LITMIR.BIZ

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of footsteps pulled his attention back to the door in front of him. His senses kicked back into place, ears perking up at what sounded like a padlock being scraped open. The clicks that followed told Blake that Samantha Dawson had not one, not two, but a total of five locks on her door, as well as a security system that beeped incessantly as the person inside deactivated it.

      A fortress in a farmhouse.

      Not that he blamed her for taking such precautions.

      “She used to be a swimsuit model, you know,” Rick remarked in a low voice.

      “Well aware of that.”

      They stood patiently until the door opened. When it did, Blake found himself staring down the barrel of a steel-black shotgun. By instinct, he almost reached for his own gun, but when he met the eyes of the woman in front of them, he reconsidered.

      She appeared more frightened than menacing. Her big gray eyes, surrounded by thick sooty eyelashes, looked so haunted that Blake’s throat tightened with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. He’d read her file, knew what haunted her, but somehow he hadn’t expected to see the overwhelming fear lining each delicate feature of her face. And what a face it was. High cheekbones, lush pink lips, a straight aristocratic nose. In the old days men would’ve started wars for a woman like this.

      “What do you want?” she demanded, voice deadly and gun still aimed directly at Blake’s heart.

      “Samantha Dawson?” he asked, though he didn’t need her hesitant nod of confirmation to know who she was.

      Her pictures hardly did her justice. She was a natural beauty, tall and slender, with caramel-colored hair that fell past her shoulders in waves. And damn, those eyes were mesmerizing, so gray they reminded Blake of an overcast sky. She wore jeans and a bulky blue sweatshirt.

      “What do you want?” she repeated.

      She didn’t lower the gun, not even a fraction of an inch, and he glanced at his partner for help.

      Reaching into his pocket for his ID, Rick flashed his badge at the brunette. “Special Agent Rick Scott. The man you’re pointing the gun at is my partner, Blake Corwin. We’re with the FBI.”

      Rick’s words had been meant to reassure her, but they obviously fell short of the mark. Her jaw only tightened and her shoulders stiffened as if she were gearing up for a boxing match. “Do you have a warrant to search my house?”

      Caught off guard, Blake answered for his partner. “What? No.”

      “Are you here to arrest me?”

      “Of course not,” Rick said, offering a tentative smile.

      Her eyes flashed. “Then I have nothing to say to you.”

      The door slammed in their faces so swiftly that Blake blinked in surprise. He heard the padlock scrape shut, but the fact that she didn’t turn any of the other locks told him the woman was still behind the door, waiting for them to leave.

      He sucked in a long breath and looked at Rick.

      “Well.” Rick’s voice was quiet.

      Feeling the onset of a headache, Blake rubbed his temples. “We can’t leave. You know we can’t leave without speaking to her.”

      Samantha Dawson was their last chance, and they both knew it. If she didn’t agree to help them, the Rose Killer might slip out of their grasp and disappear into the shadows forever. How many more women would the guy murder before he was stopped? The death toll currently numbered three. Three women. Women who were somebody’s daughters, somebody’s wives and mothers. All gone. Except for Samantha Dawson, and of course, this latest victim.

      Three dead, but two very much alive. Not a moment of mercy and compassion on the creep’s part, of course; he’d left them believing they were dead. And as long as Blake and his fellow agents at the Bureau had anything to say about it, they would continue to be dead. At least until the bastard was caught and thrown behind bars.

      “She’s our last hope,” Rick continued with a heavy sigh. “The longer Elaine Woodman stays silent, the more time this psycho has to keep killing.”

      The ache in Blake’s temples grew stronger. It had only been three weeks since Elaine Woodman’s attack, but it felt like months, especially considering that drawing information out of the young woman had been all but impossible so far. “We have no guarantee that Samantha will be able to get through to her,” he said.

      “But it’s a chance. Elaine is too traumatized to talk about her experience, not with the shrinks, the cops, us. But another victim? Samantha Dawson has a better chance than any of us to get Elaine to open up.”

      Blake saw the truth in Rick’s words, felt the same flickering hope that had brought him to this farmhouse, but he couldn’t help but wonder if their need to catch this madman might end up hurting these surviving women.

      The fear in Samantha Dawson’s eyes flashed through his brain, agony he couldn’t even imagine. Did they really have the right to make her experience it all over again? Sure, she’d changed her name, she was under the protection of the Bureau and hidden away in this no-horse town, but she sure as hell hadn’t looked at ease when she’d opened that door.

      No matter how far the Bureau had gone to keep Samantha Dawson safe, Blake knew without a doubt that she didn’t feel that way.

      “Come on, let’s try again,” Rick finally said, reaching out and knocking on her door once more.

      “Get off my property,” came the muffled reply.

      “Miss Dawson, please—”

      She cut Rick off with, “I’m holding the phone in my hands right now. I’ll call the sheriff and have you charged with harassment if I don’t hear the sound of your footsteps leaving my property.”

      “Let me talk to her,” Blake said quietly.

      With a nod, Rick shoved his hands into his pockets and allowed Blake to take the lead.

      “Miss Dawson, you can call the sheriff if you want. Nobody’s stopping you.” He spoke gently, trying to offer comfort he knew she didn’t feel. “I’m just asking you to listen to what we have to say before you make that call.”

      In response came a lengthy silence, and he’d almost given up hope when he heard the soft, “I’m listening.”

      “We’re not here to make you relive what happened to you.” He almost cringed, seeing the lie in his words. “We just need your help.” With a breath, he continued. “He’s attacked another woman. He left her to die, Samantha, but she didn’t. She fought like hell to stay alive, just as you did.”

      Another long silence, this time broken by the sound of a lock being grated open again. When the door opened, she still held the gun, but at her side this time.

      “Why are you telling me this?” she whispered, her face wrought with emotion.

      “Because you’re the only one who can help us.”

      Wariness and fear battled in her gaze. “Help you do what, Agent Corwin?”

      He drew in another breath. “Help us catch him.”

      

      She shouldn’t have let them in. She shouldn’t be making coffee for them, shouldn’t allow them to sit in her living room as if they belonged there, as if what they had to say was of any interest to her.

      Sam stood at the cedar work island in the middle of the spacious country kitchen, hands trembling as she reached for the handle of the coffee urn. As she poured the hot coffee into one of the mugs she’d grabbed from the cabinet, it spilled over the rim and splashed onto the counter. She watched the brown liquid soak into the wood.

      God, when she’d looked out the window and seen those two men charging up her driveway…her heart had nearly stopped beating.

      And then

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