Midnight Caller (25 page)

R
ain avoided the reproachful glare of the officer on duty, aware her escape had probably earned him a dressing-down from his superior at the NOPD. She took to the staircase and headed upstairs, but not before she heard Trevor dismiss the man for the rest of the evening.

Inside the bathroom, she turned on the shower and let it heat while she peeled off her clothes. The canal's brackish scent hung on her skin, just as her mind held tight to the image of motionless bodies lying on the ground. They'd had a close call tonight, with the car chase and the risk Trevor had taken to free the truck's passenger. It occurred to her the driver who'd fled the scene could have shot either of them— Trevor when he was distracted by the injured female, or Rain herself when he'd run past. On edge, she stepped under the sanctuary of the hot spray and tried to shut out the night's events.

She emerged from the bathroom a short time later wrapped in her chenille bathrobe. Trevor stood in the bedroom doorway, his broad shoulders silhouetted by the golden light emanating from the hall behind him. He walked slowly to her. Wordlessly, he laced his fingers in her wet hair, tangling them in the long strands. His mouth covered hers and Rain
clung to him through the smooth cotton of his dress shirt. She shivered as his kiss banished all other thought.

Afterward, he continued holding her in his arms.

“I could use a shower, too,” he said finally, his breath warm against the top of her head. “I left my bag here, so I should have a change of clothes.”

“Go ahead. I'll go down to the kitchen and see if I can find us something to eat.” Rain pulled gently from his embrace, but he caught her hand.

“The cop's gone—he won't be back until noon tomorrow when I have to leave,” he said quietly. “It's just us.”

As he led her back into the bathroom, Rain began to understand what he had in mind. He turned on the showerhead, and she helped him remove his shirt, her hands trembling slightly as she undid the buttons. While she worked, Trevor untied the sash of her robe, easing the garment from her shoulders until it pooled at her feet. She was naked underneath, her skin still flushed and glowing from her shower.

Apparently, she would join him as he took his.

Once he was naked and they'd both stepped under the warm, pummeling jets, Trevor tipped up her chin, his head lowering and his mouth gliding over hers. Rain stood on tiptoe, her arms looped around his shoulders and her breasts pressed against his water-slicked chest as they kissed. The feel of his male hardness was thrilling. Trevor's hands roamed over her, cupping her buttocks, slowly turning her until her back was pressed against the stall's tiles. He'd brought a condom into the shower with them, and he put it on.

Rain's breathing grew shallow as she stared up into his serious, beautiful eyes. The car accident had rocked him as much as it had her, she realized.

“Trevor,” she said softly. “I—”

He wasn't interested in talking. His mouth came down on hers again, his lips firm and demanding, his tongue exploring.
Rain's arms tightened around his neck as he lifted her, moving between her legs. She gasped with the shock of it as he entered her, sinking deeply into her core.

“Oh, God,” Rain whispered, her eyes closing and her legs wrapping around his hips. Bracing one arm against the wall over Rain's head, Trevor thrust into her, over and over again.

The cloud of steam enveloped them, water pounded on their skin. Head back, mouth open, she felt the spray on her face as Trevor pushed them both to the edge. His teeth nipped at her shoulder, gently biting. It didn't matter if he was using her to block out the car crash, the injured young adults. Their lovemaking attested that they were both still alive.

Their climax came almost in unison. Rain came hard as Trevor gave a last grunting thrust. His mouth silenced her cry of pleasure. Breathless himself, after several long seconds he allowed her feet to touch the tiled shower floor again. She held on to him, her legs shaking from their sensual encounter. His fingers toyed with her breasts.

Their mouths joined. They stayed together, lost in each other's embrace until the water began to run cold.

A short time later, Rain returned from the kitchen, once again in her robe. She carried a tray with dense brown bread, cheese and cold cuts, fruit and two bottles of water. Trevor sat on the edge of the bed, talking on the bedroom phone. Having located his duffel bag, he'd changed into sweatpants and a well-worn Georgetown T-shirt. She waited until he disconnected the call before placing the tray on the coverlet.

