Profile for Seduction Page 10

  Was that jealousy coloring his voice? Nah, most likely he was as tired as she. “Who knows? If it was Feiney, then he knows we’re here and that we’re playing his game. Just in case, I’ll wait.”

  “And I’ll circulate.” Marc moved away again, blending back into the crush of people.

  A headache blooming behind one eye, she felt that the music seemed louder and more annoying, the air smokier and more difficult to breathe. The longer she sat, pretending to sip her unwanted drink, the harder it was to force a smile.

  Though she waited at least twenty minutes and had to brush off three guys, one of them so drunk she had to signal for the bouncer, the guy in the blue shirt never returned to claim his thanks for the drink.

  Every instinct told her it had been Feiney.

  Later that evening, the headline band took the small stage and began to play. Lea stood and stretched, the headache beginning to throb. Stifling a yawn, she looked around for Marc. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold on here.

  “Any sign of him?” Marc appeared at her elbow.

  “Not a one.”

  He nodded. “Ready to go?”

  “Definitely.”

  Side by side, not touching, they began making their way through the press of bodies, aiming for the door that led to the parking lot. On the way, a man with a linebacker’s build bumped Lea, splashing his drink on her arm. She jumped back, but not quickly enough to keep from getting wet.

  Great. Now she smelled like she’d taken a bath in beer.

  “There you are,” the chubby cowboy slurred. “I’ve got something for you.”

  As he began fumbling in his pocket, Marc moved between them and grabbed his arm.

  “Easy there,” the guy protested, squinting up at Marc. “This don’t concern you. I’ve got somethin’ for the lady.”

  “Are you reaching for a weapon?” Marc’s tone sounded stern, using what Lea privately thought of as his law-enforcement voice.

  The guy’s bloodshot eyes widened. “Jeez, no. That would be illegal. I’m just delivering a message.”

  Finally, he pulled a slip of paper from his jean pocket. Squinting, he uncrumpled it and then he waved it triumphantly in the air, leaning around Marc to peer at Lea and nearly falling.

  “Here you go.” He held out the paper.

  Marc snatched it as the man tried to pass it to Lea. “Who’s this from?”

  Weaving slightly, the cowboy turned to squint at the bar. “Guy over there. He’s been sitting next to me most of the night. He must have left when I went to the can. Danged if I can find him now.”

  “What was he wearing?” Lea asked urgently. “Do you remember?”

  “Remember? Like I’d forget that.” The linebacker snickered. “Dude was wearing a really loud blue shirt. It practically glowed. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

  Blue shirt. The same guy who’d sent her a drink. Coincidence? Lea doubted it.

  “Go on about your business, now.” Marc motioned him away.

  Rather than moving, the huge man stood his ground, frowning. “Are you a cop? Cuz you sure sound like a cop.”

  “Go.” At the warning look Marc gave him, the inebriated man shook his head and stumbled away.

  “Let me have the note.” Lea held out her hand.

  Still frowning, Marc passed the paper to her. “Wait until we’re in the car.”

  She dug in her heels. “What if he’s still here and wants to meet?”

  “He’s not.”

  “You don’t know that.” Scanning the crowd again, she studied anyone wearing blue. “Though I admit I don’t see him.”

  “He’s gone.” Though Marc waited with every appearance of patience, the tenseness in his shoulders and the clenched set of his jaw told her it was an act.

  Startled, she looked away. When had she become an expert at reading Marc Kenyon?

  Slowly, she opened the note.

  Nice outfit was all it said. The two words were enough to make her want to swear.

  “Here.” Passing it to Marc, hoping her hand didn’t shake, she checked out the crowd once again.

  He read the note slowly. “Nice outfit? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Feiney just wants to let us know he was here. Was being the operative word.” She grabbed Marc’s arm. “He’s not careless, but let’s go ahead and make one more thorough check of the room, just in case. He could be disguised.”

