Midnight Fear (21 page)

S
he removed her coat as soon as they entered his apartment. Reid closed the door behind them and locked it, his mouth finding hers.

On the drive from his father’s condo, silence had lingered between them even though they’d kept their fingers intertwined on the SUV’s armrest. Caitlyn had broken the quiet only to call Manny, speaking to him briefly and telling him she wouldn’t be home that night.

She sighed as Reid’s lips moved lower, tracing along her throat. Her head dipped back, giving him access to the wild beat of her pulse. His hands cupped her bottom, then moved to her back, playing along her spine until they found the dress’s zipper.

Reid hadn’t lied—his need for her was palpable, the concentration on his face intense as if he were trying to use her to distance himself from whatever was haunting him. Bliss’s murder? The guilt he felt over David Hunter’s mental collapse? Caitlyn gulped air, her thoughts becoming jumbled as she heard the zipper’s
metallic rasp and felt cool air against her back. The reason didn’t matter, she realized. She needed him just as much.

Caitlyn pushed at the shoulders of his wet trench coat. It dropped to the floor, his suit jacket following. Removing his gun still inside its holster, he laid it on the end table next to the couch. She worked at the knot of his tie as he peeled the black wool dress from her upper body. Their ragged breathing was the only sound in the room as his hands molded to the round curves of her breasts, his fingers teasing her hardened nipples through her bra’s sheer netting and black lace. Caitlyn pulled the now-loose tie from his neck, her suddenly clumsy fingers struggling with the buttons of his dress shirt. Even the white T-shirt he wore underneath it was damp with the evening’s rain.

“In the bedroom,” he instructed hoarsely, walking her slowly backward, his hand at her nape. He caught her when she stumbled in her black heels. Passing through the door frame, she ditched the shoes. At the bed, Reid pushed the dress down over the gentle swell of her hips. The garment pooled at her feet. Her panty hose came next.

“God, Caitlyn.” His words were a low rumble, his eyes drinking her in. Her core felt liquid, hot, as his mouth slaked over hers.

She tugged the T-shirt from the waist of his suit pants, and he broke their kiss long enough to pull it over his head. Caitlyn ran her palms greedily over him, reveling in the feel of his skin over the hard, flat muscles
of his abdomen. It was clear he’d been working out in preparation for his return to duty. His shoulders were broad and strong, and she felt the tension he’d been holding in them release as her fingers caressed and kneaded. Caitlyn pressed her lips against the center of his chest, the sparse hair there tickling her cheeks.

His hands framed her face, tilting it up so his mouth could taste hers again. Reid’s tongue explored, his lips gently bruising, demanding all she could give him and more. Caitlyn felt his fingers at her backbone, undoing the clasp of her bra. The flimsy undergarment fell from between them and she gasped at the skin on skin contact.

Shakily, she worked at his belt until his hands replaced her own. Reid’s face was flushed, his dark lashes forming half moons against his cheeks as he completed the task; his shoes, socks and pants joining Caitlyn’s clothing in a crumpled pile.

Her breath left her as he guided her backward onto the bed, his body levering over hers. His arousal was hard and insistent between her thighs. Caitlyn rubbed against him, wild with the need to be filled by him. She was wet, the center of her body throbbing.

Caitlyn moaned softly as Reid’s mouth moved to her breasts. He sampled her, sucking at her nipples. Erotic sensations overrode all rational thought as his teeth gently abraded the sensitive peaks. Her hands were in his dark hair, clinging, pulling him to her.

“Reid.” She said his name like a whispered prayer. “I can’t wait anymore…please.”

Within seconds they were both completely nude. Reid paused, his eyes gazing into hers. She saw in them a mix of desire and yearning, commingled with yet another emotion she couldn’t quite define. Caitlyn trailed her fingers across his cheekbone, his lips, memorizing his face by sight and touch. The light stubble on his jaw sent an erotic thrill through her. He kissed her once more before entering her with a single, hard stroke. She cried out with the shock of it, bringing her legs around his hips, opening herself wider. She wanted to be impaled by him, consumed.

“Ah, God, Caitlyn,” Reid muttered. His mouth found hers again as he began to move inside her. The hot friction he created was a sweet torture. Their bodies fit perfectly together, each thrust making Caitlyn feel that much more strongly connected to him.

