Twisted

  She could feel him, right there, lodged at the entrance to her body, but he wasn’t going in. “Dean! Now!”

  “Be careful what you ask for . . .”

  “I know exactly what I want.”

  “So do I.” And he kissed her, thrusting his tongue past her lips even as his hips surged against her. His cock filled her, driving deep, and every muscle in her body seemed to quiver.

  But the pleasure was just beginning.

  His mouth was wild on hers, and his body—demanding. Driving faster, plunging deeper in a rhythm that left her quaking. She surged back up against him, moving just as fast, just as hard, and they rolled across the bed.

  Emma found herself on top of him. He still had her hands in a tight grip, and she was straddling his hips. Her knees pushed down into the mattress, and she jerked against his hold.

  He let her go, but she soon realized it was only so that his hand could slide over her clit. He stroked her even as he thrust into her, and Emma squeezed her eyes shut as the climax hit her. A climax that thundered through her, rolling again and again, and her head tipped forward, her hands slammed down on his chest as the pleasure tore through her.

  Then he was rolling them once more. She was on her back, the pleasure still blasted her, and he said, “Not done, baby, not done.” And he thrust even deeper. In a frantic rhythm that was beyond control. Beyond desire.

  When he came inside her, she held him as tightly as she could. Her heart was a mad drumbeat, and sweat soaked her body.

  He was above her, his body braced on his arms.

  The sound of their panting breaths filled the air. The darkness cocooned them, and it held reality at bay for just a few moments longer. She didn’t want to go back to reality. Didn’t want to give up that moment.

  Reality hurt too much.

  “Knew it would . . . be a mistake.”

  The guy had better not be saying—

  “Now I just want more . . .” And his head lowered as Dean kissed her again.

  DEAN WAS ASLEEP. Her body was replete, pretty close to exhausted, but Emma’s mind wouldn’t shut off.

  His arm was wrapped around her stomach. She hadn’t expected him to keep holding her, not in sleep. That seemed . . . too intimate. She knew it was an odd thought, especially after the sex they’d shared, but his touch—in slumber—still had her feeling unsettled.

  Carefully, Emma lifted his hand. His breathing remained steady as she slipped away from him.

  The bathroom was only ten steps away. She counted those steps carefully. Then she was inside. Emma shut the door behind her and flipped on the light.

  Her stark reflection stared back at her. Naked. Body too pale but with faint red marks on her skin. On her breasts. Her neck. Her hips. Marks that had come from Dean’s mouth and hands.

  Her fingers locked around the countertop. She forced herself to look into her own eyes.

  And then the tears came. Because the pleasure was gone, and the guilt . . . it was eating her alive.

  I’m so sorry, Lisa.

  DEAN’S EYES OPENED. She’s gone. He jerked up in bed, his gaze flying around the narrow room. When he saw the faint light spilling from beneath the bathroom door, he released his breath on a sigh of relief.

  Safe. Here. With me.

  He rose from the bed, not giving a damn that he was naked. For an instant, he’d feared that Emma had gone out on her own. With that bastard out there, hunting, he’d been afraid that she’d walked right into a trap.

  But she hadn’t. Emma was there. Safe and sound.

  He realized there was no noise coming from the bathroom. No running water. No rustles of movement. Nothing at all.

  His hand lifted and he rapped lightly on the door. “Emma? Are you okay in there?”

  Silence.

  His hand dropped to the knob.

  “I’m okay.” But her voice was too soft.

  Fuck. Had he hurt her? He turned the knob, but the door was locked. “Did I hurt you?” He’d tried to warn her that he shouldn’t lose control, and hurting her was the last thing that he’d wanted. She’d given him enough pleasure to blow his mind, enough to have him nearly salivating for her again. But if he’d hurt her—

  “You didn’t.” Again, her voice was too low.

  Was she crying?

  His shoulders stiffened. “Open the door, Emma.” Because something was wrong. He could feel it. “Emma, come on. Open the door for me.”

