Silent Watch

  Without a word, Sam drew her into her arms, touching her soft brown hair and fighting back tears of her own. It broke her heart hearing the girl’s anguished sobs, and when Elaine finally pulled back and rubbed her puffy red eyes, Sam knew it was time to go.

  She couldn’t ask Elaine to put herself through any more pain. There would be time to hear the rest of her story. She’d make time. Right now, she simply couldn’t let another sliver of horror reach the surface. Not just for Elaine’s sake. But for her own.

  “Let’s go,” Blake said roughly when she stepped out of Elaine’s room.

  He took hold of her arm, and Sam allowed him to drag her away. No point resisting, not when he still looked displeased by her insistence on coming here this morning. He’d thank her later, though. The sparse details she’d gotten from Elaine in less than an hour were more than Blake, the FBI and the Chicago PD had managed to obtain in weeks.

  “Would you ease up?” she muttered, staring at the white knuckles gripping her arm.

  He slowly loosened his grasp but didn’t slow down. She matched his strides, following him down the brightly lit corridor toward the stairwell. When she’d come here with Rick, they’d taken the service elevator but apparently Blake wasn’t taking any chances. His route required them to walk down to the basement, which housed none other than the morgue.

  God, she didn’t look forward to going down there again like she did the previous night, walking the creepy morgue hallways and listening to the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

  It scared her to realize that six months ago she’d come pretty close to being another one of those bodies in the morgue.

  Blake didn’t say a word as he held open the door for her, but she didn’t need to be a mind reader to know that he was angry. She wondered if he realized how sexy he looked when his eyes flashed like that, when his strong jaw jutted out impatiently. Not that she would ever let him know. If there was one thing she’d learned about men in her twenty-six years, it was that unnecessary strokes to their ego only inflated it.

  He descended the steps so quickly she nearly stumbled forward trying to keep up with him. He quickly caught her arm to steady her, and heat sizzled right through the sleeve of her sweater where he’d touched her. She had to pause on the landing to catch her breath—Blake’s spicy aftershave and intoxicating nearness were too much to handle.

  She suddenly thought of Elaine’s despair over her boyfriend’s engagement, the look in her eyes when she’d wondered if anyone would fall in love with her again, and Sam couldn’t help wondering if the same thing applied to her. Could someone fall in love with her? Could Blake?

  He’d admitted to being attracted to her, but attraction was a far cry from love. Men knew how to separate the two, and none of the relationships she’d had in the past had ever transitioned from sex to love. The men she’d dated hadn’t loved her. They’d loved the idea of her, the model who wore little bikinis and posed on some of the world’s most beautiful beaches. They liked the glitz of her life, the glamour, and yes, the sex.

  She couldn’t remember the last time a man had shown interest in getting to know her and not the model.

  “You okay?” Blake asked gruffly, jerking her from her unsettling thoughts.

  She slowly nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine. Let’s get out of here.”

  She took a step forward just as the door to the landing swung open and nearly knocked her over. Startled, she promptly dropped the purse that had been dangling loosely from her fingers. The contents spilled out onto the floor and both she and Blake dropped to their knees to collect the fallen items.

  “Shoot, I’m sorry about that,” came a male voice, and a moment later a third person was on his knees, a third set of hands grabbing at a tube of lipstick that was perilously close to rolling down the steps.

  Sam glanced up to look at the man who’d startled her.

  A nanosecond later she forced her head back down.

  Beside her, Blake shifted over and leaned forward, trying to shield her from the reporter who was currently sharing the small space with them.

  The man wore his press credentials around his neck, and he had that hungry look in his eyes that most members of the media around there sported. Cindy Wilcox, who was married to the latest Hollywood action hero, had apparently gone into labor, and the reporters lurking in the hospital were eager to outscoop each other. No doubt this man—Wayne Reynolds, his ID read—was trying to find a way to sneak onto the obstetrics ward.