The tension inside her built, until she breathlessly called out his name. Reid silenced her with his lips, his hand slipping between the mattress and her lower back, lifting her higher, arching her until he was even more deeply inside her. Their union was meaningful, desperate, as if neither of them would ever experience it again.

She’d gone too long without having a man make love to her, Caitlyn realized. But at the same time she knew from the moment Reid had entered her life again, there had been no one else she wanted to fill that void. Her attraction to him had begun during those first, dark days of the investigation into her brother. In the two years that had passed, she was aware that it was his
face she imagined above hers, his body she fantasized about during all those nights alone.

Reid’s thrusts grew more urgent. As he continued pumping into her, Caitlyn felt herself tighten and spasm around his hard length. The stunning orgasm splintered her into what felt like a thousand pieces, creating a chain reaction that caused Reid to cry out. With a last, hard stroke, he reached his own release, burying his face against her shoulder.

This was what it should be like.

After several long moments, after his breathing had returned to normal, Reid raised his head and kissed her. His lips lingered against hers, then moved gently to her bruised temple, her eyelids. Her hand slipped through his dark hair.

“Caitlyn,” he murmured, searching her eyes. She wanted to stay like this forever, to remain joined to him in the physical sense. But after a short while he withdrew and slowly rolled onto his side, pulling her with him so she remained tucked against his body. His heart thudded under her ear. She felt warm. Safe. Spent.

And she wondered where they would go from here.

Although he’d been quiet, she knew Reid remained awake. His fingers lightly stroked her from midthigh to the side of her breast, sending small shivers along her skin. She tried to push away the inkling that something was wrong.

I need you.
His admission echoed inside her heart.

“What is it, Reid?” she asked softly in the darkness, needing him to open up to her.

But he simply hushed her, kissing the top of her head and holding her even more tightly.

Reid stared into the grainy darkness long after Caitlyn’s body had relaxed against his, her breathing slowing and deepening as she fell asleep in his arms. Maybe he was being selfish, but he had needed her here with him tonight.

More than anything, he had needed to feel alive.

Bliss Harper’s funeral had rocked him more than he had realized. He couldn’t shake the vision of himself lying in that rose-covered coffin. Of his family and Caitlyn at some cold, rainy grave site, grieving for him. In a few short months, a year, that could
be
him.

He was falling in love with Caitlyn and he didn’t want to leave her.

But he wasn’t even fighting to stay with her.

He watched as she shifted away from him in her sleep, lying on her stomach so that her face was obscured by the mass of honey-blond hair that spilled across his pillow. The curve of her lower back and rounded buttocks was exposed, her long legs tangled in his bed sheets. The gentle swell of one breast appeared milky-white in the pale glow of the streetlight outside his bedroom.

Reid ran his finger along the fine arch of her shoulder blade. He smiled faintly, aware of the desire she created in him.

Whatever it was—whatever news Dr. Isrelsen had to tell him—he had to face it, and he couldn’t put it off
any longer. As much as he feared the scan results, they were merely a harbinger of the things going on inside his head. If the worst were true, if the tumor was back, there was only one certainty. Without treatment, he would grow sicker, maybe even die.

He knew his family wouldn’t want to lose him. Nor would Caitlyn, he believed.

If I’m ill again, just keep her safe.

She protested sleepily as he gathered her back into his arms, needing to keep the warm silk of her skin against his body. Resolution settled over him. Tomorrow, he would call and make the appointment. He would deal with whatever he had to.

The sterling silver flask was engraved with Hal Feingold’s initials. It had been a going-away gift from the newspaper, given to him on his last day of work. At times, Hal admitted he missed the thrill of the investigative reporter’s hunt—meeting unnamed sources in seedy bars, following leads, conducting surveillance. Hunkered inside his Lexus across from Reid Novak’s apartment, he was reminded of the good old days.

Hal tipped the flask and took another sip of the aged, triple malt Scotch. He felt its delicious, slow burn down his throat and into his gut. It was exactly the kind of night in which one needed fortification. It was rainy, cold—hell, it had been that kind of day. He’d attended the graveside service for Bliss Harper, standing discreetly for more than an hour among the throngs of
mourners as the skies poured down. But he hadn’t been there to pay his respects to the Harper family, not really.

