Bad Moon Rising (14 page)

He cupped her in his palm, the touch ricocheting
through her so fiercely she caught her breath. She felt like warm butter
melting into his hand. She couldn’t move, or breathe, as she looked down into
his eyes, which were as hypnotizing as they were taunting.

“I thought so.” His finger nudged aside the crotch of
her panties and slid between her moist flesh, stroking gently, until her eyes
fluttered closed. The heat brought a rise of sweat to her brow. “When is the
last time a man gave
you
pleasure, Holly? Has a man ever given you pleasure? I
doubt it. You faked it. That was part of your job, wasn’t it? To make your john
feel as if he was the best stud to walk the earth.”

He swirled his finger inside her and she felt her body
clench in response. She felt her breath catch and a groan work up her throat.
The pressure between her legs mounted, the heat unbearably painful. She hated
him for it, yet she could no more pull away from his hand and what it was doing
to her than she could look away from his eyes, which were now a mixture of
grief and anger and desire. They burned with it, and she realized in that instant
just how badly she wanted him—had wanted him since his gaze had raked her up
and down in her jail cell, filling her with a vulnerability that was as foreign
to her as what he was doing to her body.

He moved so quickly she had no time to react. His
hands grabbed her shoulders and he spun her down onto the bed, his body sliding
over hers as his knees shoved apart her legs, forcing her dress up around her
hips as he pressed the hard ridge of his penis against her. With his hands
pinning her wrists to the bed, his weight sinking her into the mattress, he
stared at her through strands of hair that had fallen over his brow.

“Tell me you want it. Holly.” he said through his
teeth. “Admit it and let’s get this game-playing bullshit out of the way.”

She turned her face away and closed her eyes.

His lips brushed her cheek. His tongue flirted with
her ear, warm breath assaulting her gloriously, sending shivers throughout her.
She arched her body against his, the rough zipper of his taut jeans against her
as exciting as his warm tongue toying with her ear, enticing her to turn her
head and part her lips, inviting him in.

Their tongues danced together before he smothered her
mouth with his, an ungentle invasion as his lower body rocked and rubbed her,
the friction as sensually erotic as what his tongue was doing inside her, deep
thrusts, in and out, hot and wet, driving to oblivion whatever resistance she
clung to.

His hands riveted her wrists to the bed, the dull ache
of his grip as tantalizing as the pressure of his erection against her. A sense
of helplessness sluiced through her— shockingly intoxicating, overwhelmingly
intense. Her legs spread wider, curled over his buttocks. Then one hand
released her, slid between their bodies, and plunged roughly into her panties, his
fingers sliding between her slick cleft and entering with
a
forcefulness that made her
whimper, not with pain but with
a
need so immense she buried her hand in his thick hair
so she could kiss him with equal abandon.

Suddenly, he froze. Slowly lifted his head. Something
in his eyes gave a warning that made her forget to breathe.

“Quiet,” he whispered, his breathing heavy as he eased
his hand from her body and shifted his weight from hers.

She heard it then, the creak of the stairs outside the
door,
a
scraping of keys in the lock.
Her eyes widened. “Melissa?” she whispered.

“Maybe,” he replied softly as he slid from the bed,
dragging her up with him. “I doubt it.” He shoved her toward the kitchen. “Hide.”

“But—”

“I said to hide, dammit.”

She ran to the kitchen, nearly tripping over Puddin’,
swung open the pantry door, then shoved aside a latch hidden behind a two-pound
can of string beans. The obscured portal popped open and she slid into the
black, musty space, which was hardly big enough for her to fit in, and pulled
the door closed after her. All the girls had a “panic room,” a place to escape
to if things turned bad with a john. She and Melissa had used this one more
than she cared to remember. Now, however, as she listened to the muffled
voices, she felt locked in a coffin, unable to find a breath in the darkness.

There were men. Several of them. Voices ugly. Dear
God. Tyron. No, no, it wasn’t Tyron. She would recognize his voice anywhere.
His goons, perhaps. And they were angry. They would be, finding Damascus there. They would wonder why—

A crash. Scuffling.

