by Rita Herron
Even if he didn’t want to hear it.
* * *
BRITTA 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.”
The truth dawned on his face in the ensuing silence. He knew she was right. He couldn’t even argue the point.
“My family has had our share of problems,”
he admitted quietly. “My brother Antwaun has been in trouble, our house was destroyed, so was the restaurant and Papa nearly lost his leg in the aftermath of the hurricane.”
He didn’t mention the woman in the picture on his parents’ wall. But she stood between them as if she’d physically walked into the room.
“Your family pulled together because you love each other,” Britta said.
He squeezed her arm, pleading. “That’s what families are for.”
“Not all families are like that, Jean-Paul.”
“Britta, I’m sorry if you had a rough childhood.” His voice was low, gruff, reverberating with emotions. “But I’m not sorry my family is close. I see the dark side—the underbelly of violence and crime—every day. My family grounds me and keeps me from crossing to the other side.” He reached for her hand. “I know there’s good in you.”
Tears nearly choked her. “The bad stuff’s easier to believe.”
“Trust me,” he said softly. “I can help you find it.”
“No.” He’d only end up hurting her. And she would hurt him. It was an impossible situation.
Britta pulled away, walked to the door and gestured for him to leave. He’d condemned her earlier. Thought the worst of her, and he didn’t know half of her story.
She didn’t want his pity. “The woman you claim you want to see is dead, Jean-Paul. She died a long time ago so I could be born. And no one can save her or bring her back.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Four days until Mardi Gras
SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED with thunderstorms mounting in the sky, the gloomy gray mirroring Britta’s mood. Another woman had died last night.
Another one the killer had gotten away with.
Was Jean-Paul blaming himself? Beating his head against the wall wondering who might be next?
Hating her for letting him believe that she had been on the streets the night before?
She had almost picked up the phone a dozen times to call him and confess the truth. A longing to be part of a big happy family like Jean-Paul’s had made her ache all night. Then another longing—one to comfort him.
But pride and fear had kept her home alone. Better not to open her heart and take the chance on him breaking it. Besides, it was best for him. How would it look for a hero cop to hook up with a girl who’d grown up on the streets?
Especially one who’d taken a man’s life.
No, her only involvement with Jean-Paul pertained to the case.
But the feel of his touch, his lips, still lingered like a phantom lover, and she feared it might already be too late for her, that she was falling desperately in love with him.
Regardless of her personal feelings or needs, she had to help him stop this killer.
Had he sent her a picture this time? Or maybe a clue?
Dread gnawed at her stomach. She had to know.
She quickly showered and pulled on a simple black skirt and tank. Today she brewed her own coffee, poured herself a mug, then hurried downstairs. The stairwell seemed eerily dark this morning, Bourbon Street quiet after the all-night party. In four days, the big Mardi Gras finale would sweep the streets. The city would be even crazier than ever.
She prayed Jean-Paul found the swamp devil before then.
She let herself into the office, then glanced toward the mail slot on the opposite wall. A brown manila envelope lay on the floor. Perspiration beaded her neck as she examined it. No return address, no postage stamp, only her name written in bold black letters. Very neat and straight print. She wondered if the writing style had significance and tried to remember if the other package had been addressed in the same handwriting, but couldn’t recall.
Jean-Paul Dubois would know.
Of course, this package might not be from the killer. But she had a bad feeling in her stomach, and she touched only one edge so as not to destroy fingerprints. Her hand trembled as she opened the clasp and removed the contents.
Another picture of a murder scene, this one just as vivid and chilling. Tears burned her eyelids, but she blinked them back. The poor girl was so young….
Just like the ones on the streets. Was she one of Shack’s girls? If so, did he know she’d been missing?
The urge to run assaulted her, but she stumbled to the desk instead and sat down. Hands shaking, she unfolded the note.
My Secret Confession:
The bayou beckons with its call of the crocodile. As its servant, and a servant to my own gods, I must obey. Sacrifices must be made.
At night, I dream of how you will taste. I see your porcelain face in my mind and know that it has always been you that I wanted. You that I need to be complete. You that will be my redemption.
Soon, very, very soon, I am coming for you.
Only after you repent, can you truly rest. Then our souls will be together forever.
Britta shuddered and collapsed deeper into the hard wooden chair. She had to call Jean-Paul and R.J. and tell them about the note.
