Thrill Me to Death

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Okay. But I warn you, I don’t hypnotize easily.”

  “Lift your arms.” When she did, he put his thumbs on the touchpoints right between her shoulder blades and made a small, light circular motion. “I want you to go back to the day you were here with Swen. When the phone rang, he left the room.”

  As he concentrated on that one spot on her back, her breathing became even. Her muscles relaxed.

  “He left the room, closed the door, and you were alone.”

  The tips of his fingers slowly moved down her spine. Her skin was hot, silky. As he eased the sheet lower arousal threatened his concentration, and he willed it away by closing his eyes and focusing on the hypnosis.

  He said the same thing several times, keeping his voice low and monotone, continuing the rhythmic circles on her back.

  Her breathing slowed and her hips rose an inch.

  No surprise, if she was remembering that New Year’s Eve. They’d stayed in that night, bathed each other, fed each other, bet each other on five-card draw.

  They’d played for favors.

  And he’d hid a full house, just to let her win.

  Blood bubbled hotter in his veins, remembering her bold request. On her knees, her back to him, her panties down, she bent over so her hair spilled over the sheets. Taste me, Max. Lick me, Max. She’d spread her legs, watching him upside down, laughing.

  Now he inched the sheet lower, revealing the sides of her breasts, and his cock wrenched in response. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the sexy image away. “You can still taste the lemony flavor of the tea you had with lunch,” he said. “You can smell the spice and feel the warm oil on your back. You’re back in that moment.”

  Again, her hips rocked and she murmured his name.

  His whole body ached to answer that call. To rip the sheet all the way, to thrust her hips higher and pull that silk lower and slide his tongue along that tiny, taut sliver of skin. To make her scream. And gasp. And come.

  Taking a deep, slow breath, he dug for control. “Did you hear the door open, Cori? Do you feel anything?”

  “I feel you.” The words were less than a whisper and he pressed his fingers into her flesh, clinging to his last shred of self-control.

  “Did you hear someone come into the room?” His voice was tight with the effort.

  She arched her back, sliding her nipples against the table, like she’d slid them against the sheets that night. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the pressure of his hard-on and forced himself to remember who was hypnotizing whom.

  “Remember, Cori. You were in here alone. Then someone came in. What do you remember?”

  “I heard something scrape, and then tap.”

  He scuffed his shoe on the bamboo floor. “Like this?”

  “No. Sharper. Louder.”

  A heel? His were rubber, so he couldn’t re-create the sound. “Then what do you remember?”

  “Someone breathing. Hard.”

  “What did you do? Did you try to sit up?”

  “I didn’t want to look. I wanted to stay…with you.”

  He understood. “Did you lift your head? Look around?”

  She was quiet for a long time, her breath quickening. “No. Something…hit me. Something knocked me hard on the head, and kept me pressed down.”

  He could feel the sudden tension of fear in her muscles. “I was so scared. I wanted help. I wanted you.”

  Guilt tightened his chest. “Did you smell anything? Hear anything?”

  “I felt his breath. Heard a raspiness in his voice. He said, ‘Give it up.’ But he still had that cushion on my head. The voice was muffled.” She lifted her head a little, as she probably had the other day, turning so her face was pressed against the suede doughnut hole. “I almost got my head up,” she remembered. “My head was high enough that when I turned, he pushed me here.” She demonstrated, putting her mouth against the plush covering.

  “Think about that voice, Cori. Did you recognize it? Any distinctive cadence or accent?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know the voice. I know the voice.”

  “Think Cori. Who was it?”

  A little sound of frustration came from her. “I…can’t…get it.”

  “You’re so close, kid. Come on,” Max insisted. “Can you remember the feel of his skin? The color of his hands? Jewelry? A watch? Hair on the knuckles?”

  She shook her head, starting to sit up. “No, no, no.” Her voice cracked in frustration. “I didn’t—”

  “Wait, not yet.” He eased her down, softened his voice, took her back to the trance with a few minutes of gentle massage. “Okay, after he hit your head, after you fell asleep, what did you hear, Cori?”

