Say You Love Me (24 page)

Thank God the police hadn't found anything on him earlier. Lucky for him. Just as he'd get lucky tonight. He could have his pick of women. Take one or all of them to bed if he wanted.

Damn if his dick wasn't hard as a rock just thinking about it.

He'd screw them, then send them on their way without having to make a commitment. So different from before when he'd been nothing but a poor old country boy with nerdy glasses.

He was no longer that nerdy country boy.

In fact, no one he'd known before would even recognize him. He'd squashed that loser identity and taken on a new persona.

“I could never be with a guy like you,” one girl had told him.

He'd been so mad he'd wanted to strangle the life from her.

Anger tore through him, vile and hot, and he found himself squeezing the neck of the beer so hard his fingers ached.

What would that girl say if she saw him now, surrounded by young and beautiful women always touching him, wanting him?

“Come on, Randy,” a brunette pleaded in his ear. “Dance with me tonight.”

A blonde wearing red stilettos and a top opened down to her navel brushed her tits over his chest. “No, take me, Randy. You know you want me.”

He grinned and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, then pulled the brunette onto his lap.

“What if I want you both?” he growled.

They giggled together as if a threesome was right up their alley. He planted a kiss on the blonde's mouth, then slid his hand down the brunette's thigh. He'd pleasure them both tonight if they wanted. He already had his condoms.

Then he'd add their names to his list of conquests. The shrine to Randy Swain he called it.

The face of the girl who'd denied him long ago flashed in his mind and adrenaline pumped through his system. One day he'd let her know he was here in New Orleans.

And she'd be sorry she'd turned him down when he was done with her.

* * *

O
N THE OUTSKIRTS
of town where the fresh scents of the bayou heated the chilly wintry air, Hilda Holliday listened to Reverend Cortain's sermon with an open heart. She missed her girl Ginger like the dickens and wished she could bring her back. But Cortain was right. Ginger had moved on to another place. Was resting now with the angels. Had the purity back in her soul.

A stiff wind bit at her neck and face, the shrill whistle of the gators echoed through the spiny trees and limbs protecting the secrets of the backwater folks. The bonfire popped and crackled, lighting up the black sky with flickers of orange and yellow that danced in symphony with the words their leader belted out to the heavens.

Hilda latched hands with Elvira Erickson's mother. She'd come to another special prayer service that the good preacher had organized. This one for the latest victim, some girl named Sissy Lecher.

Winifred Schmale clung to her other hand. She had poured out her heart, crying that her daughter had run away. They had all prayed that the girl was safe. That she wouldn't fall prey to the demons roaming the streets.

Reverend Cortain strolled by, arms raised, his black robe waving in the wind like a bat's wings as he pressed his hands above their heads and stopped to murmur kind words.

The women knelt at his feet, grateful that someone so connected to their savior understood their pain.

They had to rid the town of the sinners who were taking over. He would show them the way. Tell them how to extinguish the evil that was pervading the town.

And they would do whatever he said.

* * *

B
RITTA HUDDLED IN
the comfort of Jean-Paul's car, but the silence on the ride to her apartment was strained. She had to make Jean-Paul talk instead of just staring at her so intently. “Do you think a night in jail will make R.J. confess?” And would he reveal her sins, as well?

“Who knows? I'll look at those tapes tonight. Maybe they'll prove something.”

Britta frowned, doubts still plaguing her. But the memory of the knife blade pressed to her throat returned, vivid and haunting. “I just want this to be over.”

Jean-Paul muttered agreement, his shoulders stiffening with tension. She itched to comfort him. But she had no right.

Still, she'd never felt such an emotional connection with anyone. Never wanted to risk giving part of herself away.

Or confiding the truth about her past.

Would it make a difference in the case? He already had uncovered the connection to the cult. They were investigating Reverend Cortain. And they knew that R.J.'s parents had died in that suicide pact.

Jean-Paul parked in front of her building. “I'll walk you up, then I'm going to check out those tapes.”

Britta pressed a hand to his cheek. “I'm okay alone, Jean-Paul.”

He cut off the engine and turned to her. An odd look settled in his eyes. Concern? Hunger? “Tell me the truth, Britta.”

Her hand stilled. The truth about her name? Her past?

“What would you have done if I hadn't shown up at Justice's?”

She licked her dry lips. “What do you mean?”

“Would you have slept with him?”

The air collected in her lungs, but she had to be honest. “No. How could I when there's another man in my head now?” She took a deep breath, her chest aching. “When it's you I want touching me?”

His breath whooshed out. “Britta…”

“You don't have to say it back, Jean-Paul. I…didn't mean to push you.”

“It's the case…there's too much at stake.” Jean-Paul rubbed his hands over his face but he didn't touch her. Disappointment filled Britta but she quickly squashed it.

What had she expected?

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL FISTED HIS HANDS
beside him so he wouldn't take Britta into his arms. The silence between them yawned long and tense. His blood heated at the simmering way her eyes rested upon his face. He saw the hunger. And her admission…God, it fueled his desire.

She was so tempting.

He had nearly come unglued when he'd seen her with Justice. The man was a predator and had his fangs bared for Britta. She thought she could take care of herself, but the other swamp devil's victims had probably felt the same way.

He had to go to the station and interrogate Justice, push him for that confession.

He wanted to follow Britta upstairs and make love to her instead. Make them both forget the horrors of the investigation that had brought them together.

Still, she was in danger and another woman might already have fallen into the hands of the killer.

