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The FBI wasn’t sure why he’d fixated on her—she’d barely arrived on scene before Connors had taken off. Maybe it was because, unlike the community-center workers, who’d been inside the building when he’d started shooting and who he might never have known were there, Chelsie had talked to him. Whatever she’d said must have made an impression. Or maybe it was just because she was the only one he’d known was there whom he hadn’t been able to hit.
Apparently now he’d decided to come back and finish what he’d started. The two community-center workers had been put under protective custody, too, but the locals were handling that. And they’d only found references to Chelsie in Connors’s cell.
“He won’t get anywhere near you,” Scott promised, and he knew there was no way anyone in the car could miss the too-personal conviction in his voice.
Andre’s eyes flicked to him, then away, as the car went briefly, uncomfortably silent.
The silence stretched until finally Chelsie asked, “Where are we going?” Her voice was neutral, but she was trying too hard to sound as though she hadn’t noticed his intensity.
The scent of strawberries faded as she leaned back in her seat, away from him.
“We’re taking you to a safe house,” Andre answered. “There’s a bag for you in back. We had one of the cops who responded to the break-in pack it for you.”
“A female cop,” Scott added, ridiculously bothered by the idea of a male cop pawing through her underwear drawer. An equally ridiculous thought followed—the hope that the cop had packed the underwear set Chelsie had been wearing when they were together. Pale pink and completely, unexpectedly feminine, especially underneath the straight-cut dress pants and loose button-down she’d worn to Shields.
“Okay,” Chelsie said, obviously having no idea about the direction of his thoughts.
But from the way Andre’s lips were quivering, he had an idea. When Scott glanced at his friend, Andre’s eyebrows lifted toward the dome of his shaved head.
Ignoring him, Scott turned onto a random side street, weaving his way leisurely through the neighborhood and keeping an eye on the rearview mirror.
“No one,” Andre said as they came out the other side and Scott made a series of sudden, erratic turns.
They didn’t have a tail. Good. There was no reason to think they’d been followed, but Scott wasn’t taking any chances. Finally, he got back on the freeway and started driving south.
Ironically, the safe house was only fifteen miles from his home, ten miles from the scene of the shooting. It was in the middle of nowhere, an abandoned farmhouse on a flat, empty piece of land that would telegraph anyone’s approach for miles. No good place for a sharpshooter to set up a hide, which was the reason they’d chosen it.
He and Andre had driven over there right after the briefing and set the place up, leaving Andre’s car behind. Then they’d gone back for Chelsie. Good thing they’d been fast because although a message had been left for Chelsie not to leave the office, apparently it hadn’t been delivered.
Hopefully, they’d catch Connors quickly and lock him behind bars again, and Chelsie would be safe. She could go back to her white-collar cases at the WFO and he could go back to pretending he didn’t miss her.
But as she leaned forward again, and he took a deep breath of strawberry—his new favorite scent—Scott revised that thought. Hopefully Connors would stay on the run long enough for Scott to change Chelsie’s mind about giving him another chance.
* * *
THE SAFE HOUSE looked a lot like Scott’s cozy little bungalow.
As soon as Chelsie stepped through the door, she halted, making Scott walk into her. He gripped her arm quickly, before she stumbled, and the feel of his strong fingers wrapped around her elbow sent goose bumps running up her arm. The heat of his body against her back made her want to lean into him and hook her arms around his neck. Instead she jerked forward out of his grasp, and put some distance between them.
Not glancing back, she stepped farther into the house, and tried to cool down. It had been a year! And they’d only spent one night together. An incredible night, but still... How could he still affect her like this?
It was ridiculous. He wasn’t her type at all. She didn’t go for the too-handsome, too-charming playboy types. She dated accountants and engineers, decent looking but not so attractive that every woman in the room stared. They were safe and serious. She picked the ones who didn’t feel threatened by her job because they believed her when she said she sat behind a desk. Guys who wanted more than a little fun and a little fling.
