Then the daydream gave way to reality.
She realized what her mother asked. Finding those vials would take all her strength. She’d have to walk right up to the predator and touch his pockets…. Easier if she were kissing him.
Easier still if she asked someone else to help her. Daniel! Her lover would be immune to the pheromone, and he was strong. Maybe he could help her search for the vials.
Of course, that would mean she’d have to tell him the truth.
Ann stood and tried to tell herself she didn’t mind telling him her true nature. She tried to imagine Daniel at her side rummaging through the predator’s room. He’d help her. Especially once he knew what was at stake for her.
She opened the conference-room door and headed to the elevators, hoping the predator was gone.
He wasn’t. He stood by the far doorway, his eyes on her as she exited the dim hall.
With her chin high, she headed for the elevator. Students walked past him through the door to his right, but he ignored them. He leaned down and nipped his companion’s ear. With her lobe between his teeth, his deliberate fingers traced the woman’s shoulder and spiraled down her arm in slow circles. He caressed the woman’s breast, cupping it in his palm and brushing his thumb over the areola.
As she watched the scene, a jagged bolt of desire raced through Ann. The woman’s wide eyes were locked on something Ann couldn’t see—but beneath her pixie cut, her face flushed.
Ann pressed the up button for the elevator.
Across the lobby, the predator released his companion and walked toward the elevator, toward Ann. He moved like a panther. She saw that the predator wore an official name tag.
The urge to run shot through her veins, but the door pinged open and she went inside. She pushed the close-door button and stuck her key card into the slot for the concierge floor.
He gave her a seductive grin and raised one dark eyebrow. You haven’t escaped me yet, his expression seemed to say.
But she had—or, rather, she would.
2
Chiron crossed the lobby in three long strides, his fists ready. He had to stop Sutherland from getting into the elevator with the woman in the red dress.
The woman stopped Sutherland first, though. She quickly slid a key card through the reader and pressed a button. The elevator closed before Sutherland could get in.
Chiron caught a glimpse of the woman’s face as the doors closed. Beneath her austere ballerina bun, she looked scared, her eyes locked on Sutherland’s. Her hand clutched the skirt of her formal dress.
Chiron breathed a little easier—her fear was good. If she wasn’t ignorant of the danger, she might live a little longer. Sutherland and his girlfriend had killed, at least once, and Chiron would stop them from killing again—or die trying.
He stood in the lobby’s throng, not wanting to draw Sutherland’s attention to himself. How badly did Sutherland want the austere blonde? Would he take the next elevator to follow her? The stairs? No. Sutherland glanced at his girlfriend, a tiny woman with auburn hair, and pointed toward the bar. She nodded and followed him.
Chiron considered tailing them—as he had in every off-duty moment of the last two years—but he’d gotten nothing for his trouble, except a warning from the squad sergeant. He would have killed Sutherland months ago, but then he would never find Akantha’s remains. Would he ever discover what really happened to her? He had been protecting Akantha for so long. Even in her death, he didn’t want to let her go.
“Take the next elevator,” Chiron told a small crowd of conference-goers. If following Sutherland were a fruitless task, maybe following Sutherland’s red-dressed quarry wouldn’t be. Maybe she knew what Sutherland was up to, could somehow lead him to Akantha’s remains. He pressed the button, and the door slid open.
Stepping inside, he slid in the key card for the concierge level and glowered—the elevator doors were too damned slow. Maybe he could save her. Maybe he could save the blonde where he’d failed Akantha. If the elevator ever moved.
“Damn.” Chiron slid the card again, hoping to convince the doors to shut. Akantha’s red hair had been a wild mass, hair more fitting for a Plains pony than a woman. She’d been leaning on Sutherland’s arm that night, her lips curled as she’d delivered a flirtatious jab. She’d always been good at those. She’d always been good at staying just out of Chiron’s reach, too, but that memory wouldn’t help him now.
As the elevator whirred up the flights, Akantha’s final smile flashed though his mind, stabbing his gut and twisting. What had Sutherland done to her, with her? If she’d been tortured…If she’d suffered…Almost two years later, the guilt nearly choked him. If he’d been man enough to hold her affection just a little longer…If he could have protected her…
Stop it. Laments could last centuries, and they never cured a thing.
His brain refused to listen, though. Akantha’s face—flushed with desire—flashed through his mind. “Chiron,” she’d said, her long fingers possessively hanging on Sutherland’s arm. “This night is mine. Leave me be.”
Thankfully the elevator doors opened before the memory played itself out. Touching his gun, Chiron relegated the sorrow to a dark pocket of his mind and stepped into the silent hallway. He stayed focused now, turning the corner as quietly as he could.
“Jesus!” She nearly jumped out of her skin. Behind her heavy-rimmed glasses, her eyes were wide with fear. The air felt strange in the hallway—it crackled with ozone. “You scared the crap out of me,” she said.
“Relax. I’m a cop.” He reached for his badge. Something had seriously freaked her out. Erik Sutherland.
“A cop.” She took a deep breath, and he watched her relax. He could tell she was glad to have him here.
He showed her his badge. “Kai Atlanta. San Diego PD.”
“PD as in Police Department,” she said. It wasn’t a question. He had the feeling she was trying to calm herself.
“Yeah.” He drew out the word. “What else would it mean?”
The muscles in her shoulders loosened, and although she didn’t smile, he could see her thinking about it.
“You have an MD?” she asked. Even pulled back in a severe ballerina bun, her hair was beautiful, like spun gold. Straight fringe crossed her forehead in a clean line, and each strand was impossibly thick and neat.
“I’m not a doctor,” he said.
“If you’re not a doc, PD doesn’t stand for Parkinson’s disease, then. Rules out progressive disease, too.”
She was teasing him, he realized. “I guess it does.” What the hell was progressive disease?
“If you’re a chemist, PD might stand for palladium.” She inspected his thighs and chest, boldly. “But you don’t look like any chemist I’ve ever met.”
“Not
