Эль Кеннеди – Silent Watch (страница 7)
He was trying to distract her and they both knew it. But she welcomed the distraction nevertheless. “I read a lot, actually,” she admitted, playing with the sleeve of her warm wool sweater.
“What do you read?” His voice remained relaxed, even as he turned onto the on ramp of the highway and easily merged with traffic.
Her gaze darted to the window, fixing on the cars and trucks and vans whizzing by. Her pulse accelerated, just a little, at the sounds of tires squealing and horns blaring, at the sight of faceless, nameless people driving alongside them. Overhead, the late-afternoon sun disappeared behind a patch of thick gray clouds the moment they picked up speed. An omen of things to come?
Pushing aside the disturbing notion, she focused on Blake’s question. “I like mysteries. Some romance.”
“Bodice-rippers, huh?”
“Why do men always call them that?”
He chuckled. “Because the covers always depict a half-naked Fabio ripping the bodice off a fair maiden.”
“Well, what do you like to read? Or are you too busy for that?”
“You hit the nail on the head with that one. With my caseload, I’m lucky if I get past the first page of a novel. I used to read a lot of thrillers though.”
“Is that why you do this job, for the thrills?”
The question slipped out before she could stop it, but she regretted it the second his voice turned harsh. “There’s nothing thrilling about chasing monsters.”
She drew in a breath. “I…you’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”
She heard him take a breath of his own. “No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
Out of newfound habit, her fingers slid down to her wrist and rubbed that irritating scar. For a long while they drove in silence before she said, “You’ve been after him a long time, haven’t you?”
He didn’t need to ask her who he was. “Almost eight months now.”
Since she knew the murders had been going on for at least two months longer, she wrinkled her forehead. “Not from the beginning?”
Blake kept his eyes on the road. “The Chicago PD didn’t call us in until the third victim was discovered. Once they realized they had a serial killer on their hands, they needed all the help they could get.”
The third victim. It bothered her to hear him say that. First victim. Second. Third. As if they were nothing more than numbers. Not women who had once breathed, lived. Just numbers.
Was she a number? The fourth victim? Was that how Blake and his fellow agents referred to her?
“What was her name, the third victim?” she asked softly.
“Diana Barrett.”
A tiny pang of guilt tugged at her insides when she realized that it was the first time she’d heard that name. She’d been so caught up in her own pain, her own ordeal, that she’d never really thought to ask about the others. Diana Barrett. Elaine Woodman. Hearing the names, knowing the identities of the other women, made her feel…less alone.
Another blare of a car horn caught her attention. This time the sound didn’t make her flinch. This time the vehicles driving alongside them didn’t evoke fear, but determination.
A sense of purpose surged through her, bringing with it a flicker of familiarity. She’d once been a woman who wasn’t afraid to charge forward, take action and grab what she wanted out of life. A woman who hadn’t let fear or doubt slow her down, or pulled the covers over her head when things got a little too rough.
She’d thought that woman had abandoned her the night she’d almost died, but she’d been wrong.
After the attack, she’d fled, hid from the world, clung to her fear, but now she found herself clutching the other side of the survival-instinct coin. Fight or flight. Last time she’d chosen the latter.
This time she was going to fight.
And every mile that brought them closer to the city she’d deserted strengthened her conviction that she was doing the right thing.
Blake instantly noticed the change in his passenger, the way her gray eyes had gone from dull to vibrant, the way she’d straightened her back and lifted her chin as if she were walking into battle. Something inside her had shifted, and he wondered if he’d played a part in it. He’d thought that talking about Diana Barrett would cause Sam to crawl back inside herself, but it seemed to have had just the opposite effect. She suddenly looked driven, confident and…sexy.
Don’t even go there, man.
Trying not to admire her delicate profile, he focused on driving, the hour-long journey finally coming to an end as he steered the SUV onto a residential street.
Sam’s demeanor quickly reverted back to the one he’d grown used to. Suspicious and uneasy.
