9 Kill for Me

by Karen Rose

  “I want to see if I can do it . . . normally.”

  “Susannah, any way we do it will be normal. I promise you that.”

  “I . . . want to see your face.”

  He stilled, laying his cheek on the top of her head. “Give me a minute.” She counted the beats of her heart until he slid his hands out from under her sweatshirt. “Go sit on the bed.”

  She obeyed, watching as he lifted the basket, dogs and all. He put them outside the door, closed it firmly. Then he knelt in front of her. “You’re sure this is what you want.”

  She nodded, meeting his eyes. “I’m sure.”

  “All right.”

  She expected him to rise then, but he stayed where he was, running his hands up and down her calves. “What?”

  He smiled. “You New York women,” he teased. “Slow down, Susannah. Stay a while.” He looked up, his eyes gleaming. “I intend to.”

  Her chest tightened and she had no response, which made him smile.

  “The first time I saw you, you were wearing a skirt like this.”

  “At my parents’ funeral. Last week,” she managed, and he nodded.

  “I wondered then what it would be like with you. What it would take to get you out of that proper suit. What would it take?”

  She swallowed. “Ask me. Nicely.”

  He sat back on his haunches. “Take off your skirt for me. Please.”

  Her heart thundering, she slid off the bed. His hands played up and down her legs as she struggled with the button at her back. He watched, black eyes intense. Finally she simply yanked the button off and his lips twitched. “That was your last clean skirt.”

  “You’re enjoying this,” she accused unsteadily.

  He lifted his brows. “Aren’t you?”

  She was, she realized. “Yes.” She stood, her hands stilled on the zipper, making him wait this time. His eyes went dark and his hands tugged at the hem and she complied, easing the zipper down and pushing the skirt past her hips.

  He took it the rest of the way, staring at the lace underwear Mitra had so skillfully chosen. “Pretty,” he said, huskily. She started to take them off but he stopped her. “Not yet. Sit back down.” He leaned in close and pressed his lips to the inside of one thigh, then the other, until her legs quaked.

  “Luke,” she whispered, waiting for his mouth to touch her where she throbbed, but he didn’t, bypassing her panties entirely. He pushed the sweatshirt up only far enough to kiss her stomach.

  “I keep thinking about you kneeling in the woods in your bra.” His voice was ragged. “Show it to me now. Please.”

  Again she complied, knowing he was exciting himself as well as her. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and dropped it on the floor, waiting. He drew a breath, let it out. “Nice. Very nice.” Gently he pushed her knees apart and knelt between them, running his hands up her back. He kissed his way up her stomach, then between her breasts. She waited, holding her breath, but he kept going up, kissing the hollow of her throat. Her laugh was strangled.

  “Luke.” She felt him smile against her throat.

  “Are you having a nice time, Susannah?”

  She wanted to throttle him. “Yes. No. Dammit, what are you waiting for?”

  “I’m wooing you,” he said lightly. “You want to rush through. I’ve waited for a long time for this.” He nuzzled her breast through her bra and she gasped.

  “You met me last week.”

  “But I’ve waited for you forever.” He looked up suddenly, his eyes sharp. “I have. That sounds like a line, I know. But it’s the truth.”

  She ran her thumb across his jaw, feeling his stubble tickle her skin. “I know.” She leaned forward, touched her lips to his. “I have, too.”

  “I want you,” he whispered, his voice shaking.

  “Then stop teasing me,” she whispered back. “Do it.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “What do you want?”

  “Your mouth.” She swallowed. “On me.”

  His smile was fierce. “Where?”

  “Everywhere.” God, she felt like she was going to explode. She flattened her palms on his cheeks and pulled his face to her breast. Hungrily he took her in his mouth, sucking hard through the lace. His hands twisted the clasp at her back, popping it free with startling ease. But she didn’t think about where he’d learned the trick, because he was pulling the bra away and his mouth was on her flesh. She held him close, her head thrown back, eyes closed, absorbing.

