Page 35 of X Marks the Stalker
“Looking for someone specific?” His voice is a controlled baritone, deep and measured.
Something about that voice sends a jolt of recognition through me, though I can’t place why it sounds familiar.
I freeze for half a second before forcing myself to look unimpressed. “Who wants to know?”
He wears an expensive black suit that fits him perfectly. Dark hair, neatly styled. His mask covers most of his face, but I catch glimpses of his sharp jawline. In the dim lighting of the auction house, his eyes are lost in shadow behind the mask—dark hollows that make it impossible to read.
“Did you enjoy the food I left for you?” he asks.
What the fuck? I almost scream.
The arranged meal in my refrigerator. The folder with Blackwell information. This is him. This is my stalker.
I force my breathing to remain even.
The tight cut of his suit can’t conceal the muscular frame beneath. His shoulders stretch the fabric of his jacket—broad and powerful—tapering down to a trim waist. My mouth goes dry. I imagine those hands pinning me down, and a rush of shame flows at the thought.
My heart pounds against my ribs, blood rushing in my ears, pooling low in my belly. I’ve lost my mind. This man could be a killer, and my body is responding like he’s a Tinder date.
I glance back toward the stage. Calloway Frost still stands in the spotlight, gesturing toward his artwork. Not him, then. My secret observer is someone else.
“You broke into my apartment to...cook for me?” I keep my voice low, controlled.
He shifts in his seat, a subtle movement that betrays discomfort despite his composed exterior. “I, uh?—”
For a moment, his voice cracks, revealing something more authentic underneath.
“The takeout containers in your trash suggested a concerning lack of nutritional variety. Not that I was analyzing your garbage. That would be—” He stops himself, clears his throat. “I mean, surveillance is a lengthy process. Proper nutrition is important.”
The contrast between his imposing presence and this awkward explanation catches me off guard. There’s something almost endearing about it.
I’m losing my grip on reality if I find a stalker “endearing.”
“So you’re stalking me for my own good?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Stalking is such an unpleasant term. I prefer targeted observation with occasional nutritional intervention.” His mouth quirks up at one corner. “Though I admit the line between thorough research and restraining order territory gets blurry around the three-week mark.”
Maintaining professional composure takes effort, especially when an unexpected pulse throbs between my thighs. This man broke into my home, invaded my privacy, watched me through cameras—and yet, instead of fear, my body hums with anticipation, a traitor to all common sense.
I decide on a direct approach, leaning forward.
“Are you The Gallery Killer?” I ask, my voice low but steady. “Are you planning to kill me?”
A soft laugh escapes from behind his mask—not mocking, but genuinely amused. “If I were, would announcing it at a crowded art gala be the smartest move? Though I suppose it would make for a dramatic reveal. Very cinematic.” He tilts his head. “But no. I’m not The Gallery Killer. I have other talents.”
“Such as breaking and entering? Camera installation? Gourmet cooking?”
“I’m a man of diverse interests.” He adjusts his cufflinks—a nervous gesture that contradicts his confident words. “Though if we’re listing my skills, I should mention I make an exceptional soufflé. Very difficult to time properly.”
Despite myself, my lips twitch toward a smile.
He groans. “That came out wrong. I’m not winning points for non-creepiness here, am I?”
The candid admission surprises a laugh out of me. “Not really, no. Are you trying for points?”
“I would say this isn’t normally how I introduce myself to women, but that would imply I regularly introduce myself to women, which—” He stops, shakes his head. “I should stop talking now.”
I lean forward. “Your cameras, behind the true crime books? Not exactly subtle.”
