Private Passions

by JoAnn Ross

“Not if I’m the killer.”

  She was on her feet again, emotion bringing much-needed color rushing back to her cheeks. “I told you, there’s no way you will ever convince me of that!”

  He thought about telling her the rest—how he’d also envisioned her blood on his hands—and decided he’d dumped enough reality on her for one day.

  “As much as I appreciate your unwavering belief in my innocence—”

  “It’s the truth.” She dropped to her knees beside the bed and wrapped her arms around him, holding him desperately close. “There are all sorts of explanations,” she said in a rush. “You’re a writer. A creative person. Undoubtedly more sensitive to emotional vibrations. Perhaps you’re picking up on the killer’s thought waves—”

  “I don’t have a satellite dish in my head, sweetheart.” Once again her earnestness had his lips curving in a grim smile.

  “This isn’t funny, Roman!”

  “No.” He cupped her cheek with his palm. “On that much we can agree.”

  “We can also agree you didn’t do it.” When he hesitated, she said, “Because of the last victim. The one Adrian called about yesterday. The one O’Malley asked about. You couldn’t have killed her, Roman. Because you were with me the night she was murdered.”

  Amazingly, he’d forgotten about the most recent murder. As he pondered why, Roman realize it was because he hadn’t experienced any mental images. Because his mind had been too filled with Desiree.

  “You’re right.” Relief flooded through him, as cool and clean as a mountain stream. “I couldn’t have done it.”

  “See? I told you.” Her smile, warm as it was, wobbled. And her eyes were filled with moisture. “You scared me to death, Roman Falconer.”

  “I’m sorry.” He coaxed her onto his lap and held her tightly, as if she were his very own talisman. “There’s still a very good chance I’ll be arrested.”

  “Not if they catch the killer first.”

  “They haven’t yet,” Roman felt obliged to reply.

  “True.” She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “Roman, I just had an idea—”

  “No!” His shout echoed around them in the close confines of the cozy bedroom. “You are not going to do a single thing to try to lure this crazy out of hiding. It’s too damn dangerous.”

  He should have told her about the vision, Roman decided.

  “Don’t worry.” She pressed a quick, reassuring kiss against his lips. “I wasn’t thinking any such thing.”

  Desiree wanted to reassure him, to keep from ruining their first Christmas together.

  Roman wanted to be reassured.

  But as she kissed him with all the pent-up emotion she was feeling, Desiree knew that there had to be something she could do to help this man she loved.

  * * *

  “I REALLY HATE to leave you.” Roman’s reluctance carved furrows between his dark brows.

  They were standing in the front doorway, arms wrapped around each other.

  “It’s not like you’re going to be gone for long.” Desiree smiled up at him, rubbing at the deep lines. “After all, how long does it take to pick up a bourbon chocolate pecan pie?” The rich dessert from Brennan’s was a staple at the Falconer home on Christmas day. This year Roman had volunteered to pick it up.

  “About as long as it takes for you to get into trouble.”

  She sighed as she viewed the concern in his sober gaze. “For heaven’s sake, Roman, now you’re sounding exactly like O’Malley.”

  “That’s not so surprising.” He skimmed a finger down the slender slope of her nose. “Since we both care a lot about a certain stubborn, risk-taking reporter.”

  “Will that bother you after we’re married? That Michael and I are still friends?”

  “Of course not.” Roman shrugged. “I’ve always liked O’Malley. Although I have to admit, I’ll like him a helluva lot better when I’m no longer the chief suspect in his murder investigation.”

  “I’m sure he believes you,” Desiree insisted, as if saying it could make true.

  “O’Malley doesn’t believe anyone. That’s what makes him such a good cop.”

  Church bells chimed, inviting neighbors to Christmas-morning services and reminding Roman and Desiree that time was passing and they were expected at Audubon Park by noon.

  “Gotta go.” He bent his head and gave her a swift hard kiss that left her head spinning.

