a few spots of blood that probably fell when he climbed into the car.
Sam narrowed his eyes. If he was reading the tracks right, there were two sets of footprints in the soft dirt. It looked as though the intruder got in the passenger side. Had someone been waiting for him?
Instinct made Sam follow the road about a mile to the first bend. The wind was starting to smell damp with a rain that would wash away any remaining clues once it fell. He was running on pure intuition now, all hunter, the beast in him adding its predatory cunning to his human intelligence.
Just around the bend he found the car. It was nose-first into the ditch, the front bumper crunched against a tree. The passenger door was partially open but jammed into the ground, as if the accident had happened when the door was ajar. Had someone bailed out partway through the crash?
Sam wrinkled his nose. Despite his deadened senses, a new banquet of smells, both revolting and enticing, pulled him toward the scene. He approached cautiously.
The driver was slumped over the wheel, obviously dead. Air bags hung like deflated balloons. Sam felt a wave of cold nausea as he circled toward the windshield, peering through the glass to catch a glimpse of the man’s face.
A good deal of the man’s head was splattered over the side window glass. The bullet had come from the passenger seat. Sam mentally reconstructed the events. Bang, pop the door, jump out just before the car swerves into the ditch and smashes the tree.
Risky, shooting the driver. Then again, he would have been slowing the car for the turn. A cold, calculated chance. Not for beginners.
Sam looked long and hard at the ruined face, finally placing it. One of Jack’s security guards. Here, perhaps, was an answer. Gossip traveled through household staff like wildfire. News of the dress, however hard they’d tried to keep it quiet, would have been a particularly juicy tidbit. If this guard was in league with Jack’s killers, that would explain how he came to be in this car. It also would explain how the thief got into the house. The question was, who were his contacts?
Sam circled around to the open door, covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve to filter the stench of carnage. Blood was one thing, but there were plenty of substances inside a human body that should definitely stay inside.
Digging his feet into the soft dirt, he pushed the car upright enough to free the passenger door. It was a fruitless effort; the hinges were bent. Bracing the car with his shoulder, he gave the door a solid jerk. It came off in his hands. Sam tossed it into the ditch and let the car settle back into the mud.
Now that he could get inside, he looked for a bullet casing, but found none. Either the shooter had somehow retrieved it or it had flown out of the car during the crash. He searched the glove compartment only to discover the car came from a cheap rental place that specialized in older, practical runabouts. Perfect for getaway cars.
Sam would lay good money the name on the rental papers was fake. Whoever the intruder was, he was an ice-cold professional. He would call Winspear, have him send one of the Company’s crime scene experts, but he didn’t expect that they’d find much.
Whoever this guy was, he was good.
Sam pulled his head out of the car, sucking in clean, sweet air. His head snapped toward Oakwood, where the lights glinted through the trees. He had found what he could for now. Time to get back. Kenyon was guarding Chloe, but that wasn’t enough to stop the tsunami of Sam’s protective instincts.
Chloe.
Then, as if on cue, a scream tore the night.
Chapter 7
Vampires moved fast, but at the sound of the scream Sam moved demon-fast, feet barely grazing the ground as he sprinted. The cry had come from the house. No human would have heard it at that distance, but a vampire could—especially one tuned to that particular voice. Within minutes he pushed through the side door of Jack’s house.
He skidded to a stop, swearing explosively. The door was unguarded. Sure, the larger part of the security staff was searching the grounds for the thief, but an appropriate number had been assigned to watch the house. Had all of them run off to find the source of the cry? It made no sense. That was a beginner’s mistake, and Jack hired only experts. Why would he have idiots watching his back?
He hadn’t. This was simple, pure betrayal. Sam growled, remembering the twisted wreck of Jack’s car, the attacker in Chloe’s bedroom. Who else might be creeping around Oakwood’s halls? He cursed again, this time long and low.
Sam bounded up the stairs, feet silent despite his size. He reached the second floor of Jack’s house, then the third. As he reached the landing, he froze, listening. Chloe? Was that her voice he’d heard? He ghosted forward, eyes searching the shadows for her door. It was shut, but where was Kenyon? A curse on that flea-ridden mutt!
* * *
After she’d locked Sam out of her bedroom, Chloe had tried to go to sleep. If she’d let herself analyze her thoughts, she would have realized she was too scared to sleep—but she couldn’t go there.
If she did, she’d feel like a victim, and she’d felt that too many times before. When her parents died. When she’d been abandoned on what should have been the happiest day of her life—there was a special place in hell for grooms that backed out minutes before it was time to walk down the aisle. No, she wasn’t adding this episode to that box of extra-special horrific memories. She flatly refused.
Instead, maybe she’d blame her insomnia on Sam for putting her hormones in overdrive. What girl could sleep after an eyeful of that white T-shirt and all the smoldering manly goodness underneath? And that sculpted mouth... The thought of Sam made her skin feel itchy in that so-good-it-hurt kind of way.
He was just outside, watching over her. He was scary, but he was on her side.
And he was panting. The sound was faint, muffled by the thick door, but in the absolute silence of the middle of the night she heard—something very weird.
What on earth? Chloe sprang off the bed and raced to the door, pressing her ear to the heavy oak panel. She definitely heard heavy breathing, just outside. A chill crept over her skin as her imagination painted bizarre explanations for the sound. The more bizarre the better, because she was full up on real-life horror.
What on earth could make that noise? Sam gasping his last breath as he was strangled by a giant squid? Zombie Sam slavering at the keyhole, hungry for her brains? Now I’m never going to sleep. Ever.
Cautiously, she dragged the chair from under the knob and cracked the door open. She peered into the hallway, but it was too dark to make anything out. This was so weird. No one was watching her door. Irritation niggled around the edges of her fear. Now that she wanted Sam to be lurking outside, where the blazes was he?
“Hello?” she said tentatively, clutching the thick folds of her terry cloth robe around her.
She thought she heard a clicking sound and stared hard at the darkness. There was only one thing that made that sound—animal toenails. Panting plus clicking equaled dog, not squids or zombies. Boring, but a relief.
But what dog? Jack had owned many pets over the years, but there were none at Oakwood right now. He’d been gone too much these past few years to look after one. Did the dog belong to the security guys? If so, why hadn’t she heard the footsteps of its handler?