  He pulled away, just enough to see her face. “Susannah.”

  She dropped her head forward, focusing on his face, already missing him. “What?”

  “Watch,” he said thickly. “Watch us.”

  She lifted her eyes to the mirror over his dresser and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his dark head at her breast. Erotic. Sweet. The combination left her breathless. His hands clutched her thighs, his thumbs teasing at the lace edge of the panties she knew had to be soaked clean through. “Luke.”

  He looked up, his mouth wet from sucking her breasts. “What do you want?”

  She was shivering uncontrollably. But the words simply would not come.

  His eyes dropped to her panties, then looked back up, hungry. “Well?”

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “Ask me,” he said. “Nicely.”

  She pursed her lips. Her cheeks flamed hot. But he wasn’t moving. He was waiting. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. “Taste me. Please.”

  He threw her legs over his shoulders, then groaned, and whatever she’d intended to say evaporated because finally his mouth was on her. He kissed and licked and nipped, all through the lace until she thought she’d die. She pushed at the panties, until he shoved them down her legs. His tongue went deep and she groaned, long and loud. But orgasm shimmered frustratingly out of reach. “Luke. I can’t.”

  He worked two fingers up into her. “Yes you can. Come for me, Susannah. Let me see you.” He opened her up and kissed her again, sweetly, slowly building her back until she was gasping once more. She was so close, teetering on the edge.

  So close and not there. “I can’t.” Tears burned her eyes. “Dammit.”

  He lurched to his feet, kicked off his trousers, and ripped open a condom. “Stand.”

  She blinked away the tears and looked up at him, breathing hard. “What?”

  He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the dresser. “Look at me,” he said harshly, wrapping her hair around his fist, forcing her chin up. “Look at my face.”

  She did, staring at him in the mirror as he spread her legs with his knee and entered her in one hard, deep stroke and on a low cry she came, convulsing around him. His face tightened and he thrust hard once, twice, and on the third time he threw his head back and groaned her name. Then he sagged, pressing her against the dresser.

  She laid her cheek on the cool wood. “Oh my God.”

  He was breathing hard, every breath pushing her into the dresser. “You came,” he said, satisfaction in his tone.

  “Yeah.” She struggled up on her elbows and stared at him in the mirror. “Thank you.”

  He smiled, still puffing. “My pleasure. Any time. I mean that.”

  A laugh bubbled up. “I did it. My God, I did it. Without . . .” She faltered.

  “Paraphernalia of any kind,” he supplied cheerfully. “No whips, chains, or cuffs.”

  Her cheeks heated. “Yeah. That. I did that.”

  He lifted his brows. “I helped.”

  She laughed again. “I’d say so. Now, if I don’t go to sleep soon, I’m going to die.”

  He backed away, then lifted her into his arms easily, carrying her to the bed. He tucked her under the covers. “Where should I sleep?”

  She looked up at him. “Do you want to be alone at three a.m.?”

  His eyes flickered. “No.”

  “Then sleep here.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

  He chuckled. “Damn.�
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  Dutton, Monday, February 5, 12:45 a.m.

  The throbbing in her arm woke Bobby with a start. She poured herself a cup of water from Grandmother Vartanian’s silver tea service, swallowed the Ibuprofen Charles had left, then tried to relax in the sleeping bag she’d liberated from the basement. The sleeping bag had Daniel Vartanian’s name neatly printed on the label, along with the number of his Boy Scout troop. Of course he’d been a Boy Scout. She rolled her eyes.

  The bag smelled musty, but it was clean. She’d spread it out on the box springs in Susannah’s old bedroom after dragging the remnants of the mattress from the bed. Someone had come through and trashed the house, slashing every cushion and mattress with methodical care. Toby Granville or Randy Mansfield, she thought. He’d been looking for Simon Vartanian’s key to the damn safe-deposit box.

