KILLING ME SOFTLY (13 page)

This morning, they had.

She'd sat there listening to Angel, feeling colder and dirtier with each word the prostitute spoke. She should have gone straight for a shower, stood under the long hot spray and scrubbed hard, for as long as it took to feel clean again. To feel warm.

Instead, she'd gone straight for Cain. And kissed him. Hard.

When he kissed her back, when his mouth opened to hers and invited her in, she'd died a thousand little deaths.

Need. That's what he'd tasted like. Need and hunger and chicory coffee, all swirling in a kiss that had the power to curl her toes. Still. After everything.

Two days in, and the game had changed, the rules shifted. To survive, she was going to have to be a lot more careful.

Because now she realized the truth, and it sobered. All this time she'd convinced herself she was returning for answers. For justice. She'd never thought beyond that, never realized that answers and justice were merely a means to an end.

What she really wanted was what she'd lost. Her life.

"Well, well," he said a heartbeat later, and she turned to find him emerging from the thinning crowd. The horses were in the paddock. The race was about to begin. "You're still here."

She ignored the little jolt of relief that he was back unharmed. "You sound surprised."

He slid his gun back into his sport coat. "Up until now obedience hasn't exactly been your strong suit."

The smile formed by itself, slow and overly sweet. "If you're interested in obedience, maybe you should get a dog."

"I'll keep that in mind." He stepped closer, urging her back against the concrete wall. "But first I'd like some answers."

Her throat tightened. She could keep her face blank, but there was nothing she could do about the dangerous desire to feel him step even closer. "Did you find him, the man who was about to—"

"Do you have any idea," he asked, and his voice was so ominously quiet her breath caught, "any idea at all what could have happened to you?"

The question did cruel things to her heart. Memory bled through, bringing with it the illusion of concern. For a fractured moment the past eighteen months were gone, and Renee Fox did not exist. She was Savannah again, and this was Cain, coldly furious with her for taking chances that did not need to be taken.

"I thought we already covered that," she said with a bluntness that pleased her. "I was trying to stop someone from shooting you."

"Did it ever occur to you that I welcomed that shot?" he asked, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of his dark gray shirt. "That I was ready?"

She stared at the bulky Kevlar vest, wondered why she hadn't felt it before. "I don't understand."

"There's no reason you should," he shot right back. "My reasons for being here are my business, Renee. Not yours."

All too quickly she realized what she'd walked in on. "You were trying to lure someone into the open."

The planes of his face tightened. "And you, my dear curious reporter, damn near walked into the crossfire."

The reality of that punched. "And would that have been such a bad thing, Detective?" The question came out hoarser than she intended. "Isn't that what you've wanted since the moment we met? Me? Out of the picture?"

The gleam in his eyes went dark. "I'm not a detective anymore,
belle amie
, and there's a difference between out of the picture and dead."

"My point exactly." She lifted her chin. "How could I steal your secrets if you wind up on the wrong side of a bullet?"

From across the public-address system, an excited voice announced that the horses had moved into the gates, but Cain didn't so much as flinch. "And just how do you plan to steal them with me on the right side?" he asked in that same low, hypnotic voice he'd used on the heron in the clearing. "I think that's the better question."

He had no idea. "I'm not worried about that."

Very deliberately, he lifted a hand to her face and rubbed his thumb along her lower lip. "Are you going to kiss them out of me? Is that what this is about?"

A hundred thousand alarms went off simultaneously inside of her, but she made no move to stop the equally slow, equally deliberate smile that curved her mouth. "Would that work?"

"It never has in the past, but if that's what you've got in mind, you're more than welcome to try."

The invitation should not have hurt. Should not have scraped like a betrayal of all they'd once shared. But it did.

She'd spent close to two years mourning this man, even as she read newspaper articles incriminating him in her death. She'd always known he was dangerous, but there was a difference between knowing that and accepting that he could make love to her by morning, only to try and end her life by night.

