Hunted. Cynthia Eden

rolled his eyes and cursed. “Lady, giving the guy attention—”

      “Cassandra. Or Casey. Either one works.”

      His lips—rather sensual lips, nicely sculpted—pressed into a thin line. “Giving the guy attention...giving him a freaking name...does nothing but feed into his fantasy. You’re building him up when we want to be tearing him down.”

      She didn’t let her expression alter. Casey hadn’t wanted to give the guy a nickname, but her producer had insisted. “You can only call a guy the unknown perpetrator for so long, you realize that, right?” She gestured to the beach behind them. “And he does place his victims in the water off the sandy shores here. It seemed fitting at the time.” The name had certainly stuck.

      “Vultures like you just do more damage.” Josh turned away from her. “You don’t help anyone.”

      She didn’t flinch, but his words shot straight to her heart.

      Josh and the sheriff headed toward the parking lot.

      “I’m not trying to do damage.” Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut but...no, he’d just insulted her. Casey figured that she deserved a chance to defend herself. “I’m trying to help this investigation. I’m trying to help the victims. They deserve justice.”

      Josh put his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. He leaned in close and said something quietly to Hayden. The sheriff nodded and then strode to his patrol car.

      Josh turned to glance back at her.

      “If looks could kill,” Katrina muttered, “I think you’d be dead on the ground right about now.”

      Casey swallowed. She thought Katrina might be right. If possible, Josh’s gaze had grown even colder. “Why don’t you go back to the hotel? I’ll meet you in a little while.”

      Katrina nodded and hurried away. She took the camera—and Casey’s microphone—with her. Katrina’s red hair was cut short, a pixie cut that accentuated her delicate features. But there was nothing delicate about Katrina’s personality. The woman was a fireball, and Casey normally loved working with her.

      Right then, though, she wanted some space. If she had a chance to speak alone with Josh, she might be able to convince him that she wasn’t the bad guy.

      Possibly.

      Josh crossed his arms over his chest and studied Casey in silence. She wondered what he was thinking. What did he see when—

      “Are high heels really the best choice for the beach?”

      She glanced down at her heels. No, they were a terrible choice for the beach. Wretched. But when she’d left the hotel earlier, Casey hadn’t realized she’d be going to the beach. She’d thought that she would see Hayden Black at the sheriff’s station. She’d known she’d be on camera, so she’d had to wear what she thought of as her full reporter getup.

      She walked toward him and her high heels wobbled a bit on the uneven pavement of the parking lot. The lot was right in front of the dock—and the stretching, white sand beach waited to the right. The scent of the ocean teased her nose.

      “I don’t want to be your enemy,” she said and she gave him what she hoped was a warm smile. She’d practiced that smile a lot when she first started reporting. That smile had taken her from a spot in small-town Illinois to the big-league fame of a prime-time show in New York City. Her smile was warm. Friendly. Approachable. That was her deal—her producer said she was relatable. That she came across as caring.

      The truth was...she really did care. Often, far too much. She couldn’t turn off the cases that she covered, and late at night, when she was alone, they haunted her. “I’m not the bad guy.”

      “Didn’t say you were.” His head cocked as she approached him.

      “You just thought it.” She inclined her head. “And you did say I was a vulture.”

      The other reporters were clearing out. The ME had left. The body had been transferred. The sheriff was gone.

      Other than a few stragglers at the lot, she was left with Josh.

      “I’ve seen your work before,” Josh murmured. “I know plenty about you, Ms. Quinn.”

      “Cassandra,” she corrected quickly. “Or—”

      “Casey, right.”

      His expression was so hard and unyielding. He was a handsome man, but...tough. A dangerous vibe seemed to pulse just beneath his skin.

      “You don’t seem to have a lot of respect for reporters,” she murmured, though she rather thought her words were a serious understatement.

      He looked at her, considering, and then his gaze darted to the water behind her. He rolled back his wide shoulders and sighed. Some of the tension appeared to leave him. His face didn’t soften but it seemed less...angry? “You know what? It’s my baggage, and I’m sorry.”

      Wait—he was what?

      “I’m being a jackass to you, and I apologize.” He sounded as if he meant those words. “It’s been a hell of a day, and when I find—”

      He broke off, but she knew what he’d been about to say. When I find a body...

      “I’m not at my best,” Josh finished as he raked a hand over his face. “But I shouldn’t be a jerk to you, and I apologize.”

      “Apology accepted,” she said quietly.

      He gave her a quick, searching glance. “May I tell you a story, Ms. Quinn?”

      “Casey—”

      He stepped toward her and her breath caught. He was...definitely strong. He wore a white T-shirt and shorts and she knew he’d changed out of his diving gear on the boat. The muscles of his arms and chest stretched the fabric of that T-shirt. He didn’t look like the typical, straitlaced FBI agent.

      Probably because he wasn’t.

      “A few months ago, I worked a real big case over in Fairhope, Alabama. We were after the Sorority Slasher...you remember that one?”

      Her heart shoved into her throat. “Everyone remembers him.”

      “Another stupid serial killer name. Folks should have just said they were looking for Dr. Cameron Latham, the genius psychology professor who decided killing was just too much fun.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “A reporter from that area was covering the case, trying to get all the headlines and make a name for herself.”

      The breath she took seemed to chill her lungs. “I—I know what happened to the reporter.” Everyone knows. Because a story that terrible wasn’t easily forgotten.

      “No, you know what was reported. You know that Dr. Latham killed the reporter. He wanted to send a message, and she was the perfect target. That’s what people know. But I was there.” He edged even closer to her. His body brushed against hers as he lowered his head—and his voice. “I know exactly what he did to her. And everything I’m about to say is off the record.”

      She should back away. Put some distance between them. But she just looked up into his eyes. He’s trying to intimidate me. I won’t let him.

      “I saw the blood-soaked room. I saw the body. I saw the way he’d wrecked her. He enjoyed hurting her, and her last moments—they were just of terror and pain. He left her alive in that room, you see. He let her know that death was coming, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.”

      Casey licked her lips. Her mouth felt desert dry.

      “So, yeah, I’m a little...sensitive to reporters right now. Because I think that reporter—Janice Beautfont—her death was a waste. She pushed herself into the spotlight, and he made her a victim. So when I see the reporters crowding around, wanting to spread the sick stories of this killer’s crimes...I remember Janice, and I hate what happened