was blood and fear and a racing heartbeat.
And then he had seen her.
Only fleetingly, a pale face in the swarm.
Blonde hair, a slim neck, white arms.
She was gone almost before he registered her existence. But in the instant of eye contact between them, he had sensed something, a frisson of mutual excitement.
He wanted her.
She was the one.
But she’d vanished. Though he looked for hours, elbowing his way through the masses of strangers, he had not spotted her again.
Until tonight.
The woman in the corner, with the straw hat that almost hid her face ...
A pale face. And beneath the hat, a wisp of blonde hair.
It was the same woman.
He was certain.
He wanted to believe that this second sighting was a coincidence. But to believe in coincidence required faith.
Cray had no faith. He did not believe.
There was, then, no explanation for her presence except the obvious one.
He remembered the glint of chrome behind him on Route 191. The car that had maintained a steady distance from his Lexus, mile after mile.
Her car. It must have been.
She had followed him to the street fair. She had followed him to this resort.
She must be staking out his home and tailing him whenever he left.
She was ... stalking him.
Cray peered into the salt-rimmed margarita glass, turning the thought over and over, marveling at it, fascinated and afraid. It made no sense. The very idea was preposterous, an inversion of the normal order of things.
He knew who and what he was. He was a predator. More than that—the essence of all predators. He was cruelty and stealth, he was hunger, he was quickness in the night. He was rapacity personified, the universal wolf. He hunted and he killed, and to him screams were music.
No one hunted him.
He was not prey. That role was left to others who could play it better. Who had played it again and again on many secret nights, year after year.
Others, like the woman across the room.
He watched her without turning his head, using peripheral vision. At a distance of thirty feet her profile was hard to discern clearly. She had a round, childish face, and her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her small, pale hands fidgeted on the table. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, reached tentatively for her drink and then pulled away.
Nervous. Vulnerable.
A deer at a water hole.
And he—he was the lion in the tall grass.
Yet tonight the deer stalked the lion.
He could almost understand it if she were a cop. But an undercover cop was a professional, trained to shadow a suspect without being noticed. This woman’s technique was clumsy. Twice, on two separate nights, she had looked directly at him and caught his gaze.
She was no cop. She was an amateur.
If she knew or even suspected who he was, then why not call the police, tip them off, let them handle it?
Well.
He would have to ask her, that’s all.
Cray relaxed, his frown of concentration easing into a smooth, unreadable expression again.
Things were fine. No problem. He had needed a victim, hadn’t he? Now he had one.
Before he played with her, he would make her talk. She would tell him everything. Then he would start her running, and he would follow, predator and prey in their proper roles again.
He had not yet touched his second margarita. Calm now, he lifted the glass and licked salt from the rim, then settled back in his chair and mouthed a silent toast to the mystery woman.
To your health.
2
Elizabeth Palmer watched the man at the window table as he finished his second drink. She was relieved to note that he’d looked in her direction only once. If he had noticed her, if he’d recognized her from one of the previous nights, then surely he would have sneaked another glance her way.
Her fingers tapped nervously on the tabletop until she became aware of their senseless drumming and made herself stop.
She was probably safe. Wearing different clothes, her face shielded by a hat, her corner table in shadow, she
And then he had seen her.
Only fleetingly, a pale face in the swarm.
Blonde hair, a slim neck, white arms.
She was gone almost before he registered her existence. But in the instant of eye contact between them, he had sensed something, a frisson of mutual excitement.
He wanted her.
She was the one.
But she’d vanished. Though he looked for hours, elbowing his way through the masses of strangers, he had not spotted her again.
Until tonight.
The woman in the corner, with the straw hat that almost hid her face ...
A pale face. And beneath the hat, a wisp of blonde hair.
It was the same woman.
He was certain.
He wanted to believe that this second sighting was a coincidence. But to believe in coincidence required faith.
Cray had no faith. He did not believe.
There was, then, no explanation for her presence except the obvious one.
He remembered the glint of chrome behind him on Route 191. The car that had maintained a steady distance from his Lexus, mile after mile.
Her car. It must have been.
She had followed him to the street fair. She had followed him to this resort.
She must be staking out his home and tailing him whenever he left.
She was ... stalking him.
Cray peered into the salt-rimmed margarita glass, turning the thought over and over, marveling at it, fascinated and afraid. It made no sense. The very idea was preposterous, an inversion of the normal order of things.
He knew who and what he was. He was a predator. More than that—the essence of all predators. He was cruelty and stealth, he was hunger, he was quickness in the night. He was rapacity personified, the universal wolf. He hunted and he killed, and to him screams were music.
No one hunted him.
He was not prey. That role was left to others who could play it better. Who had played it again and again on many secret nights, year after year.
Others, like the woman across the room.
He watched her without turning his head, using peripheral vision. At a distance of thirty feet her profile was hard to discern clearly. She had a round, childish face, and her blonde hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her small, pale hands fidgeted on the table. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, reached tentatively for her drink and then pulled away.
Nervous. Vulnerable.
A deer at a water hole.
And he—he was the lion in the tall grass.
Yet tonight the deer stalked the lion.
He could almost understand it if she were a cop. But an undercover cop was a professional, trained to shadow a suspect without being noticed. This woman’s technique was clumsy. Twice, on two separate nights, she had looked directly at him and caught his gaze.
She was no cop. She was an amateur.
If she knew or even suspected who he was, then why not call the police, tip them off, let them handle it?
Well.
He would have to ask her, that’s all.
Cray relaxed, his frown of concentration easing into a smooth, unreadable expression again.
Things were fine. No problem. He had needed a victim, hadn’t he? Now he had one.
Before he played with her, he would make her talk. She would tell him everything. Then he would start her running, and he would follow, predator and prey in their proper roles again.
He had not yet touched his second margarita. Calm now, he lifted the glass and licked salt from the rim, then settled back in his chair and mouthed a silent toast to the mystery woman.
To your health.
2
Elizabeth Palmer watched the man at the window table as he finished his second drink. She was relieved to note that he’d looked in her direction only once. If he had noticed her, if he’d recognized her from one of the previous nights, then surely he would have sneaked another glance her way.
Her fingers tapped nervously on the tabletop until she became aware of their senseless drumming and made herself stop.
She was probably safe. Wearing different clothes, her face shielded by a hat, her corner table in shadow, she
Similar Books
Travellers #1
Jack Lasenby
est
Adelaide Bry
Hollow Space
Belladonna Bordeaux
Black Skies
Leo J. Maloney
CALL MAMA
Terry H. Watson
Curse of the Ancients
Matt de la Pena
The Rival Queens
Nancy Goldstone
Killer Smile
Lisa Scottoline
Succession of Witches
Karen Mead