Sudden silence. Her eyes closed, she listened to the
frantic pounding of her heart, her sense of suffocation growing. The footsteps
advanced, pausing at the kitchen threshold. She waited for Damascus to call
out. He didn’t. The footsteps came closer, hesitating, the soles of shoes
scraping slightly on the linoleum. As they retreated, Holly’s knees became
weak. Where was Damascus?

Voices again. “No one here.”

Slowly, her back against the wall, she slid to the
floor, her knees pressed against her breasts. She thought she heard the front
door close. But it might be a trick. An attempt to lure her out. Where was Damascus?

She eased open the door, it creaked and her breath
caught, her senses excruciatingly expanded so even the rush of fresh air felt
like an assault. Cautious, she stepped from the pantry, her clothes soaked by
sweat, her ears straining for any sound amid the odd, disquieting silence.

Carefully, on tiptoes, she moved toward the living
room, stopping short at the sight: the chair and coffee table had been tipped
over, and candles and picture frames were scattered and shattered on the floor.
No Damascus. Oh God.

She went to the window and peered through the curtains
to the courtyard below. Nothing. Her hands shaking badly, she flung open the
door and ran out onto the landing. Faces looked out at her from the
surrounding apartment windows, then disappeared just as quickly, unwilling to
get involved in whatever crime had transpired. Swiftly, she descended the old
stairs, feeling them tremble beneath her hurried footsteps. She ran in bare
feet over the weed-infested courtyard to the alley leading to the street and
froze.

Damascus
sat on his heels in the dark, his back against the
wall, his hands gripping his belly and his face bloodied. As she fell to her
knees beside him. taking his face in her hands, she heard herself cry. “Please
...
someone call nine-one-one!”

Even
if
she hadn’t recognized Damascus’s mother
from
the society pages of the paper, Holly would have known her immediately.

A distinguished lady in her seventies, Helen Damascus
had the look of a woman years younger, thanks to bone structure that had once
made her one of the most beautiful women in New Orleans. She carried herself with
a regalness that would rival royalty. Even at three in the morning, she was
perfectly dressed, hair and makeup in place, her entire demeanor impeccable.
The only chink in her composure was the slight trembling of her diamond-laden
fingers as she shook Holly’s hand, her gaze locked on J.D.’s face.

“The investigators tell me you can’t identify the men
who did this,” she said softly, moving to her son’s side and taking his hand.

“I’m sorry. No.”

Her gray eyes looked into Holly’s and regarded her
with an intensity that made her face burn. Of course, Helen was well aware of
the circumstances of her son’s beating. Where he had been and why. No doubt
she suspected Holly was a hooker, but still, she didn’t show it.

“The doctors say he hasn’t regained consciousness.
That he has a concussion.” She gripped his hand more tightly as she regarded
her son’s beaten face. There were stitches over his eyebrow and beneath his
chin. One eye was black and swollen. “My precious boy,” she whispered, her
voice shaking. “He’s gone through so much. Now this. It just isn’t fair.”

Holly slipped one arm around Helen’s shoulders. “He’s
going to be fine. We have to believe that.”

“Yes. Of course we do. I just worry.
...
He has to want to pull out of this,
doesn’t he? Sometimes I believe ...” She shook her head and took a deep breath.
“Since he lost his family there have been times when I’ve feared he simply
didn’t want to go on.”

“But he did, and he will. You mustn’t give up hope,
Mrs. Damascus. The doctors have assured me this is not life threatening.”

“Helen!”

Beverly Damascus rushed, into the room, followed by
Patrick, who immediately skewered Holly with a look that fully reflected his
thoughts over finding her there. As Beverly took her mother-in-law into her
arms, holding her tightly, she focused on Holly so fiercely that Holly backed
away into the small cubicle’s corner, shut out of the family unit so suddenly
a door might as well have been slammed in her face.

Beverly
then turned to J.D., tears rising. “He’s not dying.
Tell me he’s not dying.”

Holly moved toward the door.

“Miss Jones,” Helen said. “Please. Don’t go.”

“I should leave. Really.” She forced a smile. “You’re
family, and—”

“I’d like you to stay,” Helen said, her eyes meeting Beverly’s annoyed gaze. “She’s a friend of John’s. She should be here.”