  But she didn’t. His jaw locked. Part of him wanted to break down that door. He wasn’t supposed to do that, though. Not the thing a law-abiding agent would do.

  I tried to warn her I wasn’t the good guy she thought.

  “Emma—”

  His phone rang then, the sound cutting through the room. He spun around, and his eyes narrowed on the phone. He didn’t even remember tossing it onto the nightstand. He hurried across the room, his eyes focusing on the bedside clock. At 4:38 a.m., there could only be one reason he’d be getting a phone call.

  Not Julia. Not her body. Don’t have found her body.

  The image on the screen showed Wade’s picture. He picked up the device and slid his finger over the surface. “Is it the girl?”

  “No . . . no word on her yet, but . . .” Wade exhaled. “This thing just got one hell of a lot bigger.”

  He turned to look back at the bathroom door. Still shut.

  “You were right, man. You and Emma. The perp left that coat because he wanted us to know who he was. We found hair on that coat . . . hair that matched up to your last case with the FBI. Shit, I had to pull some serious strings, and Gabe had to throw his weight around to get a turnaround this fast . . . but it’s him.”

  The door opened. Emma stood there, framed in the light. She looked delicate, far too breakable. Still nude.

  So fucking beautiful.

  “I thought he was dead,” Wade continued grimly. “I know they never found the body, but a fall like that? Shit, he shouldn’t have survived it.”

  “He excelled at survival.” His words were flat. No emotion. Because there wasn’t room for emotion, not now. The threat was too high. “Julia won’t be the first, there’s no way the guy has been dormant for this many years.” He grabbed for his clothes, dressing quickly as he kept the phone pressed close to his ear. He didn’t turn on the speaker because he didn’t want Emma hearing this, not yet.

  I don’t want to tell her that a serial killer has targeted her. A sadistic prick who gets off on seeing just how long his prey can survive.

  Emma had already faced off against one killer. She shouldn’t have to fear another.

  Too late.

  “Sarah is accessing all of the FBI files on the guy now. She’s going to work up a new profile and figure out what kind of game this asshole is playing with us.”

  Yes, it was a game, all right. Because that was the way the man worked. But . . . hope stirred within Dean. It was a weak hope, but it was something. “He usually keeps his victims alive for a while. He gives them a fighting chance.”

  He heard Emma’s sharp gasp.

  “So Julia might not be dead yet.” Not yet, not yet. “I’m on my way to the station. We need to call in the rest of our team, now.” And get the other LOST members down there before the FBI swooped in and took over. Because with this development, hell, yes, they’d be coming.

  He shoved the phone into his pocket and turned for the door.

  But he found Emma in his path. Emma—who’d put on her shirt and nothing else. “What’s happening?”

  “We found out who the killer is.” Or rather, who’d he been, five years before. Dean tried to slide around her.

  She just sidestepped and blocked his path. “You already knew who he was. I saw it on your face earlier. When Sarah said it was like the killer wanted to give his victims a fighting chance, you knew then.”

  His back teeth clenched.

  “You’ve . . . you’ve faced this man before, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” he bit out the
word. “Look, I don’t have time for this now. I thought she was dead—shit, I thought if he killed Lisa Nyle that fast, then Julia had to be dead, too. But that’s not the way he worked back then. She could still be alive, and I don’t have time to waste.” So he just picked her up and moved her. “Keep the doors locked and stay here.”

  Then he made his way to the door. The past was all around him. A nightmare of blood and death that wouldn’t stop. Only it wasn’t the past. The past wasn’t dead.

  The bastard had made it out of that canyon.

  He locked the hotel-room door behind him and hurried toward the elevator. The thick carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps, and Dean jabbed his finger against the button for the elevator. It took forever for the elevator to arrive and the doors to open—probably because he was on the thirty-eighth floor—and then he stepped inside. The mirrored walls tossed his grim reflection right back at him.

  He hit the button for the lobby. The doors started to close.

