Say You Love Me (21 page)

“He doesn't have a hold on me,” Britta snapped. “No man does.”

Or ever would. He heard the underlying message and wanted to know more. Like why she wouldn't let him get close. “Justice also knows Reverend Cortain.”

“Everyone knows the reverend, Jean-Paul. He's been all over the place—in the papers, on TV.”

“No, I meant he knew him before. From his past.”

Britta's wary gaze swung back to him. “How?”

“Apparently Justice lost his parents in a suicide pact. The pact was made by a religious cult near Black Bayou about thirteen years ago.”

Britta cast her eyes toward the ground. She looked nervous. Shaken. Bothered.

His comments about the pact had obviously struck a nerve. “You know something about the suicide pact, don't you?”

Britta shook her head. “I…maybe I heard about it somewhere. You know how the worst stories are passed around in New Orleans.”

“Stop lying to me, Britta. I need to know the truth.”

* * *

B
RITTA TRIED TO
temper her reaction. But she had no idea that R.J. had been involved in a cult. Had it been similar to the one she'd escaped? Or could it have been the same one?

She searched her memory bank for details. After she'd escaped, she'd lived on the streets. Occasionally, she'd seen a newspaper. Had read something about all those people killing themselves. And she had scanned the names to see if her mother had been listed among them, but she hadn't.

“I did read about the mass suicide in the paper,” Britta finally admitted. “I was only thirteen at the time.”

“Cortain's brother-in-law, Brother Theodore Tatum, apparently led the cult,” Jean-Paul offered.

Britta shuddered at the sound of the man's name. And if Jean-Paul was right, then Reverend Cortain was related to Tatum, the man she'd shot.

Britta began walking again, heading toward her apartment. She hated being out in the open now, exposed. Raw. If Jean-Paul had figured out Justice's past, he would figure out hers, as well.

But Jean-Paul didn't back down. He moved up beside her, keeping pace with her as they threaded their way through the streets. Silent. Waiting for her to open up and offer information.

“Even if Justice's parents did commit suicide because of Cortain,” she finally said, “what would that have to do with these murders?”

Jean-Paul tugged her to the left to avoid a guy on rollerblades. “I don't know yet. Probably the suicide traumatized Justice. Maybe he's killing these women and spinning a religious angle on to it, so he can frame Cortain.”

In a bizarre way, his theory made sense. But why frame Cortain? Because his father convinced R.J.'s parents to kill themselves. Then again, if Jean-Paul spoke the truth, R.J. should hate her, want to punish her, because the people killed themselves out of grief for their leader. The man Britta killed.

“I saw Justice at Cortain's sermon,” Jean-Paul said.

Panic slammed into her. “I didn't think he went to church,” she admitted.

“Like I said, there's a history with Cortain.” He placed his hand at the small of her back as they crossed the intersection. “Has he ever mentioned his background to you?”

She shook her head. “No, we've never talked about it.”

The storm clouds above suddenly darkened. Grew more ominous. A gust of wind shook the trees, the Spanish moss wavering like a ghost had shifted through the branches.

Maybe it had.

If Justice or Cortain had been involved in the original cult, they might know her real identity.

And that she had killed Reverend Tatum. And if Cortain was, he might want to see her dead out of revenge.

M
ARDI
G
RAS WAS ALMOST
upon them. His favorite time of year.

R.J. could feel the excitement mounting. The partiers growing anxious. The costumes and masks becoming more prevalent. The celebration of the New Orleans customs heightening the anticipation in the air.

The city of the dead was truly alive.

Dusk settled across his bedroom, cloaking the corner in shadows of day and night. The woman below him moaned and R.J. settled himself between her legs, trying to find fulfillment when his urges cried out for another woman.

Not the one who lay beneath him. She was a temporary fix.

Soon he would be with Britta. Just to touch her skin, finally show her some of his coveted collections, to have her in his bed…he could hardly stand the wait.

The woman below him wrenched at the bindings around her arms and wrists, the agony of her imprisonment only heightening his sexual drive. She was the second woman he'd taken like this today.

He plucked a feather from his nightstand and traced it over her bare breasts. She whimpered, fighting the pleasure, waiting to see what he did next. He lowered his head and bit her nipple, tasting the sweet droplet of blood that flowed into his mouth. He glanced at the clock, gauging his time. Another hour and he'd be done with her.

