The woman next to him shifted in the white sheets, and he repressed an urge to place his hands on her throat. It would be easy, a simple twist with his hands. No one would miss her. She was a simple hooker from the streets. He’d bought her for the entire night, tempting her with a posh hotel and expensive food.

The hotel was lavish and extravagant, and had cost more than he expected. But he deserved it; he’d planned and worked hard. The room and the whore were his rewards. After each successful stage of his plan, he rewarded himself. Positive reinforcement. He eyed the petite blonde beside him. Wouldn’t killing her be a nice bonus?

He shoved the thought from his mind. She wasn’t part of the plan, and he refused to deviate from it. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, fighting the impulse. Control. It was all about internal discipline. He wouldn’t give in to his body’s foolish whims.

He’d thought sex would take the edge off, relax him, but he still felt an exhilarating pounding in his veins. What a rush. Who needed drugs? Why pollute your body with chemicals when there were so many physical things you could do for that high?

He needed to clear his mind and focus on his goals. The whore was a momentary rest stop in his path, nothing else. He’d spent a good chunk of his life training and planning for this, he wasn’t going to fuck it up now with an unimportant impulse.

He mentally stretched and relaxed his clenched hands. Control. A wave of power swept through him, reminding him of the first time he’d understood what mental discipline could achieve.

He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten when he’d tied the dog to the tree, deep in the woods, far behind their home. And then he’d watched.

Watched as the dog had grown weak from lack of water and food. Watched as the dog had chewed on the rope until its mouth bled. Watched as its eyes had become sunken, dull and lifeless.

When it was over, he’d studied the body, debating doing some dissection, but was repulsed by the condition of the creature and the putrid smell. It was a mess, covered in dirt and blood, full of raw sores where the setter had chewed on its flesh. The dirt around the corpse had been full of holes where the dog had frantically dug, trying to escape. Stupid animal.

He’d been so proud that he’d mastered his impulses the entire time. No matter how badly he’d wanted to let the dog go, he stayed strong, quelling his instincts. Releasing the animal would have been an act of weakness, failure. The power of success was a rush.

It was his first kill.

His father never married his mother. He’d spent her money and had lived in her house, using her and her kids as personal servants. Get me a beer, get out of my sight.

One day his father had vanished. Leaving behind his clothes and old truck. He’d hated the man and couldn’t comprehend why the desertion had stung so deeply. Soon after his father left, he’d killed the dog.

“Are you all done, sweetheart?” The whore’s sleepy voice broke into his musings, plucking him from the past.

“No. I’m not nearly done yet.”

A half smile toyed at his lips, he had lots to do.

“You’ve got to stay away from Harper. He’s knee-deep in crap with this case and the police are investigating him,” Michael steamed.

“He didn’t kill anyone! All he did was date a victim,” Lacey countered.

“And get questioned for it and then have another victim’s body show up on his property? And there’s the badge. How convenient is it that his murdered partner’s badge was under his building?”

“Not convenient at all! You think he’d place it there to turn the police’s spotlight on him? He’s not an idiot.”

Lacey sat on her kitchen counter, nose to nose with Michael as he pressed his point. She knew there was no point in arguing with him. He never gave in. Even when he was dead wrong and he knew it. But she wasn’t ready to back down. Her ire was further fueled by his use of the wussy word “crap.” He always toned down his coarse language around her.

Like she would wilt at the F-word.

So she used it as much as possible around him.

“You need a fucking haircut,” she said, glaring at his hair. “Do I have to make the appointment for you?”

The lanky man pulled away and stormed around her kitchen. Tall with dark blond hair that was always too long, Michael looked like an artist. Or poet. The fact that he’d spent two years in a nasty motorcycle gang in Los Angeles didn’t show under his casual veneer. A veneer that hid the body of a man of surprising stealth and strength.

He was probably the smartest person she knew. He was also sharp, shrewd, and reckless. Sometimes not a good combination. He’d been writing a series of articles about the gang experience, so he joined. He’d wondered how it felt to climb Mount McKinley, so he did it. (And claimed it wasn’t worth the freezing, sweaty effort.) He’d tried triathlons, skydiving, and paddling down the Amazon. He was never concerned with his own safety or skin; he was concerned only with the pursuit of answers for the questions in his mind or the compulsion for a new experience. He’d wanted to run with the bulls, but Lacey had convinced him he had the wrong dates and he arrived too late. For two weeks he hadn’t spoken to her.

She didn’t care. At least he’d returned in one piece.

They’d been lovers, but it hadn’t worked. She was mostly a conventional woman, and he was definitely not a conventional man. He had too much fire, and she needed stability. He hovered and bossed while she strained to exercise her independence. He’d wanted to shield her from life’s abscesses. He didn’t understand she needed to face the ugliness, prove she could stand alone. Before they broke up, he swore he’d change. But then he wouldn’t be the passionate Michael she loved. He’d brooded for months after she’d broken it off. He’d disappeared to Alaska to work on a crabbing boat, where the women were few and far between. He’d nearly died, barely surviving an accidental twenty-second plunge off a boat deck into the icy Bering Sea.