Desperate to the Max (6 page)

“I’m so sorry,” his mother murmured.

Max wanted to say something blithe, something comforting, like time heals all wounds. Except that it didn’t. She was as raw and bleeding inside as the day she’d watched those punks shoot a hole through Cameron’s head down at the corner 7-11.

And so much more isolated. When she’d met him, Cameron had tugged her out of her own painstakingly-constructed shell; she’d crawled back in the day he died and hadn’t broken out since.

Which was why Witt scared the hell out of her.

She chose not to acknowledge Ladybird’s sympathy. “Cameron’s a good sounding board when I’m worked up.” God, what an understatement. He was the only person she had left in the world, even if he wasn’t exactly of
this
world.

Ladybird pushed her tray aside. “Oh my, yes. Horace and I get along famously now that he’s dead. We used to fight like cats and dogs when he was alive.”

“It’s a wonder one of you didn’t kill the other,” Witt muttered.

“DeWitt really doesn’t like fighting,” she stage-whispered behind her hand as if he couldn’t hear. “I really can’t understand how he became a policeman. His father was a garbage man, you know. I really thought DeWitt would follow in his footsteps. He’s a bright boy, but he barely graduated from high school. And those hoodlum friends of his. Of course that girl—what was her name—I thought for sure he’d get her pregnant before he turned eighteen.”

Witt spluttered, stuttered three unintelligible words, stared bug-eyed at his mother, then slumped in his chair as if he’d suffered a heart attack.

Max stared opened-mouthed. Her lips twitched at the corner, almost involuntarily. Then she started to laugh. She laughed so hard she cried.

* * * * *

“Could have been dead for all you seemed to notice,” Witt groused an hour later outside his mother’s house.

“It was an hysterical reaction. I couldn’t help myself.”

The street was empty of people now, though the crime scene tape still hung in drooping swirls like crepe paper around the perimeter of the lawn. Yellow sticky tape sealed the front door. The tan department car identical to Witt’s still faced the wrong way, and the two detectives had begun canvassing the neighborhood, starting with Witt’s mother who had rushed to apply fresh lipstick before her interview, then quickly shooed Witt and Max out the front door.

Witt stood with Max next to her car in a blue-white pool of lamp light. No, not quite right; they weren’t
just
standing. Witt had her backed up against the driver’s door of the Miata, his big, warm hands buried in her hair, the scent of his aftershave teasing her nose like champagne bubbles.

“You know, you’re crowding me here.”

“Nervous?” He bent his head to nuzzle her neck.

“Ooh.” She could have sworn he’d nipped her with his teeth. Goose bumps danced across her flesh. She wanted to throw back her head to give him better access. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Tasting you,” he mumbled against her throat.

The October night had turned chilly, but she was far from cold. “Are you some kind of frigging vampire now?”

He sighed heavily, his lips resting against her skin. “I’m attempting seduction here.”

“Your mother could be watching out the window.” She could be, but she wasn’t. She was talking to Detectives McKaverty and Schulz and loving every minute of the “interrogation.” Max played the game anyway.

“She expects me to kiss you. Even told me to do it when I gave her a hug.”

Since she couldn’t back up, Max insinuated her arms between them and pushed. The movement gained her a scant four inches, but enough room to breathe. Except then she got another draft of his subtle aftershave. The scent went to her head, and she almost pulled him back. “So.”

He stared down at her, eyes narrowed and his face in streetlight shadow. He knew something was coming. “So ... what?”

“So ... this time you picked a gal like dear old mom.”

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Or maybe that was a shape-shifting illusion played out by the light over his shoulder. The smile was in his voice, too, when he murmured, “Yeah, a fruitcake.”

“You’d call your own mother a fruitcake?” She didn’t touch on the fact that he was calling her one, too.

He stroked a finger down her cheek, leaving a swath of tingles in its wake. “Happen to be real partial to fruitcake.” He ruffled her hair. “Especially dark fruitcake that’s a little tart.”

“Is that supposed to be sweet talk or something?” The comparison did give her a certain weird thrill.

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Oh God. Wasn’t there a song?
Shut up and kiss me
. The words were so primal, so direct, so demanding. She wanted to do exactly that. Badly.

