Bone Cold (22 page)

And neither did he.

So subtly that it sneaked up on her, she became aware of the way he smelled, freshly scrubbed and male. She became aware of the way her breathing had begun to quicken, her senses to stir.

Suddenly, her focus shifted. From the horror of the past hours to the possibilities of the next. From the terror of being taken against her will to the pleasure of a consensual joining. To the life-affirming renewal that came from a man and a woman coming together in the most elemental of ways.

She wanted that. To be renewed. Cherished.

She wanted oblivion.

Anna's thoughts stunned her. She couldn't be thinking about sex. Not now, not after the attack she had just suffered.

But she was.
She was thinking about making love. About being with this man, about losing herself in shared passion.

Quentin Malone made her feel safe. He made her feel protected. He would make her forget, even if only for an hour, that the bogeyman had come to call on her.

“Anna?”

Her name whispered past his lips. To her it seemed a prayer, a song. An invitation.

She didn't answer. Instead, she cupped his face in her palms and kissed him. Softly at first, then more deeply, with passion.

This was something she had wanted almost from the first time she had laid eyes on him, she realized. Even when she had been furious with him and his refusal to help her, she had been attracted to him. Even then he had called to her on this most basic level.

“Anna…” He broke the contact of their mouths. “You've had a shock. You don't know what you're doing.”

“Yes, I do.” She laid her fingers against his mouth, warm and damp from hers. “Stay with me tonight, Malone. Be with me.”

“Tomorrow you'll regret—”

“Maybe I will.” She paused. “Regrets or not, I want this.”

In his eyes, she saw the battle raging within him. She respected that. She was glad he hadn't fallen right into bed with her; it said something nice about him. That he was a gentleman. A little old-fashioned. That he had standards.

She liked those things—as long as in the end, he gave in.

Anna brought her mouth to his again, rubbing softly, teasing with the tip of her tongue. She drew away once more, but held his gaze. “I want you, Malone. What I'm feeling isn't about what happened tonight. It's not about fear of being alone. Not only about that anyway.” She plunged her fingers into his dark hair. “I want you, Malone.”

With a groan, he capitulated. He lifted her off the couch and sat her on his lap so that she straddled him. With a small thrill, she felt that he wanted her as much as she did him.

She moved against his arousal, imitating the love act, her own breath quickening as pleasure speared through her.

He took her mouth, she his. He tore off her sweater, she unbuttoned his chambray shirt. Both found the other's skin—with hands, then mouths and tongues—sighing as they did.

Passion exploded between them. They fell backward, half on the wooden floor, half on the worn Persian rug. They wriggled out of their clothing, unwilling to part to undress.

Making love with Quentin Malone was all Anna had known it would be: exciting, breath-stealing, exhilarating.

His hands and mouth stole her memory. She forget who she was, her past, the future—all that remained was Malone, his body against and inside hers, his quickened breathing, the sound of her name against his lips at the moment of his release.

His name on hers at the same moment.

The moment passed, but still her heart thundered. Anna pressed her face into his shoulder, wondering at the power of what had just occurred between them.

She had been with other men before but none of those experiences had been as moving as this one.

She wondered if it had been the same for him. She hoped so but wasn't deluding herself. Detective Quentin Malone was no stranger to women or sex. He was the kind of man women flocked to, like hummingbirds to nectar.

And she had been simply one of the many.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly.

“Fine,” she murmured, keeping her face buried. “Wonderful.”

He trailed his fingers through the hair at her nape, his touch incredibly gentle. “Regrets already?”

She shifted so he could see her face. And she his. “No.”

He touched her mouth with the tips of his fingers. “I owe you an apology.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It was me. I initiated—”

“You misunderstand.” A smile touched his lips, then faded. “It was…I was so… You overwhelmed me.”

Heat stung her cheeks. Not the heat of embarrassment, but of pleasure.
She
had overwhelmed him. She had made him forget, made him lose control. Nothing he could have said would have made her feel more wonderful than she felt now.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I needed that.”

He looked confused. “I don't understand.”

She snuggled against him. “Never mind.”

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer. “Anna?”

“Mmm?”

“About my…loss of control, I'd like the chance to make it up to you.”

