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  “Nothing,” she said, aware it sounded weak. “Just my job.”

  “Do you have a good team?”

  She eyed her fingernails, noting she needed to file them again. “The best.”

  “All right.” A former FBI agent himself, her brother knew the importance of a good team. “Be careful, okay?”

  “Always.” Hanging up, Lea looked up to find Marc had returned. Seeing him standing in the hallway as if he belonged, all broad shoulders and lean hips, brought a pang of…something. What, she wasn’t a hundred percent positive, but she was pretty sure it was desire.

  She either needed to get over it or get laid, plain and simple. She figured she’d get over it.

  As if he knew her inner turmoil, Marc gave her a carefully casual smile. “Do you have a spare key?”

  With an equally careful nod, she went to the kitchen drawer and retrieved her extra key. Handing it to him, she ignored the jolt of connection as their fingers touched.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. Once, she’d believed in fairy tales and love stories. No longer. There was nothing left of herself to give to anyone. Especially to him. Feiney had destroyed every iota of that part of her.

  “If you want your car, let’s run by the office and pick it up.”

  Relieved to get out of the apartment, she grabbed her purse. “Let’s go.”

  Once she’d gotten her own vehicle, she pretended to let Marc lead the way. When he turned left, she made a right. Her phone instantly rang.

  “Where are you going?”

  The casual question set her teeth on edge. Not his fault, she told herself. “I need to stop at the store.”

  She wondered if he’d catch what she didn’t say—that she needed a minute or two of alone time.

  He must have, because he didn’t argue. “See you back at the apartment,” he said and hung up.

  For a moment, she could only stare at her phone. Then, exhaling, she pulled into the grocery store parking lot. Finally, the tension between her shoulders eased somewhat.

  She sat in the car for a few moments, getting a good visual on her surroundings. No way Feiney was catching her unprepared this time.

  Inside, she picked up the ingredients for lasagna, something she hadn’t made in forever. Suddenly, for no good reason, she craved it. She also got an inexpensive bottle of red wine.

  Back at the apartment, there was no sign of Marc, but she could hear the guest bathroom shower running. Unloading her groceries, she busied herself browning sausage, boiling noodles and assembling the lasagna while the oven heated.

  Usually, cooking relaxed her. This time, all she could think of was Feiney and his next hapless victim. As of yet, no one had turned up missing, and the severed hand’s fingerprints hadn’t brought up a match.

  The shower cut off. She kept herself busy, not wanting to look up when the bathroom door opened and, still damp, Marc went to his room.

  Finally, she had the dish assembled. As she put the lasagna in the oven to cook, she realized why she’d subconsciously been craving lasagna. As a child, her mother had always cooked it when her father had completed a case.

  In other words, she already wished this entire case was over. Grimacing to herself, she made a bowl of salad and got some garlic bread ready to put in the oven later.

  Still no sign of Marc.

  She called the cemetery again, wanting to verify that the daisies had been removed. This time the person who answered had no idea what she was talking about, though she promised to look into it.

  Too restless to watch TV or read, she paced. Midway through her fourth circle around the living room, she realized she didn’t want Marc to come out and see her so agitated.

  Instead, because she knew eventually she would have to, she dug out the boxes she’d shoved in the back of the hall closet, brought them out into the living room and, sitting on the couch, she opened them.

  Western jeans and shirts, crisply pressed and neatly folded. Two pairs of cowboy boots and an elaborately styled belt with a large silver buckle, the kind won in barrel-racing competitions. A hatbox, containing a pearl-gray Stetson hat. Cowgirl getup. Her undercover clothes, the ones she’d kept wanting to throw away but now was glad she hadn’t. She’d been wearing similar clothing when Feiney had grabbed her. All of Feiney’s victims had been wearing cowgirl duds when they’d died.

  Even looking at them creeped her out.

  She couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that things were about to go into overdrive. Not only had Feiney managed to defile the graves, but he’d broken into Marc’s apartment and put a severed hand in his fridge. She’d listened to Marc and ignored Feiney’s attempt to lure her to his victim’s graves. She could only imagine the murderer’s reaction to her lack of response.

