by Lisa Jackson
He placed a hand on her shoulder and she lifted one of hers to touch his fingers. “If it’s any consolation, I want you to know that I believe you. I understand about the killings.” Her fingers tensed as he explained about the pattern that was developing, how the killer was murdering the victims in accordance with the deaths of venerated, martyred saints on the days of their feast. “So we’ve now got St. Joan of Arc, St. Mary Magdalene, St. Cecilia, all of whose bodies we’ve recovered.”
“You mean there could be more?” She paled.
“I don’t know. But you mentioned the woman who was left in a crypt. I think she was playing the role of St. Philomena. Now, we’ve got a new one, the one tonight.”
“Catherine of Alexandria.”
He frowned. “We don’t know how many others are involved or how long he’s been on his killing spree.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “How many saints are there?”
“Too many.” He snorted. “I never thought I’d say that.”
She glanced up at him, her eyes troubled, her eyelashes still damp with tears. “What kind of perverted bastard would do this?”
“That’s what we have to find out.” He tightened his grip on her hand. Attempted to be reassuring. “We’ll find him, but I’m going to need your help.”
“I’ll do anything.”
He managed a smile. “I know. Let me make some phone calls.” He checked his watch. It was late, after eleven, but he rang up Montoya and the precinct, leaving messages, then walked upstairs to the bathroom. Bits of glass were everywhere—counter, sink, and floor. Blood splattered the basin and tiles. “Looks like a war zone,” he joked.
“I was angry,” she admitted. “And scared. He was looking at me—straight at me in the mirror—and he could see me, I think, as surely as I could see him.” She located a broom and dustpan. Together they cleaned up the mess.
When they were downstairs again, Olivia made tea … some kind of ginger-smelling stuff that tasted like flowers. He didn’t complain, just sipped it and wished it were a beer. They sat at the small table in her kitchen, the bird making soft noises, the dog settled onto a rag rug as she told her story, over and over again. Bentz asked a dozen questions. She didn’t always have answers but he was certain she’d seen another murder. Four days ago he would have scoffed at the idea, but today he took her word as gospel. It was after one when he scraped back his chair. “I’d better get going. Can you think of anything else?”
“Just that his eyes are blue. Icy, intense blue,” she said, suddenly remembering.
“You would recognize him?”
“No, as I said, he was wearing the ski mask again.”
“The eye color is something.” Of course he could wear contacts.
“And he knows my name.”
“What?”
“I heard him … you know, in the vision, he looked straight at me and it was as if I heard his voice or his thoughts, but he called me Olivia. Saint Olivia.”
“Christ,” Bentz swore, then glanced through the windows to the darkness of the bayou. Gloomy. Isolated. Murky. If the murderer showed up here, no one would see him. And he knew who Olivia was. “You know, If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stick around here until it gets light.”
She hesitated. “Of course … I mean that would be fine … but I didn’t mean to give you the impression because I was upset that I’m some kind of frightened helpless female all alone—”
“You get that security system yet?”
“No—not until after Thanksgiving but—”
“Then I’m staying.”
“But—”
“It’s not that you’re a frightened female, okay? Though you should be. It’s because your life is in danger. I’ve already had the department okay a bodyguard.”
“I don’t live in the city.”
“We work with the Sheriff’s Department, and besides, maybe I want to hang out here.” He drew in a breath, saw the questions in her eyes, and decided to come clean. “I was harsh on you. Not only when you first came into the station but when we were at the café. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”
“Yes, you did,” she said, obviously not giving him an inch on that one. “A major mistake. But I’m over it.” Was she? She managed a smile. “Apology accepted. And you don’t have to stay. Really. I’ll be fine here.”
“Well …” He slanted her a smile as a breath of wind rattled a shutter. “Maybe I’d like to stay,” he said and something sparked in her eyes. Something interested and slightly wicked. Something he didn’t want to see.
“That’s different. Probably a lie. But different.”
“Go to bed, Olivia. I’ll hang out on the couch.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got a spare bedroom. Come on. It’s late.” She snapped off the lights and started for the stairs. “If you can ignore the junk.”
“Don’t worry about a mess,” he said, double-checking that the doors and windows were locked. “You should see my place.”
“Maybe I’ll get the chance someday.”
He didn’t respond as he followed her up the stairs and decided this was a mistake. Another one. He was batting a thousand tonight. This house was too cozy and she looked and smelled too damned inviting.
Inside the spare bedroom-cum-office, she tucked away some textbooks and leaned over the bed, plumping the pillows. He tried not to notice the roundness of her rump beneath the robe and ignored the fact that his cock twitched.
“There ya go,” she said, turning to face him, her face flushed. “Sleep well.” Standing on her tiptoes, she placed a chaste kiss upon his lips.
That was all it took. He could have resisted an overt comeon; he’d had more than his share of women trying to reach him at a sexual level, but this … cheekiness … her playful smile and the light dancing in her eyes, the challenge he saw on her face, was his undoing. He grabbed her and, as she gasped, kissed her. Hard. His lips covered hers without a question of his intention.
