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Their gazes met in the bulletproof glass. His hooded and dark, hers quiet and questioning. She wanted to go to him, to touch him, ease him.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he growled. “Aren’t you on duty tonight?”
She bit her lip, fighting the pain his words caused.
“I remember when you used to sneak out and meet me wherever Rick had me stationed,” she said quietly, allowing the regret to sound through her voice. “What happened to that, Sam? We were friends. For a little while.”
He had always laughed when he found her, because he had managed to slip away from Rick and his men. Then he would tease her, those thickly lashed eyes lowered sensually as he watched her blush and her nipples harden.
“The first time he struck, we thought the stalker was Marly’s stepfather,” he said quietly. “When Jack Jennings tried to take her, we never questioned his ranting that someone else had contacted him, told him how to get to Marly. We couldn’t find Anna, so we’d assumed he finally got to her, and then came for Marly. We thought we were safe, that the past couldn’t touch us ever again.”
He turned to her then, his hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans, his expression lined with the bitterness of the years.
“We’ll find him, Sam,” she promised him softly. “There are three different agencies working on this, not to mention the law enforcement officials. We’ll catch him.”
He took a deep breath. “When Brock went after Sarah, we found out that the stalker hadn’t been caught after all,” he continued. “But still, we prayed our past wasn’t reaching out to dirty those two women any more than it already had. We thought we could survive, that we could catch him.” He swallowed tightly. “I thought I had a chance, a right to love, Heather, until he attacked you.”
Heather crossed her arms over her breasts and drew in a deep breath. She fought her tears, the blinding pain she felt each time she saw the brutal memories in Sam’s eyes.
“Sam, he’ll mess up soon…”
He shook his head, cynicism washing over his face, his gaze hardening. “Eventually, he will. When he does, he’s a dead man. But what if, Heather, what if he kills you? Or maims you so terribly you can never face life or love the same?”
It was a risk she was taking, and it terrified her. She knew enough of the August history to know what the August brothers had endured. Endless months of pain and brutality. A hell most men would have never survived.
“That’s a cop-out, Sam,” she whispered sadly. “You know you won’t stop him now. It won’t matter if you love me or hate me, if you fuck me or you revile me. The bastard will see me as your weakness. I’m still in danger.”
He flinched. A hard, sharp movement that tore at her heart as he turned away from her again.
“You don’t talk to me anymore,” she finally said moments later when he didn’t speak again. “I miss that, Sam. Just talking to you.”
She moved toward him, watching him watch her, seeing the bittersweet arousal that glittered in his eyes. He was furious. She could see it in every taut line of his body. Furious over the danger to his family, furious over his desire for her. She knew that much. Knew that the heat and fire that tore through her body was matched in his.
“There’s nothing to talk about, Heather,” he bit out, jerking the curtains close over the window before he turned to her. “What the fuck should I say, baby? What do you want me to do? Maybe, just fucking maybe, if I stay the hell away from you, he won’t hurt you again.” His voice was strangled. “Do you have any fucking idea what it did to me, to see you bleeding like that, then to see the fucking scars he left on you?”
“Well it wasn’t exactly a picnic for me, Sam.” The ire in her voice more than matched his, she made sure of it. “But do you think hiding from it is really going to help anything. You’re stalking around this damned house like an animal, growling at everyone and ready to fight at any opportunity. How does that help?”
“And what do you suggest instead?” he asked her bitterly. “Do you think fucking you is going to stop it, Heather? That I’ll turn into some little tame pussycat that you can stroke and cuddle with when you need to? Goddammit, what kind of freakin’ fairy tale are you living in?”
His rage cut through her like a knife, cutting into her soul, wounding her not with his words, but with the pain that creased his expression.
“Definitely not yours,
” she yelled back. “Because yours is nothing but a damned pity party and a lot of hot, bitter looks. You’re going to get yourself killed, Sam. Dead. The bastard will kill you, and he’ll kill your family with your death. Is that what you really want?”
He stilled, the muscles in his jaw working furiously as he stared back at her.
“Keeping you safe is not a damned pity party,” he growled.
“What about your family?” she snapped back. “You ran out of here the other night and refused to tell anyone you were even leaving, and walked right into a murder. That’s not a man whose only thought is protecting his family.”
Something flashed in his eyes. There, then gone. A knowledge of something he was clearly keeping hidden. Over the past year Heather had come to know Sam better than he was aware. She knew when he was hiding something, when he was fighting his own desires, and when he was lying. He was hiding something, something important.
“What happened, Sam?” she asked suspiciously. “What did Tate say when he called?”
His look was brooding, intent, as he watched her.
“Sam?”