The swamp devil might already be looking for his next victim.
And eventually he was coming for her.
* * *
THE KILLER WAS COMING for Britta.
Jean-Paul’s anger mounted as he reread the note. His ironclad control snapped like twigs in the wake of a violent wind. He wanted to kill the man who’d sent it.
At the same time, he wanted to drag Britta into his arms and hold her. Keep her there and never let her go.
One look into her terrified face and he did just that.
She stiffened at first, seemingly shocked by his actions, but then she lowered her head and leaned into him. A shudder tore through her. He felt it in the trembling of her delicate body.
“He’s not going to hurt you,” he whispered. “You’re safe.”
“I…don’t want to be afraid,” she whispered. “I won’t allow him to have that much control.”
Her breath hitched and he rubbed slow circles on her back. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him and make him pay.”
Questions assaulted him, though. How could he promise her that when two women had already died? When he’d let his own wife suffer? When he was no closer to finding the killer than he had been three days ago?
“I have to do something to stop this.” She raised her head and he read fear in her expression, but also strength. Determination.
The realization startled him. She was more upset for the other women who’d died than afraid for herself.
Emotions welled in his chest. Unwanted, but they were there. Tenderness. Desire. A longing unlike anything he’d ever known.
“Maybe I should go public, make a plea.” She clutched his arms, her voice growing more insistent. “Or I could offer to meet him somewhere. We could set him up.”
“That’s crazy,” Jean-Paul growled. “Don’t even think about it, Britta.”
“But I can’t let him kill anyone else.” Her fingernails dug into his arms. “And he will. You read that note. He’ll kill again and again, then he’ll still come after me.”
“Listen to me.” He cupped her face in his hands and traced one thumb down the side of her cheek. “This is not your fault, and you’re not going to do anything crazy like try to trap him. You’re going to let me handle it.”
“But he won’t stop,” she whispered. “You heard him, he wants me. If I offer him that—”
“Shh.” He tightened his hold on her, the thought of her putting herself in danger tearing him in two. “My brother, the FBI, we’re all working the case now. Just give us time. We’ll catch this psycho.” She started to pull away, but he kissed her. He had to get through to her. He couldn’t lose her now.
Her lips felt warm, sensual, pliant, giving. He felt her need in the soft whimper in her throat, in the way she held on to him, in the gasp she emitted when he pulled away.
“Damon discovered this guy may have killed before,” he whispered. “In at least two other cities. Savannah, Georgia and Nashville, Tennessee. All his vics were prostitutes.” H
e had to make her see his point. Didn’t want her blaming herself. He’d done enough of that for both of them. “We’ll request their evidence, compare notes. Damon’s having his guys look at the handwriting samples now. I will catch him.”
Her body tensed, but she finally relented and allowed him to pull her into his arms again. He cradled her against him and savored holding her. Last night he’d barely slept for thinking about Britta. For wondering about her past. Her secrets. The other men in her life.
Her lies.
Images of another man lying naked with her had driven him from bed, so he’d hiked to the edge of the bayou and listened to the animals in the swamp, hoping the noises would obliterate the sultry sound of her voice in his head. The softness of her skin. The touch of her lips on his. The heady feel of her body against his hardness.
The fact that he’d torn himself away earlier when he’d wanted nothing more than to drag her to bed and make her his.
The fact that she was alone, had been so starved for a family that she’d taken a dead woman’s name, made his heart clench.
He’d failed with Lucinda even before she’d died. But Lucinda had nothing to do with today.
Or his feelings for Britta. The past was over. He couldn’t change it or go back.
Britta was here now.
He’d always followed the letter of the law. Had lived by it all his life. Had even left his wife alone so he could stand up for what was right.
And they’d called him a hero.
Yet he hadn’t been a hero in his wife’s eyes. Because the law had been all that mattered.
What would he do if he had to choose this time—between what was right and Britta?
* * *
BRITTA’S FRIGHTENED VOICE echoed in R.J.’s head. She’d received another note, more photos and was terrified. She needed him. This was finally his chance.
He couldn’t wait to get to her.
Traffic was nonexistent, allowing him to make it to the office within minutes of her call. He rushed inside, his pulse pounding. He could already feel her in his arms.
But Jean-Paul Dubois had beaten him at his own game.