Instead, his focus had been on Caitlyn Cahill.

An idea had been taking seed inside Hal’s head for several days now. One that was time-tested and could be described in two little words.

Sex sells.

He’d seen her with Reid Novak for the first time outside her mother’s nursing facility, then again today at the funeral. Novak had once again been protective and attentive to her. Overly so. There was a sense of real familiarity between them. A single question had become his latest obsession. Was it possible they had carried on an affair during the first Capital Killer investigation?

If not, one thing was for certain; they were having one now. He’d had to call in a favor to get Novak’s home address, but a few hours waiting outside his apartment had confirmed his hunch.

He’d seen them kissing in the feeble glow of the streetlight. Caitlyn had clung to him as he unlocked the door. The interior lights had never even come on. Hal felt aroused at the idea of what was going on inside. He took another sip from the flask, his mind whirling with dirty possibilities. This new angle—a sexual relationship between the sister of the Capital Killer and the man who’d been tasked with bringing him down—could add the scandal and spice to help his book ascend the coveted bestseller list.

At the least, the revelation could force Caitlyn Cahill’s cooperation. He wondered what information
she might share with him in order to keep her liaison with Novak out of the book. Blackmail would be so much easier than breaking into her house as he’d done a while back. He’d been looking for a journal—anything—that might give him personal insight into the Cahill family’s difficulties, but it had been a dry haul. Not to mention a crazy stunt on his part. Hal smiled to himself. Never let it be said he wasn’t willing to go out on a limb for a good story.

Figuring he’d seen all he was going to, he had one last nip, returned the flask to his coat pocket and prepared to start the car’s engine. But his hand froze on the ignition switch.

A man emerged from the shadows near the stairs leading up to the apartment. How long had he been there? Hal watched, curious, as he climbed the steps. He stood outside the door as if he were trying to eavesdrop.

As if he were considering a home invasion.

The man’s back was to him. He bent to place something on the doormat. Reaching to the glove box, Hal fumbled for the pair of tiny binoculars he kept there. It took only a few seconds to focus the lenses and see what it was.

He felt the coarse hair on the back of his neck rise.

He knew enough about the investigation—had enough insider information—to understand the significance. Hal found himself breathing hard, his lungs squeezing from the thrill. He’d felt nothing like it since his early days as a reporter.

In all likelihood, he was watching the copycat leave a message behind.

The man turned and for the first time Hal realized he was wearing a ski mask. No wonder his face had been indiscernible in the shadows. Looking around, he skulked back down the steps and moved quickly to the end of the short block, turning the corner into the alley.

On impulse, Hal opened his car door, leaving it ajar. Gathering his courage, he slid his girth from behind the steering wheel and followed the man’s path.

If the copycat was parked in the alley, it might be possible to covertly get a look at his car tags when he drove past.
He could do this, just like the old days.
Hal imagined the credibility boost—the media attention—he’d get for helping the FBI crack the serial murder case. Moving stealthily around the street corner in pursuit, he tried to control his galloping heart rate. He tugged at his necktie, the exercise and excitement almost too much.

There was a vehicle idling in the fire lane. It was farther down and a large, green metal Dumpster mostly hid it from view. Hal could hear the low purr of its engine. He went more deeply into the alley’s dark recesses, keeping carefully out of sight as his hand dove into his coat pocket for his ever-present recorder. When the car drove past, he’d capture the tag number and—boom—Katie Couric would be asking for an exclusive interview.

In a hushed whisper, he noted the time. Forty-seven
minutes past midnight. He began describing the car, the ink-black alley, planning to use it all in his book.

By the time Hal sensed the man’s presence behind him, it was too late. He felt the cord as it dropped around his fleshy throat. There was no time to scream. The cord tightened instantly, cutting off his windpipe. The recorder clattered to the ground as he grabbed for his neck, trying frantically to loosen the makeshift garrote. The man was tall and strong, nearly lifting Hal out of his shoes. His arms flailed and his stubby legs thrashed. Warm urine flowed down his pant legs.