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  Dean whipped out his phone. Dialed Sarah immediately.

  “He was good,” Emma muttered. “He had the clothes, he had the smell, he had the dirt on him . . . hell, he even acted the crazy part. A man who’d had everything taken from him and was desperate to keep the one thing that mattered.”

  His house.

  “The guy was one fine actor. I’ve seen undercover cops who weren’t as good as that guy. But he didn’t go back for his things. That didn’t fit.” Emma was speaking so quickly. “When we were back at The Mask yesterday, that nagged at me. Especially when we found out that he’d been released from the drunk tank. Why didn’t he go back for his possessions? They were all he had—you don’t abandon what you have. You hold tight to it, no matter what.”

  Sarah answered her phone. “Dean? Is it the woman, Lisa?” He’d called her before and briefed her on the attack. “Did she—”

  “Emma thinks she knows who we are looking for.” And he believed her. Dammit, the bastard had been right there.

  “Stan Tatum,” Emma said quietly. “Though I don’t think that is his real name. I think that’s a name he gave us, maybe even the name of another victim. Get that coat checked.” Her hands were fisted at her sides. “Maybe the blood of his victims is on there. Maybe we can find out if he had Julia . . . because I think he did. I think he’s the bastard that we’re looking for—and he was right in front of us this whole time!”

  The operating-room doors swung open.

  Emma whirled at the sound.

  But one look at the grim expression on the doctor’s face, and Dean knew the news wasn’t good.

  “Dean, Dean, what’s happening?” Sarah demanded in his ear.

  “Call you back.” He shoved the phone into his pocket.

  Emma hurried toward the doctor even as a young guy rushed into the waiting room. A guy with blond hair and worried eyes. A guy carrying a black instrument case.

  “Is Lisa all right?” Emma asked the doctor.

  The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry, we weren’t able to save her.”

  And Emma crumpled. She just—fell right there, sinking to her knees. Dean lunged toward her and wrapped his arms tightly around her.

  “Lisa?” The blond man called behind Dean. “I-I was told my girlfriend was brought in here tonight . . .”

  Emma’s body shook as Dean held her, and he heard her whisper, “It should have been me.”

  HE HEADED BACK into the old house, a place that had stood in New Orleans for easily the last one hundred years. Storms had battered the house, the walls hadn’t crumbled. He ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there. He’d have to get rid of that stubble soon. Clean up.

  Hunt for his prey.

  But first . . .

  He entered the bedroom. Julia was still there. Still alive because quick kills really held no pleasure for him.

  You have to fight to live.

  He hadn’t lied when he’d told the fortune-teller those words. Had she fought hard enough for survival? He doubted it.

  Just as he doubted that Julia would survive.

  She was still on the bed, her eyes closed, but he knew that she was awake. Her body was too stiff for her not to be.

  “It’s almost time,” he told her. “When dawn comes, I’ll take you home.”

  Oh, but that got her eyes open. Her eyelids flew up, and her cracked lips formed one word. “H-home?”

  “Yes. You’ll go home tomorrow.”

  She was trying to smile. That was sweet.

  He leaned over her. Lifted his hand to touch her cheek and realized there was still blood on him. It was dry now. He stared at that blood for a moment. Was that blood from the woman at the square? Or from Julia?

  Didn’t matter.

  He was used to having blood on his hands.

  “If you can get out tomorrow . . .” he told Julia. “Then you’ll be home free.” Because he wouldn’t kill her.

  Not Julia.

  In the end, life or death would be up to her. The way he liked for the choice to be. The way he’d learned that it should be.

  You just have to make it out alive.

  Hope was filling her face. Desperate, wild hope.

  He wouldn’t tell her that his last victim hadn’t made it out alive. Why destroy that wonderful hope so soon?

  She’d realize the truth soon enough.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT,” SARAH SAID AS SHE stared at Emma. “A homeless man attacked your friend? And you think he’s the same man who took Julia?”

