The Killing Edge

As they stood there, frozen in an odd face-off, someone suddenly emerged from the low foliage that separated the sand from the street.

It was Rene, and she jetted off like a rabbit in alarm.

Jack immediately lost interest in their conversation and turned to go after Rene.

Chloe’s own response was impulsive—and protective. She flew across the sand after him and leaped onto his back. To her amazement, he managed to remain upright and sling her around so that she fell to the sand. He started to run again, and she caught his ankle. Still, he didn’t fall, not until she twisted around in a mixed—martial arts movement that brought him down at last.

She didn’t need to win; she just needed to buy enough time for Rene to disappear somewhere. She didn’t know what was going on, but designers did not chase down models, whether all was fair in fashion or not.

Chloe jumped back to her feet—it was her turn to run.

But apparently he knew he’d lost Rene and had decided to maintain whatever connection he had with her instead. This time he caught her ankle, and she plunged back to the sand. Before she knew it, he was straddling her, pinning her wrists. He wasn’t really trying to hurt her, though. His hold was easy, and he was keeping his full weight off her.

“All right, time for an honest conversation,” he said. He spoke like a man accustomed to being in command, and she resented it. But she was also acutely aware of the way his thighs cradled her body as he held her down. Warmth spread through her, and she was appalled by the way she found herself wondering what he would be like if he cared about a woman… .

She gritted her teeth. They were engaged in a physical battle, she could be in danger, and he could be a monster. What the hell was wrong with her?

The man couldn’t be a monster. Every instinct she had was sure of it.

She told herself not to be an idiot. An untold number of dead women had no doubt told themselves the same thing.

No. There would be no conversation, and no letting him maintain that edge of authority. Her wrists might be pinned, but her legs were free, and she could tell that he wasn’t prepared for her to fight back. She twisted and slammed her knees up at the same time. To her delight, she did take him by surprise, throwing him off to the side.

But he was quick to rebound. He caught her before she could rise. She tried a feint to the left, but he was ready, so she became a flurry of motion. He swore, trying to contain her flying arms and legs, but she got in one good whack to his chin; she heard the thunk and his grunt of pain.

But he didn’t give up. She might be a vicious terrier, but it seemed she had come across a rottweiler.

And he was still trying to restrain her, not knock her out. She had definitely hurt him, but he was just fighting for control—and he was winning.

“Hey, hey, hey! What the hell is going on?”

Chloe knew the voice, and she sighed with relief.

Lieutenant Anthony Stuckey, metro police. Stuckey never had to leave a desk these days unless he wanted to, but he was an old-time cop, and—he wanted to. He was friends with her uncle Leo, and friends with her. He had encouraged her to pursue her interest in art after her sketches had helped solve her own case, and he had encouraged her to use her artistic talent to help the police, though he also spent plenty of time warning her that she wasn’t a cop herself.

“Tony! Help!” she cried.

“Officer,” Jack Smith said.

He rose, as calmly as if they’d just been lying there soaking up the moonlight, not fighting like a couple of rival gang members.

When she started to scramble to her feet, he offered her a hand, but she slapped it away.

“This man was trying to attack one of the models at the Bryson party,” she informed Stuckey.

“This young woman is mistaken. I didn’t attack anyone. As I’m sure you know, Lieutenant Stuckey.”

Chloe’s jaw dropped, and she snapped it shut quickly. This man knew Stuckey!

She stared at the lieutenant. He was built as powerfully as a bull and didn’t have much of a neck. He kept his snow-white hair cropped close to his skull, and his eyes were a clear sky blue that were incapable of mirroring anything but the truth.

And in his eyes she saw that it was true. He and this man knew one another.

Stuckey looked at her. “I gather there’s been a misunderstanding of some sort,” he said.

She kept her jaw clamped tight, beginning to feel belligerent. Stuckey had found Jack all but beating her to a pulp, and now he was excusing the man?

“What are you doing out here?” he asked her.

“I was at the party,” Chloe said. “As you know.”

Stuckey’s bushy brows drew together. “Yes, why did you leave the party?”

“Because this man was chasing Rene.”

“Chloe, we’ve talked about situations like this,” Stuckey said.

Yes, they had talked about it. Often. He was one of her best friends—or so she had thought until just now. She had even promised that she would never let her “sniffing around” lead her into danger—such as leaving a crowded area to take risks alone—but … She dropped that uncomfortable topic for one that could feed her anger.

Since when was Stuckey buddy-buddy with the local fashionistas?

Which simply proved the truth of what she’d already been sure of. Jack Smith was no designer. So who—and what—the hell was he?

“Let’s take this inside somewhere,” Stuckey said—and it was not a suggestion.

Chloe realized that a small crowd had begun to gather around them. Stuckey took her by the arm and started toward the street and his car. It was a good thing he was a cop, she mused. Parking on South Beach at night was a near impossibility.

She was aware that Jack Smith was following them, and she wasn’t pleased. If she’d truly been a terrier, the hackles on her back would have risen.

“Where are we going?” she asked Stuckey.

“Somewhere private,” he said. “We can duck into Jimmy Ray’s—it’s too late for the teenagers to be hanging out, too early for the club crowd to be looking for a snack on the way home. We can find a booth.”

“I don’t have shoes,” she said.

“You can wear my flip-flops.”

They stopped at his car. Here on the sidewalk, the night was alive. Bands from a dozen clubs vied for dominance. People were everywhere, some in a hurry, some just soaking in the neon lights and the music.

Cars moved past at a snail’s pace.

Stuckey opened the passenger door and grabbed a large pair of flip-flops. She slipped them on. It looked as if she was wearing shoes intended for Frankenstein’s monster.

“They’ll do,” Stuckey told her curtly.

So far, Jack Smith—a name she was growing more and more certain wasn’t the one he’d been born with—hadn’t uttered a word. He gazed at Chloe as she took her first step, trying to keep the shoes on. His eyes were silver, and they had an edge. Everything about the man had an edge, from the angles of his face to the tone of his voice, and that edge seemed to demand respect. There was something about him. She didn’t like him. She was attracted to him, but she didn’t like him. And that was that.

No matter what Stuckey might have to say, she didn’t trust the man.