Free The Hunt by Allison Brennan

you.”
    Her heart beat rapidly. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It pounded in her ears and she thought for sure she’d misunderstood him. “Me?”
    “I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”
    “Oh.” That sounded stupid.
    “I know it’s inappropriate. Just tell me to leave, and I won’t bother you again.”
    “I don’t want you to leave.”
    She didn’t know what she was doing, but at that moment she knew that if Quinn Peterson walked out of her life, she would regret it forever.
    “I’m not going to rush you, Miranda.” He sat down across from her and reached for her hand, but didn’t take it.
    “I’m not scared of you,” she said, staring at his hand. Maybe she was scared. Just a little.
    Then she looked into his eyes and saw empathy, concern, and affection, but not pity.
    Never pity.
    She took his hand and squeezed it.
    “One day at a time,” he told her.
    “Okay.”
    For the first time since the attack she believed she’d be okay. In time, she would make it.
    And she had made it, in spite of Quinn Peterson.
    She focused now on what was important: tracking Rebecca Douglas’s last steps. Her past with Quinn Peterson was just that, in the past.
    The job demanded that she focus on the environment around her, look for freshly broken plants, torn clothing, anything that would help re-create Rebecca’s escape. Anything that could lead to the man who had hunted her like an animal and slit her throat.
    Though last night’s rain and the rough terrain almost guaranteed they would fail today, hope was one thing that never deserted her. Hope kept her moving forward, each day, each year, after every abduction and every murder. Hope that they would find the Butcher and justice would win in the end.
    If she lost hope, she would also lose her mind. Quinn would then shake his head smugly and say, “I was right.”
    “I’ll take the left,” she told him, breaking free of her introspection. “You go that way.” She motioned to the far side of the narrow trail.
    “Stop,” he commanded.
    She turned to face him. They were far enough across the ridge that they could see no other teams, voices fading behind them.
    Damn, he was handsome with his windswept dark blond hair and solid, square jaw. Even the slightly uneven angle of his nose was sexy. But she would not let his good looks shake her resolve.
    “What?” she asked through clenched teeth.
    “You’re not calling the shots, Miranda. I’m here—officially—to help the sheriff with his investigation. I can’t allow you to start giving orders.”
    “Let’s get one thing straight, Agent Peterson,” she said, keeping her face blank. “You may be the hotshot federal agent in to rescue the bumbling country idiots, but don’t make the mistake of thinking you have any real power here. I’ve lived here, worked here, made a home here. These people will listen to me. They trust me. Don’t pull rank or I’ll make your life hell.”
    Anger flashed across his face and the familiar tic pulsated in his jaw. But she saw the realization in his eyes that she was right. Good. She started to turn back to the task at hand when he reached out and spun her around.
    Her arm swung up and broke his hold on her. “Don’t touch me,” she said, her voice low. Her heart beat too fast. She remembered Quinn’s touch. His probing caresses, his lingering kisses. She burned with the memory of how combustible they were together. How much she had loved him. How he had shattered her confidence, her hope, her heart.
    It had taken her a long time to learn to be touched by anyone. She’d become comfortable with physical contact again. Still, twelve years after the attack, if someone touched her when she didn’t expect it, her fear was almost palpable.
    She hated the Butcher. He’d stolen so much from her.
    Quinn looked momentarily surprised and took a step back. “Don’t make threats you have no intention of acting on,” he said, his voice matching her tone. “You won’t