  They were in Dean’s hotel room. A high-rise, too-fancy place that made Emma feel uncomfortable. I don’t belong here. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her stomach, and chill bumps covered her arms. “He’s not homeless. He just wanted us to think that he was.” Talk about a great cover. The sneaky bastard. “That’s probably how he got to Julia in the first place. She didn’t think he was a threat, not until it was too late.”

  Dean had his shoulders propped up against the wall, and he was watching her with a too-intent gaze from across the room.

  Wade sat next to Sarah, a little too close. Intimately close.

  I have to start paying attention to everything. I was too rusty. If I’d been paying more attention back at The Mask, Lisa would still be alive.

  She swiped her hand over her cheek when another tear leaked from her eye. “What I don’t understand is . . . why did he get so close to us at The Mask? Why come up and attack unless . . .” She didn’t know. “He was checking us out?” Did that make sense?

  No, no, it didn’t make sense. The guy had taken a needless risk by exposing himself at The Mask.

  She yanked a hand through her hair. “My father wouldn’t have missed this. He would have caught a mistake the guy made. He would have seen right through him.” But she’d been sloppy, and Lisa had paid for that with her life.

  Hell! She’d seen through plenty of undercover cops when she’d been on the streets. She’d been able to take one look and tell if a woman really was a prostitute or if she was working vice. She’d pegged pretend-homeless guys in an instant when they were on stakeouts.

  But I let him fool me. Why?

  Her gaze slid to Dean. Had she been focused on him? On the strange awareness that he stirred in her?

  No, don’t blame him. This is all on you.

  Sarah stood and headed toward Emma. The other woman reached out her hand, perhaps to offer comfort, but then Sarah hesitated, as if not sure what to do next.

  “At least we know what the guy looks like now,” Wade said. He hadn’t moved from his position on the couch. Because they weren’t just in a hotel room—the place was a suite. Giant, overlooking the glittering city below.

  I so don’t belong here. But after finding Lisa, after Lisa’s death . . . she hadn’t wanted to go back to her wrecked apartment.

  But as far as knowing what the guy looked like . . .

  Emma shook her head. “I doubt it. The guy will change his appearance before he comes at us again.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “He wanted us to know it was him—that’s why he left the coat there. Like a taunt. He was right in front of me, and I let him go.” That was going to haunt her forever. I’m so sorry, Lisa.

  “He’s a white male, probably in his late thirties, approximately six-foot-two . . .” Dean began, his voice flat.

  “He wore clothes that were deliberately too big,” Emma said, “to throw us off.” So they wouldn’t have a good indication of his weight. “He’ll probably change his hair color and his eyes—he could’ve even been wearing contacts when we saw him.” Hell, the guy could have even been using some of the costume makeup that was so popular with performers in New Orleans. She’d seen the prosthetic makeup applied to give a person a new nose, to change a jawline. Hell, one performer she knew gave himself horns so that he could look like a demon as he paraded around Bourbon Street.

  With the right tools, a person could become anyone—anything—else.


  Sarah’s body was very tense. “A first-time killer isn’t this organized.”

  Wade swore. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  Emma’s temples were throbbing.

  “He has a plan in place, an MO.” Sarah’s voice had grown thoughtful. “Maybe he warns all of his victims before he comes for them, almost like he’s giving them a fighting chance.”

  Because she was staring right at Dean, Emma saw his eyes widen. As if . . . what? In recognition?

  But he didn’t speak. So Emma went to him. She stared up at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  His gaze met hers.

  “Dean? Do you know something about this man?” He’d better not hold back on her, not with Lisa cold in a morgue.

  But he glanced over at Wade. “You’re heading back to the police station tonight?”

  “Hell, yes, I want to see what the evidence team turns up on the coat. Landry promised to keep me in the loop.”

  Dean nodded. “Call me as soon as you learn anything.”

  Wade stood and made his way to the door. Sarah followed behind him. “I want to talk with the detectives, too. I need to find out if there are more girls like Julia who have gone missing in the last six months.”