  Desiree stood in the doorway, watching as he climbed into the damning black Porsche that O’Malley would undoubtedly be impounding before the day was over. She sighed and watched Roman drive away.

  She waved to the plainclothes patrolman who was still stationed outside her house and felt a tinge of guilt that he was missing the holiday with his own family.

  Then, determined to enjoy this very special day, she went back into the house, smiling as she thought about Roman’s reaction when he viewed the drop-dead-gorgeous red velvet dress she’d bought for his parent’s Christmas dinner.

  She’d finished her shower and was getting ready to blow dry her hair when she heard the familiar sound of the Porsche’s engine outside the house. A moment later, she heard the key she’d given Roman turning in the front lock.

  “That was certainly fast,” she called out. “Did you forget something?”

  A frisson of fear raced up her spine when there was no answer. Telling herself that only her imagination was working overtime again, she took a deep breath. “Roman?”

  Again there was only silence. She padded quietly across the stenciled floor to the bedside telephone and lifted it gingerly from the receiver.

  Nothing.

  Another bubble of fear rose in her throat. She forced it down and tried to think.

  The house was as still as a tomb. The only sound was the soft cooing of a pigeon outside the bedroom window. The window! Of course, she thought in a rush of relief. She’d just reached it when a familiar voice came from the doorway.

  “What are you doing, Desiree, love?”

  Her heart in her throat, she turned slowly, biting her lip as she viewed Roman leaning negligently against the door frame.

  “You scared me to death!”

  “I’m sorry.” He smiled—a warm, loving smile designed to coax her into relaxing. “But you’re right. I did forget something important.”

  Still uneasy, she watched him carefully, trying to remember that this was the man she loved. The man who loved her. “What’s that?”

  “This.” He took his hand from behind his back. In it he was holding a bloodred rose.

  Her blood turned to ice. “You’re not Roman.”

  “Of course I am.” His smile was an evil white slash in his dark complexion. “Ask anyone.” He began walking toward her. “Ask the florist.” Closer. “Or Detective O’Malley.” Closer still. “Or how about that cop parked across the street? Who, by the way, said to wish you a very merry Christmas.”

  Another smile, more wicked than the first. “It seems the man was a fan.” He shook his head with mock regret. “He seemed like a very nice man.” She watched as he took his free hand out of his pocket, revealing a very lethal switchblade. “It’s too bad he had to die. On Christmas.”

  Horror slashed through her as she viewed the blood on the steel blade.

  “What do you want?” She managed, just barely, to force the words past the fear-induced lump lodged in her throat.

  “A great many things.” He moved closer. “This is, after all, the season for giving.” Closer still, allowing her to see the frightening glint of madness in those dark eyes that were mirror images of Roman’s. “I suppose we can begin with you.”

  As he reached for her, Desiree scrambled over the top of the bed in an attempt to escape. But he was quicker, grabbing her arm and throwing her down on the mattress.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Why not?” he asked whimsically with a smile that was a cruel and hateful parody of Roman’s loving one. “You’re a beautiful woman, D
esiree.” He trailed the rose down her cheek in a mockery of a caress. “Any man would want you.”

  It took all her resolve not to tremble at his touch. Desire reminded herself that the key to survival was to remain calm. And to keep him talking until she could figure a way out of this. Or until Roman returned home.

  “Most men don’t resort to rape.” She judged the distance to the door in the event talking wouldn’t prove successful.

  He laughed at that. “Most men don’t know how much you like it rough.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of scarlet satin ribbons. “But he does.” Pinning her down with a knee to the chest, he took hold of her right wrist and looped one of the red ribbons around it, in much the way Roman had done with her crimson silk scarf. “And I know everything he knows.”

  Her mouth was dry. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Keep him talking, Desiree reminded herself.

  “How?”

  “You’re a smart lady, chérie. Haven’t you figured it out yet?” He’d dropped Roman’s cultured Southern accent, and in its place she recognized the familiar cadence of the bayou.

