Murder in the Smokies - By Paula Graves Page 0,23

“I’m sorry. That took longer than I expected. I see you found the sheets.”

“Yeah.”

“I, uh—” Whatever she’d been planning to say drifted away like smoke on the wind as her reckless gaze drifted away from his hazel eyes to settle on his chest. He was lean and toned, with well-defined muscles that didn’t look as if they’d been built through reps on a weight machine at the local gym. Dark hair sprinkled his chest and converged in a dusky line that disappeared beneath the sheet.

She made herself look away. “Do you have everything you need?”

He took so long to answer she couldn’t help meeting his gaze again. “I think so,” he answered in a tone of voice that suggested there was at least one thing he didn’t have and wanted very much.

“Okay,” she said, barely able to hear her own voice over the sudden thunderous pounding of her pulse in her ears. “Well, good night.”

“Good night,” he murmured, his scorching gaze branding her.

She forced her feet backward, out of the room, and pulled the door shut behind her. She stood with her hand on the doorknob, taking a couple of deep breaths.

Too little sleep, too much stress, she told herself as her fingers tightened on the cool metal of the doorknob. That was her problem. A good night’s sleep would give her back a sense of perspective.

But when she slept, she dreamed.

* * *

SHE LAY TANGLED IN yellow sheets that looked blue in the moonlight pouring through the bedroom window. Her blanket lay in a puddle on the floor, kicked away as she dreamed.

She dressed like a child, he thought, her woman’s body clad in soft cotton pants and a T-shirt that could have passed for pajamas. He didn’t know if he found the appearance of innocence disappointing or exciting.

Exciting, he decided. Although maybe it was the prospect of bathing himself in her blood that sent his pulse racing with anticipation.

The window was unlocked, as he’d known it would be. He was a man of remarkable luck as well as thoughtful planning. Things had a way of working out for him in just the way he needed, though he was surprised, in a way, because of who she was.

The detective. The steely-eyed law-woman who should have known the importance of checking all the doors and windows before she went to bed. Perhaps she’d lived too long in this bucolic little mountain hamlet and had, like others before her, bought into the foolish notion that nothing bad could happen in a place so beautiful.

On the table by her bedside, a file folder lay open. He moved closer, his eyes so well-adjusted to the dark that he could see the folder’s contents with little effort. Photographs of bodies. His handiwork.

Excitement flaring in the pit of his gut, he flipped through the file. Hastily compiled dossiers on each victim followed the photographs. April Billings. Amelia Sanderson. Coral Vines. The new one, Marjorie Kenner.

She was trying to connect them, but the pieces just weren’t there. But she was close. So close.

Picking up the pen lying by the dossier, he bent and jotted a note on the inside of the folder. He stared at the single word, smiling. Would anyone know what it meant?

He walked silently to the side of her bed and gazed down at her. A disappointment, in a way. He’d hoped for more of a challenge.

Looming closer, he stretched his hand toward her. His shadow drifted across her face, plunging her sleep-softened features into darkness. A shame. He had wanted to see her face when she realized her time had run out.

Her soft respiration was the only sound in the room. He let it fill his ears, knowing it would soon die away forever.

With a violent thrust, he closed his hand over her throat and squeezed.

Ivy woke in a rush, phantom fingers pressing against the flesh of her neck. She reached for them before she realized she had only been dreaming.

A low moan of relief escaping her throat, she sat up and pressed her face into her hands, willing her racing heart back to a normal rhythm. Already, the nightmare was beginning to dissipate, but she tried to hold on to the images. Something—there was something...

When her legs stopped shaking, she pushed herself off the bed and padded barefoot across the cold hardwood floor to her window, fumbling for the brass window latch.

It was safely locked in place.

She slumped with relief, pressing her forehead against the cold glass pane. Outside, the night