  And they still knew nothing about his victim. Who did the severed hand belong to, and what was the significance of putting this particular body part in Marc’s apartment?

  Next time Feiney called, she’d have to ask him.

  A few minutes later, the homey smell of the lasagna cooking in the oven beginning to fill the air, Marc walked out into the living room.

  He sniffed, then rolled his blue eyes. “It smells like heaven in here.”

  “I made lasagna.” Managing an impersonal smile back, she glanced down at her boxes.

  “What you got there?” Marc came around the side of the couch. He smelled wonderful—a clean, masculine scent. He’d changed into low-slung denim jeans and a soft black T-shirt and looked, well, good enough to eat.

  For an instant she wondered what might have happened if she’d met him before Feiney. She’d been a different person then. More carefree, more hopeful. An eternal optimist, her family had once called her. She’d seen a silver lining in every cloud. Feiney had changed all that.

  She didn’t think she’d even recognize the woman she’d once been.

  Pushing away the feelings such thoughts inevitably brought, she got to her feet. “Just making sure I still have enough stuff to wear in case I end up going back undercover.”

  “I doubt that’ll be necessary,” he said. “Don’t forget…we’re going to make Feiney come to us, not try to lure him in public. He’s already let us know how badly he wants you.”

  “True.” Grateful and inexplicably angry again, she went into the kitchen and finished setting the table. The timer went off, and she took the lasagna out of the oven and put in the garlic bread. “But I still think we should do something. Going out and trying to make contact with him is better than sitting around waiting for him to come to us. Plus, it will help us with the couple thing.”

  “True. Might help to make him jealous.” His hand on her shoulder made her jump. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” he said.

  “I know,” she snapped, then forced herself to gentle her tone. “I was craving lasagna. It’s a Cordasic family thing.”

  At her sudden tension, he removed his hand.

  Normalcy, she thought, gritting her teeth. She could do this. She had to. The most important thing right now was catching Feiney and sending him back to prison. If she had to be civil to Marc Kenyon to do it, then she’d be civil.

  “Do you need any help?” he asked.

  She shook her head no, feeling uncomfortable again. Her social skills really sucked these days. Damn. She shouldn’t have cooked.

  “This looks wonderful but, I repeat, you didn’t have to do this,” Marc said, echoing her thoughts. For a second this disconcerted her, then she managed a shrug.

  “Yeah, well, as I said. I wanted to. Just to make sure there’s no confusion, after this you’ll have to fend for yourself. I usually just eat a TV dinner and a salad. Or order a pizza.”

  He grinned, pulling out a chair. “Then I definitely promise to enjoy every bite.”

  His grin sent warmth rushing at her. She stood stockstill, not entirely certain how to react. He had a way of doing that to people, she realized. Turning away, she kept herself busy dishing out the food, hoping he hadn’t no
ticed her blush.

  Once she’d placed everything on the table, including the fragrant garlic bread, she pulled out the chair opposite Marc and dropped down into it. Coworkers, she reminded herself, pushing away the unbearable coziness. Still, common courtesy necessitated her playing hostess and she dished up a huge, steaming slice of lasagna for Marc first, before serving herself.

  At first she felt awkward, the forced intimacy unwelcome and uncomfortable, but Marc’s easy humor eventually relaxed her. She managed to clean her plate and even joke when he went back for seconds.

  Meal finished and leftovers wrapped and stowed, they wandered into the living room, each taking an opposite end of the couch to map out their plans. Turning on the television for background noise, Lea froze as the announcer for channel four news at nine came on. The lead story was the disappearance of two women from a bar in the Fort Worth Stockyards area. Not one woman, but two.

  She exchanged a stunned look with Marc.

  “No one called me,” he said, digging in his pocket for his phone. “Why the hell didn’t anyone call?”

  Her gut clenched. Battling the fear, she summoned up the familiar frustration. She wanted to throw something, break something, smash the television or even Marc.

