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  “Friends?” he repeated blankly, as though he didn’t understand the word. “Since when?”

  “We’ve been together awhile now.” Deliberately keeping things vague, she steered the conversation back to the case. “About the girl. Any leads?”

  “None.” He sounded glum. “What about you?”

  Naturally, she pretended surprise. “What about me? I’m on medical leave.”

  “Right. I expect you to remember that. There’s no need for you to go see the victim.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.” In fact, the thought hadn’t even occurred to her. She already knew what Feiney was capable of doing. She didn’t need to see it firsthand.

  “Good. And I’ll ask again… Do you have any information you want to share with us?”

  “If I did, I’d tell Marc. He’s on the team. I guess you could say he’s your pipeline to anything I learn, all right?”

  Another silence. She guessed he wasn’t too happy, and the rancor in his voice when he spoke again confirmed this.

  “All right. Take care now.” Stan concluded the call.

  “Wow. That was weird,” she told Marc, closing her phone. “Stan was so obvious he could have shouted from the rooftop. He wanted to find out if I’ve learned anything he didn’t know.”

  “Because he knows you have an in with Feiney. What about the hand?”

  “It wasn’t hers,” she replied solemnly. “So we still don’t know who it belongs to. But I’m still wondering why Stan really called.”

  “Making sure you stay out of trouble?”

  “Maybe, though I doubt it. I’m guessing he was worried I’d show up at the morgue wanting to see the victim or something.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Would you?”

  “No. I already know what he did to her. And there’s no need, since I’m already positive it’s him.”

  Going for a refill of coffee, Marc stopped when his phone rang. “Busy morning,” he remarked, then answered.

  Listening, he muttered something too low for her to hear, then concluded the call.

  “More news about the vic?”

  “Nope. This was even better. Come on.” Setting down his coffee mug, he waved her toward the door. “We’ve got to go. They’ve spotted him.”

  “Feiney?” Already on her feet, she stopped long enough to step into a pair of flip-flops, then followed Marc. “Where?”

  He took the stairs down, two at a time. “A neighborhood over by Twenty-eighth Street, in Northside.”

  Keeping pace easily, she whistled. “Dangerous place for a middle-aged white man. Especially at this hour in the morning.”

  “Yeah, but he’s crazy. Maybe they look in his eyes and see that and leave him alone.”

  “Or maybe he’s staying with someone he met while in the joint. Or a girlfriend. One of those foolish lonely women who write love letters to prisoners.”

  “I’ll run a check on that immediately.” Opening his cell, he punched a number, then barked the order into the phone, never breaking stride. “If we hurry, we can beat the uniforms.”

  They weren’t so lucky. As they exited on Twenty-eighth street, a patrol car sped past them, lights flashing. They’d barely gone three blocks when they spotted two more, both with lights but no sirens.

  “Talk about announcing to Feiney that he’s been seen,” Marc groused, slowing down and beginning to look for a place to turn around.

  Lea was having none of it. “What are you doing?”

  He shot her a look of disbelief. “We can’t go there now. The place is crawling with law enforcement.”

  “So? They don’t know me from Adam.”

  “I’m willing to bet there’ll be some Feds there, too.”

  She said nothing, letting him tell from the set of her jaw that she didn’t like hearing this. Nevertheless, it was the truth. Neither of them could alter that.

  Still, she wasn’t one to give up so easily. “I’d like to at least drive by. No one will pay any attention to a car.”

  “Unless they’ve set up a roadblock. No one in or out of the area without showing ID.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “That sucks for us, but you’re probably right. I didn’t even think. Let’s go home.”

  The second the words left her mouth, she wished she could call them back. Home. She tried to ignore the connotations of the word. For her, home was really her mother’s house, the place she’d been raised. But Marc had no home, except for the apartment that seemed as impersonal as hers.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, feeling like a complete and total clod.

