Isabelle had never seen Mac so angry and, of all people, with Ben.

“I have thought about it,” Mac seethed, glaring across the gleaming wood of Ben’s desk. “And I say no.”

The call from Benicio Olivos, Assistant Director of the FBI in charge of the Los Angeles Field Office, had come as a surprise to Mac, but it had shocked Isabelle. Despite the fact that both she and Mac had helped to rescue his daughter from the serial killer known as the Chameleon, Ben had made it clear what he thought of psychics.

“Maybe Isabelle has an opinion,” Ben retorted and swung his stare to her.

When Ben’s secretary had called and asked for an appointment with the two of them, Isabelle had assumed they’d be confronted about their relationship. Special Agent Gavin “Mac” MacMillan’s work as an FBI profiler and hers as a psychic had placed them in an odd working association. But it wasn’t the work that the FBI minded. It was their personal relationship.

Isabelle looked at Mac’s rugged profile, the jut of his strong jaw, the dark, thick, short-cropped hair. Even under the suit and long-sleeved shirt, she could see the outlines of his powerful body, now rigid and tense.

They had come ready to talk to Ben about their relationship but Mac’s mentor and friend didn’t want to talk about them, he wanted to talk about her.

Isabelle opened her mouth to reply but Mac interrupted.

“Ben, I’m telling you,” Mac said, his jaw clamped tight. “This isn’t going anywhere. Isabelle is not going to be used as bait for the Chameleon.”

Bait, thought Isabelle. It’d sounded so much more reasonable when Ben had used the word ‘decoy.’

“You’ve said it yourself,” Ben said, sitting back in his chair. “Isabelle is his IVT. From the very beginning, he’s been fascinated with her. First, he demands she be brought back to one case, then he demands she participate in the next. Now, at a crime scene, he leaves a piece of paper with her name written on it.”

Though Isabelle knew that Mac would have included her reading of the stethoscope in his report, Ben would put no stock in that. The Chameleon had left it with a message that only she could see. As his last victim had touched the stethoscope, the Chameleon had told the young woman that Isabelle would be next. He was coming for her.

“I’m sorry,” said Isabelle. “IVT?”

“Ideal victim type,” Ben answered. “A brunette, petite, pretty.” He paused. “Like Esme.”

The resemblance between all the victims, including Ben’s daughter, Esme, hadn’t escaped Isabelle.

Ideal victim type.

Isabelle nodded.

“I’m not saying there isn’t risk,” Ben said to her. “You have to go into this with that understanding.”

She had seen the last ideal victim–her bloodless face and staring eyes. Isabelle had felt her pain and utter terror in reading the stethoscope. If anyone knew there was risk, it was Isabelle. Even now she only had to cast her mind back to the grisly scene of a few days ago to feel a mixture of nausea and dread.

But she’d also seen how Ben and Anita had suffered over their daughter’s abduction. Isabelle knew that all the families of all the ideal victims were dealing with loss and grief, no matter how long ago their loved one had disappeared.

And the Chameleon knows my name. How long will it take for him to find me?

Mac abruptly stood up.

“Stop it, Ben,” Mac growled. “I’ve said no.”

“But I say yes,” Isabelle said, looking up at him. “I have to.”

• • • • •

Mac stared down at Isabelle, dumbfounded.

This is not happening.

His hands immediately balled into fists.

“Isabelle,” he ground out slowly, the warning tone in his voice one step below rage.

“Listen to her,” Ben said.

Mac spun on him. Of all the people in the world, Ben should know better! He had even met Lynn! Mac couldn’t believe Ben would ask this of him.

“Clear your head,” Ben said to him as Mac’s blood pounded in his ears. “I shouldn’t have been the one to think of this. It should have been you.”

Mac blinked as though he’d been struck.

“Think of what, exactly?” Mac said, keeping his voice tightly under control, though just barely. “Some half-baked idea? Some dim-witted plan to acquiesce to a murderer?”

Ben’s face turned a slightly darker shade of red.

“Clear your goddamn head, Mac,” he said loudly. “From the moment you told me that you and Isabelle were involved, I’ve watched you. You’re not running on all cylinders. Your head is barely in the game. If you insist on staying in L.A. and not going back to Quantico, then I suggest you get with the plan. Rapidly.”

Mac smiled coldly at him.

“Are you taking the lead on this investigation, Ben?” Mac asked. “Is that what this is about? You want to take charge?”

