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Fully Committed
Janie Crouch


The Texas heat did nothing to stop an elusive criminalOmega Sector: Critical Response Agent Jon Hatton is running out of options. If he doesn’t get a decent lead soon, a serial rapist will strike again. His best chances lie with the intuitive skills of forensic artist Sherry Mitchell, a beautiful woman struggling with PTSD.In exchange for her help, Jon teaches Sherry to manage her symptoms and soon they are unable to resist their Texas-hot attraction. With Jon as her lifeline, Sherry uncovers clues that prompt a frightening message from the attacker. Jon knows Sherry’s determined to help catch this criminal but keeping her safe is his top priority. Followed by making her his bride.







Jon’s hazel eyes were close to hers and she could feel warmth where he was touching her.

“I’m going to be right here, okay?” he said. “Your lifeline, like we talked about yesterday. Everybody needs one in this line of work.”

Her lifeline. Yes, she needed someone to make sure she wasn’t going under. Jon would do that.

As if he could read her mind he said, “I’ll be right here. I won’t let you go under.”

Sherry took a breath and nodded. Okay, she could do this. At least she would try.

“I’m okay.”

He kissed her on the forehead. “You’re more than okay. You can do this.”

“I hope so.”


Fully Committed

Janie Crouch




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


JANIE CROUCH has loved to read romance her whole life. She cut her teeth on Mills & Boon Romance novels as a preteen, then moved on to a passion for romantic suspense as an adult. Janie lives with her husband and four children overseas. Janie enjoys traveling, long-distance running, movie watching, knitting and adventure/obstacle racing. You can find out more about her at www.janiecrouch.com (http://www.janiecrouch.com).


To “my” Jon and Sherry: it has been such a joy for everyone to watch the two of you fall in love.

A beautiful romance that books—mine or otherwise—would only hope to imitate.

May you forever live out Ed Sheeran’s “Tenerife Sea.”

I’ll always think of you when I hear it.


Contents

Cover (#u77564e54-9980-5805-b754-9fd11a0970e8)

Introduction (#u4fdfee5c-ba62-535d-a219-89d04c44f07c)

Title Page (#u80353f52-d239-5b9f-863f-8f80428fece5)

About the Author (#u6ab83b05-9b9b-550e-95ea-d8d8892d51e5)

Dedication (#uc5a651b1-9231-51d8-a10f-ff820adcc250)

Chapter One (#u242e966b-b5d1-5c8c-9776-8612950f7e14)

Chapter Two (#u5ff7740f-3eef-50dc-8f2c-d1945b39e1f9)

Chapter Three (#u7c41a990-2ba6-56ed-a7a2-17c80f017233)

Chapter Four (#u6ea2ce92-91c2-5256-9565-2d1e08f8099e)

Chapter Five (#ud2c4d148-0508-5060-8054-94a572002a87)

Chapter Six (#ub12c956e-39f2-5a05-bb60-ca85eeae599d)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_cda4091d-4f44-5cd2-9ebd-b4c79b7f0ecb)

Sherry Mitchell was pretty sure she was the only tourist on the beaches of Corpus Christi, Texas, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans to try to help her relax. Especially since the late-afternoon heat was expected to spike toward one hundred degrees on this June day.

Granted, she was under a large, colorful beach umbrella that threw enough shade to protect her from a great deal of the sun’s rays and the heat. She was from Houston—a Texas girl born and bred—so was perhaps a little more adjusted to the heat than some of the tourists used to more temperate climates. But she’d still received a couple of odd glances.

She had her bathing suit—a red bikini she’d bought last week especially for this vacation—on under her clothes. Somehow she hadn’t been able to force herself to wear just the tiny scraps of cloth just yet.

Not that they were that tiny. The suit itself was pretty modest compared to some seen around here on any given day. Not to mention, it was quite attractive on her.

The problem wasn’t anything to do with a bathing suit or modesty or appearances at all. The problem was the iciness that seemed to have permeated Sherry’s very core recently.

She felt cold almost all the time. As if she would never be warm again.

Intellectually she knew that couldn’t be true. She knew this feeling—a chill even in upper-90s weather—was all a product of her mind, her psyche. Her body wasn’t really cold. She didn’t have some rare disease or unknown illness. It was all inside her head. She’d taken her temperature to make sure.

It had been completely normal.

Nothing was wrong with her physically. She’d double-checked with her doctor. Gone in for a physical. “A couple-years-late, quarter-of-a-century checkup,” she’d told him, not wanting to bring up the fact that she had the heater running at her house even though winter had long since passed.

Ironically the doctor had not only declared her completely healthy, but had congratulated her on being more grounded and wise than many people her age who tended to avoid physicals until something was wrong.

Sherry didn’t avoid physicals. But it seemed that her mind was doing its best to avoid reality.

She pulled her shirt around her more tightly. It wasn’t just the cold. She also couldn’t stand the thought of being exposed, of sitting out here with no cover. As if the clothing she wore would somehow keep her insides from fragmenting into a million pieces and flying away.

Icy and fragmented. Two words she would never have used to describe herself a year ago now fit her perfectly. She had seen too much, been close to too many people with shattered lives. Had worked for too long without a break, without giving herself a chance to recharge. To heal.

Now her mind was evidently taking over that duty for Sherry. She was getting a break from her work whether she wanted it or not.

Because if she thought the cold was bad on normal occasions, it was downright frigid every time she tried to pick up a pencil and sketch pad.

They both sat beside her under the umbrella on their own towel. She was further from picking them up than she was from stripping down to just her bathing suit and frolicking in the sun.

She missed drawing. Creating the pictures of what she saw in her head. And more recently, creating the pictures other people saw in their heads.

Unfortunately those had turned out to be hideous monsters. A shiver rushed through her and she brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and rocking herself slightly back and forth.

At one time she had drawn every day, all the time. Growing up, she’d drawn or painted or colored on anything she could get her hands on: notebook paper, computer paper, the insides of book covers.

As she’d gotten older and realized there were actual art supplies she could buy, she’d rarely been without a sketch pad. Drawing was a part of her. All her friends had learned that Sherry would always be drawing—and usually drawing the people around her—no matter what else was going on. They’d accepted her; had learned that just because there was a pencil flying in her hand and her nose was in her sketchbook didn’t mean she was ignoring them.

Her passion had driven her parents—both successful business owners, neither of them with any artistic ability or inclination—a little nuts. Both of them had small companies that could be handed down to Sherry if she would just do the smart thing: go to college and get a business degree. Or even better, a double major in business and something equally useful such as marketing or finance.

Sherry had double-majored, but in what she had found interesting: art and psychology. The psychology mostly because understanding what was going on inside the human mind made for more compelling drawings.

For the four years right after college Sherry had found moderate success in the art world. She wasn’t ever going to be rich, but she at least didn’t have to wait tables.

Then two years ago she’d stumbled onto what some people in law enforcement had termed her “obvious calling.”

Forensic art.

Sherry could admit it was the perfect blend of her natural artistic gifting and what she’d learned with her psychology degree. Once the FBI had learned that she was so good at it, she’d worked consistently—really beyond full-time—for them for the past two years. But if she had known the cost would be her love and passion for drawing, she had to wonder if she would ever have gotten involved with the FBI in the first place.

That seemed like such a selfish statement. She didn’t like to think that she would give up the breakthroughs she’d made in cases, the criminals she’d had a part in helping apprehend, just because it made her not want to draw anymore.

But she hadn’t even so much as picked up drawing materials for pleasure in more than six months. For the past five months, she’d drawn what she’d needed to for cases, although it had been difficult.

Then last month, after a particularly brutal case, the cold had started. She’d barely made it through her last two cases after that. Her boss at the FBI was glad Sherry was taking a couple of weeks off. It would allow her to “recover and come back fully recharged and ready to do what she did best—listen to a victim, get the picture in her mind and draw it so law-enforcement officers could put another bad guy away.”

That was a direct quote. And pretty much the farthest from reality than Sherry had ever felt.

How could she be ready to jump back into forensic art when, even now on vacation, with the vast beauty of the Gulf in front of her fairly begging Sherry to attempt to capture its beauty on paper, she couldn’t even pick up a pencil?

All she could do was keep from shivering and flying apart.

It was the third day of her two-week vacation in Corpus Christi. She’d actually made it outside today rather than just looking at the water from her house on the beach, one her parents owned but never used. So maybe she should cut herself a little slack.

