The Watcher

He set the box on the round table in the center of the room, removed the lid, and reached down inside. The moment his hand touched the silky softness, he closed his eyes and sighed.

Kendall Moore had been the strongest, the bravest, and the fiercest prey he’d ever hunted. He hoped that his next quarry would provide him with as much pleasure during the hunt.

Nic could not believe she was doing this. Never in her wildest nightmares would she have thought the day would come when she would join forces with Griffin Powell. The man was charming and could play the part of a gentleman quite well. But underneath all that GQ cover-model façade beat the heart of an uncivilized warrior.

You’re not joining forces with him. You’re simply working with him on a temporary basis and only because he is, as far as you know, the only other person the second BQ Killer contacted with the news that he has started a new game of murder.

When she drove her rental car up to the front gates of Griffin’s Rest—how like the egotistical man to name his estate after himself—she realized she’d have to contact the house to be allowed entry. Two massive stone arches, with huge bronze griffins embedded in the stonework on both, flanked the locked gates. The moment she pushed the CALL button, a man’s voice responded. She gave him her name and nothing more, and it wasn’t until the gates opened that she realized there had to be a hidden camera that had conveyed her image to the house and she had been instantly recognized.

The road to the house wound around through a heavily wooded area before opening up onto a lakefront view. Although the mansion was an impressive two-story structure with a columned front portico that faced away from the lake, Griffin’s home was not as large as she had expected. Probably somewhere between eight thousand and ten thousand square feet. Rather modest for a man reported to be worth billions. Although twilight was descending over the lake, with the dying embers of sunlight reflecting off the surface of the water, the outdoor security lights along the road and surrounding the house kept the property well lit.

Slinging her leather bag over her shoulder, she emerged from the car, stretched to her full five ten height, and marched confidently across the drive and up the front steps. She crossed the veranda and rang the doorbell. In less than a minute, the front doors opened to reveal Sanders, Griffin Powell’s right-hand man.

Nic had to admit that she was as curious as everyone else was about those ten missing years of Griffin’s life, when he had disappeared off the face of the earth at twenty-two and reappeared again a decade later. He had returned from only God knew where, filthy rich and accompanied by a mysterious man named Damar Sanders.

“Please come in, Special Agent Baxter.” Sanders stepped back to allow her space to enter.

She hesitated for half a second, something elemental within her warning her of danger. Entering Griffin Powell’s home was the equivalent to a princess entering the dragon’s lair.

When she stepped over the threshold, Sanders gestured with a sweep of his arm. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the way to Griffin’s study.”

“Is Mr. Powell here?”

“He just arrived.” Sanders looked directly at her, the expression in his dark eyes emotionally neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly. “He asked that you wait for him in the study.”

She nodded, then followed the stocky, middle-aged man with the leather-brown skin and shaved head. His ethnic heritage was as much a mystery as the man himself, but his voice possessed a hint of an English accent, although she doubted that English was his native language. He left her at the open door to the study, excusing himself with a curt head bow. After taking a deep breath, she entered the two-story room.

Wow! A massive rock fireplace, so large that several people could easily stand upright inside it, dominated the impressive den. This was an extremely masculine room with paneled walls and hardwood floors. A seven-foot green leather couch resided parallel to the fireplace and sat far enough away from the opposite wall to allow for the placement of a sofa table behind it. Two brown leather armchairs flanked the fireplace and a sturdy antique desk claimed the corner by the windows overlooking the lake.

Griff had put his stamp on this room. Knowing him as she did, she recognized the den for what it was. His sanctuary. This was where the great man came to escape from the world.

Nic felt his presence before he entered, before he spoke her name. Every nerve came to full alert. Every muscle tensed. She took a deep, closed-mouth breath and turned to face him.

“Hello, Nic.”

She liked her nickname, but on his lips it sounded like an insult.

With her gaze meeting his head-on, she replied, “Hello, Grr …iff.” She made his nickname sound like a two-syllable word by stretching it out.

“Would you care for a drink?” he asked, his gaze traveling to the decorative liquor cabinet in the opposite corner from the desk.

“No, thank you, but feel free to—”

“Sit.”

Command or request? With Griffin, she figured they were the same thing.

She chose the right side of the large sofa.

He sat on the sofa, taking the left side.

“What did you find out about the Texas victim?” she asked.

“Not much. There have been two murders in the Stillwater, Texas, area in the past couple of months. One man was stabbed to death by his business partner. The other victim was a young woman whose body was found by some kids in a city park. She was hanging from a large tree limb, upside down, her feet bound together.”

Nic closed her eyes for a split second before looking at Griff. “Had she been shot in the head?”

Griff nodded. “Yeah.”

“Had she been scalped?”

Clenching his jaw, Griff grunted. “Damn! You found out about an identical murder in Ballinger, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t enough that he killed them, execution style. He had to scalp them, too.”

“Trophies,” Griff said.

Nic shot up off the sofa. “I want this guy. I want to stop him before the body count rises. But my boss will tell me that two similar murders in two different states do not mean there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

“Not even when you add to the scenario the information that this guy made phone calls to you and me?”

“All those calls prove is that there’s a nut job out there who has our private cell numbers.”

“Then we need to find enough evidence to prove our theory. I’ll go to Ballinger and Stillwater and see what I can find out beyond the basic police reports.”

“I’m going with you.” As Nic hovered over him, their gazes locked.

The corners of Griff’s mouth curved upward with a hint of a smile. “You know how some local police chiefs and sheriffs are about the FBI sticking their nose into local business. You’re liable to make ‘em nervous, honey, a big, important special agent showing up and asking questions.”

She cringed at the generic endearment, one he’d no doubt used with hundreds of women. No, make that thousands of women. But she knew he had called her honey for one reason only—to piss her off.

“Well, honey,” she replied, “I tell you what—I’m on vacation so I could go with you in an unofficial capacity and not flash my credentials around unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

“Do you suppose you could try to be charming instead of commanding?” Griff asked, a devilish twinkle in his cold blue eyes. “We might get more information that way.”

“I think you have enough charm for both of us.”

“Why, thank you, ma’am. I take that as a compliment.”

Nic groaned quietly. “You can take it any way you want to.”

Griff stood. “Do you think there’s any way we can put aside our personal feelings and actually work together? We could call a temporary truce.”

Nic squared her shoulders and faced him. “I’m willing to try.”

“Good enough.”

“The murder in Ballinger was recent,” she said, considering their truce to be in effect now. God help them both. “The body was found only yesterday. What about the woman in Stillwater?”