Say You Love Me (25 page)

Now she leaned against the door, her face flushed, her breasts still exposed, the dark brown tips wet from Dubois's mouth.

A bellow of rage swelled within him. Once she'd acted like such an innocent, had pretended to be a good girl. Had had such innocent eyes. And she'd run from him like he was a monster.

She had to be punished.

And so did Dubois.

She folded her arms in front of her chest as if suddenly realizing her shame, then rushed to the bedroom and stripped her clothes off. He watched, horny. Angry. His body steeped in rage.

She would go out now.

He knew her routine. She hadn't been satisfied. The streets beckoned her each night, begging her to return to the den of inequity that had been her home for years.

Britta—
no,
Adrianna—belonged with the creatures of the night. The vixen.

Her prim persona was only a disguise.

Tonight, she would head toward the red-light district. She had desires that hadn't been sated.

He rubbed his hand down his cock, feeling the life pulse between his fingers. His fury fed his erection.

Soon he would find her and satisfy her dark side.

He could almost hear her soft whimpers. See her lying tied to his bed. Exhausted but hanging on to hope that she'd escape.

But he'd never release her.

He imagined shaping her face in his mind. Molding the mask to her features. Painting her eyes. Mixing just the perfect shades of white and pink, of brown and gold for her irises. And black, lots of black for when her pupils dilated as fear bled into her.

He thought of the other faces he'd created and his pulse clamored. Once he shaped the features, painted on the details, the mask would set. Harden. Grow cold.

Just as their bodies did in death.

Yes, soon Adrianna would pay. He could see her eyes—wide open in death.

He could feel her sweet, hot blood dripping between his fingers.

B
RITTA'S HEART SWELLED
with emotion as she lathered and washed away Jean-Paul's scent. What exactly had happened between them? One minute they'd been talking about R.J., the next, passion had exploded between them.

She had wanted Jean-Paul so much she'd begged him to love her.

But he had stopped. He was sorry. Why? Because he knew she wasn't worthy of him.

You're just like your mother.

No, she wasn't. She didn't take money for sex. She tried to help others….

Yet hadn't she acted like a street girl tonight? She'd shamed herself by asking for Jean-Paul's body. And she'd blown her chance to confess to him before he talked to Justice. Would he have understood if she'd told him the truth?

No. No one could understand.

The last remnants of hope faded as she stepped from the hot water into the chilled bathroom. Wind whipped against the window panes, making them rattle. She toweled off, grabbed a robe and curled into it.

Downstairs, a loud sound split the night. She hurried to the window in her den and studied the scene below. The religious protesters still rallied strong. Two women looked violent. Another wild group of partiers danced through the street. A brawl broke out and shouts erupted. The crowd grew thicker, merging to watch the fight. Protesters yelled and moved closer to her building. Then someone threw a beer bottle and hit the street light, pitching the area in darkness.

Chaos erupted. Suddenly glass shattered. She opened the door to the hallway and glanced down the dark stairwell. A shadow moved. Was it inside?

Then bright orange flames flickered in the opening.

A fire? Had someone thrown an explosive through the window? She turned to grab her cell phone to call for help, but another noise chilled her to the bone.

A voice. Calling her name.

No. He whispered the name Adrianna.

Certain she'd imagined the sound, she inhaled to calm herself, then ran for the stairs. She could escape out the back or through R.J.'s office. But just as her foot hit the stairs, someone's hands closed around her neck. She struggled and lashed out, but she lost her footing and she and her attacker careened down the stairs.

* * *

“I
DID NOT KILL
those women,” R.J. said calmly.

Jean-Paul braced his hands on his knees. How could Justice act so damn serene when he was a murder suspect? Was he a sociopath? A man without a conscience? Pure evil inside?

“If you cooperate, we can cut you a deal.” R.J. leaned forward on the table; tiny scars along his arm were visible beneath his shirt-sleeve cuffs. “You're wasting your time, Detective. Both with me and in pursuing Britta.”

“This has nothing to do with Britta,” Jean-Paul snapped. “It has to do with the fact that you're a serial killer.”

R.J. chuckled. “That's where you're wrong. I haven't killed anyone.” He paused, confident. “But I understand his obsession with Britta. He wants her the same way you and I both do.”

