Page 4 of Spitfire

Scarlett clears her throat and briefly meets my glance before directing it at Director Shaw. "Not careful, methodical. He takes meticulous steps at the crime scenes, takes his time with the victims, and ensures nothing is left to chance. That takes a great deal of discipline and restraint. The killings aren't frenzied, they're patiently planned to the last detail. I believe he's sending a message, but we just haven't made the connection to what that is yet."

"How the fuck does that help us exactly, Agent Lyssa?" Shaw slams his fist down on the table, causing all the plastic water bottles to topple over, and one to roll off the surface and hit the floor. Scarlett shows no outward evidence of discomfort, at least none that Shaw or our colleagues would notice, but I've been spending a lot of time with her. I've picked up on some of her micro-expressions, the way she shifts her shoulders back, and the way the veins on her neck cord and strain when she's annoyed. How her high cheekbones seem even sharper when she's angry, as if she were biting the inside of her cheeks rather than letting loose her thoughts and displeasure. She's a mystery to me, and everything in me wants to peel her layers back one at a time to see what she's hiding underneath. I'll bet she's a naughty, kinky girl under all those prim suits.

God, I sound like an unhinged, infatuated sap right now. What the fuck is wrong with me? Sure, Scarlett Lyssa is hot as fuck, from the top of her dainty, dark head to the sexy fucking heels she insists on wearing. The kind which make men instantly picture her flat on her back, with her ankles around their heads. I'm no exception. I've had vivid dreams of them digging into my shoulders as I fuck the shit out of her. I'll bet she has a pretty pussy, nice and tight for my cock to slam into.

That's the difference, though. Reality always comes crashing back in, and sucker punches me in the dick. She's my partner, and besides that, she's as cold as a fucking Siberian blizzard. The woman oozes sexuality and disdain in the same breath. In the nine months we've been partners, she hasn't taken a day off, not one. I'm not even sure she knows how to fucking relax, never mind have an orgasm. Not that under different circumstances, I wouldn't be willing and able to teach her. That's what good partners do for each other, right?

"Are you even fucking listening to us, Agent Garnier?" Shaw barks, and I force myself to tune back in and leave thoughts of Scarlett, and the possible sounds I could rip out of her pretty mouth, in the ether.

"We are nine murders in, and no further along than we were nine months ago when his first victim was discovered. So far, all we know is that they are always men, with no other connections between them, and he always removes the cock, sometimes placing it inside another cavity in the body, other times discarding it, who the fuck knows where. Oh, and he sets fire to the crime scenes, the bloody prick, making evidence collection a nightmare. For fuck sakes, the last guy was a local youth pastor, with a new wife, and not even a parking ticket."

"What do we know about this victim?" Shaw demands, and I can see the vein in his forehead doing ugly jumping jacks.

"Nothing yet. Dr. Stephens has taken charge of the body and will run a full collection. Hopefully, something was left behind, but the fire, of course, didn't help with evidence." I run my hands down my tired face, exhaustion causing my body to sag in my chair.

Fuck, I really shouldn't have fucked the mayor's wife again tonight, but I needed to blow off some steam. Everything is starting to rankle me and get under my skin. This psychotic serial killer always seems to be one step ahead of us, and it's starting to feel like he's leading us on a merry chase and laughing at us. Then there's my attraction to Scarlett, who is oblivious to the magnetism between us. It can't just be one-sided, can it? No, no, it's not. I'm positive I've caught her staring at me with heat in those frigid eyes.

She describes the killer as disciplined and restrained, but I would use the same adjectives to define her. Scarlett Lyssa has a plan in place for her career, and she won't allow anyone, even herself, to deviate from it. It makes me wonder what caused her to be this way, and who hurt her so badly that she's retreated into herself and now trusts no one.

"He won't find any. I smelled bleach at the scene, along with the stench of burning flesh. He's destroyed whatever was there, just like with all the others." Her hands fist tightly on the top of the boardroom table, and I watch with intrigue as her long nails disappear into her flesh. Fuck, how I wish she would rake those down my fucking back. Hell, I would even let her scratch up my chest if she were bouncing on my cock. Jesus fuck, I have to get control of myself. Now I'm sitting here with a chub under the table. How fucking embarrassing.

I lean forward, reaching for one of the overturned water bottles to distract myself from my discomfort. "You seem certain, Scarlett. We both agreed that he's escalating; five murders in eight weeks is a spiral. Do you think he'll get sloppier as he loses his grip further? What do you think is causing the acceleration? Could it be that he feels like we are closing in on him?"

