by Pamela Clare
His lips curled in a grin that hit her deep and low. “Damn. I knew I should have stocked up on wifebeaters.” He smoothed his hands down his pant legs, as if to iron out the small creases. “Will I do, anyway?”
“Just barely,” Amy said with a hint of a sigh. “I might have to tie M.L. up to keep her off you.”
“You look absolutely fantastic, Detective Robitaille.”
She tried not to look his way as he gazed at her. It would be too easy to fall into those dark velvet eyes and never resurface.
Like an idiot, Amy had raced home after the meeting with Franks and spent a good half hour fretting over what to wear. She wanted to look good tonight, but not too good. God forbid Beckett should think she’d gone out of her way to sex it up for him. But making the decision on what to wear had almost stymied her. She prided herself on being a decisive person, but when it came to anything to do with Luke Beckett, she felt like she was turning into an airhead. That sensation bothered the hell out of her.
Apparently, though, he liked the simple, sunflower yellow sundress she’d chosen. Probably because it offered him his first decent view of her cleavage. Her face flushed hot as his gaze drifted down to her chest.
“Uh, thanks,” she said, more uncertain than ever about her choice.
“Were you able to grab Franks after the game?”
She blinked with relief that he’d turned the subject away from her looks and back to the case. “Of course. We’d have dragged his sorry ass out of the shower if we’d had to.”
“So?”
“So, he admitted to an affair with Carrie Noble, and to having sex with her that night. But he claimed he left her at midnight and went home. No confirmation of that, though.” She swung up onto the interstate and headed north toward Juno Beach. “And he confirmed that he talked to Ashley Rist on Friday night, but only in passing, and said Colt Hansen dropped him at home.”
“Are you buying his story?”
She shook her head. “I don’t buy anything without solid evidence. We impounded his car, so we’ll see if it turns up any trace evidence. Franks claimed Carrie had never been in his car. I doubt if he’d make that claim if he’d abducted her in it. He’d want us to think she’d ridden in the car before.”
“Baseball players aren’t generally rocket scientists, Robitaille.”
She laughed. “Tell me about it.”
“I presume he said he didn’t know Krista Shannon?”
“Yep. But he doesn’t have an alibi for that night, either.”
He shifted in his seat, studying her. “But you don’t really think he’s the murderer, do you?”
She didn’t. “Franks fits several aspects of the profile, and he was in the vicinity of all three murders. He knew at least two of the victims, and was having an affair with one. He had sex with Carrie Noble on the night of her death. And he’s mercurial—explosive, even.” Amy shook her head slowly. “But, no, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to me that Franks would be the killer. For one thing, serial killers are damn good at covering their tracks. Why would Franks have sex with Carrie right before he killed her, leaving evidence all over the house? All other aspects of the murders indicate a killer who plans his abductions and carries them out without leaving a trail. Methodically and carefully. Franks doesn’t strike me as that type.”
Beckett nodded. “True, but it would be a hell of a coincidence that Carrie was abducted almost immediately after Franks left her house.”
“Well, think about that, Beckett. What would it lead you to believe?” Amy took her eyes off the road long enough to glance in his direction as she raised her eyebrows.
His eyes seemed to flash understanding. “That someone might be trying to frame Johnny Franks?”
“If so, the timing of Carrie Noble’s abduction isn’t coincidence at all.”
“Only if the killer knew Johnny Franks would be paying a visit to Carrie that night.”
“Yes, of course, but that could mean various things. The killer knew Franks, or Carrie, or both. Or he stalked her enough to know it was likely to happen.”
“Yeah,” Beckett said with a nod.
He fell silent, obviously thinking. She let him, finding the pause not the least bit uncomfortable. He stirred after a couple of minutes. “I know I’m going off topic here, but I think you should fill me in more about your sister and her husband before we get there. I know you’re not exactly the president of the Justin Wilson fan club.”
“Justin’s a dickhead,” she said. “A sulky, overgrown teenager and a lousy husband.”
