walk through the door of her lieutenant’s office at any minute. Had anticipated her arrival.
Yet the instant she stepped into view, he’d been hit with a jolt of electricity. He had spent a lifetime moderating his emotions, had built up a level of control so rigid that nothing or no one ever caught him off guard.
Grace McCall-Fox had. Big-time.
Knowing that just the sight of her had made his mouth go dry and his gut clench into knots did not sit well. Granted, she was the one woman—the only woman—for whom he had felt a pull of something far beyond physical attraction. While they were lovers he had chosen not to analyze the intense, mindless emotion that had drawn him to her. It had been a huge enough step for him to acknowledge that his relationship with Grace had been the first from which he couldn’t seem to make a clean break and walk away. So, when the transfer he’d coveted to the Bureau’s Crimes Against Children Unit came through, he’d asked her to move back east with him.
She’d said no. Understandable, seeing as how her world revolved around her large, rowdy family. Then there had been tradition to consider—almost every McCall had served on the Oklahoma City PD. Doing so had been Grace’s lifelong dream, one she found impossible to give up.
He had coolly accepted her decision. Made no effort to change her mind. Logically he knew his promotion to the CACU meant he would spend most of his time traveling, leaving Grace behind in an unfamiliar city. She’d have gotten the raw end of the deal, and he hadn’t blamed her for turning him down.
So, he had walled off the regret that had washed over him, just as he had taught himself to block out all other emotion. He had put the memory of Grace McCall into the far reaches of his mind and immersed himself in his work.
It was only natural she’d crept into his thoughts now and again over the years, but he and Grace had parted on good terms and what was done was done. He wasn’t the only one who had moved on, either. Grace had married a cop—then buried him three years later.
For himself, Mark had spent the past years building his reputation in the law enforcement community, along with unused leave time. He had no roots, no family, no woman waiting for him to return. It was the lifestyle he wanted. He traveled wherever the job took him, primarily from one crime scene to another. He worked case after case, dealing with an endless cycle of abused, kidnapped and murdered children. Child after child, body after body, one malicious crime after another.
The horror he encountered in his work never surprised him. He’d grown up knowing firsthand that the devil walked the face of the earth. Knew too well the terror suffered by a child at the mercy of a monster. Years later he had learned that most of the people in the small town where he’d grown up had known about the beatings he’d endured, but had chosen to look the other way. He’d joined the FBI, vowing to hunt down as many child-preying deviants as possible.
Without warning, the fatigue that now held him constantly in its grip shuddered through him. He tightened his gloved hands on the steering wheel and attempted to twitch the weariness out of his shoulders. What he needed was a good night’s sleep, but he’d long ago given up hope for that.
Over the past year—or was it two now?—he’d had a recurring dream that replayed the images of the bruised and battered victims in every case he’d worked while in the CACU. An unending parade of child after child. Monster after monster. The dream was like acid, slowly eating away the hours he slept each night.
Now, if he got any rest at all, it was fitful. He had forgotten the last time he’d slept through an entire night. Forgotten what is was like to eat a meal and not have the lining of his stomach ignite like a blowtorch. He had dropped weight. When he ate now, it was because he had to. He moved from crime scene to crime scene, hotel room to hotel room, lying awake and alone in strange beds, sweating from the dream that plagued him.
Exhaling a curse, he reached down deep inside for the strength to fight off the draining fatigue. He couldn’t stop. Couldn’t back off. He had monsters to catch.
He checked the notepad on which he’d jotted the address Grace had given him, drove two more blocks and made a right turn. Dammit, he should be in California, working the kidnap case that he’d correctly guessed had turned into a homicide last night when the little girl’s body had been found. Or maybe he was needed worse in New Orleans where three preteen boys had disappeared in the past month. Then there was the small town in Alaska where a killer currently preyed on young female victims.
Mark felt another tremor of fatigue. Each one of those cases had first priority; in each, time was critical. Just wanting—needing—to be somewhere else aggravated his frustration and exhaustion.
And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t totally sure he felt up to dealing with Sergeant Grace McCall-Fox. Not after the way he’d reacted to her yesterday. He was pointedly aware that her elderly lady look had done nothing to quell the jolt he’d felt when she walked into the office. No one had to remind him about the truly fascinating body concealed beneath that baggy gray dress. Or point out it had been years since he’d felt that kind of warmth surge in his blood. He’d reacted to Grace’s presence yesterday the same way he had the day he met her. Instant attraction. A burning, immediate desire to get his hands on her. Searing lust.
Now, though, he didn’t feel either physically or emotionally up to dealing with that kind of response. Chances were, he’d made a huge mistake by requesting to use Grace as his contact with the OCPD. What was done was done, however, and there was no changing that.
He spotted the address, then pulled the car up to the curb in front of a two-story house painted a cool blue with gleaming white trim. Through the veil of snow, the small porch with slender ivy-wrapped columns looked inviting, with a white wicker table and chair snugged into one corner. A garland of evergreen framed the front door; a wreath adorned with a gigantic plaid bow and loaded with shiny red balls hung in its center. Four cars crowded the driveway, including an OCPD black-and-white. With so many cops in the McCall family, Mark didn’t even hazard a guess on who had driven the cruiser there.
Instead of climbing out of the rental car, he left its engine idling while he gazed at the house and conjured up a picture of Grace.
He had always found a certain fascination with her face—those carved cheekbones that rose high and taut against skin the color of gold dust, her thinly bridged nose and angular chin. Then there was her mouth—full and rich and moist. A mouth that had taken him over the edge to heaven countless times.
That was it, he reasoned, and closed his eyes against a remembered kick of lust. His response to her yesterday had been totally physical. She was, after all, a beautiful woman with whom he’d engaged in uncountable bouts of hot, steamy sex. He hadn’t been with a woman at all for some time, so it was only natural he would respond to one who had once had the power to stir his blood with just a look. A touch. A moan that slid, raw and ragged, up her throat.
“Christ,” he muttered when a quiet ache of longing for that part of his past rose inside him. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but whatever it was, he damn well didn’t need it.
He snapped off the ignition, jerked off one glove and scrubbed a hand over his face. Judging from what he knew right now about the case he and Grace would be working, he probably wouldn’t be in town long enough to do anything about this unexpected stirring in his blood. They would deal with what needed to be done, then, as always, he would move on. Which he figured was best for everyone involved.
Mark snagged a file folder off the passenger seat and stepped out of the car into the swirling snow. The frigid air stung his cheeks, scraped his throat like little bits of ice. The cold wind blew back the flaps of his black wool coat;
