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Maggie nodded and headed down the hallway to her bedroom. Jackson tried to ignore the sway of her hips in the tight jeans as he followed behind her.

He hated to admit that he thought maybe he’d told the tech to set up the system in her bedroom just so that he could actually see the room where she slept. He had a feeling that this visit would be his first and his last to the room that belonged to her alone.

The bedroom was a shock. He’d expected monotones of black or gray and instead he walked into a flower garden. A floral spread covered the bed, with pink throw pillows in the center. A pink shaded lamp stood proudly on the nightstand, next to a creased paperback written by a famous profiler.

The dresser top held an array of lotions and perfumes and a picture of her and her mother. Above the dresser, the wall now held several medium-sized television screens that gave views of the front of the house, the back and both sides.

“We should be snug as two bugs in a rug in here,” he said.

She turned and her lips turned up in knowing amusement. “You did this on purpose. You had him mount the monitors in here so that we’d have to spend time together in my bed if we wanted to see what was happening outside the house.”

“You wound me to the core,” he protested. “I just figured if you wanted to keep this system after I’m gone it would be easier for you if the monitors were in here.”

She eyed him dubiously, and love for her buoyed up inside him, unwelcome and unwanted but there nevertheless. “Let’s head to the table and take a look at this list that Roger gave us,” he said gruffly.

He needed to be out of this room, where glimpses of her femininity showed, where her scent filled the air and made his desire to possess her again surge.

Once they were in the kitchen and seated across the small table from each other, he pulled out the list that Roger had prepared and scanned the names. Disappointment flared through him and he shoved the list in front of Maggie.

Her brow wrinkled as she read, and the wrinkle turned into a sigh of frustration. “None of our potential suspects are on it. That means we’re going to have to investigate all these people, because it’s possible the perp is one of these names.

“I’ll fax the list to Adam and he can get on the investigation from the office,” she said, her disappointment evident in her voice. “I’d so hoped that we’d have an answer by now, or at least a path to follow.”

“Maybe Adam will be able to sort out who could be a potential threat on the list and who definitely isn’t,” Jackson said thoughtfully. “It would have been nice if Roger had given us not just names but ages, as well.”

“It would have been nice if that motorcycle would have hydroplaned in the rain last night and crashed,” she said dryly. “But nothing about this case has been nice so far.”

“Last night was nice.” He couldn’t help himself. The words were out of his mouth before his brain was engaged.

She looked up at him, and her eyes held a soft vulnerability he’d never seen before. “You’re right. It was nice, and the truth of the matter is I’ve allowed you to get deep into my heart, Jackson.”

She raised a hand to halt his response, though he wasn’t even sure what he intended to say. “It’s my problem, not yours. You have no ownership in it other than you are who you are. Women find you irresistible, and I guess this just confirms that I’m a normal woman at my core.”

“Maggie...I...”

Once again she stopped him from speaking, this time shoving back from the table and talking over him. “I didn’t realize how empty my life was until you came along. When you leave here I will be making some changes.”

She gave him a small smile, defusing some of the tension in the air. “First thing I intend to do is order cable television. The second thing is that I’m going to have a long, difficult talk with my mother and get her settled into someplace more affordable.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, surprised to discover a lump in the back of his throat.

“I’m also going to stop eating so many protein bars and learn how to cook. I’ll miss you desperately when you’re gone, but eventually I’ll get over you because I’ll have to. You’ll break my heart when you leave here, Jackson, but we both know we weren’t meant to be anything but partners. And now I’m going to go check out the monitors.”

She didn’t wait for him to say anything, but scurried out of the kitchen and disappeared down the short hall. Jackson remained at the table, his heart twisting like a flag in a windstorm.

She loved him. That was basically what she’d just confessed. She loved him and he loved her. But he would leave her brokenhearted. What she didn’t know was that she wasn’t the only one who would have a broken heart when Jackson returned home to Baton Rouge.