She had made it to the beach today. That was enough. Tomorrow she would go a little further. Would actually pull out her sketch pad and draw something, even if it resembled a kindergartener’s stick figure. And even if she had to put a coat on to do it.

Maybe the day after that she’d actually take off her polar tundra gear and dip her feet in the Gulf. One thing Sherry had learned from working over and over with traumatized people was that you just had to take it a little bit at a time. It was okay to expect that same slow progress from herself.

In a few minutes she’d be driving into downtown Corpus Christi to pick up her friend Caroline. They’d gone to college in Dallas at the same time and had taken a few psychology classes together and then kept in touch. Caroline was a paramedic here in the city.

Sherry would at least slip on a short-sleeved blouse and skirt before meeting her friend. Caroline was already concerned about her. She would be even more worried if Sherry showed up dressed as she was now, particularly in this heat. Sherry hadn’t shared what was going on with her—she hadn’t wanted to worry her friend. But even without talking about it, she knew Caroline was concerned.

Dinner and margaritas on the back patio of Pier 99, a pier turned restaurant on North Beach, with a good friend and no pressures sounded perfect to Sherry.

No trauma. No stress. No need to force herself to draw. Just margaritas.

* * *

JON HATTON HAD a barbecue brisket sandwich—he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d developed an addiction to the Texas staple in his week of being here—almost up to his mouth when he received the brief text. Another rape victim. Memorial.

Even though it broke part of his heart, he dropped his half-eaten sandwich and stood.

Jon threw down a twenty, more than enough to pay for his meal at the diner plus leave the waitress a hefty tip, and was running out the door less than fifteen seconds after he received the text.

CHRISTUS Spohn Hospital Corpus Christi—Memorial for short—was right smack in the middle of downtown. Jon knew where Memorial was. But not because of any information local law enforcement had provided him, only because of the maps he had studied.

Corpus Christi PD was pretty pissed that Jon, a member of Omega Sector: Critical Response Division, was even here. They had made it clear they didn’t find his skills as a behavioral analyst and expertise in crisis management needed or welcomed.

That was just too damn bad because they very definitely had a crisis on their hands. Corpus Christi had a serial rapist on the loose.

Five rapes in just over eight weeks. Actually six now, if the current woman in the hospital was also a victim. The local police, as probably any police force of a city this size, didn’t have the resources to deal with this type of situation. People were in a panic and no breaks had been made on the case.

Corpus Christi PD had wanted to handle the situation themselves. But once the story made national news, that option was no longer available.

Omega had been called in and Jon, highly experienced with situations where multiple skills would be necessary—profiling, crime and linkage analysis, investigative suggestions, multiagency coordination—had been sent.

Jon was good at seeing the overall big picture, at catching details other people sometimes missed. At taking all the individual pieces involved in a case of this magnitude and putting them together so that the whole was more than the sum of the parts.

He was also a pilot, an excellent sharpshooter and could kill a man a dozen different ways with his bare hands. But that probably wasn’t in his official dossier.

No matter what list of credentials Omega had provided for Jon’s arrival to help with this case, it hadn’t made any difference with the locals. Every piece of information was only reluctantly shared. Jon was the last person notified for any possible lead.

But call him Rhett Butler because, frankly, Jon didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t in Corpus Christi to sit around holding hands and singing “Kumbaya.” He was here to stop a predator from victimizing more women.

A particularly smart predator who was too clever to leave behind any evidence so far.

So it wasn’t as if the Christi locals could be accused of not doing their jobs properly. Jon hadn’t been able to make as much as a single crack in the case himself, despite the time he’d spent in his week here interviewing victims and studying patterns.

It was a frustrating feeling when all he could do was wait for the bad guy to strike again and hope for a mistake. Not a feeling Jon was used to or that sat well with him.

This was the first victim that had been reported since Jon had arrived in town. He planned to make sure there wasn’t a next, regardless of how cooperative the Corpus Christi PD was. Or wasn’t.

The text notifying him of the victim hadn’t come from a member of the police department. Oh, Jon had no doubt they would eventually get around to notifying him of the victim’s existence. After all, none of them wanted to be accused of deliberately keeping info from him. But God only knew when that would actually be.

The text had come from Caroline Gill, a paramedic. Jon had met and befriended her and her partner, Michael Dutton, earlier in the week when he’d interviewed them about victim number two, whom they’d also transported a few weeks ago.

Dutton and Gill weren’t threatened by Jon’s presence here. They had talked openly with him about what they knew, what they’d heard. Jon had even asked them their theories about the case, since they had been the first people on one of the crime scenes.

Perhaps the paramedics’ opinions wouldn’t amount to anything useful whatsoever. But Jon had been doing this job for Omega Sector long enough to know that a break in a case could often come from unusual sources.

At the very least, his willingness to listen to them had gotten him the text that had him now driving through the city as fast as he safely could.

Jon parked at the closest nonemergency spot he could find at Memorial and jogged to the sliding glass of the emergency entrance door, ignoring the muggy heat that was so unlike the weather in his home state of Colorado. He pulled out his credentials to show the nurse at the front desk, explaining who he was here to see. He was glad when he saw Sara Beth Carreker, the head nurse who had worked in Emergency for years, walk up. Jon had talked to her a few days ago, also, since all the victims had been brought to Memorial’s Emergency Trauma Center.

Nurse Carreker’s nod was brisk. “I’ll show you back there myself. The patient has been moved into one of the private trauma care rooms.” Her lips pinched together.

“I take it that’s a bad sign?”

The nurse glanced at him as they walked down the hall. “Medically, it’s pretty neutral. Just my opinion, of course. You’ll have to ask the doctor for a professional statement.” The older woman’s eyes argued that she had seen more and probably knew more than a lot of the young doctors around here.

“So, physically she’ll recover. That’s not why she’s in the room.” Jon’s words weren’t questions.

“Yes.” Nurse Carreker nodded as they turned a corner. “Emotionally that woman needs as much privacy as she can get.”

“Anything you can tell me about her?”

“Young. A local. African-American this time, so that’s a little different. But the same type of bruising and craniofacial trauma.”

A black female. Jon’s jaw clenched. The demographic pattern of the women who had been attacked was widely varied, almost unheard of in a serial rapist. It was one of the reasons Corpus Christi PD had resisted asking for any federal help. Since serial rapists usually had a set type of woman they attacked, the department hadn’t thought the perpetrator was just one person.

Nurse Carreker stopped halfway down the hall. “Agent Hatton, y’all try to remember that this isn’t a case to that woman. Her whole world has just been destroyed.”

Y’all? Just because Jon didn’t use the word didn’t mean he didn’t know what it meant. How many people were here besides him? “Okay, thank you.”

The nurse patted him on the arm and left. Jon turned back toward the victim’s room. At least half a dozen of Corpus Christi’s finest were standing around outside the victim’s door. They alternated between glaring at and completely ignoring him as he approached.

Damn, this was going to be a long afternoon.


Chapter Two (#ulink_d132125e-4bf1-5b14-8d0d-5cb91e6007f8)

Jon noticed that Zane Wales, the detective he’d been working most closely with—closely being a very relative term—was busy cross-referencing something on his smartphone with a file in his hands. The younger man made it a point not to make eye contact. Wales should’ve been the one who had called or texted Jon, not the paramedic.

Jon tamped down his frustration. This wasn’t the time or place to get into it with Wales again. Especially because he knew the captain at the local police department all but applauded Wales’s attitude. He encouraged any and all negative attitudes toward Jon.

“Hatton,” Wales said neutrally in greeting. The man actually wore a cowboy hat all the time. Since they were in Texas that shouldn’t surprise Jon, but it was still a little unsettling.

“Wales.” Jon raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything further.

“Doctor’s with the victim, so no one can go in yet.” Wales put himself between the door and Jon as if Jon were going to barge his way in. Jon barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.

He looked over at the uniformed officers milling around, half a dozen of them, all male. They all wanted to be here, be somewhere nearby so they could help if needed. While Jon appreciated the gesture, they had to leave.

He turned back to Wales. “A little crowded out here, don’t you think, for a woman who’s just been brutally attacked?”

Wales looked a little surprised that Jon had said something reasonable. Probably had expected him to pick a fight about not being notified.

“Actually, I agree,” Wales said. “The last thing that woman is going to want or need is a bunch of people—men especially, probably—out here hanging around.”

