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Wariness and fear battled in her gaze. “Help you do what, Agent Corwin?”
He drew in another breath. “Help us catch him.”
She shouldn’t have let them in. She shouldn’t be making coffee for them, shouldn’t allow them to sit in her living room as if they belonged there, as if what they had to say was of any interest to her.
Sam stood at the cedar work island in the middle of the spacious country kitchen, hands trembling as she reached for the handle of the coffee urn. As she poured the hot coffee into one of the mugs she’d grabbed from the cabinet, it spilled over the rim and splashed onto the counter. She watched the brown liquid soak into the wood.
God, when she’d looked out the window and seen those two men charging up her driveway…her heart had nearly stopped beating.
And then when they’d uttered her name—her real name—the fear had tripled. Nobody was supposed to know where she was, just the people sworn to protect her.
She shot a glance through the open doorway at the two men on her beige sofa, then stifled a sigh. FBI. That did make them her protectors. She guessed. But the desperation she’d seen in their eyes once she’d opened that door told her this visit wasn’t about keeping her out of harm’s way.
It was the exact opposite.
She wiped up the coffee stain as best as she could, then quickly filled the other mugs, set them on a tray and walked into the living room.
“Thank you,” said the blond-haired man as she handed him a cup. Rick Scott, he’d said his name was. He looked pleasant enough, his smile genuine, but it was the other man who captured Sam’s attention.
Tall, dark and handsome—a cliché, but one that suited him oh so well. Hair the color of rich chocolate, probably in need of a haircut, since it fell onto his forehead whenever he moved his head. But the scruffy look fit him, made his black trousers, white button-down shirt and sports coat seem less conservative—it gave him an edge. His eyes were a deep whiskey color, but when she looked closer, she could see the flecks of amber around his pupils.
Sinking into the armchair farthest from the sofa, she watched as Blake Corwin reached for his coffee. Even in his sports coat, she could tell that his arms were powerful, muscled. His wide chest and broad shoulders exuded the same power. Even though he was a complete stranger, his big strong body and intense brown eyes made her feel—for the moment—protected.
And…aroused?
No, impossible.
Leaning back in the chair, she would’ve liked to analyze her odd reaction further, that little flicker of heat that sparked in her belly at the sight of him, but Rick Scott spoke before she could do that.
“We apologize for showing up like this,” he said, his voice gentle and soothing, giving Sam the sense that he had a lot of practice talking to victims.
Victim. The word loitered in her brain like a stray dog looking for scraps. Was that what she was? A victim? Swallowing back the acid creeping up her throat, she resisted the urge to shake her head. No, not a victim. A survivor.
“But we’re running out of time,” Blake Corwin finished.
She liked his voice. Not as gentle as his partner’s, it had a husky, almost raspy quality to it. Sexy, most women would probably say.
Blake set down his mug on the small cedar coffee table and directed that intense gaze at her. “He grabbed a woman named Elaine Woodman from her office in downtown Chicago. It was one-thirty in the afternoon, and no one saw a thing.”
Sam fingered the long white scar on the inside of her wrist, disturbed by what he’d said. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? For him, anyway.”
He nodded. “The others were attacked in their homes, always at night. We’re not sure why he just changed his MO like that.”
“And she survived the attack?” She rubbed the scar, its texture jagged and bumpy under the pad of her thumb.
“Miraculously,” Blake answered. His expression grew somber. “He left her in an abandoned warehouse, probably assuming she’d bleed to death. But he underestimated Elaine. Somehow she managed to crawl out and drag herself onto the street. A jogger found her and called 9-1-1.”
“She lost so much blood that the doctors were surprised she managed to recover,” Rick added.
Sam stopped toying with the scar, clasped her hands on her waist and bit her lower lip. Why were they telling her this? Didn’t they care what it was doing to her? When she’d first seen them on her doorstep, she’d assumed they’d come to take yet another statement from her. That’s why she’d been antagonistic, why her guard had shot up. Because the idea of telling her gruesome story even one more time was about as appealing as eating dirt. But no, they were here to tell her about another woman’s horror, which was equally upsetting, if not more so.