  Beside each other, they moved through the room, inspecting with a casual carefulness each person. Most patrons, busy drinking and socializing, barely noticed them. A few gave them curious looks, a couple of obviously inebriated people grinned, but Marc and Lea saw no one who resembled Feiney.

  Finally, when they reached the last table before the door, she turned to Marc, ready to concede defeat.

  “You’re right. He’s gone.” The headache had intensified with every step and now the smoky air made her feel ill. “Let’s get out of here.”

  With a tight smile, he nodded. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

  Once outside, she breathed in big gulps of clear, unpolluted air.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I’ll feel better the longer I’m out of there.”

  The ride home went faster now that there was less traffic. Bone weary, Lea stared straight ahead, wishing she could stop being so überconscious of the man beside her. For his part, Marc fell into silence, apparently disinclined to discuss the singular failure of the evening, which faintly bothered her.

  Feiney had contacted her. She hoped. While the note might have been from some random guy commenting on her clothes, she had to believe it was Feiney.

  And that he would contact her again.

  Forcing herself to relax into her seat, she thought back over the night. Though she found the entire bar scene repellent, the night had been unsettling in more ways than one. Oddly enough, even more than the note potentially from Feiney, what really disturbed her was the slow dance with Marc.

  His kiss had made her curious, but being held in his arms made her hunger. He’d felt rugged and manly and sexy as hell. Her libido, something she’d actually believed had permanently vanished, had come back with a vengeance.

  Glancing sideways at him while he drove, she wondered if she affected him the same way. She couldn’t stop thinking about how wonderfully solid his muscular body had felt. Desire coiled in her gut, making her want to grab him and kiss him senseless.

  As if she’d ever do such a thing. She sighed. Maybe she really did just need to get laid.

  The sooner the better.

  Finally, they turned into her apartment parking lot. One of the pole lamps was dark, probably from a burned-out bulb.

  Walking next to him, she stifled the urge to take Marc’s hand. He glanced over at her and, catching her staring, gave her a slow, friendly smile. “Are you all right?”

  From somewhere, she found her voice. “I think so.” What she wanted to say stuck in her throat. She wanted to invite him to share her bed. Pure foolishness. Yet the thought, once in her head, wouldn’t go away.

  Climbing the outside stairs, she caught a whiff of herself and grimaced. She hated that she smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat and alcohol. She didn’t understand why some women craved being at the bars night after night. Whether they went for the noise or excitement, the music or solely to meet the wrong kind of men, it wasn’t her scene. She detested the entire atmosphere, other than the music. Although she liked to dance, she didn’t enjoy the crowds of perspiring bodies. Breathing air stale with cigarette smoke and whiskey made her head hurt, and she preferred high heels over Western boots.

  Still, she’d do what she had to if it meant catching Feiney. But it seemed he was more interested in stretching out his twisted little game.

  As they neared the landing at the top of the stairs, Marc took one look at her face and shook his head. “Hey, at least we accomplished something. Feine
y knows we were out there.”

  “If the note really was from him.”

  “Oh, it was. I have no doubt.”

  And he’d recognized her. Of course he’d recognized her. Dangerous, yet necessary.

  “It’s been too long since he made actual contact,” she complained. “This note crap is just a stupid diversion. We haven’t heard a peep from him since he captured those girls and dumped the one body.”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s slow going right now but we did establish contact, even if it was only a note. I think—Lea, don’t move.”

  The front door of her apartment was propped open.

  “Wait here.” Marc pushed her to the side and drew his weapon. He kicked the door all the way open. “FBI,” he announced.

  “I’ve got your back.” Drawing her own gun, Lea motioned him in. Like hell was she going to wait like an unarmed civie while he scoped out her home.

  Chapter 8

  The living room appeared untouched. She paused a moment to take stock of her belongings. Flat-screen HD TV, Blu-ray player, Bose stereo—all untouched. It almost appeared as though she’d left her door open by accident, when she knew she’d closed and locked it.

