“You received a scarf,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she snapped. “I was there. I delivered it to your field office myself, which I didn’t have to do, you know. I could have waited until I was done with this case. I should have waited.”
“Maybe, but then you might be dancing with an unhinged rapist rather than with me.”
He spun her, the twirl both expert and effortless.
She gasped, a little dizzy. A little impressed.
“It matched the ones left with the other victims,” he explained, his voice soft, but weighted with importance. “Didn’t the agent-in-charge explain what the scarf meant?”
She groaned. “He just said that some wack job who thinks he’s the Frito Bandito might try and abduct me to fulfill some sort of non-sexual sex fantasy.”
Agent Murrieta stiffened, but continued to maneuver her in a tight square in the center of the room. When she looked up, she was surprised to find that his eyes had hardened into twin blocks of blue ice.
“It’s not non-sexual. Not anymore. He’s escalated. You’re in serious danger, Ms. Lécuyer. And I’m going to make sure he doesn’t get to you, whether you want me to or not.”
3
FRITO BANDITO? Had she just equated his storied ancestor with the retired mascot for corn chips? At the spot where his right hand rested just below her shoulder blade, his father’s ring burned.
Or at least, he imagined it did.
The family heirloom had reportedly once belonged to the very man whose reputation Claire had just unknowingly insulted. Centered by an emerald etched with a Z and flanked by two large opals that reflected vibrant blues and greens among the inky black, the ring had always been his father’s most treasured possession. Now it connected Michael to his brothers, to his family legacy—and to this case.
No one at the FBI knew that Michael was the direct descendant of Joaquin Murrieta, the very real and very notorious California renegade after whom the fictionalized Zorro was based. He’d drawn the line at allowing the unsub to be branded with the name associated with his famous forebear, so he certainly wasn’t going to let Joaquin Murrieta be reduced to a mustachioed Mexican stereotype.
“The unknown subject, whom my colleagues have dubbed The Bandit, is both delusional and dangerous. Just because he’s fixated on a character who wore black masks and capes in the movies doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Especially to a delicate woman like yourself.”
The last part was a cheap shot, but it hit the target. Her eyes flashed and he had to increase the pressure of his grip to keep her swaying to the music rather than punching him in the face.
He shouldn’t have baited her, but somehow, he couldn’t help himself. Unintended insult to his ancestor notwithstanding, Claire Lécuyer took herself entirely too seriously. He would know. He usually did the same.
But not tonight. Not with her. Casting aside the fact that he was dressed like an idiot while prancing around for some voyeur’s video camera with moves he hadn’t used since his ballroom-obsessed fifth grade teacher taught her class the box step, Michael felt entirely at ease. Dancing with Claire—no, holding her close—felt nearly as natural as taking her into his protective custody.
Again, he wondered about the ring. According to legend, it allowed the wearer to access the three qualities most often associated with the dashing character the unsub had appropriated for his sexual fantasy. A strong desire to impart justice to the wicked. An insatiable desire for adventure. And, of course, an enviable talent with women.
Michael didn’t believe any of that nonsense, but he knew one thing for sure: if he was going to go up against a madman to save Claire Lécuyer, he’d take all the help he could get.
“I don’t need a bodyguard,” she murmured, her lips drawn in a severe line. “I used to be a cop, you know.”
“Of course I know,” he replied, taking a chance at a second twirl that made her gasp in surprise. “I’ve made it my business to know everything about you. At least, everything that could be collected in an FBI file. But law enforcement experience doesn’t make you invincible.”
“No, but it does make me smarter about my safety than the average woman.”
“So smart that I had my hand around your throat and could have taken you out of here without anyone thinking it was more than some sexual game?”
Claire swallowed, the movement mesmerizing, particularly in the uncertain lamp light. Getting the jump on her had been a lucky break, but she didn’t need to know that. Between the music, the lights, the swirl and swish of multi-colored gowns, it was a miracle he’d spotted her so quickly.
Though she was pretty tough to miss.
The rest of the women had gone to great lengths to look young and fresh, but Claire was naturally both. She’d applied her makeup with a light hand and wore a gown of pale ivory that emphasized the rich caramel hue of her skin. From the curves and lines in her shoulders and bare arms, he guessed that she worked out regularly—probably outside in the wet Louisiana heat. Despite the sweet young persona she’d adopted, she moved with a bold confidence that had snatched the attention of nearly every other man in the room. Any with taste.
For that reason, he’d acted quickly. The minute he’d sensed her scanning the room for the woman she was looking for, he’d darted into action.
But for all he knew, the Bandit had been in the room, too, stalking her just like he was.
“Is that what this is?” she asked. “Some sort of sexual game you’ve invented to get me into bed?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replied, trying not to give the idea any serious consideration. “This is all an act we’re putting on for whoever is watching us. We’ll play their game until I can get you the hell out of here.”
“I’m not leaving,” she insisted.
“You have a maniac after you.”
Her frown emphasized her plump lips. “You don’t think I’d notice if someone was stalking me?”
“No,” he answered simply. “Not this guy. He knows all about you. He knows you used to be a cop and that you’re now a private investigator. He’d realize that you’d be a challenge. He’d change his mode of operation. He’ll pull out all the stops. Whatever it takes.”
“But how could he get in here, with all the security? And how would he know I was here? I had to be super cautious to make sure these people didn’t suspect I was lying to them about who I was.”
“I found you. And I got in on less than a day’s notice. For all you know, he owns this joint.”
She snorted. “That’d be one hell of a coincidence. Your case and mine intertwining so neatly? He’s not here.”
Michael tugged her closer. She pulled back, trying again to twist out of his hold, but he wouldn’t let her. Whoever was on the other end of that camera was likely getting a kick out of this push-pull, but Michael was losing patience. He might find her strength sexy as hell, but he wasn’t going to let her run headfirst into danger.
“You don’t know where he is, and neither do I,” he confessed, turning her toward the camera while he spoke directly into her ear. “This man ingratiates himself into the lives of his victims long before he sends them a scarf. He learns their habits. He memorizes their routines. He doesn’t have a name or a face, but he’s always around. Maybe he’s the guy who delivers flowers to your neighbor. Maybe he’s the new tenant in the building two doors down. Maybe he’s the guy walking his dog down your street who seems more interested