  Emma already knew that Sarah thought there were far more victims out there. And Emma’s hope for finding Julia alive? After Lisa’s attack, that hope had faded.

  She’s already been gone too long.

  Dean moved away from the wall, sliding around Emma. He leaned in close to Wade. Emma strained, trying to hear his words.

  “FBI . . . compare the DNA there to my last active case . . .”

  Her shoulders straightened when Wade nodded. The LOST agents were holding out on her. That just pissed her off. Wasn’t she supposed to be working with them?

  But she didn’t speak again until Wade and Sarah were gone. As soon as that door shut, and Dean flipped the lock—

  “I’m the one who made the connection with the killer. I put the puzzle pieces together, and you’re going to hold out on me?” Her words seethed with fury.

  He turned toward her, staying close to the door. So she stalked toward him, and Emma jabbed her index finger into his chest. “We’re working together! You don’t hold out on a partner.” God, but this night had been hell. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Lisa, sitting beneath that umbrella and—

  “You’re not my partner, Emma.”

  The words hurt. They shouldn’t have hurt, but they did.

  “You’re the woman I’m going to be watching fucking twenty-four/seven until this mess is sorted out. You called yourself the bait before, and you were right. This asshole took out your friend. He left a message in your apartment. Hell, yes, I think he’s coming for you.” Then he was the one to grab tightly to her arms and pull her up against him. Her toes skimmed over the floor. “And I’ll be damned if I let him hurt you. I won’t find you, covered in blood, the way—”

  “Lisa was?” Emma whispered as pain rose within her once more. The pain seemed to choke her. Poor Nate had been devastated at the hospital. He’d kept saying, “She’s coming to my set. You’re wrong . . . she’s coming to my set.” As if the doctors were talking about the wrong woman.

  “Like Lisa and too many others.” His eyes blazed with emotion. “Too damn many others.” His hands tightened around her, nearly bruising with their strength. “And you can’t be next.”

  He sounded as if he cared. How sweet. But what a lie. He’d just met her. She was a pawn to him. She was a pawn to nearly everyone—the story of her life.

  But Lisa, Lisa had mattered. She had a family that was grieving her. A boyfriend who’d lost it at the hospital.

  Because of me. “I should have been at the square.”

  He shook his head.

  “I should have been at that booth. He probably came looking for me. She didn’t recognize him. She was caught in my place. It was my fault—”

  He shook her then, hard enough for her head to whip back. “No.”

  Yes. “I would have fought. She didn’t have the chance. She died when I should have—”

  “No!” A low, dangerous snarl, and suddenly his mouth was on hers. Her body was plastered against his. She had tears on her cheeks because the pain of Lisa’s death was eating her alive, and her emotions were flying all over the place. She was out of control, no going back, and he was kissing her.

  Emma opened her mouth wider. She kissed him harder, wilder because the pain inside had to stop. It was too much. The pain and the grief were tearing her apart. It was just like before, when her father had died, when he’d died to protect her because she hadn’t been careful enough.

  For me, for me . . . when I didn’t deserve it!

  She could taste the salt of her own tears, and she hated that. Emma only wanted to taste him. Her body crushed to his. Their clothes were in the way. She needed him, skin to skin, needed the rush of pleasure to take the torment away.

  Before she lost her mind.

  His hands curled around her hips, and he lifted her up, holding her easily. Her legs wrapped around him, and Emma kept kissing him. Her heart was thundering in her ears, the beat far too loud and hard, and she didn’t care.

  He carried her to his bedroom. Her mouth slid from his, and she lifted her head when he lowered her onto the bed. The room was dark around her, but the blinds were open in there, letting the lights of the city spill inside.

  He stood at the edge of the bed, watching her. He was a dark and dangerous shadow, and she needed him to touch her.

  She needed him to make her forget.

  “This isn’t about forever,” Emma said as she rose to her knees on that bed. She stripped off her T-shirt. Tossed away her bra. “This is about tonight. Just you and me.” And because she wanted to be honest with him, Emma confessed, “I’m using you.”