The detective’s statement reassured Jon on multiple levels. First, he had already been aware of the problem before Jon even pointed it out and would’ve handled it himself soon, hopefully. Second, Wales might not like him or the fact that he had been assigned to the case, but at least he wasn’t going to do something potentially case-damaging such as keep a bunch of unnecessary people there just to spite Jon. The victim was Wales’s priority.

So cowboy hat notwithstanding—the jury was definitely still out on that—the young detective had just proved himself to be at least competent and focused.

Jon backed out of the way as Wales went to talk to the uniformed officers and dismiss them. He could hear him reassure the men that they personally would be the first ones called if anything could be done for the victim or if any further help was needed. He was glad to see Wales wasn’t a jerk in general.

Just with him, evidently.

After the uniforms left, Wales made his way over to Jon. Both knew it could be some time before they were able to talk to the victim, depending on the extent of the physical and emotional trauma. But sooner was definitely better, while everything was, unfortunately, still fresh in the victim’s mind.

They’d have to wait until the doctor came out to give them more information.

“Do we know anything about the victim?” Jon gave it about a fifty-fifty chance that the detective would be forthcoming with information.

Wales hesitated but then responded.

“Vic’s name is Jasmine Houze. She’s twenty-seven, not married, lives on Mustang Island, which is out near the beach. Works for Flint Hill Resources, an oil company.”

Corpus Christi, in Jon’s opinion, was a city with an identity crisis: part touristy beach town, part oil/shipping industry. Both businesses seemed to vie for what the city would be known for. There were lovely beaches, but if you wandered too far from them you were right in the middle of oil industry with their buildings and warehouses and machinery. So you had all types of people in the city’s makeup.

“Nurse said there was similar craniofacial trauma?” Jon asked.

“I haven’t seen her yet or any medical records to confirm,” Zane Wales responded. “But, yeah, I understand that’s the case.”

The extent of the woman’s wounds would determine a lot, such as how soon they could question her and to what degree she would be able to coherently remember facts.

It was a full hour later before the doctor, a female, and two female nurses came out. The doctor closed the door behind her in a way that suggested no one would be entering soon.

“Gentlemen,” the doctor said in greeting.

“How is she, Dr. Rosemont?” Wales asked. “Is it possible for us to speak with her?”

Jon stayed a half step back. It was better for local detectives to take the lead in these types of cases, he knew from experience. He would only jump in if necessary.

Although the nurses left to complete their other duties, the doctor positioned herself even more solidly in front of the door.

“As I’m sure you can imagine, Ms. Houze is in a delicate state right now, both physically and emotionally.” The doctor crossed her arms over her chest.

Jon was glad to see Wales nodding, taking seriously what the doctor was saying. It was important to talk to Ms. Houze, but it was also important to remember that this was the worst day of her entire life.

“We understand,” Wales said. “And we want to be sensitive to the situation. But talking to her soon is important, if medically possible.”

“Ms. Houze has significant bruising to her face and jaw. The rapist struck her a half-dozen times in rapid succession to stun her. She’ll have no permanent damage from those blows, but both her eyes are currently swollen shut.”

That was undoubtedly what the attacker had intended, so the victim wouldn’t be able to identify him. Jon grimaced. The same thing had happened in the other cases. As a matter of fact, the facial abuse was what had helped alert them to the fact that this was the work of a single man.

“Do you think she’ll be willing to talk with us?” Wales asked her.

“I definitely don’t think she’s interested in surrounding herself with men right now, so only one of you, and that may not work at all.” Dr. Rosemont shrugged.

“Then I’ll be handling that, boys.” The drawl came from behind them.

Jon turned the find the last person he would send into a room with a woman who had been victimized. Senior detective Frank Spangler.

Unlike Wales, who might not like Jon personally, but at least showed promise as a detective, Frank Spangler was the epitome of everything that could be considered bad about law enforcement.

The man had been wearing a badge for too long. He had lost touch with what was most important about his career: namely that he was supposed to serve the people. Spangler was smug and crass and definitely not the person best suited to question a woman who’d just been viciously attacked.

Unfortunately, Detective Spangler was not only the ranking detective, but he was also the Nueces County forensic artist. The only one. Jon had already checked.

Jon had seen Spangler’s composite drawings for other cases and had to admit the man had some skill with a pencil. But for the current case, none of the victims had seen the rapist’s face. They’d all been hit so hard, so quickly, that they’d been completely disoriented and unable to get a clear view before their attacker had pushed them down. So even if Spangler had some drawing talent, gathering any usable intel from the victims hadn’t been possible.

But maybe Ms. Houze was different. They had to try.

Dr. Rosemont nodded at the older detective. “That’s fine. But under no circumstances are you all to barge in on her at once. My word is law around here, gentlemen. Remember that. Door open at all times and if Ms. Houze says she’s had enough, you’re to leave immediately.”

Jon and Zane both nodded at the doctor. Frank Spangler just gave her a patronizing smile. Her lips pursed.

“I’ll check with her and be right out.” The doctor knocked softly on the door and made her way inside.

Caroline Gill, the paramedic who had sent Jon the text alerting him of the new victim, joined them in the hallway.

“Hi, Jon. Hey, Zane,” Caroline said. She smiled at Jon. But her eyes, he realized, were only for Zane. The detective, on the other hand, didn’t really seem to notice the pretty paramedic.

He barely glanced at her from where he was looking over a file in his hand. “Hey, Caroline.”

“I’m just getting off work and waiting on my ride.”

“Where’s your car?” Jon asked her since Zane seemed oblivious that Caroline was here to see him.

“A friend from college is in town and is going to pick me up in a few minutes so we can go to dinner. She dropped me off for my shift this morning so I wouldn’t have to find parking.”

Wales nodded without even looking up from his file. Caroline’s face was a little crestfallen at his behavior.

“Hey, thanks for the text,” Jon said to her to change the subject.

Zane looked up sharply at that. He had probably wondered how Jon had gotten here so fast. Well, now he knew.

“Really?” Zane asked Caroline.

Caroline turned toward him and put her hands on her hips. “You know for a detective, Zane Wales, sometimes you’re pretty obtuse. So, yeah, really.”

Jon swallowed his chuckle.

Frank Spangler cleared his throat and began sorting through items in his briefcase, pulling out some drawing materials. “I doubt this victim will have kept her wits about her any more than any of the others. But here’s to hoping.”

Jon grimaced and heard Caroline’s gasp. Zane’s level of obtuse was nothing compared to Frank Spangler’s.

“You sure that’s the right attitude to go in there with?” Jon asked Spangler. “I’m pretty sure being told she should’ve kept her wits about her as she was being attacked is not the best way to start an interview.”

“Look, I was doing this job before you were in training pants.” Spangler sneered at Jon. “I’m not going to say that to her, of course. You just stay out and let me work.”

It didn’t matter if Spangler was going to say it or not. He thought it. That was bad enough.

But unless the older man did something illegal or to outright jeopardize the case, there wasn’t anything Jon could do. Corpus Christi had been forced to allow him here and give him access to all the information, but it was still their case. From experience, Jon knew that allowing them to handle as much as possible was best in the long run for both the department and the community.

But listening to Spangler’s idiocy still wasn’t easy. Caroline looked as though she was about to let Spangler have it when the doctor came out the door again.

“Ms. Houze has agreed to see you—one of you, like I said. I have suggested she limit the time you’re in there to fifteen minutes. She has family on their way. She needs them right now.”

“Yeah, well, I would think she would want us to catch the person who did this,” Spangler muttered.

“Fifteen minutes, Detective. Tops. I’ll be back then.” Dr. Rosemont made her way down the hall.

The older officer wasted no time going in, sketch pad and pencil in hand.

“That man is a Grade-A jerk,” Caroline snapped.

Jon couldn’t agree more.

Zane didn’t even disagree. “Fortunately he’s only a year from retiring. Plus he’s pretty good with composite drawing.” The detective shrugged.

They could hear Spangler inside talking to the victim. He’d at least started the conversation by offering appropriate condolences for what had happened. Jon was distracted from listening by the woman who had walked silently down the hall and was now speaking to Caroline.

Blond hair with gentle waves that fell past her shoulders. Slender—almost too slender. A little taller than average height, maybe five foot eight in her knee-length skirt and brown cowboy boots. As with cowboy hats, Jon had never been one for boots, but he could already feel his opinion changing about that. This woman’s brown, well-worn ones made it difficult for him to tear his attention from her legs.