  Toby and Simon had hidden their incriminating rape pictures there, she knew. She’d liberated the pictures a few years ago. It had been handy having Rocky working in her uncle’s bank. Bobby knew what was in the safe-deposit boxes of a number of the townspeople of Dutton. Knowing their secrets when they all still treated her like white trash who’d had the good fortune to marry into wealth had made her feel powerful.

  None of that mattered now. What she needed was money to get away. She’d be able to sell several of the Vartanian family heirlooms, like Grandmother Vartanian’s silver tea service. The thought of it made her smirk. After all this time, she finally possessed the family silver. She knew there were more treasures. When she got her hands on Susannah, she’d force her to show her all the hiding places in this old house.

  She’d use some of the cash she’d get for the Vartanian treasures to buy a passport with someone else’s name. Someone else’s face. Hers was now plastered over every news program in the country. Maybe even the world.

  Dammit. What was I thinking this afternoon? I could have been caught.

  She’d been thinking the way Charles had wanted her to think. She’d been single-mindedly focused on humiliating Susannah Vartanian and seeing her die in a very public way. Because that’s what Charles wanted.

  He hated Susannah, which was interesting, to be sure. But what Charles wanted or Charles felt didn’t really matter now, either. What matters is what I want.

  And I want Susannah Vartanian dead. If it’s a private event, so be it.

  But now Bobby knew Susannah was far stronger than she’d given her credit for. I need to heal. Then I’ll finish what I started. Let Charles think she was killing Susannah for him. Bobby knew the truth. I’ll kill her for me. Then she’d get away.

  Atlanta, Monday, February 5, 2:45 a.m.

  The weeping woke her. Susannah lifted her head from the pillow, momentarily disoriented. The bed wasn’t hers and her body was sore in all kinds of places. But the smell of cedar and the sound of Thor’s muffled snoring immediately calmed her.

  She was in Luke’s bed. But he wasn’t.

  Gingerly she slid from the bed, suddenly feeling every one of the bumps and bruises from the last three days. Wincing, she shrugged into the shirt he’d thrown on the floor. It smelled like him, cedar and a little sweat.

  I boarded that flight out of LaGuardia Friday morning hoping to change my life.

  That, she thought as she rolled up Luke’s shirt sleeves, she certainly had done.

  Darlin’ had stationed herself outside Luke’s spare bedroom. The door was ajar and Susannah pushed it open enough to peer inside. It was his home gym and in one corner hung a punching bag. Draped around the bag, his shoulders shaking, was Luke. Susannah’s eyes stung at the sight. So many times over the past few days he’d been moved or his eyes had even grown bright, but this . . . This was soul-wrenching grief and it tore at her heart.

  “Luke.”

  His bare back went rigid. He pushed against the bag until he stood straight, but didn’t turn around. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said stiffly.

  “It’s almost three a.m.,” she said. “Par for the course. Can I come in?” He nodded, still not looking at her. She rubbed her hands over his back, feeling every muscle tense. “What happened?” she asked softly.

  “Nate called.”

  “Nate, from ICAC.” Dread pooled in her stomach. “They found Becky Snyder’s little sisters?” The little sisters who Monica’s friend Becky had died trying to protect.

  “Yeah. On a podcast. Pay per view. Nate sent out pictures of the children after we left the empty apartment this morning.” The apartment whose address Monica Cassidy had committed to memory, keeping her promise to help Becky’s younger sisters. “One of our partners in Europe contacted him. They’d seen the kids. Nate saw them tonight. Online.” He rested his forehead on the punching bag. “He’s ripped up.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “We see these kids, Susannah . . . We know they’re out there and they’re suffering but we can’t find them.”

  She pressed her cheek to his back, wrapping her arms around him. She said nothing, refusing to minimize his grief with platitudes.

  “Nate,” he went on, “has been there for days, watching tape, looking at pictures. I should have been there. Should have been watching. I’ve left it all to him.”

  “While you’ve been vacationing in Bali,” she murmured. “Luke, you’ve saved so many. Ten girls, not twenty-four hours ago. Don’t beat yourself up like this.”

  “I know. Why isn’t that good enough?”