  When there was just a few inches of space left, her hand shot through. The doors automatically slid back, and Emma was there, breathing hard and glaring at him. “You don’t ditch your partner like that.”

  “We aren’t partners, Emma.”

  She jumped into the elevator. “I say we are.” She punched the button for the lobby and kept glaring at him. “And you were just going to leave me? Without even telling me what the hell is going on?”

  “Julia is the priority.” And he’d been screwing Emma while Julia was out there, fighting for life. “I can’t waste any more time.”

  “Right. Got it. I’m a giant time waster.”

  He winced. “That’s not what I—” He broke off because . . . he could see tear tracks on her cheeks. She had been crying in the bathroom.

  “Who is he? How do you know him? Because it’s obvious that you two share a past.” She hesitated. “The . . . the scar on your chest.” She reached out and touched his chest. Even through his shirt, her touch scorched him. “How did you get that scar? How did—”

  His fingers curled around her wrist. “You were crying in the bathroom.”

  Her lashes lowered, shielding her eyes.

  “I did hurt you.”

  “No.” Her voice was so faint that he had to strain in order to hear it. “The pain only hit when the pleasure stopped. Reality came back then.”

  The elevator stopped. A little ding sounded, and the doors slid open.

  Emma didn’t move. “Don’t leave me behind. Lisa was my friend. And Julia—I need to help her. Whatever is happening, I’m not scared. I can face him.”

  But he didn’t want her facing this particular monster.

  Emma pulled away from him. Walked out of the elevator. Waited. “I’m already in his sights. So either you tell me what’s going on, or I’ll find out another way.”

  He followed her. The lobby was deserted, and the faint drone from a vacuum reached him. “We have to get down to the station. Now that we know who we’re dealing with, we need to organize a manhunt. There are certain places he’ll use. Places that he’ll take her to.”

  He caught Emma’s hand and hurried for the door.

  “We have to find her,” Dean said, “before she gives up.”

  “Gives up?”

  “He gives them a fighting chance. Or least, that’s what the bastard did with me.” After he’d carved into Dean’s chest. The wound had been deep, but not a killing wound. If the SOB had wanted Dean dead immediately, then the knife would have sank hilt deep into his heart. But the killer had only wanted him weakened. He’d wanted to see just how much fight Dean truly had in him.

  Plenty of fucking fight.

  “Dean . . .”

  “He’ll hurt her,” again and again, “but he won’t kill her. If she can get away, she’ll live. If she gives up . . .” They were outside now. The heat from New Orleans hit him hard. “Then she’ll die.”

  HE WHISTLED AS he walked around the car. Long and black . . . just like he’d told Dean Bannon. Really, how much help did he have to give the bastard?

  He popped the trunk, and Julia just . . . she didn’t move at all. Didn’t try to lunge away. Didn’t try to fight him for her freedom.

  “H-home?” Her voice was a broken rasp.

  She seemed broken. Pity, he’d hoped she would have much more fight left in her.

  “Yes, you’re going home.” He hauled her out of the car. Tossed her over his shoulder and started walking. She was so light, barely weighing anything at all. And she didn’t even try to break away from him. Julia just lay in his grasp, limp.

  In moments, he had her far away from the car. There was no sign of any other people. Just the chirp of insects and the croaks of frogs around them. The trees bent and swayed, and the murky water to the right was still. But when he glanced over, he saw eyes staring back at him, glinting in the night as a gator lifted its head and broke the murky surface.

  The other hunters were already out.

  He kept walking past them, his steps sure and certain. After all, he knew this area particularly well. He’d been there before, too many times.

  It was his perfect spot.

  He kept walking, kept whistling, and she just hung limply over his shoulder.

  The swamp deepened around him. Cypress trees were soon on both sides of him, their branches weighed down by thick gray moss. There was no breeze blowing, just the thick, unrelenting heat, and the moss didn’t sway on the trees. His shirt stuck to his back as he walked. One step. Another. Forward. Deeper into the swamp, then—

  He dumped her on the ground. Julia groaned and rolled over. He stood in the darkness and watched her.

