Too Wild to Hold

by LETO, JULIE

  He cupped her breast, teasing her nipple with his thumb as he kissed her until she couldn’t differentiate between the moisture of the shower and the liquid heat blasting through her body. She grabbed blindly for any part of him she could reach. His arms. His neck. His chest. His ass. Once she grasped his backside, he thrust deeper and longer, then faster until her mind erupted with an explosion of color and light.

  When he released her leg, she was too wobbly to stand. With a chuckle, he buoyed her against his body and swung them both under the stream of water. She curled against him, hungry for the warmth of his caressing kisses.

  “Feel clean now?” he asked.

  “I feel like a prune, I think,” she replied.

  He turned off the water and retrieved a towel from the tiny metal shelf in the corner. He wrapped her torso, placing a kiss between her breasts after he tucked in the corner.

  “This is cozy,” he said, pulling her close.

  “This is crazy.”

  “I’m not the one who came barging into your shower.”

  “But you thought about it,” she guessed.

  “I did not,” he said, but when he wasn’t undercover, Michael Murrieta was a terrible liar.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, unwinding from his embrace and stepping onto the tiny square of a bath mat, which was pretty much soaked through.

  Claire retrieved her T-shirt and panties, then dashed out of the bathroom, determined to give him space while he dried off and dressed. She had no regrets. From the minute he’d spirited her upstairs to the bedroom in the plantation house and she hadn’t resisted, they’d been on a path to having sex. Hot sex. Hot, wet sex, that she decided was now her favorite kind.

  But most importantly, when she picked up the book she’d abandoned on the bed, she was no longer creeped out by The Bandit or his sick intentions. He wasn’t going to get anywhere near her. Not if she had anything to say about it—and definitely not if Michael did.

  He came out of the shower a few minutes later wearing a grey T-shirt and loose running shorts. His hair was spiky and his skin flushed so that his blue eyes lasered straight through her.

  She smiled as she curled under the covers of her bed. He didn’t move. Did he need an invitation? She pulled back the blanket and patted the mattress.

  But instead of joining her, he cursed and plopped down on the corner of the bed.

  His bed.

  The one farthest away from her.

  “This shouldn’t have happened,” he said, running his hand over his face.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m supposed to be protecting you,” he argued, his self-recrimination growing with every syllable.

  “Well, you did forget about the protection,” she chided, though she wasn’t worried. She’d been on birth control for years and doubted that a guy like Michael went around having indiscriminate sex.

  As her words registered, he cursed even louder. “I’m sorry. I never forget about protection.”

  Somehow, the fact that he’d been so caught up with her that he’d forgotten to dig into his overnight bag or wallet or wherever he stashed his prophylactics pleased her more than it should have. “Neither do I, ordinarily, so I guess we’re both okay. And I’m on the Pill, so no worries in that department, either.”

  He continued to shake his head and Claire imagined that whatever four-letter words he’d used out loud were nothing compared to what was going on in his mind. As she’d surmised earlier, Michael was an honorable man—a by-the-book, no exceptions guy, even when it came to sex. She’d pushed him out of his comfort zone, but refused to feel guilty about it. Wasn’t like he didn’t enjoy himself.

  “So,” she said, settling deeper into the mattress, which was surprisingly cozy. Sated and deliciously exhausted, she figured that maybe discussing the next step in his case would draw him out of his unnecessary self-recriminations. “Tell me how you intend to catch this Bandit.”

  He narrowed his gaze, and for a second, she felt as if he was seeing her for the first time. “I think we need to get some sleep.”

  In a flash, he’d stacked up his paperwork and shoved it into a bag he kept beneath the bed. He double checked the lock on the door, retrieved his firearm and placed it on the bed stand between them.

  “Geez, if you don’t want me to climb into bed with you in the middle of the night, you just have to ask,” she joked, eying the weapon.

