Criminal Minds: Profiling the Profiler. After the widely publicized Robbins case, Jasmine Stratford has been called one of the best psychological profilers in the country. And yet she has no official degree in any of the sciences. With only a high school GED, the talented profiler credits her own personal crisis with spurring her interest in deviant behavior and motivating her to educate herself. According to Stratford, killers act to fulfill certain needs. Determining what those needs are provides understanding and, to a point, the ability to predict certain behavior—
“Here you go.”
Fornier pulled his eyes away from the screen long enough to acknowledge Casey, who’d arrived with his breakfast. She had to shove a mountain of papers aside, but she managed to fit his coffee and his plate on the desk at his elbow.
“It doesn’t look as if you’re buying anything too expensive,” she said, frowning at the article displayed on her monitor.
“No,” he said. But what he’d read could still cost him a great deal. He was beginning to believe Jasmine was for real—and that, some way, somehow, he might’ve killed the wrong man.
Jasmine hadn’t expected to run into Romain at the diner. She hadn’t heard the roar of his motorcycle go past the hotel this morning, hadn’t seen it parked in the lot when she walked over. But in order to bring water and supplies to his house, he had to have a pickup or some other form of transportation, which he must’ve driven.
Because there was no mistaking the identity of the tall blond man who emerged from the back area of the restaurant. She would’ve known him simply by the way he carried himself, even if she hadn’t been able to see his face.
Ducking behind her menu, she hoped he’d leave without noticing her. She knew she hadn’t really slept with him last night, but it sure felt like she had. Her body burned at the memory of his hands moving everywhere—because the way he’d imagined the encounter was exactly as she would’ve liked it to be.
Unfortunately, luck wasn’t with her today. When she didn’t hear the bell above the door, she peeked over the corner of her menu to see where he was and found him at the cash register, slipping his wallet into his pocket and staring straight at her.
As their eyes met and held, Jasmine cursed silently for looking up too soon.
Then she lowered her menu and smiled politely, trying to backtrack to where they’d been before imagination had become more honest than reality.
We’re just two strangers who aren’t all that friendly to each other, she reminded herself. Yet erotic images kept intruding—his bare arms and chest as he poised above her, the pressure of his thigh sliding confidently between hers, the play of emotions on his face when he was too far gone to hold back.
Such a heady fantasy wasn’t easy to forget.
He didn’t return her smile, but he made his way through the other tables and sat down across from her.
“Would you like to join me?” she asked.
He tilted his head. “You’re the one who came to find me, remember?”
“I’m leaving soon,” she said. “So I won’t be around to bother you much longer.”
“Are you planning to talk to Officer Black when you reach New Orleans?”
“If he hasn’t taken off for the holidays.”
“And if he has?”
“I’ll wait till he comes back.”
“You’re spending Christmas in Louisiana?”
“It looks that way.”
“Your family doesn’t mind?”
Her family…She nearly chuckled at the thought of her parents caring where she spent Christmas but knew if she did she’d have to explain her odd reaction. “I’m determined to get what I came for,” she said.
Pulling a napkin from the dispenser on the table, Romain asked her for a pen, which she took out of her purse. He wrote something, then pushed the napkin toward her.
a-D-e-L-e
A shiver went through Jasmine as she studied the mix of capitals and the strange e’s. This was what Romain had seen last night, what he’d tried to walk away from.
Setting down the spoon she’d been using to stir her coffee, she leaned back.
“What made you change your mind about telling me?”
“If I could’ve ignored it, I would have.”
“And you couldn’t because…”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
In other words, the truth was the truth, and he wouldn’t hide from it even if it meant he’d have to face some painful realities. Jasmine had to respect that. “So you’ll help me?”
“I just did.” He stood up and drew a set of keys from his pocket. He was finished. But Jasmine had one more question.
“Do you have a tattoo on your arm?”
One eyebrow slid up, giving his expression a sardonic cast. “I have a couple of them.”
“Is one a heart, with a ribbon bearing your daughter’s name?” Part of her hoped he’d say no, that this was one little test she’d fail. It happened occasionally.
And when it did, she was able to convince herself that she wasn’t so different from everyone else.
Obviously baffled, he hesitated but then nodded. “Why?”
Such incontrovertible evidence that she’d “done it again” always unsettled her.
It made her feel that she was using only a small part of her gift. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to develop her perception any further. She was convinced that she’d been able to experience Romain’s fantasy because, in a sense, he’d invited her into his dream through his desire and she’d reciprocated through her own. She’d certainly never experienced anything similar with anyone else. “Just checking,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant.
He watched her carefully. “What’s my other tattoo?”
She told herself to give him the wrong answer. Then maybe he’d assume someone who’d seen him swimming or fishing without his shirt had mentioned it to her. But she didn’t understand how he figured into Kimberly’s case—and thought there might come a day when she’d need him to trust her intuition. “A rose, with your late wife’s name.”
He stared at her, his face a mask. “Where is it?”
“Her name? Along the stem.”
“I’m asking about the tattoo.”
She put her hand behind her, to the flat part of her shoulder blade, flushing because the memory of kissing him there flashed through her as she did. “Right here.”