turned around to head back and was stunned to find herself staring at Jack Smith.
“Where’s Rene?” she asked, immediately going on the offensive.
“You tell me. And thanks for confirming that that was Rene. At least we know she’s alive at the moment, and presumably well.”
Chloe frowned, watching him. “What is your concern with Rene?”
He shrugged.
He was an interesting man, she decided. Tall and lean, but with broad shoulders and hard-muscled arms, and an abdomen that was probably like steel. And his eyes. They seemed to cut right through her. His face had too much of a hard, rugged edge to be termed handsome, but somehow the conglomeration of all his features made him more attractive than any of the perfect models back at the party. He was undeniably compelling. She was extremely suspicious of him, and yet … being close to him seemed to make the night warmer. She had the sense that touching him now would be like trying to hold on to an electric shock. He’d been courteous when they’d been introduced before … but there was something in his eyes. Something hard. And it made him all the more suspicious—and, somehow, physically appealing.
“She’ll make a great swimsuit model,” he said.
“So great that you were wandering around upstairs—hunting her down?” Chloe demanded.
“You have to break a few rules to get ahead in this world,” he told her. “So, your turn. Why were you chasing me?”
“Because you were chasing Rene.”
“Why wasn’t Rene at the party when she was at the house?” he demanded. “You girls are tight—I assume. Or are you?”
She was a fake, of course.
But the others were the real thing.
“I don’t know,” Chloe said. “Maybe she was afraid that some strange new designer would be looking for her. Some guy who’d gone a little off the deep end, enough to chase her down a trellis and all along the beach.”
He grinned at that. She was surprised to see how that grin made him … even more appealing and … flat-out sexy.
Dangerously so? she wondered. After all, some of the most heinous killers in history had exuded a deadly charm.
“All’s fair in the fashion industry, or so I understand,” he said.
As they stood there, frozen in an odd face-off, someone suddenly emerged from the low foliage that separated the sand from the street.
It was Rene, and she jetted off like a rabbit in alarm.
Jack immediately lost interest in their conversation and turned to go after Rene.
Chloe’s own response was impulsive—and protective. She flew across the sand after him and leaped onto his back. To her amazement, he managed to remain upright and sling her around so that she fell to the sand. He started to run again, and she caught his ankle. Still, he didn’t fall, not until she twisted around in a mixed—martial arts movement that brought him down at last.
She didn’t need to win; she just needed to buy enough time for Rene to disappear somewhere. She didn’t know what was going on, but designers did not chase down models, whether all was fair in fashion or not.
Chloe jumped back to her feet—it was her turn to run.
But apparently he knew he’d lost Rene and had decided to maintain whatever connection he had with her instead. This time he caught her ankle, and she plunged back to the sand. Before she knew it, he was straddling her, pinning her wrists. He wasn’t really trying to hurt her, though. His hold was easy, and he was keeping his full weight off her.
“All right, time for an honest conversation,” he said. He spoke like a man accustomed to being in command, and she resented it. But she was also acutely aware of the way his thighs cradled her body as he held her down. Warmth spread through her, and she was appalled by the way she found herself wondering what he would be like if he cared about a woman… .
She gritted her teeth. They were engaged in a physical battle, she could be in danger, and he could be a monster. What the hell was wrong with her?
The man couldn’t be a monster. Every instinct she had was sure of it.
She told herself not to be an idiot. An untold number of dead women had no doubt told themselves the same thing.
No. There would be no conversation, and no letting him maintain that edge of authority. Her wrists might be pinned, but her legs were free, and she could tell that he wasn’t prepared for her to fight back. She twisted and slammed her knees up at the same time. To her delight, she did take him by surprise, throwing him off to the side.
But he was quick to rebound. He caught her before she could rise. She tried a feint to the left, but he was ready, so she became a flurry of motion. He swore, trying to contain her flying arms and legs, but she got in one good whack to his chin; she heard the thunk and his grunt of pain.
But he didn’t give up. She might be a vicious terrier, but it seemed she had come across a rottweiler.
And he was still trying to restrain her, not knock her out. She had definitely hurt him, but he was just fighting for control—and he was winning.
“Hey, hey, hey! What the hell is going on?”
Chloe knew the voice, and she sighed with relief.
Lieutenant Anthony Stuckey, metro police. Stuckey never had to leave a desk these days unless he wanted to, but he was an old-time cop, and—he wanted to. He was friends with her uncle Leo, and friends with her. He had encouraged her to pursue her interest in art after her sketches had helped solve her own case, and he had encouraged her to use her artistic talent to help the police, though he also spent plenty of time warning her that she wasn’t a cop herself.
“Tony! Help!” she cried.
“Officer,” Jack Smith said.
He rose, as calmly as if they’d just been lying there soaking up the moonlight, not fighting like a couple of rival gang members.
When she started to scramble to her feet, he offered her a hand, but she slapped it away.
“This man was trying to attack one of the models at the Bryson party,” she informed Stuckey.
“This young woman is mistaken. I didn’t attack anyone. As I’m sure you know, Lieutenant Stuckey.”
Chloe’s jaw dropped, and she snapped it shut quickly. This man knew Stuckey!
She stared at the lieutenant. He was built as powerfully as a bull and didn’t have much of a neck. He kept his snow-white hair cropped close to his skull, and his eyes were a clear sky blue that were incapable of mirroring anything but the truth.
And in his eyes she saw that it was true. He and this man knew one another.
Stuckey looked at her. “I gather there’s been a misunderstanding of some sort,” he said.
She
