Say You Love Me (16 page)

“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” Damon said.

Jean-Paul thanked him, then stepped outside the shanty for fresh air and phoned Britta. He let it ring a half-dozen times, then checked his watch. Almost four o'clock. Hell, what was he thinking? She was probably tucked in bed, sound asleep.

Still, his nerves jangled with worry.

The CSU finished their tasks, the minutes crawling by. Another team had been dispatched to search the antebellum mansion near the shanty. One of the locals went into a tirade at Damon's arrival, but Jean-Paul cut him off. To hell with pride and jockeying over jurisdiction; they needed all the help they could get.

Damon took one look at the crime scene and muttered, “For the love of God.”

“I know. Scary, isn't it?” Jean-Paul commented.

Damon nodded. “I want notes on every detail about the crime scene, the victims, any other evidence you've collected so far.”

“You've got it.”

“Do you have any suspects?” Damon asked.

Jean-Paul explained about the CD. “So far we've questioned Randy Swain, a local singer, R. J. Justice, the publisher of
Naked Desires
, and a photographer who sent Britta a personal message through her column. Justice's alibi for the night of the first murder checks out. Swain said he was alone working on a song. And the photographer claims he was in his darkroom.”

“But you have nothing concrete on any of them.”

Jean-Paul grunted. “Afraid not. My partner's supposed to get back to me on the search at Swain's place. Maybe you can run the handwriting sample through your guys. So far, we haven't matched it to any of our suspects.”

“Sure. I also did some checking after you called,” Damon said. “It turns out there have been a few cases with similar MOs over the past few years.”

“Where?”

“Three murders in Savannah, Georgia, two years ago. They all occurred within a seven-day period, prior to the big St. Patrick's Day Parade.” Damon removed a note pad and glanced at his notes. “Another similar group of murders occurred last year on the outskirts of Nashville the week leading up to Easter.”

Jean-Paul rocked back on the balls of his feet. “Why didn't we hear about them?”

“Stories got buried and never made national news.”

“Because the victims were prostitutes,” Jean-Paul said in disgust. “As if the girls didn't have families or deserve justice.”

“You know how it works. Police are understaffed. They have priorities…” Damon rubbed at the back of his neck.

“We need to see if Swain or Justice was in either of those cities around that time.”

“I'll get someone on it,” Damon said. “You mentioned that the killer contacted the Berger woman?”

Jean-Paul nodded again. “He sent her a photo of the first murder, then called to tell her he had another woman.”

Damon narrowed his eyes. “How much do you know about this woman?”

He knew she was beautiful. That she was a liar. That she was hiding from someone. That she had secrets. That she had him all twisted up inside.

That although she was nothing like Lucinda, he wanted her anyway.

“She's a loner. Has no family. Claims she has no former boyfriends or lovers that could be after her. Says she has no idea why this guy chose to contact her, except for her column.”

“He wants the attention,” Damon said.

“Yeah, but that's not all. His message was personal. He said he knows her secrets.”

Damon raised a suspicious brow.

Jean-Paul leaned against the doorjamb. “Britta Berger isn't her real name,” he admitted. In fact, he still hadn't figured that one out, although he'd searched. “She told me she lived with foster parents and assumed the name of the daughter after she and her parents died in a car accident.”

Damon frowned. “Was there an investigation into the accident?”

Jean-Paul nodded. “No foul play.”

“Do you think she's lying?”

Hell if
he
knew. “The Bergers were foster parents and took in a number of kids. I'm still looking into it. Why? Do
you
know something about her?”

Damon hesitated, his controlled expression not giving anything away. “Her name's come up before.”

“What do you mean?” Jean-Paul asked.

“We have a special team investigating prostitution rings.”

Jean-Paul sucked in a sharp breath. “How is Britta connected?”

“My guys have seen her on the streets. Word is that one of the pimps has it in for her because she tried to get out of the business.”

His brother's words hit Jean-Paul in the gut like a fist. Britta had been a prostitute. If that was her secret, then she might have lied about knowing the victims.

He had to see her. He was sick of her lies and secrets. This time he'd damn well make her tell him the truth.

Even if he didn't want to hear it.

* * *

B
RITTA WAS TREMBLING
as she climbed from the taxi in front of her apartment. Things hadn't gone well after she'd left. She'd found another girl and had barely escaped with her.

She rubbed her arm and wished she'd brought her compact so she could hide the new bruise under her eye. But thankfully, no one would see her tonight. She would hide out in her apartment, then cover up the hazardous results of violence in the morning.

The Mardi Gras festivities continued around her as she reached for keys to open the door. A shadow caught her eye and dread suffused her. She turned and scanned the crowd, searching for the photographer, but instead, Jean-Paul Dubois stood in front of the entrance to her apartment.

Her breath caught at his tightly set mouth. Then the truth dawned. “You found the missing woman?”

He nodded, pain, then disapproval and anger darkening his eyes. “Let's go inside. We have to talk.”

She grabbed his arms, desperate for answers, for the madness to end, but he coaxed her forward. “Inside,” he barked.

She dropped her keys on the stoop and he yanked them up, opened the door, then half dragged her up the flight of steps.

She balked and tugged at his hands to release her. “What's wrong with you, Jean-Paul?”

“I spent half the night slugging my way through the swamps to try and save another victim. But I found her naked, brutalized, murdered and left for the gators. I'm exhausted, angry, frustrated—and sick to death of your lies.”