“I’m going to catch a nap.” Andre’s voice broke into her thoughts and she turned to face him. “Scott and I were called in for a case about—” he checked his watch “—eighteen hours ago.”
“Sure, okay,” she said, and silently cursed at how nervous she sounded. Hopefully Andre would think it was just the situation, and not the thought of being alone with Scott.
Scott’s partner nodded at her, his dark brown eyes unreadable as he moved past her toward one of the bedrooms, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a tactical bag hanging from his other hand. He was undeniably attractive, probably in his early thirties and about her height, with smooth, dark skin, and biceps that strained his T-shirt.
As Andre disappeared into the room at the end of the hall, closing the door with a soft thud, Chelsie glanced back to find Scott watching her. He, too, had a duffel bag over one shoulder, and a tactical bag over the other. And, she realized, a small blue duffel bag tucked beside the tactical bag. Her belongings.
She held out a hand for it. “Sorry. I can take that.”
Scott gave her the bag, his fingers brushing hers...on purpose? The same sensitivity rushed up her skin, the feeling of him lingering after he’d stepped back.
“Why don’t you go ahead and settle in?” He tossed the car keys on the table and put his bags down. “I’m going to make a quick phone call and then I want to review the case file.”
Chelsie nodded mutely as her stomach churned. After her testimony at Connors’s trial had concluded, she’d hoped she’d never have to see anything from that horrible day again. Even thinking about the case made the memories rush back, the metallic scent of blood floating on the wind, the heat of the sun beating down on her shoulders, the bang of the rifle as another man fell and nothing she said made any difference.
She turned away from Scott, hoping he wouldn’t see the emotions on her face, and walked down the hallway to another bedroom. Once inside, she shut the door and leaned against it, glancing around as her heart rate slowed. The shades were drawn on the room’s sole window, and she’d keep them that way. The room was simple: a single bed, a nightstand and a dresser, all mismatched. A dusty treadmill sat in the corner with an ancient radio propped on top of it.
She set her duffel on the bed, not bothering to see what the cop had packed for her, and sank down beside it. The springs on the bed sagged too far under her weight as she stared at the blank walls.
The bones of the house really were a lot like Scott’s little bungalow. But Scott’s house had been full of charm and personality. For a guy with a reputation with the women, she’d expected a true bachelor’s pad: leather couches, a big-screen TV and a black bedspread on a king-size bed. Instead, she’d discovered his taste in decorating ran to blues and greens. He had artwork on his walls, family pictures on his tables and his bedroom could only be described as cozy.
She’d been in his house just once. And most of those hours had been spent in his bed. So why could she picture it better than some of her friends’ houses that she’d been to dozens of times?
“I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.” Scott’s voice suddenly carried into her room, loud enough for her to overhear.
He must have gone into the third bedroom, had to be on the phone. With a girlfriend? Was Scott Delacorte actually dating someone seriously enough that she might miss him if he was away for a few days? Heck, for all she knew, he was living with someone.
Chelsie pushed the thought out of her mind. It was none of her business.
Still, she couldn’t help straining to listen as he added, “Keep an eye on her, okay?” He sounded stressed, as though whoever needed looking after was someone he didn’t want to leave alone. As though he wanted to be the one watching over her.
Did he resent being sent to a safe house to watch over Chelsie instead?
Stop it, Chelsie told herself. Scott had given her plenty of opportunities to be with him. She’d been the one to say no. She had no right to be jealous of whoever had his attention now.
But as she heard Scott say goodbye to whoever he’d called, she knew it didn’t matter what she told herself to feel. The truth was, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Scott in the past year. But he wasn’t a real option, just a momentary distraction, and she needed to deal with it. She stood, squared her shoulders, and went to the door, yanking it open.
Scott was standing on the other side, his hand raised as though he’d been about to knock. He slowly lowered his arm as she stared up at him.
And then, before she could move, he’d taken a step forward, until he was standing so close to her that she could see his eyes darken and his pupils expand. And then his head lowered toward hers.
He moved slowly, giving her time to step away, but she couldn’t seem to break his spell. And then she was the one moving toward him, pushing herself up on her tiptoes and threading her fingers in his hair.