And she responded. As if she’d been waiting for him to make the first move. She sighed softly, opening her mouth, and his tongue slid easily between those firm lips. The twitch in his pants became a rock-hard erection and all thoughts of keeping her safe, of being vigilant, of catching a twisted killer before he struck again, slipped into the nether reaches of Bentz’s mind.
Her fingers slid down his back, rubbing his muscles through his shirt, and all the while he kissed her, he walked her back to her bedroom with its old-fashioned four-poster, only stopping when the back of her calves met the mattress.
He fingered the knot of her robe and the belt loop opened. With one hand he reached inside, scraping the side of her body, tracing the curve of her ribs, waist, and hips. His cock strained. She kissed him as if she would never stop, and a low little moan escaped her throat.
His blood pounded through his brain and he wanted this woman.
Fiercely.
Don’t do it, Bentz. Don’t!
His mind was a nag.
He ignored it.
With the flat of his hand, he moved to the front of her, to the mound between her legs, her curls bristly beneath the pads of his fingers. Her breathing escalated as his fingers splayed, gently asking. If she pushed him away now, he’d be embarrassed but he could leave.
The air in the room was thick with the unspoken question. Her flesh quivered against the callouses in his palm as he pressed the heel of his hand to her bare skin, gently rubbing.
She moaned again.
Inviting.
Still he hesitated. One hand at the back of her neck, holding her head to his, the other moving in slow, sensual circles against her abdomen. His damned cock ached.
“This could be dangerous,” he whispered in the darkness.
“I—I know.”
“I don’t know how I’ll feel in the morning,” he admitted, forcing out the words.
“Neither do I.”
He kissed her again and she placed her hand on his fly
. With a groan, he used his weight to push her onto the mattress and they fell together, kissing, touching, tugging at the clothes that kept them apart.
Her skin felt like silk; she smelled of jasmine and lavender. Her lips tasted of ginger. Her tongue flicked and played with his.
Pushing her robe off her shoulders, he kissed the column of her neck, then lower to the circle of bones at her throat. She bucked. Her fingers scraped off his shirt and tore open his fly. Frantic and wild, her hands caressed him. The room blurred, walls and windows becoming indistinct. His pants and boxers were pushed over his hips and he buried his face in her breasts, kissing, teasing, suckling, while his hands explored all of her.
Oh, God, if they didn’t slow down, he’d come before she was ready. He grabbed her hands. “Take it easy, Livvie … we’ve got all night.”
Olivia sighed. The want in her pounded through her brain. She couldn’t think, could barely breathe as he touched her, kissed her, moved with her. The world swayed and rocked. A part of her knew she was making a horrid mistake, that with the morning light would come embarrassment, or shame, or recriminations. But for tonight, she just wanted to lose herself in this man. Did she love him? Of course not … she barely knew him and yet she wanted him so desperately. It had been so long … so, so long … She was hot, burning inside. Like hot wax, she was melting. His lips pressed urgent kisses to her breasts, his lips playing, his teeth nipping.
Just a tiny hint of pain with the pleasure. Sweat drizzled down her back and her heart was pounding wildly as he kissed her. She clung to him, her fingers raking down the sinewy muscles of his back. She wanted more. So much more … all of him.
Tough, hard hands stroked her hips, pushed open her thighs and then, finger by finger, worked their way into the deepest part of her. She was moving against him, wanting more as he touched her intimately. She bucked, crying out. “Oh, oh, God …”
“That’s it, Livvie,” he whispered into her skin. “That’s it.”
Her fingers dug into his hair and she felt spasm after spasm hit her, propelling her to the edge, taking her higher only to slow just at the brink.
“Ooohh … nooo … More …” she cried and he slid atop her, muscular thighs parting her knees, strong, sturdy body rising above her, barely visible in the darkness, as he pushed, slowly at first, deep into her. She was wet. Hot. Anxious, and as he thrust, she lifted her hips, meeting him. She moved to his rhythm, the room seeming to melt away, the universe centering in the single spot where they were joined, her body throbbing with want.
He was gasping, his skin slick with sweat as he gathered her in his arms, cried out. A second later she spasmed, jerking with the orgasm, calling out his name as he fell upon her. “Rick … my God … sweet heaven …”
She gasped for breath. Her arms held him tight. Tears ran from her eyes. Not from sorrow, or shame, but at the release. For a few seconds they said nothing. The night, thick and warm, wrapped around them as their breathing finally slowed.
“Sooo, “ he said and she heard the smile in his voice. “Was it good for you?”
“Oh, I suppose it was good enough,” she teased and they both laughed.
“Just enough?” He levered up on one elbow to stare down at her in the darkness. “Should we try to improve on that?”
“I was kidding, okay. It was great.”
“Nonetheless …” A hand moved up her thigh and she giggled.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me, Bentz.”
“But maybe I have to prove it to myself.”
“So now you think you’re a triathlete.”
“At least biathlete.”
“Marathon man?”