Her legs were gorgeous. She was gorgeous.

This must be the friend from college the paramedic had mentioned. Caroline walked over with her to where he and Zane were standing.

“Zane, Jon, this is my friend Sherry Mitchell. She’s visiting Corpus Christi for a couple of weeks,” Caroline told them.

Jon shook Sherry’s hand and immediately noticed she was distracted. Her eyes kept darting to the room where Spangler was talking to the victim.

Maybe because it was starting to get a little louder in there.

“Look, I’m your best bet in us apprehending the man who raped you. Do you really want to rest more than you want to catch this guy?” Spangler’s voice could be heard clearly.

All the color seemed to seep out of Sherry’s face.

“Look, don’t cry, for heaven’s sake.” Spangler continued, his distaste obvious. “I’m a forensic artist. Just tell me what you saw.”

“I didn’t see anything.” Jasmine Houze’s voice was soft, slurred, probably from the swelling of her face. “I didn’t see him. He hit me and then...and then... I’m sorry.” Her crying became louder.

“Nothing?” Spangler demanded. “Nothing at all? Do you not want to catch him? Is that it?”

“Oh, my God,” Sherry whispered.

“I’m going in there,” Jon said to Zane. “I don’t care if Spangler is the ranking officer or not. This has to stop.”

“I’m right behind you,” Zane agreed.

“No.” It was Sherry who spoke. “That woman does not need more men barging in on her and fighting.”

Caroline nodded. “She’s right. I’ll go in. I, at least, have already met her, since Michael and I brought her in this morning. You guys go get the doctor.”

“I’m going with you,” Zane said to Caroline. “You know Spangler won’t listen to you. He won’t listen to Hatton, either.”

“Well, for God’s sake, shut him up,” Jon said. “I’m going to get the doctor.”

Sherry had just backed away against the wall. Jon didn’t blame her. He’d stay out of this mess, too, if he was her. But she had lost all color and was shivering.

“Are you okay?” he asked, touching her gently on the upper arm.

She nodded without answering, her eyes still drawn toward the victim’s room.

Caroline and Zane had already entered. Jon could hear Caroline talking softly to the woman.

Jon looked at Sherry again. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He didn’t want her to collapse.

“I’m fine,” she said. It looked as though her teeth were about to start chattering, but he knew that couldn’t be right; it wasn’t nearly cold enough in here.

Sherry cocked her head toward the nurses’ station. “Just go.”

Jon took off running down the hallway to find Dr. Rosemont or Nurse Carreker. Either of them would help put an end to this without damaging Jasmine Houze’s psyche further.

He found them both just moments later. Neither woman wasted time and the three of them were soon sprinting down the hallway toward the victim’s room, Jon explaining as they ran.

The doctor and nurse, along with Caroline, distracted and comforted Ms. Houze as Jon and Zane both each grabbed one of Frank Spangler’s arms.

“Wait, I’m not finished talking to her,” Spangler all but screeched.

All three women surrounding the victim turned at the same time and said, “Yes. You are.”

Fortunately, Spangler didn’t put up a fight; he just walked out, huffing as he went. Jon immediately closed the door behind them.

“You better believe the captain’s going to hear about this.” Spangler’s eyes glared at Jon as if he were personally responsible for him being kicked out of the victim’s room. The older man then turned, gathered his things and left.

That was fine. Jon didn’t care as long as Spangler wasn’t allowed near Jasmine Houze or any of the victims again. And, yes, the police captain would hear about this. Jon glanced over at Zane, who just shrugged, shaking his head.

Caroline came out of the room, closing the door softly behind her. “They’ve given Jasmine a sedative. Her family should be here soon.”

Jon looked over to where Sherry had been standing against the wall when he had last seen her. He wanted to talk to her more, to apologize for the craziness, to make sure she was all right.

And to ask her to dinner.

But she was gone.


Chapter Three (#ulink_ce45cc91-ef87-505d-8cfc-9a09aeb2992d)

The next day Jon was ready to dig a hole and bury himself in it.

For one thing, it was one million degrees outside. He missed the Rocky Mountains of Colorado Springs where Omega Sector: Critical Response Division headquarters was located. He missed the crisp air, often cool even now in June, and the ability to go out and run first thing in the morning or even in the afternoons a lot of the time, and still be pretty comfortable.

Because this face-melting heat of Corpus Christi was probably going to kill him.

Not that he would be going out for a run anytime soon. Why run outside when he could just run in circles inside Corpus Christi Police Department, accomplishing nothing?

He was sitting in Captain Harris’s office, along with Zane Wales and Frank Spangler. Spangler was categorically dismissing the complaints that had been called in against him by Jasmine Houze’s doctor. He actually called both the victim and Dr. Rosemont “irrational.”

Wales had remained silent, refusing to either confirm or deny what had happened in the hospital room.

And while Jon appreciated that the younger man probably didn’t want to get Frank Spangler in trouble just before his retirement, Zane’s silence was not helping the case. If the Corpus Christi PD wasn’t careful, they were going to lose control of the case entirely. One phone call from Jon and this case would be under federal jurisdiction rather than local.

That was a last-resort option and Jon didn’t want to do that if he didn’t have to. But he wouldn’t hesitate if something like that happened again. He’d already made that clear to Captain Harris privately.

“We’re going to need another forensic artist,” Jon said to the other men.

“Well, that’s too bad, since I’m the only one currently licensed in the county. And in our county only people licensed in forensic art are allowed to talk to witnesses or victims in an official capacity.” Spangler sat back, secure in his own importance.

“My resources aren’t limited to your county, Spangler,” Jon said. “And believe me, I would go in there with a paper and pencil myself before I would let you further traumatize another woman like yesterday.”

Spangler let out a loud huff. “You see there, Captain? This sort of unfriendly attitude is what we have to deal with all the time from Agent Hatton, all but impeding our investigation—”

Jon resisted the urge to jump out of his chair. Barely. “Are you kidding me? You just had a complaint filed against you from one of the top trauma doctors in the state. And you want to say I’m impeding the investigation?”

“Boys, enough,” Captain Harris interrupted in his Texan drawl. “Hatton, please use your federal resources to find another forensic artist.”

The captain’s contempt for anything federal was evident by the way he said the word with a sneer.

“Fine.” Jon’s teeth were clenched, but he got the single syllable out.

“Now, if you don’t mind, Agent Hatton, I’d like to talk to Detective Spangler alone. Sort through some things.”

Somehow Jon didn’t think that the “sorting” would involve any sort of reprimand whatsoever. Spangler’s snigger and mock salute to Jon suggested the older man knew it, too.

Jon nodded, got up and left. He was afraid if he stayed he would end up punching Spangler, a man who was at least twenty-five years older than Jon’s thirty-one. Jon’s mom had taught him better than that.

Although Jon wasn’t entirely sure his mother wouldn’t have punched Frank Spangler herself if she’d been around yesterday.

He made his way over to the desk the department had given him in the darkest, stalest corner of the old brick building. It was right next to the copy machine and cleaning supplies, so it pretty much ensured that Jon dealt with a constant flow of interruptions and had a headache from the chemicals.

Still, it was better than being outside where his shoes would probably melt into the sidewalk. And this was nothing compared to August’s heat evidently. That made Jon, a Cincinnati boy at heart, make a mental note to never travel this far south during that month if he could possibly help it.

He sat in his desk chair and spun it around so his back was to the rest of the desks, giving him at least a semblance of privacy. The copy machine wasn’t so loud that way, either. He speed-dialed the direct office line for his boss, Steve Drackett, at Omega.

“You bought a cowboy hat yet?” Steve asked by way of greeting.

Jon chuckled slightly. “No. But I’m considering just killing someone on this force and taking his.”

“That bad, huh?”

“To say they don’t want me here would be a gross understatement. Don’t mess with Texas and all that.” Jon sighed. “We’ve got a new victim as of yesterday.”

“I heard.”

Jon wasn’t surprised his boss already knew about Jasmine Houze. Steve tended to know a lot of things about a lot of things.

“I haven’t talked to her yet. There was a whole brouhaha at the hospital with one of the senior-ranking detectives. Guy doesn’t have bedside manner worth spit and traumatized the poor victim even more than she already was.”

“Guy sounds like a problem?” his boss asked.

“Yeah, but he’s a year out from retirement, so nobody’s going to do anything about him unless he really screws things up.”

