Page 8 of The Survivor (Silhoutte Romantic Suspense)

He was desperate as hell, though, to know what had transpired between Sam and Elaine. He prayed to God that she’d gotten through to her. Rick hadn’t said a word about the visit, so Blake, during the entire drive home, was left to wonder.

He pulled into his driveway just in time to see Rick ushering Sam into the house.

It had snowed again, and a light layer of powder covered the front lawn, which Blake trudged through on his way to the door.

Inside, he found Sam sitting on the living room couch, gray eyes distant and face expressionless.

“Well, what did she tell you?” he burst out, his boots bringing a pile of snow onto the thick carpet. He didn’t care about the wet stains beneath his feet. All he cared about was getting a break in this damn case.

“Nothing.” Sam’s voice sounded hollow, devoid of any emotion. She’d removed the glasses and wig, and though her natural honey-brown hair fell down her shoulders in loose waves, the makeup altering her features made her look like a stranger.

“She wouldn’t talk?” Disappointment erupted in his chest.

“She wouldn’t be pressured,” Sam corrected.

Their gazes collided, and for one brief second, he saw defiance in those gray circles. Almost as if she viewed him as the enemy now.

“Gentle coaxing and pressure are two different things,” he pointed out, sitting on an armchair and removing his boots. He stood, then bit back a curse when his sock connected with the wet snow he’d brought in. Great.

“She needs time,” Sam returned.

“We don’t have time. This guy could be grabbing another woman as we speak. We have no clue what triggers him, why he decides to go out and commit murder.”

Sam remained firm. “She’s not ready to talk about what happened. She needs to trust me first.”

The implication settled in the pit of Blake’s stomach like a fifty-pound weight.

“Forget it,” he said flatly. “You’re not going back.”

Sam stood up and marched past him, stealing through the doorway and heading for the stairs. “I’m seeing her again tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder.

A shot of anger rocketed through him. He stormed after her, intercepting her before she could climb the first step. With his arms crossed over his chest, he shot her a menacing look. “I won’t allow it.”

“You don’t have any say in this, Blake.”

It was the first time she’d said his name out loud, and the way it slipped from her lush mouth sent another shock wave through him. Desire this time, and it went straight to his groin.

“The hell I don’t,” he shot back, ignoring his arousal.

Her eyes, empty before, now flashed with unrestrained rebellion. “She needs me. I’m going back. End of story.”

“For Christ’s sake, are you looking to get yourself killed? Wasn’t one near-death experience enough for you?”

Her jaw hardened. Shoving him aside, she charged up the stairs and disappeared into the second-floor hallway. A few seconds later, a door slammed.

“Real tactful.” Rick’s dry voice broke the silence.

Blake turned to face his partner, who’d appeared in the doorway. “She can’t go back there.”

“She shouldn’t,” Rick corrected. He shook his head. “But she can if she chooses to. And after your superb way of handling that, I’m guessing she will.”

Frustration boiled inside him, swirling in his stomach like a cluster of hornets until he clenched his fists to control himself.

Goddamn it. It had been enough of a risk bringing Sam back to Chicago, taking her to a public place where anyone—including the killer—might recognize her.

But letting her stay? Even for another hour, another day? That was a much bigger risk.

Blake shook his head. The damn file had never said how stubborn this woman was. Or fiery. Or shockingly sexy when she was angry. He’d always liked sassy women, the ones who never backed down from a challenge and didn’t mind throwing a few challenges of their own.

Kate had been like that—stubborn, determined, so much so that she’d convinced him to take her to the warehouse that night. The night she’d been killed.

A vise of pain swiftly tightened over his chest.

Well, this time he would be the stubborn one. This situation didn’t allow room for challenges. Or mistakes. Or putting the life of a woman he was really starting to like in danger.

“I’ll call Knight. Maybe he can talk some sense into her, try and stop her,” Blake muttered.

Rick snorted. “I doubt even a bulldozer could stop her.”

* * *

Sam paced the small bedroom, fighting a losing battle in her mind. She wanted to call Beau. Wanted to hear her brother’s voice and have him tell her that she was making the right decision by staying. Wanted to forget Blake’s harsh comment and assure herself that Elaine Woodman needed her.