Chapter Thirteen

Four days. It had been four long days since the security had been installed and she and Jackson had been cooped up together waiting for something to happen.

Four days since she’d foolishly confessed her feelings for Jackson, and since that time they had been stiffly polite to one another, unnaturally impersonal.

She hadn’t intended to tell him how she felt about him, it had just happened, and now she wished she could take it back, return their relationship to the easy, slightly flirty and effective partnership they’d shared before.

Equally as difficult was the fact that nothing new about the case of Amberly and Cole’s disappearance or the attacks on her and Jackson had come to light. They were dangling themselves out there like worms on a hook, but the shark hadn’t even circled them yet.

They’d stopped throwing out theories and ideas to each other, having exhausted the topic to death. Jackson paced the small confines of the house like a caged animal, his frustration and pent-up energy nearly driving her mad.

They both needed something to happen. A blip on the monitors, the ring of an alarm would almost be a relief. At least it would break the tense monotony of waiting for something to occur.

She’d been in touch with her director several times during the past few days. She’d learned that the case in Bachelor Moon was still an open one, that the three people who had gone missing from the Bachelor Moon Bed and Breakfast had yet to be found.

Both the FBI in Kansas City and Baton Rouge were still reluctant to draw the conclusion that the two crimes were related, especially given the attacks that had happened on Marjorie and Jackson...a distinct difference from anything that had happened in Bachelor Moon.

It was early afternoon and Marjorie was seated at the table, staring unseeing out the window. She sat up as Jackson came into the room. “I feel like a shriveled-up worm left dangling on a hook that nobody wants to bite,” she said.

“Trust me, I feel the same way.” He threw himself into the chair opposite her and raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, maybe this hole-up-and-wait idea was a bad one.”

She shrugged. “It made sense to me at the time.”

“Yeah, it made sense to me, too, but I didn’t expect it to take so long for somebody to come after us.”

“Maybe he’s intentionally torturing us,” Marjorie said. “Maybe he knows we’re holed up here just waiting for an attack to happen and so he’s decided to wait us out.”

“Maybe,” Jackson said absently. He stared out the window, obviously lost in thought.

Why did he have to be so handsome? Why couldn’t they have sent her an overweight, belly-scratching, beer-burping agent to work as her partner? Why did it have to be Jackson?

He looked at her, his eyes a fathomless midnight blue that let her know his thoughts were deep and dark. “I can’t help but believe that the case in Bachelor Moon and this case are related.”

“But nobody else seems to want to make that connection, and then there’s the difference of the attacks on us,” she replied.

“The cases themselves are virtually identical. Missing people obviously taken unaware, no clues left behind, no ransom communication from the kidnapper...nothing varies from case to case except the two attacks on us.” His frown deepened.

“So, you’re back to believing that maybe the attacks weren’t about the case, after all, but somebody who wants one or both of us dead for another reason.” She leaned toward him, trying not to notice the familiar scent of him. “But neither of us can think of anyone who would want to hurt us.”

“I know, I know,” he exclaimed irritably and got up from the table to pace the small confines of the room. “I feel like I’ve lost all my instincts as an agent, like I’m floundering in a vast sea and not seeing the rock right in front of my boat.”

Even though she knew it was the worst thing she could do, she got up from the table and walked over to where he’d finally stopped pacing and stood by the refrigerator.

His arms were folded across his chest, his eyes hollow as he stared at her. She placed a hand on one of his arms, wishing she could take away his frustration, wishing she had the answers that would take that hollowness out of his eyes.

What she really wanted to do was take him by the hand and lead him into her bedroom, fall into bed with him, where they could both escape the frustration and sense of time being stopped by losing themselves in each other.

But she knew that wouldn’t help anything; it would only make matters worse. Instead she laid her hand on his arm and gazed deep within his eyes. “Jackson, we’re doing what we think is right. Whether somebody is trying to kill us for personal reasons or because of the case, we’re here, and eventually they’ll get tired of waiting and will make a move. We just have to be patient.”