  Julia stared up at the night sky. She didn’t even try to look at him, not that she’d be able to see much in the dark. “Not . . . home . . .”

  Her clothes were covered in blood. That scent would attract predators. Julia should be careful.

  He backed away from her. “You have to get yourself home.”

  She slumped on the ground.

  “Get yourself out of here, Julia. Get back to civilization, and you go home.” Simple enough. He turned away from her, started walking. “Live or die, that choice is on you.”

  He always gave a choice, fast or slow, life or death. Because he understood how it had to work now.

  His prey had to choose.

  “W-wait!” Julia’s trembling voice called after him. “Help me!”

  His lips curved in a grim smile. She’d begged him to stop hurting her, and now—what? Was she about to beg him to stay?

  How quickly the mind can shatter.

  “D-don’t leave me . . . here!”

  He kept walking. But he did tell her, “I can kill you right now, if you want.” Her choice.

  That would probably be the more merciful choice. Because, left to her own devices, Julia wasn’t going to escape. She just didn’t have the willpower. She’d stay in that swamp, get lost—starve.

  Die.

  He’d seen it happen before.

  “H-home!” Julia’s voice was a rasp now, one that he had to strain in order to hear. “You promised me . . . home . . .”

  He stopped then. Glanced back. She was trying to crawl in the dirt and grass. “Aw, sweetheart, what do you think death is? The final trip home.”

  She started crying then.

  And he left her in the dirt.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE BULLPEN AT THE NEW ORLEANS POLICE STATION was filled with cops—detectives, uniforms, men and women who appeared more than a bit hesitant as they stared up at Dean.

  Those cops knew they were in over their head. That was why the FBI would—no doubt—be taking over the case at the first available opportunity. But before the FBI bigwig came in from Quantico and teamed up with the branch agents, Dean knew that he had a window of opportunity for action.

  Because of his past—Dean’s particular association with the bastard they were after and because of the special connections that LOST had created within the la
w-enforcement community—the police chief was willing to let him steer the assembled officers.

  Because time is of the essence. We have to find her.

  “We believe that a serial killer is operating in the New Orleans area.” His voice was calm but clear, carrying easily across the room. “That individual’s DNA was found at a crime scene last night.” And again, he could only be grateful to be a part of LOST. Without the organization’s power behind him, there was no damn way they would have gotten a DNA turnaround that fast.

  He pulled in a deep breath, and, in that moment, Dean was far too conscious of the scars on his chest. “The perp’s name is Jared Ricker, and, five years ago, he was responsible for the abduction and subsequent deaths of ten men and women along the Southeast coastline.” He tapped a few buttons on his laptop, and Jared Ricker’s face projected onto the screen behind him.

  Sarah stepped forward. “This is the last picture we had of Jared Ricker. He is a thirty-seven-year-old Caucasian male, approximately six feet, two inches tall. At this time, his weight is undetermined, and we know that his appearance has altered since this image was taken.”

  Hell, yes, the guy’s appearance had altered. “He’s been passing himself off as a homeless man in the area, probably so that he can get better access to his prey and hunt undetected.” Because if he’d been picking prey like Julia—runaways or other homeless individuals—who would have even noticed when they vanished? That bastard had found himself the perfect hunting ground. No one had noticed—no one had cared—when his victims vanished.

  “He was in this police station,” Sarah said, her voice carrying easily in the quiet room, “going under the name of Stan Tatum. He walked right out of the doors here, and no one had any clue who he really was.”

  “Because the guy is damn adept at blending,” Dean added. “That’s what made the guy so hard to catch five years ago. He would change his hair, use colored contacts, adopt new accents, new postures—he could switch his identities easily in order to lure in new prey.” And to evade capture by the FBI.

  His gaze swept the room. Emma stood near the back wall, and Wade was at her side. Wade’s arms were crossed over his chest, and his gaze was focused on the image of Ricker. Emma was also staring up at the picture, her head cocked to the right and her eyes narrowed in concentration.