  “My pulse. Blackness. Nothing.”

  “Did the door slide open right away? Did he say anything else? Make any other noise?”

  She was silent, breathing, thinking. He waited, massaging the touchpoints again.

  “My handbag unzipped.”

  Yes. “How do you know?”

  “I heard the funny click in the middle, where the teeth don’t quite meet.”

  He walked to the counter, picking up the bag, and eased the wide zipper open. Metal hummed, clicked twice, right in the middle, then zipped smoothly again.

  “Yes,” she said. “I heard that.”

  A distinct sound, definitely. So someone wanted something from her purse. He glanced at the contents: a matching wallet, her compact, a comb, a phone, mints, keys. “Then what did you hear?”

  “Breezy.”

  Breezy, yelling at him. He put the purse down and walked back to the table. “Let’s bring you out now, sweetheart,” he said gently, putting his hands on her shoulders to turn her over. She moved easily, but the sheet slipped low enough to reveal one glorious breast.

  He drew it up, covering her. “Now count slowly to ten, Cori.”

  “One…two…three…” Her eyelids fluttered. “Four…five…six.” She rose up on her elbows. “Seven…eight…” Their gazes met. “How’d I do?”

  “You were great,” he said, his hand still on the sheet, holding it in place. “You remember?”

  “Yes. My purse. We have to see what’s missing.”

  He nodded. “You’ll have to look.”

  “I remember something else, Max.” A strange glimmer lit her blue eyes.

  “What?”

  “You cheated so I could win that night, didn’t you?”

  The sheet slipped out of his fingers, but he resisted the urge to look. Instead, he grinned at her. “See? I told you this was an effective crime-solving technique.” He picked up her dress and handed it to her. “Here. I’ll wait outside while you dress.”

  When he opened the door, she whispered, “Thanks, Max.” He just held up his hand in response, and slipped out into the much-needed coolness of the hall.

  Chapter

  Fourteen

  P ositioning himself at the long granite kitchen counter that offered a view of both the patio and the cooking area, Max kept one eye on Cori’s sleek body enclosed in a white one-piece bathing suit as it sliced through the water with the same wicked precision with which Marta wielded her chef’s knife.

  He’d much rather be outside with Cori, but he stayed rooted to the counter, popping stuffed olives that Marta had served him from a cold stone dish, and sipping water, wishing it could be beer.

  After the day he’d had, he deserved a cold one—not this split-screen challenge that left him unable to concentrate on questioning Marta and unable to truly appreciate Cori swimming.

  “You ever meet a guy named Swen Raynor, Marta?” he asked as he chose a black olive sprinkled with red flakes.

  She looked up midchop from a Vidalia onion, her ebony eyes sharp. “No, I’ve never met him,” she said, using her wrist to brush back a wavy strand of black hair.

  Pepper burned his tongue, but he weathered it, eyeing the pimiento of a stuffed green olive, for evidence of heated spice. His gaze drifted to the pool as Cori pulled hers
elf onto the stairs at the shallow end, and took a long pull on the bottle of water. Behind her, the expanse of her property framed her in palm fronds and the purplish glow of early evening. Like a water nymph, or some kind of goddess rising up from the Aegean Sea, she lifted her face to the sky and drank, bathed in light and water.

  He bit on the olive, his gums and tongue prickled by the heat.

  Cori propped back on one hand, the outline of her chilled nipples well defined through the wet suit. How much torture could one man take in a day?

  “Did he ever…” He forgot what they were talking about. Oh, yeah, Swen. “Hot—” He grabbed the water. “Pepper.”

  Marta chuckled. “Careful. I’ve seasoned those with red chile flakes.”

  “No kidding,” he said with a half choke.

  She gave him a look of victory. “You’d be better off with milk.”

  “Never touch the stuff.” He managed not to tear up.

  Marta glanced over her shoulder toward the pool, silently acknowledging the distraction. “She’s out there almost every evening before dinner,” she said wistfully. “Ever since Mr. Peyton died, she skips what used to be their cocktail hour and she swims.” Shaking her head, she scraped the chopped onion into a pile and started on some carrots. “It’s so sad.”

