Hunted. Cynthia EdenЧитать онлайн книгу.
give you a lift to your hotel. See, I can be a nice guy.”
He climbed onto the motorcycle and tried to tug her on after him. Casey locked her knees and refused to budge.
He sighed. He seemed to do that a lot around her. “Problem?”
“I don’t like motorcycles.” Yes, she sounded prim and disapproving. So what? She wasn’t sure she liked him, either. She certainly didn’t like his ride. “They go too fast. They flip too easily. They offer zero protection to the rider—”
“Not a risk taker, huh? Guess I pegged that part wrong about you.” His gaze dropped down her body and stopped on her three-inch shoes. “It’s the heels. When a woman wears sexy heels like that, it makes a guy think she may have an...adventurous side.”
“Are you hitting on me? Or insulting me again?” She wanted to be clear. “Because earlier, you said I was a vulture. Now you’re saying—”
He let go of her wrist, but only so that he could hand her a helmet. “This will protect your head and that pretty face of yours.”
“You are hitting on me.” She took the helmet. She did not get on the motorcycle. “Your routine needs work. A lot of it.”
“I did a little research on you since our last meeting...”
Her hold tightened on the helmet. Don’t have dug too deep. Don’t have found—
“You’ve won a lot of awards, haven’t you? Seems you’re the investigative journalist to watch. And you make a habit of going after the darkest killers, don’t you?”
Her heart was drumming too fast and hard in her chest. “I go where I’m needed. You might not like the work I do, but someone has to give the victims a voice.”
“And that’s what you do.”
It’s what she tried to do.
He revved the engine. The bike sounded like a giant, growling beast. “You said your hotel was four blocks away. Hardly far enough of a distance for me to go too fast on that short drive. And if you’re with me...” He gave her that slow smile again, the one that made him look a little less dangerous. Only a little. “I’ll be extra careful. I promise.”
She looked around the parking lot. It was getting darker. A lot darker. And, yes, she did fit the victim profile; she knew it. She was the right age, a stranger, no close ties in Hope... “Don’t go over the speed limit.”
He laughed. It was a strangely warm sound that caught her off guard. “I’m FBI. Trust me—I’ve got this.”
She climbed onto the motorcycle. Her skirt hiked up—up much higher than she’d anticipated—and she knew she was flashing thigh. Her heels settled along the bike, finding safe purchase. She put on the helmet and then her hands kind of fluttered in the air. Should she put them behind her? There was a bar back there. She should probably just grab on to it and hold tight.
“Hold on to me.”
She’d been afraid he’d say that. Casey slowly wrapped her arms around him.
“Tighter.”
Why? “I thought you said you weren’t going fast.”
“You still need to hold tight, Casey.” It was the first time he’d said her name. It came out rumbly and sexy and she needed to stop thinking the guy was sexy.
He was an FBI agent working a case.
She was a reporter.
She might try to work him to get information, but they were not going to have any sort of real, personal relationship. She didn’t do personal relationships. She kept her distance from people for many, many reasons.
Fumbling a bit, her hands slid around his waist, but she didn’t hold that tight.
“Tell me the name of your hotel.”
There were several just up the road—a line of them that looked out over the beach. “West Winds.”
She would not hold him tighter.
The motorcycle shot forward and her arms tightened around him, holding him in a death grip and smashing her body against his. He zipped through the town, not actually going too fast but...it was strange being on the motorcycle with him. The wind whipped at her, and the motorcycle vibrated beneath her. He was strong and solid in front of her, and Casey found herself thinking that...maybe, if it were a different time, if this were a different place...she and the FBI agent might not have found themselves being adversaries.
They might have been something a whole lot more fun.
Too soon, he was braking in front of her hotel. Other reporters were staying at the hotel, at least five she knew from previous jobs. And both her producer and her camerawoman were there—plenty of people that she knew. It was a safe place.
Josh killed the engine and put down the kickstand. She realized she was still holding him, and Casey let go quickly, nearly jumping from the motorcycle. Josh didn’t move, but she could feel his gaze sweeping over her. A bit nervously, Casey pushed the helmet back at him. “Th-thank you.” She hated that stutter. She never stuttered. Or at least, she worked hard to make sure she didn’t. When she’d been younger, that stutter had always come out when she’d been afraid. Back then, she’d had plenty to fear. The nightmares had plagued her every night for a solid year during college.
He put the helmet on the back of the bike. He studied her a moment and the waves crashed in the distance.
Should she just walk away? Probably.
“You don’t think it’s odd?”
“What?” She wasn’t sure she followed him.
“All of you reporters...” He gestured to the hotel behind her and she knew he’d realized other press personnel were staying in that same location. “You all came rushing down here weeks ago to cover the Theodore Anderson case.”
Theodore Anderson. She crossed her arms over her chest. Yes, he’d been the reason she was first sent to Hope. He’d been arrested and linked to the abduction and disappearance of several young girls in the area. Many of the crimes had occurred years ago, but only recently had he been linked to the kills.
The saddest part of the case? At least to Casey? The man had killed his own daughter. Christy Anderson had been murdered by her father when she was just thirteen years old.
Theodore had made headlines when he was arrested, and, yes, the reporters had all flocked down to cover the case when he went to trial. He’d been found guilty on all counts, and Theodore Anderson would never see the light of day again. Originally, the press had focused on Theodore, but it hadn’t been long before someone else started stealing the Front Page...
The Sandy Shore Killer.
“What are the odds,” Josh continued in that deep voice of his, “that in this sleepy little town, there would be not just one sadistic killer...but two?”
She licked her lips. “Considering how rare serial killers are...I’d say those odds should be astronomically low. But then...you’re FBI. You should know better than I do.”
“They are astronomically low. Coincidences like this one don’t happen.” Flat.
“But...it is happening.”
“Something set this guy off. Something brought him here...” His head turned and he gazed at the hotel behind her. “Can’t help but wonder...if it was you.”
She backed up a step. He knows. He dug into my past. He dug too deep. He found out what I did—
“You and all the reporters,” he continued as his hazel gaze slid back to her. “He didn’t like the fame that Theodore Anderson was getting, so he decided to steal the spotlight. And you and your buddies—with your twenty-four-seven news coverage—you just fed his beast.