Page 66 of What About Love

Chapter 15

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THATnight, Angie sat in the administrative conference room waiting for the team to gather. Here in LA, and back in San Antonio, these guys really liked to meet. T had called this eleventh hour meeting to run through the plan for the evening once more. Since they’d already planned, and discussed, and reviewed it ad nauseum, she thought it was overkill. But she wasn’t about to complain with her safety on the line.

Goose bumps ran up her arms as a blast of cold air hit her. Tipping back in the swivel chair, she eyed the only air-conditioning vent in the room directly above her.

Figures. The halter dress Val had suggested—red to help her stand out in the crowd—left her bare from her shoulders to the small of her back. Wearing nothing underneath except a skimpy thong, she felt as good as naked and freezing. But the cold wasn’t the only reason goose bumps erupted on her skin. Surrounded by her peers at Rossi, all strikingly handsome, powerful men didn’t inspire a sense of professionalism. Especially with her nipples practically poking through the slinky material. Crossing her arms was all the protection she had.

It was an hour before the club opened, two before the main event began, and still another two, give or take, before she left sometime around midnight. Like low-lying fruit ripe for the picking, she was due to head out alone, as the four previous victims had, fresh off her carousel ride.

Her mouth suddenly dry, she glanced at the water pitcher and glasses in the center of the table. The ruby lipstick she wore claimed to be smudge proof. Red wasn’t her color, but Val convinced her she could pull it off, and it matched her dress perfectly. She was going all out, trying to catch the killer’s eye. To save the women foremost, but she also didn’t want to endure another week her in LA with things strained as they were between her and T.

If she smeared the lip color getting a drink instead of the sexy siren she was going for, she’d end up looking like a clown. Just a sip, she told herself, because she really was parched. When she picked up the pitcher, her hand trembled, and the ice rattled. It got worse when she poured splashing some over her hand. Hoping no one saw, she set it down, grabbed a napkin, and clasped her wet hands in her lap.

“Angie,” T murmured from beside her, his warm hand covering both of hers.

She didn’t look at him, but shook her head. “I’m okay, T.”

“I’m not so sure—”

The door opened, interrupting what else he would have said as Kieran rushed in.

“The coroner’s preliminary report is back.” He took the only remaining vacant chair and opened a file folder. “Cause of death, as expected, a knife wound to the chest, which punctured the left lung and lacerated the spleen.”

Involuntarily, Angie’s hand crept up her side to where the mark of violence, similar to Elaine Danson’s, would forever remain. If T and Sean hadn’t been there to help, she’d be the one with a coroner’s report instead of the ugly red scar that glared at her in the mirror every day. Oddly enough, Elaine’s wound was on the same side.

“She was raped and sodomized,” Kieran stopped, glancing over at Angie and frowned. “Sorry, lass.”

“She’s a former police detective, Kier,” T reminded him.

He nodded, his gaze dipping down her front but only for a second. “I haven’t forgotten. Although the dress threw me for a moment.”

“That’s okay,” Angie averred on an inhaled breath, rubbing the area around her scar that still felt odd sometimes when her clothing brushed it. Currently, it tingled. “Was there anything unexpected in the report?”

“Yes, which is the reason for the expediency. Her hair was dyed after her abduction.”

“Dyed?” T asked for clarification.

“Yes, it’s odd. The new color applied”—his eyes shot to Angie again, this time to her hair—“was caramel brown.”

A queasy feeling invaded her stomach. She ran through the details of the other victims. Same age, height, build, they all had that in common, but not the hair, except for the last girl. Her brows knit together as she tried to absorb this new information.

Why dye her hair, unless... Except for their hair, each of the women could pass for her, easily.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” she whispered.

She reached across the table for the files. Flipping to the first one, she ran a finger through the bulleted details, although she had the facts memorized. To be certain, she searched until she found what she was looking for then flipped open another.

Elaine Danson was a cop, as was Alisha Gray. Felicia Mulrooney was an author. Marilyn Phelps’ occupation was unlisted. On a gut-twisting hunch, she pulled out her iPhone and brought up Amazon. Felicia’s author page was easily located, as was her first published book.

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