He uncrossed his arms and she dropped her hand to her side. “Patience isn’t something I consider a virtue,” he said dryly. “In fact, I find it a real pain.”

She smiled at him, grateful to hear a bit of humor in his voice. “Maybe we need to decide what we’re going to cook for dinner,” she suggested, hoping to lighten his mood even more.

“I’m not in the mood for food at the moment,” he replied. He walked back over to the window. “Besides, we’re out of milk.” He turned suddenly. “Isn’t there a convenience store at the corner?”

“Actually, it’s two blocks away.”

“I think I’ll drive up and get a gallon of milk.” His eyes were no longer hollow but instead held a glint she hadn’t seen before.

“What are you up to?” she asked warily.

“Nothing. Just a fast trip to the store, that’s all.” He grabbed the car keys from the counter. “I’ll be gone five minutes. You know the drill, keep the doors locked, the security system engaged and I’ll be back before you know it.” He set the keys back on the table. “On second thought I think a quick walk will do me good.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, but headed for the door, his footsteps heavy and determined. She followed behind him and locked the door, then engaged the security after he left.

Instantly she felt two things...an immediate loss of energy and life in his absence, and a bit of relief that his frantic energy was momentarily gone.

She walked back into her bedroom and watched on the monitor, spying him as he walked down the driveway and then disappeared from her sight.

Just watching him walk away from the house shot a tiny stab of pain through her heart...a precursor of what was to come when the case was solved and he went back to his home in Baton Rouge.

She left her bedroom and went back into the kitchen. Maybe she’d surprise him and she’d do the cooking for dinner tonight. She opened the freezer door and stared at the packaged meats, trying to make up her mind between pork chops and chicken breasts. She finally settled on the pork chops. She pulled them out of their packaging and placed them in a baking dish, and at that moment the doorbell rang.

She nearly jumped out of her cotton underwear at the sound. It was too soon for Jackson to be back already. She raced to her bedroom and looked at the monitor that viewed the front porch.

A man stood there, a man who looked like an older version of Jackson. As he knocked, she raced from the living room to the front door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“My name is Jerrod Revannaugh. I’m looking for my son, Jackson, and was told that he was here.” The voice was deep, smooth and Southern.

She hesitated a moment, fingers paused over the security keypad. There was no question in her mind that the man on her front stoop was Jackson’s father. He not only sounded like his son, but looked like an older model of Jackson.

All she knew was that father and son had suffered some sort of falling-out years before, but surely Jerrod Revannaugh wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to make some sort of connection with Jackson.

Decision made, she punched in the numbers that would disarm the security and then unlocked the door and opened it. In person, the resemblance between Jackson and his father was nearly breathtaking.

Surely she had nothing to worry about in letting him in to wait for Jackson. She had no idea what had caused the break between father and son, but it had to be a good thing that Jerrod was here.

“Mr. Revannaugh, I’m Marjorie Clinton,” she said as she stepped aside to allow him into the small living room. “Jackson just went down the street for a minute and should be back anytime.”

“Well, then, I’ll just have to hurry a bit, won’t I?” He gave her a charming smile and then stuck her in the side of the neck with a needle.

She yelped at the sting, and immediately the effects of whatever he’d given her took hold. Her legs turned to rubber and she reached out to grab him around the neck to keep herself from falling to the floor.

Without effort, he scooped her up in his arms. “It’s okay, darlin’, I’ll take good care of you.”

Her last conscious thought was that she hated Jackson’s father...because he’d called her darlin’, and the only man in the world she wanted calling her that was Jackson himself.

* * *

J
ACKSON
WALKED
BRISKLY
,
breathing in the air that smelled of fresh-cut grass and sunshine instead of the sweet floral scent of Maggie.

They were out of milk, but his walk had two goals. Retrieve the gallon of milk and make a phone call where he knew Maggie wouldn’t be able to hear him.