“You need me to send in help?”

Jon leaned back farther in his chair. “No, I can handle it. I’m not here to make friends. But I guess I should tell you that I gave the police captain final notice about federal takeover.” Jon explained exactly what had happened with Frank Spangler and the complaint.

“Well, I’ve got your back. You say the word and Omega will completely take over. I can have more agents down there in four or five hours.” Steve chuckled. “I could have them there in less if you were here to fly them.”

Jon smiled at that. “Thanks. It’s better for everyone around here if the locals handle it. Good for morale and community relations. If they can’t get it together, I’ll let you know.”

“Any actual progress?” Steve asked.

“Nothing, Steve. That’s what kills me. I can’t even blame it on Corpus Christi PD. I may not like any of them personally, but they’re not inept. This guy is smart. A planner.”

“You got a profile worked out on him yet?”

Jon spun his chair around so that he was facing the rest of the desks in the station. The activity and blur of noise actually helped him think.

“He’s educated, or at least smart enough to know not to leave any DNA behind. Not even skin cells. These rapes are definitely acts of dominance, not rage. The perpetrator is in complete control of his emotions.”

“I thought reports said the women had been beaten?” Drackett cut in. “That’s not anger-based?”

“I don’t think so,” Jon replied, leaning back farther in his chair. “He only hits them enough to stun them. None of the women has had any broken or fractured noses or cheekbones. If the beatings were out of anger, the facial trauma would’ve been much greater. It was a deliberate move to keep them from being able to see and identify him.”

It was great to let his thought process have free rein with someone who wasn’t throwing unnecessary questions or playing devil’s advocate just to try to stump him. That was how his conversations with the local detectives had gone over the past week: a constant battle to one-up him.

“Nothing else about this guy is consistent but the craniofacial trauma. His victims are of varied race and age. The times of the attack are all over the place. The locations of the attacks are varied, also—most have been at the victims’ homes, but one was at a hotel.”

“And no evidence found at any of the scenes?”

“Nothing usable. None of the women got a clean punch or scratch.” A single scratch from any of them would’ve given them trace DNA under their nails, but none of them had been able to do any damage to their attacker. “Each time, as soon as they opened the door, he hit them hard and fast, dazing them and causing swelling in both eyes, effectively blinding them.”

He heard Steve’s muttered curse. It echoed exactly how Jon felt.

“If that’s the case, I’m sure none of the victims has been able to provide any sort of identifying marks or features,” Steve said.

Jon grimaced. “No, not at all. But I have to say, if Frank Spangler has been the only forensic artist available to talk to the victims, maybe more information can be gathered from them, if his actions yesterday are anything to go by.”

“Were there other complaints lodged against him?”

“No, but even if he wasn’t as combative with the other women as he was yesterday, he still wasn’t going to inspire any confidence in the victims. We need someone else, Steve.”

“Omega has a few on retainer, but none in Texas. Let me make some calls and see what I can find out.”

“Okay, I’m heading over to the crime scene. I’m not expecting much, but at least I’ll be able to see this one firsthand rather than through pictures like the others,” Jon said.

“Good luck. I’ll send you the info when I find someone.”

Jon ended the call. Steve would find another forensic artist if there was one around to be had. If not, he’d work his magic and find someone who wasn’t around. Steve always made sure his agents had what they needed. And God knew Jon needed a better artist than Frank Spangler.

He saw Detective Wales making his way over, cowboy hat still firmly on his head. “You ready to go check out the crime scene?”

Jon lifted a single eyebrow. “We’re going together?”

The younger man rolled his eyes. “I’m not asking you out on a date, Hatton. Captain just said Spangler probably needed to stay away from anything having to do with Jasmine Houze, so I thought we would go together since we’re both headed out there anyway.”

Maybe Wales was just trying to make up for not saying anything to the captain about Spangler’s true behavior. Whatever it was, Jon would take the peace flag being offered to him.

The drive from the station to the victim’s house was mostly made in silence except for the country-western music coming from the radio of Wales’s SUV. Honestly it wasn’t half-bad. Maybe Jon should give the genre more of a chance.

Jasmine Houze’s home was close enough to the beach to be desirable, but not so close that the price would be in the stratosphere. She was probably a good fifteen-minute walk from the water itself. The neighborhood looked to be in decent shape, certainly not a place where you were afraid to open your own door in the middle of the day.

At least that was what everyone had assumed until yesterday. Jon would damn well bet there was a whole new set of chains and bolts that had been installed on neighboring doors in the past twenty-four hours.

The houses were just far enough apart from each other to afford some privacy. The victim’s was one of the four on the street that had large shrubbery in the front yard. Better for privacy.

Unfortunately it made the attack more private, also.

The three front steps leading up to the house had been taped off. Jon could see that the crime lab had already been here: print dust lay all along the railing leading up to the house and the door frame. If this was anything like the other scenes, it would soon be evident that the rapist had worn gloves.

Although Jon and Zane looked around, inside the house didn’t yield any more results than outside. They would wait for results from the crime lab, but Jon wasn’t holding his breath.

Their next two hours were spent talking to neighbors. Uniformed officers had already taken preliminary statements, but follow-ups were always necessary. Just as with the porch and the house, they discovered nothing. No one had heard anything out of the ordinary yesterday. No one had seen anyone unusual or suspicious walking or driving around lately. No strange cars. Nothing out of place.

Jon was frustrated, but he wasn’t surprised.

“I read your preliminary behavioral analysis of the perp,” Zane said as they stepped out into the heat after talking to the last neighbor.

He had read Jon’s report? That did surprise him. He’d expected it to end up in the electronic trash bin on Wales’s computer. He was sure that was where it had ended up in most everyone else’s.

“Did you agree with the analysis?” Jon asked.

Zane shrugged and adjusted his hat to settle more fully on his head. “I don’t disagree with any of it. Like you said, our guy is smart, focused, patient. The other rape cases I’ve dealt with haven’t been that way. It’s been more about rage and dominance.”

Jon nodded. “Yeah, most rapists have those characteristics. And maybe our guy does, too, and has just figured out how to hide it.”

The detective pondered that for a moment. “I guess what doesn’t sit right with me is the fact that he’s so smart we’re having to sit around and wait for him to strike in order to gather more info.”

Jon nodded. He had thought almost the exact same thing yesterday. His eyes tightened behind the sunglasses protecting him from the blazing sun. They were waiting for this guy to make a mistake. And that was not a position Jon wanted to be in.

They were almost back at the station when Jon got the text from Steve Drackett.

Found you a forensic artist. Exceptional recommendations from FBI in Houston. Full file sent.

“Looks like Omega found us another forensic artist,” Jon said to Zane. “Maybe this will get us somewhere.”

Everyone, especially Spangler, was glaring at Zane upon their entrance into the station. Evidently no one was thrilled with the younger detective’s choice to spend time with Jon. Zane shrugged in half apology and left Jon, heading in a different direction.

Jon sighed. So much for making headway with the locals. But as he’d told Steve, he wasn’t here to make friends. He grabbed a Coke—not a soda, pop or cola; they were all called Coke here, he’d been told—and went to his desk, the smell of cleaning agents permeating the air.

He was hot, he was frustrated and he was getting tired of the literal and figurative toxic environment surrounding him.

Most of all, Jon was frustrated that they couldn’t get ahead of this bastard.

He sat down to pull up the file on the computer the department had given him—surprisingly one that worked—so he could print the info Steve had sent him on the forensic artist right away.

He took a sip of his soda then almost spewed it out.

Because, damn, if he didn’t find the familiar features of Sherry Mitchell staring back at him.


Chapter Four (#ulink_0989608c-d11d-5ce0-af30-a93c7f1962a0)

Sherry was just as lovely in her photo as she had been in real life. It was just a head shot, so unfortunately those legs he’d seen yesterday in the hospital weren’t in it, but her long blond hair and clear blue eyes were.

Although Jon could appreciate her attractiveness, he was damn well ticked off at the woman.

How could she have stood there in the hallway yesterday and let Frank Spangler interview the victim? Not say a word about her profession?

And evidently she was stellar at it. If this file was anything to go by, Sherry Mitchell was considered by her supervisor at the FBI to be one of the best forensic artists in Texas, if not the entire Southwest. Her track record was impressive, and it seemed she had a particularly good case history with rape victims.