His mouth came down hard on hers, his lips urgent and so familiar. She sighed in the back of her throat as she pulled him closer. He wrapped his arms around her, kissing her again and again, until she felt as if she had been transported backward a year.
As if the massacre had never happened. As if she’d gone home with him from Shields—the only truly spontaneous, irresponsible thing she’d ever done—and just stayed. As if this was the beginning of something, instead of long past the end.
The thought brought her abruptly back to reality. She untangled her hands from Scott’s hair and pushed against his chest as he was walking her backward, toward that single bed. She pushed a little harder and his lips left hers.
His gaze was intense, but as he stared at her, all trace of emotion disappeared. He stepped back abruptly, making her stumble, and his lips hooked up at the corner derisively. “Still playing games with me, Chelsie?” His voice seemed to caress her name, but the expression on his face was one of disgust. At her? At himself? She wasn’t sure.
But when he turned and walked out of her room, she didn’t call him back.
Chapter Three (#ulink_ca8677fc-ef10-5dc7-9968-cd588b72a764)
“You want to take a look at this?” Scott asked as Chelsie finally emerged from the bedroom.
He was set up at the old pine table in the kitchen, his laptop in front of him, and the file from the police station in DC open. He didn’t move his gaze from the screen as her footsteps slowly came toward him.
She stopped behind him, leaning over his shoulder, and a strand of soft blond hair brushed his arm before she tucked it away. “What is it?”
Her tone was wary, as if he’d been at fault for what had happened in her room fifteen minutes ago. But there was no way he’d have been able to not kiss her, the way she’d been staring up at him, longing in her big blue eyes.
He didn’t know what her game was. A year ago, she’d been anxious to come home with him. And, okay, she’d made it clear afterward that she wanted nothing more from him. But as soon as he’d seen her in the WFO parking lot, she’d broadcasted her desire like it was a neon sign.
He was only human. And she was the only woman he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind after he’d had her in his bed.
He’d tried hard, though, in the past six months. He’d gone from one fling to the next as though he was going for a record. And he was tired of it. One deep breath of Chelsie’s shampoo and he was right back where he’d been a year ago.
What had he been thinking, volunteering for this gig?
Scott moved to the side, so she could see his screen. A picture from inside her apartment living room filled his monitor.
She gasped and leaned closer. “What is this?”
“The cops who were called to the break-in took them. I asked them to email me the pictures so you could see if anything obvious was missing.” He twisted in his seat so he could look up at her, careful to keep his emotions off his face.
Bent down to scrutinize his computer screen, she was only a few inches away, her knee pressed against his leg. When she turned to him, her face was close to his and her pupils were huge.
He couldn’t help but smile. She wasn’t as immune to him as she wanted him to think.
Chelsie frowned, returning her eyes to the screen. “Not that I can see.”
Scott reached forward and clicked to the next image, this one a picture of her bedroom. The walls were a pale pink, her bedspread a thick, puffy white down, and there was actually a vanity with perfumes and jewelry in the corner. It was unbelievably girly, not at all what he’d expected Chelsie’s bedroom to look like.
Did she actually wear perfume and jewelry? Certainly not at the office, unless he counted the small gold locket she’d been wearing a year ago and had on now, paired with a crisp black blouse and wide-cut gray pants. Was there some lucky guy she actually changed out of her figure-hiding work clothes for, some lucky guy that made her dab on perfume and slip into a slinky dress?
He tried to ignore the thought and asked, “How about here?”
She shuffled her feet and her cheeks went red beneath the curtain of wheat-blond hair. Apparently she didn’t like him peering into her private life, into the apartment where she’d never invited him. “I don’t think so.”
He opened a few more pictures—her kitchen, her bathroom, even inside her closets—but each time, she shook her head.
He shrugged. “Worth a try. The cops didn’t think he messed with anything. The neighbors might have scared him off.”
“Or since I wasn’t home, there was nothing else that interested him,” Chelsie countered.