  “Because you’re you and you care, too damn much. You know you’ve done your best because you’re not capable of doing any less. You have to hold on to that.”

  His hands covered hers. “That helps. Really.”

  “You’ll find Bobby Davis, then you can help Nate find the Snyder kids and the others that keep you awake at three a.m. Did Nate track Becky’s stepfather?”

  “No, but we know Snyder had those kids here in the city once. Nate’s going to take face shots of the kids to the area schools, see if he can find them that way. But they could be anywhere in the world by now. There’s nothing keeping him here in Atlanta.”

  “Maybe there is. Maybe this scumbag Snyder has roots you don’t know about. What made you know he was in Atlanta to start with? When he still had Angel and Becky?”

  “Things we saw in the pictures, things around the room where the kids were kept. A Braves cap, a tomahawk, the kind you get on free day. Stuff like that.”

  “Untraceable stuff that thousands of people have,” she said quietly against his back.

  “Yeah.” The single word was bitter and hopeless.

  “Come back to sleep,” she said. “You need to rest. You’ll be sharper.”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Then come back to bed anyway.” She tugged and he followed, stopping when he got to the bed. She was wearing his shirt and it shifted when she climbed on the mattress, revealing the dark bruise on her breast, courtesy of Bobby’s bullet. His temper flared higher, remembering how close he’d come to losing her.

  He shook his head. “You go to sleep,” he said. “I’ll go watch some TV.” He knew his moods, knew he was too savage right now to risk getting into the bed with her. She was bruised. She had to hurt like hell.

  And I’m ready for round two. He swallowed when she knelt on the bed, her small hands reaching for his. Very, very ready.

  “Don’t shut me out,” she said softly. “I didn’t do that to you.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  She frowned. “Because you’re on the dark side now?” She slipped her fingers inside the waist of his jeans and tugged him closer. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  He pushed her away, as gently as he was able. “It matters to me.” He turned to leave, but she was quick, getting to the door before he could and leaning against it, her chin lifted, challenge in her eyes. “Susannah,” he warned. “This is not the time.”

  “That’s what you said last night. You were wrong then, too.”

  With a curse he tried to move her out of the wa
y, but she put her arms around his neck, and her legs around his waist, attaching herself to him like a limpet. “Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t push me away.”

  He braced his hands on the door and they hung there. “Don’t you know I’ll hurt you?”

  She kissed his jaw. “Don’t you know I need to help you?”

  “You can’t.” He was knowingly goading her, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

  “Watch me,” she murmured, kissing his cheeks, his lips, which he held firmly closed. Undaunted, she moved to his shoulder, kissing and licking her way down to his chest. Still he resisted, until she sank her teeth into his shoulder and bit. Hard.

  The rubber band of his restraint snapped. With a growl he shoved his jeans off, and hands shaking, grabbed another condom from the drawer. Without thinking he dropped them both to the bed, her arms still locked around his neck, her legs around his waist, and he thrust into her hard.

  She was tight and wet and he pounded into her until the simmering pit of his temper boiled over and the world went black. His body went taut, arching back as he was slammed with the most powerful orgasm he’d ever experienced. Too late he realized she hadn’t been with him. He’d left her behind without a care.

  Shuddering, mortified, he dropped his head, unable to meet her eyes. He’d used her viciously. “Oh God,” he said, when he could speak. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Why?”

  She didn’t sound mad or hurt. He lifted his head and looked down at her. She was smiling at him. Perplexed, he frowned. “Didn’t I hurt you?”

  “A little. I’ll live. How do you feel?”

  “Good,” he said cautiously.

  She rolled her eyes. “Please. I was here, don’t forget. It was damn good.”

  He let out a breath. “For me, yes. I was selfish. I didn’t take care of you first.”

  “I know that. I’m sure you’ll fix that oversight next time. So how do you feel?”

  Her grin was contagious. “Damn good.”

  She leaned up, kissed his chin. “And I saw your face,” she added, triumphant.

  “You saw my face before.”