down her arms for all the wrong reasons. He slowly raised his hands, keeping his elbows close in by his sides.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response, Stalker Boy.” She kept the Firestar aimed at his chest, adrenaline making her peripheral vision narrow until all she could see was him over the sights of her gun. “Just put your weapon on the floor and keep your hands where I can see them, because I will not hesitate to shoot you if you even breathe too hard in my direction.”
“How did you—?”
“Drop. The. Gun.” She gestured impatiently with her own weapon. “Now.”
He complied, stretching his arm out to drop his Glock as close to her as possible. “Okay, it’s on the floor. I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, never taking those still, gray eyes off her.
“Whatever. Now the one on your ankle.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have—”
“Spare me. Your leg drags when you walk.”
With a hiss of breath, he bent over and pushed up the frayed hem of his faded jeans, unstrapping the small .38 from the ankle holster she’d known was there. He casually tossed the gun aside, sending it skittering across the ceramic tiles and through the arched doorway into the formal dining room. Then, raising his palms, he opened his eyes wide with what she was fast beginning to realize was his “trust me” look—which really wasn’t working. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he repeated.
“Great,” Maggie responded calmly, trying not to think about what was going to happen to her nerves once the adrenaline high wore off. “Then why don’t you sit down in that chair and tell me who the hell you are?”
“Billy Corrigan, FBI Computer Crimes Division.”
“Get your hand back up where I can see it,” Maggie snapped as Billy’s hand froze on its way to his back pocket. “Back up in the air, there we go.” Making a wide circle around the table, she stopped directly behind the chair nearest the small mission-style phone table. All telephones in the house were programmed to dial 911 at the push of a button, and it couldn’t hurt her to be as near one of them as possible. “I don’t want to see your ID, Billy Corrigan, if that’s really your name.”
“It is,” he replied calmly. “But it’s funny. You don’t look like a Mary Smythe.”
“Says you.” Her gun arm was beginning to grow tired, probably from the months—no, years now—she’d been off active duty. She tightened her grip on the Firestar, hoping he wouldn’t notice that her hands were shaking.
He shrugged, the casual gesture belying the intensity of his pale eyes as they skimmed across her face, seemingly memorizing it. “Black hair, nice tan, despite living under constant cloud cover. You look more like a Maria.”
“So my parents are Honduran. So what?”
“In fact, I’d even say you look exactly like a Magdalena. Don’t you think, Maggie Reyes?” he asked softly, pinning her with those other-worldly eyes just as surely as if he’d slammed a hand against her throat.
Maggie gasped, backing into the kitchen counter so suddenly, she felt a burst of pain as the edge jabbed into the small of her back. “How—?”
“I read all your books,” he said, anticipating her question. “Including the author bio. You were a cop for four years before you turned to crime writing full-time. You’ve written eight true crime books for a major publisher, about half of which have landed on some bestseller list somewhere. You used to have a dog named Andromeda, although I don’t see any evidence of her here. And you like surfing and any other sport connected with water.”
Maggie could only stare at him, unsure whether to be impressed or deeply frightened.
“I recognized you from the book jacket photo,” Corrigan continued. He hitched one shoulder in a singular shrug. “Nice shot. It does you justice.”
Before she could react, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, tossing it on the table so it landed with a loud smack. It fell open, the large, blue FBI at the top of the ID she’d never gotten a solid glimpse of reassuring her slightly.
“You’ll find a business card inside with Fay Parker’s name on it,” he said. “She’s the SAC of the San Francisco field office. Call her. She’ll tell you I’m legit.” Corrigan sat down and leaned back in one of her kitchen chairs, lazily stretching his lean, denim-encased legs out in front of him.
SAC. It took her a few minutes to remember that the acronym meant Special Agent in Charge. Darn, it had been a while since she’d been in the game. Maggie tore her gaze away from the man’s wallet on the table, keeping the gun between them as she tried hard to keep her fear under control. “I don’t understand what you’re doing here. If you’re assigned to the San Francisco office, why would a serial killer who, until now, has stuck to his Louisiana territory, interest you?” She braced her tiring right elbow on the Formica and shot him what she hoped was a skeptical look. “Especially if you’re in Computer Crimes. What’re you going to do if you find him—throw old motherboards at him?”
Before she could react, he sprang out of the chair and pinned her with his body against the counter. She instinctively raised her hands to protect her face, a whimper escaping her lips before she could quell it. She didn’t even notice that the Firestar was no longer in her possession until she heard the magazine clatter to the floor, soon followed by a sharp clink indicating he’d ejected the chambered round as well.
“I’ll figure something out,” he said softly, making her all too conscious of just how vulnerable she was.
“Get out,” Maggie whispered, disgusted with herself. That wouldn’t have happened to her two years ago, when she’d been in the best shape of her life—and most likely able to defend herself against the charms of a too-handsome man with scary reflexes. She swiped her hand at the empty gun he held over their heads, knowing as she did so that it was a futile gesture.
It was. Instead, Maggie contented herself with wrapping her hands under his left wrist, which was braced against the counter. With a speed that came from years of training and eighteen months with nothing better to do, she brought the arch of her foot down hard along his shin, ending the move by crunching her weight down on his instep. In the split second where Corrigan slightly lost his balance, Maggie pushed back on his wrist, ducking under his arm and finally pinning it to his back at an awkward angle.
“You like to play rough, Maggie?” he asked through gritted teeth.
Jerk. She pushed the offending limb into an even more impossible position. “Drop my gun. Drop it now, or I’ll break your arm,” she snarled.
He dropped the Firestar, but twisted out of her grasp when her attention was momentarily drawn to the fallen weapon.
“Okay,” he said, backing away from her and holding his hands out so his palms faced her. “Okay. There’s no reason to get upset. I need your help, Maggie. I swear, that’s the honest truth. I never meant to frighten you.”
“Right,” she retorted. “So your whole ‘speak softly and flash a big gun’ schtick was meant to be reassuring? Was this before or after you were going to stop impersonating an officer and tell me who you really were?”
“Maggie—”