She lifted her face to his. “You would?”

A slow, sexy smile snaked across his face. “Uh-huh.”

“And exactly when were you thinking of making it up to me? Now?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He stood and lifted her into his arms. “And all night long.”

Tuesday, January 30
7:20 a.m.

Q
uentin's beeper awakened him. Early-morning sun fell across the bed, bright but without warmth. He snatched the annoying instrument off the bedside table, instantly awake. He checked the display, though he would bet a month's salary duty called—no one else would beep him so early in the morning.

He saw he was right and climbed out of bed, careful not to awaken Anna. The bed gave, the floorboard beneath his feet squeaked, and Quentin froze, turning his gaze to Anna. She moaned, stirred then stilled.

Still he watched her. His mouth grew dry, his heartbeat fast. Last night he had told her he thought her beautiful. But what he hadn't told her was, he thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And that she was too good for him, too smart, too accomplished.

After all, who was he? An Irish-Catholic cop from a neighborhood that boasted far more hoodlums than heroes. A man known more for his sexual prowess with women than anything else.

In that area he could make her happy.

And he could keep her safe. If he had to guard her night and day, so be it. He would not allow this madman to touch her again.

Tearing his gaze away from her, he turned, went to the kitchen and called in.

“Morning, Malone,” the desk officer said, way too perky for this godforsaken time of day. “Rise and shine.”

Quentin wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. “Kiss my ass, Violet. What do you have?”

As the question passed his lips, Quentin knew and a sick feeling settled in the pit of his gut.

Another woman had been raped and killed. Another redhead.

Violet's next words confirmed that Malone had been right. A woman's body had been discovered that morning. Just off Esplanade Avenue and Decatur Street, near the river. Like Kent and Parker, she had been out partying with friends the night before. “It appears he suffocated her, just like the other two,” the desk officer finished. “Walden and Johnson are on their way to the scene.”

Quentin glanced at his watch. “That it?”

“Yeah…no, I almost forgot. The killer severed her right pinkie finger.”

The words, their meaning, slammed into him. Quentin placed a hand on the counter for support. “What did you say?”

“The bastard cut off her pinkie finger. Can you believe that?”

A moment later, Quentin hung up the phone, hands shaking.
Mother of God, how was he going to tell Anna?

“There's a naked man in my kitchen. Quick, call the police.”

Quentin turned to find her in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, wrapped in a silky, white robe. She looked soft and sleepy and far too vulnerable.

And she was smiling at him. In a way that made him feel ten feet tall—and scared as hell.

He forced a smile. “The naked man is the police.”

“How convenient.” She sauntered toward him, loosening her robe as she did. “Who says you can never find a cop when you need one?”

She reached him. Her robe parted and she slid her hands up his chest to his shoulders. He found his voice. “Don't, Anna.” He caught her hands, curved his fingers around hers. “Don't.”

Hurt crossed her features; she tried to step away. He stopped her, holding her tightly. “It's not you, it's—” He couldn't find the words and swore.

She lifted her gaze to his. The blood drained from her face. “What's happened?”

“I think you'd better sit—”

“No.” She started to tremble. “Tell me.”

So he did. Quietly, without fanfare or melodramatics.

When he'd finished, he pulled out a chair and she collapsed onto it, shaking. Pale.

“That was supposed to be me,” she whispered. “Last night…he was here. He meant to—”

“We don't know that. We don't know anything yet.”

“Why is this happening to me!” she cried. “It's been so long… Why won't he leave me alone!”

“It's not Kurt, Anna.” Quentin brushed the hair away from her face, his touch gentle. “It's not.”

“You're wrong.” She looked at him, eyes wet with tears, wide with fright.

“No, Anna. Whoever launched himself over the side of that balcony was not only agile but in excellent physical condition. I have serious doubts that the man from your childhood, a man in his fifties or sixties now, could have done it.”

“There's something I didn't tell you. He knew something only Kurt could. The FBI and police kept something from the public, something about that night…the one…Timmy died.”

She struggled for an even breath, remembering. “That night…the night he killed Timmy, he…forced me to watch.”

He'd heard that. A horror, but not the end of it.
“Go on.”

