Deliver Me from Temptation

by Tes Hilaire

  She didn’t answer, closing her eyes as she pulled up the grainy image of the security tape in her mind again. Superimposing it with the up close and personal look she’d gotten of the lines of his face in his bed that morning. Oh yeah. It was definitely him. And he definitely had some answers to give.

  “Jessica?”

  “No. I’m not in trouble.” She cut the call. But you are.

  Chapter 12

  Jessica made her way down the rough-cut stairs, refusing to respond any faster to the pounding on the front door. She’d just arrived and barely finished setting things up when headlights flashed across the loft’s lone window. Probably for the best, if she was alone much longer she might have time to wallow in the memories. The beach house, squeezed in between two sets of oceanfront condos on Long Beach, had been in her family for decades. At 1,500 square feet, it was still small by prime oceanfront standards, but it had served for years as a retreat for her family, a place to catch some sun, waves, and sand to escape the demands of the high-energy city. No one had been in it for a while. Technically, the place belonged to her grandmother, but since she was in a nursing home, Jessica knew it was only a matter of time before it was sold. Her parents wouldn’t keep it after grandma passed; the place held too many memories they couldn’t bear.

  The pounding grew louder, more insistent. He was going to break the darn thing. She leapt off the last couple steps, sprinted to the door, and jerked it open. He lowered his hand, blowing out a deep breath.

  “Jessica.” His large hands closed over her shoulders as he took her in. Every inch of her. And though there was nothing sensual in his perusal, only concern, her body betrayed her, heat coalescing in her center. Damn it. This was beyond stupid. She was stupid. After everything she’d learned about him in the last twelve hours, how could it be that she was still attracted to him?

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She quirked her head, considering his high anxiety level. “I told you I was fine.”

  She shrugged out of his hold, retreating a good five feet, knowing the only reason she was able to do so was because he’d let her. The man was strong, and in those tight jeans and carelessly untucked button-down, sexy enough to wake a half-dead granny’s lust levels from sub-zero to boiling with a touch alone. She needed serious mental help to be even thinking the thoughts she was currently having about those calloused hands.

  Answers. She’d asked him here for answers, not a roll on her grandmother’s braided throw rug.

  His jaw rolled. He started to take a step, then paused, looking at her inquisitively. “May I come in?”

  “Yes,” she gestured briskly into the sheet-draped great room, “of course. I actually wanted to show you something.”

  His expression grew wary but he came in, closing the door behind him. She turned, walking stiffly in front of him. Now that he was here she didn’t want to go through with this. That little concerned routine at the door had made serious inroads in her resolve. A resolve that was weak at best. One look at him and she was ready to forgive and forget. What was it with this man that seemed to fry all her brain cells?

  And no, great abs is not an answer, she told herself firmly.

  Practically stomping, she led him up into the loft, waiting by the top of the stairs for him to step into the open area. The wood here was left bare on the wide-planked pine flooring and the rafters above, and didn’t match with the shabby-chic décor of the rest of the house. Which was fine. The loft had been her and Julia’s space. It was crammed with their stuff, well, mostly Julia’s stuff. Used as an artist’s retreat, at least three-quarters of it was stuffed full of both new and used canvases, drying out paints, jars of turpentine, and a wobbly antique table spread with every shape and size of brush a painter could want, often in duplicate. Simply seeing them punched Jessica in the gut. All that talent. All that passion and imagination. Gone. Forever.

  Damn, Julia. I miss you so much.

  It was the only place in the house with a TV though, since technology had all but been outlawed here.

  Jessica had already braved the loft and set up the recorder to the TV. It sat, sound off and black static rolling, waiting for her to hit play. Luckily the family’s old hand-held video recorder still worked. That, more than anything, was why she chose the beach house. Though she was beginning to question the brilliance of inviting Logan out here with her. She should have come and gotten the recorder herself, then met him somewhere on neutral ground. This place was too personal, brought up too many emotions, and was obviously screwing with her head as much as his presence was.

  “Wow, great space. Are these yours?” He waved his hand at the spread of half-finished canvasses.

  “My sister’s,” she replied statically, moving quickly across the loft to the video recorder. Might as well get this over with. Besides, she needed to hear his explanation. And if it wasn’t good enough, she’d strangle him and send him out with the tide.

  Jess sucked in a deep breath. What was it about this man that made her completely unreasonable? She was an intelligent woman. If she did something a bit crazy, it was because she’d thought about it and decided to do it, not because she was acting on impulse. So why was it when Logan popped into her head, it shoved everything else right out the window? Reckless, illogical…crazy.

  No, really. Crazy. All she had to do was hit play on the tape to show just how crazy. How could she not remember being there? And what the heck was up with the damn headache that struck whenever she tried to piece together the image she saw on the tape and what happened that night?

  And that’s why she’d invited Logan here. She had to figure it out. Her sanity depended on it. Her job depended on it.