  Big hand under her chin, he gently lifted her face toward his. “It’s all right. Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

  Looking deep within his impossibly blue eyes, in that instant she realized she had more to worry about than just Feiney. In his own way, Marc Kenyon was dangerous, too.

  Chapter 7

  Until he’d met Lea Cordasic, Marc could honestly say he’d never thought about even the remote possibility of making his own home, of having a family. His career had always been more than enough. But something about Lea…

  He’d never forget the first time he saw her. Contrary to what she believed, the assignment to work with her on Feiney hadn’t been the first time they’d met. A frequent visitor to the FBI offices in Dallas, he’d been strolling down cubicle alley one morning and turned a corner without looking. He and Lea had collided, hard. She’d stumbled so badly that she’d nearly fallen. Acting purely on instinct, he’d caught her, hauling her up against him to prevent her impact with the floor.

  Gazing down at her in the split second before setting her back on her feet, with her long-lashed, hazel eyes sparkling up at him, filled with laughter, he’d instantly realized that he understood every love song ever written. If love at first sight had seemed like a myth, an uncertain, unlikely possibility, he knew it to be an absolute truth now. And the more he’d gotten to know her, with her dryly mischievous sense of humor and her talent for finding the absurd in the daily grind, his conviction that she was The One had strengthened.

  He wanted Lea Cordasic like he’d never wanted another woman. He’d fallen for her, hard. Unfortunately, in a kind of ironic karmic payback, in what he’d been told was her standard operational procedure, she regarded him merely as one of the guys. No matter what he did, he hadn’t been able to generate any interest other than professional.

  So he’d backed off, taking time to devise a better strategy and hoping absence would make the heart grow fonder.

  Then he’d been asked to provide backup to an undercover operation and learned she was acting as bait for a notorious serial killer. He’d done his part, acting under his own agency, the sheriff’s office, but in an unforeseen chain of coincidences, Lea Cordasic had been captured.

  While the various agencies stood still in shock, busy slinging blame, he’d volunteered to lead the team to bring her back. Since the Sheriff’s office was technically in charge of the investigation, permission had been readily given.

  Two weeks, one day and seven hours after being captured, Lea had located an old cell phone that one of Feiney’s prior captives had dropped under the bed. She’d made the call, leaving the line open and Marc’s team had been the ones who’d surrounded the house, an ordinary brick ranch in suburban Fort Worth.

  Never before or since had he felt so much like he was back in Iraq, though with one key difference. He was in love with the target, and her take-no-prisoners personality put her at greater risk.

  Naturally, Feiney wouldn’t give up easily. When the firestorm of bullets had started, Marc had been the first in, Kevlar vest in place, under continuous fire. He led the team inside, where two of his men had rushed Feiney, taking him down. One had suffered a gunshot wound to the leg.

  Heart pounding, Marc had charged down the wooden steps and broken through to the tiny basement room where she’d been held prisoner. Blocking the others’ view in order to shield her, he’d found Lea, still alive, bruised and beat
en and covered in filth.

  He’d been the first one to see the rusty chains around her slender wrists and ankles. She’d had huge dark circles under her eyes, a snarled and matted nest of lank hair, and when she met his gaze, the look in her eyes was haunted, tormented, similar to that of a prisoner of war.

  Feiney had broken something inside her. To this day, Marc wondered if she’d ever heal. Certainly she’d never regain her lost innocence.

  Now that Feiney had escaped, she’d been transported back to that terrible time. Seeing her like this ripped a huge gash in his heart. Watching Lea try to be tough killed him. Each and every time that psycho contacted her, she flinched. He wasn’t even sure she knew she did. And though by some miracle she managed to always sound strong and unbothered, the haunted shadows in her eyes, reminiscent of the way she’d looked when he’d first found her, lingered.

  Though she kept her shoulders back and her chin up, she had to be suffering inside. Only her fury propelled her forward, only the fire of her red-hot rage appeared to motivate her.

  This he could understand. He swore to catch Feiney before he did any more damage. To Lea or to any other poor, unsuspecting girl. If he had to kill the bastard, so be it. He only hoped that when it was all over, Lea Cordasic didn’t hate him. Or worse, herself.