Leaning forward, she fumbled for her coffee, gripped the mug between fingers that had suddenly grown icier than the air outside. A puff of steam rose from the cup and moistened the tip of her nose.
After taking a brief sip, she focused her gaze on the two men again. “I’m glad she’s all right,” she finally said, not quite sure why her voice sounded so cold.
“She’s not all right,” Blake corrected, his eyes meeting hers and holding. “Physically, yes, she’s recovering, but—”
The loud ring of the telephone cut him off, but Sam made no move to reach for the cordless phone sitting on the table. Both agents watched her expectantly, waiting, but they sat motionless. It was only when the answering machine switched on that she acted.
“Lori, it’s Virginia. I don’t mean to frighten you, but I saw a strange car pulling into your driveway, and I just wanted to make sure—”
Sam clicked the “on” button and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi, Virginia, sorry, I didn’t make it to the phone in time.”
The relief in her elderly neighbor’s voice was unmistakable. “Is everything all right, Lori? I saw an unfamiliar car and I was scared it might be burglars.”
Considering that the town of Wellstock boasted a crime rate of zero, Sam managed a chuckle. “No need to worry, Ginny. I’m fine. Some friends of mine just came to visit, that’s all.”
“Oh, good. You know I don’t like knowing you’re out there in that big house all by yourself.”
“Don’t worry, I’m all right. But thanks for calling.”
Sam said goodbye and hung up, then turned to her visitors. “My neighbor,” she explained.
Neither man commented on the fact that she’d been screening her calls. These days the phone didn’t ring much, but when it did, she never picked up until she heard a familiar voice on the machine. Not until she was absolutely certain that whoever was on the other end couldn’t hurt her. But no matter how recognizable the voice, she still experienced a tremor of fear each time she heard the name Lori Kendall.
God, she wished she could be Lori Kendall. Lori was a writer from Chicago who’d moved out to this farmhouse because she was tired of urban life. She was working on a new novel about the love affair between a Nazi soldier and a Jewish peasant in war-torn Germany, and she was so wrapped up in her work that she never went into town or struck up friendships with the Wellstock residents. But they all understood because writers, after all, were a strange breed.
Sam didn’t know if the cover story made her feel like laughing or crying. The life the Bureau had given her was so different from the one she’d led before the attack, but it was a life she now wished she’d chosen for herself. Lori, the writer, would never have encountered a flesh-and-blood killer, only the ones she wrote about in her books.
But she wasn’t really Lori, was she? No, she was Samantha Dawson, and the alias she’d received from the Witness Protection Program was just another reminder of the danger she still faced. Would probably always face, as long as the man who’d hurt her was on the loose.
Crossing her legs, Sam raked her fingers through her long hair and sighed. “Where were we? Right, his latest victim.”
She sounded cold again, even a little indifferent, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want these men knowing that everything about this visit scared the crap out of her. She didn’t want them to know that talking and hearing about another woman being attacked in the same way paralyzed her with fear. Better to let them think she didn’t care, that she was over it, so far past it she didn’t give a damn anymore.
“Elaine Woodman is in bad shape,” Blake said, the determination in his eyes giving way to weariness. “She refuses to talk about what happened to her, and we know she’s holding back details that could break this investigation. She’s too scared, won’t trust anyone to help her. It’s almost as if she thinks that as long as she pretends it didn’t happen, it will all go away.”
Sam stared at the agent, amazed by his cavalier tone. A slow and steady rush of anger coiled in the pit of her stomach and spiraled up her chest until all she could do was snap, “Of course she’s scared. She’s goddamn terrified!”
Slamming her cup on the table, she jumped out of her chair and took two steps toward Blake Corwin. “You actually blame her for that?” she demanded, her body simmering with rage. “For wanting to forget what happened? Well, she has every right to forget. She has every right not to want to talk to a bunch of egomaniacal shrinks and overeager cops who don’t give a damn about her. You think she wants to spill her guts to a complete stranger and relive every sickening thing that man did to her? Of course she doesn’t.”