"You have no idea what I have in mind," she said as the horses broke from the gate.

Cain abandoned her face and bracketed his arms on either side of her. "Don't be so sure about that."

She narrowed her eyes, felt the reinforcement of steel clear down to her toes. Without saying a word, she twisted under his arm and headed for the exit.

"Why didn't you scream?"

The question stopped her cold. She didn't want to turn around, had no intention of turning around, but before she could so much as breathe Cain was by her side, taking her wrist with his hand and urging her to face him.

But she didn't look at him, just stared at an empty, greasy carton that once held French fries, discarded near the turnstiles.

"Answer me." The seduction was gone from his voice, replaced by the razor-sharp edge of the detective hungry for information. "Most women would have screamed when they saw the gun, or shouted for security."

True enough—but Renee hadn't enjoyed that luxury.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes to his. "It takes more than a gun to make me scream."

His mouth curved into a purely carnal smile. "Challenge accepted," he said, and his thumb began to rub the inside of her wrist. "But for now, I want the truth."

She swallowed hard, saw the danger in continuing the game. "I didn't want him to know I saw him!" she said, and yanked her arm from his hand. "There, does that make you happy?"

"You saw him?" The roar of thousands of racing fans filled the track, but there was no mistaking the thunder in Cain's voice. "Did you recognize him? Have you seen him before?"

Renee went very still. She stared up at Cain, but saw only a tall lanky man with sandy-brown hair and moody blue eyes, crouched down with his partner beside a beaten up old sedan they used to cruise the Ninth Ward, ambling along Bourbon as he tried to blend in with tourists, kicked back at Pat O'Brien's with a beer in hand as he joked about exactly what was inside the little room reserved for men at the infertility clinic.

"Tell me," Cain urged, taking her shoulders in his hands. "Who did you see? What did he look like?"

Alec
.

Dear God, she'd seen Alec. Cain's partner. The man he'd served with for over ten years, trusted with his life, loved like a brother. The man who'd turned his back on his family's wealth to serve the public good, who'd adored his wife and stood by his friends. The man who'd found her hurt and bleeding in an alley and held her as he waited for Cain to arrive.

The man who'd recently turned in his badge and walked out on his wife.

But Renee Fox, producer for
True Crime
and stranger to the area, had no way of knowing any of that.

"Tall," she said against a painfully tight throat. "Dark blond hair. A goatee."

Cain tensed. "Eyes?"

"Behind sunglasses."

"What kind of sunglasses?"

"I couldn't tell."

Against her shoulders, Cain's hands tightened. "Anything else? Any kind of distinguishing marks? Clothes?"

She looked into his eyes, felt the desperation blazing there clear down to her toes. He deserved to know, even if the betrayal would destroy him.

"A tattoo," she whispered, despite the fact Alec had worn long sleeves to the track, and as soon as she said the word, she felt the change in Cain, the way he braced himself for the killing blow.

Which she gave him. "On his left forearm."

Cain released her and felt everything inside of him go very tight. He hadn't wanted to believe it, damn it. Had been so sure his informant had been wrong. That coming to the track would turn out to be a wild-goose chase. "Son of a bitch."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Renee lift her hand, felt his blood pump a little harder. She was going to reach out in concern. And he wanted her to, he realized. He wanted to feel her again, craved the human contact in a way that disturbed him. After Savannah died he'd shut himself off and out, trained himself not to want, not to need.

The fact this reporter who wanted to crucify him one day but kissed him the next could make him do both rocked him.

"Does that mean something to you?" she asked, but rather than touching, she reached into her purse and pulled out her keys.

Because he wanted to take her wrist anyway, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "My partner—" he started to say, but stopped before he went too far. "A lot of people have tattoos."

She frowned. "I wish I could have been more help," she said, and sounded like she meant it.

But he couldn't let himself believe, couldn't afford the illusion offered by white flags, no matter how pretty, how soft. "Is that why you followed me?" He let some of his anger show with the question. "In case I needed your help?"

