Page 44 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Where are you, my dear? Damon Garr was thinking.

He was standing behind a renegade shrub of some sort on a side street in Fullerton, studying the small, pocked-stucco apartment building whose paint job was the color of bubble gum with turquoise trim.

More Floridian than Pacific. The windows in the unit he gazed at were intact.

Some in other apartments had been “repaired” with plywood.

He guessed that Selina Sanchez, who was a student, would be perfectly happy in the place, even if it was not an architectural gem like the mansions a mere thirty minutes away.

But where was she?

Her car was not in its assigned spot.

His thoughts slipped to that Tristan Kane guy. Odd duck, Miss Spalding would have said. But Damon had an instinctive feeling that he could be trusted—and helpful, since he clearly knew security systems cold.

Then too, there was the gift he’d presented. Selina’s name and address.

Damon’s hatred for the pair of investigators was at a fever pitch. And killing—or otherwise “debilitating”—Carmen’s sister would provide a major advantage in the war against them.

And give you a chance to have some fun ...

He could—

Damon was suddenly aware of shouting from a construction site across the street—a small apartment complex, work on which had been abandoned years ago. A sign advertised a bankruptcy sale and a number to call if anyone was interested. The sun had bleached away all but the last two digits.

Curious—and ever fascinated by violence of any kind—he crossed the quiet street, stepped into the lot and peeked behind the cinder block wall that outlined a building that would never be.

He saw a struggle between a heavyset man and a woman in a formfitting dark-red sweater and leather, or faux, miniskirt.

Black tights and high-heeled shoes of the same shade completed the outfit. A purse lay on the ground.

The man gripped the woman around the waist and was trying to kiss her.

The maneuver was sloppy and uncoordinated.

Drunk undoubtedly, even at this hour, he was persistent.

The woman batted at his hands and tried to twist out of his grasp, but his thick fingers scrabbled at her clothes.

Suddenly the sweater tore wide open, exposing a sheer black lace bra and ample cleavage.

Damon took in this view for a moment, then remembered his mission and glanced back toward Selina’s apartment. No sign of her.

Might as well continue to watch the show.

“Stop it!” the woman yelled. “I said no, asshole!”

He gave up on the kiss and devoted all his efforts toward getting her on the ground.

Damon noted two things. First, she was stunningly beautiful.

Her long dark hair contrasted with her alabaster skin, and her figure was both voluptuous and athletic.

His second observation: she hadn’t panicked and was keeping her wits about her.

In fact, she was doing a pretty good job fending the man off—so far.

No stranger to assaulting people, Damon noted that the attacker had made a tactical error.

He had become distracted by the sight of the lingerie and the flesh it barely contained.

The instant his guard was down, his intended victim kneed him in the groin with the speed and force of a striking snake.

Damon gave an involuntary wince as the man grabbed his crotch and doubled over, collapsing onto the ground. “Bitch, bitch, bitch ...”

So the assault was over. Next, she would run to the street and call 9-1-1.

He was wrong.

She gazed around. For a weapon? Apparently. Not finding any rocks or metal pipes nearby, she improvised.

Damon looked on, transfixed, as she ripped the high-heeled shoe from her left foot, dropped to her knees and began to bring it down on her attacker’s head, repeatedly.

He couldn’t see clearly—her back was to him—but once, she paused and scanned the area. He retreated into the shadows, though he caught a brief glimpse of her face. He was close enough to see a demonic madness in her eyes, which seemed to be cobalt blue.

The image gripped him, and Selina Sanchez slipped from his mind entirely. The Tableau this woman was creating was not in his style, but what artist didn’t enjoy watching a skilled colleague at work?

The man was now unconscious, lying helpless and bloody. Damon was sure that now she would flee.

But he was wrong again.

The spike heel had broken in the onslaught, and she simply dropped the left shoe and pulled off the right.

Damon debated. She was intoxicated with bloodlust and if she carried the assault to its natural conclusion, she would likely end up in prison for murder.

Ordinarily he wouldn’t care, but this woman was not only a kindred spirit but too beautiful and intense to waste her best years in a cell for zero reason.

Which would inevitably happen. Any claim she had of self-defense ended when her attacker passed out. And she was not done yet. She positioned herself to impale him with the equivalent of an ice pick once more.

What was the word that he was thinking of?

Ah, yes ... in Damon’s experience, the only reason for such excess was passion .

He knew this because he had a curious relationship with the emotion himself: wholly absent in 90 percent of his life, it utterly possessed him when he was crafting a Tableau. He knew exactly what she was feeling.

But it was clear she did not have that magic element that made him so utterly dangerous: impulse control.

Damon stepped away from the corner of the building. The woman clocked the motion in her peripheral vision and looked up at him.

A sharp gasp of shock escaped her lush mouth.

Their gazes locked. He thought her initial reaction would be to cover her chest, but no. She scrutinized Damon and the surroundings, perhaps to see if he was a cop. Or another threat.

He cast his gaze down at the prone figure before he spoke to her. “These circumstances? If you kill him, it’s going to take a lot of work to get away with it. I’m not even sure you could, at this point.”

An array of expressions passed over her lovely face, but she said nothing. Then she seemed to process his words.

Breathing hard, she regarded him a long moment, composed herself and answered in a calculated tone. “I always figure something out.”

Her response caught him off guard.

“Always?” He raised a brow. “You make a habit of bludgeoning people to death?”

“Only the ones who have it coming.”

He should have been repulsed or even afraid—he was bigger and, after all, a shoe is not the most formidable of weapons, but she could do some damage if the rage returned.

At the very least the script called for him to walk away.

Yet just as she had chosen not to flee, he followed suit.

And to his shock, as he took in the bloody, barely moving victim, and the feral gleam in her eyes, he found himself, of all things, keenly aroused.

Watching her approach, he stepped fully from the shadows, unable to resist the image that came to mind: that she was one of the frightening yet beautiful Furies, out of William-Adolphe Bouguereau’s painting The Remorse of Orestes , a work that managed to perfectly capture the unlikely combination of unholy retribution, reckless abandon and unbridled rage.