  She stared up into this face that was a carbon copy of the man she loved and remembered what Roman had told her about being adopted the night she’d cooked pasta for them. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “You’re his brother.”

  “His twin,” he agreed with another one of those wicked smiles that slashed at her like the blade of the knife he still held in his hand. “I guess you’d call me his evil twin.” This time his laugh was high-pitched, leaving Desiree with not a single doubt that this was a very sick man.

  “I don’t understand.” He’d yet to tie the ribbon to the headboard. Desiree’s only hope was that she could distract him long enough to escape. “I know Roman was adopted, but—”

  “Not just Roman!” he shouted, leaving the bed to begin pacing furiously, his fist curled around the flower. “We were both adopted out by the putain who gave birth to us.”

  From her years of European boarding schools, Desiree knew more than a little street French. But even so, she wouldn’t have needed a translator to know that he’d just called his mother—and, if he could be believed, Roman’s mother—a whore.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “You’re sorry?” He spun around and jammed his fist into the wall directly above the headboard, making her flinch. His face was twisted into the most hideous mask she’d ever seen. At this moment, he looked nothing like Roman. “Who the hell are you to be sorry for me? You’re just another bitch who’ll spread her legs for any man that comes along.”

  He swung again, this time a harsh, backhanded blow to her cheek that sent her head reeling and made her see stars.

  Tears sprang to her eyes, but Desiree refused to cry. “I’m not your mother,” she said, hoping she could reason with him until Roman returned. How long could it take to pick up a pecan pie?

  “You’re just like her.” He’d begun to pace again. “I saw you.” When he stopped beside the bed and glared down at her, she knew, all too well, how Tabitha Sue Jackson and all the others had felt when they’d realized what a mistake they’d made in going off with this man. “I saw you with that cop, outside, wearing nothing but this robe.”

  He ripped it open, exposing her to his blazing, mad gaze. “You’d just finished screwing one lover and you were coming on to another.” He threw a handful of crushed, dark crimson rose petals onto her body.

  “I really am sorry for whatever has happened to you,” she began, once again trying for reason, “but—”

  “I don’t want your damn pity!” he roared, hitting her again, this time with a powerful fist to her temple that caused a wavy black haze to swim in front of her eyes.

  He began to shout a stream of obscenities interspersed with a long, rambling monologue about how, due to a stroke of luck, Roman had ended up with a wealthy family who’d given him everything, while he’d been sold off to a violent, alcoholic sugar cane farmer who’d only wanted another pair of hands to work from dawn to dusk.

  It wasn’t fair, he ranted. But now he was going to even the score. Once and for all.

  “I’m going to have you, chérie. The way you like it, hard and violent until you’re screaming that pretty red head off. And when I’m done, you’re going to realize that I’m better than Roman Falconer could ever be.

  “And then, unfortunately, I’m going to have to kill you. So my rich, famous brother will hang for your murder. And the murder of all those other whores.”

  His voice, loud as it was, sounded as if it was coming from a very long way away. Desiree struggled to remain conscious even as she felt herself succumbing to the darkness. She was just about to go under when, as impossible as she knew it to be, she felt the hours-old life inside her stir.

  Dispensing with reason, she began to fight. To save herself, but most of all, to save her unborn child. The child she’d made with Roman.

  The rapist was back on the bed, kneeling over her, tying her to the lacy wrought-iron headboard. Shouting at the top of her lungs, Desiree jerked her knee up between his legs, causing him to roar like a wounded lion as he rolled on the mattress, holding his hands over his groin.

  She was off the bed in a flash, pulling open the dresser drawer to retrieve the gun O’Malley had given her. The gun she had forgotten about until now. Then she turned and ran from the room.

  She was halfway down the hall when he caught up with her. Grabbing her by her streaming hair, he threw her to the floor. She dropped the pistol, but, crawling, managed to retrieve it. Her fingers had just curled around the grip when the toe of his boot slammed into her rib cage.