  Someone had been in her apartment. She could hazard a guess who. A chill skittered across her skin. If Feiney had been inside, he’d come for a purpose. Now all she had to do was locate the message. She hoped it wasn’t anything as gory as the severed hand he’d left in Marc’s fridge.

  “Feiney?” Marc asked, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

  Not willing to trust her tongue to speak, she settled for a nod instead.

  “Let’s keep looking then.” Marc’s grim tone told her that he, too, understood.

  Keeping the search slow, they methodically checked everything in the room. Next stop, the kitchen. Like the living room, the kitchen looked the same as always. All the appliances were still in their familiar places.

  “Anything missing?” Marc asked, his eyes dark with worry.

  “Not so far. It’s like we imagined the open door.”

  “You know we didn’t.”

  “Yes. And you know he never takes anything, only leaves something. I wonder if he arranged for us to be gone,” she said.

  “I didn’t think of that, but I bet you’re right. Feiney arranged the false sighting, before knowing we’d head out there.”

  “Yep. He was making a distraction so he could break into my apartment.”

  “Now all we need to do is find his little gift. Let’s see if it’s in here.” As he spoke, he pulled open the refrigerator door and peered inside. A moment later, he did the same with the freezer. When he faced her again, he shook his head. “Nothing. I guess that was too much to hope for.”

  “Yeah. Feiney’s nothing if not original. So it’s somewhere else.”

  Dread pooling in the pit of her stomach, she forced herself to take a step and looked around. “We haven’t checked the bedroom yet.”

  Even as she spoke, she couldn’t make her feet head in that direction. Partly because she knew in her heart of hearts that’s where Feiney would have left his message. In her bedroom, the most personal room in the apartment. Of course.

  The familiar frustration began to fill her, making her long to go for a run. She tamped it down, wanting to save her energy now.

  “I’ll go look.” Marc headed down the hall.

  “Wait up.” No way was he checking without her. After all, the message—whatever it might be—would be meant for her.

  “Crap.” He stopped short in her doorway and she nearly ran into him.

  “Let me see.” She shouldered him aside.

  As he made room for her to stand beside him, she finally saw Feiney’s gift. A huge blow-up doll, wearing Western jeans and boots and a cowboy hat, had been propped up on her bed. The doll, her comforter and pillows were all covered in daisies, with blood trailed like syrup over everything.

  “At least it’s not another body part,” Marc deadpanned.

  “Yeah.” She walked around the bed, inspecting it from both sides. Again her hatred of Feiney began to flare and this time she allowed it, knowing this would sharpen her mind.

  “Whose blood?” she wondered out loud. “I sure as hell hope it doesn’t belong to that poor girl.”

  “The CSI people can figure that out.” Cell phone already out, Marc called it in.

  The worst part was not knowing. The lab could take weeks getting them the needed results.

  “I’ll get them to rush this up,” Marc said, almost as if he read her mind. “The missing girl’s life might depend on that.”

  “Good. Let’s get out of here so we don’t disturb the evidence. One wrong footstep and Forensics will be all over us.”

  They went to the living room to wait. Lea couldn’t stop rubbing her arms. She literally felt as though her skin was crawling.

  “I swear,” she said out loud, “if I could put my hands around Feiney’s throat right now…”

  She didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to. Marc’s expression told her he completely understood.

  Later, when the crime-scene technicians had finished, and the CSI team had just about finished peppering her with questions she couldn’t answer, her boss Stan showed up.

  “Are you ready for that safe house now?” he asked by way of greeting, his expression carefully blank.

  Unwilling to let him see the sorrow his words caused, she turned her head and gave him a long, arresting look. “No. There’s no need.”

  “No need?” he repeated. “A crazed serial killer has just broken into your home, left you a gory message of what he intends to do to you and you can’t see a need to protect yourself?”

  Refusing to let him bait her, she crossed her arms and said nothing.