“No, he wants to hurt her. I want to protect her.” Jean-Paul stared him in the eyes. “And you want to own her, then punish her.”

R.J. rapped his knuckles on the table. “You know I have an alibi for each murder. And you found nothing at my apartment to indicate I killed anyone. No evidence. No woman hidden away in my bed or tied in my secret chamber. That's because I'm innocent.”

Jean-Paul fisted his hands, itching to punch Justice. “Did Elvira want it rough? And Ginger…did she beg to be tied up and screwed to death?”

R.J. merely stared at him. “You're chasing your tail because you don't have a clue as to how to stop this guy.”

Jean-Paul stood and flexed his hands. Justice was right. Jean-Paul didn't have anything concrete on him. Just the gut feeling that he didn't like the man and that he was violent.

Could he be wrong about him as the killer?

The door squeaked open behind him and his partner cleared his throat. “Dubois, I need to see you for a minute.”

Jean-Paul glared at Justice, then stalked through the door. “Dammit, he's not talking.”

“Listen, Jean-Paul,” Carson said. “A call just came in. There's a fire at that magazine office.”

Jean-Paul's heart stopped. “God. Britta?”

“The firemen are on their way. But the building is in flames.”

Jean-Paul raced for the exit. “Her apartment is above the office.” He jogged toward the stairs. He had to get to Britta. He'd already lost one woman he loved. He couldn't let Britta die.

He had to save her.

* * *

A
SCREAMING SOUND
tore through the night. A siren? Her own cry of terror?

Britta stirred from unconsciousness, and tried to focus but the dark emptiness swirled around her. Her head throbbed. Heat scalded her face and neck.

She coughed and rolled sideways but smoke clogged her vision. Suddenly bright orange dots flickered into the darkness. Dear heavens, the building was on fire. She had to get out.

She tried to crawl toward the door, but pain stabbed her temple and she collapsed, coughing.

A siren wailed outside. Flames rippled toward her. Glass shattered and exploded and men's voices rose through the blaze. They were trying to get in but fire consumed the entrance.

Forcing herself into motion, she dragged herself toward the back door, but wood split and cracked, crumbling into a fiery blaze ahead of her. Tears filled her eyes. Both exits were blocked. There was no escape.

She closed her eyes, fighting panic. Seconds later, self-preservation kicked in. She had escaped the bayou monsters. She'd save herself now, too.

Smoke was rising; the flames crawled toward the steps. She covered her mouth with one hand and belly-crawled forward. One step. Two. Another. And another. She batted a patch of flames with her foot, then managed to make it up one step. One more. Then another.

Wood cracked and splintered behind her, trapping her. Panic welled in her chest. The acrid scent of burning wood and metal scorched the air and singed her skin. Another step. Another. A few more and she'd make it.

Then what? Her head felt fuzzy. Not a smart move to go up, but there was nowhere else to go. Make it to the window and crawl out the fire escape. Or jump if she had to. She would not die in this inferno.

Two more steps. Her head spun. Her arms and legs were so heavy she could barely move.

She collapsed on the landing. Wondered if R.J. had confessed. If Jean-Paul had found that missing girl, Debra.

She should have been honest with Jean-Paul. Trusted him for a moment. Despair nearly choked her. She wished she'd spent at least one night in his bed. But death was coming for her.

And she was running out of time before it claimed her.

* * *

H
E WATCHED THE FLAMES
in horror.

No! It wasn't time for Britta to die. Not like this. Not without his hands upon her. Not until she looked into his face and realized who he was. And why he'd come for her.

Not until he received the glory.

He started to run in to save her, but the fire truck raced up and police arrived. Too risky for him. They would rescue her.

A shadow moved in the distance. The alley. A man or a woman? The person who'd set the fire? Jesus. It was a woman. And she was running away, slinking into the darkness, leaving the havoc and the pain she'd caused behind her.

Rage splintered through his blood! He'd waited too long for his revenge for this girl to kill her. She had to pay for trying to ruin his plan.

Mindless with anger, he tore off after her.

As he ran through the alley, the night he'd chased Adrianna into the bayou bled through his fury. It was as if that night was happening all over again.

He was back in Black Bayou. Chasing the woman who'd hurt him. The backwoods screamed with the sound of the gators chomping. Bones crunching. Drums pounded out the ancient chants, the voodoo priestess hummed her spell and the witches made black magic.