She tilts her head, lost in thought for a moment. Always so careful with her words, as if she's afraid of making the wrong assumption and later paying for it. I get it, being a woman on this career path can't be easy. Perhaps it's time I did a little digging into my partner's past. There has to be something other than the superficial bullshit I've been able to readily find. So far, all I know is that she grew up in the foster care system. Graduated from her bum-fuck nowhere high school in Idaho with honors. She went to college on a full ride, has a degree in Criminology from the University of Maryland, was the first in her class straight out of Quantico, and has made special agent in record time. Quite impressive. Yet she's thirty-one, has no social media presence, lives alone with her fucking cat, and, as far as I can tell, has no friends or significant others.

Honestly, despite her work achievements, Scarlett Lyssa's life sounds depressing as fuck. Not that mine is anything to rave about. This job doesn't allow for many personal connections, and is hard on relationships. You have to be ready to go at the drop of a hat, and you never know when or if you'll be back. It's why I prefer to sleep with married women, who don't get attached. That way, we both get what we want, and there are no hard feelings when I leave again and lose contact with them.

"I am. He's establishing a pattern, laying the groundwork for whatever his end goal is." She raises her hand to stop me from responding. "He does have a goal, Garnier. He's not a rampage killer. He's actively seeking out his victims. There is a connection between them, but we're just missing it."

Everything in me wants to disagree with her, but what if she's right? What if there is a connection and I'm missing it? So far, we have had men from all walks of life, with no visible connection to locations, or to their personal or professional lives. I'm missing the bigger picture, and I just can't allow that to happen. I have to be the best at what I do, better than everyone else. My hand clenches tightly as I force myself to take small, calm breaths. I'll catch him, and when I do, I'll take the glory.

"Then get to fucking work and find me some goddamn answers! We need to catch this guy before he kills again!" Shaw yells as he storms out of the boardroom, and we watch through the glass walls as our colleagues scatter like roaches.

"Well, that went better than expected," I groan as I stand and stretch my tired muscles.

"Pftt," Scarlett snorts, the sound so unexpected that it pulls a grin across my face. She rises from her seat and moves towards the doorway in her killer red-soled shoes, and stops to look back over her shoulder at me. Her expression is serious, but I can see a hint of laughter in her features. "You should get some sleep, Garnier. It looks like the mayor's wife tired you out. You'll be useless to us, dead on your feet."

She doesn't give me a chance to respond, walking out, swinging those dainty hips I'd love to grab on to, and that ripe ass I dream about taking a bite out of. "Wish it had been you I had fucked into the mattress. Maybe someday it will be, Scarlett."

Wishful thinking on my part, but a man can dream.

FOUR

SCARLETT

Iforce myself to return to my desk, and search through the endless reports of the previous murders for anything I might have missed, even though I know it's a futile attempt. I've been over them so many times that I have them memorized. Despite it all, a persistent sense of cold dread slithers through every cell in my body, keeping me alert and tense.

Keep it together, Scarlett, don't let them see anything. Don't show any weakness. Flashes of the current scene pass through my mind, as I try to make sense of all the details I'm positive the killer has left for me. It can't be. It's not possible.

Even as I try to deny it, my mind pulls up a vivid image of the current victim's head wound with the slight imprint. One that I instantly zeroed in on. It's only a matter of time before Dr. Stephens or Garnier also notice, and look through the other files. Maybe they won't catch on, and I'll have time to find this fucker on my own. You've failed, face it, this guy is smarter than you are.

"Agent Lyssa, the fire department's preliminary report says the accelerant was gasoline." Tom passes me a piece of paper, careful not to touch me in any way, as if he might catch cooties or something from me. I swallow the snarky remark at the tip of my tongue, nodding as I take it from him, and he quickly shuffles away. Men can be so freaking emotional. It was only that one time that I bit his head off, because he had sticky fingers when he handed me a file, and the mess later ended up on my shirt. Now he walks around as if at any moment I will cut his hand off. If I'm honest, I might if he doesn't start fucking washing them.

"I see you're still making friends, Lyssa," Garnier's voice slithers down my back, causing the hairs to stand on end as he shifts forward and leans his muscular, round ass against my desk. His scent, a rich amber mixed with something clean like cedar or pine, instantly assaults me, and my stomach tightens. Garnier's biceps bulge as he folds his arms across his broad chest. The veins and tattoos on his forearm are prominent in my sightline, making it hard to look away as I meet his glance with fake annoyance.

Men shouldn't be allowed to roll their sleeves up when they have veins and tats that look like that. They also shouldn't be allowed to loosen their ties and open their shirt buttons, exposing their sexy as fuck neck, making them look disheveled and delicious. I dart a quick glance at his veiny hand and long fingers, and bite my cheek to suppress a groan. Now my pitiful mind is busy imagining one of his elegant hands wrapped around my neck. Fuck.

I shift in my seat, forcing him to move over so he won't be trampled by the wheels of my chair, and instantly receive a dark, questioning raised eyebrow for my efforts. "I'm not here to make friends. This is a place of work, and I have a job to do, Garnier." My voice is biting and cold, but it never seems to have any effect on him.