Sam snapped her mouth shut and strode toward the window on stiff legs, gluing her gaze to the barren front yard. She couldn’t believe the nerve of these men, looking like a couple of wounded children over the “annoying” notion that a woman who’d nearly died refused to talk to them. Jerks. Insensitive jerks.
Anger continued to swirl inside her, but it was surprisingly welcome. For the first time in months she was experiencing something that wasn’t fear or pain or self-pity. She wondered if it might have helped to be angry all those months ago, if maybe letting out her fury over what happened to her could’ve helped her heal faster.
As it was now, she didn’t feel healed or cured or even convinced in the slightest that she could ever get over this.
But the anger helped. Just a little.
“That’s why we came to see you.”
Blake’s voice remained steady, entirely unaffected by her incensed words. She turned around slowly and let their gazes connect again. Searched his magnetic eyes and found nothing more than that cool, calm and collected glint.
Never breaking eye contact, he clasped his hands on his lap and added, “We want you to see Elaine Woodman. We want you to break her silence.”
Chapter 2
The guard she’d briefly let down snapped back up. With methodical steps, Sam walked back to the armchair and sank into it. “You want me to see her?” The words squeaked out slowly, laced with disbelief rushing through her veins.
Blake simply nodded.
“Why?” was all she asked.
“Because you know better than anyone what Elaine is going through,” Blake said matter-of-factly. He leaned forward, causing the material of his jacket to stretch over his broad shoulders.
This time she couldn’t deny the spark of attraction she felt at the sight of his powerful muscles constricting against his shirt. He was a sexy man. A very sexy man. Yet even admitting the obvious seemed inappropriate under these circumstances, after the bomb he’d just dropped in her lap.
She forced her gaze away from his chest, set her jaw and waited for him to continue.
“Elaine needs to feel safe when she finally decides to talk about her experience.”
A low, bitter laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “Safe? You think she’ll ever really feel safe?”
For the first time since he’d shown up at her door, Blake’s features softened. The sympathy in his gaze reached out and touched her like the caress of a warm hand on her cheek. Ordinarily, she would have grown defensive, sickened by the sympathy, the pity. But strangely enough, the soft understanding in his dark eyes only eased her nerves.
“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think she’ll ever feel safe, not for a long time at least. But while this guy is still out on the streets, none of the women in Chicago will be safe, either.”
“Why are you so sure Elaine Woodman can give you some information you don’t already have?” She didn’t mean to pose a challenge, yet somehow it came out that way.
“Because she’s different,” Blake replied without hesitation. “He took her in broad daylight and dumped her on the other side of the city, which means he had to have means of transporting her there. He didn’t do that with any of the other victims.”
“Elaine can provide us with details that might help us stop him once and for all,” Rick added. “The kind of car he drives, any places he might have stopped at before dumping her.”
“But she won’t talk,” Sam said grimly.
“Not to us.” Blake paused, watching her. “But she might talk to you.”
She took a breath, suddenly feeling torn. If this were just about her, about her own pain and suffering, she might’ve been able to say no, tell them to leave her alone and to hell with their investigation. But it wasn’t just about her. There was another woman involved. Another survivor.
Her mind flashed back to the first day after the attack. She’d been lying in that hospital bed, staring at the dull white walls, unwilling to let anyone catch a glimpse of what she’d gone through. Even her brother, Beau, her only living relative, hadn’t been able to penetrate the iron shield she’d erected around herself.
For days she’d lain motionless in bed, trying to forget, trying to trick herself into believing that such an unthinkably heinous act hadn’t happened to her, not to her. And if it weren’t for a kindhearted cop named Annette Hanson, she might have drowned in her own pain. Annette had helped her, drawn her out of the shell of self-preservation she’d hidden within, and though it was months before she’d been ready to live her life again, she knew she’d never be able to repay Annette for what she’d done.
Could she really let another woman drown the way she almost had?
Helping Elaine Woodman would no doubt bring back a rush of terrifying memories that Sam desperately wanted to forget, but would it be worth it, knowing she’d contributed to Elaine’s healing process?
