Page 3 of The Survivor (Silhoutte Romantic Suspense)

T he guard she’d briefly let down snapped back up. With methodical steps, Sam walked back to the armchair and sank into it. “You want me to see her?” The words squeaked out slowly, laced with disbelief rushing through her veins.

Blake simply nodded.

“Why?” was all she asked.

“Because you know better than anyone what Elaine is going through,” Blake said matter-of-factly. He leaned forward, causing the material of his jacket to stretch over his broad shoulders.

This time she couldn’t deny the spark of attraction she felt at the sight of his powerful muscles constricting against his shirt. He was a sexy man. A very sexy man. Yet even admitting the obvious seemed inappropriate under these circumstances, after the bomb he’d just dropped in her lap.

She forced her gaze away from his chest, set her jaw and waited for him to continue.

“Elaine needs to feel safe when she finally decides to talk about her experience.”

A low, bitter laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “Safe? You think she’ll ever really feel safe?”

For the first time since he’d shown up at her door, Blake’s features softened.

The sympathy in his gaze reached out and touched her like the caress of a warm hand on her cheek.

Ordinarily, she would have grown defensive, sickened by the sympathy, the pity.

But strangely enough, the soft understanding in his dark eyes only eased her nerves.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think she’ll ever feel safe, not for a long time at least. But while this guy is still out on the streets, none of the women in Chicago will be safe, either.”

“Why are you so sure Elaine Woodman can give you some information you don’t already have?” She didn’t mean to pose a challenge, yet somehow it came out that way.

“Because she’s different,” Blake replied without hesitation. “He took her in broad daylight and dumped her on the other side of the city, which means he had to have means of transporting her there. He didn’t do that with any of the other victims.”

“Elaine can provide us with details that might help us stop him once and for all,” Rick added. “The kind of car he drives, any places he might have stopped at before dumping her.”

“But she won’t talk,” Sam said grimly.

“Not to us.” Blake paused, watching her. “But she might talk to you.”

She took a breath, suddenly feeling torn. If this were just about her, about her own pain and suffering, she might’ve been able to say no, tell them to leave her alone and to hell with their investigation. But it wasn’t just about her. There was another woman involved. Another survivor.

Her mind flashed back to the first day after the attack.

She’d been lying in that hospital bed, staring at the dull white walls, unwilling to let anyone catch a glimpse of what she’d gone through.

Even her brother, Beau, her only living relative, hadn’t been able to penetrate the iron shield she’d erected around herself.

For days she’d lain motionless in bed, trying to forget, trying to trick herself into believing that such an unthinkably heinous act hadn’t happened to her, not to her .

And if it weren’t for a kindhearted cop named Annette Hanson, she might have drowned in her own pain.

Annette had helped her, drawn her out of the shell of self-preservation she’d hidden within, and though it was months before she’d been ready to live her life again, she knew she’d never be able to repay Annette for what she’d done.

Could she really let another woman drown the way she almost had?

Helping Elaine Woodman would no doubt bring back a rush of terrifying memories that Sam desperately wanted to forget, but would it be worth it, knowing she’d contributed to Elaine’s healing process?

Drawing in a long breath, she eyed the men in front of her. “I…I’m going to need some time to think about it.”

“There isn’t any time.” Blake knew his voice sounded harsh, but it needed to be said. The longer Elaine Woodman kept quiet, the greater the danger and the longer this killer had to find himself another victim.

He didn’t blame Samantha for being uncertain.

Hell, he’d read her file, seen photos of what that bastard had done to her.

The woman had been hovering between life and death before the paramedics had shown up.

How she’d managed to call the police, especially in her condition, still amazed him.

All he knew was that Samantha Dawson possessed a strength that most people only wished they had.

His heart squeezed as he remembered another woman who’d exuded that same strength. Kate Manning, the woman whose death had caused him to dive headfirst into this case and push himself to the point of exhaustion simply to keep the memories at bay.

Not that it was helping. The memories continued to assault his mind anyway. It seemed as if everything and everyone reminded him of Kate, and, not for the first time, he wondered if maybe the Bureau shrink was right. Maybe there was no distraction great enough to make him forget.