He had tried so hard to be good. The perfect son. To please his father.

But the goddamn girls had taunted him just as the whores did today. Dancing naked. Skimming their hands over a man's body. Showing off flesh and skin that made a man's mouth water. Looking at him with lust in their eyes.

He had to destroy them.

The girl paused and leaned over to catch her breath in the corner alley. He grinned.

He had her.

Another one he'd add to his kingdom. At Mardi Gras, he would offer the ultimate sacrifice. The one who had started it all. The one who would redeem him from hell and allow him to enter the pearly gates of heaven.

A
COLD KNOT OF FEAR
cramped Jean-Paul's stomach as he ran toward the burning Naked Desires building. The entire downstairs was in flames, smoke swirling through the sky and street. Bystanders gawked as the firemen attached hoses and began to douse the flames. Two rescue men darted toward the back entrance and Jean-Paul followed.

“Britta Berger lives upstairs!” Jean-Paul yelled. “We have to rescue her.” He lunged forward but the first guy grabbed him.

“Stand back and move out of the way, sir.”

“Detective Dubois.” Jean-Paul flashed his badge. “I know the woman. She might be trapped inside.”

“We'll get her,” the fireman shouted. “Wait here!”

The bigger man attacked the door with an ax while Jean-Paul ran to the side of the building where the fire escape snaked upward. He didn't see flames in the upstairs window yet. Maybe she was safe.

But why hadn't she climbed down the fire escape?

Sweat poured down his face from the heat, but he grabbed a metal trash can, scooted it over, then climbed on top of it so he could reach the fire escape. He caught the wrought-iron and swung himself upward. Once he latched on to the rail, he took the stairs two at a time. Smoke curled from the top of the building. Inside, wood shattered and boards splintered. Where the hell was Britta?

A crowd gathered around the side, gawking and watching. Someone shouted at him to stop but he forged on. Seconds later, Jean-Paul kicked the window and sent glass raining to the inside.

“Britta! Where are you?”

He covered his mouth with a handkerchief, then climbed through the window and rushed through the apartment. She wasn't inside.

His heart raced as he hurried to the front door and checked the stairwell. Darkness cloaked the stairs while orange flames flickered and crawled toward his feet. The building was so old it would go up in minutes.

“Britta!”

Flames hissed and a board crashed to the floor in the hallway. He heard a low moan and spotted Britta lying on the landing. Heat scalded his face as he ran and checked her over.

Blood dotted her head and she moaned. “I've got you, baby.” He hauled her up into his arms, turned and ran up the steps to her apartment. Fire nipped at his heels, eating the wood behind him.

A fireman met him at the top of the steps. “I'll take her.”

“No, I've got her!” Jean-Paul pushed past him and carried her to the window. He climbed through the opening and started down the fire escape. She whimpered and he clutched her closer, his heart beating wildly.

“Jean-Paul…”

“Hang on. We'll be down in a second.”

She snuggled into him, and faded back into unconsciousness. Jean-Paul's lungs tightened as the smoke choked him. A few minutes later and Britta could have died.

He climbed down the last two steps, then over onto the fireman's ladder and hurried to the ground, then ran around the building toward the ambulance. The paramedic jumped into action: helped him settle Britta onto a stretcher, placed an oxygen mask over her face, then checked her vitals.

Through the pandemonium, his partner headed toward him.

“Is she all right?” Carson asked.

Jean-Paul gripped his hands into fists. “I think so. But it was close.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know. Get a couple of locals and canvass the crowd. See if anyone noticed anything.”

“You think the fire was intentional?”

Jean-Paul shrugged. “My gut says this wasn't an accident. Either someone was attacking the magazine or trying to kill Britta. Or both.”

* * *

B
RITTA'S HEAD POUNDED
. She struggled to open her eyes, but a haze of smoke and chaos clouded her vision. What had happened?

The last hour was a blur but she remembered seeing the fire. Jean-Paul…where was he? She was in an ambulance on the street. She whispered Jean-Paul's name, searching for his face. Then suddenly he was beside her.

“Shh,” Jean-Paul murmured next to her ear. “You're safe now, Britta. I'm here.”

She clutched his hand. She'd almost died tonight. She never wanted to let him go.