She giggled despite the circumstances. “Kiss me. Now that we have a plan, let’s see if your vision changes.”
He rolled his eyes. “The things I have to do for you.” He kissed her.
One of the songs on her iPod was “Electric Feel,” by MGMT, and they sang about being shocked by an electric eel. That was how she felt, an electric shock buzzing through her, from where their tongues danced right down to her toes.
No ugly-death vision yet. This was good. She slid her hands around his neck. Oh, yes, this was very good. His hair was silky soft, and she loved the way it felt sliding through her fingers. His hands were splayed across her back, holding her close against his hard body and one hard part in particular.
Just as she was revving up, the gruesome image of her dead body flashed into her brain, knocking her back.
“I guess she accepted the assignment,” a voice said from the door—the open door where Owen had been watching them for who knows how long. He didn’t look pleased, or embarrassed, or much of anything. The guy creeped her out, especially after what she’d heard him thinking about her. Which made her realize that the man Adrian would have to flatten might be his best friend.
Adrian gave him a smile without a hint of chagrin at being caught necking in his office. “It’s our lucky day.”
It’s his lucky day, Owen thought, walking in. “I did knock, but obviously you were too preoccupied to hear it.” He handed Adrian a blue folder. “Here is the advertising summary for the March issue.” He gave her a dark look before turning. “I’ll leave you two alone.” He pulled the door shut with a loud click.
She stared at the closed door for a second, her arms crossed over her chest. “He’s not happy about my coming on board.”
“It’s the mixing of business-pleasure thing.”
She turned to him and lowered her voice. “I hate to say this, I really do. There was one person who came off as a bit strange at the coffee shop: Owen.”
“No way.” He shook his head, not a doubt on his face.
“You’re a bit biased, don’t you think?”
“I’ve known him almost all my life.”
“Yeah, but do we really know the people in our lives? People who knew Ted Bundy never suspected his terrible hobby. Owen is odd, you have to admit that.”
“Absolutely. He’s always been that way. But I’ve never seen him so much as lift his hand in anger. Or muse about killing someone. To be honest, I’m not even sure he likes women. He doesn’t seem to date, or if he does, he doesn’t talk about it to me.”
“Another commonality of serial killers: social impairment with the opposite sex. And he does like women. When I came in today, he had a thought about…me: Mm, I can see her tied spread-eagled to the bedposts while I torture her. Torture!”
“He could have meant in a good way.” He looked her up and down. “I could imagine you tied up while I torture you, bringing you to the brink, backing off.” He cleared his throat. “For example. Not that I’m thrilled he’s having those kinds of thought about you.”
“I couldn’t hear anything else; he nearly tripped over himself to get away from me. You didn’t tell him I could hear people’s thoughts, did you?”
“No. He doesn’t even know about my visions. He’s a see-it-to-believe-it kind of guy. Doesn’t believe in ghosts or psychics or anything like that. So I never told him.” He walked over to the window, looking down at the sidewalk. “I won’t even go there. It’s not Owen.”
She couldn’t blame him, but she wasn’t going to accept his belief in Owen. “Okay, we won’t go there. But what if, and just humor my wild imagination here, it is Owen who climbs into my window? What would you do?”
“I suppose I would flatten him, as planned. But it’s not him.”
She walked up beside him. “Come over for dinner tonight. I’ll cook.”
That got a smile out of him. “I’d love to. Then we can go over the plan, where I’ll hide, all that.”
“And we can kiss. I kind of liked that.”
She gave him a quick kiss good-bye and walked out, hoping to get another chance at Owen’s thoughts. No such luck. She pulled on her coat, and with another glance at the picture of Adrian skydiving, left the office.
Adrian wasn’t going to help her pin down the idiosyncrasies that might indicate Owen’s murderous tendency. As defensive as he’d gotten, he would never look at Owen objectively.
She stepped into the elevator and dug in her purse for her lip balm. Her fingers bent a business card: Dale Soza’s card. He was as eager as she was to catch Kiss and Kill Cupid, though for other reasons. Still, as a reporter, he would be objective. Could she trust him?