Bitten by Cupid(82)

“At least I had it once.”

She trudged into her bedroom and stopped. Her comforter was wrinkled. She hadn’t noticed when they’d been in there earlier. Adrian hadn’t touched her bed. She walked over to her window and looked out. It wasn’t the near darkness or the cold seeping through the glass that sent a bone-deep chill through her. Was her imagination running overtime? Surely she had reason to be paranoid. She could feel someone watching her out there. She turned to her bed. It felt like someone had been in the room, too. Lying on her bed. Going through her things.

That thought was terrible enough. But…what if he was still there?

She grabbed her pepper spray from her purse and stalked over to her closet door. Her heart was pounding in her throat. She reached out, wrapped her fingers around the doorknob…and yanked it open. Something moved, and she screamed. One of her padded hangers was swinging from the movement of the door opening.

She pushed aside her clothing and searched the dark shadows of the closet. Thankfully, no one lurked there. She walked out into the living area and checked the closet by the door, too. And then, just to be sure, she went into Berta’s room. Apparently her cleanliness only applied to public spaces. Her bed wasn’t made and unmatched shoes were here and there on the floor. Same went for her closet: clothing was piled on the floor, and what was hung up wasn’t done properly. On the upside, no one was hiding in there. Deep in the bowels of her closet she heard the front door open. Had she locked it after Adrian left? She lurched out of the closet and was staring at the door, wide-eyed, when Berta walked in.

She came to an abrupt halt. “What are you doing in here? You’re looking through my clothes?”

“Uh, no. No.”

“I told you before, we don’t intrude into each other’s space. And I don’t do that borrowing-clothing thing.” She pulled at the striped knit shirt that hung down to her knees. “Go get your own clothes.”

“I thought I heard a sound in here. Have you noticed anything odd lately, like your bed”—Kristy looked at the rumpled sheets—“anything odd at all?”

Berta’s thick, dark eyebrow arched. “Only you in my room.”

“I’m leaving.” Kristy scooted past her. She really had to get her own place. Living with a stranger wasn’t cutting it.

She closed her door and sank onto her bed. One more night. She wasn’t sure she could handle the waiting.



“That was close.”

He’d been in her bedroom when she’d come home. Lying on her bed, breathing in her scent on the pillow. Fortunately, he was always on alert. He climbed out the window just in time. He watched the building until she was alone again. A perfect opportunity to go in now and have his fun with her. But not the right time. He hadn’t gotten away with four murders by acting on impulse. And he wouldn’t be Kiss and Kill Cupid if he struck one day early, would he?

No, he wouldn’t.

The roommate trudged up the front steps and went into the building. Hopefully she wouldn’t be around tomorrow. No matter who was there, he would handle it. He had an idea. A brilliant idea. He smiled, feeling the hunger flowing into his veins like a drug. Kristy would be his loveliest prize yet. If things worked out right, he would have plenty of time to play with her before he wrapped his hands around that beautiful neck of hers.



Kristy woke early on Valentine’s Day. Not that she’d really had much sleep. Between thinking about the day and Adrian and even Owen, who could sleep? She ran out to get the paper Dale Soza wrote for. Even with her breath hanging like icicles in the air, she walked slowly and paged through it, looking for anything about Owen.

Her last icy breath before she walked into her building was one of relief. Nothing. Yet. If Owen wasn’t the killer, and Dale ever broke that story, she knew Adrian wouldn’t be as forgiving where it came to her assignment with the magazine. If there was a magazine.

She rubbed at the moisture in her eyes. Not from the cold.

I might have really screwed up.

“Nothing in there yet.”

She knew his voice even without seeing him. It sent a bittersweet flood of emotion through her, and she took a second to compose herself before turning to find him at the bottom of the steps. And he had to go and look really good, too, in a black wool coat and tight blue jeans. His hair looked playfully mussed by the breeze, and she wanted to smooth it out as a way to get close to him, to breathe him in. He smelled like soap and clean male, but not of Intuition. He’d probably tossed the bottle.

She could only shake her head in answer, her throat too tight to release any words.