Drawing in a long breath, she eyed the men in front of her. “I…I’m going to need some time to think about it.”
“There isn’t any time.” Blake knew his voice sounded harsh, but it needed to be said. The longer Elaine Woodman kept quiet, the greater the danger and the longer this killer had to find himself another victim.
He didn’t blame Samantha for being uncertain. Hell, he’d read her file, seen photos of what that bastard had done to her. The woman had been hovering between life and death before the paramedics had shown up. How she’d managed to call the police, especially in her condition, still amazed him. All he knew was that Samantha Dawson possessed a strength that most people only wished they had.
His heart squeezed as he remembered another woman who’d exuded that same strength. Kate Manning, the woman whose death had caused him to dive headfirst into this case and push himself to the point of exhaustion simply to keep the memories at bay.
Not that it was helping. The memories continued to assault his mind anyway. It seemed as if everything and everyone reminded him of Kate, and, not for the first time, he wondered if maybe the Bureau shrink was right. Maybe there was no distraction great enough to make him forget.
He clenched his fists at the ominous notion. Lord, he couldn’t do this now, couldn’t think of Kate or that damn shrink. Not now. So he forcibly shoved the unwelcome thoughts from his head and tried to focus on the woman in front of him.
She seemed so cool, so controlled. He saw it in the way she sat, with her hands loosely draped over her lap. The way she spoke in that calm, even voice. The way she looked at him with those unwavering gray eyes. It seriously impressed him, but it didn’t totally convince him, either. The little ragged breaths and the way her shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly at every sound told him that she was still terrified.
“If you’re worried about your own safety,” Rick said, “I can assure you we’ll take every precaution to keep you protected.”
With a chuckle, she muttered, “Right, because I’m supposed to be dead. Wonder how I overlooked that little tidbit?” She focused those haunting eyes on Blake. “How do you plan on taking me into the city without being recognized?”
If Rick was insulted by her intense focus on his partner, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned back and let Blake field that question.
“We’ll do whatever it takes,” he said roughly, inwardly wondering why her impenetrable gaze made his palms grow damp. “We’ll get you a disguise, bring you into the hospital after visiting hours, anything to protect your identity.”
“My face will still be familiar—to most men, at least.”
Her tone was dry, almost comical, and Blake fought the tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your face is probably not as recognizable as you think.”
The comment, with its slightly lewd undertones, did not seem to faze her. Instead, she just nodded. “Quite true, Agent Corwin. But I’m not sure I’m willing to take that chance.”
They’d reached an impasse. Blake knew that pushing her any further would only make her less likely to cooperate. Helping them had to be her choice. The ball was in her court now.
Blake exchanged a glance with Rick before rising from the sofa. “All right, we’ll give you some time to think about this then,” he said. “But don’t take too long.”
She offered an odd little smile. “Time is of the essence, right?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He reached into his pocket and removed his card and a pen. He scribbled down both his and Rick’s cell numbers, then handed it to her. She seemed to make an effort not to let their fingers brush as she accepted the card, and, for some reason, that bothered him a little.
“Just give us a call when you’ve made up your mind. But if we haven’t heard from you by tomorrow afternoon, we’ll need to get back to Chicago and explore other avenues.”
The two men said their goodbyes and headed for the door. Samantha followed them, shotgun again in hand. After they’d stepped onto the porch, Blake heard all the various locks and safety mechanisms being clicked back into place.
As they descended the steps, Rick shot him a questioning look. “You think she’ll help us?”
The snow crunching under his boots, Blake simply nodded. “Yes, I think she will.”
“You really don’t need to worry,” Sam told her brother over the phone an hour after Blake and Rick had left the farmhouse.
She settled onto the couch and tucked her knees under her, then reached to flick on the lamp sitting on the end table. The late-afternoon sun was beginning to set and the absence of light streaming in from the windows made her muscles tense. Soon the sun would disappear altogether, leaving nothing but an inky black sky and menacing shadows.
She’d already turned on the main light. It bathed the room in a pale-yellow glow, but she didn’t feel at ease unless every light in the house was on, too.
