Dark Valentine (12 page)

“Thinking what?”

“Mostly about you fucking me.”

A sharp intake of breath made static on the phone. “Jesus.” Jules’s voice fractured slightly. “We can’t have this conversation. I’m at work.”

“And I’m in my bedroom. Lonely. Dripping wet—”

“Tease,” Jules said hoarsely. “I can’t wait to have you again.”

“You could have me right now.” Rhianna wasn’t sure what wicked instinct had possessed her, but she felt incredibly aroused and aware of her own power. Jules was far away, stuck in an office somewhere, trying to look like she was in control. Only she wasn’t.

“Stop,” Jules gasped out. “I have to be in a meeting in ten minutes. I’m serious.”

“And I have to come. Really, really soon,” Rhianna said sweetly.

“Are you touching yourself?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes. Talk to me. Tell me what you feel.”

Rhianna shuffled farther up the bed and unzipped her shorts. Her panties were soaked. She worked her fingers over the narrow ridge of her clit and along the channels on either side. “My clit is really hard, and I’m slippery and open. All ready for you.”

“I’m right there, between your legs, waiting. You know what it’s going to feel like when I fuck you, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Rhianna let her fingers glide back and forth, keeping her pressure light, teasing herself. “You’re so good, I want you inside. Deep and hard.”

“Oh, God.” Short ragged breaths. “You’re making me sweat.”

For a split second, Rhianna wondered what on earth she was thinking. How could she be doing this? What if Bonnie picked up the phone and overheard? What if she came to the apartment for some reason and found the door locked?
That’s your common sense talking
, she thought, and proceeded to ignore the voice of reason, pushing her shorts and panties down and kicking them off. She wanted this. She’d been wanting it ever since she got back from Palm Springs. Pretending otherwise was pointless.

“I wish you could feel how open I am,” she murmured. “Come here. I want my legs around you.”

“You want me to fuck you?”

Rhianna gasped. “Yes. Please.”

“Like this? Spreading you wide and making you take me? Is that what you need, baby?”

Rhianna closed her eyes and shut out everything but Jules’s voice and the steadily building tension between her legs. Her sense memories of their one night together were still intact, and she plugged into them, recalling every sensation. She tilted her hips, rising against the pressure of her hand.

Jules kept talking to her, urging her on. She centered the pressure of her fingers where it was unbearable. Transfixed, she groaned, “I’m so close.”

“Me, too,” Jules moaned.

“I can’t believe it. I never come so fast.” Rhianna clamped her thighs together on her hand, rocking and bucking.

She could hear sounds at the other end of the phone. Raw, yearning groans and murmured words she could not make out. The taste and smell of Jules seeped through the thin walls of memory, flooding her with desire. If she’d ever felt this way about one of her few other lovers, she couldn’t remember.

“Don’t stop. Now!” she cried. “Do it. Come on. Come inside me.” She felt herself spill and pulse, soaking her hand and shivering with pleasure.

A stifled cry of release held her riveted, clutching the phone like it was a part of Jules she could cling to. They were silent, only breathing. Rhianna felt as close to Jules as if they were locked in a lovers’ embrace, and there was much more between them than words through a telephone.

“When can I see you?” Rhianna asked.

“I could be in Palm Springs on Saturday.” Jules’s voice had a rasping edge to it.

Rhianna caught her breath with some difficulty. “I can’t. I have to go away for a while.” She didn’t want to think about what was ahead. Not now. But she needed to let Jules know she was serious about getting together. Nervously, she offered a partial truth. “I’ll be in Denver visiting family.”

Jules laughed softly. “There is a God, after all. I’m working in Denver at the moment. We could meet.”

Rhianna recoiled at the thought. The timing couldn’t be worse. She had no idea how she was going to cope with the stress of being back in Denver, about to give evidence at her attacker’s trial. She couldn’t add another whole dimension to the trip. “I’m not sure if I can,” she said evasively. “I mean, my mom has made plans.”

Her excuse sounded weak. Like she had cold feet already.

Jules didn’t seem to notice. “Call me on this number as soon as you get in. My firm has an apartment downtown. You can come stay for a night or two.”

“I’ll have to see how it goes,” Rhianna said.

“I don’t think so,” Jules responded slowly and firmly. “Your mom will just have to cope without you.”

Rhianna rolled onto her side and drew her knees up. She felt flushed and heavy with post-orgasmic lassitude, and the truth was, the thought of seeing Jules made the dreaded prospect of the next week or two almost bearable. “Okay,” she said, “it’s a date.”

“Don’t plan anything for the next day,” Jules warned her. “I’m going to keep you up all night.”

Chapter Seven

Mr. Brigham?”

Werner hastened to his feet and offered his hand. He felt proud of himself for having sufficient cosmopolitan flair not to hesitate in this courtesy when tall, muscular Gilbert Desjardines loomed before him.

The man was not what he’d expected for a private investigator, not the modern-day Humphrey Bogart of his imaginings. Desjardines was black, not that Werner had any problem with colored people being in responsible jobs. The Brigham family had always employed black women as housekeepers and nannies, and his mother often said there was no decent fried chicken without a black cook in charge of the kitchen.

