Say You Love Me

by Rita Herron

  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.

  * * *

  BRITTA 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?

  * * *

  JEAN-PAUL 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 upwar
d, 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.

  * * *

  HE 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.

  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.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BRITTA’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.