Page 16 of The Survivor (Silhoutte Romantic Suspense)

T he next morning Blake received a phone call from Rick, who offered his trademark brand of good, bad and terrible news.

“The lab came back with a report on the dirt we found on Elaine Woodman’s body,” Rick said briskly. “It was identified as a slow-release fertilizer.”

Hope spurted in Blake’s chest, causing him to grip the phone more tightly. “Did you narrow it down to any growers in the area who use that type of fertilizer?”

“Unfortunately, every grower in the damn city uses it. Chasing the trail will only lead to thousands of potential suspects. We need more to go on. But the detectives on the task force are looking into the florist angle as we speak.”

“What about the blood and tissue samples collected at the warehouse?”

“A bust. The blood belonged to one person—Elaine. And the skin cells found under her fingernails were contaminated. The tech only managed to get a partial profile. All we know is that our guy is male. We ran the profile through CODIS. No hits.” Rick’s voice grew somber. “There’s more.”

“There always is.”

“Our pictures were in the paper this morning.”

He nearly dropped the phone. “What?”

“The reporter, Reynolds, he did some digging and found some old photos of us at the press conference Knight held after Butcher Betty was captured.” Rick hesitated. “Reynolds also mentioned running into you and Samantha in the hospital and announced that she was under your protection.”

Blake’s jaw tightened. “So if our guy is watching the news or reading the papers, he knows our faces.”

“And our names. Yep, that son of a bitch Reynolds went ahead and released those, too.”

Just freaking great. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Knight says to keep Samantha out of sight while we look into the florist theory. He doesn’t want her gallivanting around in public and attracting unwanted attention.”

“Don’t worry, she’s not going anywhere.”

He hung up the phone and headed to the kitchen counter, where he poured himself a cup of black coffee.

He thought about what transpired between him and Sam last night, how he’d almost kissed her, and heat surged through him, accompanied by a flicker of agitation.

Dammit. He needed to stop this. These growing feelings for Sam would only complicate matters.

His chest constricted as he remembered how beautiful she’d looked standing under the falling snow, her dark hair cascading down her slender shoulders, her eyes glimmering with passion.

He either deserved a medal for his restraint, or a kick in the shin for the sheer stupidity of pushing away a woman like Samantha Dawson.

He was leaning toward the shin kick when her sleepy voice filled the kitchen.

“Morning,” she murmured, offering a tiny yawn that brought a smile to his lips.

With her thin nightshirt hanging over her knees and her brown hair tousled from sleep, she was the prettiest sight he’d seen in a very long time.

“Good morning,” he responded, leaning against the counter with his mug in hand.

“There’d better be enough coffee left for me. I’m still half-asleep.”

“Isn’t it too early to start making demands?”

“Demands?” She snorted. “A model doesn’t demand. She is simply given.”

He threw his head back and laughed.

“It’s true,” she insisted, her eyes twinkling. “The life of a model has its perks.”

“Yeah, like what?”

She looked thoughtful as she poured herself some coffee. “You know when you go to a fancy-pants restaurant and the ma?tre d’ tells you there aren’t any tables? Well, he’s totally putting you on. There was always a table for me, you know, being a VIP and all.” Her eyes sparkled playfully.

“Of course,” he said graciously.

“And then there was traveling first-class all the time. Seriously, never fly unless it’s first-class.” She stared at him with wide eyes, as if she’d just stumbled upon the Hope Diamond at a garage sale. “Did you know they give you slippers? ”

“My God. I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on first-class slippers all these years.”

She jabbed her finger in the air. “Hey, those slippers were unbelievably comfortable.” She sipped her coffee, then broke out in a sexy grin. “Oh, and I met Brad Pitt once.”

He faked a jaw drop.

“Yeah, that jaw better be dropping,” she teased. “That one-minute meeting was a highlight of my life. You know what he said to me?” She didn’t wait for him to hazard a guess. “‘Nice to meet you’! How wild is that?”

“Definitely wild,” he agreed, unable to keep the amusement out of his tone.

He loved seeing her like this. Lighthearted, happy, chattering on about airplane slippers and some actor she’d met.

During their first encounter back at the farmhouse, he’d thought the trauma she’d faced had sucked the life out of her.

But he was wrong. This was the real Samantha Dawson.

The laughter dancing in her stormy gray eyes.

The relaxed yet elegant demeanor. The tiny grin curving her full rosy lips.