  In the past half hour, he’d learned that Cori and her husband had stopped eating red meat more than two years ago, but Marta hoped the braised beef in red wine she was making for Max would tempt the boss to give up her boring salads. And he’d learned that Marta used to live in northern California, where she’d met Mr. Peyton right before he married Cori. He’d talked her into moving to Florida to be his personal chef and housekeeper, although she hated heat and humidity as much as Max did.

  He’d learned equally little from the afternoon’s way-too-erotic hypnosis session. A thorough check of Cori’s purse had revealed that nothing was missing.

  “So, you were talking about Swen Raynor,” Max said casually.

  “You were,” she corrected.

  Max smiled at her no-bullshit style. “Did you know his mother wrote a book on herbs?”

  Marta slid the chopped vegetables into a silver bowl. “I had no idea.”

  “But you’re quite an accomplished cook. I would imagine Swen was interested in your work. Being raised by a renowned chef, he was probably intrigued by the work of others.”

  “I’m a housekeeper, not a chef, Mr. Roper.” She placed the cutting board in the vegetable sink, and turned up the faucet. “And no, he’s never been in my kitchen.”

  “Never brought you any recipes or any of his famous herbs?”

  “No.”

  “No one ever suggested you incorporate something in particular—a rare spice or an unusual herb, perhaps?”

  She looked up at him. “What are you asking me, Mr. Roper?”

  Every once in a while, someone nailed him. And that always impressed him.

  “I’m just curious,” he said with a smile and a shrug to acknowledge her small victory. Outside, Cori lifted her arms in a stretch. The movement pushed her breasts higher, and revealed the toned muscles of her stomach.

  “You know…” He stalled, watching Cori reach for a towel, water sluicing down her ribs, over her hips, and down her legs.

  “Yes?” Marta prodded, her focus on the cutting board.

  What the hell had he been talking about now?

  “Are you from Latin America, Marta?” That was graceless, but he was totally sidetracked by the view.

  “Mexico.” She said it with the Spanish pronunciation, and no small amount of defensiveness.

  “And you moved here from California for this job.”

  She gave him a wary look. “I just told you that.”

  Max forced himself to ignore the view. “That’s quite a significant move. Do you have family in California?”

  “My sister is here now.” She turned to the six-burner stove, hiding her face and giving him a view of the back of her uniform. She wasn’t a svelte woman, but her curves had a definite appeal. She had a pretty face, lots of thick curls, ample breasts, a lilting Spanish accent, and she could cook.

  Many men would find her attractive.

  Including William Peyton, who liked her enough to bring her three thousand miles to live in his house.

  “Exactly how did you meet Mr. Peyton?”

  She clanged a cast-iron skillet onto a lit burner. “He was a customer at a restaurant where I used to work.”

  “A customer? You were a chef there?”

  She threw him a look over her shoulder. “A cook. Yes, I was a cook there.”

  “So how did you actually meet him?” Max prodded. “Did you have the opportunity to mingle with customers?”

  “I really don’t remember,” she said, pouring some wine into the pan and causing a loud hiss and burst of steam.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see the circle of “lovelovelove” around the letter W.

  Or the letter M?

  “You must have been quite trusting to leave California and work for a virtual stranger,” he said. “Or did you know him fairly well before you left?”

  She spun around, her eyes watering from the steam. “I endured a personal tragedy, Mr. Roper, and wanted very much to leave California. I jumped at the opportunity to work for Mr. Peyton because he was good and kind and fair.” Her voice cracked. “If you think to prod any further into my life, I suggest you stop right now.”

  He studied her. “Why is that?”

  “You know why as well as I do, and I…I can’t do anything about it now.”

  “Anything about what?” The familiar sensation of closing in on the final moments of an interrogation grabbed him. “You can tell me, Marta.”

  “I can’t. You have all this security. People are coming to install cameras and spotlights. They will interview me.” Her voice cracked again, sending Max’s heart rate up. Could it be this easy?

