Urban Sensation. Debra Webb
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on the defensive.
“I know,” was the best he could do.
Her guard moved up to the next level. Now she assessed his potential as a suspect. It was instinct. Part of what made her tick.
“What do you know about these murders?”
“I know that the Reporter is inciting panic.”
The Reporter had a reputation for just this kind of exploit. For twisting the facts and magnifying the ensuing theories. But then, didn’t all media do the same thing to one degree or another?
She nodded. “Vampires.”
A frown marred her forehead, as if she’d only just thought of how his appearance and his sensitivity to light played into portrayals of the widely fictionalized and glamorized subject. Her heart skipped a beat before taking off into a faster rhythm, one influenced by the adrenaline filtering into her veins. He could feel her trepidation.
“But you understand that’s not the case,” he suggested in hopes of moving her past the topic.
She stared at him a moment, her responses slowed by her lack of sleep during the past few days. She needed to rest. But she wouldn’t. She was on the case now. Rowen O’Connor was as relentless as she was meticulous.
“Do I?” she asked, countering his suggestion. She gave a little shrug. “You have no idea how I feel. You don’t know me anymore, Hunter.”
On that score, she was very wrong. He sensed her bitterness, the pain she felt at seeing him. But he could not allow those emotions to interfere with what had to be done. That she called him by his surname told him just how deep the cut went even if her physical reactions hadn’t.
He wanted to reach out…to touch her, but he did not dare. She looked so fragile, so very vulnerable. The hasty bun into which she’d arranged her waist-length hair upon getting this morning’s call had started to fall, allowing golden brown strands to drape around her shoulders. Her matching brown eyes, the color of melted caramel, looked tired, the smudges beneath testimony to her lack of sleep.
The fatigue in her slender frame vibrated beyond the confines of the tailored suit she wore. She needed him, whether she understood that just yet or not.
He could not fail. He’d risked far too much already simply coming here. Considering her bitterness toward him, his only hope for winning her over was shock value. He had only a small window of opportunity to prove just how much he knew. He had to make her listen.
“A whole new dimension will be added to this case today,” he warned. “You must be prepared for the harsh focus that will come your way almost immediately. But more treacherous is the danger to you personally. You mustn’t get so caught up in the fray that your attention falters from protecting yourself. Words can’t hurt you, but there are other things that can and will if you are not very, very careful, Rowen.”
Her confusion increased as disbelief was heaped into the mixture. She didn’t want to believe he’d come here to help her. Yet on some level, she knew he was telling the truth. That tiny crack in her armor left her open to having faith in him once more…gave credence to who he was when she wanted to continue despising him. Evan hated using his intimate knowledge of her for leverage, but it was, unfortunately, necessary. He, better than anyone, understood her deepest fears.
The full reality of how little regard she had for him now pierced him. The tender feelings she’d cherished were no more. When the right time came, he would tell her that she needn’t waste so much energy loathing him for he already despised himself enough for the both of them.
“I have to go soon.” He didn’t explain the admission, simply made the statement. But he knew his limitations. The medicine would begin to wear off any minute now. Getting caught in all this—he considered the sights and sounds of the town he had once treasured simply because this is where Rowen was—would be suicide. Taking another dose this soon wouldn’t be a good idea, either. “You should turn this case over to someone else, Rowen. Now. Today.”
Rowen stood there, staring at him. His final words had rendered her speechless and immobile for what felt like an eternity. How could he possibly be aware of all these things? The man she had known three years ago had been in the business of investigating psychic phenomena. It was his job. But, above all else, he was a scientist, one employed by the FBI. The Gateway program—scientific investigation of the paranormal. To listen to him now made her feel as if the words were coming from a stranger. All of it was so very un-Hunter like.
Had he lost his mind? He, of all people, knew she couldn’t—wouldn’t—walk away from a case once she’d started. Changing investigators midstream would only set things back, slow down the race to nail the bastard taking innocent lives. No way would she let that happen as long as the choice was hers.
The idea that Evan Hunter had somehow developed a mental disorder from the stress associated with his work crossed her mind. That would certainly explain a lot, she decided as she surveyed him once more.
This definitely was not the man she had known, the man she’d fallen head over heels in love with. The same one who had, without a second thought, shattered her foolish heart.
Outrage solidified her courage. “Thank you for your insights, Hunter. I’ll take your suggestions under advisement. But—” now or never, she had to do this “—I hope you’ll understand when I say I have work to do. Thanks for dropping by.”
He hesitated, didn’t want to give up on whatever the hell he was trying to prove. But she couldn’t deal with another moment of this. Just being in the same room with him made her ache in places she’d thought long healed.
For an entire year, she’d accepted that she was over Evan Hunter. That he was dead.
Determined to be rid of him, she put her hand to his shoulder to encourage him along. He visibly flinched. The realization that he would draw away at her touch ripped open a whole new wound. Why the hell would he show up here like this and then recoil at her touch?
“Just go,” she demanded. Whatever his motivation for a personal appearance, she wasn’t getting dragged into it. End of story.
Thankfully, he appeared to recognize when he was beaten and moved toward the door. His warnings kept swirling around in her head, popping up from different angles, making her wonder if he could know things she didn’t.
But how was that possible?
She shook off the ridiculous concept.
Maybe, she contemplated, he was still working for the FBI.
She hesitated before opening the door, allowed her gaze to move back to his face. “If the Bureau wants in on this case, they should just say so. This kind of tactic is pointless.” Proud of herself for saying the last without her voice quavering, she opened the door and waited for him to get the hell out of her house.
He didn’t do so immediately, which made her want to haul out her Glock and force the issue.
“Remember what I said, Rowen,” he reminded softly. “You must be very careful.”
He walked out. Rowen watched him stride down the cobble-stoned alleyway, the sun glinting off his shiny black hair. He looked exactly like the kind of man who might have haunted these narrow streets two or three hundred years ago. The only things missing in the picture he made were the darkness and the swirling fog around his long legs. The very two items that had likely cloaked his movements as he’d entered her home via illegal means before dawn.
She shuddered and closed the door.
As if on cue, her body started to shake with the receding adrenaline.
Evan Hunter was alive.
She took two or three long, deep breaths to slow her racing heart, to calm her frazzled nerves. Why had he come back?
His warning echoed inside her. How could he know so much about her case unless he was still involved with the FBI on some level? He couldn’t. Maybe