Outside, the street hummed with activity. He scanned the area to verify that no one was waiting for Britta. A group of religious protesters marched in front of a pub, two hookers sashayed by in shocking red outfits and a group of bikers chugged beer. A young teenage girl in jeans and a pink T-shirt sporting the word
Princess,
stared silently from a table—by herself, looking helpless and scared. A runaway?

Maybe. But it wasn't Debra, the girl he was looking for.

He climbed out and walked Britta inside her building. That damn light was out again, so they fumbled up the steps in the dark.

Britta unlocked the door to her apartment, then flipped on a small lamp. A warm glow permeated the drafty room.

“Thanks for bringing me home, Jean-Paul.”

His gaze fell to her face. She looked worried, vulnerable, frightened. And she'd admitted she wanted him.

Unable to stop himself, he tilted her chin toward him, and lowered his head. “You have no idea what it did to me when I saw Justice touching you. And then when I saw that sword…”

His breath hissed out, then he closed his lips over hers and kissed her. Need rose like a demon inside him, hungry, raw, desperate. She tasted like sin and sweetness all rolled together, like the finest pinot noir, one that had suffered, yet blossomed and aged to be a blend of sensual, erotic taste.

She kissed him back, plunging her tongue into his mouth, and his blood heated. He shoved his hands into her hair, then dragged her up against him. Her lush breasts brushed his chest. Even through the flimsy fabric of her blouse, he felt her nipples stiffen. Desire surged through him, battling with reality.

But hunger won.

He traced his tongue down her neck, suckling and biting her gently while she tunneled one hand into his hair. A hungry whimper erupted from her, fueling him even more. He cupped her breasts into his hands, his cock throbbing. She leaned her neck back and flicked open the buttons to her blouse, offering her tantalizing cleavage. He felt like a starving man as he nipped at the black lacy bra, then miraculously realized the garment had a front clasp. He popped it open, awed as her breasts spilled into his hands.

“God, you're beautiful,” he growled.

She ran her hands over his back, her chest heaving as he licked one nipple, then drew it into his mouth. He suckled her until she writhed against him. He traced kisses to the other nipple, running his tongue in circles around her aureole.

“Jean-Paul, that feels wonderful.” She shoved at his jacket until he tossed it off, then quickly unbuttoned his shirt. They were like two wild animals—lust stricken, hungry, possessed.

It had never been like this with Lucinda.

The thought of her name drove a nail of guilt through his conscience and he slowed his movements.

“Please don't stop, Jean-Paul.” Passion laced her whispered voice. “Please, I need you.”

And he needed her, too, like he'd never wanted or needed another woman. But he still didn't know the truth about her past.

Did it matter?

He knew he wanted her. That she was in danger. That he didn't intend to let anyone hurt her.

She trailed kisses down his neck, teasing him with her tongue. Down his torso. Lower. She reached for his zipper and he moaned. His cock was so hard that he thought he might explode.

“Let me taste you,” she whispered as she rubbed her hand over his shaft.

He groaned again, then shook his head and backed her against the wall, tugging at her skirt until he had it up around her waist. He kissed her again—hard, long, desperate—then slid his fingers inside her panties.

“Jean-Paul…”

He caught her cry of pleasure with his kiss as he moved his fingers inside her. She bucked upward, a tremor rippling through her. He flipped them around, so his back was against the wall and he could see her in the wall-length mirror in the foyer. His own wild-eyed expression shocked him. Blood pumped through him as he imagined tearing off her panties and her legs wrapping around him while he pounded himself inside her.

The realization that he hadn't even shut the door behind them shocked him into reality.

What the hell was he doing? Attacking her as if he was some street thug who couldn't even take her to bed?

He had a damn suspect waiting for him and a girl was missing.

Slowly, he removed his fingers from her folds, then lowered her skirt and grabbed her hands. “Britta, stop.”

Her breath rasped against his cheek. “Please, Jean-Paul, I want you.”

He leaned his forehead against her, struggling for control. “
Bon Dieu, chere,
I want you, too.”

Still he set her away from him, refused to look at her. “I have go, though…Question Justice….” He grabbed his jacket, rammed his hand through his hair and rushed to the door.

“Jean-Paul?” Her voice sounded small. Uncertain. Still quivering with passion.

“I'm sorry, Britta.” His head spun with confusion as he stepped through the door. He paused, tormented by leaving her. But he couldn't stay, so he closed the door behind him.

The image of him taking Britta against the wall dogged him as he drove back to the station. Dammit, he'd never treated his wife that way. But Britta was different. She aroused more than just the need to have sex. She stirred his animal instincts. And deeper, more primal emotions.

Emotions he wasn't ready to deal with now.

They had no future.

He couldn't trust her. Hell, he'd seen her wearing street garb like a hooker. He had to end the craziness before he allowed her to totally seduce him.

His stomach knotted. Maybe they could just have sex.

If it was just sex, then they would both be free to move on when the case ended. There would be no commitment.

Acid burned his throat at the thought. No, he couldn't do it.

If he made love to Britta, she couldn't go from his bed to another's.

* * *

H
E WATCHED THROUGH
the window, his blood hot, spiked with fever. Britta Berger—no, his Adrianna—had almost made love to that fuckhead detective. Anger churned through him. She'd let the man maul her like a common tramp. Hadn't even bothered to close the door. As if she wanted the whole world to see her half-naked, writhing and begging to be fucked.