the open doorway at the two men on her beige sofa, then stifled a sigh. FBI. That did make them her protectors. She guessed. But the desperation she’d seen in their eyes once she’d opened that door told her this visit wasn’t about keeping her out of harm’s way.
It was the exact opposite.
She wiped up the coffee stain as best as she could, then quickly filled the other mugs, set them on a tray and walked into the living room.
“Thank you,” said the blond-haired man as she handed him a cup. Rick Scott, he’d said his name was. He looked pleasant enough, his smile genuine, but it was the other man who captured Sam’s attention.
Tall, dark and handsome—a cliché, but one that suited him oh so well. Hair the color of rich chocolate, probably in need of a haircut, since it fell onto his forehead whenever he moved his head. But the scruffy look fit him, made his black trousers, white button-down shirt and sports coat seem less conservative—it gave him an edge. His eyes were a deep whiskey color, but when she looked closer, she could see the flecks of amber around his pupils.
Sinking into the armchair farthest from the sofa, she watched as Blake Corwin reached for his coffee. Even in his sports coat, she could tell that his arms were powerful, muscled. His wide chest and broad shoulders exuded the same power. Even though he was a complete stranger, his big strong body and intense brown eyes made her feel—for the moment—protected.
And…aroused?
No, impossible.
Leaning back in the chair, she would’ve liked to analyze her odd reaction further, that little flicker of heat that sparked in her belly at the sight of him, but Rick Scott spoke before she could do that.
“We apologize for showing up like this,” he said, his voice gentle and soothing, giving Sam the sense that he had a lot of practice talking to victims.
Victim. The word loitered in her brain like a stray dog looking for scraps. Was that what she was? A victim? Swallowing back the acid creeping up her throat, she resisted the urge to shake her head. No, not a victim. A survivor.
“But we’re running out of time,” Blake Corwin finished.
She liked his voice. Not as gentle as his partner’s, it had a husky, almost raspy quality to it. Sexy, most women would probably say.
Blake set down his mug on the small cedar coffee table and directed that intense gaze at her. “He grabbed a woman named Elaine Woodman from her office in downtown Chicago. It was one-thirty in the afternoon, and no one saw a thing.”
Sam fingered the long white scar on the inside of her wrist, disturbed by what he’d said. “That’s unusual, isn’t it? For him, anyway.”
He nodded. “The others were attacked in their homes, always at night. We’re not sure why he just changed his MO like that.”
“And she survived the attack?” She rubbed the scar, its texture jagged and bumpy under the pad of her thumb.
“Miraculously,” Blake answered. His expression grew somber. “He left her in an abandoned warehouse, probably assuming she’d bleed to death. But he underestimated Elaine. Somehow she managed to crawl out and drag herself onto the street. A jogger found her and called 9-1-1.”
“She lost so much blood that the doctors were surprised she managed to recover,” Rick added.
Sam stopped toying with the scar, clasped her hands on her waist and bit her lower lip. Why were they telling her this? Didn’t they care what it was doing to her? When she’d first seen them on her doorstep, she’d assumed they’d come to take yet another statement from her. That’s why she’d been antagonistic, why her guard had shot up. Because the idea of telling her gruesome story even one more time was about as appealing as eating dirt. But no, they were here to tell her about another woman’s horror, which was equally upsetting, if not more so.
Leaning forward, she fumbled for her coffee, gripped the mug between fingers that had suddenly grown icier than the air outside. A puff of steam rose from the cup and moistened the tip of her nose.
After taking a brief sip, she focused her gaze on the two men again. “I’m glad she’s all right,” she finally said, not quite sure why her voice sounded so cold.
“She’s not all right,” Blake corrected, his eyes meeting hers and holding. “Physically, yes, she’s recovering, but—”
The loud ring of the telephone cut him off, but Sam made no move to reach for the cordless phone sitting on the table. Both agents watched her expectantly, waiting, but they sat motionless. It was only when the answering machine switched on that she acted.
“Lori, it’s Virginia. I don’t mean to frighten you, but I saw a strange car pulling into your driveway, and I just wanted to make sure—”
Sam clicked the “on” button and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi, Virginia, sorry, I didn’t make it to the phone in time.”
The relief in her elderly neighbor’s voice was unmistakable. “Is everything all right, Lori? I saw an unfamiliar car and I was scared it might be burglars.”
Considering that the town of Wellstock boasted a crime rate of zero, Sam managed a chuckle. “No need to worry, Ginny. I’m fine. Some friends of mine just came to visit, that’s all.”
“Oh, good. You know I don’t like knowing you’re out there in that big house all by yourself.”
“Don’t worry, I’m all right. But thanks for calling.”
Sam said goodbye and hung up, then turned to her visitors. “My neighbor,” she explained.
Neither man commented on the fact that she’d been screening her calls. These days the phone didn’t ring much, but when it did, she never picked up until she heard a familiar voice on the machine. Not until she was absolutely certain that whoever was on the other end couldn’t hurt her. But no matter how recognizable the voice, she still experienced a tremor of fear each time she heard the name Lori Kendall.
God, she wished she could be Lori Kendall. Lori was a writer from Chicago who’d moved out to this farmhouse because she was tired of urban life. She was working on a new novel about the love affair between a Nazi soldier and a Jewish peasant in war-torn Germany, and she was so wrapped up in her work that she never went into town or struck up friendships with the Wellstock residents. But they all understood because writers, after all, were a strange breed.
Sam didn’t know if the cover story made her feel like laughing or crying. The life the Bureau had given her was so different from the one she’d led before the attack, but it was a life she now wished she’d chosen for herself. Lori, the writer, would never have encountered a flesh-and-blood killer, only the ones she wrote about in her books.
But she wasn’t really Lori, was she? No, she was Samantha Dawson, and the alias she’d received from the Witness Protection Program was just another reminder of the danger she still faced. Would probably always face, as long as the man who’d hurt her was on the loose.
Crossing her legs, Sam raked her fingers through her long hair and sighed. “Where were we? Right, his latest victim.”
She sounded cold again, even a little indifferent, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want these men knowing that everything about this visit scared the crap out of her. She didn’t want them to know that talking and hearing about another woman being attacked in the same way paralyzed her with fear. Better to let them think she didn’t care, that she was over it, so far past it she didn’t give a damn anymore.
“Elaine Woodman is in bad shape,” Blake said, the determination in his eyes giving way to weariness. “She refuses to talk about what happened to her, and we know she’s holding back details that could break this investigation. She’s too scared, won’t trust anyone to help her. It’s almost as if she thinks that as long as she pretends it didn’t happen, it will all go away.”
Sam stared at the agent, amazed by his cavalier