Strong, Sleek and Sinful - By Lorie O'Clare Page 0,53

any good or if running soap over her body and touching herself would only increase the fire smoldering deep inside her that refused to go out.

She paused in her hallway, torn between showering and returning to the computer to work. “You know you want to shower for when he returns.” Which was argument enough not to shower. There was work to do, and she’d be damned if she wasted time primping for a man just because he created sensations inside her that she hadn’t felt in years, if ever.

Her computer chimed and she hurried into the computer room, sliding into her chair. PeteTakesU had answered her. She stared at the bold, black font, pursing her lips together while her heart started beating quickly.

I know who you are.

The thin-line cursor blinked eagerly in the response box while she focused on the words until her eyes burned. Blinking several times, she sucked in a breath. Her fingers posed over the keyboards. Her heart raced in her chest while adrenaline pumped through her and made her palms wet. This was what she did, what she was known for. Now was the time to narrow down her list of suspects, starting with PeteTakesU.

She needed the perfect, saucy, no-cares-in-the-world response. It was time to clear her head of everything in her world and think like a teenager. It was time to find out if PeteTakesU was her killer.

Who are you? she typed, and clicked “send.”

Pete Rubble.

As in the Flintstones? she typed.

You know old cartoons, too?

She smiled. “If you’re my guy, you’re quick.” Well, she was quick, too.

Kylie clicked on the large smiley-face emoticon and then clicked “send.” This was how it was done. This was how the perp snared his victims. Pick a comfortable topic, start chatting, and the unsuspecting victim would relax until she didn’t feel like she was talking to a stranger anymore. Kylie entered into the mind of her killer, thinking like he would, directing the conversation the way he would. She could make him relax and unsuspecting, too.

You are prettier than any girl in my school.

She stared at the next message, contemplating her best response so he would ask her to meet him. The sooner she knew whether he was a teenager or not, the better.

Thank you. What do you look like? She clicked “send” but then quickly typed: What school do you go to?

I’m not in Mission Hills. There was a brief pause and then the next message appeared in the box: Doesn’t it scare you that I know who you are?

He wanted her to ask how he knew who she was. She decided to take the bait. Give him what he wanted and get him to ask her to meet him. Teenage girls these days were forward. They knew what they wanted and didn’t hesitate. An image of Kathleen Long, her gray, dead body lying straight on the cold table at the morgue where Kylie had gone earlier, was the ruthless truth as to what happened to girls who thought they knew what they were doing and acted without parental consent. Kathleen Long had been forbidden to meet the boy she’d been talking to online. Kylie read the faxed report that had been typed up by Perry after he interviewed the parents before coming to see her. His report was inconclusive and he stated follow-ups were pending, which was probably where he headed after leaving her house, to interview Kathleen’s friends and learn more about who she went to meet.

Kylie typed and sent her next message, guessing that waiting a minute before sending it would feed her perp, if she was indeed talking to the killer, and make him believe she was wary. How do you know who I am?

I’ve been watching you.

Oh yeah? You don’t live here. LOL.

Is the green hybrid yours?

She frowned, her heart thumping hard in her chest while she fidgeted in her chair. He had been watching her.

He sent a large smiley face and then followed it with a kissing face. My grandmother lives in Mission Hills, he offered. When can I meet you?

“Bingo.” Kylie grabbed her earpiece to her cell phone and quickly scrolled to the saved number for the FBI field office. Listening to it ring, she decided to go for broke. “You’re going down, buddy,” she said, feeling the adrenaline charge to life inside her. Unfortunately, it accentuated the pulsing that still throbbed between her legs. She rubbed herself against the chair, which only made the craving worse, and posed her fingers,