Scott nodded slowly. “It’s possible.”
Though as a trained marksman, the reality was, Connors could have set up on the roof of the apartment building across the street and waited for her to come home, then picked her off as soon as she got out of her car. Had he chosen to break in instead because he was on the run and couldn’t risk waiting? Or was it because he wanted to do more than just kill her?
Either way, Scott was grateful Connors had made that mistake, because it had forced the Bureau to act, to get Chelsie to safety.
“What are you thinking?” Chelsie asked.
He shook his head, not wanting to scare her. It didn’t matter what Connors was after; he wasn’t going to find it now.
“Scott...” Chelsie fiddled with her locket, avoiding his gaze. “About before...”
“Yeah?”
She scowled, finally looking into his eyes.
She’d probably wanted him to jump in, to say he understood, that it was a mistake, that it wouldn’t happen again. But he wasn’t going to make it so easy. Her feelings about him might be running cold right him now, but he had a feeling she’d swing hot again sooner or later. And when that happened, there was no way he’d be turning her down.
Chelsie flushed, as if she could read his mind, and stammered, “I—I think we need to forget about our history, okay? I’m sure Connors will be caught soon. And then you can get back to whatever you want to be doing right now.”
She didn’t know he’d volunteered to be on her protective custody detail? Instead of telling her, he turned back to his laptop. “Let’s go over the case file from last year.”
“What?” Chelsie jerked backward. “Why?”
He frowned up at her. “Because it might give us something useful.”
“What could it possibly give us?”
Scott narrowed his eyes, taking in the tight line of her lips, the furrow in her forehead, the clenching of her jaw. She didn’t want to see the pictures, he realized suddenly.
He understood it. He didn’t particularly like viewing crime-scene photos himself. But it went with the job. And Chelsie might have switched to white-collar crime, but he knew she’d started in counterterror. She’d probably seen photos of much worse.
Was it because she’d been there? He’d heard part of her testimony at Connors’s trial. He knew she’d tried to talk him down. But she’d arrived on the scene about sixty seconds before he killed everyone except her. Not exactly enough time to establish a connection and start up a dialogue. Not enough time to change his mind, or stall him until HRT could take him down.
As a trained negotiator, she should have known that. There were some personalities who were hell-bent on killing, and no dialogue, no matter how well thought out, could stop it. And this type of killer—a spree shooter—was usually one of them.
Most of them actually planned on dying themselves before the day was done, either by self-inflicted gunshot or “suicide by cop.” Connors might have had that plan in mind, too, but when he’d gotten the chance to run, he’d taken it. And when he’d been caught at a roadblock later that day, rather than lift the rifle lying across his lap, he’d been too cowardly to take his own life. Instead, he’d lifted his hands and stepped slowly out of his car.
“It wasn’t your fault, Chelsie,” Scott said softly.
“Of course not,” she replied, but he could tell she didn’t believe it.
“Is that why you stopped being a negotiator?” He’d known it was the Connors case, but he’d thought it was the reality of having to stand that close to the line of fire and watch people get killed. He’d thought it was the stress of it, the horror of seeing all that bloodshed up close and personal. Until now, he’d never suspected she’d blamed herself for any of it.
“Nothing from that day is going to reveal where Connors is now,” she said, sidestepping his question.
Scott stood and Chelsie moved away from him, looking wary.
“Come on, Chelsie. You can’t blame yourself for Connors’s actions.”
“I don’t,” she snapped, putting a hand up when he moved toward her. “I don’t want to talk about this with you, Scott. And I don’t think reviewing old crime-scene pictures is going to make any difference. There must be a state-wide APB out on Connors. They’ll catch him and we can both go home.”
She turned and hurried to her room before he could reply.
Scott sat back in his seat, staring blankly at his laptop. That was a lot of baggage to carry around—the deaths of nine military officers who’d left behind wives, children and, in one case, grandchildren.
In HRT, Scott had seen too many people die. It came with the job that sometimes by the time they could act, lives had already been lost. But it comforted him to know how many more were saved.
