“You make it sound like I do it intentionally,” she muttered.

He kissed her again. “Nope. But intentional or not, the same result is achieved. I’m not taking any chances with any of our safety.”

When Caleb left the room, shutting the door behind him, Ramie leaned back on the bed and forced her gaze to focus on the ceiling. Then she closed her eyes and purposely blanked her mind.

Sudden pain in her head made her gasp. Faint laughter echoed, leaving her to wonder if she’d imagined it.

You think you can hide from me?

“Caleb!”

Within seconds of her cry, Caleb threw open the door and charged inside. When he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed where he’d left her, his brow furrowed in confusion.

She shook from head to toe and she hugged her arms around herself.

“Ramie, what is it?” Caleb demanded.

“He laughed,” she said, uncaring how crazy it made her sound. “I was lying here staring up at the ceiling and trying to keep my mind blank like you said and he laughed and said, ‘You think you can hide from me?’ ”

Caleb sat back down beside her and pulled her into the crook of his arm.

“He can’t see what you can’t,” he said matter-of-factly. “He can’t know what you don’t know. So yes, I’d say we do think we can hide from him. At least until we formulate a plan to take him out for good. Until then, I’m keeping you under lock and key and absolutely ignorant of your surroundings.”

“Okay,” she said hoarsely. “I’ll quit freaking out, I promise.”

He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Having another person in your head gives you the right to freak out.”

“Don’t mollify me. I’ll stop being such a complete scaredy-cat. Now go get me some food and leave me to my imaginary friend. Or rather not so imaginary killer,” she said, pulling a face. “God, I can’t believe I’m joking about this. I really am losing my mind, aren’t I?”

He cupped her chin and smoothed his thumb over her cheek. “Glad I’m not the only one with an inappropriate sense of humor.”

THIRTY-THREE

THIS was a piece of cake. Hardly worthy of someone as skilled as he. His father had always said, “Charlie, the early bird gets the worm. Everyone else gets the dirt. Remember that and you’ll go far in life.”

His f**king name was Charles. Not Charlie. Charlie was a child’s name, not a man’s.

He pushed through his rage, locking it away so he could focus on the task at hand.

His breathing calmed as he stepped from the shadows of the trees. Calm settled into place. Not a single muscle in his body twitched. He was disciplined and patient. Qualities that were rewarded in life.

He approached the parked car under the cover of darkness. When he was close enough to be seen in the rear or side-view mirror, he got down on his belly and inched the remaining distance to the driver’s side door.

It was long, painstaking work designed only for those with infinite patience and eye for detail. One wrong move, one tiny slipup and he was a dead man. Instead of frightening him or making him wary, the idea of him being a marked man gave him a heady, euphoric high like none other. Only killing provided a bigger rush.

Carefully he raised up, positioning the gun with its silencer in such a way that as soon as he rose, the so-called security specialist sitting in the car keeping watch over the house and occupants would be a dead man.

When he popped up, he smiled at his adversary’s startled expression. He didn’t give the victim a chance to react. The glass folded inward, the bullet creating a hole in the spiderwebbed surface. Blood and brain matter splattered the opposing window.

Pleased with his initial success, he hurried toward the well-lit house and his next victim.

Who needed to see through Ramie St. Claire’s eyes anyway? This was much more satisfying. He was salivating over Caleb Devereaux’s reaction when Caleb realized he was the tool used in Ramie’s destruction. Such pleasure was almost unbearable.

He slid around the side of the house, gun up and ready to shoot. One never knew the unpredictability of others. It paid to be on constant guard.

When he stole a quick peek around the corner of the house, he saw his target standing guard by the back door. Charles nearly giggled but caught himself in time, remonstrating himself for the near careless slipup.

No reason to be stealthy. Dead men couldn’t stand in your way. He swung around the corner, arm raised, left hand supporting the stock of the pistol. His aim was highly accurate, never off target by more than a centimeter. The guard crumpled without a sound, dead before he ever hit the ground.

Charles stepped over the fallen body, eased the door open and slipped inside. From what information he’d been able to glean from Caleb Devereaux he knew the sole remaining guard was in the hallway just outside Ramie’s door.

He could hardly contain his glee. Better not to celebrate prematurely. There would be plenty of time to celebrate later. With Ramie!

Charles knew that when he rounded the corner into the hall he’d only have a tenth of a second to find his target and shoot or risk discovery. He was so close to his ultimate goal that his hand shook, bobbing the gun up and down.

Angrily, he tempered his reaction, forcing himself to take deep steadying breaths. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and then did a mental one . . . ​two . . . ​three!

He swiveled, planting his foot and turning rapidly into the hallway. His current aim was off by six inches. Adjusting upward in that flash of time he squeezed the trigger. The bullet smacked the guard right in the middle of the forehead and dropped him like a stone.