“When he had…finished with Timmy, he turned to me and he…smiled.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “He smiled and said, ‘Ready or not, here I come.' And then he did.”

Quentin swallowed his revulsion. “But not with a pillow?”

“No. With wire cutters.”

He hated that she had experienced such pain. He wanted to hold her close, protect her from her past and the memories that haunted her. But he knew he couldn't. Some demons could only be fought from within.

“I can't imagine how you survived. That you escaped is a miracle. You were only thirteen, for God's sake.”

“I thought of Timmy,” she said simply, cutting him off. “How could I give up when Timmy had endured so much more?”

“You're brave, Anna. And you're strong.” He cupped her cheeks in his palms. “Stronger than you know.”

That made her laugh. “I'm a total wimp. A chicken-shit of the highest caliber. Why do think I've been…hiding all these years?” Her voice thickened. “But he found me anyway.”

“If he'd wanted to find you, he would have long before now.”

“But I changed my name—”

“To your mother's maiden name,” he interrupted gently. “Any half-competent P.I. could have located you in about an hour. It's not him, Anna.”

“Then how—”

“Did he know what Kurt said that night? An incredible number of people have access to that information. People talk, cops, agents, family members. This crime is what, twenty-some years old? No one's guarding that information, Anna.”

She searched his expression. “You…really believe that?”

“I do.” He tightened his fingers on her face. “Look at me, Anna. I'll tell you what I believe. Someone is obsessed with you. Because of your books or your past or both. They've done their homework. And in this digital age, private information is far too easy to access. Until last night they were content to frighten you.”

“But they're not satisfied with that anymore.”

“No, they're not.”

She stood and placed her hand on his arm. “Why am I so hopeful that it's not Kurt who's after me? If it's not, it changes nothing. Is the monster I know so much worse than the monster I don't?”

“I'm going to catch this guy, Anna. I'm not going to let him hurt you.” His beeper, on the counter by the phone, went off. Aware of the time passing, he swore. “I've got to go, Anna. I hate to but—”

“Go.” She stepped away from him, curving her arms around her middle. “You've got a job to do.”

“But I'm not leaving you alone. Before I leave, I'll call the station and have a uniform sent over.”

She shook her head. “No. I don't want a stranger here. I'll call Dalton and Bill. They'll come.” At his frown, she raised her eyebrows. “They're my friends, Malone. They wouldn't hurt me.”

If he had even a hint of proof that one or both of her neighbors were not what they seemed, he would argue with her. But he didn't. “I'm going to dress. Call them now, I won't leave until—”

“My baby-sitters arrive? Thanks.”

He ducked into the bedroom for his clothes, then the bathroom to quickly wash and brush his teeth, though all he had was Anna's toothpaste and his index finger.

When he emerged, Anna was dressed in a pair of khakis and a white turtleneck sweater. She'd combed her hair and pulled it back off her neck with a big tortoiseshell clip.

She wouldn't meet his gaze.

“Anna,” he said softly, reaching out. “Please, don't be angry. I don't want to go, but—”

“I'm not angry. I'm not disappointed. You have a job to do.”

He felt the distance growing between them. With it the cold. “Then look at me,” he murmured. “I want to know you're okay with this.”

“I can't. Because if I do, if I let you touch me, I'll fall apart.” She pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. “I can't fall apart. I won't.”

A knock sounded on the door, followed by Dalton's voice. “I'll call you when I know more,” Quentin said as they moved toward it.

Dalton's and Bill's mouths dropped when they saw Quentin. They stared at him, for those few moments at a total loss for words. Dalton's cheeks grew pink and Bill shifted his gaze to Anna, then back to Quentin, eyes narrowed.

The man looked anything but happy to see him.

“Morning, fellas,” Quentin murmured. He turned to Anna, acknowledging that he had never been as reluctant to report to a scene as he was at this moment. “I'll call later.”

He bent and kissed her. As their lips brushed, his beeper sounded again. He knew it was the precinct, calling to see where he was. But still he held her. “Be careful today. If you need anything—”

“Go,” she said, drawing away from him. Her lips trembled, and she pressed them together. “Find this guy. Stop him. Do it for me.”