Desperate Girls

18

LINDSEY WAS pulling into her apartment building when she got a call from a familiar number. John Dewitt, the reporter. She grabbed her phone off the front seat, surprised he was calling so late. Then again, he was on California time. She answered the call as she pulled into a parking space.

“Hey, John Dewitt here. I got an urgent message?”

“Thanks for getting back to me.”

“Yeah, who are you again? Your message was vague.”

Which wasn’t an accident. Lindsey dug a notepad from her purse. “I’m with the Sheridan Heights Police Department. That’s a suburb of Dallas. You may have heard we’ve got a pretty intense manhunt going on here.”

“James Corby. I had a call from a marshal wondering if I’d heard from him or sent him money or anything. Is that why you’re calling?”

“Not exactly. I’m working on some background info, trying to develop a better profile of the fugitive, and I came across your article in Lone Star Monthly. It was a good piece.” Not really, but she figured it wouldn’t hurt to flatter the guy.

“It was pretty basic,” he said. “I was saving the more in-depth stuff for a book, but the project never got off the ground.”

“Why’s that?”

“Lot of reasons. Corby stopped talking to me after the second interview. Then he lost his appeal. He wasn’t on death row or anything, so the story wasn’t getting the attention I needed to generate traction. And then I got the job out here.”

According to Lindsey’s research, Dewitt had been with the Hollywood Insider for two years. It wasn’t exactly known for hard news, but that wasn’t to say they wouldn’t want something about a notorious murderer, especially if the story had film potential.

“With regard to your interviews,” Lindsey said, “can I ask what you talked about?”

“The usual. His trial. His innocence. He was unjustly accused, and the whole world was out to get him. Guy is pretty paranoid.”

“Did he mention any particular people he was close to? Maybe a friend from childhood or a relative?”

“No.”

“What about groupies? I know some of these guys have admirers who follow their trials.” Some famous murderers even get married while in prison.

“He mentioned a pen pal once.”

Lindsey’s pulse quickened. “Really?”

“Yeah, some woman. He said he never met her in person. I think they connected through one of those prison pals programs. Think most of them are people doing mission work—you know, trying to convert condemned prisoners to Jesus.”

Lindsey was scribbling frantically now. A female pen pal.

“Did you mention this to the marshal who called you?”

“It was a brief interview, so no. Fact, I hadn’t thought about it until now. Why?”

“Did Corby tell you her name?”

Silence.

“Mr. Dewitt?”

“Can we go off the record?”

Lindsey stopped writing. “I’m not a reporter, Mr. Dewitt. I can’t make promises like that.”

“Well, I mailed a letter for him once.”

“To this woman?”

“Yeah.”

It was strictly against the rules, and Lindsey could only imagine why the reporter had done it. Maybe he was trying to curry favor with the subject of his future book. A smuggled letter could explain how Corby managed to get those threatening notes to Jen Ballard and Brynn Holloran.

“You remember her name?” she asked.

“Ann Johnson.”

“Is that Ann with an e?”

“I don’t remember.”

Lindsey smelled a lie. “What about her address?”

“I don’t recall. This was more than two years ago. It’s not like I took a picture of the letter or anything.”

She suspected that was precisely what he’d done. Or at least copied down the address for future reference. After all, the guy was working on a project he hoped to make money on. And this pen pal was potentially an inside source. Any reporter worth his salt would keep her info on file.

The woman herself might be hard to track down, though. Regardless of spelling, she had a very common name.

“Was she in Texas? Do you at least remember that?” Lindsey didn’t try to mask her impatience.

“Sorry.”

She bit her lip, frustrated.

“Listen, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me out of this,” he said. “Corby’s a nutjob, and I really don’t want to get involved in this thing.”

“It’s a nationwide manhunt, so that’s not really up to me.”

“But—”

“And it’s safe to assume you’ll be hearing from the task force looking for Corby.” Especially since Lindsey planned to call them up and tell them everything. She’d be willing to bet the LA marshal’s office would haul this guy in for questioning as payback for holding out on one of their guys.

Lindsey checked her watch, ready to wrap up the interview and get moving on this lead.

“Just out of curiosity, your book about Corby—whatever happened to that?” she asked.

“Like I said, it never got off the ground.”

“But what about now, with all this renewed interest in Corby’s case?”

“Yeah, someone might do something, but it’s not going to be me,” he said. “The man’s a psycho. I’d be happy if I never saw him again.”