“I called the hospital,” he told her. “The male had extensive internal injuries. He was confirmed DOA. The female's in ICU on a ventilator. It turns out she's also about eight weeks pregnant.”

Seeing his troubled expression, Rain eased down beside him. “Trevor—”

“I talked to the NOPD, too. They got a registration on the truck. It belonged to Armand Baptiste.”

Armand was a pied piper in the goth community. It made sense he'd used others to do his bidding instead of chancing capture himself. Rain wondered, had he been trying to exact some revenge against Trevor?

“Do you really think he could be Dante?”

“The evidence from the Ascension is pretty significant, but I still don't know.” He looked at her. “Regardless, until we close this case, you're still in danger.”

 

The sheets were turned back and the nearly empty tray of food placed between them on the bed. Rain had changed into pajama bottoms and a lace-edged camisole. She sat cross-legged, slicing an apple with a sharp paring knife. Although she busied herself with the task at hand, she'd been watching Trevor carefully. He'd been contemplative since making the calls to the hospital and police.

“Want to tell me what's on your mind?” she asked, tentative.

He studied the bottled water in his hand. “Your conversation with Annabelle.”

Rain put the knife and what was left of the apple on the tray. They'd been on the verge of discussing the things his sister had told her when the truck had raced up behind them. “It's the girl on the ventilator, isn't it? She's making you think about your own…injury.”

Trevor set the bottle on the nightstand. Moments passed before he spoke.

“I can remember waking up and being attached to that machine,” he confessed. “There was a tube down my throat, forcing air in and out of my lungs. It was the worst thing…”

He shook his head at the recollection. Touched that he'd
opened up to her, Rain reached for his hand and waited for him to continue.

“Even once I was off the ventilator, my mind and my body…they weren't working…right. The things I wanted to say weren't coming out of my mouth.” Trevor's eyes darkened. “I hated all of it. The weakness, the loss of control over my life.”

“You were young and strong. You
recovered,
” Rain reminded gently. “You survived a tragedy that would've destroyed most people.”

But she also asked herself, had he really? While Trevor had managed to overcome the most obvious damage, she realized there were deeper emotional scars he'd kept hidden far too long.

“How much do you really remember about that day? About what happened with your father?”

Shrugging, he gazed down at her fingers entwined with his. “I get scenes from time to time. Just random bits and pieces.”

“Have the memories been more frequent since you came home?” Rain saw her answer in his face. She moved the tray away and slid closer to him, tracing soft patterns against his back through his T-shirt. He bowed his head.

“Despite what Annabelle told you, I don't blame her and Brian. They did what they had to.”

She nodded her understanding. “I know.”

“Brian found her in the bathroom, after she cut herself.” His voice lowered into a rasp. He swallowed, trying to control his emotions. “Did Anna tell you that? Brian was just twelve. I should've been here—”

“Trevor,” Rain murmured. “I'm so sorry, for all of you.”

“She tried to kill herself…because of what happened to me.”

“You don't know that,” she reasoned. “There were other
issues involved. There's a lot of confusion and guilt that goes with sexual abuse, especially when the perpetrator is a family member—”

“What that bastard did to Anna wasn't her fault,” he said angrily.

“Of course not.” She stroked his forearm. “But it wasn't
yours,
either. Trevor, did Annabelle receive counseling? After the suicide attempt?”

“She's had years of therapy. Brian's been in addiction treatment, too.”

“What about you? Have you ever talked to anyone?”

His expression grew shuttered. “I get regular mental-health screenings through the FBI. It's a job requirement.”

“It's not the same thing,” she countered. “They're only checking to make sure you can handle the pressures of your job. What I mean is, have you ever discussed your childhood or your trauma specifically?”

She felt his near-physical wince beside her. “I told Brian already…I just don't see a reason to dredge things back up. I don't need any couch time. I know you believe in all that—”

“I more than
believe
in it, Trevor. It's what I do.”