  “Maybe I won’t let them.”

  “No.” Her black eyes burned him like the hot pepper. “I don’t want to tell you anything.”

  “You can trust me,” he said, tilting his head a little, drawing her in. “I’m staff here, too.”

  “You are a legal citizen, Mr. Roper. I am not.”

  Was that her secret? A missing green card? “Was Mr. Peyton helping you with that?” She turned back to the stove. “Why? What happened?”

  Marta held one hand up, the universal signal for shut up.

  “Did Mrs. Peyton help? Or were you closer to Mr. Peyton,” he suggested. “More comfortable with him?”

  She gave him an odd look. “He was a saint.”

  A saint with a stash of rubbers his wife had never seen. “Did you happen to have a chance to clean out his boat, Marta? All of his belongings are gone.”

  “Mrs. Peyton already asked me that,” she said, denial and confusion on her face. “I did not.”

  “But you know your way around the boat, don’t you?”

  “I clean the cabana,” she said. “I hate that boat. Just like Mrs. Peyton does.”

  Behind her, the pan flared with fire and she spun back with a gasp, seizing the knob and flipping the flame down. When she turned to him, her face was completely composed again.

  “Will you be having dinner with Mrs. Peyton on the terrace tonight, since Mrs. Breezy can’t make it?”

  Locked down. Max wouldn’t get another thing out of her.

  “I might,” he said, taking the empty bowl and placing it in the vegetable sink. “I’ll have to see what I can do about scoring an invitation.”

  Outside he followed the water drips up the spiral stairs, but her door was locked and Cori told him she preferred to be alone.

  So he ate braised beef by himself on the veranda under her room, her absence hitting him as sharply as a knife wound. He stayed there long after Marta came out to remove his plate, refusing eye contact and barely accepting his compliments on dinner.

  Deep into the oppressive heat of the night,
he sat on Cori’s patio, staring sightlessly at the stars. Instead, images flashed before him, some achingly beautiful, some terrible and violent. He knew he should go to bed, walk the property, punch a wall. Something other than sweat and simmer and grow harder and madder that he couldn’t change the past.

  Can you keep your emotions out of this, Max?

  Apparently not.

  Around four, he heard the water heater that ran Cori’s shower. Funny time for her to bathe. He hustled up the outdoor spiral stairs that led to her bedroom.

  Through the tiny cracks in the shutters, he could see a dim light. At the far corner of the sliding glass door, he crouched down to peer through the opening he’d created for this very purpose. And what he saw on her bed turned his blood to ice.

  Dan Gallagher hadn’t stopped moving since his flight landed in Osaka and he’d boarded a train that took him to Kyoto Station. Why Max’s target couldn’t be in a city with its own international airport, he didn’t know. And he was so freaking tired, he didn’t care.

  He’d get the information Max needed, and then he’d roll into the top notch ryokan he’d just checked into and sleep for two days. Maybe he’d find one of the last remaining geishas in the country to entertain him in style before he headed back to Paris.

  He’d made amazing progress so far—which probably meant that the man in hiding wanted to be found.

  Using the sketchy data Max had sent, Dan had gone to a local hospital where Dr. Bauer had connections. Three interviews, including one with a very charming and accommodating nurse, gave him the names of some relatives who lived in the northern outskirts of the town.

  When he arrived at their humble wood-framed house, a tiny woman opened the door before he’d knocked. Through a frustrating conversation in broken English, bad Japanese, and sign language, Dan learned that he was at the home of Dr. Bauer’s uncle on his mother’s side, the Tashimoto family. And yes, the Bauer family was staying there—he thought. The woman, Tanikasan, finally invited him in.

  An older woman moved like a ghost behind an opaque sliding door, but Dan stayed focused on his attempts at communicating with Tanikasan. A lanky boy of about fifteen had been sprawled across some pillows, filling up most of a tiny living floor to the right. After a few minutes he unfolded himself, walked through the entryway, and leveled a black-eyed gaze directly at Dan. He wore a white ribbed tank top and sleep pants with SpongeBob SquarePants all over them.