“Take a chance, Max.”

A car drove by, teenager laughter, a double come-on toot on the horn. Max didn’t care. Witt’s words were like a siren call. Do it, do it, do it. She swayed toward him, and this time she did arch her neck, inviting his touch. She’d never been wanted like this before. Never felt a man’s eyes on her throat like it was luscious fruit to be plucked. Never had a man look at her as if she were ... beautiful, desirable, special. Slender. This man wanted her body, not only her voice.

A door slammed across the street. A rush of icy logic jerked Max back to reality. Bethany was taking over again. Bethany, who wanted Witt simply because
he
wanted Max.

She poked a finger in the center of his chest, putting a stop to his cute, toe-tingling banter and Bethany’s run-away-with-me thoughts. She put a stop to some of her own, too. “I think you’re trying to change the subject, Sweetie-boy.”

Witt grimaced, but otherwise ignored the term. “What subject?”

“Your mother.”

“Oh yeah, wasn’t I saying she adored you and wanted to know when you were going to give her a grandchild?”

Whoosh. He couldn’t have done worse if he’d dumped a bucket of ice over her head. Babies. Children. She’d long since accepted she was barren, maternally-impaired, or whatever politically correct term they used these days, but his words took her by surprise. Hell, they gave her a big dose of reality. This guy was thinking marriage and babies, and she hadn’t even fully admitted to herself that she was a widow. Things were moving too fast, way too fast. It was time to put the brakes on Witt’s renegade train.

“I don’t think we were talking about children or marriage at all,” Max said coolly. “I was about to point out that I think you’re terrified your mother might actually be psychic.”

That did it. His blue eyes turned the most amazing shade of icy gray, and he leveled her with a look. “Did you say psychic or psychotic?”

“That’s why
I’ve
terrified you since the day you decided I wasn’t a murderer. You finally had to admit I’m psychic.”

“You? Terrify me?” He backed her once more against the car. “Don’t think so, sweetheart.”

Okay, so maybe that was the wrong challenge to use on him. There was a sharp edge to his voice, an angry scowl on his lips, but the rest of him was primed to go right up against the driver’s side door. In spite of his hostility. Or maybe because of it.

He turned her to jelly. Maybe that’s why she stuck her nose up in his face. “Yeah. You’re scared shitless your mother really does talk to your father.” She narrowed her eyes. “He tells her stuff, too. About the future. About stuff your mother has no business knowing. Stuff about you. You don’t want to believe she might be right on, do you?” It wasn’t such a shot in the dark. It wasn’t even psychic. Just an educated guess.

His nostrils flared. She’d hit bone with that one. “You’re the one that’s not gonna wanna hear, Max. Don’t push.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You don’t like to fight.”

Nose to nose, they started in on a doozy right there in front of his mother’s house. “Wanna hear?” he challenged.

Not. “Yeah.”

“He told her I’m gonna kill someone. For you, Max. Because of you.”

She shrank back, but she couldn’t get away. “That’s a lie.”

“You’re the one who says she’s psychic.”

“Who’re you going to kill?” Barely a whisper. Inside her mind, one name pounded. Bud Traynor. Her nemesis. The man who had chased her through two murder investigations and still haunted her dreams. The man she had sworn vengeance on for the vile acts he’d committed. The man who had yet to pay for anything he’d done. On the heels of that thought came guilt. And anger. Anger with herself for even wishing that Witt would take care of her problem for her.

“No names. Sorry. Not that easy.”

“In the line of duty?” she asked as if that would somehow make killing more palatable.

“Does it make a difference?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “I’ve drawn my gun, fired when necessary, even shot a suspect once. But it’s not all cops and robbers like on TV, Max. I’ve never killed anyone.”

“I’m glad for you.” She was glad for herself. Perhaps his big hands might feel different against her skin if she knew they’d killed.

“You’re glad? Do you even get what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I do.” No, she didn’t want to. Dammit, she should never have started this. Picking a fight didn’t work with Witt. She always seemed to wind up on the losing end.

“I’ll spell it out for you, ‘cause I have my doubts that you really do get what I’m saying. Try this on for size. If my mother talks to my father’s ghost, and he’s right about my killing someone for you, then how does that make you feel?”

