hope to cover Theodore Anderson’s case—the sick freak had enjoyed kidnapping girls. Kidnapping them and killing them. He’d even killed his own daughter. Casey and the other reporters had been trying to interview both Theodore Anderson and the guy’s son, Kurt. But Kurt hadn’t talked to any reporters. Not yet. Josh was a bit surprised that Casey’s charm hadn’t worked on the guy. Her smile—yeah, he could see where she’d be able to get men to talk to her. That slow smile was pure sex appeal, and it did something to her eyes—made those dark chocolate eyes gleam. No wonder young Finn had overshared, but the deputy knew better now. Josh and Hayden had made certain the kid knew better.

He turned away from the beach and glanced up at her hotel. He’d touched her cheek and her skin had been like silk beneath his hand. She’d stood there, in those incredibly sexy heels, her skin a warm gold next to the white of her shirt, and that dark hair of hers had skimmed over her shoulders. She was small, built along delicate lines, but sure curved in every perfect place. When she’d been behind him on the bike—

Stop lusting, turn on the motorcycle and get out of here.

He wasn’t going to cross any lines with the reporter. A sexy face and body weren’t going to make him forget his job. He wasn’t young Finn.

He rolled back his shoulders.

Get out of here.

But he couldn’t help glancing at the hotel just one more time.

* * *

SHE HURT.

Casey groaned as she cracked open one eyelid. Her whole body ached and she was lying on something rough and hard. The hotel bed was normally soft, like falling into a cloud after a long day of work, but this—

I’m not at the hotel.

Both of her eyes flew open. She stared around, horrified. She wasn’t in her hotel. She was... Where in the hell was she? She tried to move her body and realized that her hands and feet were tied. Her hands were behind her back and she could feel what felt like rough hemp rope cutting into her wrists. She twisted and her body slid over...over plastic?

Yes, she was on a big sheet of plastic. The smell of fresh wood filled the air, and her frantic glance took in the room around her. She was in a home...of some sort. One that appeared to be under construction. No Sheetrock was up on the walls yet. She could see the wooden framework all around her.

And I’m on plastic. Oh, God. Because she knew why an abductor would put his prey on plastic. So there won’t be a mess left behind when he’s done with me.

She wiggled and twisted and finally managed to sit up. When she did, she realized that light was pouring in through one of the windows to the right. Light, and she could also hear the thunder of waves. I’m on the beach. In a house under construction. A house or some kind of condo complex or...

No, it’s a beach house. Because she remembered seeing about four houses that had been under construction on the west end of the beach. They’d been big, massive structures up on wooden stilts that screamed high-end real estate. But, if the place was under construction, where were the construction workers? Where was the crew? Where was someone who could—“Help!” Casey called out. Her voice was oddly weak, so she tried again, screaming, “Help!” with all of her strength.

She fought to remember what had happened to her. She’d been in her hotel room and then...someone had been there. He’d grabbed her. Rammed her head into the wall—jabbed her? Injected her with something? And she’d fallen. Everything had gone dark. But she thought that she remembered him...laughing.

The waves kept thundering. Her gaze narrowed on the window. There was only a little light coming in. Maybe dawn hadn’t fully arrived yet. Since it wasn’t dawn, that meant the work crew wouldn’t be coming for a while and—

It’s Sunday. Her eyes squeezed closed. No, the work crew wouldn’t be arriving anytime soon.

She jerked and twisted her way across the room. The plastic slid beneath her, bunching up, and she tried not to think about it—or about the man who’d taken her. The man who could appear any moment. The man who—

“I heard you screaming, Casey Quinn.”

She froze. Casey didn’t want to look over her shoulder. He was back there. If she looked at him, if she saw his face—

“Guess your screams mean...it’s time to get started.”

And she had to look back. Her head jerked toward him. He stood in the framed doorway. Dressed head to toe in black—complete with a black ski mask that covered his face. She couldn’t even see his eyes because there was some kind of weird mesh over them. “Stay away from me,” she ordered, hating that her voice shook.

He laughed—the laugh that she remembered—and he pulled out a knife.

The plastic beneath me...it’s to catch all of the blood.

“Can’t stay away,” he told her. “I have work to do.”

“Y-you’re going to stab me...five times?” Because that was what he did. With all of his victims, he stabbed them. And then he slit their throats and dumped the bodies in the ocean.

I fit his profile. Josh even said... No, no, this couldn’t happen!

He came toward her, moving slowly. He bent and brought the knife toward her. She heaved and strained against the ropes, but they wouldn’t give. He put the knife to her cheek. Pressed just enough that a drop of blood slid down her face. “Don’t rush me,” he murmured. “I’ve been waiting for this moment a long time.”

What?

“You and I are going to talk. You’re going to tell me all of your secrets.”

No, she wasn’t.

“Or I will cut you open.”

He lifted the blade away from her face—the moment she’d been waiting for. He was crouched close to her—his mistake. He thought that just because she was tied up, she was helpless.

He was wrong.

She lifted her feet—wish I still had on my heels, those spikes would have come in handy—and she slammed them right into his crotch, as hard as she could. He gave a grunt and staggered back. The knife fell from his fingers. She grabbed it, rolling and slamming her body harder into the plastic. The blade cut her fingers, but she didn’t care. She started sawing at the ropes that bound her wrists together and—

He drove his fist into her cheek, so hard that she saw stars. The knife fell from her fingers as her head slammed back and hit the plastic—and the hard wood beneath it.

He swore and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her toward him. As he hauled her up, her hands fumbled across the floor and something sliced into her pinky finger...something sharp and narrow.

A nail. A nail was sticking up through the wood.

“Don’t go passing out on me. We have to make a phone call. That’s step one for us. Got to let folks know who has the power here.”

She kept her hands near that nail and started to slide the rope against it. Was it making a grinding noise as she sawed? Could he hear her? The knife’s blade had almost cut all the way through the rope, and if the nail could just finish the job, then she’d have a chance.