  Marc cursed. “No answer.” He immediately punched in another number.

  “You were right,” she said, jaw aching from clenching it so tightly. “He struck again and with a vengeance. Those poor women. I wonder which one is missing a hand.”

  “We screwed up. Not you and I, the team.” Up and pacing, Marc dragged his hand through his hair.

  “I—”

  But Marc wasn’t listening. “No way he should have taken two. He’s never done that before. Not two women. And if this just happened last night, then Feiney’s been busy.”

  While he made his call, she watched the rest of the story. The media had already made the connection between Feiney and the women, but since the bodies hadn’t yet been found, they couldn’t say for sure that this was the work of the infamous Cowtown Killer. As usual, that didn’t stop them from speculating. The general public was warned, especially women. Lea knew from experience that few would listen.

  Closing his phone, Marc returned to the sofa as the news segment ended and a commercial came on. Lea muted the sound.

  “What’s up?”

  “Stan and his guys are astounded. They had two decoys at two different bars. But Feiney went to JR’s, the same one he grabbed you from. They didn’t have a decoy there.”

  “Even if they did, Feiney wouldn’t have gone for her. He’s got some agenda.”

  “Which involves you,” Marc stated.

  She didn’t argue. “Okay, so the local authorities think he snatched two women. Do we know this for sure? One of them might have gone somewhere else.”

  “They went to the bar together and left together. They were twins. The bartender remembers them.” He sighed. “I don’t know how Feiney talked two of them into leaving with him, but it appears he did.”

  Her heart sank. Doggedly, she refused to accept his words. “We don’t have the bodies. Maybe he didn’t get them. Maybe they went somewhere to sleep it off. Maybe they’ll show up in the morning.”

  Though Marc nodded stiffly, they both knew she was wrong.

  “Are they running the fingerprints on the hand for a match?”

  “Yes.” Marc continued to pace. He looked shell-shocked.

  Lea was familiar with the helpless, impotent feeling. “We’ve got to do something,” she said.

  “I agree, but what? The police are out in droves searching for those girls. The Feds have joined in.”

  She lifted her chin. “We can’t let Feiney kill them. Do you have any leads? What about the bartender? Did he see Feiney?”

  “No.” Marc grimaced. “He’s good, that bastard. Damn good.”

  When her cell phone rang and the caller ID showed Private Caller, it was almost anticlimactic. Feiney meant to taunt her.

  “It’s him. Maybe he’ll give us some clue where he’s keeping the women.” Taking a deep breath, she punched the talk button and held the phone to her ear. “Hello.”

  Music bombarded her first—country music, loud and twangy. Then Feiney’s voice in the background, shouting the same words he’d taunted her enough with. Cutting words, meant to demean and torment.

  But not at her. It was as if he’d set the phone down, so she could listen to him and his latest victim.

  Did she want to hear this? Need to? Frozen, heart pounding, she shuddered but didn’t relax her grip on the phone. Through sound, he’d captured her and, once again, she was there, helpless, with Feiney looming over her, taunting her, her own body tied and drugged and unable to respond.

  That poor, poor girl. A single tear slipped out and ran down Lea’s cheek.

  “Are you there, Lea, my daisy girl?” Feiney taunted her. “It’s your last rodeo, sweetheart.” Oh God.

  “Lea?” Dimly, she heard Marc’s voice but, trapped in her own awful reality, couldn’t focus.

  She saw only Feiney’s awful leering grin as he repeated the words, “It’s your last rodeo, sweetheart.” Which meant, in Feiney’s particular lingo, that someone was going to die.

  “Lea,” Marc called again, his voice sharp, though she heard him only dimly. She blinked, struggling to pull herself out of the trance, but then Feiney spoke once more and she shuddered, sucked right back in.

  “I’ve got fresh flowers, darlin’. Daisies, your favorite.”

  Trigger words. She dimly knew this, but couldn’t seem to pull herself out of the awful place he’d sent her.

  A woman screamed. Again. And again. Feeling sick, Lea disconnected the call before dropping the phone.