“Let’s see.” His lips found hers again, and this time when they made love, it was slower, the pace calmer, the urgency replaced with expectation. He brought her to the same dizzying heights as before; they weren’t frantic, but just as intense and hot… inside she melted like butter and lost herself as he joined their bodies, pulling her atop him, moving beneath her, holding her hips firmly as she found the perfect spot. Her breathing was shallow, her blood hot, her skin on fire until at last she exploded only seconds before his own violent release. “Ooooh, darlin',” he sighed.
As she gasped for air, he pulled her downward, holding her close.
“Better …” she whispered. “Next time—”
“Next time? Oh, hush, woman.”
She cuddled into his arms and didn’t move. Just felt his lips brush against her forehead as his breathing slowed. She was certain she’d regret this in the morning, but for now, she didn’t care.
“We shouldn’t …” the woman with wild sun-streaked hair and gold eyes said. “We can’t.” She was walking fast along a path through a sunlit field, a diaphanous dress swirling around her legs and hugging her torso. Her breasts were visible beneath the sheer cloth, her dark nipples inviting. She wore no bra. No panties. Nothing under the sheer, shiny fabric.
James was so hard he ached. “I know … but … with you it’s different.”
“You’re a priest.” She pointed to the collar surrounding his throat. He tried to rip it off. And failed. It was all he was wearing. Just the collar. Otherwise he was naked as the day he was born. The sun felt hot upon his bare skin, and the long, dry grass in the field brushed against his legs.
She started to run away. Grasshoppers flew out of her path. He chased her.
“But I think I’m falling in love with you.”
“Love?” She threw back her head and laughed, didn’t seem to care that he was naked and hard as he chased her up a small rise. “You love God. Just God.”
He caught her at the crest of the hill and dragged her to the ground. Still laughing and breathing hard, she looked up into his eyes. “We shouldn’t,” she said again, but there was sexy, naughty invitation in her eyes. “It’s a sin, you know.” Doubts chased through his mind, his vows mocked him as he pushed the flimsy fabric up her legs and smelled her sweet woman-scent.
Somewhere a bell began to ring.
He was stretched out over her, his cock hard and wanting.
The bell pealed again, more urgently. He looked up to see a bell tower … sun-baked stucco with a red tile roof … pigeons flew around the tall spire where a cross, aflame, pierced the cloudless heavens. But the tower was empty. No bell was swinging from the cross-beams.
“Please …” the woman whispered and he looked down to see that her face had changed. She wasn’t Olivia any longer. Jennifer Bentz was lying beneath him. Naked. Her body shimmering with perspiration, she was staring up at him, begging him to enter her.
Brrriiiiinnnnggg!
James’s eyes flew open.
Sweat drenched his body. The dream began to recede and he breathed hard. Dear Father, what had he been thinking? He was still hard, still ached, and the image of Olivia Benchet, naked beneath the flimsy dress, was imprinted into his brain.
The phone shrieked again.
He fumbled for the receiver. What time was it? He glanced at the clock. Two-fifteen in the morning. What in the world? Someone must’ve died, or been in an accident. “This is Father McClaren,” he mumbled, snapping on the light and realizing he was holding the handset upside down. He flipped the receiver and rubbed his face with his free hand.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The voice was male. A whisper.
“What?” Someone wanted to give confession? Now? Or maybe it was a crank call. Kids. It had happened before. He blinked hard, tried to push the remnants of his vivid dream from his brain.
“Tonight I have taken a life,” the raspy voice said again.
“Excuse me?” James said, certain he hadn’t heard right and sat bolt upright in bed.
“For God. In the name of the Holy Father. A sinner has been redeemed and now, because of me, has become a saint.”
“You’re confessing to me?” James asked, the sweat on his body now chilled as he realized the person on the other end of the phone was serio
us. Dead serious. “You murdered someone?”
“This is my reconciliation. It is between you and me and God,” the muffled voice declared and James nearly dropped the phone. A chill, cold as Satan’s heart, stole through James’s blood.
“Wait a minute—”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Morning light was filtering through the windows.
And the bed was cold.
Empty.
Olivia stared at the ceiling and bit her lip.
What had she done?
Flashes of the night before ran through her brain. Vibrant, erotic images that made her blush as she lay in her bed. She’d slept with Bentz. Made love to him. More than once.
What had she been thinking?
That’s the problem, you idiot, you weren’t thinking. Not for a minute!
She cringed. What a mistake!
But there was nothing that could be done about it now … What was done, was done. She couldn’t change last night and didn’t know that she would if given the chance. And the experience was definitely worth it. Definitely.
The aroma of hot coffee wafted up the stairs and she heard the muffled bang of a cupboard being shut. So he was still here. That was good.
Right?
Searching, she found her robe, a pool of white chenille, on the floor. Just where she’d tossed it. Good Lord. Shoving her arms through the sleeves, she wrapped the white terry cloth around her naked body and, cinching the belt tight, hurried barefoot down the stairs. She caught her reflection in the mirror near the front door and cringed, then finger-combed her hair as best she could with her good hand as she walked into the kitchen. Coffee brewed in the maker and a copy of a large book lay open on the table. The French doors were flung open, allowing drifts of cold morning air and the smell of smoke to seep into the room.