  Michael frowned. “What? Oh, that’s not—”

  She laughed out loud. “Jesus, Michael, what’s wrong with you? We had sex. Great sex, if I do say so myself. Do you regret it?”

  He dropped to his knees at her bedside. His eyes really were an amazing color—like sapphire sparkles atop a Caribbean sea. “God, no, Claire. Are you kidding? If it was up to me, I’d climb into bed with you right now and make love to you for the rest of the night. With protection.”

  His half-grin eased the sudden and unexpected tightness in her chest.

  “Isn’t it up to you?” she asked, sliding her hand onto his cheek. “And me?”

  For an instant, he leaned into her palm, his eyes closed, his expression so relaxed in her touch, she thought she might have to grab at her chest to keep her heart from cracking a little.

  But then he pulled away, shaking his head as if to dispel the effects of her touch. “In this moment, yes. But the sun’s going to rise tomorrow and our actions tonight have already put us at a disadvantage.”

  “How do you figure?” she asked.

  “We had a plan, Claire. A smart, clear-cut plan. First, we meet up with Josslyn in the morning, get her signature and put your case to rest. Then we regroup with Ruby and the local FBI office and work up a plan that lures the Bandit out in the open without putting you at risk.”

  “And how has our making love changed any of that?”

  He turned his face to the ceiling, his jaw tight and his mouth an angry slash across his face. “Because now, I can’t put you in danger. I can’t let you go meet with Josslyn and, God help me, I can’t use you as bait.”

  Claire jumped out of bed, nearly tripping in her disorientation. Michael wasn’t a stupid man. He wasn’t, as far as she knew, a chest beating Neanderthal. So why the hell was he suddenly acting like one?

  “Why? Because we had sex? Don’t be so provincial, Michael. Just because you fucked me doesn’t mean you own me.”

  He grabbed her by the upper arms, his grip tight and his gaze filled with a hot desperation that went straight into her bloodstream. “I don’t have to own you to want to protect you.”

  He yanked her up so that their lips clashed, and despite her fury, she couldn’t resist channeling her anger into the kiss. She fed on his fear for her, filling herself with the knowledge that for her, he’d risk everything—her case, his career…even the safety of other women the Bandit might target next. Though she suspected that before meeting her, Michael Murrieta rarely acted on impulse, that’s what he was doing now.

  And she had to stop him.

  She braced her hands on his face and slowly eased the tension out of her lips and tongue so that the explosion of frantic passion ebbed. With each tender touch and brush of a kiss that followed, her chest ached even more. She’d waited her entire life for someone to care enough about her to put her ahead of everything else, and now she couldn’t accept his generosity, even when so honestly offered.

  “Michael, I owe it to those kids to make sure Josslyn is out of their lives forever. It’s just one little signature that I need. And sooner or later, we’re going to have to confront this Bandit freak, because if we don’t, other women will be at risk. And even if he moves on to someone new, if he’s fixated on me the way that your ancestor was focused on Paulette, he’ll just come back for me later.”

  Michael shut his eyes tight, and on his face Claire saw his struggle between needing to keep her out of harm’s way and doing his job—a struggle she guessed he’d have to deal with for as long as he was anywhere near her.

  Michael wa
s smart. Once he pushed beyond the euphoria of a great orgasm, he’d realize the truth. The whole truth. Yes, he cared about her, but they were strangers who’d achieved instant intimacy because of circumstances and chemistry. He couldn’t throw his career aside for her. And more importantly, he couldn’t put other women in danger by ignoring this one shot at catching the Bandit before the man could do more harm.

  “He won’t give up,” she said, driving the final nail into her argument.

  He drew her fully against him, wrapping her in a hug that squeezed out any chance that they’d be together once this case was complete. “Then neither will I.”

  10

  THOUGH THEY SLEPT in the same bed that night, Claire was glad their argument over the Bandit, and her insistence that she meet Josslyn this morning as planned, kept them from doing anything more than cuddling. She’d had one-night stands before, but none that had impacted her so deeply in such a short time.

