Fatal Exposure by Gail Barrett

“What was that about?” he demanded when they reached his truck.
    Still struggling to control her temper, Brynn clutched her stack of brochures. “I got tired of listening to her sales pitch. She sounded like some kind of infomercial, making everything sound so ideal.”
    “She’s the director. It’s her job to promote the place. And why shouldn’t she brag? The camp’s reputation is great.”
    “That’s just it. It’s too good.” She gestured toward the office. “Look at this place. There’s no peeling paint, no weeds growing around the bushes. Nothing’s out of place.” It even smelled like the perfect camp—a faint trace of wood smoke mingling with the scent of the pines. “It’s like some fairy-tale version of rehab. I wanted to shake her up.”
    “Yeah, you did that. I doubt she’ll forget us anytime soon.”
    Oh, God. He was right. She’d made them memorable, and not in a positive way.
    And for what? Exactly what had she accomplished here? Sure, she’d found a map and a camera’s memory card, but they might not yield any clues. And at what cost? The director would remember her now. The minute she went to her file cabinet, she’d make the connection—and tip her stepfather off.
    Suddenly feeling deflated, Brynn sagged back against the truck. Maybe she’d been wrong to come here. Maybe she was mistaken about Erin’s death. Maybe she was simply too biased against her stepfather to accept the truth—that Erin Walker had taken drugs, then suffered an accident or killed herself, just as the autopsy report said.
    She rubbed the dull ache forming between her eyes. Because even though she hated to admit it, the program did sound great. The staff seemed committed to helping those troubled kids.
    “I’m sorry. I know it was dumb to provoke her. It’s just...I keep thinking that something’s off. That Erin’s death wasn’t what it seemed.”
    Parker leaned back against the truck beside her and crossed his arms. For a long moment he didn’t answer. The cool breeze ruffled his hair. Dried leaves rustled over the ground. A chipmunk watched them from a nearby tree stump, then picked up a nut and scurried away.
    Parker turned his head to meet her gaze. “You really think that girl was murdered?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “But that’s what you think.”
    She nodded. “Yes, that’s what I think.”
    He lapsed into silence again. A long moment later, he dragged his hand down his face. “There’s no evidence.”
    “I know. But something else is going on here. I’m sure of it, Parker. I just can’t prove it yet.”
    His gaze swung back to hers. Several seconds ticked by. His scrutiny made her uneasy, the intensity in his eyes making it impossible to breathe.
    And, suddenly, she suspected he knew more than he’d let on—about her relationship to her stepfather, about her troubled childhood, about the horrific abuse that drove her from home. That he was simply biding his time—like the trained interrogator he was—waiting for her to confess the truth.
    She couldn’t believe how tempted she was to do just that—to forget that he was a cop, to ignore the danger hounding her footsteps and tell him the unvarnished truth.
    But then, his expression changed. His eyes were just as intense, but hotter, more hypnotic, like whirlpools dragging her under—in a decidedly sensual way.
    Her pulse battered her throat. He pushed away from the truck and moved even closer, trapping her against the cab. And that insane attraction rippled between them, that unruly maelstrom of need.
    Her breath backed up in her lungs. Her belly tightened, acute tremors of excitement tripping along her nerves. She tore her gaze from his jet-black eyes to the black stubble shadowing his granite jaw, and stalled on his gripping mouth. Then he reached out and stroked his finger down her cheek, sending a torrent of pleasure streaming through her veins.
    Was he going to kiss her?
    His gaze dropped to her mouth. Her heart nearly