“Stop pulling your punches and tell me what you really think of him,” he said in a dry voice.
“It’s the truth,” she said defensively.
“Down, girl. I believe you. But why would your sister marry a guy like that?”
“Kids do stupid things at nineteen, Beckett. Didn’t you?”
He tried to stretch his legs, apparently looking for some extra room in the cramped front seat. “Yeah, but I sure as hell wasn’t dumb enough to get married at that age.”
“Or ever?”
His eyes rounded.
Calice, why did I blurt that out? “You don’t have to answer that, Beckett. I’m not usually so nosy.”
“No, it’s fine. You just surprised me a little,” he said. “I’m not a bachelor on principle, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s an interesting way to phrase your answer.”
“What about you, Amélie? Ever come close? Or are you one of those cops who’s married to the job?”
Amy didn’t have to think about her response. “No and no. I’ve been accused of the latter many times, but it’s never been consummated.”
Beckett laughed, a deep rumble that reverberated right through to her bones.
*
The dinner had gone pretty much according to the script Amy had predicted. Her brother-in-law, dressed in a ratty jersey and sweat shorts, had barely shut up long enough for Beckett to wedge in a sentence. And her sister hadn’t been much better. At least on that score, M.L. and her husband were well-matched. Loud, excitable and self-absorbed.
Like a pair of magnets, actually. Eerily similar, but more likely to repel than attract.
After the cringe-inducing dinner conversation, M.L. had ordered the two men out to the tiny backyard patio. Obviously, her sister did it either to get Amy alone or to give Justin more face time with Beckett. Actually, probably both. Beckett had showed he was a good sport in heading out with Justin, cigar in hand. But Amy could tell by the sardonic look he cast her way what he was thinking.
That she owed him one.
M.L. shut the patio door and spun around to face her. “Amy, what’s going on? Luke is so hot for you I was surprised your dress didn’t go up in flames during dinner.” She capped the remark with a salacious grin.
Amy rolled her eyes. The only person mentally undressing anyone had been M.L., as she mooned at Beckett from across the dinner table. “Hardly,” she said tersely.
Grabbing her wine glass, she headed into the living room and sat down on the sofa. M.L. followed and dropped into a beanbag chair opposite her. With little Cooper in bed and the men outside, the house felt unusually quiet. M.L. had switched on the gas fireplace for atmosphere, taking some of the chill out of the overly air conditioned room.
Amy tried to relax and enjoy the gentle buzz from the mojito she’d downed before dinner and the glass of Shiraz in her hand. But M.L. had rattled her, mostly because her sister was right. Beckett did want to devour her. It was obvious in the way his nostrils had flared when he first caught sight of her in the sundress. He’d given her some pretty heated glances during dinner, too, sending waves of conflicting emotions racing along her nerves. Delight, yes, but also irritation and something that felt uncomfortably close to alarm.
She shrugged the discomfort away. She had more important things to talk about, like getting her sister to take the baseball killer situation seriously.
“Justin seem
s happy,” she said. “He obviously liked your surprise.”
M.L. giggled—the same infectious giggle she’d had since childhood. “He’s totally over the moon. I almost didn’t pull it off, though. I told him you were bringing a date, some new guy you really wanted us to meet. Justin sulked about that, the big baby. Anyway, you saw what happened when you strolled in with Luke. I almost cried. I’m never going to forget that you did this for me, Amy.”
Amy smiled. Justin’s eyes had bugged out like some cartoon character when he saw Beckett come in behind her. “That’s great, and I’m glad, but is anything really going to change between you two? I always worry about you guys.”
M.L.’s eyes filled with sadness. “You’re right to worry, because it’s getting worse every day. Justin’s wasting his talent, and I can’t stand it anymore. He’s always going on about how I’m not supportive. Well, I’ve tried to be supportive, and I’ve tried to kick his ass, too. I’ve tried everything. But he’s lazy, and he won’t admit that his talent isn’t enough at this level. So, I think we’re going to be stuck down here in the low minors forever. Until Justin has to give up and go sell cars or something.”
