There’s a weighted beat where I stare at her card, at her slender fingers next to it, as if she’s waiting for me to accept the invitation. My gaze lingers on the faded ink of a tattooed key along the side of her palm before she pulls her hand away.
“Thank you for all your help, London.” I cast a look upward to meet her eyes once more.
Her smile seems sincere.
As she heads toward the door, I cross to the terrace and gaze out over the city. I pull Alex’s broken watch from my pocket and rub the smooth pewter surface, a strange sensation unfurling through me as I hear London leave the hotel room. I never mentioned Alex’s last name. Yet, near the end of our conversation, she referred to him as Dr. Chambers.
I’m not sure what that means, but it unspools a thread of apprehension between us.
I click the watch closed.
Despite my wariness, London knows her psychopaths. If I’m to trust her observation, then I don’t need to waste any more time searching for Alex.
He will come for me.
And this time, I’ll be ready.
4
Strongest Sense
Alex
The captivating scent of coconut soaks into my pores, arousing my senses. I rub the rich emulsion of Blakely’s body wash between my fingers and thumb, savoring the indulgent feel as I imagine her soaping her body, hands massaging the lather into her wet, silky skin, fingertips exploring between her thighs, washing sudsy water over her breasts.
I’m a man painfully consumed as I stand within her glass-encased shower, rock-hard and aching, like a deranged stalker. These temptations are dangerous. The craving makes me lose sight of my purpose.
I dab the body wash on the bandage covering my hand to take her scent with me, as if I’m not tortured enough. I wipe the remainder off on the green towel hung on the wall hook, then straighten it to appear as if it was never disturbed.
The fine art of breaking-and-entering in NYC is all about confidence, and not looking like a pathetic creep. Wait patiently for the right person to arrive outside the building. Smile at the nice elderly lady as you time your passing just right. Offer to help carry groceries to her apartment. Don’t accept the dollar tip she offers. The unassuming cardigan and glasses help. Leave the way you came, waiting until she disappears inside her apartment to sneak into the emergency staircase.
Not the most tactful or discreet method, but a method that will draw the least amount of attention, and one that has worked for me before.
As I’ve already picked the lock on her apartment door several times, I knew how long it would take. I’m still surprised she hasn’t invested in an alarm system. It’s as if she’s still trying to maintain her previous life, one where she’s the predator and not the prey.
Which means there’s a possibility she hasn’t made the connection yet.
One of the targets from her client list brutally murdered is a tragedy.
But two reported murdered so closely together and in the same manner is not a coincidence.
Blakely won’t be able to deny her suspicions for long. She may be doubting her own mind due to the battle with her emotions, but she’s too intelligent not to make the connection.
Which means, I’m running short on time to observe her. She’s always been clever and resourceful. Soon, she’ll get her answers. The anticipation makes my hands tremble.
I’m missing the thrill that stirs my blood from watching her, if only from a distance. Because that was the bargain I struck with my inner devil.
Patience was never my strong suit.
When she didn’t return last night, the obsessive monster within me went wild, rattling the cage, demanding to find her.
What if something happened? What if she’s hurt?
What if she snapped and has done something worse?
The darker my fears go, the more desperate I feel. I have no choice; I have to protect her.
My desire to inhale her scent once more quenched, I leave the bathroom and head upstairs to the loft, seat myself behind her metal desk and open her laptop. I plunder through her calendar where nothing of importance stands out, then I read through her email.
There’s a confirmation notice for a flight booked to San Francisco.
Alarm drums inside my chest. I flex my hand over the keys to steady my nerves. What is a city girl doing in California? What or who could she possibly be meeting?
I check the itinerary for the flight. She’s scheduled to return to LaGuardia tomorrow evening. I push back and stare at the screen, my brain conjuring theories as to why Blakely would need to take such a sudden and unexpected trip.
There are no other messages or scheduled appointments. Just a roundtrip ticket and a menacing feeling crackling the air. Fixated on the location, the fiend in me won’t stop here. I do a deep dive into her data and scour deleted emails, unearthing one I can tell she tried to keep buried.
Fury ignites my blood as I read an email sent to Dr. Noble. She was the criminal psychologist assigned to Grayson Sullivan before his trial. She gets murderers off of death row and reduced sentences. And the things Blakely tells her—private, personal things between us—I slam the laptop shut.
Betrayal is a whip sliced right through my soul, if such a thing exists.
What possible reason could Blakely have for involving her? Sullivan brutally murdered my sister, and Dr. Noble, to be honest, is less than a degree better. What answer is Blakely seeking—?
As soon as the thought occurs, something akin to guilt punches my stomach. For all my intelligence, I suddenly feel the dullest haze of sublime stupidity. Of course she’s reaching out to any link tied to me. Of course she’d uncover the common denominator between herself and Sullivan.
I opened the pathways of her brain to a whole new experience, one heightened and volatile and frightening, and then, when I didn’t return for her, I abandoned her. Left her to fend for herself in a confused state.
I picture Blakely through the flames as they engulf the cabin interior—that image of her seared into my memory, a nightmare I can’t wake from. I relive it over and over, the moment our eyes met across the fire, the split second where I questioned her choice as the pained expression tore at her features.
I should have leapt through the flames for her.
If I could wind back time, I would never have let her go.
“Shit.” Now she’s seeking answers from the one source that could destroy us.
I need to know what psychobabble Dr. Noble is feeding her. What she plans to do with the information Blakely has so blatantly and irresponsibly supplied to her about me and my project.
I need to pay my own visit to Dr. Noble.
As I head toward the stairs, I spy Blakely’s open bedroom area, and I can’t resist the temptation. Her bed is right there. Unmade. Covers bunched in the center. I can envision her curled into them, her arms hugging her pillow, soft tresses of blond hair falling over her face.
Then, as I close the distance, my gaze snags on something white balled up beneath her pillow. I extract the material and hold it out to examine.
I recognize the shirt right away, because it’s one of mine.
Blakely sleeps with my T-shirt.
A devious flare of arousal courses my blood, going straight to my groin. I bring the fabric to my nose and inhale, recognizing the scent of my cologne. I smile.