He clenched his fists at the ominous notion. Lord, he couldn’t do this now, couldn’t think of Kate or that damn shrink. Not now. So he forcibly shoved the unwelcome thoughts from his head and tried to focus on the woman in front of him.

She seemed so cool, so controlled. He saw it in the way she sat, with her hands loosely draped over her lap.

The way she spoke in that calm, even voice.

The way she looked at him with those unwavering gray eyes.

It seriously impressed him, but it didn’t totally convince him, either.

The little ragged breaths and the way her shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly at every sound told him that she was still terrified.

“If you’re worried about your own safety,” Rick said, “I can assure you we’ll take every precaution to keep you protected.”

With a chuckle, she muttered, “Right, because I’m supposed to be dead. Wonder how I overlooked that little tidbit?” She focused those haunting eyes on Blake. “How do you plan on taking me into the city without being recognized?”

If Rick was insulted by her intense focus on his partner, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned back and let Blake field that question.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” he said roughly, inwardly wondering why her impenetrable gaze made his palms grow damp. “We’ll get you a disguise, bring you into the hospital after visiting hours, anything to protect your identity.”

“My face will still be familiar—to most men, at least.”

Her tone was dry, almost comical, and Blake fought the tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your face is probably not as recognizable as you think.”

The comment, with its slightly lewd undertones, did not seem to faze her. Instead, she just nodded. “Quite true, Agent Corwin. But I’m not sure I’m willing to take that chance.”

They’d reached an impasse. Blake knew that pushing her any further would only make her less likely to cooperate. Helping them had to be her choice. The ball was in her court now.

Blake exchanged a glance with Rick before rising from the sofa. “All right, we’ll give you some time to think about this then,” he said. “But don’t take too long.”

She offered an odd little smile. “Time is of the essence, right?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He reached into his pocket and removed his card and a pen. He scribbled down both his and Rick’s cell numbers, then handed it to her. She seemed to make an effort not to let their fingers brush as she accepted the card, and, for some reason, that bothered him a little.

“Just give us a call when you’ve made up your mind. But if we haven’t heard from you by tomorrow afternoon, we’ll need to get back to Chicago and explore other avenues.”

The two men said their goodbyes and headed for the door. Samantha followed them, shotgun again in hand. After they’d stepped onto the porch, Blake heard all the various locks and safety mechanisms being clicked back into place.

As they descended the steps, Rick shot him a questioning look. “You think she’ll help us?”

The snow crunching under his boots, Blake simply nodded. “Yes, I think she will.”

* * *

“You really don’t need to worry,” Sam told her brother over the phone an hour after Blake and Rick had left the farmhouse.

She settled onto the couch and tucked her knees under her, then reached to flick on the lamp sitting on the end table.

The late-afternoon sun was beginning to set and the absence of light streaming in from the windows made her muscles tense.

Soon the sun would disappear altogether, leaving nothing but an inky black sky and menacing shadows.

She’d already turned on the main light. It bathed the room in a pale-yellow glow, but she didn’t feel at ease unless every light in the house was on, too.

The darkness still bothered her, ever since that warm May night when she’d walked into her bedroom and seen the dark figure looming in the shadows.

She slept with the light on now. Scratch that—she lay in bed with the light on.

She didn’t sleep. If she was lucky, she got five hours of rest a night, spread out in twenty-minute intervals because every time the REM cycle kicked in, she’d jerk herself awake.

The nights were the hardest, always bringing with them a threat that she couldn’t ignore.

“What do you mean, I don’t have to worry?” Beau replied. “At the moment, that’s exactly what I should be doing.”

She smiled to herself, knowing without having to see him that there was a telltale crease in his forehead.

Most times Beau’s face was unreadable. Dark, stoic eyes, firm set of the mouth.

But that little crease always gave him away.

She’d seen it enough times growing up, and right now she heard it in his voice.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him. “They were FBI agents, no danger to me.”

“I disagree. The very fact that they want you to go into the city is dangerous.”

“They said they’d protect me.”

“Do you believe them?”