Another hour to kill.

He lowered his head and took another bite.

* * *

“S
TAY AWAY FROM
J
USTICE
,” Jean-Paul declared as he and Britta entered her apartment.

Britta shivered at his ominous tone. “That's impossible. He's my boss.” She dropped her keys on the black lacquered end table. “Besides, I told him I'd meet him at the square this evening. We're going to look at that new exhibit in the wax museum.”

Jean-Paul bit back a nasty reply. “It's not safe, Britta. Cancel the meeting.”

“If he
is
your killer, he's not going to do anything to me in public, Jean-Paul.” She fidgeted with the tail end of her stained T-shirt. “And I can take care of myself.”

“I'm sure the other hookers thought the same thing.”

He realized his gaffe a second later when fury flattened her lips into a thin line. “I'm going to take a shower. When I get out, I want you gone.”

“Britta—”

She held up her hand in warning. “Don't apologize, Jean-Paul. You said what you meant.”

“But—”

She cut him off by storming into the bedroom and slamming the door. The lock clicked a second later.

He cursed himself for fouling up with her again. They'd been going rounds ever since they'd met. He'd never win her trust with insults. But dammit he didn't understand her. And she had his emotions in a knot.

The shower water clicked on, unnerving him more as images of Britta assaulted him. Britta naked, her flesh coated in bubbles, warm water running a path over her face, her breasts, her abdomen, then down to her heat. Unable to leave her alone and desperate to understand her, he searched her den. Maybe he'd find some clue as to who she really was. He checked the tiny desk in the corner. More confession letters and notes she'd made about upcoming magazine pieces.

He looked in the end tables, then the drawers on the entertainment unit. A white blanket held several miniature porcelain dolls. He'd seen similar ones at Cathy's; his niece collected them from a local street artist.

Odd. He wouldn't have pegged Britta for a doll collector. Then again, she was the most complex woman he'd ever met. They especially seemed out of place next to the macabre masks and bayou creatures on her walls. Why had she hidden them?

In the next drawer, he discovered a photo album. Britta had claimed she had no family, so he opened it and looked inside. A lone photo of a small child with dark red hair and big eyes stared back. It was Britta. She looked so small and alone that his heart clenched. And with her was a woman, probably in her late twenties, although the misery in her eyes aged her considerably.

Britta's real mother? What had happened to her? Had she died? Or had she abandoned Britta for some reason?

And why did Britta have only one photo? His mother had dozens of albums filled with pictures, along with numerous videos of him and his siblings.

Curious, he checked the next drawer but found it empty. Frustrated, he sat down in her armchair to wait and confront her. But he felt something hard beneath the cushion. He dug underneath and found a velvet-covered book wedged between the cushions. Curious, he examined the outside.

Secret Confessions.

Guilt nagged at him and he started to put it down. But dammit, he had to know more about Britta. Women's lives were at stake.

The first entry described her move to her current apartment. Her excitement over the job. Another described her job interview with R.J. She thought the man was attractive. Enigmatic. Frightening. And the job posed an opportunity that would pay well.

It was also a perfect cover.

He frowned. A cover for what?

Could she possibly be in cahoots with Justice?

Hmm, she didn't go into the details. He skipped a few pages and found an entry about him.

Disturbed by the entry, he skipped over and read another one, this one much different.

* * *

“W
HAT ARE YOU
doing?”

Jean-Paul jerked his head up just as Britta snatched the journal from his hand. “How dare you read my private thoughts.”

The look of utter anger and hurt that lined her face made his chest ache. Dressed in that terry-cloth robe with her hair damp from the shower, she looked young and vulnerable. Then he saw the moisture in her eyes.

“Get out, Detective Dubois. And this time don't come back.”

He started to apologize again, but she rushed to the door, opened it, then tapped her foot, waiting.

He thought about the killer after her. About her initial reaction to the threats. And to
him.
To the fierceness with which she was determined to keep her secrets. To the way she responded to his family and the fact that he'd seen her feeding the homeless. To those tiny little dolls.

To the journal entry where she'd admitted she wanted him.

He could fulfill her sexual fantasy.