He fell silent, rubbing his palms over his thighs.

“If you don't feel anything, you don't hurt.” Her quiet revelation caused him to look into her eyes. “It's why you've distanced yourself from your brother and sister. From anyone who cares about you. But don't you see? That kind of detachment is no way to live.”

He stared at her for a long time, his expression as open as Rain had ever seen it. Then he slowly brushed the still-damp hair back from her face and drew her against him. Rain found comfort in the solidness of his body and the clean, soapy smell of his skin. She could help him, she knew it. If he'd only stop running long enough to allow himself to heal. New
Orleans was the catalyst that had brought back the memories he'd worked so hard to repress. But once the case was closed, what then? Rain suspected he wouldn't be able to leave the city quickly enough. She felt an ache inside her chest.

“What I said earlier…I didn't mean to insult what you do,” he tried to explain. “I'm not thinking clearly. I guess I'm just wiped out.”

“Then
sleep
with me tonight.” She caressed the strong line of his jaw. “The security alarm's set downstairs and you've changed the pass code. You don't have to stay up and keep watch. We'll be fine.”

After a moment, he nodded in agreement. Trevor stretched out his free arm to check his gun that he'd laid on the nightstand. Then he reached for the lamp and clicked it off, bathing the room in darkness.

Rain was tired, too. She tugged the covers over their bodies, then settled beside him and shut her eyes. As the last vestiges of consciousness began to abandon her, Trevor pulled her closer.

“I care about you, Rain,” he whispered. “God help me, but I do.”

 

Armand Baptiste shoved his hands into the pockets of his wrinkled trousers to hide their tremor. The cocaine he'd snorted earlier was causing him to sweat, making his clothing damp and his palms clammy.

His shoes left indentations in the room's plush carpeting as he paced its considerable length. He walked to the ornately curtained windows, careful to avert his gaze from the massive jowls and sharp teeth of the animal heads mounted on the paneled walls. Oil paintings in gilded frames depicted gory hunting scenes, and an actual coat of medieval armor stood guard in the corner. The room was ostentatious, even by
his
standards.

He bristled at the unfairness. His own assets had been frozen and his comfortable French Quarter home placed under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Two nights ago, he'd barely made it out a back door of the Ascension as law enforcement swarmed the club. Since then, he'd been taking refuge among those in his world who would harbor him. But it was only a matter of time until someone turned him in for the reward. What he needed was money and an escape route, both of which the man behind the desk could easily provide.

“You've gotten yourself into a fair amount of trouble, Armand. What do you want from me?” The voice was distinguished and well-bred, and the green eyes behind spectacles stared at Armand with a slightly bored expression, as if he were a bug that required squashing.

“I need cash.” Armand dug out a cigarette and held it between trembling fingers. “Enough to get out of the country and stay out—”

“Do I need to remind you of the artwork in here that won't tolerate smoke? You of all people should know that.”

Armand stuffed the cigarette back inside his pocket. He felt his hold on his temper crumbling like old paper. His life had fallen apart and he was being told not to smoke? It was clear he was being toyed with—the room held the fermented aroma of Cuban cigars. A vintage humidor even sat on the desk, its oiled wood top gleaming in the light from the chandelier overhead.

“Are you going to help me or not?”

The green eyes regarded him coolly. “And if I don't?”

Armand gulped. But he didn't look away, the cocaine in his system boosting his nerve.

“Then I'll make a deal with the FBI.” His voice rose fractionally. “I'll tell them what your progeny was doing at my club.”

The threat hung in the air like smoke from a fire. The other man templed his manicured fingers in front of him, causing the emerald eyes of the serpent-like ring to flash. Sweat rolled down Armand's neck and into his collar, but he continued.

“I saw him, you know. I saw him with the first girl, and then a few days later with the second one. He took them outside and he put them in your fucking Mercedes, Carteris. They suspect
me
of the murders because of what I was importing for
you.
I never asked what you wanted the reproductions for—”