Andrea Kane - The Stranger You Know

He spotted Claire the minute she came in. Slowly, he lowered his weights to the floor and stood up.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” She shook her head.

He crossed over to her, studying her drawn expression and wide, frightened eyes.

Neither of them said a word.

Claire reached behind her and shoved the door closed, turning the lock with a loud click. Then she took the few steps that separated her from Ryan and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Make it go away,” she whispered. “Just for a little while. Make the pictures stop.”

He tilted back her head, kissed her once, hard, and then lifted her off the floor and flush against him. Claire wrapped her legs around his waist and they stumbled across the room, dropping onto the futon they’d used more than a few times for this.

Claire let her body take over, let the feel, taste and smell of Ryan permeate her senses. Making love with him was an all-encompassing experience, leaving no room for anything else. Which was exactly what she needed right now.

They drew it out as long as they could—blocking out the world, losing themselves in sensation. Claire’s climax was explosive, and she cried out, feeling Ryan’s body jolt with his own release.

Afterward, they were quiet, both of them loath to let go of the moment and allow reality to creep back in.

When Ryan spoke, it was in a rough, gravelly tone. “Don’t cry.”

Claire blinked. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. But her cheeks and lashes were wet, as was Ryan’s shoulder where her face had been.

“I’m sorry.” She ran her palm across his shoulder, then wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “It’s the emotional energy.”

Ryan nodded, his chin pressed against the crown of her head.

Another moment passed, and Claire could feel the ugly ghosts threatening to crowd their way into her mind. Unconsciously, her nails dug into Ryan’s back.

Ryan picked up on her panic.

“It’s after three in the morning,” he said. “We have to be upstairs in a couple of hours. For you to go home now would be ridiculous. Stay here.”

Now that was unprecedented.

What Claire and Ryan had was very complicated. They were polar opposites in so many ways. They debated hard, they bickered constantly and they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Ryan was gorgeous and charismatic, with those smoldering Black Irish looks and the charm to match—all of which meant he attracted women like a magnet.

None of that impressed Claire. She was very much her own person, gentle and ethereal, yet strong and honest, unwilling to back down when she thought Ryan was wrong. They were, without a doubt, each other’s weak spot, and despite their best intentions to the contrary and the fact that the two of them were like day and night, they continued to wind up in bed together.

They’d fast become a habit each of them was finding impossible to break.

After months of being involved, they’d relegated their sexual relationship to its own inexplicable but inescapable niche.

That niche didn’t include spending the night together.

Still, what Ryan was saying now made complete pragmatic sense. It was hardly a romantic step forward. Just a time-saver and a few extra hours of comfort—hours Claire badly needed. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t have the energy to move. And she didn’t have the mental strength to battle her demons.

Ryan didn’t wait for Claire’s reply. He rolled onto his side and reached for the fleece throw he kept at the foot of the futon. He settled Claire against him and covered them both.

“Go to sleep, Claire-voyant,” he murmured. “Shut down that out-of-control mind of yours. You can pick up where you left off tomorrow.”

Claire would never admit how relieved Ryan’s words made her feel, or how grateful she was not to be alone. She commanded her mind and her body to release the negative energy, and they complied. “I’m so drained,” she heard herself whisper aloud.

“I know.” Ryan lay down beside her, wrapping one arm around her waist, pausing only long enough to set the alarm on his watch.

By the time he put down his head, Claire was fast asleep.

* * *

Upstairs in her apartment, Casey was having no such luck.

She’d taken a hot shower to relax the tension from her body, plumped her pillows about twelve times and now lay on her back, one arm folded beneath her head.

She wished that damned voice on the phone hadn’t been disguised. But the fact that it was—did that mean she knew the person at the other end? He wasn’t threatening Forensic Instincts. Even if this was a personal vendetta against Casey’s entire company, he was zeroing in on her as his target. That in itself was unnerving. But what unnerved her most was how detailed the offender’s planning had been. He’d plugged into her current investigation and where she stood on it. That took time, patience and connections. He obviously had all three. And with regard to tonight’s rape and murder? He’d carefully chosen a victim whose description matched Casey’s.

All those things together added up to a systematic mind and strategic planning—a lethal combination.

Last, but far from least, he’d made sure to call Casey either right before or, even more macabre, sometime during his horrific crime.

That added a perverse twist....

What was his motive? Was it personal? Professional? And if Casey was designated as the final target, what killing rampage did he have planned in the interim?

The questions bombarded Casey, growing more and more numerous as she lay there.

She had an impressive team in Forensic Instincts. They’d drop everything to work this crime and keep her safe. But there was only one person who had the expertise—and, yes, the personal investment—to get a handle on this case and solve it quickly.

She picked up her phone and punched in a number on speed dial.

Two rings, and then a sleepy voice answered. “Hutchinson.”

“It’s me. I need you.”

Chapter Eight

The FI team was exhausted, but vigilantly gathered around the conference table at 6:30 a.m. No single-cup Keurig today—they’d pulled out the big guns. There were two pots of coffee, neither of them decaf, already half-consumed within the first half hour of their meeting.

“I called Hutch last night,” Casey informed the rest of the group. “Unfortunately, he can’t get away from Quantico right away. But he’ll consult with us by phone and arrange to get to New York as soon as possible.”

“Good move,” Marc said with a nod. “No one’s better at profiling than Hutch. Although he’ll probably be less objective than even we are.”

“Probably.” Casey didn’t dispute that. “But it won’t stop him from getting inside this psychopath’s head.” She dragged a hand through her hair. “Let’s be blunt. We’ve been sitting here for almost an hour reviewing the details we know. We can continue ad nauseam, but we’re not going to come up with a concrete lead. There’s just not enough to go on.”

“We were invited in by the cops,” Marc said. “Or we will be once Tom speaks to his captain.”

“That’s not exactly the way it’s going to work,” Ryan corrected him. “We’ll be kept on a short leash, and told what they want us to know. This is still technically their investigation, not ours. And you know as well as I do that we can’t sit around waiting for them to toss us leads.”

“Which is why we’ll be making it our investigation.” Marc spoke for them all. “We’ll protect Casey. We’ll find the killer.”

“You can’t protect me around the clock,” Casey said.

“The hell we can’t.” Marc didn’t bat an eye. “I brought my stuff over this morning. I’ll be staying at the brownstone until we catch this son of a bitch. I’m the best qualified.”