  Something was off. Lea didn’t know what, exactly, but Marc Kenyon had a secret he was keeping from her. Part of her wondered why she cared. The other part recognized another wounded soul hiding underneath a veneer of toughness. Sappy, she thought to herself, but true nonetheless.

  A day spent without hearing from Feiney had her on edge. “Let’s go out tonight,” she said. “Like we originally planned.”

  Marc’s blue gaze pinned hers. “You mean the Stockyards? I thought we agreed that would be pointless?”

  “No, you agreed. Besides, I hate doing nothing. We’re dead in the water here until Feiney decides to contact us. If Feiney decides to contact us.”

  “He will.”

  “I wish I could be that certain.” She sighed. “I’d feel a little more proactive if we got out. Even if Feiney doesn’t see us, I’ll still feel like we’re doing something.”

  “You know it could be dangerous.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, maybe if we were doing a full-blown undercover operation. But with you stuck to my side like glue, how can Feiney make a move?”

  His slow smile warmed her. “You’re right. You sold me. We’ll do it.”

  That night, around nine, she went into her bedroom and put on the hated Western garb, applied makeup with a heavy hand and teased her hair. When she’d finished, she looked at herself in the mirror and grimaced. Except for the haunted eyes, she looked just like any other cowgirl-wannabe, out for a good time at the Stockyards. She only wished the outfit didn’t make her skin crawl.

  She wondered how Marc would look. She’d just bet he made a fine-looking cowboy.

  When she saw him, she realized she’d completely underestimated him. “Wow,” she drawled. “Who would have thought a guy like you could cowboy up so well.”

  He chuckled. “Keep eating me up with those eyes, sugar, and I’ll show you a cowboy.”

  Heat flooded her, even as she told herself it was harmless flirting, nothing more. Still, as she studied him, she knew she’d never realized a man dressed up as a cowboy could look so…hot.

  Low-slung jeans, a long-sleeved button-down shirt and the requisite boots, combined with his unruly blond hair, and he looked like Keith Urban. Only better.

  Her mouth went dry just looking at him. Damn. She had to cough to clear her throat so she could speak normally. “Ready?”

  “Sure.” The way he looked her up and down made her stomach tighten. “Wow.” He let out a low whistle. “I can see you’re going to have a difficult time keeping the cowboys at bay.”

  “Thanks.” As compliments went, that was perfect. Not too personal, just one colleague complimenting another on the undercover skills. That she could deal with. She found herself actually smiling at him as they headed to his car.

  The drive to Fort Worth took forty-five minutes. To get in the mood, he switched the radio to a country music station, singing along in an off-key voice.

  “You might look like Keith Urban,” she said, punching him lightly in the arm, “but you sure don’t sing like him.”

  He shrugged and continued mangling the latest Toby Keith song.

  Reaching Cowtown, they paid to park in a lot and walked across the street to begin their night. Though they hit three of the most popular bars, including the one where Feiney had grabbed Lea the last time, she saw no sign of her nemesis. To her surprise, once she entered her undercover mode, the fear and uneasiness disappeared, almost as if she was able to dissociate from herself. She became simply an undercover agent doing a job. Trying to catch a monster.

  But the night was a complete bust. Marc in tow, Lea frequented every country-and-western bar in the Stockyards area and several near Sundance Square. Not once did she catch sight of the Cowtown Killer.

  “I’ve had enough.” She linked her arm with Marc’s, taking care to smile up at him in case anyone might be watching. “I keep hoping I’ll look into the crowd and see him.”

  “He might be staying home right now,” Marc pointed out. “Until the second girl’s body is found, there’s a distinct possibility Feiney’s home torturing her.”

  Swallowing, Lea closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Marc was watching her. “Like me,” she said, letting her raw emotion color her voice. “Just to prove it could be done again, whenever and wherever he wants.”

