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over the rest of him. His dirty blonde hair had been kept long when we were kids. He would tuck it behind his ears and let it grow until an inch above his shoulders. That’s how he liked it, he told me once. It was cut short now, but it suited him. A vacuum effect had taken over my oxygen. I couldn’t seem to get enough as I realized that the last few times I had seen him didn’t do him justice, not when I saw him up close and personal now. His high cheekbones led to an angular face, which moved to lips that seemed perfect. He had long eyelashes that were curled with a natural perfection that females longed to have. He straightened against the wall, but still remained against it. His shirt slid across his chest and shoulders, across the canvas of muscles. He had sculpted his body into a weapon. He had done it on purpose.
    Shit. He was perfect. And he was a killer.
    I wet my lips and then gasped as I realized what I had done. I couldn’t have done that, not here. No way. But I had, and a small smirk appeared on his face. He knew the reaction he was getting from me. I tried to stomp it all down, but it didn’t. I became wet between my legs and a slow throb started.
    I tore my eyes from his. It took a concerted effort from me, but then a low, smooth chuckle came from him. “No one knows how AJ died except his sister. I needed to make sure it was you.”
    He had to make sure? He was wary of me ? The irony wasn’t lost on me. He was the killer. I was not. But no, I sobered at that thought. I was a killer too.
    “Yeah, well…it’s me.”
    He pushed up from the wall and strolled around to the openings of the couches, two steps above me. He gazed down at me, and then gave me a brisk nod. “Stand up.”
    I did. Reluctantly.
    His eyes slid up and down me. It was an intense perusal, slow and steady. He didn’t miss a thing. His eyes lingered on my knee, where I knew some of my tears had fallen before I stopped them. Then he instructed, in that same cold and detached voice, “Turn around.”
    My eyes shot to his. “No.”
    “Turn around, Emma.”
    Waves of desire washed over me when he said my name. I gasped against them. I didn’t want them, I didn’t want that. I sucked in my breath, he couldn’t know. Clenching my jaw, I turned my hands into fists and pressed them against me. I willed my own body not to betray me, but I still turned around. Different waves of humiliation came next. I was the cow being led to slaughter. I felt poked and prodded as he continued his silent inspection of me.
    “You’ve lost weight.” He waved to the kitchen. “There’s pizza up there, if you’d like.”
    I clamped my mouth shut. My stomach growled and I salivated at the mention of food. When had I eaten last? I couldn’t remember—in the diner, after we had killed Jeremy. No, after I had killed him. I had tried to make myself eat something, but I couldn’t. I needed something in my stomach, but anything else would’ve been vomited. I filled it up with coffee instead.
    I moved past him for the food, but he caught my arm and pressed me against him.
    “No!” I didn’t want to be touched. The image of Mallory being hurt flared through me, and I yanked my arm back, but he wouldn’t let go. Then I was lifted and pushed against a wall. He held me trapped in his arms. “I said no!” I tried to lift my legs to kick him, but he had me paralyzed within his hold. As I seethed and lunged at him, only my stomach lifted from the wall. It didn’t matter. He held my arms above my head, and moved them both into only one of his hands. His legs were pressed against mine. I couldn’t move at all now. My heart was racing, but I whimpered. My breathing grew shallow and the ache between my legs was almost unbearable now.
    He lifted back, just an inch, and looked up and down my body.
    My chest kept heaving. He could see my breasts through my shirt, but he didn’t touch them. I bit down on my lip. I wanted him to touch them. I wanted the feel of