  After a moment, he looked away and shrugged. “You need to understand. I can’t guarantee your protection. We’re trying like hell to catch this guy, and we’ll be watching the place, of course, but still…” He let his words trail off.

  Glancing at him again, for the first time ever, she read genuine concern in his brown eyes. He’d come because he was seriously worried. Nothing more, nothing less. She supposed she should be grateful but, in light of everything else, that too pissed her off irrationally.

  Breathing deep, she again pushed her roiling emotions under the surface. Attempting a smile would be more than she could muster, but she slung her arm around Stan’s narrow shoulders, shocking the hell out of him.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, gesturing at Marc. “I’ve got twenty-four-hour protection these days. He’ll watch over me.”

  To his credit, Stan didn’t even blink. “Kenyon? What are you talking about? You were serious about you two being, er, friends?”

  “Yep. I even let him move in.”

  Stan’s face went beet-red. Jaw tight, he jerked his head in a nod and turned away. Moving to where Marc and the rest of the team were discussing this latest development, he took Marc’s arm and motioned him outside, no doubt to lecture him about his responsibilities as a sheriff regarding a special agent who was out on medical leave due to emotional trauma.

  This actually made her want to laugh. So much so that she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from cracking a smile. Thanks to Stan, the tension delivered courtesy of Feiney had finally been broken.

  She could just make out Stan’s steady drone outside and she let herself smile a little. She could imagine what crap her boss would be laying on poor Marc. Hopefully this would break the tension for him, too.

  Once he got over his initial shock, she knew Marc would appreciate the jolt back to reality.

  Now watching the rest of the team pack their gear and prepare to leave, she checked her bed and saw they’d left the doll. Since there were bloodstains on her linens, the crime-scene guys had bagged her comforter and sheets. But they’d ignored the damn doll, leaving it on the floor on a white paper sheet.

  “Excuse me?” She jerked her thumb toward the bedroom. “
You’re forgetting something.”

  The technician raised a brow. “What?”

  “The blow-up doll. Feiney’s present. Aren’t you going to take it with you?” she asked, hooking her thumbs in the pockets of her jeans and affecting a bored, indifferent tone, as if she didn’t care.

  “Nah,” Guillermo Romero replied, straight-faced. “We figure Marc might need it on one of his long, lonely nights spent here with you.”

  She stared back for the space of one heartbeat, then two, before Romero burst out laughing.

  “Gotcha,” he said, grinning. “As if you didn’t know. Of course we’re taking it. It’s evidence.”

  She was actually able to grin back. How she missed the easy camaraderie between the guys. Perfect for chasing away the fresh demons brought on by Feiney’s reappearance in her life.

  Once the last technician vanished out the door, leaving her alone in the apartment, she began to pace. Twice now Feiney had left her a message and both times she didn’t get it.

  One, a severed hand. Female, jewelry still attached. Two, an inflatable doll, its meaning crude but clear. What she couldn’t figure out was how the two went together.

  What was Feiney trying to say? Would knowing the answer to this save his poor captive’s life? Frustrated, she stopped clenching her fists and summoning up the self-discipline to keep from punching something. When Marc came back inside, they needed to sit down and brainstorm. Maybe between the two of them, they could find the answer to Feiney’s riddle.

  She resumed her pacing and her cell phone rang. Mid-stride, she froze. Predictably, the ID said Caller Unknown. As she flipped it open, her heartbeat kicked into double-time.

  “Feiney,” she answered. “I got your little present. Surely you’ll understand if I don’t say thanks.”

  “You’re all alone for a moment, I see,” he purred. “Did you like my gift? Symbolic, wouldn’t you say? You never gave me an answer on the wedding ring.”

  Wedding ring? Had the severed hand been merely a method to deliver a ring? As she pondered this, she realized what else he’d said. He saw that she was alone? Once more, her skin began to crawl. Her earlier instincts had been trying to tell her something. “Uh, Feiney? How do you know I’m alone?”