He let his lips slowly widen and he looked her up and down as if he knew every part of her intimately. “Nothing happened. I didn’t try anything.”

Disappointment flooded her. “But…”

He shrugged, his eyes scanning the little room. “I woke up in the middle of the night with uncomfortable jeans, and slipped off them and my shirt.” The grin slid wider. “You looked hot so I decided to make you more comfortable.” He blinked innocent eyes at her.

Yeah, right.

“You shouldn’t have done that. You knew I’d freak out in the morning.”

Steel eyes locked on hers. “Maybe I was hoping you’d feel something else in the morning instead of freaked.” His sizzling gaze said what his mouth didn’t. “I didn’t touch you.”

“But you looked!”

“It was dark.”

She knew he was lying. Badly. His eyes had looked at everything they wanted to. Just like hers had. He sat up and started to pull the covers off as he swung his legs over the side. With a squawk, she averted her eyes and dashed to the bathroom.

She locked the bathroom door and stared in the mirror at her messy hair, willing her heart rate to slow. At least she didn’t have the usual morning mascara smeared under her eyes. That chest. Those eyes. Jesus Christ. She rubbed hard at her temples, trying to get the hot images out of her brain. The determined look on his face as he started to get out of bed had sent red alerts up her spine. She’d known he wasn’t wearing pants, but she didn’t know if he had anything else on.

And he seemed like a commando type of guy.

They wouldn’t let him in the compound.

Michael paced in frustration outside a tiny rural general store in Southeast Oregon. He’d decided the best way to approach Dave DeCosta’s mother, Linda, was to knock on the front gate and charm them with his disarming smile. Too bad a man had answered the gate.

Michael had bailed on his investigation of Frank Stevenson’s parents’ property. He liked Lusco’s angle better. Besides, Amy’s old boyfriend Matt Petretti hadn’t been much help. He’d been reluctant to talk about Amy in front of his wife, but had quietly answered Michael’s questions. The answers got him nowhere. Michael had been starting to wonder if his trip to Southeast Oregon was a big waste of time when Lusco had called.

Lusco had asked him to check out the location of that murdering son of a bitch’s mother. Lusco and Callahan wanted to ask where her other boy, Bobby, was. They were liking him more and more for the murders of the three men the Portland area. And for stalking Lacey.

Lusco was on to something. Michael could feel it in his gut.

The man at the religious compound’s gate had let Michael know in plain English and several “French” words what reporters could do with their keyboards. Reflecting back, Michael acknowledged that presenting his business card probably hadn’t been the best approach. Americans were fascinated with polygamy and religious cults. Reporters probably hassled these freaks all the time, searching for something to titillate the public.

The tight compound security had reminded him of Waco. High walls, fences, gates. From what he’d discovered with his research, one guy was king inside those walls. Overseeing his wives and children with total authority. A few other men lived there too. Given wives by the main man. One big happy family. Rajneeshees in their red pajamas popped into Michael’s mind. It’d been three decades since the cult had taken over the Big Muddy Ranch in Central Oregon and incorporated Rajneeshpuram. Then imploded.

This compound was way off the beaten path, far out in the boonies. It’d taken him an hour of driving to get to the place from Mount Junction. Now it looked like he’d come for nothing. Lusco was trying to get him some cooperation from local authorities but so far no luck. Michael had the feeling he was on his own.

He wanted inside that fortress.

Possibilities rolled through his mind as he paced in front of the store, breath steaming. What next? Waiting for people to leave the compound and following them was useless. He knew they wouldn’t talk to him.

How about someone who needed to get in? He rubbed his hands together in the cold. There had to be someone whose services were needed inside. A plumber, or maybe a delivery of some sort. He glanced up at the general store’s dusty sign. Did they make their own shopping trips or have food delivered? He shook his head. Probably shopped and grew a lot of their food in gardens. He hadn’t found much income traceable to the compound address. Economizing was probably a credo of theirs.

What else would they need from the outside world?

He watched a rusty cattle truck pass through town and a slow smile broke across his face. He’d smelled the livestock as he stood outside the compound. They probably had chickens, cows, dogs. They should need the services of a vet occasionally. He headed for the ancient pay phone outside the store and its dangling phone book that looked like it’d been printed during the disco decade. He swung up the thin book and looked under “V.”

He had to start somewhere.

Somewhere directed him to a farrier about thirty minutes from the compound. The vet, Jim Tipton, had hemmed and hawed over the phone when Michael pushed his case. He’d exaggerated a bit about his connections with the state police and was relieved to know the vet remembered the DeCosta killings. He could tell the vet wanted to help, but was uncomfortable with sneaking Michael into the grounds. Tipton was very familiar with the compound and he didn’t like the head honcho one bit. Said the man didn’t get proper preventive care for his animals and called for his services only when one was hurt or extremely ill.