Her eyes flared and he could tell the question caught her off guard. "You think I followed you here?"

He smiled, broad and sure. "I'm sure of it."

"Then I hate to disappoint you, big guy, but I was here to meet an informant."

As far as recoveries went, he'd give her a B+. "Really?"

"Really."

"Then where is he, this informant?"

"Long gone, I'm sure," she said with a contrived look around. "You seem to have that effect on people."

She had no idea. "And just what juicy tidbit did you hope to learn?"

Her shrug was a thing of beauty. "Hard to say since he didn't show."

She was a piece of work, all right, far more intriguing than he'd first realized. In the space of twenty-four hours she'd turned the tables on him, transformed herself from hunted to hunter. It was a bold move, risky, and it made him curious to see what kind of game she was playing.

"Tell you what. I'm going to be at the Golden Pelican tonight." He paused, let a slow smile curve his lips. "You really want to see me in action, join me. I'll be there at nine."

Then without giving her a chance to respond, he turned and walked through the turnstiles. Long strides brought him to his Mercedes. Minutes later, as he cruised down Elysian Fields, two thoughts consumed him: finding Alec, and playing with Renee.

If everything went according to plan, tonight he would achieve both.

With sunset Renee stood in the crowded lobby of the ornate casino her brother had once managed and took it all in—the French Quarter-themed artwork he himself had picked out, the entrance to the museum chronicling the history of Mardi Gras, the stunning statues of Dionysius, Bacchus and an eclectic mix of other Greek and Roman gods celebrating excess. From the buffet the scent of fried fish, oysters and shrimp called to her. It was like coming home, with two very cruel exceptions. Her brother no longer roamed the gaming area, and someone was following her. The prickle of awareness crawled down her spine like a trail of ants, much as it had from the second she left the Fair Grounds.

Slipping her hand into her purse, she closed her fingers around the butt of the .22 she'd bought to replace the one she'd lost the night her life almost ended, and slowly turned around.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
group of college students swarmed by her en route to the gaming room. There had to be at least ten of them, all big and raucous and excited. Clearly their party had already begun. Heart hammering, she worked her way through them, catching glimpses of a man across the lobby as the casino patrons ebbed and flowed around him.

Tall, she noted on a wicked rush. Dark haired. Pretending like hell to read the newspaper in his hands.

The sunglasses were a nice touch.

She released the .22 and slid her hand from her purse, merged with the crowd and squeezed by a cluster of men in business suits. Anticipation zipped through her, just like so many times in the past. He wanted to play? Well, fine. She could play.

But then she stepped around several oversize, overheated tourists and found the spot where her target had stood empty.

Gritting her teeth, she pushed up on her toes and scanned the lobby, saw him moving toward the men's room. She acted fast, not about to let him think he'd gotten away with his little charade.

She caught him just outside the door, reached around a woman in front of her and grabbed the back of his sport coat. "Enjoying yourself?" she asked as the woman scampered away, leaving her pressed against his back.

He went very still. He turned slowly, stared down at her from behind dark, dark sunglasses. His expression was hard, forbidding. His voice was silky. "Should I be?"

She felt the chill immediately, low and slippery like an icy ribbon twisting through her stomach. "You're not—"
Cain
. "I'm sorry," she said with a forced smile. "I thought you were someone else."

He looked down at her hand, still clenched in the fabric of his sport coat. "Would you like me to be?"

The husky words stunned her. They were so … Cain. Everything about this stranger screamed of the same intensity, the same dangerously seductive undercurrent.

"My mistake," she said, releasing the tweed and stepping back.

"My loss."

Her instinct. He wasn't Cain—but something deep inside whispered that he wasn't a stranger, either. That even though she didn't know who he was, he knew damn well who she was.

"We'll see," she said, then flashed an overly bright smile as she turned and slipped into the crowd, confident he watched her every step—it was a cat-and-mouse game Cain had taught her well.