away, he winked at Charlotte, startling her, drawing her focus back to his teasing eyes. “As long as you’re nice to the lady.”
For a moment, her eyes locked on to his. The teasing faded and something warmer, regretful almost, filled the air between them. Unused to her body’s curious response to a man who was practically a stranger to her, she hugged her arms tighter around the dog. But she couldn’t look away.
Caught up in those eyes, in the kindness he’d unexpectedly shown her, in the confident strength of his presence, she breathed deeply, freely—once, twice. Maybe he was more serene mountain than volatile volcano, after all.
He nodded, breaking the spell. “Charlotte.”
And then Trip Jones walked away. Again.
Taking Charlotte’s gratitude, and something less familiar and curiously unsettling, with him.
THE MAN SITTING IN THE dark vehicle adjusted the focus on his zoom lens and snapped one more photo, congratulating himself on capturing the image of a bloodied, harried woman, curled into a ball and hugging her dog in the back of an ambulance.
Pleased with his work, he powered down the camera and zipped it neatly into its carrying bag beside the cell phone he’d already crushed beneath his shoe. He tucked the bag into its spot on the floor behind his seat. Then he pulled his computerized notebook into his lap and clicked out of his file of old newspaper files and photos, which had provided all the information he needed to recreate the most vivid, frightening moments in Charlotte Mayweather’s life. With two more clicks he was online. He smiled. Yes. People were already chatting and blogging about Charlotte Mayweather coming out of hiding and being involved in another unfortunate incident.
His anonymous post of tonight’s events had generated the response he wanted. Just as his helpful phone call had created the crowd of chaos he was enjoying tonight.
Success flowed through his veins as he closed the computer and packed it in its pocket as well. Risking someone spotting the distant glow of his cigarette, he inhaled one last, long drag before pulling it from his lips and putting it out in the ashtray. He crushed the butt down—once, twice, three times before laying it neatly atop the ashes and shutting the tray.
He picked up the gaudy daisy earring from the dashboard and cradled it in his open palm, smiling at the perfect order of things tonight.
A good smoke.
Tidy surroundings.
An unexpected souvenir plucked from the floor of the Mayweather Museum’s warehouse.
Yes. She’d just realized it was gone. His old friend was so terrified by his actions that he could see her practically crawling out of her skin as cops and medics and family alike tried to keep her on the gurney in that ambulance. Getting to the reclusive Charlotte Mayweather had been a cakewalk for a man like him.
She’d always thought she had all the answers—that she was smarter, better than him—that her father’s money gave her the right to dismiss his talents. She’d made that mistake once—couldn’t be bothered with what he had to offer, refused to listen to reason. But he’d proved her wrong tonight. Not only was he intelligent enough to get to Charlotte, he was clever enough to get inside her head.
He breathed in deeply, savoring the lingering smoke in the air, enjoying the satisfaction of a job well done.
Nailing the old man had been simple. All he had to do was walk up and knock on the car window. The chauffeur had actually smiled, perhaps recognizing him, then rolled down the window as if he wanted to offer help. He reached over and stroked the gun and silencer on the seat beside him. The old man had helped, had served the necessary purpose. It wasn’t the first man’s death he’d agreed to in order to make his vengeful plan come to fruition.
He was halfway through his list of wealthy women who’d slighted him over the years. Women he’d once trusted. Women who had used, betrayed and laughed at him. There’d be one more name checked off that list if Audrey Kline’s zealous boyfriend hadn’t gone into 24/7 bodyguard mode last November. Or maybe it had been his own mistake, thinking he could trust a gang of thugs to follow the rules of his plan.
He bristled where he sat, the sweet aroma of his rare cigarette souring into a foul memory in his nose and lungs. He didn’t make mistakes.
His fingers curved around the earring and squeezed, its sharp edges cutting into his skin.
Normally, he preferred to put his hands on his victims, to feel them writhing with fear, to hear them begging for mercy. He opened his hand and forced himself to breathe deeply, recalling Charlotte’s screams of terror when he’d beat on the door. The erratic rhythm of his pulse evened out as he replayed her helpless gasp over the phone in his head. He turned from his hidden vantage point and watched her manic movements and pale expression as she dodged reporters and battled with cops and medical personnel amidst the glare of headlights and spotlights and television cameras. Seeing her weakness paraded on display in front of her family and the press strengthened his resolve, calmed him.
This was all going to plan. Charlotte Mayweather craved security, predictability—she needed to know and trust everything and everyone around her in order to function like a normal human being.
He’d take all that and more from her.
Feeling tonight’s victory coursing through his veins again, he tucked the earring into his pocket and started the engine. Power over those who had wronged him, control of his own destiny—those were heady things that restored the equilibrium inside his own head.
He pulled onto the street, driving two blocks before turning on his lights and heading across the city.
His thorough research into her kidnapping ordeal, and into the hellish trial that followed, had paid off. He was in her head now, exactly where he wanted to be.
Charlotte Mayweather didn’t stand a chance.
Chapter Four
Trip downed the last of his beer in one long swallow and plunked the empty glass on the table. Of all the nights he’d been to the Shamrock Bar, celebrating successful missions with his team, commiserating over the rare loss of a hostage or saluting a fallen friend, he’d always been able to tune out the noise of too many conversations and television sets and concentrate on his friends. Or on a pretty face who didn’t mind a little flirtation. Or on one of the classic novels he’d been too frustrated to get through when the rest of his classmates had been reading them back in school.
Thank God for Classic Comics—or he might not have the high-school diploma he’d needed to get into the police academy eleven years ago.
He rolled an imaginary crick from his neck and turned his attention back to the paperback he was reading at the corner table. It might take him all year long, but he was determined to get through the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Only, Ents and elves and the scramble of letters he called Mordor kept getting sidetracked by sword-wielding women with pesky dogs and curvy hips and expressive eyes that shouldn’t be hidden away behind a pair of glasses.
He turned his page toward the light hanging on the wall beside him and tried to focus. The qeaçous … no, beacons of Gondor are alight, calling for aid.
But Trip’s thoughts weren’t in Middle Earth.