  She’d known Michael for less than a day, but she couldn’t help but care about him, about his case, about his career, even about his quest to protect his family name. And clearly, he cared about her just as much. Yet despite his reluctance to let her out in public when the Bandit might be watching her, he agreed to accompany her to the cemetery to secure Josslyn Granger’s signature on the legal papers so she could close up this case.

  But his agreement came at a price. She’d had to listen, late into the night, to every gory detail about what the Bandit had done to the women he’d caught—how he’d drugged them with Rohypnol, spirited them away to an undisclosed location and then messed with their minds until in the end, they believed they’d consented to his sick, sexual game. He’d pulled no punches in explaining how the unsub had confounded all ordinary profiling techniques by borrowing aspects of his modus operandi from three distinct serial killer types, and that it was only a matter of time before he escalated one more level and either mutilated his victim or killed. Or both.

  She’d fallen asleep only to be haunted by disturbing, disjointed nightmares filled with black masks and blood red roses whose thorns sliced open her skin in intimate places. And every time she’d gasped awake, he’d held her tight against him until she fell back asleep.

  She’d ended up sleeping later than she’d intended, and Michael had let her, wanting her to be fresh and sharp for the meeting. She’d dressed quickly and silently. What he’d told her about the Bandit terrified her, but also made her more determined. Of all the women he might attack, she was the most qualified to deal with him—to beat him. And even beyond her own personal skills, she had Michael. Together, they’d be unstoppable.

  At least, until they had no reason to be together at all.

  “You’ll stay in the car until Josslyn shows up,” Michael said as he packed their belongings into the back of his rental.

  “And what if Josslyn decides she’s not going to show up unless she sees me? This is my case, Michael. I’m not going to hide in the car.”

  “Did you hear anything I said to you last night?” he asked, his voice clipped.

  “I heard every frickin’ word. But you’re going to be with me the whole time. Even if the Bandit somehow found out about our meeting with Josslyn—and I can’t imagine how he could—he won’t be able to get near me. A signature only takes a few minutes and this may be my last shot to get it. I’m not taking any chances at scaring her off.”

  He shook his head, muttering as he crossed to the passenger side door and held it open for her. “You know, if it’s the payment from your client that you’re worried about, I could requisition that amount from the FBI.”

  She was halfway into the car before what he’d said fully registered.

  “You did not just say that.”

  He winced, then slammed the door and went around to the other side. He hesitated before he slid in beside her, then with a curse, got in and shoved the key into the ignition.

  She slammed her hand onto the gear shift. There was no way they were going anywhere until he understood her motivations.

  Sure, she needed the money from the case. Her business, like so many others in the city, was struggling to survive. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t personally invested in the cause. If Josslyn Granger disappeared again without signing over her parental rights, her children lost their chance at having a mother who could make medical decisions for them, sign them up for little league or, God forbid, take care of them if anything happened to their father. Josslyn Granger’s ex-husband had every right to want his new wife to have parental rights for his children—rights Josslyn had thrown away a long time ago.

  Rights Claire’s parents had had, but rarely ever used.

  A psychologist would have a field day analyzing the motives behind Claire’s determination, but that thought had to wait. At the moment she had to convince Michael not to derail her.

  “You’ve called your partner for backup, right? Even if something goes wrong and the Bandit somehow finds out where we’re going to be, there’s no way he’d make a move. You said it yourself. He might be crazy, but he’s not stupid. We’ll be out in broad daylight and I’ll be surrounded by FBI.”

  He gingerly picked up her hand, moved it out of his way, then shoved the car into reverse. “I don’t understand why you’re willing to put yourself in danger for a woman who can’t be bothered to see her own kids in years.”

  “It’s for those kids that I’m willing to put myself in danger. They deserve to be rid of this woman. She could flit back into their lives in a year or two and claim visitation, or worse, custody.”

