Chapter 9
Nine
Tutwiler Hotel
Vivian clutched the shopping bag in one hand and rapped on the door to McBride’s hotel room with the other. She squared her shoulders and braced for facing him.
When a reasonable length of time had passed, she knocked again. She hoped he hadn’t stayed in the bar until it closed last night. If he was still in bed and hungover, Worth would count it as her failure.
It wasn’t like she could watch the man 24-7 without sleeping with him. Unbidden and damned unwelcome, hot shivery sensations raced over her skin. That he could get to her on that level in spite of her determination not to allow it made her mad enough to scream.
Between worrying about him and fighting the nightmares, she had scarcely slept at all last night. McBride or the rats or the cemetery or a combination of all three had ruined her night . . . made her vulnerable.
She hadn’t had one of those godforsaken dreams in over five years. The memory of it . . . of the whispered voices . . . the darkness . . . made her shudder.
Sedatives usually efficiently blocked the nightmares, but going that route right now was out of the question.
And, unlike McBride, she refused to try drinking her demons away.
As she lifted her fist to pound a third time, the door opened. And there he stood, filling the doorway, half naked and to her surprise half shaven.
“Come on in,” he invited, that smoke-and-whiskey-roughened voice rumbling from deep within his bare chest.
The sound brushed against her senses, instantly disturbing her equilibrium.
Mentally scrambling to recover, she remembered the bag and thrust it at him.
“I stopped at Target and picked up some clothes for you. I hope I got the sizes right.” She considered the shaving cream on his jaw. “Toiletries too.”
He waved the razor. “Room service,” he explained. “It’s amazing what they’re willing to provide.” He took the bag with his free hand. “You coming in?”
Vivian managed a stilted nod as she crossed the threshold into his room. She would die before she would ask exactly what room service had provided in addition to shaving implements. The scent of soap permeated the air, but it was the tousled sheets that immediately captured her attention.
The door closed behind her and she jumped.
Don’t start off this way. She had dreaded this moment all morning.
Her reactions to this side of him were foolish.
Davis or Pratt or Aldridge wouldn’t have this problem.
That thought propped up her determination, giving her the courage to face the man.
Just like yesterday, he had dragged on his jeans, leaving them unfastened as if he were prepping for a sexy ad campaign.
Physically he looked damned good for a guy who drank too much, smoked no matter that it was no longer PC, and was barreling toward forty—all the more reason to utilize extreme caution in his presence.
“I’ll finish up,” he offered, then headed into the bathroom.
She relaxed and took stock of the room. A room service tray sat on the table.
Curious, she picked up the silver coffee server.
It was empty. So he’d had coffee. Good. She didn’t see any indication that he had eaten.
She would have to remedy that. Wandering closer to the bed, she picked up the pad of paper on the bedside table.
He had written several names there and eventually crossed out most. Suspects?
The number forty-one had been written and circled beneath the names.
She would have to ask him about that. The only connection to the number she could call immediately to mind was the time limitation Devoted Fan had used with Alyssa.
The notion that McBride had worked last night, even if he had visited the bar or had drinks delivered to his room, was a good sign.
Let’s just hope we can get through this without regretting it.
Something else she had worried about last night. But her new temporary partner seemed chipper and raring to go this morning. Maybe this wasn’t going to be as difficult as she had imagined.
Expect the best, prepare for the worst, her father always said. Seemed good advice just now.
“You did good, Grace.”
McBride strode into the room dressed in the jeans and the navy button-down shirt she had purchased. Both appeared a perfect fit. Finding a customer at the store who looked about the same size as McBride had proven a useful strategy.
He made a sound of approval, drawing her too-avid interest to that taunting mouth and his smooth jaw.
The man cleaned up surprisingly well. If she was completely honest with herself, she would admit that he looked a little too good in most any state.
The wicked half grin he wore should have clued her in that trouble was coming, but she missed it .
. . too caught up with inventorying the details of this slightly more polished version of the fallen legend.
“Just one question.” He walked right up to her, so close she could smell the sport-scented antiperspirant she had purchased for him and lifted the writing pad from her fingers. “How did you know I wasn’t a briefs man?”
That was when she made her first real mistake of the day: She looked directly into those devilish eyes. The mischief twinkling there was far too intriguing, way too appealing. Where did those flashes of genuine charm come from? Certainly not from the raw, barbaric man she had met yesterday.
“I saw a pair of boxers on the floor at your place.” That her voice held a distinct breathless quality only added to the theory that she was not herself when alone with this man.
“Very observant of you.” He tossed the pad onto the bed and walked over to the chair where he had left his shoes.
That small distance allowed her to breathe again. He tugged on the well-worn sneakers without bothering to untie them, then stood up. “We ready?”
She adjusted her purse strap and met his expectant expression, mentally bracing for any sneak attack on her composure he might have planned. “Ready.”
He walked past her, opened the door like the perfect gentleman she knew firsthand he was not.
“Worth called.” She cleared her throat, but the effort did nothing for the persistent tightness prompted by the uneasiness associated with the unexpected. “The toe tag wasn’t the only item from UAB’s research center; the rats were too.”
McBride followed her into the corridor, let the door close behind him. “Already euthanized?”
“According to the log, they had been euthanized and were scheduled for incineration.” She followed the corridor toward the bank of elevators. “The tech who noticed them missing filed a discrepancy report with his supervisor yesterday.”
“Black looks good on you, Grace.”
The rhythm of her step altered clumsily, and just like that he had her unsteady again. At the elevators, she stabbed the call button. How did he do it? More importantly, why did she let it get to her?
“Thank you,” she returned with enough of a chill in her tone for him to get frostbite. Turning around wasn’t required for her to know that he was having a good, long look at her butt.
The ding announced the elevator’s arrival a couple of seconds before the doors slid apart.
She stepped into the car, pressed the button for the lobby, and waited anxiously for it to start moving again.
McBride assumed his usual position against the rear wall.
Keeping her attention on the changing floor numbers prevented her from staring at his image reflected in the shiny metal doors.
They had almost reached their destination when he did that thing that made her want to hit something—usually him. He moved up close behind her as the elevator slowed for the lobby level. That her traitorous body reacted to his nearness made her want to join a convent.
“Do me a favor, Grace.” His breath heated the skin on her neck.
“What?” She didn’t look back at him. Didn’t dare move with him practically on top of her.
And still he leaned nearer . . . near enough to whisper in her ear. “When we have sex, wear those shoes.”
The elevator bumped to a stop, and the doors slid open.
She hesitated before stepping out of the car, uncertain her legs would hold her upright.
During that pause she turned her face to his.
Her respiration hitched. She hated that she couldn’t contain the response, but she was only human.
All the more reason to get this over with. “Don’t hold your breath, McBride.”
With that out of the way, she strode across the lobby and out the front door to where her SUV waited beneath the valet canopy.
Time to go to work and catch the other bad guy.
1000 Eighteenth Street, 9:30 a.m.
“Devoted Fan thoroughly erased his digital footprints again,” Worth said to those present in the conference room. “Quantico can’t give us a profile on the unsub until we can give them something to work with. We’re still pretty much left in the ‘react’ mode.”
Ryan, like the others, listened patiently.
Worth had insisted on daily briefings that included Aldridge, Pratt, Schaffer, and Davis, though Schaffer was missing in action.
The briefings were a good idea. These agents were his and Grace’s backup, Ryan didn’t expect them to be left in the dark.
The goal, however, was to keep as tight a lid on this operation as possible, using local law enforcement only when necessary.
The Bureau didn’t like airing its dirty laundry in public, most especially when it involved an ex-agent whose departure from service had already caused a considerable scandal.