What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(12)

That’s what reality TV was for.

“Ms. Jacobs—”

“My name is Carmen,” she interrupted, her eyes suddenly damp as her lips trembled.

Griff swore beneath his breath. He’d just told her that he was immune to her dimples. And he was. At least in theory. But he was no match for tears.

Crap, crap, crap.

Bending down, he hooked his fingers around her upper arm and urged her to her feet.

“Get up,” he commanded.

She stumbled upright, swaying toward him before she regained her balance. Griff ’s hand slid up her arm, careful not to grip too tightly.

She was so fierce, it was easy to forget just how small and delicate she was. He had no intention of accidentally bruising her.

“Will you help me?” she demanded, standing close enough he could catch the crisp, citrus scent that clung to her skin. Her soap? Lotion? He sucked in a deep breath before he even realized what he was doing.

He shook his head in frustration. “Do I have a choice?”

“No,” she assured him.

“Great.” He glanced around the parking lot, which had filled to the limit over the past few minutes. “Where’s your car?”

“I took a cab from the airport.”

“You were that certain I would be here?”

She hesitated before giving a small shrug. “You’re a creature of habit.”

Creature of habit? Griff grimaced. Just great. She made him sound as exciting as a house slipper. An old, ratty house slipper.

With brisk steps he rounded the hood of his car and unlocked the passenger door.

“Get in.”

She scurried to slide into the low-slung car, keeping her lips shut as he took his seat behind the wheel and switched on the engine. There was a low purr of power as he pulled out of the lot and headed across the highway toward the narrow road that zigzagged through the local neighborhood.

She at last broke the thick silence. “Thanks.”

He sent her an annoyed glance. “Don’t thank me. You were starting to attract attention,” he informed her. “Just say what you came here to say.”

She wiped the palms of her hands on her jeans. It was the only visible indication that she was anything but cool, calm, and collected. Then, with a concise attention to detail, she started to speak.

She told him about staying at the remote cabin and finding the envelope on the porch. She skimmed over her horror at pulling out the Polaroids, but he didn’t miss the way her fingers curled into tight fists.

He didn’t interrupt and she quickly moved on to the fact that the law firm that’d supposedly sent the envelope claimed they weren’t responsible. Something that might have been a clerical error, until she revealed that the messenger company that delivered the package didn’t exist.

She finished up with her trip to the sheriff’s office, where she met with a deputy who’d immediately decided she was playing some sort of sick game.

From that, she’d decided the authorities weren’t going to believe her without some real proof.

Whatever that meant.

He pulled the car into his long driveway, halting at the side of the house. Remaining silent, he climbed out of the vehicle and watched as Carmen hurried to join him. She had her purse slung over her shoulder and the envelope clutched tight in her fingers.

As soon as she reached his side, he led her to the back of the house to enter through the kitchen door.

He crossed the tiled floor to the sink to splash cold water on his face. Later he would hop in the shower, but for now he needed to clear his brain.

Plus, it gave him a perfect excuse to put distance between him and the woman who he’d never expected to see again.

He reached for a dish towel to wipe off the droplets that clung to his heated skin, and then, turning around, he braced himself to tell Carmen he couldn’t help her, only to discover he was alone in the kitchen.

His heart missed a painful beat.

She was gone.





Chapter Four


December 21, California





Carmen drifted around the spacious living room that was filled with overstuffed couches and chairs clearly designed for comfort, and the driftwood shelves that held rows of leather-bound books that were scuffed from use.

There were tall windows that allowed the morning sunlight to pour into the room, and bright hand-woven rugs on the planked floor. Across from her was a stone fireplace for the rare nights that it was cold enough to need heat. And in the corner was a large Christmas tree covered with a mishmash of decorations that looked as if they’d been handed down over the years.

On the walls were two oil paintings. She crossed to study them, a genuine envy tugging at her heart. They were original Turners. One of her favorite artists.

Both canvases had ships battling the elements as they struggled to cross a stormy sea.

Hmm.

Beauty amid chaos.

She didn’t know if it was a glimpse into Griffin Archer’s complicated brain or not.

The man was quite simply impossible to read.

From the minute she’d uncovered the fact that Dr. Franklin Hammel, the second serial killer profiled in her book, had been caught because of software invented by Griffin and his partner, she’d been fascinated.

Her first book had centered on killers. How cool would it be to write a book about the people who caught those killers?