Erik lay in the dark with Brynn’s leg draped over him and her head resting against his side.

His mind was reeling. He’d broken every one of his personal rules. Not just broken—he’d hammered them into oblivion. He needed to get up and get out of here before he made it worse, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Brynn shifted and sighed, her breath warm against his skin, and Erik felt a knot in his chest. She was so damn beautiful, sleeping next to him that way. He needed to go. He needed to get up and get dressed and get the fuck out of her bed, but he couldn’t do it.

He should get her to do it for him. If he pissed her off enough, she’d kick him out of here, and his problem would be solved—if only temporarily.

He glanced down at her, all warm and soft and curled against him. He ran his hand over her perfectly round hip.

She shifted again, and this time, he could tell she was awake.

“Brynn.”

She sat up slightly and blinked into the darkness, then turned to glance at the clock. It was 1:33.

She looked at him, and his heart gave a kick at the sight of her all sleep-mussed.

Sighing, she lay back down and tucked her head against his chest. He combed his hand through her hair, letting it slide through his fingers.

“We need to talk, Brynn.”

Another sigh. “So talk.”

“We can’t do this again.”

Her body tensed, and he waited for what she’d say.

“So . . . this is a one-time thing?”

He caught the hurt in her voice.

“Maybe when all this is over . . .” He trailed off, not sure what he wanted to say.

She sat up propped on her elbow and looked at him. “What? You’ll go back to jet-setting with your celebrities, and I’ll go back to Pine Rock to practice law? Is that how this works?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”

Her brow furrowed. “You’ve never gotten involved with a woman you’re protecting?”

“Never even been tempted.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Why are you surprised?”

“I don’t know.” She combed her hair away from her eyes again. “I figured it was one of the perks of the job.”

“It’s not.”

He sat up and leaned back against the headboard. She gazed up at him, and the vulnerability on her face made him feel like shit. He knew better than to let things go here, but he’d done it anyway.

He wanted her again. Right now, even though he’d barely recovered from last time.

He’d thought that caving in once would get her out of his system, but it hadn’t at all. And he cursed himself for being so stupid.

She ran her fingertips over his abdomen. “What if we find ways to be alone together when you’re not on duty? That wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”

“It’s already a problem.”

Guys had been fired for doing what Erik had just done or, at minimum, reassigned. The prospect of turning her security over to someone else was unthinkable. He couldn’t let it happen.

“You’re concerned there’s going to be fallout at work?” she asked.

“There will be. Don’t worry about that. I’ll deal with it.”

“You know what that sounds like? A bunch of macho crap.” She shifted onto his lap and straddled him, then slid her hands over his shoulders. “If there’s fallout, I’ll talk to Liam. I’m the client—he’ll listen to me.” She paused. “Whatever it is, we’ll both deal with it.”

Erik didn’t say anything to that—he was too mesmerized by her perfect breasts right there in front of him.

“This so-called problem,” she said, brushing her hair over her shoulder. “Is it a problem of distraction?”

He’d been distracted since the minute he met her. Years of training and rigorous self-discipline had gone right out the window. She just had to look at him with those deep blue eyes, and his focus was shot to hell.

“Because I don’t think it’s a problem,” she said. “I mean, look at this place. The apartment’s secure. We’ve got cameras downstairs. You’ve got a whole arsenal here on the nightstand.” She leaned closer. “I feel very protected.”

“There are still things you don’t see.”

“I’m willing to risk it.”

Erik wasn’t. And yet here he was, unable to slide her off his lap so he could get up and leave.

She tipped her head to the side, watching him, and he sensed she was devising a new line of attack.

“I want to ask you something, and you’re not allowed to lie,” she said.

She was trying to distract him. And he was letting her.

“What is it?”

“Why did you trade shifts with Trent?”

“He asked me. I told you.”

“Yes, but you weren’t being truthful. Not completely.”

How the hell did she know that?

“No, he did ask me.” Erik sighed. “But I was going to make him give me his shift anyway.”

“Why?”

“After everything that went down, I didn’t want you out of my sight. I wanted to be here tonight.”

Not just here in her apartment—in her bed. He’d known exactly what he wanted when he walked through her door.

She smiled. “I knew you were lying.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Thank you for your honesty.” She kissed him, letting her tongue linger over his bottom lip, and he knew he wasn’t going anywhere right now. Or for the foreseeable future.

“And FYI?” she whispered. “I wanted you here tonight, too.”