Amy nodded sympathetically but stayed silent. For once, her sister was being realistic and honest.
“Everything always came so easy for him,” M.L. said softly. “But now he’s playing with the big boys, and it’s a hell of a lot harder than it used to be. So, he gets pissed off and sulks. Or gets lost in a bottle instead of sucking it up and working harder.”
Amy had sensed that flaw in Justin long before M.L. married him. But there was no talking her sister out of chaining herself to a charming young stud who everyone said was sure to be a baseball star. “I hate to say it, but maybe Justin has to hit rock bottom before he finds himself.”
Not that she really believed that. Justin was too full of self-pity to take a hard look at himself.
M.L. shook her head, grim resignation etched into her lovely features. “Amy, if he hits rock bottom, I’m not going to be around to see it, and neither is Cooper. I’m not going to spend my whole life like this. No way.”
Actually, that day couldn’t come soon enough for Amy. M.L. would get over Justin. And, as much as Amy didn’t want to see Cooper hurt, nothing would be worse than growing up in a house where his parents waged a grinding and never-ending war of attrition. Maybe M.L. was finally starting to get ready to stand up for herself and her son.
Amy chafed at having to bring up the baseball killer on top of everything else, but she had to do it. Before Justin and Beckett came back inside. “Chère, I hate to add to your burden, but I’m worried that you’re not taking these murders seriously enough. If this psycho really is targeting wives of Florida State League players, and there’s a damn good chance he is, I’m afraid you fit the profile.”
Her sister snorted, but her big blue eyes slid sideways as they always did when M.L. became uncomfortable in a conversation. “What profile? That I’m married to a ballplayer?”
Amy shook her head. “You know what I’m saying. Justin plays in the same league as Kasinski, Noble, and Rist. You live close to where the last two murders took place. Plus, you’re roughly the same age as the three victims.”
M.L. started to get up, but Amy reached over to grasp her hand. “Look at me. I know there are dozens and dozens of other women who fit the profile, too, and we’re going to try to get all of them to take extra care. But, right now, the person I’m most concerned about is my little sister.”
M.L. shook her head impatiently. “I saw the pictures of those girls in the paper today. They were all gorgeous, skinny young hotties. Do I look beautiful like that anymore, Amy? I don’t think so,” she said bitterly.
“You’re being silly,” Amy shot back. “First of all, you are beautiful. Second, it’s irrelevant, anyway. There’s nothing in the killer’s M.O. to suggest that the appearance of the victims had anything to do with what happened to them. Those murders had nothing to do with sex. The women weren’t sexually assaulted.”
M.L. shrank into the beanbag chair, suddenly looking worried. “I just thought that since I’ve gained this weight, and my hair is always a mess…”
“You have to be careful, Chère. Extra careful, all the time. Especially when Justin’s away. All the murders happened when the husbands were out of town.” Fear mixed with a sense of urgency made her voice sound harsh. But if anything ever happened to M.L., Amy could never live with herself.
“I’m always careful,” M.L. said. “Besides, we’ve got a really good security system.”
“No security system is perfect.”
M.L. didn’t try to argue the point, so Amy pressed her advantage. “Maybe you should think about staying with Mama and Papa when Justin’s away. Or with me.”
Her sister emphatically shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine here. But if it’ll make you happy, I’ll keep the security system armed all the time.”
“But—”
“Please don’t get on my case anymore, Amy,” M.L. snapped, pushing up from her chair and heading toward the kitchen.
The conversation was over, and Amy knew she’d be wasting her breath to keep trying. Calice, her sister was a hardhead.
Unfortunately, it ran in the family.
*
Amy deliberately left her car idling in the HQ lot, hoping Beckett would take the hint, say goodnight, and head for his car. But he hadn’t moved. Her palms grew damp as she clutched the wheel, dreading that she might have to say something very direct to make him leave. Part of her—a big part—wanted him to stay, to lean over and…
But, damn, she knew if he made a move like that, it would turn out badly for both of them.