He vaulted inside, leaving her to either join him or stay in the dark hallway. Remembering her attire and fresh bruises, she turned to leave. She'd go to R.J.'s, wait until Jean-Paul calmed down.

“Don't even think about running again,” he snapped. “You say you want to help stop these murders, then get in here now.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line and stepped into the foyer. He had no idea what she'd been through tonight. And yes, she wanted to help.
But—

“My brother works for the FBI.” He swung around and pierced her with laser eyes. “He claims to know a few things about you. Things you failed to mention.”

Alarm strummed through her nerve endings. “What things?”

He towered over her, scowling, so angry she felt the tension vibrating from his big body. She fought the urge to back away. Then his gaze zeroed in on her face. To the bruise.

“Dammit, Britta.” His voice thickened. “I didn't want to believe it, but it's true, isn't it?”

Her chest ached. She was tempted to beg him to help her, to trust her and not condemn her. But he'd already tried and convicted her.

“You tell me,” she said, her breath whisking out with anger.

“It's obvious. Just look how you're dressed. I'm not an idiot.” A muscle ticked in his jaw as he reached up and touched her cheek. It was throbbing so badly moisture burned her eyes. She needed ice and aspirin, not questions.

“You
would
think that,” she said quietly.

He trailed his finger downward to pull at the lacy ties of her teddy and her body betrayed her by tingling in response.

“What else can I think?” He dropped his hand, then plastered it to his side. He looked so upset that she wanted to explain, to convince him to listen to her side.

But if she did, his image of her would be tainted forever. And then he'd walk away, maybe even decide that she deserved to face the wrath of the swamp devil.

“What does it matter?” she said. “When you catch this psycho, you'll go back to your life. And I won't be any part of it.”

Tension crackled through the air, hot and steamy as the mist from the bayou. Hurt tainted his expression. But desire flickered in his eyes, as well.

Desire that mirrored her own desperate need tonight. She wanted—needed—someone to banish the sordid images of the streets. The lost girls. The meanness and sick lust of the more depraved.

And so did Jean-Paul.

“Maybe I don't want you to wind up like the others,” he said in a gruff voice.

“Or maybe you're just exhausted and frustrated and need some comfort,” she said softly.

Unable to stop herself, she inched closer to him, so close her skin brushed his. His gaze flickered with heat. His eyes fell to the mound of cleavage her glittery top revealed. This time she didn't sense disapproval, only the heady ache of wanting his touch. Of him wanting hers in return. Her nipples hardened, straining against the flimsy fabric, begging for his mouth.

She licked her dry lips. “Jean-Paul—”

His mouth suddenly closed over hers, the raw need in his kiss so powerful his body shuddered as she raised her hands and shoved them into his hair. He threaded one hand behind her neck, the other around her waist, then plunged his tongue between her lips. White-hot fire speared her from head to toe as he deepened the kiss. As if he couldn't get close enough, he moved his hand to her breast and kneaded the mound before he dragged his mouth down to her neck, licked the sensitive skin of her earlobe, then trailed fiery kisses down her neck. She throbbed all over. Her legs buckled as he ripped open the ties holding the top together, then dipped his tongue to tease her nipples.

She moaned, low and throaty, and he drew her right nipple into his mouth and sucked it greedily while his hands played along her spine.

Outside, a shout rang out and something shattered against the window frame. He jerked back, shoved her down to her knees, then stared at her as if he was in a daze. They'd both lost control. “Cover up,” he ordered.

With a muttered curse, he strode to the window.

Her heart pounded with unsated desire, regret, fear. She wanted him so badly her body trembled.

His breathing hissed in the silence and she followed him to the window and glanced outside. A group of staggering roughhousers had tossed beer bottles at the door.

“I'll get rid of them.”

“No. They're just drunk,” she said, her pulse racing. “They'll go away.”

He waited a fraction of a second and the guys staggered down the street. But Jean-Paul didn't move to touch her again. She reached for him anyway, knowing he needed the release, that they both needed something physical tonight, that she wanted him more than she'd ever wanted a man. That she was finally ready to give herself to passion. “Please, Jean-Paul. I know you want me.”

He pushed her away and shook his head, his expression tormented. “Sure. Part of me does, but the other part wants to know the real woman. Not the one you call by a dead woman's name. Not the one who hides under that makeup and hooker garb. Not the one who probably spent her night with another man.” He swiped his hand across his mouth as if to wipe away her kiss. “Or
men.
”

Hurt and humiliation seeped through her. “You wouldn't like the real woman, either.”

“Why don't you let me be the judge?” He rubbed a finger along her arm, stirring her arousal more. “Trust me, Britta.”

“Don't you see? I don't want a judge and jury,” she whispered.

“I can help you,” he said in a gruff voice. “At least get you out. Save you from your pimp, from becoming like the others.”

She lifted her chin, the heartache she'd lived with for years so intense that her courage waned. He thought she was a hooker. If he knew the truth, he would still walk away. And then she'd pay the price of being a fool for believing him. For trusting.

“It's too late for me,” she whispered. “I can't be saved.”

He shook his head in denial. “It's never too late.”

“Go back to your perfect family,” she said, certain now that she couldn't allow her heart to get involved. And with Jean-Paul it would be so easy for her to fall in love. “You know I would never fit in with the Dubois family.”