  Logan was her answer. He’d been there. Logically, they must’ve interacted. Hell, he’d probably been how she’d gotten home—it would certainly explain how he knew where her apartment was. What she didn’t understand was what he was doing there in the first place. Why was he dressed in those weird clothes? Why was he chasing that woman? And why would a man, so seemingly bent on ill intentions, turn around and drive her home, then tuck her safely into her own bed?

  Worse, why had she let him?

  She rubbed her breast bone. Damn it. She didn’t want him to be a criminal. Didn’t want to believe she was so weak she’d allow an unprecedented attraction get in the way of all her hard work and training. But that was exactly what she was doing, wasn’t it? This meeting to figure things out was as much for his benefit as hers. The truth was she hoped he’d be able to give her a perfectly good, logical reason for all the crap that had happened.

  “Jessica?”

  She cleared her throat, turning to him. He was studying her warily; his shoulders tense as if ready to either spring for her or the door. Having already seen him in action, Jess didn’t bother to put her hand on her gun. If he decided to attack her, she doubted she’d even get a shot off. If he ran?

  He won’t run. He won’t attack me either. And wasn’t she the Queen of Wishful Thinking?

  “Do you remember when we met in the precinct?” she asked, leaning against the rickety card table holding the VHS equipment. “How I mentioned it had been a long day after a long night?”

  “Yes…” he replied, the word drawn out like she was being facetious. Not quite. She didn’t feel like fencing with him though, the tension and uncertainty were eating at any sort of calm or finesse, so she cut right to the chase.

  “Why were you there that night?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The way he answered was so perfectly confused, just the slightest shake of his head, a nice furrow between his eyes. He either honestly didn’t know or he had some great acting classes in his education.

  She rubbed her head. She had another stupid headache. For a girl not prone to such things, it was getting annoying.

  “T
uesday night, or rather early Wednesday, I pursued two men chasing a woman…” She pulled up the image in her mind again. The scared young prostitute, the giant, then…Logan. Her head snapped up, heart skipping. “Damn it, I’m so stupid. Your friend’s lawyer! He was the other man and you…it was him with you in the Bronx that night, wasn’t it?”

  Logan jerked back, his head shaking in denial. “What would a lawyer, or I for that matter, be doing in the Bronx at night chasing a woman?”

  He hesitated only a split second before reacting, but it was enough, and frankly even if there weren’t that moment of hesitation, she would’ve known. It was such a blatant evasion that anyone, let alone a cop, could see right through it.

  Acid pooled in her stomach, threatening to send its contents into upheaval. She was so seriously stupid. She’d invited him here hoping, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that he could somehow explain away all the uneasy thoughts she’d had about him. But this proved it. He couldn’t. And now she didn’t know if every encounter they’d had since was simply because he was a sick fuck who got his nuts off stalking—and probably eventually chasing and raping—women or if there was something even more nefarious going on.

  “Did you kill that man in the Dumpster?” she asked, her stomach twisting with a sick kind of hurt. If he’d been part of their newest victim’s demise then it stood to reason that he was part of a setup from the beginning. That everything that happened, the come-on in the station, “saving” her in the garage, were all been part of a strategy to get her to trust him and ultimately find out what Grim or his informant might’ve told her. She supposed it was better than killing her outright, but it still hurt to think she was just some mark to him.

  Confusion set in on his face, his brows scrunching together. “Man in a Dumpster?”

  More prevaricating. “Do your buddies with the designer canines get their kicks pretending to be vamps? Did our victim in the Dumpster decide he was sick of getting gnawed on for fun and get killed for wanting out?”

  “What victim and what Dumpster?” he demanded, his voice edged with frustration.

  “The informant I was supposed to be meeting.” She went on to describe the murder victim—or at least, what she could of him, but all Logan did was shake his head.

  “Scars on his neck?” Logan’s brow furrowed, his lips thinning as if pieces of puzzles were clicking together. “Does this informant have something to do with your Rhodes case?”

  She clamped her mouth shut, cursing herself for giving away that little scar detail, though really, anyone who knew the man would’ve seen them, they were pretty damn obvious, and there wasn’t much else to describe.

  “I’ve never met the man,” he said firmly, “and I certainly didn’t kill him.”

  She narrowed her eyes, testing the truth of the words. She believed him. The relief of that had her relaxing, her heart falling into a slow steady rhythm as the vise around it eased. Until her gaze caught the static on the screen.

  “Okay…but you still haven’t told me what you were doing in the Bronx that night.”

  His brow rose. “What makes you think I was there?”

  She folded her arms around her stomach, saying with her eyes what she couldn’t with her mouth: “Try again.”

  He threw his arms up, looking to the ceiling as if he were asking for vast amounts of patience in face of her great insanity. “According to you, I was chasing some woman.”

  “Weren’t you?” She reached out, pressing the play button. The static turned into a fuzzy picture. She didn’t have to watch it, having already memorized every detail. Instead she observed him as his eyes caught on the screen, the flare of disbelief before his mouth clamped shut, how his entire body tightened up like a coiled spring.

  Can’t deny it now, can you, asshole?

