Dancing with the Devil (Nikki & Michael 1)

"No.” Besides, something warned her not to leave the girl's body with this man. Warned that she might not find it again if she did. An odd thought indeed—what in hell would Michael want with a dead teenager?

"You're a stubborn woman, Nikki James."

She smiled at the hint of exasperation in his voice. He'd only known her twenty-four hours, and already he'd come to that realization. It usually took people far longer to see beneath her polite veneer.

"And this is one of my good days,” she replied lightly. “Now, would you please remove the damn splinters?"

"As you wish."

She stared into the darkness and tried counting to one hundred. It didn't work. She could no more ignore the sting in her hands than the warm brush of his body against hers.

"There,” he said after a moment. “All gone."

"Good. Now we can go find Monica."

He smiled, though she couldn't say how she knew this. Perhaps it was little more than a quick caress of laughter in her mind. Or wishful thinking.

He placed a hand under her elbow again and led her forward. The smell of decay tainted the air, a smell that had nothing to do with the sea or the rotting rubbish she kept tripping over. It was the smell of death. If only she hadn't dropped her flashlight...

Ahead, moonlight flickered through a few broken wallboards. The darkness shifted slightly, becoming less intense. Shapes loomed—old crates and half-destroyed internal walls. Michael stepped through a shattered doorway then stopped. Monica lay before them, serene and quiet on a battered old mattress. She looked at peace, Nikki thought. Innocent. Strange how death could be so deceiving. She knelt beside the teenager's body and gently touched her neck. Though she didn't doubt Michael's word, she couldn't help hoping that perhaps he was wrong.

He wasn't.

Guilt washed through her. This death was partly her fault. If she hadn't given in to fear, the teenager might still be alive.

"Monica chose her fate. Nothing you could have done would have prevented this,” Michael stated, kneeling on the opposite side of the body.

She raised an eyebrow at the anger in his voice. Yet she sensed the anger had been aimed at himself, not her. He moved his hand, drawing her gaze back to Monica.

"We should check her body."

"Why? Monica's dead, and as you pointed out, there's nothing much we can do about it now. Let's call the police and let them deal with her."

"I don't think that would be wise right now."

She sighed and rubbed her temples wearily. She had a horrible feeling the night's surprises were not over yet. “Why not?"

"Once I examine the body, I'll explain."

The thought of touching the dead girl any further made Nikki's skin crawl. “What are you looking for?" He gave her an enigmatic smile, shrugging one shoulder. “Odd marks. A recent knife wound." She raised an eyebrow and made no comment. Michael brushed the teenager's long hair to one side and bent to study her neck. His frown suggested he wasn't happy with what he found. She rubbed her arms. “Why are odd marks so important?"

"If I find them, I'll explain.” He hesitated and glanced up. “It'll be done a lot quicker if you helped." Though his tone was even, his irritation seared her mind. She bit her lip, then reached down, gingerly lifting Monica's right arm. The smooth flesh felt cool, like meat just taken out of the fridge. Her stomach turned. They shouldn't be doing this. It was a violation of the dead.

"If she's dead, she can't mind,” Michael said.

"Keep out of my thoughts,” she snapped, then frowned. “What do you mean, if she's dead?"

"Nothing yet. Keep checking."

"This is definitely not a sharing environment you're creating here, you know,” she muttered. "I never said it would be,” he said. “I'm here to catch a killer, nothing more." And she and Monica were merely the means to the end. The thought annoyed her more than it should have. Lowering Monica's arm to her side, she continued her examination. No unusual marks appeared to mar the creamy perfection of the teenager's skin. Nikki sat back on her heels. While she would have loved to get out of this building and the death it held so peacefully, she owed it to Trevgard to find out the truth. If she couldn't have prevented Monica's death, she could at least find out why she died—and maybe bring her killer to justice.

The image of sapphire-ringed eyes rose in her mind, and she shivered. If Monica's killer and her own hunter were one and the same, what would she do?

"You'd better come around here and have a look at what I've found,” Michael commented softly. His face was emotionless, giving no indication of what to expect. She rose and walked around to his side. “Look at what?"

"Her wrist for starters."

He pointed to Monica's wrist; a two-inch cut marred her skin. But the pale color of the scar indicated the wound was at least a week old. She couldn't see how it was related to Monica's death. “And?"