At least he’d pried some useful information out of Justin while they chugged beer and smoked those disgusting cigars out back. According to her brother-in-law, Johnny Franks was an arrogant rake who got off bedding other men’s wives.
But she and Beckett had hammered that topic to death by now, and there was no reason for him to remain in her car.
He sprawled in the passenger seat, his legs so long that his knees nudged up against the dash. Amy fought to keep her focus on the trees in the distance, afraid that if she let her traitorous eyes stray where they wanted to stray, she’d be lost. Claustrophobia from the cramped, air-conditioned confines of the car tightened her chest. She stabbed at the window control, suddenly anxious for some fresh air, but only a warm, humid wind poured in from outside. The interstate buzzed with nighttime traffic a short distance to the east.
“Thanks for doing this, Beckett,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint. “M.L. really appreciated it.”
She felt Beckett’s eyes roam over her again, but kept her gaze forward.
“I had a good time, Amélie.” His deep voice, resonant in the close quarters, sent a dangerous prickle of heat racing down her back. “I really enjoy spending time with you.”
Criss, what was she supposed to say? Me, too, Beckett? The truth would sink her, and she wasn’t sure her emotional life jacket was buoyant enough to let her resurface.
“Until we catch this killer, you’ll have plenty of opportunity for that,” she said in a joking voice.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him subtly shift toward the console. The next thing she knew, his hand rested on her bare right shoulder, stealing her breath away. At the brush of his calloused fingers, heat rushed through her body with the speed of a crackling wildfire.
“Isn’t it time to stop fighting what’s happening between us?” Beckett’s low voice practically dripped with southern-flavored sex.
No! She’d made that mistake once, and it wouldn’t happen again. No matter how much her body cried out for his touch.
She edged away, frustrated by her reaction and determined to be annoyed by his arrogance. Of course, he’d think it was futile for a woman to resist him. Who could resist a sinfully hot and famous athlete? Especially one with brains and courage to go along with the tantalizing physical pack
age?
She could and would, because Beckett would use her just like Gabe had used her. Then he’d toss her away when he tired of her, just like Gabe had consigned her to the dumpster. Bedding a cop, especially one with a pretty nice rack and a reluctant attitude, would no doubt be great sport for Beckett, but that’s all it would be.
Some women might settle for that kind of sport, but not Amy. Not in this life.
“Beckett, I’m flattered. But the answer is still no.” She allowed herself a brief glance into his searching eyes. “It’s not in me.”
She turned her head away, but he didn’t move his hand. His fingers tightened a bit on her shoulder, making her feel naked and vulnerable.
Then the heat of his hand disappeared as he moved away. “Okay,” he said, opening the door.
Amy watched, dumbfounded, as he took two quick strides and slid into his car. He didn’t even glance toward her as the Mustang roared out of the lot. It looked like her instincts had been dead on, and how depressing was that?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Monday, August 2
9:40 a.m.
Luke had an extra spring in his step as he strode through the sliding glass doors of the Children’s Hospital. Overnight, fresher breezes from the north had broken the oppressive heat of the Florida summer. The influx of fresh air infused him with energy. He knew he was going to need it.
He’d been smiling all morning about Robitaille’s determined brush-off. If he’d ever seen a case of words jarring with non-verbal signals, he’d seen it last night in her car. As the detective’s luscious mouth was telling him he was wasting his time, her body was clearly itching to jump over the console into his lap. As she gripped the wheel, her hands had vibrated with tension.
Despite her involuntary signals, Robitaille was determined to keep their relationship at arm’s length. Professional. Luke respected her for that, but her dogged resistance just served to ratchet up his determination. With other women, any initial reluctance had always been a game—one he knew he’d win sooner rather than later. But with Robitaille, it wasn’t a game at all, but something a lot more serious. She just didn’t realize it yet, and that’s why he wouldn’t give up.