  Although she felt fairly concealed in the blond wig, thick glasses and well-applied makeup, Sam’s heart raced like a thoroughbred galloping to the finish line. She began clawing at the items that didn’t even belong to her. A small pack of tissues. A brown leather wallet. Breath mints.

  The reporter wouldn’t leave. His gaze was now glued to her face. She could sense his eyes on her, and the intrusion made her feel like a wild animal trapped by greedy poachers. She needed to get out of here. Right. Now.

  “Hey, do I know you from somewhere?” Wayne Reynolds suddenly asked.

  Blake’s entire body went taut the second the question came out of the reporter’s mouth. He leaned closer to Sam, trying to appear casual, which was extremely difficult to do when Reynolds’ eyes were sweeping over Sam’s face.

  A vulture circling its prey.

  “I doubt it.” Blake spoke in a low, noncommittal voice. He swiped at the last item on the floor and shoved it into the purse, then hauled Sam to her feet. “Lorraine and I just moved here from California.”

  Blake kept her in front of him as they moved toward the stairs, shielding her from the nosy reporter, but Reynolds trailed after them, taking the steps two at a time so that he was already there at the next landing when they came down.

  Reynolds squinted at Sam. “You seem really familiar.”

  “I guess I have that kind of face,” she managed.

  Blake noticed she was trying to tone down her normally husky voice, and he wished she wouldn’t speak altogether. A protective lump lodged in his throat when he saw that her hands were shaking so hard she had to press them to her sides. He understood her fear; she’d been hiding away for six months precisely to avoid something like this from happening, and in less than six minutes that feeling of security had been ripped away from her.

  Damn it. Why had he let her talk him into bringing her back to the hospital?

  “Listen, buddy, my wife and I need to be somewhere,” Blake said coolly. With an equally cool smile, he planted a hand on the reporter’s shoulder and effectively moved Reynolds out of their path. He glanced at Sam. “Come on, sweetheart.”

  She nodded meekly, then took a step forward. As she walked, she pushed a few strands of synthetic blond hair away from her visibly pale face.

  And that’s when it happened.

  The wig snagged on the wristband of Sam’s thin silver watch. It didn’t fall off, but it shifted, enough for the reporter watching her to get an eyeful of her natural brown hairline.

  Blake’s heart stopped.

  Quickly, Sam adjusted the wig, but it was too late. The reporter’s eyes had narrowed and he was stumbling across the landing.

  Blake’s arm tightened around Sam’s shoulder. His body was so stiff he could barely will his legs to move. His pulse thudded loudly in his ears. He had to get her out of here. Now. As he urged her to continue down the stairs, Reynolds stayed hot on their heels. The other man caught up, grabbing Sam’s wrist, trying to stop her so he could get a better look.

  She tried to shrug his hand away but Blake beat her to it. He planted both his palms on Reynolds’ meaty chest and gave the other man a shove. Gaze glittering with menace, Blake said, “Touch her again and I’m calling security.”

  Reynolds just stared. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  Blake resisted the urge to order Sam to run. As fast as she could. But he knew taking off in an Olympic sprint would only fuel Reynolds’s suspicions.

  The reporter’s expression transformed into a st
range glimmer, a mixture of doubtful and dumbfounded. “Samantha Dawson!” he exclaimed, almost out of breath.

  “You’re mistaken,” Blake said in a voice that could freeze an ocean. “This is my wife, Lorraine.”

  And then he tightly gripped Sam’s hand and practically dragged her down the stairs again, leaving the reporter stupefied.

  Blake’s legs could barely carry him as they made their escape. They finally reached the basement, where the white walls and fluorescent hospital lighting made his temples ache.

  By the time they got outside, his heart was still thudding, and he felt so on edge he couldn’t even formulate a sentence.

  He didn’t say a word as he shoved her into the passenger seat, rounded the SUV and got in. He careened away from the hospital at full speed, tires screeching and the smell of burnt rubber filling the car. From the corner of his eye he noticed how stunned Sam looked, how shaky her hands still were, but he couldn’t bring himself to comfort her, or assure her that what just happened was no biggie.

