She wanted him to pull her into his arms. “I figured we scared you off.”
“You had your hands full with the FBI and the Shark case, and after I gave my statements, Shield sent me to Texas to look into another set of cases that might have been related to the Shark. We think we can now link Duncan to over two dozen killings in twenty different cities.”
“Two dozen.” The number was staggering when she tried to picture all those young girls.
“How’s Maria doing?”
“Duke’s funeral was hard. There must have been a hundred people there. He touched so many lives.” It would be a long time before the pain of Duke’s betrayal eased. “I guess you heard the forensic data linked him to Jax’s and Darla’s deaths.”
“I did hear that.”
“All these years I saw him as some kind of savior. And he really was. He was good to me. He did help so many kids off the street. I believe there was goodness in him. It scares me that there was also so much darkness.” How had she not been able to see it?
“Jo-Jo still with Maria?” he asked.
He’d not been around, but he was keeping tabs. “Jo-Jo and Maria seem to be good for each other. Hanna and I were over there last night. Maria’s still crying a lot, and Jo-Jo is actually stepping up and taking care of her. Maria had no idea about the Shark or how Duke really found me. Maria wants to keep the restaurant and the shelter open. In her good moments, she’s refusing to let Duke shatter what they built. In her bad moments, well, I hope I can be there for her.”
He ran his hand up her arm, sending a shiver through her body. “How’re you? How is your department handling this?”
“Paid administrative leave, but I’ll be back on the job in a couple of weeks. Gave me time to spend with Hanna, and I finalized the adoption.”
“Hanna must be pleased.”
“She is.” She smiled. “She’s been practicing signing her name as Hanna Tatum now.”
“Good for her.” His hand wrapped around hers. “And Sharp?”
“Agent Sharp is the man of the hour. He’s being hailed for leading the investigation that caught a wanted serial killer. He wants to give credit to Shield, but he refuses.”
“That’s the way we like it. No media. No press.”
“You should take the credit.”
“Credit has never mattered to me.” Bowman traced his thumb over her palm. “I’ve missed you.”
A sigh shuddered through her, testing her promise to be cool about this. “I’ve missed you.”
“I don’t want this to be over for us.” He clasped both his hands around hers. “And part of my being away for the last two weeks was about saying good-bye to my own past. I wanted to make sure my head was on straight this time. I never want to hurt you again like I did five years ago.”
“And you can let it all go?”
“Never forgotten, but it’s behind me.”
She closed her eyes, cherishing the words before she forced herself to look at him. “Are you sure?”
There was no hesitation in his expression. “I wasn’t ready for you the first time we met. You were everything I wanted, but I needed more time.”
“You were in a bad place.”
“Not anymore.”
“I’m not in the same place either. I’m not free to pick up and go like I could then. My life is more complicated.”
“Hanna’s not a complication. And I like knowing where you are.” He rubbed the healing scar on her arm. Andrews had removed the chip the day after the Shark was killed. Bowman tugged her closer.
As her breasts touched his chest, her senses jumped as if jolted by electricity. She glanced at the damp tank top that clung to her skin. “I’m covered in sweat.”
He smiled, tracing the outline of her collarbone with his finger. “I like your body when it’s glistening with sweat. Especially when it’s naked.”
She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. “I have a fondness for your naked body as well.”
When her breasts brushed his chest, he grinned. “What do you say I treat Hanna and her friend Julia to pizza and a movie?”
She steadied, needing to make sure he understood that having Hanna in her life was a nonnegotiable fact. “She’s in my life for good, you know. She’ll be around a lot. We’re a package deal.”
He kissed her again, this time allowing the full force of his passion. “That’s fine with me. What about sending them out for pizza?”
She gripped his shirt in her hands, savoring the feel of his chest beneath her palms. Already, she was imagining them alone, naked and in her bed. “That sounds even better.”
THE FORGOTTEN FILES BOOK 2
THE DOLLMAKER
by Mary Burton
Monday, October 4, 3:00 p.m.
