What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(20)

With a vague thanks for the directions, Griff left the office. A part of him was relieved he hadn’t had to resort to knocking on each door, while another part was furious that anyone could have discovered where she was staying.

And that she was there alone.

Moving the four-wheel-drive truck that he’d rented at the airport, he parked it directly in front of Carmen’s room. Reaching across the seat, he grabbed his backpack and climbed out. Then, with long steps he moved through the snow that continued to drift from the sullen sky. With a frown, he glanced toward the distant security light that was blinking off and on.

It was no wonder a thief had targeted this hotel.

One surveillance camera that even a rookie could tell was a fake. One light pole that left most of the parking lot shrouded in shadows. And one manager on duty who no doubt fell asleep behind the desk by ten o’clock.

With a shake of his head, he lifted his hand and rapped on the door. Silence. He rapped again. And again.

Was she out? Maybe she’d walked to the nearby diner to get a late lunch.

But what if— He was in the process of reviewing the wide variety of evils that might have befallen a young woman on her own when the sound of steel scraping against steel warned him the deadbolt was being pulled aside. A second later the door was opened a half inch to allow Carmen to stare out at him in blank shock.

Had she been expecting Santa Claus?

“Griff?” She shook her head, as if he was a figment of her imagination that would disappear in the swirling snow. “What are you doing here?”

He stepped forward, hoping there might be some heat leaking through the narrow opening.

“Right now I’m freezing my bal—” He bit off his words. “Are you going to let me in?”

She scowled. “Now?”

He shuddered as a blast of wind nearly knocked him off his feet.

“The sooner the better.”

For a long minute she debated, clearly wanting to slam the door in his face. At last she pulled it wider.

“Fine.” She gave a wave of her hand. “Come in.”

“Very gracious,” he drawled as he stepped into the cramped room.

She shut the door behind him with a force that was just below a slam.

“You’re lucky I didn’t make you get on your knees and beg.”

He watched as she marched to stand in the center of the room. She was wearing a short terry cloth robe that allowed him a stunning view of her legs, and her hair was tangled around her flushed face.

Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach. She looked deliciously disheveled. As if she’d just crawled out of bed.

“Were you sleeping?” he asked, trying not to glance at the bed that was only inches away.

She hunched a shoulder. “It was a long trip.”

He snorted. A long trip? Did she endure an elderly woman poking her in the ribs with her knitting needle? Or a kid kicking the back of her seat for three hours straight?

“No crap,” he muttered.

She took a step backward, as if wanting to put some space between them. A futile effort. The room was the size of a closet.

“How did you find me?”

He turned away to toss his backpack on the chair and pulled off his leather coat. He needed an excuse to hide his expression, since there was no way he was confessing that he’d used his hacking skills to track her down.

It didn’t look like she was hiding a weapon beneath the skimpy robe, but better safe than sorry.

“I knew you would try to track down information on the women in those pictures,” he instead said. “You’re like a dog with a bone when you decide on a goal.”

She released a short laugh. “Thanks a lot.”

He shrugged, laying his coat on a nearby chair. “It’s true.”

Griff sensed her gaze burning a hole in the side of his head. “Okay, I’ll concede I can be stubborn, but you couldn’t have known I’d be at this hotel.”

He turned back to meet her suspicious gaze. “Where else would you go?” he asked. “It’s the only place you know for certain the killer was at.”

She jerked, a strange expression touching her face. “The killer? Does that mean you believe me?”

He considered his answer. Only a fool would encourage her to continue her investigation. On the other hand, he needed her to understand that if the pictures were real, she was in danger.

The kind of danger that got people dead.

“I believe someone sent you those pictures,” he finally said. “And that there’s a good possibility those women were murdered.”

She clutched her hands together, her knuckles white with tension.

“Did you send the pictures to your FBI contact?”

“This morning before I headed to the airport.”

“What did you find out?”

His lips twisted at her impatience. “Nothing yet. The pictures won’t arrive until tomorrow,” he pointed out in dry tones. “Plus, when I called my contact I was reminded that it’s the holiday season. My ears are still ringing.” He grimaced. “And not from ‘Silver Bells.’”

She blinked. As if shocked that he might have a sense of humor.

To be fair, it surprised most people. Apparently, computer nerds weren’t supposed to be funny. At least not ha-ha funny.