That just led Jon back to his original question: How could someone who obviously had a talent—having received numerous written commendations from some people pretty damn high up in the Bureau—just choose to do nothing yesterday?

Okay, she’d had dinner plans with Caroline. As trite as that sounded, Jon could actually understand that maybe Sherry hadn’t wanted to break her reservation or whatever. But at the very least she could’ve offered to help at a later time, diffused the situation.

Not just stand there in the hallway shivering as though she’d never seen a trauma victim before.

Somewhere in his mind Jon knew he was being unfair, but he didn’t care. He was damn well tired of every law-enforcement agent in the state having some sort of problem with him just because he was outside their don’t-mess-with-Texas inner circle. Sherry Mitchell was the last straw.

He intended to let her know that.

The final part of Steve’s message stated that although Sherry generally worked for the Houston Bureau field office, she was currently on vacation and her supervisor wasn’t sure exactly where.

Jon knew, although not the exact place where she was staying.

But he knew how to get that info, too.

Jon grabbed his phone and called the number from the text he’d received yesterday notifying him of the new rape victim. He knew Caroline Gill would know where Sherry was staying.

“Hello?”

Caroline’s voice sounded sleepy. Jon cringed. As a paramedic, Caroline probably worked odd hours. She might have been asleep.

“Hi, Caroline. It’s Jon Hatton. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I’m fine. I have a shift in a couple of hours. Has something else happened?”

He could hear the concern in her voice. She was definitely wide-awake now. “No, no. Nothing new since Jasmine Houze. Actually, I was calling to ask you about your friend Sherry Mitchell.”

“Oh. What about her?”

“I just thought I might stop by to talk to her, if you didn’t mind?”

“You found out.”

“Found out what?”

“About her being a forensic artist. She’s on vacation, Jon. She needs a break.”

Was Sherry really so selfish that she wouldn’t take a day out of her precious vacation to help the Corpus Christi PD and a woman who had been through a hideous trauma?

“I just want to talk to her, Caroline. I don’t want to push or cut into her time off. I’m sure she deserves it as much as anyone.”

Jon tried to throw lightness into his tone. Caroline was concerned about her friend. It was an admirable trait even if he didn’t see much about Sherry worth protecting if she was as shallow as her actions suggested. Obviously she was good at taking care of herself. She didn’t need her perky friend to do it.

Caroline sighed. “She just seems so tired. Maybe that’s not the right word, but I don’t know exactly what is. She’s just...she needs her vacation, Jon. Maybe you should leave her be.”

For just a second Sherry’s face—devoid of color, teeth almost chattering—flitted through his mind. Okay, yeah, maybe she was more tired or stressed or whatever than he was giving her credit for. But he had no intention of letting a forensic artist of her talent slip through his fingers when she was right in town and there was such a need.

Feeling bad, he shifted his tactics with Caroline.

“I do want to ask her professional opinion, but, really,” he chuckled in self-mock, “I’m a little embarrassed to admit this because it’s so middle-school-ish, but I was hoping to ask her out. Nothing serious or that would make her uncomfortable, just a meal or something.”

That was the truth. Last night, before he’d known how self-centered Sherry obviously was, he had been quite interested in asking her out.

Now he was just interested in Sherry getting past her selfishness and doing her job as a forensic artist.

“Oh.” Caroline hesitated, but then finally continued. “Well, that might be good for her. Just, like you said, keep it light.” She gave him the address of Sherry’s house on the beach. “If she doesn’t like you, don’t tell her I gave you her address.”

“Thanks, Caroline. Maybe we could all go out together. Sherry and I, you and Zane.”

Caroline guffawed. That was the only word for the sound that came over the phone. “Yeah, you work on that, Agent Hatton. Let me know how it goes.”

The call ended. Jon had no idea what had or hadn’t happened between Caroline and Zane Wales, but it was obviously complicated.

Jon had much more important things to worry about than romance between the detective and paramedic.

Right now he had a date of his own to get. And he didn’t plan to take no as an answer.

* * *

SHERRY SAT IN almost the exact same place she had sat the day before, umbrella up, blocking her from most of the late-afternoon sun’s rays.

She had her red bikini on again, but once again had clothes over it. This time at least it was lightweight linen capri pants rather than jeans. Much more appropriate for the beach. Her long-sleeved, button-down shirt was still a little conspicuous, but since it was unbuttoned, not too bad.

Sherry was determined not to let what she had seen—or rather heard—at the hospital yesterday cause her to have a complete setback. To do that, she just had to completely shut the entire incident out of her mind.

It was hard. She had picked up the phone a half-dozen times last night to call Caroline and get the number of the handsome Detective Hatton and tell him that she would at least try to help. But every time she did she’d been racked with a cold so vicious she’d felt paralyzed. There was no way she was going to be of any use to anyone.

Even the cold wasn’t as bad as reliving the scene of that poor woman crying as the jerk who called himself a police officer had tried to question her. That was heartbreaking. And knowing Sherry could’ve stepped in and taken over at any time, if she’d just been able to find the strength to do it, was agonizing.

So here she was, on the beach, putting it all out of her mind. It was her only option.

She had her pencil and sketch pad on her lap in the beach chair she sat in. She’d made random lines, nonsensical shapes to the rhythm of the gulf waves crashing a dozen yards away, but hadn’t been able to force herself to do anything beyond that.

At least she wasn’t shivering.

She was tempted to try to draw the face of Detective Hatton from last night, since it kept floating through her mind. She definitely remembered his exact features. Dark brown hair, cut short. Hazel eyes. Chiseled, clean-shaved jaw. Confidence permeated how he held himself; intelligence how he studied everyone around him to understand their motives and actions before he responded. The guardedness of his features probably wasn’t let down very often.

Even without her talents as an artist she’d be able to remember him clearly. It wasn’t a face one was likely to forget. And, Sherry could admit, it was the first time she had felt any heat by looking at a stranger in a long time. Months. Maybe longer.

Then that guy in the hospital room had started belittling the woman and the cold had swamped Sherry again. She’d been almost paralyzed with iciness. It was coming back again now, so she pushed all thoughts of yesterday, even of handsome Detective Hatton, out of her head. She kept her hand on the pencil, but nothing was coming from it.

A few moments later a larger shadow showed up next to her umbrella. Sherry looked over from the drawing she wasn’t really drawing and saw casual brown oxfords coupled with dark khakis. Definitely not a bad style, but also not beach wear.

She shaded her face to allow her eyes to travel farther up and found a blue polo shirt neatly tucked into the pants and then the face of Detective Jon Hatton.

Speak of the devil.

“Aren’t you a little overdressed for the beach?” he asked by way of greeting.

“No more so than you, Detective Hatton,” Sherry responded. She felt at a distinct disadvantage being so far down near the ground with him towering over her. She couldn’t see his face well because of the sun, but her brain was more than happy to fill in from memory whatever she couldn’t physically see.

“Yeah, well, I’m not on vacation, as you so definitely are,” he said.

The use of the word vacation seemed almost venomous. His entire frame radiated tension.

“Is that a problem?” she asked.

“Evidently not to you.”

It didn’t take a genius to see that the detective was mad. And his anger seemed to be directed at her.

“Is there something I can do for you, Detective Hatton? Some sort of problem?”

She could feel her fingers moving with the pencil over the paper, real shapes taking form this time, but she didn’t pay it any mind. It wasn’t the first time she’d drawn something without giving the paper her direct attention.

Her focus was on Hatton, who was still standing so she had to crane her neck to look up at him. No doubt it was on purpose. The man was too intelligent, too insightful, for it to be anything but a deliberate measure on his part.

It was kind of making her mad. And...hot.

Not a sexual hot, but a regular, healthy, overheated hot because she was sitting on a Texas beach in the late-afternoon June sun in long pants and sleeves.

“Really?” he said. “You can’t figure it out?”

God, it felt good not to be icy. Even if it took being around a jerk to do it. Evidently her attraction, or whatever she’d had for him in the first few moments she’d seen him yesterday, was way off base.

Sherry sat straighter in her chair. She wasn’t just going to sit here and let him talk down to her, literally and figuratively. She got up from under her umbrella, tucking her pencil behind her ear, sketch pad down at her side.

At nearly five foot eight, Sherry was used to being pretty close to eye to eye with a lot of men, but not to Hatton. She hadn’t realized how tall he really was. He had to be at least six foot three, because she still had to crane her neck to look up at him. Not something she was used to.

“What is it that you want, Detective Hatton?”