  Because it was big. It was huge.

  And he was absolutely furious. At her, for stubbornly insisting she come back here. At himself, for letting her.

  It was only when he came to a screeching halt in the driveway of his house that he turned to her, eyes flashing, unable to control the anger and fear bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

  “So much for your brilliant idea to stay in town,” he snapped.

  Chapter 6

  “Jesus, Corwin, you need to get her out of there.” Michael Knight, the man known for his calm, unruffled manner, sounded absolutely livid. His deep baritone voice shot through the airwaves, piercing Blake’s eardrums with its sheer volume.

  Not that he blamed his boss for being furious. Blake was pretty damn enraged himself. He hadn’t said a single word to Samantha since reprimanding her in the car, and yet again she’d retreated upstairs. But he wasn’t about to apologize for what he’d said. He didn’t blame her for being recognized by the meddlesome reporter, but he sure as hell blamed her for putting herself in the position to be recognized.

  “At least he didn’t get a photo,” he said in a stab at sounding optimistic.

  “He doesn’t need one.” Knight cursed loudly. “One of the men here did some checking on Reynolds. Guess who he works for? FOX News. That’s right, home of Geraldo Rivera.”

  Blake closed his eyes.

  “The CPD and the Chicago field office have been dealing with calls from reporters for the last hour. Reporters demanding to know if Samantha Dawson’s death had been staged and if she’s officially come out of hiding to stop the Rose Killer.”

  Pain vibrated in his temples. Dammit. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.

  “How could you let this happen?” Knight roared. “That woman is a walking target. You were supposed to have her back in the safe house by now.”

  “She wouldn’t leave.”

  “It was your job to make sure she did.”

  So much for being Knight’s best agent. Recrimination coupled with a streak of protectiveness collided in his chest. He’d known that letting Sam stay in Chicago was a bad idea. Hell, he’d warned her that something like this could happen. Too bad the stubborn woman hadn’t listened.

  But he should have known better than to let himself get soft. He could have tried harder to make her leave, worked harder to talk some sense into her, but had he done that? Oh, no. One look at those gorgeous gray eyes and he’d been sucked in, ready to let Samantha Dawson do anything her sexy little heart desired.

  “Where’s Scott?” Knight demanded.

  “On his way here.”

  “Good. Neither of you is to leave that woman’s side until we can arrange for a new safe house out of state.”

  “Out of state? Why not take her back to Wellstock?”

  “We’re getting her out of Illinois, Corwin. It’s too risky to keep her here with the media sniffing around.”

  His headache threatened to become a full-blown migraine. “She won’t go.”

  “You’ll make her go. I don’t care if you have to cuff her to do it.”

  Knight had hung up. Biting back a string of four-letter words, Blake sank onto one of the wooden dining room chairs and buried his face in his hands.

  Trouble. The woman was nothing but trouble. Did she not value her own life? Hadn’t she realized that by putting her foot down and going to see Elaine Woodman again she’d be taking a tremendous risk? The sick bastard who’d almost murdered her was too smart to leave loose ends. If he learned that Sam was still alive, who was to say he wouldn’t track her down and slit her throat this time?

  Not her wrists, but her goddamn throat.

  His chest ached at the thought. He’d only spent a few days with Sam, yet he knew that if anything happened to her, something inside him would be destroyed. He’d already lost the woman he was going to marry thanks to a man as twisted as the Rose Killer.

  He’d never recover if he lost Sam, too.

  He gulped. Hard. Frantically searched his mind, trying to figure out exactly when he’d become this attached to Samantha Dawson.

  Was it before or after you kissed her? came the taunting voice in his head.

  Christ. Not now. He didn’t want to think about that kiss. He’d been pushing it out of his mind all day, and yet the memory continued sneaking right back in, like a dog eager to play fetch with its owner.

  His groin tightened as swiftly as it had last night when he’d captured Sam’s mouth with his. When the feel of her lush, moist lips had sent him into a state of arousal he’d never experienced before.