Dear Lord, he wanted to kiss her. Just pull her into his arms and devour her mouth while he touched every inch of her gorgeous body.

Suppressing the urge, he lifted his mug to his lips and took a long sip. As he watched her to do the same, a thought suddenly came to mind.

“What is it?” she asked, sensing his indecision to speak.

“When this is over…will you go back to modeling?”

The joy drained from her face and he immediately regretted the question. “No,” she answered quietly.

“Because of the scar?”

She paused, biting her bottom lip in a sweet way that made his chest squeeze.

“It’s not the scar,” she finally admitted.

“The past six months I’ve told myself the scar is the reason I don’t want to pose for a camera again, but I don’t think that’s it, Blake.

I got a second chance when I survived the attack and this time around I want… more.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“After the Rose Killer is behind bars, I think I’ll say goodbye to all the excitement of my old life.

I find myself wanting things I never imagined I’d want before.

A husband, children, family game nights like the ones you described to me.

Hell, maybe I’ll even leave the city for good, buy that old farmhouse up in Wellstock. ”

He arched a brow. “A few days ago you refused to go back—now you actually look excited at the prospect of returning.”

Sam shrugged. “It really is a pretty town, still close to the city, but quaint, peaceful. The house is old, but with a little fixing up it’ll be good as new. It would actually be a great place to raise kids.”

Blake’s breath caught in his throat as a vivid image flashed before his eyes.

Sam, her belly swollen with a baby. Their baby.

A little girl with gray eyes like her mother.

Maybe a boy, too. And—laughter and the sound of little feet making tracks on that old faded floor of the farmhouse he and Sam would fix up.

Whoa .

As quick as lightning, he shoved the images out of his head, his heart pounding so hard his ribs ached.

“Blake, what’s wrong?”

He gulped and met her look of concern. “What? Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re pale.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “Where were you just now?”

Another gulp. “I was just thinking…about the case.”

“It’ll be all right. You don’t need to worry.”

He didn’t need to worry? Like hell he didn’t. He’d just envisioned a future with this woman, right down to the number of kids they’d have.

He tried to gather his composure and regain control.

Damn, getting distracted by thoughts like this was outrageously wrong.

It was ludicrous. He should be focused on protecting her, which meant keeping his emotions in check, for Sam’s safety if nothing else.

Fortunately he was spared from coming up with a response thanks to the ring of his cell phone.

He moved to the end of the counter and glanced at the caller ID. Rick again. “I’ve got to take this,” he said to Sam as he lifted the phone to his ear.

Holding her cup, she drifted to the doorway. “I should get dressed. I should call my brother, too. He’s probably going crazy wondering what I’m up to.”

Blake nodded absently and pressed the talk button on the cell, seeing Sam leave the kitchen from the corner of his eye. He greeted Rick, listened for a moment.

Then he went pale.

* * *

Sam knew calling her brother was a mistake the second the connection was made. Pressing the cordless phone to her ear, she sank on the edge of the bed in the guest room and rolled a pair of thick wool socks onto her bare feet, trying not to groan at her brother’s accusatory tone.

“You said it was only going to be one day,” Beau grumbled from the other end of the line, not bothering with pleasantries like Hello or How are you .

She could practically picture that telltale crease of worry on her brother’s forehead. “There was a change of plans.”

Sarcasm poured freely from his voice. “Yeah, everyone knows you’re alive. Tell those FBI agents they did a stand-up job.”

“It was my fault. I’m the one who wanted to visit Elaine again.”

“I never took you for a fool, Sammy. What if this maniac comes after you again?”

“It’ll be okay,” she said, amazed by the steadiness of her voice. “I promise.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one who says that?”

“Yeah, but I know you don’t believe it.”

“Do you?”

Her peripheral vision caught a flash of movement. Turning her head, she found Blake leaning against the doorframe. It only took one glance in his direction to bring a rush of reassurance through her body.

“Yeah, I believe it’ll be okay. The FBI will protect me.”

“They’d better. Tell that agent you’re staying with that if one hair on your head is harmed, I will come after him.”

She smothered back a grin. “I’ll pass the message along.”

She hung up the phone and fixed her gaze on Blake. He looked dead serious, the graveness of his eyes causing a small wave of alarm to wash over her.

“Is everything okay?” she asked.

He hesitated for a moment. “Something’s happened.”