She studiously ignored how the blue in his shirt brought out the blue specks in his eyes, especially in the late-afternoon golden sun.

“What I want is to know why you didn’t let me know about that.” He pointed toward her waist.

She looked down at herself. Was he still talking about her clothes? “I get cold, okay? It’s no crime to have on long sleeves at the beach.”

“No.” He closed the few feet between them and took the sketch pad that she held in her hand. “This.”

He was studying the sketch pad. Sherry felt a flush creep across her cheeks. She didn’t want to explain the random lines and doodles that covered her sketch pad. Didn’t want to go into the whole story about her drawings or lack thereof. Whether he knew she was an artist or not, she didn’t want to have to explain the lack of talent evident on that pad.

“Give it back to me.” She reached for the pad, but he took a step backward so she couldn’t reach it, still studying it.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” He briefly shook the pad in his hand.

That she’d lost her ability to draw?

“Look, it’s difficult to explain...”

“Really? What’s so difficult about saying, ‘I’m a forensic artist. Maybe I can help with the situation’?”

He turned the sketch pad around so what she had drawn was facing her. Sherry was already cringing, preparing to explain, until she got a glimpse of the drawing.

She had drawn Detective Hatton in almost perfect likeness.


Chapter Five (#ulink_1d96b476-96e7-5d6d-9a9f-425212962ac0)

“I guess I’m flattered,” Jon continued, holding the sketch pad.

Sherry just stood there, looking at the drawing. It wasn’t her greatest work, by any means. Really it was just in the preliminary stages—rough lines and edges—but it was definitely him. It was the first work she’d done that wasn’t just absolute crap in weeks.

She’d drawn it subconsciously. Not only was it not bad, but she hadn’t gotten any chills when she did it. As a matter of fact, now that she was out from under the protection of the umbrella, she was downright hot. She took off her shirt and tied it around her waist. The sun on her back and shoulders felt wonderful.

But she wasn’t quite sure exactly what conversation she was having with Jon Hatton.

“Why are you here?” she asked him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a forensic artist yesterday at the hospital?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t generally make those the first words out of my mouth when I’m talking to a complete stranger.” She grabbed the sketch pad out of his hand.

“You saw what was going on with that woman yesterday, how poorly Frank Spangler was handling the interview for the composite drawing, and you did nothing. You ran away.”

Sherry’s mouth fell open before she closed it again. What was she supposed to say? It had been all she could do yesterday to just keep it together. The last thing on her mind had been to offer to help.

Yes, she had run away. She wouldn’t have been any use to anyone anyway. She’d been shaking so hard she’d hardly been able to get her keys in the car door to unlock it.

But, damn, if she had to explain any of that to him. Jerk.

“Believe it or not, I don’t walk around hospitals offering my services to everyone. I was there to pick up my friend. I just happened upon your situation accidentally.”

She could tell right away that wasn’t going to appease him.

“You were so busy with dinner plans that you couldn’t help a woman who had just been through the most traumatic event of her life?”

“You know what, Detective Hatton? There was nothing I could’ve done yesterday. By the time you got in there and got your man out, the damage had already been done. That poor woman wasn’t going to talk to anyone, no matter who the artist was.”

“He’s not my man,” Hatton replied.

“Whatever. He’s on your police force. Your team.”

“No, I’m—”

Sherry held up a hand to cut him off. She wasn’t really interested in discussing the idiot who’d further traumatized that woman. As far as she could tell, everyone employed in law enforcement in Corpus Christi was a jerk.

“Who told you I was a forensic artist? Caroline?” Sherry didn’t think her friend would say anything, but maybe she had done so.

“No.” He shook his head. “I knew we needed a different forensic artist since Spangler has been taken off the case, so I made a call.”

“I’m glad to hear that Detective Spangler won’t be doing any more damage.”

“Me, too. He has no business being around any victims, as far as I’m concerned.”

That made Sherry feel a little better. At least Hatton didn’t defend Spangler. Sherry turned away and began loading up her beach stuff to take back to the house. She knew she wouldn’t be sitting out here anymore today.

“I’m sorry you came all the way to the beach, Detective, if it wasn’t to enjoy the sunshine. Because I can’t help you. For the next two weeks I’m just a tourist not a forensic artist.”

It sounded uncaring and cold even to her own ears. But what could she do about it? Except for the rough outline of Hatton’s features—which really didn’t count because, first, she hadn’t been actually trying to draw him, her fingers had just taken over, and, second, there wasn’t enough detail in it to be of any use for any police work anyway—she hadn’t been able to draw a face in weeks.

She wasn’t trying to be unfeeling; she just couldn’t help Detective Hatton. She couldn’t even help herself.

* * *

JON SWALLOWED HIS ANGER. Just a tourist for the next two weeks? That might possibly be the most selfish thing he’d ever heard. Sherry Mitchell might be drop-dead gorgeous in that red bikini top she was wearing, but it was obvious her beauty was only skin-deep.

If it even reached that far. Such a damn shame.

Jon had read in her file that both her parents owned separate successful businesses. Ms. Mitchell had obviously grown up spoiled, and those tendencies had remained when she became an adult.

Normally, Jon didn’t mind spoiling the woman he was with. Enjoyed all the slightly crazy nuances that made women the mind-bogglingly lovely creatures that they were. He loved the mental acuity it required to discover what it was they really wanted.

But not in this case. Jon was pissed off at how the woman in front of him categorically refused to assist in a situation where she could really help. Now she was just folding up her chair and umbrella as if it were just another day at the beach. Which evidently it was to her.

No, what really made Jon mad was that he was still attracted to her despite her actions. He might think she was completely spoiled, but he knew that, given the chance, he would be kissing every inch of those shoulders and back she’d exposed when she tied that long-sleeved shirt around her waist.

Jon took a deep, cleansing breath. Neither focusing on Sherry’s selfishness nor her beauty was getting him anywhere.

He needed to focus on how he could talk her into coming to the hospital and doing her magic as a forensic artist.

Jon had considerable people skills. That was one of the things that made him so good at his job at Omega. He kept a level head. He saw things others missed. He could read people, manipulate them when necessary.

It was time to put his distaste away and focus on getting Ms. Mitchell to do her job.

“It’s ‘agent.’”

She looked over her shoulder from where she was packing up her beach items. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m Agent Hatton, not Detective Hatton.”

“Agent as in FBI? You don’t work for the Corpus Christi Police Department?”

So much for thinking she hadn’t wanted to help him because he wasn’t a local cop. She’d had no idea. That made him feel a little less hostile. “No, I don’t work for the local PD or the Bureau. I work for Omega Sector in the Critical Response Division.”

Sherry nodded. “Okay. I’ve heard a few people at the FBI field office talk about Omega. Sorry I called you ‘detective.’”

“Why don’t we just alleviate the problem altogether by you calling me Jon?” He gave her his most charming smile. The one that had always worked on his mom to get him out of trouble.

Sherry paused for just a moment, then nodded. “Okay, Jon. I’m Sherry. But you already knew that, I guess.”

Jon kept his smile up. “I did.”

“I guess that guy, Spangler, or whatever that moron’s name is, really wasn’t part of your team if you’re not local PD, so please accept my apologies for that statement.”

Jon shrugged. “No apologies necessary, but let me assure you that no one like Spangler would ever be on my team, much less be anywhere near a victim.”

He could see her relax just the slightest bit and knew he was on the right track with what she needed to hear: that Spangler’s actions were inexcusable.

No contest, as far as Jon was concerned.

He walked over and helped her lower the umbrella, which had reopened when she’d turned to talk to him. “Look, I’m sorry if I came across too strong a minute ago. But if you could take a few minutes out of your vacation to talk to Jasmine Houze, the victim, and see if there is anything you can help her remember, that would really be helpful.”

Sherry looked at him and then quickly looked away. “Caroline told me none of the women had really gotten a look at the attacker. Is Ms. Houze any different?”

Jon grimaced. “Based on preliminary reports and what she told the doctors, no. It doesn’t look like she got a good look at the rapist’s face.”

Sherry began stuffing all her beach items into a large bag. “Then you don’t really need me. I can’t help you.”

Jon tamped his irritation down again. “All I’m asking is for you to try. You’ve got an excellent track record with cases like these, and you’re a woman, which might make Ms. Houze more comfortable. Maybe she didn’t see her attacker’s face, but she might remember something. You’re our best shot.”