Ben’s face twisted in anger and he moved his feet as though he’d stand up but apparently thought better of it.

“You know that’s not what this is about,” Ben replied. He paused and looked directly into Mac’s eyes. “I think we both know what this is about.”

There, thought Mac. He’d as much as said it. This was about Lynn.

Mac quickly took Isabelle’s gloved hand and pulled her to her feet.

“I can no more put Isabelle in that kind of danger,” Mac said, returning Ben’s gaze, “than you could Esme.” He saw the words sink home. Esme was the only person who could testify against the Chameleon and they both knew it. They both had something at stake. “This discussion is over.”

• • • • •

Prentiss gave himself the once over in the bathroom mirror but was careful not to wash his hands. Otherwise the body make-up would come off.

How would that look? A Hispanic man with white hands.

The bizarre image almost made him laugh out loud. As he adjusted the heavy, black duty belt, he checked his mustache–thick, black, and glued firmly into place. It was a perfect match to his dyed hair, that he now wore in a new crew cut. He’d decided against a wig this time. Just the feel of the military-style hair helped him get into character. He was Officer Felix Aguilar, on patrol. He gave himself a quick wink, picked up the lumpy manila envelope, and turned to leave.

The costume and props had come together very quickly. The police uniform had come from an adult shop not two blocks from his apartment. He still had to snicker at the “Fetish Attire” sign that had hung over the clothes section. The handcuffs had come from there too.

As he took up his slow stroll in the wide hallway of the seventh floor of the Federal Building, he took care to swagger, though not too much. He puffed out his chest, stood up straight, and pointedly met people’s gazes. He was a cop. They were worried about him, not the other way around.

It’d been no trick to find Sergeant Dixon and FBI Director Olivos. All he’d had to do was collect articles from the L.A. Times. He’d have collected them anyway for his scrapbook but they’d come in quite useful when it came to finding Isabelle. He’d seen Dixon only yesterday. The sergeant’s post here was part of the precinct that policed this building in Westwood. Dixon didn’t wear a uniform but Prentiss had seen him on the news, pushing reporters back from the last victim’s house. He’d spotted Director Olivos a couple of days ago, recognizing him from the television coverage of Esme’s abduction.

Prentiss pressed his lips into a thin line and his fingers tightened on the wide belt.

Esme. The kill that had been thwarted by psychic Isabelle de Grey. He narrowed his eyes. She would pay.

Where Dixon and Olivos were, Isabelle wouldn’t be far away. They had to be using her psychic ability to track him. It was the only explanation for the way they were always on his heels–ever since Esme. Always careful to never leave a trace of evidence, Prentiss knew, without a doubt, it had to be Isabelle. If he had to walk these halls, day-in, day-out, forever, that’s what he’d do. Either that or find another victim to flush her out. That plan had merits too.

A couple at the end of the hallway drew his attention.

Is that…?

At first, it’d been their quick movement, the man tugging her along behind him. But as Prentiss stared, he realized who it was.

“Isabelle,” he muttered, before he could catch himself.

It took every bit of acting prowess he possessed not to stare. The man with her, in a dark suit and tie with a crisp, white shirt, had to be an FBI agent. He was pulling her in a fast walk and they were headed right toward him. Prentiss looked away.

Will she recognize me?

He chanced a cautious peek. She wasn’t even looking at him and it seemed as though they weren’t going to pass him. They’d stopped at the elevator, which was opening. Prentiss picked up the pace.

Though she was still several yards away, Prentiss felt the familiar thrill of the stalk. Isabelle was pretty–very pretty. Her dark hair was lustrous, falling halfway down her back. The form-fitting, sleeveless dress clung to her curves and the high heels accentuated her attractive legs. For just a moment, he visualized his knife puncturing the smooth flesh of her thigh, just above the knee. But as she entered the elevator, he had to move quickly. Taking her now was not the right time but getting a better look at her couldn’t hurt. As the doors began to close, Prentiss strode slowly by and looked inside.

Though she was looking at the agent, Prentiss saw her eyes. They were the most amazing color of amber he’d ever seen and he had to wonder briefly if she wore colored contacts. But then the doors closed. He looked at his reflection in the polished metal and felt the lumpy manila envelope under his arm. They had obviously been on their way out. The timing had not been right. But Prentiss knew eventually it would be. He smiled at his reflection and resumed his slow stroll, idly wondering what Isabelle would sound like when she screamed.