She got mad thinking about it again, slammed the car into gear and pushed the accelerator harder than necessary, making the wheels squeal under her as she shot away from the curb. Distracted, she barely watched the lanes in front of her, crowded with tourists intent on crossing the streets against the lights to enjoy a few hours of entertainment on Lower Broad. She finally got fed up, cut across to Union Street and flew up Fifth, wrestling all thoughts of Memphis back into their appropriate place. She couldn’t keep doing this, but she didn’t know how to make it stop. She didn’t want him. That should be all that mattered. Yet thoughts of him kept crowding in at the most inopportune moments.

She wanted to talk to Sam about it, but Sam was already upset and attuned to the breach in Taylor’s mental protocol. They’d assiduously avoided the topic after Sam bitched her out for flirting with Memphis at an autopsy. Taylor’s face burned at the thought of their fight-she hadn’t been consciously flirting and was hurt that Sam had implied otherwise. But now, after Memphis told her so starkly what he was feeling, now that they’d had some physical contact, regardless of how minute it was, she didn’t know how to put her emotions into words for her best friend.

And since Sam was pregnant again, she’d be drawing in, focusing on herself and her family. Taylor’s silliness wouldn’t be of importance. She suddenly felt isolated, alone, for the first time in several years. Truth be told, she didn’t have that many friends who she felt she could talk to, not about matters of the heart.

Nothing to be done for it, then. Shrugging to herself, she chalked it up to being lucky to be found attractive by two men, and left it at that. Baldwin was the better of the two, the one she wanted to be with forever, and she certainly didn’t plan on endangering their relationship because another man had a little crush on her.

Thinking about other men invariably led her to Fitz, and she reminded herself to call the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation again. Surely she’d find someone there who could listen to her side of the story, who would be willing to put pressure on the Coast Guard, or search the ports, something, anything, to help her find him. She felt her blood pressure rise thinking about her theory-that the Pretender had taken Fitz-and felt better. Fired up. Worrying about Fitz was much more important than worrying about Memphis.

She passed the offices of Channel Five, wondered what they were cooking up today. The Green Hills Massacre, they’d called it this morning, with shots of Taylor speaking at the press conference. She honestly didn’t think she’d ever felt more pressure to move forward on a case than she did at this moment.

Sixteen

Quantico

June 15, 2004

Baldwin

The alarm rang insistently.

God, morning already? There was a dull ache in his head. He kept his eyes closed against the glare. He’d forgotten the blinds last night, and sun was leaking in through the wooden slats. His mouth was completely dry-it took a few tries to work up enough lubrication to swallow. When he did, the taste of bourbon rose on his tongue. That’s right. He’d been drinking last night. They all had. The sight of that little body just off the trail in Great Falls Park, broken and pale, her legs shattered, her blond hair slashing across her face like a golden blindfold, was enough to set them all off.

He shifted his head, and pain shot through his temples. Wonderful. A hangover to help with the autopsy of little Susan Travers.

He cracked an eye and saw the clock-7:45 a.m. The beeping seemed to be getting louder. He reached out to stifle the god-awful racket and realized his arm was pinned. He tugged experimentally and felt the pressure, wasn’t cogent enough to realize why. He s wive led his head to the left slowly and saw a spill of dark red hair, like blood, across his pillow. He fought the urge to pull his arm back as if bitten by a snake. Oh, shit What had he done?

The owner of the red hair shifted slightly, allowing him to retrieve his arm. It was fully asleep, and he gasped slightly as blood rushed back into the deadened nerves.

“Aren’t you going to turn that off?” a sleepy, throaty voice asked.

Charlotte.

Jesus, he must have had more to drink than he thought. He didn’t re member… oh, now it was coming back. He’d walked her to her car. She’d been crying. He, ever the gallant savior, had brushed a tear away with his knuckle, and then she’d been closer, touching him in a way they both knew wasn’t a good idea. His head had dipped and the feeling of her soft lips overwhelmed him. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman, and his body ached with the need to feel inside her.

He’d felt inside her, all right. He could feel the stickiness in his groin, and the flesh there tightened in memory.

He reached over and silenced the alarm. He glanced to his left, saw the wide amber eyes staring at him. An awkward quiet settled upon them, then Charlotte smiled. He felt a delicate hand straying up his thigh. He couldn’t help himself-he reacted quickly. With one part of his mind screaming, What in the hell are you doing? he shifted his hips a bit so her hand landed directly on him. She stroked him, softly, expertly, her free hand roaming across his chest, and when he could stand it no longer he rolled on top of her, parting her legs with his knee, catching her lips in a kiss. He drove himself deep between her thighs, not caring if he hurt her. From what he remembered of last night, Charlotte liked it a bit rough.

He heard her breath catch as he entered her, felt her teeth on his lower lip. She raked her nails along the already tender flesh of his back-Jesus, she’d scratched him open. He had a moment’s urge to bite her in payback. Instead, he reached his arms around her back and used his hands to cup her buttocks and lift her slightly, allowing him to go deeper and deeper. She was fighting him now, matching each thrust with one of her own, her legs thrown around his waist, her eyes focused inward. He remembered that look from last night, and smiled. The exquisite building began, the age-old rhythm going faster and faster, and he lost himself, not hearing her triumphant cries.

Thirty minutes later, freshly showered and holding a cup of steaming coffee, he stood in the kitchen of his apartment, watching Charlotte move around his home with a practiced eye.

She picked up the new John Connolly he was reading, Bad Men. Baldwin almost laughed when he saw the book in her hand; the title took on a whole new meaning for him this morning.

Charlotte smiled at him, a predatory house cat on the prowl. “You have good taste.”

“‘He’s always been one of my favorites. Coffee?”

She looked across the room at him, the mask dropped, her body angled in sly invitation. She arched her back and said, “‘Mmni, yes, please.”

“Coming right up.” He moved to the coffeepot and poured her a cup, pretending he didn’t hear her next statement.

“I could get used to this,” she said, and he shuddered inside. The last thing he needed was an involvement with one of his team. He’d already stepped over the line.

He splashed another swallow of coffee in his mug, then turned to her, keeping his face as neutral as possible. He didn’t want to encourage this. It was a mistake. He handed her the cup.