  Her heart joined her stomach back in the squeeze box. She closed her eyes, trying to hold in the sickness with her arms wrapped around her stomach as the tape played its irrefutable proof. Damn. Damn. Damn. She didn’t want him to be a bad guy. Kiss and dimples aside, there was something about him. Something that called to her, drew her in. Something that made her want to trust him. Made her want him. But whatever that thing was, it wasn’t real. Couldn’t be real.

  But, God, she wanted it to be.

  “Jessica, I swear to you…”

  She held up a hand, stalling him. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. We both know it’s going to be another twisted lie, and I can’t take three in one night. Not from you.”

  “Three.” He cleared his throat. “So you think I’ve lied twice tonight. What are you, a polygraph test now?”

  She opened her eyes again facing him head on. “Am I wrong?”

  She took a deep breath, drawing to her full height as she tried to ease the kinks in her innards. And there was that pall of silence again. She figured she should probably kick him out since really, what more was there to say? It was obvious he wasn’t going to tell her the truth and it was just as obvious she couldn’t trust him. In fact, as soon as she got him out the door—and locked it—she’d call Mike and tell him everything. And she did mean everything. Even if the cost was her badge.

  What makes you think you’re going to get this man out of here?

  She started to shift toward the stairs, not quite willing to turn her back on him but intent on reminding him of the way to the door, when Logan’s resolute tone brought her up short.

  “I know Roland didn’t kill Thomas Rhodes because I know who did. And yes, I was there in the Bronx…but Alex and I were not chasing a helpless woman.”

  She sucked in a breath. It took her a couple moments to collect her thoughts enough to form a coherent response to that. Yeah, she wanted the truth, but when the truth was that bad? What did he hope to gain by admitting it? Unless he wanted to play the repentant criminal.

  “Were you, uh,” she licked her lips. “Were you involved in Tom’s death then?”

  He looked completely taken aback, and she knew his hesitation was from honest surprise and not manipulation.

  “God, no.” He shook his head vigorously in denial. “Why would you even think that?”

  “Because you just said that you knew who it was and whether you admit it or not I know you were chasing a woman,” she pointed out.

  His head continued to shake, slower but firmly. “She wasn’t a helpless woman.”

  “What was she then, a hermaphrodite?”

  He smiled thinly at that but immediately wiped it off by rubbing a hand down over his face. When he looked at her again his eyes were serious, and sad. The kind of sad that spoke of a hurt beyond repair. The kind she felt when she thought of her sister never being there again. She had to ruthlessly stomp on the urge to soften. She didn’t get it. How could what they were discussing have anything to do with that sort of pain?

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  She gritted her teeth, starting away from him again but he grabbed her arm. “Jessica, wait.”

  Something about the tone of his voice made her hesitate.

  “I swear I’m not that man. I’m not a criminal.”

  “So say ninety-eight percent of the felons I’ve put behind bars,” she retorted with a jerk of her arm, but even to her ears it sounded more like a plea for him to prove that he was in the other two percent.

  “Nothing, nothing I have done or said was meant to harm you. If anything, I’ve only wanted to keep you safe.”

  He seemed so damn sincere, but…

  She tipped her head back, sucking in a breath at the deep storm residing in his eyes. It was as if she could physically feel the despair in his gaze. It plucked at something in her chest, echoing his ache. Heartache. That’s what it was. Somehow, someway, despite all the red flags that should have scared her off from him, she cared. At least enough tha
t it hurt that she was going to have to turn the tape in and thereby implicate him. Because whether he had a perfectly good reason for being there or not, whether he was being positively truthful in his desire to keep her safe, she couldn’t withhold this. Not and live with herself.

  “How can lying keep me safe?” she asked, the whispered words revealing how much she wanted him to fix this. She wasn’t sure it was even possible, but damn she wanted him to try. She wanted to trust him. She wanted that chance.

  He smiled. The weak movement, though enough to crease his dimples, did not reach the sorrow she saw in his eyes. “Ever heard the expression that sometimes you’re better off not knowing?”

  “I’ve never put much stock in that one, sorry,” she replied tartly, breaking their gaze and staring pointedly down at his hand that still held her arm.

  He released his grip and rubbed his temples, as if the entire conversation were giving him a headache. Well didn’t that make two of them?

  “I can’t tell you, Jessica. Even if I wanted to.” He dropped his hand helplessly. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “Trust.” She laughed with the irony that he’d dare say that after all his quasi lies. “You have to earn trust.”

  One perfect eyebrow rose, his look one of incredulity. “Right. I’ve certainly given you no reason to trust me. Not when I found out you were the detective in charge and tried to walk away from you in the precinct. Not when I saved you from those men in the garage. Not when I brought you home to care for you. And certainly not when you were in my bed, your legs wrapped around me, your body pleading with me to take you and I didn’t because you were not aware, were vulnerable though, God, I fucking wanted you. Correct that. Want you.”

  He wanted her. A hot little thrill slid down her body with the admission ending in a clenching need deep in her belly. It took all her self-control to ignore that need and focus on the conversation and one of the very, very important facts he’d left out.

  “You wouldn’t have been there to save me if you hadn’t been stalking me.”