  “A judge would never—”

  “Do you know that? And should her family have to go through the fight? Josslyn abandoned them. She doesn’t give a shit about them. All she cares about is her next thrill, her next easy fuck. Let’s just get this over with. Then we’ll both have what we want.”

  Relucantly, he turned the vehicle in the direction of the cemetery. Though Michael had locked the pertinent evidence about the case in the trunk of the car, she’d kept the book about Joaquin Murrieta with her. She’d read the entire section about Paulette, but was curious about the other women he’d seduced—the women whose descendents had been captured, terrorized and violated by the Bandit.

  “How do you think this guy found the book to begin with?” she asked, hoping that discussing Michael’s case might derail his sour mood. “I mean, this isn’t exactly on the top of the bestseller lists.”

  Michael’s mouth tightened, but after a few beats, he relaxed. “We don’t know for sure, but one possibility is from a man named John Wright Parsons, an avid reader who lived alone in the San Diego area. There are only a few copies in existence and one was at his local library. No one checked it out for two decades until Parsons used his library card nearly five years ago. He never returned the book.”

  Claire dug into her purse, looking for her sunglasses. The sky was a brilliant blue and the sun, which had already started steaming the moist air, was going to play havoc with her vision if she didn’t find her shades.

  “But Parsons isn’t your guy?”

  Michael produced his own dark glasses from the console between the seats. “He died three years ago at the age of ninety-two, so no. With no family, his house went into probate. According to neighbors, the place turned into a flop house. By the time we got inside, anything that hadn’t been bolted down was gone, including the book. Someone could have sold it for cash to a secondhand store or the unsub could have been the actual thief. We don’t know.”

  For the rest of the ride, Claire kept Michael talking about the case. She was struck by how forthcoming he was, even if she suspected he was still trying to scare her into going into hiding. Since this was a moot point, she ignored his possible motivation and concentrated only on the fact that he held nothing back. In her days on the New Orleans police force, she would have been reprimanded and put on a crap shift—if not fired altogether—if she’d discussed a case so openly with a civilian.

  Hell, that w
as precisely why she’d ended up quitting. One too many reprimands for discussing a death designated as storm related with the victim’s parents, who’d suspected murder. Either the FBI operated on a different set of rules or Michael thought, as a potential victim, she deserved to know the whole truth.

  Either way, she appreciated having the information, uncensored and unrestrained. Even if she couldn’t solve this crime, knowing all the details took the edge off. Her skin felt itchy, her insides hollow from the vulnerability of knowing that some sick bastard had selected her to be his next victim and that he’d been watching her for the past few weeks, if not longer.

  She’d never admit her anxiety to Michael. She was having a damned hard time admitting it to herself.

  When they reached the cemetery, Claire wasn’t entirely surprised to see a parade of mourners congregating near the entrance. Four men in white shirts and black pants held brass instruments while a good dozen other men in suits and ties unloaded a coffin from the back of a hearse. Women in colorful dresses and hats waved paper fans and handkerchiefs, some crying, most talking loudly and jiggling their bodies as if they couldn’t wait to dance.

  Jazz funerals happened all the time in New Orleans, but Claire’s insides turned to stone. What if the boisterous music and grieving crowd scared Josslyn away?

  Michael pulled up beside a dark sedan a safe distance from the mourners. The moment he parked, a black woman Claire immediately recognized as FBI stepped out of the car. Her hair was pulled back in a bun made even more severe by the fact that hair of her texture wasn’t supposed to be yanked like that. She wore mirrored sunglasses and a navy suit that boxed what Claire suspected might be a curvy figure. She wasn’t exactly a standard-issue agent, judging by her bright pink lipstick and diamond-studded earrings—two in each ear.

  Michael rolled down his window and his partner leaned in and gave Claire a brazen once-over.

  “Ms. Lécuyer, I presume.”