  “Stop it!” she shouted, ignoring the blinding pain as she pointed the gun up at him. Her hands were shaking like a leaf in a Gulf Coast hurricane. “Or I’ll shoot!”

  His only answer was a blood-chilling laugh. When he swung his foot back to kick her again, Desiree closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The report was deafening. It also was ineffective, hitting the wall behind him.

  Her head was swimming and her chest felt as if it were on fire. But she managed to keep her eyes open this time as she pulled the trigger and another shot ripped the air. Desiree watched the shocked look come across his face and viewed the dark red stain on his thigh.

  He screamed a curse. But like the monster from every horror movie she’d ever seen, he kept coming.

  She pulled the trigger one more time.

  Nothing.

  Having no idea what to do with a jammed pistol, she scrambled frantically to her feet and resumed running for the front door. She just barely squeezed by the Christmas tree, then, in one final act of desperation, knocked it over, blocking her attacker’s way into the living room.

  Vertigo was crashing down on her, causing her knees to give way beneath her. Crawling again, she managed to cross the small room and was just reaching up for the antique brass knob when the door swung open.

  “Roman!” Relief was instantaneous.

  He gathered her into his arms, pulling her out of the way of O’Malley, who succeeded in stopping Desiree’s deadly assailant with one expertly placed shot.

  * * *

  “IT’S ALL RIGHT,” Roman was saying over and over again, his lips raining desperate kisses over her bruised face. “You’re going to be all right.”

  Believing him absolutely, trusting him implicitly, Desiree lifted a hand to his cheek and smiled. “I can’t believe I’m spending Christmas in the hospital,” she complained.

  “You have a concussion. The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation.”

  “Why can’t we just go home? And you can watch me.”

  He ran a hand down the side of her face and tamped down the rage he felt when he viewed the ugly dark bruises. His first emotion, when he’d he’d come out of the restaurant to find his car stolen, had been irritation.

  An instant later, sheer terror had torn through him when he realized the theft was no annoying coincidence. His car
had obviously been taken to keep him from returning to Desiree!

  Dropping the pie, he’d raced back into the restaurant and called 911, instructing the dispatcher to contact O’Malley and send cops over to Desiree’s Irish Channel address. Then, borrowing the restaurant owner’s car, he’d sped to the house and was running up the sidewalk to the front door when O’Malley arrived, followed by three squad cars. And a SWAT/hostage team that fortunately did not prove necessary.

  “I intend to spend the rest of my life doing exactly that,” he assured her. “Beginning with tonight. I’m going to be sitting right beside the bed. All night long.”

  “I can think of a lot of other things I’d rather be doing all night long with you.”

  Her saucy grin revealed that she’d come through the ordeal with her indomitable spirit intact. Roman would have expected nothing less.

  “That’s tomorrow night.”

  “Something wrong with tomorrow morning?”

  He laughed, enjoying the release. “Whatever you want.” He sat down on the edge of the too narrow bed and drew her into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “It certainly wasn’t your fault.”

  “O’Malley still hasn’t found out who the guy was. But if he does turn out to be a brother I never knew I had—”

  “Which might explain you knowing what he was doing,” Desiree pointed out. “I’ve read about strange mind links between identical twins.”

  “Believe me, I’ve already considered that.” The extra car keys—which Roman had never noticed were missing from his desk drawer—had been found in the rapist’s pocket. Having the keys would have made it a simple matter to not only take the Porsche, but to slip into the house and read the book, as it progressed, on Roman’s computer.

  What Roman knew no one would ever be able to satisfactorily explain was how he’d known what the monster was thinking.

  Wanting nothing more than to put all this behind him, he dragged a weary hand down his face. “As eerie as the idea is, you might be on to something.”

  “I suppose it’ll make a good story.”

  “For someone else to tell.” Roman knew he’d never completely get over the absolute terror he’d felt when he arrived at the house to hear Desiree’s scream. And those gunshots. “There’s no amount of money that would make me willing to relive today.”