  He came forward. His hand reached out, and his fingers curled over one taut nipple. The touch electrified her, and Emma gasped as liquid heat shot right to her sex.

  “Maybe I’m using you, too,” he told her, voice gruff. “You need to tell me to back away.”

  Adrenaline and pain were driving them both. Dangerous, so dangerous, she knew that, but Emma whispered, “I need you to fuck me.” Not back away. She couldn’t take it if he backed away then. Not when she had to have him.

  The pain was too much. Drowning her. She had to take more—had to know more than the sorrow.

  She had to take him.

  His hand slid away from her breast. His fingers rose, and he started jerking at the buttons on that fancy shirt. Emma nearly stopped breathing then. Hurry, hurry. The chant was in her head. Desire was tight inside her, a need that had to be satisfied. Sex. Rough. Hard. Something to make her feel—feel anything but the guilt and the pain.

  He threw the shirt to the floor. Ditched his shoes and socks. Then his pants and underwear. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she could see his outline as he stripped, and Emma could hear the faint rustle of his clothing as it hit the floor.

  “I want you naked.” His voice was a low growl that rolled over her.

  She lay back on the bed. Kicked away her shoes and arched her hips when she pushed the jeans down her body.

  He caught the jeans, jerked, and had them off her.

  Her breathing seemed too loud in the darkness. And Dean—he wasn’t touching her. Just standing at the edge of the bed, watching.

  “What are you waiting for?” Emma asked him, her own voice far too husky as desire surged. Her whole body was bow-tight. So ready.

  “I should let you go.”

  What?

  “But I can’t. I tried . . . I can’t.” Then he caught her ankle and pulled her to the edge of the bed in a rough, sexy move that she hadn’t expected. Not from the controlled Dean.

  Her thighs spread, and he sank to his knees. Then he—

  “Dean!”

  He put his mouth on her sex. No foreplay. No games. He just put his mout
h on her, and he tasted. Licking and kissing, and her body jerked—not to get away from him but to get closer. Her fingers sank into the thickness of his hair, and she cried out when the first wave of pleasure hit her. A wave that was rough and wild and just what she needed.

  “More . . .” Her whisper.

  And he was rising. Running his hands all over her body. Learning all the spots that made her gasp and quiver, and the pleasure was all she knew. The passion. His mouth closed over her breast. He sucked her nipple, and her hips slammed toward him. Emma could feel the long, hard length of his cock, and she wanted him inside her. That cock was sliding over the sensitive folds of her sex, a sex still quivering from her release, but he wasn’t thrusting in her yet. She needed him inside.

  She felt the score of his teeth on her body, and her nails sank into him. He growled then, and the animalistic sound was perfect. Greedy, demanding, just the way she felt. “I want . . .” Emma gasped out her words. “To taste you . . . too . . .”

  “No, baby, first . . . you said you wanted to be fucked . . .”

  The words were a rumble in the darkness, and the sensual promise made her even wetter. She hadn’t expected her buttoned-down agent to be like this—

  He pulled away from her.

  “No!” Emma cried out.

  But he was reaching into the nightstand drawer. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. He was getting a condom. Sliding it on the long length of his cock.

  She reached for him, and her fingers smoothed over his cock. “I could have done that.” He was so thick beneath her touch. Long. Hard. Hot.

  “Don’t push too far . . .”

  Oh, she’d push as far as she wanted. He was standing near the bed again, and Emma let her fingers slide up and over his chest. There was a rough ridge of scars near his heart. Her fingers lingered there, lightly tracing those scars. Such a severe wound. What had happened to him? Her head bent. Her mouth feathered over those marks.

  “Emma . . .”

  Then her mouth was on his nipple. She licked him, sucked that little nub, and gave him the same sensual torment that he’d just given her.

  But then she found herself tumbling back on the bed, with Dean on top of her. He caught her hands, pinned them to the mattress, and his cock pushed between her legs.