Werner could also call to mind black police officers he’d encountered, and private security personnel. It made complete sense that there would be black private eyes. However, this one was not the clean-cut, suit-and-tie black man he’d seen on television commercials. It appeared that Gilbert Desjardines was drawn, like many of his race, to a more flamboyant look. His suit was pale green and he wore a skintight pink shirt unbuttoned at the neck to reveal not one, but at least four heavy gold chains. His taste for flashy jewelry was equally apparent in the diamond rings on several of his fingers.

This was, Werner decided, not a look a white man would ever get away with. However, he wanted to assure the investigator that his appearance would not be held against him, so he said, “I’ve heard reports that you are the best there is, Mr. Desjardines. That’s why I’m here.”

This remark was greeted with a tooth-studded smile, and Desjardines waved him into an office that was the last word in idiosyncratic décor. If someone had asked Werner what the domicile of a pimp might look like, this is what he would have described. The walls were a very dark purple, most of the furnishings bright yellow, and there was even a faux leopard rug on the floor. In the far corner of this startling work environment, a mulatto woman who perfectly fit the setting was doing something to a coffee machine.

She batted her heavy eyelashes in their direction and said, “Kawfee?”

Werner might have imagined he was hallucinating if he couldn’t smell the rich aroma of a good brew. He thanked her and tried not to stare as he sat down on the yellow leather sofa near Desjardines’s desk. She was a fake blonde, of course, with a pile of frizzy curls held high on her head with a dramatic pink comb. This accessory matched the shade of an indecent top that clung to improbably large breasts. She completed this shameless outfit with a velvet miniskirt, black lace hosiery, and high heels of the type no respectable female would wear.

When she bent to serve the coffee, Werner had to lean away for fear of suffocation. Her cleavage was virtually in his face and her perfume was sickeningly sweet. He felt like telling Desjardines that only a certain class of customer would be impressed by a secretary who looked like an exotic dancer. Instead, he said, “Thank you, ma’am.”

“Mr. Brigham, meet Damonique Nova, my business partner.” Desjardines handed Werner a card with the woman’s absurd name on it. “Spousal fidelity testing, she’s da bomb.”

Whereupon the blonde inquired in her grating accent, “Are you a married man, Mr. Brigham?”

“Not yet,” Werner said. “But I hope to become engaged shortly.”

“Congratulations. I sure hope things work out for you.” She wiggled her hips as she crossed to the door. To Desjardines, she said, “I got a skip trace to take care of. You good, baby?”

He made some kind of hand signal and the door closed, leaving Werner to wonder if he had made a wise choice in coming here. These people did not strike him as seasoned professionals.

He got to the point quickly. “I’m a client of Salazar, Hagel & Goldblum. I could not help but notice your card among papers on my attorney’s desk recently, and there is a matter I believe you may be able to assist me with. I pay well.”

Desjardines sat down behind his big desk, the only decent piece of furniture in the room. “I’m listening.”

Werner lifted his briefcase and laid it on the desk. Feeling pleased with himself for thinking ahead, he unlocked the case and flipped it open. As he had anticipated, the investigator leaned forward with a look of astonishment on his face.

“Man, what you thinking carrying that much cash around with you?” he asked.

“This is for you. Fifty thousand dollars.”

“Put it away,” Desjardines said. “I don’t deal drugs and I don’t launder cash.”

“I’m not interested in any of that,” Werner said impatiently. “This is for your services. I want to hire you to…er…tail someone for me.”

“Who?”

Werner poked around under the neatly stacked bills, pulled out Rhianna’s photograph, and slid it across the desk. “This is my fiancée-to-be. She’s going to be in town very soon because she’s a witness in a court case.”

“Ah, you want protection? Now we don’t exactly do that, but I got a cousin, Marcel—”

“No, not protection. I want you to watch her. Find out where she’s staying and who she sees. Then, when she leaves town again, follow her wherever she goes. I have reason to believe she may be living under a false identity.”

The investigator stared at him. “Now, why would she do that?”

“She has fragile mental health.”

Desjardines studied the photograph, then returned it to the case and closed the lid. He pushed the case back across the desk and shook his head. “You talking to the wrong man.”

“Fifty thousand dollars is nothing to me,” Werner assured him. “I can pay more. Name your fee.”

“You’re not hearing me.” Desjardines stood up. “You want to make a bad situation worse for yourself?”

Infuriated, Werner said, “All I want is her new name and address.”

“I can’t help you.” The investigator crossed his office and flung open the door.

Werner rose and crossed the room to stand in the doorway. He refused to be intimidated. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“I know who you are.” Desjardines seemed bigger suddenly. “Go talk to your lawyer. Ask
her
why this is a crazy-ass idea if you don’t believe me.”

Rattled, Werner slammed out of the office and caught the elevator down to street level. He stood on the pavement with his heart pounding and sweat damping his top lip. Where had he parked his car? As he looked up and down the street, it occurred to him that this was indeed the wrong neighborhood to loiter in with fifty thousand dollars in his briefcase. He could see Mommy’s disappointed face when the police brought him home, mugged and minus the cash.