Page 87 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

He had to work fast.

Adam slipped into his office and made sure the door was closed tight behind him. He’d missed something; he was sure of it. Although he’d searched this room top to bottom, he was going to do it one last time, scouring every nook and cranny, tearing up the damned floorboards if he needed to. Time was running out.

And you’re scared. Not just for Rebecca but because of Caitlyn. Face it, Hunt, you’re interested in her and not just professionally.

Ignoring that thought, he went to work. He looked through everything. Drawers, files, bookcases, tables, even the pillows on the couch and chairs. He searched the closet and the dry planters, behind the pictures he’d taken from the walls and through all the pockets of the coats he found in the closet.

He rolled up the carpet, looked through the bathroom next door and finally, as the sun rose steadily in the east, was about to give up. If the information he sought wasn’t on the computer’s hard drive, then he was sunk. But something bothered him; something

about the office didn’t seem right. He sat down on the couch and viewed it again, remembering where the furniture had been placed when he’d first walked in, thinking of the few objects he’d removed . . . what was incongruous about the place?

Think, Hunt, think!

His gaze skimmed the desk and furniture, the decor. All recent. Made to look older, yes, but acquired in the past few years. Aside from a few books, a pair of boots, a jacket and the backpack, the items were fairly new.

But so what?

Frustrated, he sat on the corner of the couch where Caitlyn always took her seat. He thought he smelled the hint of her perfume, and his heart raced a little. Innocence and sexuality all rolled into one seductive package.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. That’s what his attraction to Caitlyn was. Professional dynamite. Personal disaster. And yet when she appeared in this room, he couldn’t deny the physical allure of the woman. Slim, but not bony, she carried herself with a slightly aloof air, a facade that shattered in their sessions when she, fighting to maintain control of her ragged emotions, would refuse to break down, or try and laugh off her own case of nerves. Her smile was sexy. Her movements sensual. Her worries deep. Shadows darkened her eyes, and confusion occasionally tugged at the corners of her mouth, but beneath the layers of anxiety and tragedy, he sensed there was an intelligent, sharp, deep woman that she rarely allowed out.

He was an idiot. Plain and simple. He didn’t have time for a woman and certainly not a complicated one like Caitlyn Bandeaux. Already the police were nosing around, asking questions about Rebecca. It was only a matter of time, days or possibly hours, before they figured out that he was subleasing her offices and using her equipment. Then he’d have some explaining to do. Her disappearance would be a matter of record, and they would seal up the office and house. Not that their investigation would necessarily be a bad thing, just a hindrance, and he would be looked upon with suspicion. His movements would be restricted, and he really believed that he was more likely to find her than any other person on the planet.

He’d lived with her.

He knew her.

He understood her.

He knew he could find her.

But he was beginning to worry that it wouldn’t be fast enough. Too much time had slipped by. With each passing day he felt with growing certainty that she was dead.

Worse yet, he had the chilling premonition that Rebecca’s disappearance was somehow tied to Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux.

Twenty-One

“I don’t know where she is,” Sugar said, blocking the cop’s entrance to her home. Caesarina was standing next to her, growling a warning at the detective on her doorstep.

“But Christina Biscayne does live here.”

Sugar nodded. She usually hated cops. Didn’t trust them. But this one seemed a little different, with his rugged good looks and intense gaze. More interesting than the green yahoo who had interviewed her after Josh Bandeaux’s death. That cop had been a kid, but this one, he was definitely a man. He had a woman with him—tight-packed body, tons of attitude and really bad hair. What was with that? The department must have loosened its dress code. “Cricket’s an adult. Sometimes she doesn’t come home.”

“Will she be back later?”

“Who knows? I hope so.”

“Doesn’t she have to work?” the woman cop asked.

“Yes. But I don’t know her schedule.”

They seemed to want to ask more, but settled for asking Sugar to have Cricket call the police station once she turned up. Sugar lingered at the door, watching Detective Reed climb into the passenger side of the vehicle. He had a nice walk. Easy strides that were long enough to stretch his slacks over a tight butt. As he settled inside, he flipped on a pair of dark aviator glasses. He wasn’t exactly handsome, not in Hollywood terms, but there was something innately sexy and male about him. Maybe a hint of danger, which, of course, she was always drawn to. The driver lit a cigarette, backed the car up, and as the dust was still settling, stepped on it and roared down the rutted lane, leaving a plume of dust and Sugar to wonder where the hell her sister was.

Where the hell was she? It was dank, dark . . . and she was lying on what felt like a dirt floor. Cricket couldn’t move, couldn’t lift her head, didn’t know how long she’d been here. Her hands were bound behind her, her feet wrapped, her mouth covered with tape. Not that she could do anything. Ever since she’d been brought here, driven in her own car and hauled in a child’s cart to this dirty, stinking hole in the ground, she’d been drugged, unable to move. She’d seen flashes of light from beneath a door and her captor, who called herself Atropos, had come and gone. Hours—maybe days—had passed. Cricket couldn’t tell, but she had a bad case of the creeps here in this godforsaken cellar.

“You awake again?”

Cricket started. She hadn’t heard her captor approach.

---