Eric still had her by the waist where he’d grabbed her just as the car whooshed past them, spewing exhaust and burning rubber into the air.
Christina had stumbled back against Eric’s chest, and he pulled her tightly against his body. “Are you okay?”
“That was close.” Her voice shook and she cleared her throat. “What’s the matter with that guy? Didn’t he see us?”
“He saw us, Christina.”
Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath came out in short spurts. “That’s crazy. We’re the FBI, for God’s sake.”
He held out his hand. “Do you want me to drive? Your hands are trembling.”
She dropped the keys into his palm without a word. If he wanted to play the big, strong protector, who was she to argue?
The District
Carol Ericson
CAROL ERICSON lives with her husband and two sons in Southern California, home of state-of-the-art cosmetic surgery, wild freeway chases, palm trees bending in the Santa Ana winds and a million amazing stories. These stories, along with hordes of virile men and feisty women, clamor for release from Carol’s head. It makes for some interesting headaches until she sets them free to fulfill their destinies and her readers’ fantasies. To find out more about Carol, her books and her strange headaches, please visit her website, www.carolericson.com, “Where romance flirts with danger.”
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Contents
Chapter One
Nine times out of ten a dead body will win a staring contest.
Christina blinked and looked away from the lifeless eyes of the twentysomething vic, a gruesome slash across her throat, a tarot card shoved between her stiff fingers.
Tarot cards—Christina knew a thing or two about them. She would’ve expected death on his white horse in this case, but the killer had left the maiden and the lion, an indicator of strength.
Her gaze shifted away from the body and skimmed the trees, their leaves rustling with impatience. “Has anyone checked the surrounding area yet?”
Lieutenant Fitch with the San Francisco P.D. waved his pale hand. “You go right ahead, Agent Sandoval.”
She ground her back teeth together, adjusted her shoulder holster and tromped toward the tree line. If not for that tarot card, she wouldn’t even be here.
The dense nature preserve enveloped her in a cool embrace, muting the voices of the crime scene investigators in the trail behind her. The weak San Francisco sun, still shrugging off the fog, penetrated the foliage in wisps and strands, throwing a beam of light here and dappled shadows there.
She inhaled the scent of eucalyptus, which cleared her senses and ramped up her adrenaline. The murder victim had been jogging on the trail either early this morning or sometime last night. The predator had surprised her, flying at her like an animal on the prowl—lying in wait.
Her nostrils flared and she scanned the underbrush. Lying in wait. He must’ve been watching, waiting for his prey.
Hunching forward, she crept farther into the darkness, her footfalls silenced by nature’s