The Dollmaker touched his newest creation’s face gently, knowing it was still tender. The redness and swelling had faded, and the skin had shed the damaged cells leaving whole, healthy skin in its place. Still, her face would be sensitive to touch and he didn’t want to hurt her.
Her skin warmed his fingertips as he traced the outline of her thin dark eyebrow, then slowly along high cheekbones dotted with freckles, and finally over bright-red heart-shaped lips.
She was perfect.
A living doll.
Four weeks ago when he’d first taken her, the woman’s face had been lovely in an ordinary sort of way. She was in her late twenties with long limbs, a trim waist, and small round breasts. But she’d reached her full potential, which sadly was destined to fade with time. So he’d intervened, snatched her from her predictable life, renamed her Destiny, and enhanced her beauty by painstakingly tattooing her face.
Experience taught him that the best tattoo art began with detailed prep work. And knowing Destiny deserved the best, he took his time, first cutting off her brown hair, then shaving her head and eyebrows until the skin was as smooth as glass. Next he applied alcohol to clean the skin so there’d be no risk of infection.
Only when the canvas was ready did he reach for the first tattoo gun loaded with the finest of needles. It took a full day of meticulous work to cover the key portions with the base coat of white ink. And though there were times when his hands ached and his back stiffened, he refused to rush. Finally, when all the pale color had been applied and the blood wiped clean, he tattooed gracefully arching eyebrows. Next came the rosy blush of color on the cheeks. Stippled freckles. Heart-shaped lips. He saved the eyes for last, permanently lining the upper and lower lids with a steady hand.
Toward the end of the transformation, she began to wake, so he set up a fresh IV bag of propofol so she drifted off to sleep again.
After the job was complete, he wrapped her head and face, knowing that the healing process was critical to the best tattoo work. Infection and neglect ruined tattoos. He changed her bandages twice daily, knowing his work at this stage was akin to an open wound.
For her safety, he kept her drugged and hydrated with the IV bag that hung over a special reclining chair. And as she slept, he spent hours embellishing and ironing the clothes that would match her flawless features.
Once, he had allowed his doll to partially wake so she could see how beautiful she was becoming. She had roused from her deep slumber and immediately tried to sit up.
/> Her long delicate fingers tried to rise to her bandaged face. “What’s wrong with me?” she said, her lips still swollen.
Gently he laid his hand over hers. “Shh. You’re safe,” he soothed. “You’re fine. Your body just needs time to heal.”
“My face.” She tried to raise her hands but discovered straps bound them to the chair. “What’s going on?”
“No touching yet,” he said.
She stared at him through a haze of drugged confusion. “My face hurts.”
He reached for a bowl of oatmeal and ladled a small amount on a spoon. “I know. It’s healing. Soon you will be just fine. But you need to eat now. You won’t heal properly if you don’t eat.”
Panic brightened the color of her eyes. “What happened? Was it an accident?”
He teased her mouth open with the spoon and she opened, like an obedient child. “I’m making you perfect. Don’t worry. I am taking great care of you. When you wake up again, it will be over.”
She ate a few bites before she shook her head. “I can’t eat any more.”
The Dollmaker looked in the bowl and saw that she’d almost eaten half. Not as much as he hoped, but sufficient. “Enough for today.” Setting the bowl aside, he reached for the nearly empty IV bag and replaced it with his last bag of propofol. Soon she was in a deep sleep.
As the tension relaxed from her face, he couldn’t help but be pleased. The extra sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose was exactly the right amount, and he was glad now he’d not added more.
Ten days had passed since he’d first done the work, and he now stood back and studied her. All the hours of labor and the extra days of healing had been worth it. The colors were vibrant and vivid, the lines clear and sharp.
He’d dressed her in a plaid skirt and a white top that was formfitting but not overly tight in a vulgar sort of way. He turned toward the collection of wigs and vacillated between blond and auburn. Finally, he chose the blond wig with long locks that curled gently at the ends. All the wigs were natural, the best on the market. He’d even taken extra care to trim the bangs on this particular model so that delicate wisps of hair brushed the tops of her painted brows.