  She hunched over, cradling her midsection, as if by doing so she could stop the blows. She knew exactly what Feiney was doing to that woman. She’d been there, experienced it, up close and personal.

  Marc grabbed her, yanking her up close to him, wrapping his arms around her while stroking her hair. “You’re safe,” he murmured, over and over. “Safe. Hear me, Lea?”

  Dimly, she was able to focus enough to nod.

  She felt his hand, big and strong, lifting her chin. Somehow, she dragged her gaze to meet his, fastening onto his blue eyes like a lifeline.

  Then, he covered her mouth with his and kissed her.

  Chapter 5

  Lips over hers, tasting her sweetness, Marc felt the moment when Lea came back to herself. She went from ice to fire, coming fully alive in that one instant as her frozen lips parted and she kissed him back. Mindless, heedless, as though she craved humanity and warmth after talking with a monster.

  The kiss lasted only a few seconds before Lea realized and gasped, pushing him away.

  Hand to mouth, she glared at him, accusation burning in her stormy hazel eyes. “What the hell?” she snarled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I didn’t think, I’m sorry,” he muttered, meaning it. “I got worried when you were, er…” He couldn’t even find words to describe what had happened to her.

  Her narrowed gaze pinned him. “You get worried, you shake someone to try to snap them out of it. You sure as hell don’t kiss them.”

  She made it sound as if he’d rinsed her mouth out with sewage.

  Her phone rang again. This time, they both ignored it.

  “Look, I said I’m sorry.” He spread his hands. “It won’t happen again.” He gave her what he hoped was an apologetic smile.

  “Don’t even try that easy grin on me.” Fists clenched at her sides, she balanced on the balls of her feet, looking as if she’d like to take a swing at him.

  A bit of an overreaction, wasn’t it? Then he understood. She was taking out on him her hatred of Feiney.

  He could live with that. He’d had his own bouts of rage after she’d been taken.

  “Lea, I don’t know what happened. When I saw you clutching the phone with a white-knuckled grip and a deer-in-the-headlights look on
your face, something inside snapped. I did the first thing I could think of to bring you out of it. Please, don’t take it personally.”

  Don’t take it personally? Right. If only he could follow his own advice.

  After he’d rescued her, Marc had done some research on her.

  The guys she worked with at the Bureau had, pre-Feiney, referred to her behind her back as the Iron Maiden. Nerves of steel, with a ball-busting personality. A woman who took no prisoners, rebuffed any hint of romantic involvement, and despite her beauty, wanted to be thought of as one of the guys. Most of the guys had found her aloof camaraderie a challenge and had made efforts at a little workplace flirtation, only to be quickly shot down. Rejected his entire life, Marc had never even tried.

  One by one, the other guys had given up and settled for being her buddies. Over the years, her quick thinking and skilled undercover work had earned her recognition and respect.

  Everything had changed when she’d gone undercover on the Cowtown Killer case and been taken prisoner. For two solid weeks, every law enforcement agency in the state of Texas had worked overtime, trying to locate her. Marc had been right there with them, his dedication tempered with guilt. After all, it had been on his watch that she’d been taken.

  When he’d found her, filthy and starved, in rags and chained, he’d taken one look at her and known she was going to die. He’d been equally determined not to let her. But even then, near death, she’d been a spitfire. Instead of defeat, he’d seen rage flaring in her eyes.

  That’s when he knew she had a chance to pull through.

  And she had.

  Twice in the hospital he’d gone to see her. Too ill to talk, she’d barely acknowledged his presence. Eventually, he felt awkward and stopped going.

  But he’d never forgotten her. Or came close to forgiving himself.

  He thought maybe now he could atone.

  If she’d let him. Now he’d gone and complicated things by kissing her.

  As they faced each other down, both breathing too fast, the phone still on the floor at her feet, a text message came through. At the chime, she snatched the cell up and read the words out loud. “‘Answer this time or the woman dies.’” Two seconds later, the phone rang again. Lea answered, putting the caller on speaker.