Calling Beau, however, wouldn’t help any. He’d only tell her the FBI agent was right and she should leave the city. And forgetting Blake’s remark wouldn’t work, either, considering that she was well aware of the danger she’d be putting herself in if she stayed.

But could she really go? When she’d left Elaine’s room earlier, she’d known in her heart that she couldn’t possibly turn tail and run without getting through to the girl.

Elaine was scarred. Physically. Emotionally.

She’d told Sam she didn’t have any family, just a mother who’d passed away years before and a father who’d run out on them long before.

The loneliness in the girl’s voice had struck a chord of sorrow in her.

She couldn’t let Elaine lie there in that bed day in and day out, couldn’t let her drown in the pain, lose herself in anguished memories.

To hell with Blake and the FBI. She needed to do this.

For the first time in months, she actually felt useful.

Needed. She was tired of hiding away in that empty farmhouse, carrying around a shotgun and bursting into tears at any unfamiliar sound.

What kind of life was that? What did that say about her?

That she was a coward instead of a fighter?

She should’ve come back here a long time ago. Declined the new identity the FBI had given her, let the man who’d attacked her know she was alive and dared him to come find her. But she hadn’t been strong enough then. The wounds had been too fresh.

She reached into her overnight bag for the T-shirt she’d brought to sleep in. She wasn’t hiding anymore.

With the determined set of her jaw, she changed into her nightshirt and headed for the bathroom to wash the makeup from her face and brush her teeth.

It wasn’t until she’d slid under the soft covers that she realized she hadn’t eaten a thing since leaving Wellstock this afternoon.

Somehow, the hunger had gone unnoticed all night.

Seeing Elaine had been too big a distraction, but her growling stomach refused to be ignored any longer.

Sighing, she got out of bed and rolled a pair of heavy wool socks onto her bare feet. Then she left the room and headed downstairs, wondering if Blake was still awake.

“Hungry?”

Yep, he was awake. Sam nearly tripped over her own feet as she spotted him in the hall. He’d changed into a pair of black sweatpants and a snug black T-shirt, and in the dark clothing he blended into the shadows. Taking a step toward her, he offered a tentative smile.

“Starved,” she finally admitted.

He followed her into the kitchen and flicked on the light, bathing the large space in a yellow glow. Sam glanced at the black marble counter and shiny silver appliances, getting the impression that not much cooking went on in this room. The thin layer of dust on the stove confirmed her suspicions.

“Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the stools at the counter. “I’ll fix you something. Do you like roast beef?”

“Yep.”

Blake kept his back to her as he opened the fridge and pulled out various items. He walked over to the pantry and removed a loaf of bread, then, back still turned, began preparing her a sandwich.

She was startled when he finally spoke. “I’m sorry about what I said.” Slowly, he turned to meet her gaze. Regret shone in his deep brown eyes.

“It’s all right.”

“No.” He took a breath. “I shouldn’t have made light of what you went through. So please accept my apology.”

“Apology accepted.”

With a nod, he returned his attention to preparing her food, and a few moments later dropped a plate holding a thick roast-beef sandwich in front of her. “Want a glass of milk?” he offered.

“Sure.”

He poured milk into a tall glass and handed it to her, then leaned against the sink as she ate. “Are you serious about visiting Elaine again?”

She chewed slowly, seeing the worry on his face and wondering why she wanted so badly to reassure him. He was the one who was supposed to tell her that everything would be okay, not the other way around.

“I have to,” she said after swallowing. “I…I connected with her, Blake. I only spoke to her for a half hour, but for some reason I feel as if I need to, I don’t know, help her.…” She searched for the right words. “Heal her.”

She quickly polished off the rest of the sandwich and then gulped down her milk.

Blake just watched as she rinsed off the plate and glass, and dried her hands with a flower-patterned dish towel.

When she glanced over at him, his face had an unreadable expression that made her forehead wrinkle.

Was he angry with her? He’d sure been pissed off earlier when she’d informed him that she wasn’t going anywhere, and yet you’d think he’d be happy about her decision.

He’d been chasing this killer so long he had to be getting desperate, had to be anxious to catch him.

That her decision to stay upset him only told Sam that Blake Corwin was a good man. He wouldn’t risk her life, even if it meant letting the Rose Killer get away.