It made her fingers numb. It made her brain shut down. It made her responsible for his moral deterioration. She knew without a doubt that killing another human being would change Witt forever.

“How’s it make you feel, Max?” His voice a mere whisper, a breath against her hair.

She took a deep breath, stared at his red tie against the black shirt, and told herself the words wouldn’t hurt her. “It means you and I really aren’t cut out for a relationship. It doesn’t mean I’m not psychic.” God, Cameron would be proud of her. She’d fought him on that very issue for so long.

“We don’t have a relationship.” Witt’s voice had softened. “Yet,” he added ominously.

“Look, I really don’t want to fight.”

“Liar.” His voice was dangerously soft now. Goose bumps skittered along her arms. “You love fighting. That’s your favorite defense mechanism.”

She didn’t realize she was so obvious.

“If you won’t tell me how it makes you feel, I’ll tell you how I’d feel about killing for you. I’d feel haunted. I’d feel desperate.” He shook his head slowly. “But it wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. I’d still want you anyway.” He grabbed her face with both hands, and planted a quick, closed-mouth kiss on her lips.

* * * * *

God, that kiss. Short and hard, and nothing like the kiss he’d made her give him the day he forced her to agree to meet his mother. Nothing like it, but equally as devastating. Max touched her lips. They still throbbed, and over an hour had passed. She was crazy to still be thinking about the touch of his lips, still tasting him and wishing he hadn’t stopped.

Crazy because he’d damn near admitted he didn’t care if he had to kill to have her. That he had no intention of walking away.

Destiny lay around the corner. She wondered exactly what fate would bring, yet was terrified to contemplate the possibilities.

“What are the donuts for?”

Oh, thank you, God, a scapegoat.
“I’m going to eat them. What of it?”

“Three jelly donuts?” Cameron’s disapproval and his peppermint essence enveloped Max as she parked the Miata on the gravel drive outside her studio apartment. She had one small room on the second floor of an old Victorian within walking distance of Santa Clara University.

She liked the anonymity among the constantly revolving score of students housed in the other rooms. She liked the fact that she had her own bathroom, her own entrance, and her own separate, distinct life. She mailed her rent. No one talked to her. No one knew her name. In short, she was isolated. She liked her life that way. God, she sounded too much like Bethany Spring.

“You didn’t answer about the three jelly donuts,” Cameron pushed.

The porch light had come on with the motion of her car. She climbed from the seat with the fragrant white bag clutched to her chest. “That’s because my eating habits are none of your business.”

“I wasn’t referring to the food.”

Her high heels crunched angrily on the gravel. Food? Whoever called donuts food? They were luxury, gratification, comfort, and love, but certainly not food.

“Who’s talking out of your mouth, Max?”

Duh. Bethany. She needed comfort. After all, she’d just died. One deserved a little something special after enduring an experience like that. “You told me to ‘run with her.’ That’s what I’m doing. I’m indulging her, trying to draw her out. Using my psychic skills.”
Like you keep hammering at me to do
, she added silently.

He heard that, too. “I didn’t hammer at you to let her take away your common sense. You’re not used to eating like that, and you’re going to make yourself sick.”

She wasn’t used to reconstituted turkey, potato buds, and cardboard peas either. Her stomach had begun to rebel, but she wasn’t about to drop her sack of sugar-coated confections. Or maybe she was rebelling against Cameron’s unvoiced threat earlier in the car. He couldn’t be grooming Witt as his replacement. He wouldn’t. Like a coward, terrified of understanding what he really meant, she’d avoided bringing the subject up again. Better to forget the conversation, better to be angry with him and pick a fight. Better to pretend he’d never leave her.

Digging in her purse for her keys, she stepped up on the plank decking outside her front door, and almost squashed the small package lying on the mat.

She recognized the bold script instantly, and her heart seemed to seize up. “Sutter. She’s been here.” Sutter Cahill. Her best friend.

“You mean the former best friend you’ve avoided since my memorial service.”

She bent to pick up the parcel. “I didn’t want all the drippy sympathy.”

“You didn’t want anyone who might have the ability to make you cry it all out.”