She had the feeling that he was the kind of guy who just might be able to ruin her for all others.
When he’d been kissing her, when his big, strong hands had been on her, she’d wanted him to ruin her. She’d wanted him to do all kinds of things to her.
It hadn’t been about the adrenaline. It had been about good, old-fashioned lust.
The only thing that had held her back? Fear.
She wasn’t physically afraid of Cooper. Actually, she was sure he wouldn’t hurt her like that at all.
Gabrielle was afraid of the way he made her feel. Out of control. Edgy. Wild.
Those feelings were dangerous.
Cooper Marshall was dangerous.
* * *
THE KILLER WATCHED as the light in Cooper’s bedroom finally shut off. For a while there, those two shadows had gotten close.
Intimately close.
But then one form had left. Cooper.
Playing the gentleman. What a lie.
He was sure Cooper wouldn’t keep up the act for long.
In his experience, Cooper wasn’t exactly a man known for his patience. When Cooper saw something he wanted, he took it.
Just like I do.
He and Cooper had quite a great deal in common. That similarity was why they had worked well together in the field.
They’d battled side by side.
Cooper had even saved his life.
He should have let me die.
That had been Cooper’s mistake. Now, death would come again. Only this time, Cooper would be the one to wind up in the pine box.
Chapter Six
“You can’t do this,” Cooper’s voice rumbled as he leaned over Gabrielle’s shoulder and glared at the computer screen. “If you publish this, it will be like waving a red flag right at the killer!”
Gabrielle glanced up and found him just
inches away from her. Close enough to kiss.
No, no, do not go there.
She jerked her gaze away from his lips. “Other reporters have already scooped me on this case! I can’t sit on the story any longer.”
It was just past 9:00 a.m. She’d given up on the whole concept of sleep quickly enough, and when Rachel had appeared with fresh clothes—Gabrielle seriously owed that woman—she’d wasted no time in rushing down to the Inquisitor’s main office.
Her home computer might have been smashed, but she still had data on file at her workstation.
“No one else,” he said slowly, seeming to force the words out as he glared at her, “is even mentioning anything about a message being written in blood. You can’t—”