Dead By Morning

little sister. And we’re counting on you to rein her in if you see these interviews with Browning get out of control.”

“Do you and Nic honestly think I can rein in Maleah?”

“We think you are probably the only man who can.”

Before Derek had time to digest Barbara Jean’s final comment, she said good-bye.

What the hell had Barbara Jean meant when she had said we think you’re the only man who can? It wasn’t as if he had any power over Maleah. He wasn’t her father, brother or mentor. And he certainly wasn’t her lover. They were barely friends. Maybe not even friends. Not enemies. Not exactly adversaries, because they were on the same side. And they were definitely more than acquaintances. Damned if he knew how to label their relationship.

Standing in the center of his room, Derek took a deep breath. Then as he walked across the carpeted floor, he tossed his phone onto the bed. He picked up the guest book that contained the menu and hurriedly scanned the items available for dinner. Noting that room service ended at 10:00 P.M., he lifted the hotel phone, dialed room service, and ordered.

Moving toward the bathroom, he began stripping out of his clothes, dropping them haphazardly on the floor as his went. Naked, his clothes strewn from bedroom to bathroom, Derek turned on the shower and then grabbed the guest soap and toiletries. As he lathered his hair and the steamy warm water pelted his body, he tried to figure out just what kind of relationship he did have with Maleah.

They were coworkers. They were partners, albeit reluctant partners.

Yeah, that was it—they were reluctant partners.

So, why would Nic and Barbara Jean think he, of all people, would be able to rein in Maleah? If he said or did anything that even hinted of trying to control a situation, she overreacted. If ever there was a woman over whom he had absolutely no control, it was Maleah Perdue.

Chapter 18

With her eyes closed, Maleah lay in the tub, bubbles up to her chin and soothing warm water surrounding her tired body. As hard as she tried to empty her mind, to concentrate on her breathing so that she could relax, her mind wouldn’t slow down and allow her a few precious moments of peace. She didn’t want to think about anything or anyone. She didn’t want to worry herself sick about her brother Jackson and his family. The thought that they could be in danger had crossed her mind ever since Winston Corbett’s murder, but she had managed to subdue her concerns in order to do her job. But no longer. Not now. Not after what Derek had told her.

Browning said to tell you that he’s eager to see you again. And . . . he sends his regards to your brother Jack and his wife and son.

But did Browning actually know who the copycat had targeted as his next victim or did that evil bastard just want them to think he knew?

Logic told her that the best way she could help her brother, his wife, and son was to continue her visits with Browning. For the time being, he seemed to be their only link to the killer. Pure emotion urged her to go home to Dunmore, to place herself between her brother and his family and any danger that might come their way. But Griff had already sent in other agents—one each to guard Jack, Cathy, and Seth. Knowing the danger they were in couldn’t be good for Cathy or the baby she was carrying. If anything happened to that innocent little life . . .

Maleah slid down into the tub until her head hit the water, separating the thick bubbles into two big mounds on either side.

Stop thinking, damn it, stop thinking.

She sunk lower until she submerged her entire head under the water.

Jack and his family are safe. And you’re going to do what you have to do—see Jerome Browning again.

Maleah rose from the watery grave, rivulets of soapy water racing down her head, across her shoulders and over her bare breasts. As she grappled around at the bottom of the tub searching for her washcloth, she shook her head sideways to dislodge any water trapped in her ears.

“Always shake your head,” Jackson had told her the first time he’d given her a swimming lesson. “Like this.” He had demonstrated the motion for her. “It’ll help get the water out of your ears. I don’t want my kid sister getting swimmer’s ear.”

She loved Jack more than anyone on earth. He was not only her brother. He was her hero.

“Oh, Jack, I’m sorry that my being a Powell agent has put you and your family in danger.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. God, how she hated weak, weepy women. Women like her mother. She would never be like that. She would never let some man beat her into the ground and walk all over her. Even if it meant spending the rest of her life alone, she would never willingly give any man the power to hurt her.

After finally finding her washcloth, she brought it up from the bottom of the tub, wrung out the excess water and wiped her face with the damp cloth. She had no idea how long she’d been in the tub, thinking, trying not to think and fighting the almost overwhelming urge to cry. But the once hot water was now tepid and her fingertips were puckered, so she figured she had been in the tub too long.

She rose from the water, stepped out onto the bathmat and reached for a thick, fluffy towel. She draped a towel around her wet hair and then retrieved another and dried off, from face to feet. As she slipped into her clean panties, she debated about putting on a bra, but quickly dismissed the thought of going braless. After all, she didn’t want Derek to think she was trying to be provocative.

If only she didn’t have to see Derek again tonight. If only he wasn’t her partner on this case. But he was her partner and for a very good reason—his expertise as a profiler could prove invaluable. And she did have to see him again tonight. They had work to do.

While she dressed, she reminded herself that Derek really was not a problem. He was her partner. She needed him as much as he needed her. Like it or not, they were a team.

Once she’d gotten to know him, when they had worked together on the Midnight Killer case, Maleah realized that some of her preconceived notions about Derek were wrong. But some were dead on. He was arrogant. But only occasionally. Most rich, handsome, intelligent men were. He was a womanizer who went through women as if they were Kleenex. Stupid women. And from the first day they met when he had tried to charm her, she had begun putting up a protective barrier between them. No way was she going to fall for a guy who thought he could sweet talk any woman he wanted into his bed. But what she hated most about Derek was the way he tried to boss her around and make all the decisions for her. Or at least he had in the beginning. Now, he actually made an effort not to go all macho he-man on her, delegating her to the role of helpless female.

No, Derek was not the major problem in her life right now.

Jerome Browning was the problem.

She needed to know whatever Browning knew.

She had to find a way to make him talk.

And she would do it, no matter what the cost to her.

Alone on the patio, Nicole stared up the night sky filled with countless tiny, sparkling stars, distant light peeping through pinpricks in a heavenly black canvas. An overwhelming sense of doom settled over her, a foreboding feeling of desolation and danger. But she was safe. Everyone within the protective walls of Griffin’s Rest was safe. So why did she feel as if she were dying by slow, excruciating degrees?

God, Nic, don’t be overly dramatic. You’re not dying. You’re worried and upset and pissed at your husband.

If she didn’t love Griff so damn much, she would have packed her bags and left long before now. She would have put some distance between her and Griff, for her own sanity. But she had tried that before, spending time away from him, and in the end, she always came home. Home where her heart was. Home to the man she loved more than life itself.

And the bittersweet thing about loving Griff was knowing that he loved her in the same wildly, desperately