“A client, unless that’s changed in the last few days.”

“Friend or client,” Helen declared with a tone of authority,
“she’s been very kind and supportive. I want her here.”

“I won’t be far.” Holly offered Helen a grateful smile,
then moved into the hall where she watched through the plateglass window as Beverly took J.D.’s hand and gripped it to her breast. Threads of conversation drifted to
her.

“Is his father coming?” Beverly asked.

“I’m afraid not. What about Eric?”

“He’s with the senator. A late night meeting. I put in
a call. He’ll be here momentarily. What is that woman doing here, Helen?”

Holly moved away, down the hall to the refreshment
room where she poured a cup of coffee. Closing her eyes, she listened to the nurses
chatter and the occasional bark of an agitated doctor. Sirens screamed in the
distance. Somewhere a Detective Mallory was lurking, waiting for Damascus to regain consciousness. He had grilled her for an hour over the particulars of
the beating, not fully believing that she had no clue as to who might have
beaten

Damascus
and why, though she had been frank enough to give him
her opinion.

The adrenaline that had pumped through her the last
couple of hours left in a rush. She shook with exhaustion and fresh fear. Not
just fear, but remorse. John had been at the wrong place at the wrong time
because of her. While Tyron had not been among the bullies who had beat him,
she suspected that he had had something to do with it. Tyron was always tied to
trouble in the district, one way or another. Perhaps he believed that J.D. knew
something about Melissa’s whereabouts. Or perhaps they had simply beat the hell
out of him for sport. Regardless, if she wasn’t such a coward she would do the
world a favor and march over to his penthouse and put a bullet between his
eyes.

“Why don’t you leave my uncle alone?”

She jumped and turned at the sound of Patrick’s voice.
He stood in the doorway, face smoldering and hands jammed into the pockets of
his baggy jeans.

“Just go away or I’ll make you regret it.”

“Enough, Patrick.” Helen moved up beside her grandson,
putting a firm hand on his shoulder. “While your parents tolerate such
disrespect, I don’t. Now apologize to Miss Jones.”

He ducked his head and shuffled his feet.

“Now, Patrick. I’m not too old or you too big to put
you across my knee and blister your butt.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, then turned on his sneaker heels
and stalked away.

Helen watched him go, her lips pressed, then turned
back to Holly. “I apologize for my grandson. My only excuse is his parents have
spoiled him rotten.”

“He cares for his uncle very much.”

“He’s desperate for a father figure, I’m afraid. Alas,
Eric’s obsession with his job has left his son feeling neglected. Not to
mention his wife,” she added with a lift of one eyebrow. “I fear they’ve both
become too dependent on John.” She poured herself a coffee. “The companionship
was good for John, for a while. It kept his mind occupied. I was grateful for
it. But it’s time that he get on with his life, and the fewer complications the
better.”

Holly sipped her coffee, then asked, “Do you consider
me a complication, Mrs. Damascus?”

“Quite the contrary, my dear. I care only for John’s
happiness and well-being. If you are
...
involved with him, and he’s content in your relationship, why shouldn’t I be
thrilled?” She tipped her head and smiled.
“Are
you involved with my son, Miss
Jones?”

She put down her coffee. “That would depend on your
definition of
involved,
Mrs. Damascus.”

“Please, call me Helen.”

“John’s been very supportive since I came to New Orleans. As far as our being
involved...
.” She averted her eyes. Twenty-four hours ago she
could have unequivocally answered no. Considering what had almost happened
between them in Melissa’s apartment, what was she supposed to think now? More
importantly, what was she supposed to feel? Complications? If anyone had
stirred up complications here, it had been Damascus, with his grief-stricken
eyes and his hands that had made her ache and burn as no man had ever done. She
had come back to the city to rescue Melissa, and now she was the one who needed
rescuing. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to become more than simply
involved
with J.D. Damascus.
A
woman with a past like hers
had no business even contemplating romance with a man like him.

A nurse appeared, gently taking Helen’s arm. “Your son
has regained consciousness, Mrs. Damascus.” She smiled and looked at Holly. “Are
you Holly?”