And God help him, he wanted to.

But afterwards, he'd have to walk away and that would hurt her.

“I'll leave for now.” He paused and brushed a tendril of wet hair from her cheek. “But I will be back, Britta.” He cupped her face in his hand and forced her chin up, but she tried to turn away. Instead of allowing her that reprieve, he lowered his head and pressed his lips to her mouth. He kissed her so gently his body throbbed for more, but the fact that she didn't reciprocate warned him to stop.

He'd break down that wall with Britta. If anyone knew about darkness, he did. He lived it every day with his job. No grays, just black and white. Right or wrong.

But sometimes there
were
grays…and he was slipping into the murkiness now. Crossing the line with Britta. Wanting her even though he knew she harbored secrets from him. Secrets that might be relevant to the case. That she might have done bad things in the past. That she might be a street girl.

But she wasn't all bad.

He would prove to her that every man wasn't a bastard. That she could trust him with her secrets. That he wouldn't let this crazy man hurt her.

That he'd protect her with his life if he had to.

* * *

B
RITTA CLOSED THE
door behind Jean-Paul, her insides quivering. How much of her journal had Jean-Paul read? Had he seen the notations about her secret fantasy of making love with him? And not just making love, but making a family. And those silly dolls…

But other entries were more damning.

The ones where she'd described D-day—the day she'd died and been reborn?

Outside, the storm clouds moved in front of the window, obliterating the sunlight. Winter screamed its arrival. The dark black sky looked like the empty canvas she'd written about. One void of colors and hope where silence echoed around her.

The phone rang, startling her, and she rushed toward it, half-hoping Jean-Paul was calling, that he'd insist he'd take care of her. But leaning on him would be too easy….

The caller ID read out-of-area. She frowned and almost turned away, but remembered that the killer's number hadn't shown up before. No reason for it to now.

Bracing herself, she answered. “Hello.”

“I have made another offering.”

Britta tightened the robe around her waist. “Who are you? Why don't you just tell me your name?”

“You know me. You just don't want to admit it.”

She glanced out the window to see if someone was outside, watching her, but no one seemed visible from the street in front of Naked Desires.

“Where are you now?”

“I'm close by.” The voice was whispered. Muffled. “Watching you. Waiting.”

She scanned the building across from her and detected movement in an apartment on the corner. The curtain shifted and she thought she saw a shadow move. Then it disappeared and there was nothing.

“Are you across the street?” she asked.

His breathing wheezed out. “Only four more days until Mardi Gras, Adrianna. Until the final sacrifice.”

She shivered and sank onto the sofa. Adrianna? He knew who she was. Had known her in her former life.

Someone from the clan. Maybe the boy she had run away from…. But he was dead, wasn't he? His name had been listed in the paper among the suicide victims.

She opened her mouth to call him by name, but the phone clicked into silence. Barely a minute had passed. Probably not long enough to trace, although it had felt like forever. And she'd learned nothing helpful to tell Jean-Paul—nothing except that another woman was dead.

Shaking with helpless fury, she punched in his number. “Jean-Paul?”

“Britta?”

“He just called again. He's killed another woman.”

His heavy sigh reverberated with frustration. “I'll see if we got a trace. Did he give any indication where she is?”

“No.”

“I'll be right there.”

“There's no need. I'm all right.” Britta dropped her head into her hands. “Just find the girl, Jean-Paul.”

Silence stretched for a painful heartbeat. “All right. But I'll send a uniform by. Stay put and keep your doors locked.”

Britta hung up, then once again walked to the window and stared out. Stay put?

No, she couldn't do that. She had to help him find this murderer. He knew her real name. Knew her past. Knew that she was a killer herself.

That was the reason he'd called her. He thought she'd understand.

Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away. He was wrong. She had shot Reverend Tatum out of fear. Self-preservation. And not a day had passed by that she hadn't felt the weight of guilt upon her.

But this man…he had no conscience. He killed innocent women for the game. In the name of sacrifice. And he wouldn't stop until they caught him.

Jean-Paul thought R.J. might be involved. If he had lost parents to the clan, if he was taunting her now, she'd find out that, too.

Jean-Paul would say it was too dangerous. But maybe she could assuage the guilt of the other girls' murder if she could prevent another.