being inside her, all night long…
A blissful evening of making love where, for once in his life, he could forget he was FBI. That he had an endless number of cases to work. Murders to solve. Killers to hunt down. Women and children to protect.
A life of violent and heinous crimes.
One that didn’t include pleasure.
A life he wanted to share with Stella.
A frisson of anxiety suddenly assaulted him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He had this feeling often. Every damn time he went to a potential crime scene.
But not now.
Hell no. Not on his wedding night.
Exhaling slowly, he exited the elevator, cut his gaze up and down the hallway, then toward the intersection where the halls met. Nothing seemed out of place. No strangers were lurking in the corner. No guns pointed his way.
Still, his pulse accelerated as he approached his room and inserted the key in the door. The wooden panel swung open.
Maybe Stella had left the door unlocked. Maybe she was waiting in the room, naked with strawberries and whipped cream on her belly. With chocolate sauce on her thighs, and promises in her eyes.
But that eerie premonition clutched at his chest again, and he felt for his gun, removed it from his jacket and slipped inside the room. All was quiet.
Eerily quiet.
Stella was nowhere to be seen.
He glanced at the bathroom but heard nothing. Only a daunting silence. As if the air couldn’t move. As if death had taken residence inside.
His gaze flew to the bed. On top of it lay the white sundress Stella had worn to the chapel. Blood dotted the skirt. The spaghetti straps looked as if they’d been torn.
Shock and horror momentarily paralyzed him. What the hell was going on?
He rushed to examine the damaged dress, picked it up and sniffed the blood to make certain it was real. A mental image of Stella wearing it down the aisle flashed in his head. The bodice had stretched tight over her breasts, the scalloped skirt swirling around her slender bare legs.
His throat closed, confusion and fear clawing at him.
Where was she?
He scanned the room in search of a clue. Her white stilettos were underneath the bed as if she’d kicked them off. The bouquet of fresh flowers had been crushed. Tossed on the end table.
And her suitcase was missing.
Instincts honed by years of training kicked in. He angled himself sideways and approached the bathroom, his imagination going wild. Other images flashed before his eyes. Stella on the floor bleeding. In the tub, drowned. Stella with her neck sliced open. Her eyes staring into space in death.
He’d seen it all before. The horrors of mankind.
But God, not on his wedding night. Not to his bride.
His lungs tightened as he peeked through the door. But no one was inside. The shower stall was closed. She might be hiding behind it.
So might an attacker.
Inching through the doorway, he poised his gun, ready to fire, then jerked open the door.
But it was just as empty as the room. Only a bottle of Stella’s raspberry scented shampoo lay on the floor, the contents spilling over, the red color floating in puddles like blood.
Something bad had happened to Stella.
He flew back to the room, scanned it one more time. A piece of hotel stationery was crumpled on the floor as if it had fluttered there when he’d opened the door.
A ransom note? A Dear John goodbye?
One ear cocked for sounds of an intruder, he leaned over and read the note.
“Don’t come after me. Goodbye.”
The writing was shaky. The note scribbled. A drop of blood dotted the white.
Had she decided their marriage was a mistake, or had she met with foul play?
Rational thoughts kicked in. If she had left of her own accord, why would there be blood?
He grabbed the phone, called security, identified himself as FBI, then ordered them to get someone up to his room. Within minutes, a chunky man with rumpled clothing and a name tag that read Ted appeared.
Ted frowned as he entered. “You reported that your wife is missing?”
Luke nodded, and removed a photo, the only one he had. The wedding photo of them kissing at the chapel. Thunderous emotions rose in his throat at the sight.
In the photo Stella had clung to him. She had looked happy. She had wanted to marry him and be his wife.
“We’ll call the local police.” Ted cocked a brow. “But, sir, are you sure she didn’t just, er…” He cleared his throat and glanced away, his face turning red. “Leave you?”
“There’s blood on her dress,” Luke snapped. His emotions pinged back and forth between fear and panic. And there was more. He had wanted to make a life with Stella. Had finally carved a place in his heart for a woman. Now it felt as if someone had jammed a knife in his aorta, and his own blood was spurting out.
It was unbelievable. Luke Devlin was an agent, a hardass, a man who investigated cases for others. He’d never been personally involved in a case before. That is, except for his partner J.T.’s recent death.
The man glanced at the dress, then at Luke and took a step back. A wary look darkened his eyes.
Luke looked down and realized he’d made a fatal mistake. He’d touched the dress. It held the scent of his cologne. His dirty handprints muddied the white.
And his fingerprints were all over the room. His day had gone from bad to horrible to worse. He was the husband, the one who’d called in the crime.
When the police came, they’d treat him as a suspect.
As if they thought he’d killed his wife.
Just as they’d treated him after J.T.’s recent demise.
Chapter One
Thirteen months later—Savannah, Georgia
The sheets were soaked in blood.
Stella stared at them in shock, then glanced down at her trembling hands. More blood. On her hands. Her fingers. Her nightgown.
It was still wet.
Then she saw the man.
Moonlight streaked his face, a golden outline of his still form stark against the bloodstained sheets. Nausea rose