“Where are we?”
“My house,” he replied as he parked in the snow-covered driveway and shut off the engine.
She studied the modest two-story home intently. Her gaze flicked from the dark-red bricks to the white front door to the towering oak trees shielding the house from the road. After she’d finished her scrutiny, she turned to face him, still wary and now a little distrustful.
“Why are we here?”
He unbuckled his seat belt and reached for the door handle. “We can’t take you to a hotel, Sam.” He opened the door and got out, adding, “You’re staying here with me.”
He moved around the vehicle to open her door, but she un-snapped her seat belt and bounded out before he could reach for the handle. “I…why am I staying here?”
He didn’t like the panic he saw in those smoky-gray eyes. Was she afraid of him?
Hell, he realized, of course she was. She was probably afraid of any male who came within a five-mile radius of her. And he didn’t really blame her.
Keeping his tone gentle, he held her worried gaze. “We can’t risk having anyone figure out who you are—you know that. Sending you to a farmhouse miles away from civilization is one thing, but if you waltz into a hotel and check in, even with an alias, you’d be taking a chance that someone might recognize you.”
She swallowed. “I know.”
“This is the only way to keep you safe.” As safe as you can be.
“I know,” she repeated.
Without any more objections, she hugged her chest with her arms and waited as he grabbed her bag from the trunk. Then she quietly followed him up the snowy path leading to the house.
He watched her from the corner of his eye, noting the protective way she held her arms, and his heart squeezed a little. Damn, he didn’t know what it was about this woman, but she brought out a nurturing side in him that he didn’t know he possessed. Every time he looked into those haunted eyes, he just wanted to pull her into his arms. He wanted to tell her that every goddamn thing was going to be all right, that the man who’d hurt her would be caught and punished, and that nothing—nothing—would ever hurt her again.
And he really wanted to kiss her.
A soundless groan lodged in the back of his throat. Great. As if he weren’t stressed out enough. Now he had to deal with ridiculous urges more suited to a fifteen-year-old than a grown man who had a job to do.
He shouldn’t be thinking about kissing this woman. Nobody could deny how stunning she was, but as a federal agent he should know better than to be captivated by a witness.
“Wow…I didn’t expect…this,” she marveled when they stepped into the front hall. She glanced at the wood-paneled walls, then down at the rich, red carpet beneath their feet. “It’s so cozy in here.”
Before he could answer, she shook off her black leather boots and brushed past him, looking, for the first time all day, interested in her surroundings. He suppressed a grin as he unlaced his own boots, then set the security alarm on the wall. When he entered the living room to see Sam examining the large stone fireplace in front of the brown leather couch, he had to smile.
“What were you expecting?” he asked curiously.
She whirled around, a tentative smile reaching her lips. “A bachelor pad,” she admitted. “Bare necessities, couch, TV and table to put the beers on. But this place is amazing. Did you decorate it yourself?”
He chuckled, watching her stare at an oil painting—a landscape—hanging nearby. “I wish I could take credit, but my mother is the interior decorator in the family, not me. She came by and worked her magic. You should see my family home.”
“So you live here in Chicago? Don’t you work out of Quantico?” she asked.
He nodded. “I am in Virginia a lot, but I try to come back here whenever I can. That’s why I bought this house, more of an incentive to come home.”
“I’ve always loved this city,” she confessed, sounding wistful. She moved over to the tall bookshelf in the corner and absently ran her fingers over the spines of the novels stacked there.
“I’d assume in your line of work, you’d be traveling to New York and L.A. quite a lot,” he said. “What made you choose Chicago as your home base?”
He found himself oddly curious about this woman. What he knew about her came from her file, an array of facts compiled on paper. Sure, he was aware that she and her older brother had been orphaned when she was sixteen. Knew she’d gotten her first break when a talent agent discovered her in a shopping mall. Knew she looked damn good in swimsuits, and that her middle name was Corrine. Yet knowing and understanding were two different things.