She nodded.

“He’s asking for you.”

A grin touched Helen’s mouth. “I guess that answers my
question, Miss Jones ...”

By the time they reached J.D.’s room, a doctor was in
the process of examining him. Detective Mallory had appeared from nowhere, his
hulk positioned in the corner of the cubicle, arms crossed over his chest, his
gun peeking out from under his rumpled suit coat. Beverly remained as close to
the bed as she could, face pale, eyes teary. She might as well have worn a
flaming sign around her neck that declared I
’m in love with John Damascus!

As the doctor turned away to speak with Helen, J.D.
looked groggily toward Holly. She approached, hesitant, and took the hand that
he weakly lifted to her.

“You’re okay?” he asked.

She nodded and smiled, glanced toward Helen and the
physician, who had been joined by Beverly and Detective Mallory. Bending
closer, she whispered, “Was it Tyron?”

“His goons.” He took a breath and grimaced. “Tyron’s
way of reminding me to butt out of his business.”

“Could you identify the men who did this?”

“Maybe. It all happened too fast.” He closed his eyes.
“I’m usually quicker on my feet than that. Guess I had my mind on other things.”
He closed his hand more firmly on hers.

Holly spent the remainder of the night curled
up in a chair in the waiting
room, too wired on caffeine and worry to sleep. The television chattered, a
local news channel focused on the advancing hurricane, scenes of businesses
barricading storefront windows, endless traffic bumper-to-bumper on the
freeways, images of the French Quarter streets dark and empty and the bar
owners grumbling about the money they would lose without the tourist trade.
She suspected it was all much ado about nothing. No doubt by the time Hurricane
Holly reached the Louisiana coast it would have blown itself out to tropical
storm status, or veered away completely to slam Texas or Florida.

She didn’t believe for a moment that the police would
find the men who assaulted Damascus. Tyron wasn’t that stupid. When he had “business”
to take care of, he brought in men from other areas. By now they were probably
back in Shreveport, or possibly Dallas, having given Damascus a vicious warning
to stop snooping into Tyron’s business. Tyron would be gloating, high off other
people’s pain-especially when he had administered it in one way or another.

If anything positive had come out of this event, it
had been the opportunity to plead her growing concern over Melissa to Detective
Mallory. When informed that she had filed a missing person’s report days
before, and nothing had apparently been done about it, he had assured her that
he would look into it.

Voices interrupted her thoughts, and Holly looked
around. Beverly stood by a man who must have been John’s brother. Yes. No doubt
about it. The hair was the same, a dark brown disheveled mass that looked
haphazardly combed. He wore jeans and jogging shoes and a T-shirt. He didn’t
look happy. And neither did Beverly.

Beverly
glared into her husband’s face. “Where the hell were
you, Eric?”

“I told you. Jack and I—”

“Jack? Really?”

“What the hell are you insinuating now?”

“That maybe you were with another one of your girlfriends.
Who is it this time, Eric? Your secretary? Maybe some cheap little coed you
picked up at O’Brien’s?”

“Get off it, Bev.” He reached into his jeans pocket
and withdrew his cell phone. “Call him if you want.”

“Like I would believe a word that bastard says. The
senator has the morals of a tomcat. For God’s sake, your brother is lying in
that bed nearly dead and you don’t show up for two hours?”

“Like my being here is going to do J.D. any good.
Besides,
you’re
here,
honey.
What the hell does he need me
for when you’re crying all over him like some lovesick teenager?”

As Eric turned on his heel and stormed away, Beverly touched her temple with one hand, her attention swinging toward Holly, who averted
her gaze to the magazine on her lap.

“Miss Jones, may I have a word with you?”

Holly wasn’t surprised that Beverly would eventually
approach her. As Beverly sat down next to her, Holly unfolded her legs from
beneath her and crossed them, instincts roused as if she had just come
face-to-face with a pissed cobra. On the surface, Beverly Damascus might appear
to be docile as a mouse, but Holly hadn’t survived the streets without
developing an uncanny ability to detect a potential threat when she saw one.
Beverly Damascus wasn’t happy about Holly’s intrusion into J.D.’s life.