She looked as though she was going to say something but then stopped. Jon frowned as she took the long-sleeved shirt from around her waist and put it on as if she were chilly.

That would be fine if it wasn’t ninety degrees outside right now. Jon was already wiping sweat from his face, and he was in a short-sleeved shirt. She was actually buttoning hers up.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Um, yeah. I just caught a little chill, that’s all.”

Okay, that was odd. She’d been shivering yesterday at the hospital, too. Interesting. An illness?

“Are you sick? Running a fever?”

“No. I just...” She shrugged one delicate shoulder not hidden under her long shirt. “I just get cold sometimes.”

Jon wanted to pursue it further, but now was the time to push about the interview, while her defenses were weakened.

“Sherry, Ms. Houze needs you. There is no one else because of the licensing laws in Nueces County. If you don’t try, Frank Spangler is the next best option.”

Jon didn’t say that there was no way that was going to happen, not with him here. But revealing that wouldn’t help his argument with Sherry.

“I really can’t help you.” She huddled farther into her shirt.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Does it make a difference?”

“I’m just asking you to try. An hour of your time? If you can’t help after that, at least you tried. You didn’t sit here doing nothing.”

There was a long pause as she looked at him. She seemed to huddle down farther into her shirt.

“Okay, when?” she finally asked.

“Right now would be best.” He didn’t want to give her a chance to change her mind or to decide to make other plans.

She looked at him for another long, silent moment. “Fine, Agent Hatton. I will go and talk to the victim. I wouldn’t expect anything to come of it, if I were you.”

Jon nodded. “Just try. That’s all I ask.”


Chapter Six (#ulink_ef3565ac-ee10-55b9-95fe-43307ffc613a)

This was not going to be pretty, in any sense of the word. Sherry dropped all her beach items in the screened-in porch attached to the back of the house. She would worry about the beach stuff later. Right now she needed to take a quick shower and change.

She was meeting Jon at the hospital. He’d offered her a ride, but after his pinball attitude toward her on the beach, Sherry knew driving herself was a better plan.

Once he saw she wasn’t capable of drawing, she might be stranded in town if she rode with him.

He was pretty much a jerk. Handsome, with cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them, but still a jerk. And if he thought she didn’t know that he’d just handled her out there—pouring on his considerable charm and bright smile once the intimidation factor didn’t work—then he was well mistaken. She knew she’d been managed; it had happened enough times with her parents for her to recognize the pattern.

The thing was, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to help out Jon or Jasmine Houze—what kind of unfeeling wretch would she be if that was the case?—but she didn’t even think she was capable.

She would try. That was all she could do. All Agent Hatton had asked her to do. They’d see if he still felt that way when the pencil wouldn’t move because of her shivering.

The thought brought on a bout of cold, despite the fact that she didn’t have the air-conditioning running anywhere in the house. Sherry headed to the bathroom and stripped off her clothes, turning the water as hot as it could get without scalding her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to stay in there long enough to really get warm—that would take so long, Jon would be in here managing her again—but at least it took a little of the edge off, warming the outside of her body if not the inside.

After her shower she dried her hair, which because of its thickness and length took a long time, but she knew better than to go out with it wet in a situation like this: if she got a chill, damp hair would just exacerbate it. She slipped on black jeans and a long-sleeved dark plum sweater and then pulled on her boots. After a touch of makeup—she wanted to look professional, for Jasmine Houze, not Jon Hatton—she grabbed her sketch pad and a set of pencils, and was out the door.

The drive to the hospital went faster than Sherry would’ve liked. She focused on a number of different things: the traffic, the scenery, the number of pickup trucks she could count, anything to keep her from thinking about what was coming up. She didn’t want to be a shivering mess before she even set foot in the hospital.

Sherry had made it through her last two cases with the cold seeming to permeate her. She could make it through questioning one woman who they suspected hadn’t seen anything. But, honestly, whether Jasmine had seen anything would be beside the point. Because either way, Sherry was going to have to walk with the poor woman through the worst day in her entire life.

She sighed as a chill rushed through her. Count pickups now. She’d be dealing with monsters soon enough.

As she found a parking place at the hospital, already having to grit her teeth to keep them from chattering, Sherry’s resolve was firm. She saw Jon standing by the door and she told him, with no holds barred, what was on her mind.

“This one time, Agent Hatton,” she said. “I will talk to Ms. Houze today, but that’s it. I don’t want any further details about the case or the women involved, or anything. You’re going to need to find someone else.”

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit, but then he nodded. “Call me Jon. And I understand. You’re on vacation.”

She was pretty sure he didn’t understand anything. That he thought she was a spoiled brat who didn’t care about anybody but herself. She could admit that bugged her, but she knew she had to take care of herself. Knew she had to find a way of getting past this coldness if she ever hoped to really work as a forensic artist again. Or at this point, to even be able to draw again ever.

Not having her art in her life was not an acceptable compromise.

A little warm, she pushed up her sleeves. At least talking to him had taken care of most of the chill. “That’s right, I’m on vacation.”

Let the jerk think what he wanted. She brushed past him on her way indoors. She was actually relieved to feel the air-conditioning.

“We need anything that Ms. Houze can give us,” Jon told her as they walked down the hall. She noticed he already knew most of the nurses. They waved to him and immediately began whispering to each other. No doubt about the tall, dark-haired, gorgeous agent hallowing their hallways.

Let them have him.

“Anything,” he repeated. “A full description of the perp’s face would, of course, be optimal. But anything at all would be helpful.”

Sherry nodded. “You probably shouldn’t hope for too much.” From me or her.

Jon grimaced. “I know you don’t want to know anything about the case. But we have nothing, Sherry. This guy is really smart. So when I say anything Ms. Houze remembers, I mean anything. No matter how small.”

“I’ll do my best.” As they arrived at Jasmine’s door, Sherry explained how she worked. “I’m going to leave the door open, but I need you not to come inside. With a case like this, and especially after what happened yesterday with Spangler, it’s important for you to stay out. Allow me to build a rapport with her.”

“That’s fine.”

“Even if you feel like it’s going too slowly or I’m asking questions that don’t pertain to the case, you still don’t get to butt in.”

He looked a little affronted at that. Good. That was how she felt every time he muttered the word vacation.

“What I do takes time, so I hope you brought a People magazine or something,” she continued.

He rolled his eyes. “How about if I just listen out here and take notes? I don’t think a gossip magazine will be necessary.”

“Fine. Just don’t interrupt unless it’s an emergency. No matter if you think I’m off target or missing something.”

“I got it. No interruptions. Take as long as you need.”

“She knows I’m coming, right? And that’s okay with her?” After what had happened yesterday, Sherry wouldn’t be surprised if the woman didn’t want to see anyone from law enforcement again.

“Yes, we cleared it with her, although I think she is planning to have a family member in, just in case. I okayed it with the doctor, also, just before you got here.”

“Fine.” She looked at him again. “Just don’t expect too much.”

“Trust me.” Jon’s eyes were tight, frustrated. “Anything you can give us is better than where we are now.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

Sherry was afraid her best wasn’t going to be anywhere near enough. She straightened her shoulders and walked into the room. This wasn’t going to be pretty. But at least she wasn’t cold.

* * *

THREE HOURS LATER Jon sat in the hallway outside Jasmine Houze’s door. Sherry was wrapping it up, he could tell. She and Jasmine were talking about insignificant things: shoes, sales at different stores, favorite place to grab a margarita.

Really more than half of the time Sherry had spent with the woman had been used talking about seemingly insignificant things. Jon understood now why she had warned him not to interrupt. Obviously in the past she had been interrupted by people who thought she should be getting to the root of the issue—the actual drawing—more quickly.

While Jon could see why someone might jump to that conclusion, he wouldn’t have interrupted today even if Sherry had never asked any questions about the attack. She very masterfully built a rapport with Jasmine. There had been nothing fake about it. Every question she had asked seemed sincere.

Jon didn’t really know how well the woman could draw, but she could question a victim as well as, if not better than, many seasoned law-enforcement officers. Not just ones like Spangler who had no business being around victims. Sherry was excellent at what she did.

No wonder her supervisor held her in such high regard. She had patience, sincerity and an easygoing manner. Jon could tell just from hearing her talk. She knew when to press and when to back off. She’d let Ms. Houze tell her story in pieces, as she was ready, not ever forcing it, but gently bringing her back around to the questioning when they got too far off track.




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