  “Maybe,” Marc allowed. They’d snagged seats at the crowded bar area in Electric Cowboy and both sipped ginger ale on ice, masquerading as something more potent. “But I actually think he enjoys the torture almost as much as the killing itself. It’s a power trip for him. He got a taste for this sort of thing with you, and it feeds upon his overinflated sense of control.”

  “No other woman should have to go through what I did.”

  “I agree with you. But there’s more.” His troubled expression warned her she wouldn’t like it. “What?”

  “His time in prison, though only six months, probably exacerbated his feelings of inferiority. His need for power now is most likely far greater than it was then.”

  Horrified, Lea stared at him. “You’re saying you think that her torture is worse?”

  “I don’t know.” Gaze dark, Marc stared out at the packed dance floor. “But my instincts tell me yes.”

  She cursed. “Then we’ve got to find him soon.”

  “We need to stay a little longer.”

  “And if we don’t see him, we’ll move on to another bar.” Gone was all thought of going home.

  “Hey, pretty lady.” A tall cowboy leaned in, his alcohol-laden breath making her gag. “Will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

  She forced herself to smile as she held out her arms. “Of course.”

  The second they stepped onto the dance floor, she realized her dance partner had a severe case of wandering hands.

  “Excuse me.” Eyes dark with possessiveness, Marc cut in, shoving the other guy away with enough force to send him stumbling. Drunk and humiliated, the cowboy yelled obscenities, clearly wanting to start a bar brawl. Luckily, his friends led him away instead of joining him in a fight, and a crisis was averted.

  Lea was both furious and oddly pleased.

  “Marc,” she hissed, toning down her frustration as the DJ put on a slow, romantic ballad. “What the hell was that?”

  One corner of his mouth kicked up in a half smile. “Shhh. Dance with me.”

  “But…”

  He gathered her into his arms, continuing to smile that slow, lazy smile of his. “If you want to look like a woman on the prowl for a good time, dance with me.”

  Unable to argue with his logic, she moved into his arms.

  Big mistake. Instantly, she became aware of several things. Though at five-eight,
she considered herself tall, while in Marc’s arms she felt positively tiny. If she allowed herself to rest her cheek against his chest and close her eyes, she could not only smell the scent of soap and male skin, but feel the strong, steady beat of his heart.

  As he swung her around, his arms tightened, keeping her close. Panic flooded her, an instant of raw fear which she quickly tamped down. He was solid and muscular, unmistakably male. And she realized how badly she really wanted him.

  Finally—too soon, too late—the song came to an end. Reluctantly, or so it seemed to her, he moved away, taking her arm to lead her back to their seats at the bar.

  Once there, he vanished, taking care to appear only as part of the crowd, leaving her to sit alone. Though they’d done this exact scenario at several bars, as of yet nothing worthwhile had come of it.

  A gum-chewing waitress arrived with a tray and a drink. “For you, hon. From the guy in the bright blue shirt, there at the bar.”

  Instantly on alert, Lea swung around, struggling to seem only casually interested.

  “Which guy?” she asked, aware it might be someone else trying to pick her up. The packed bar contained lots of men, most in groups of three or more. A lone woman would be considered easy pickings.

  The waitress turned, sending her long black ponytail swinging. “Let’s see, he’s… I dunno, girl. He was right over there, but I don’t see him. Looks like he left. Maybe he’s in the men’s room.” With a shake of her head and a swish of her hips, she moved off.

  Lea examined the drink. Rum and Coke? Definitely alcohol, possibly laced with something. Whatever it was, she wasn’t touching it.

  Drink in hand, she continued to scan the crowd.

  “Do you think it was him?” Marc asked from beside and slightly behind her. He’d taken a bar stool next to her.

  “I hope so,” she muttered. “But I don’t see him. You know I’d recognize that bastard anywhere.”

  “He knows that, too. The drink might have been from anyone, you know. I’ve noticed half a dozen guys eyeing you with interest. It was probably just some guy hitting on you.”