  What the hell had he been thinking, kissing her? He’d known, the second he lowered his mouth to hers, that it was a bad idea. That it was wrong. And yet he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It was like an out-of-body experience, as if his mouth and tongue and hands belonged to another man, a man who didn’t seem to understand how inappropriate it was to kiss a goddamn witness.

  He’d wanted to kick himself afterward. Actually, no. When he’d pulled back and caught sight of the arousal swimming in Sam’s luminous gray eyes, he’d wanted to kiss her again. Then he’d wanted to kick himself.

  If he hadn’t managed to impose that sliver of control, he would’ve made love to her right then and there, peeled every layer of clothing from her body and laved his tongue over every inch of her perfect skin. That’s why he’d walked away. To stop himself from adding another item to his how-I-screwed-up-today list. That, and because he wasn’t sure he could control himself if he kissed her again.

  Sam was too vulnerable. He would never take advantage of her, but he got the feeling that she wouldn’t mind if he did. Which meant one of them needed to remain in control, and it obviously had to be him.

  “Knight’s not happy,” Rick said grimly as he strode into the dining room.

  Blake swallowed back myriad emotions clinging to his throat. Business. That’s what he needed to focus on now. “I’m not too happy, either,” he replied. “That reporter knew who she was.”

  Rick joined him at the table. “Do you think he noticed what floor you’d come from? Think he’s smart enough to sneak into the ICU to do some investigating?”

  “Let’s hope not.”

  Rick swore. “We need to get Elaine out of there. Her doctor was going to discharge her in a few days, but we’ve got to speed up the process. She can’t stay there a second longer.”

  “I know.”

  “I’ll call Mel and tell her to start making arrangements.”

  The sound of timid footsteps caused Blake to turn his head. Gray eyes lined with remorse, Sam stood in the doorway. She’d scrubbed off her makeup, and gone were the wig and glasses. Her long caramel-colored hair fell over her shoulders in careless waves, resting just above the scooped neckline of the long-sleeved green sweater she’d changed into. A pair of faded jeans encased her long legs, emphasizing her shapely thighs and were rolled up at the bottom to reveal her pale, slender ankles.

  She was so
damn pretty. Just looking at her made his body ache.

  “I’m sorry.” Her quiet voice broke through his troubled thoughts.

  He watched as she entered the room and settled in the chair next to Rick’s. She wrung her hands together, looking unhappy, and for a moment he almost regretted snapping at her earlier.

  Almost.

  Pushing away the tender sympathy threatening to seep into his chest, Blake shot her a firm look. “It’s too late for apologies. Your time’s up, Samantha. We’re getting you out of here tonight.”

  Desperation flickered in her gaze. “Will you let me say goodbye to Elaine?”

  “No.”

  “But…Dammit, Blake! She’ll think I abandoned her.”

  “She’ll understand.”

  Rick broke the exchange by turning to Sam and asking, “Did she tell you anything useful today?”

  Sam appeared reluctant as she tore her gaze from Blake’s. “Actually, she did.”

  She quickly related the details she’d learned about the abduction and the scent Elaine had described, then excused herself. Blake heard her moving around in the kitchen, glad she hadn’t argued any further about leaving the city. This time, they would do things his way, and his way required getting Sam out of Dodge before anything worse happened.

  “It’ll be hard to find the vehicle,” Rick said, rubbing his chin. “There are probably a million vans in the city. Going through DMV records would be pointless, considering we don’t have a license plate number, not to mention the guy’s name.”

  Blake chewed on the inside of his cheek, trying to bring into focus the idea nagging at the back of his mind. He knew the chances of finding the van weren’t good, so instead he mulled over the other details Sam had provided. The scent Elaine had mentioned. Something fruity…Was their guy a fruit wholesaler? A grocer?

  Naah, that didn’t sit right with him. Fruity and flowery. Flowery. Flowers.

  Flowers.