Maybe he was being paranoid, but he couldn’t shake the fact that the attacks they had survived had been somehow personal in nature. There was only one person in Jackson’s life who might have a motive to kill him, and that was his father.

Last Jackson had heard, his father was behind bars at the state prison just outside Baton Rouge. Jackson knew he was there because he’d been one of the people who had been responsible for putting him away.

Jerrod Revannaugh had been a con man for all of Jackson’s life. He could have easily been one of Maggie’s stepfathers, a man who scammed women out of their life savings through fraud and deception and danced away unscathed...until the last time.

At sixteen years old, Jackson knew what his father was, and he’d walked away from him without a backward glance. Jackson had gotten on with his life and rarely thought about the man who’d raised him, a man who had attempted to instill the same lack of morals in his son.

They’d met again six years ago, when Jackson was contacted by law enforcement officers who were investigating the death of an elderly woman. Although it appeared to be a tragic slip and fall in a bathtub, the fact that her much younger husband had been married five times before to older women who’d found themselves nearly destitute after encountering the same man made them suspicious. The dead woman’s husband was Jackson’s father.

Jackson clenched his fists at his side as he reached the convenience store. Instead of going inside, he walked around to the side of the building, pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number he’d called several times over the past couple of years.

The murder charges hadn’t stuck in the case against Jerrod Revannaugh, but a dozen counts of fraud by deception had, and he’d been sentenced to six years in prison.

When his call was answered, he asked to speak to the warden and then identified himself. “I’m calling to check on prisoner 22356,” he said. The pause on the other end of the line tensed every muscle in Jackson’s body. “What’s up, Warden?” he asked when the pause went on too long for comfort.

“Somebody should have contacted you. Prisoner 22356 was released at six o’clock this morning.”

Jackson nearly dropped his phone. Jerrod was out of prison, and he definitely had a reason to hold a grudge against Jackson, who was a prosecution character witness in the trial.

He hung up and slipped his phone back into his pocket and then went into the store and bought the milk. As he walked back to Maggie’s his head whirled.

Jerrod was Jackson’s dirty secret, a secret he hadn’t shared with Maggie because of her past with her mother and men like Jerrod. He was afraid of being judged, afraid that she would somehow believe the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

Jerrod was a threat to him, but if Jerrod had been released from prison in Baton Rouge early that morning, there was no way he could be behind the shooting at the motel or the chase by the shooting motorcyclist.

Unless he had an accomplice. Unless he had somebody on the outside who would be willing to do his bidding for part of the fortune Jackson guessed his father had hidden in some offshore account.

As he thought of all the people they had spoken to, all the people who had been potential suspects, the name Edward Bentz exploded in his forehead. He was a man who had traveled back and forth from Kansas City to Baton Rouge over the past couple of weeks...in the time that Jackson had been here working on the case.

Was it possible Edward had been behind the attacks? He’d certainly been vague about where he’d been during to two incidents. They should have dug deeper, they should have looked harder at him.

Suddenly he couldn’t get home fast enough. Knowing that his father was out of jail put a whole new spin on things, and he needed to come clean to Maggie.

If there was anything that would put a halt to any feelings she might have for him, surely it would be the fact that he came from the same kind of men who had scammed her mother out of her fortune.

Still, it was information she needed to know, because Jackson had a feeling he’d realized the answer behind the attacks on them...his father wanted him dead, and Maggie would have just been collateral damage.

He started to unlock the front door, but realized it was already unlocked. Had Maggie forgotten to lock it when he’d left? Damn, he needed to remind her that locks and security systems didn’t work if they weren’t used.

“Maggie?” he called as he walked toward the kitchen. She wasn’t in the living room or in the kitchen. He put the milk in the refrigerator, noted the pork chops in the baking dish and then went in search of her, assuming she was probably back in her bedroom.

“Maggie,” he called again. This time when there was no response, his heart began an irregular rhythm of anxiety. Her house wasn’t big enough for her not to hear him.