“God. Oh my God.” Tension built inside her, leaked from her mouth in a low moan. She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight as his body pelted her, the ridge of his pelvic bone rasping against her clitoris. His groan filled her ears, as did his words.
“God, I love you, Max. I’ll always love you. No matter what.”
Letting go of him, she reached above her head and clung to the wooden slats of the headboard. Clutching with a near frantic grip, she arched, grinding against him to increase the pressure on her clit.
“Please, please, please.”
Then orgasm rolled over her, starting at the point their bodies joined and rushing out to the tips of her fingers, her toes, and the crown of her head.
She screamed. Someone pounded on the ceiling beneath her. She didn’t care. She let herself come until she was nothing more than a boneless puddle in the center of the bed.
She lay there until she could breathe again, until she smelled the faintly acrid scent of his freshly lit cigarette.
“Was that good for you, baby?” he whispered into the complete darkness behind her closed lids.
“Yes.”
It was. But she was afraid to open her eyes. Once she did, his touch would be gone. God, what she wouldn’t give to hold him in her arms with her eyes wide open.
She felt the nuzzle of his nose against her ear.
“As good as the Dodge Ram?”
“Better,” she lied. She had to, because to tell him the truth, that she still felt hollow inside, wasn’t acceptable.
Not that he couldn’t read her mind and see through the lie.
Worse than that, she had to pee. Could she make it to the bathroom with her eyes closed? She lay in the bed as long as she could, drinking in the deep sigh of his breath against her throat, his weight on top of her. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t let him go.
Then she had to move. She pushed the covers aside.
“I love you, baby.” They both knew what would happen when she opened her eyes. Cameron would fade back into a phosphorescent glow.
She slipped from the bed and let her eyelids rise slowly. Would the day come when she couldn’t feel him even with her eyes closed? She shoved the paralyzing thought aside.
Street light filtered through the tree branches, bathing the room in its soft glow. She tried not to look back, but she seemed to have no control over the movement of her head.
The bed was empty. She’d left behind only the imprint of one head on her pillow and one body in the middle of the slightly sagging mattress.
All evidence of Cameron was gone. She knew he’d never really been there. He never would be again. She was crazy, with a fertile imagination that extended even to tactile sensation. She’d never understood how she could imagine something so utterly physical right down to the quaking of the bed.
The air pulsed around her. “It might not be real, Max, but it’s all I have left to give you.”
In one moment he gave her ecstasy, the next, he brought home that their reality existed only for a fleeting instant. In darkness. Behind closed lids. She ached for one last real touch.
His voice was a honeyed, agonizing whisper in her ear. “Don’t you know I’d live a lifetime in hell for the chance to make love with you in the flesh one more time?”
It was enough to make even a strong woman cry. But Max Starr couldn’t. Not now.
Because if she did, she’d never stop.
Chapter Three
“You want me to what?” Max stared at the phonebook Remy Hackett had laid in front of her.
The night was over. What she and Cameron had done in the night was over. She’d shoved aside her messy emotions and hurried off to her appointment with Wendy’s boss. Ex-boss.
Max had never wanted a job more than this one. Even making manager at Kirby, O’Brien, and Dakajama hadn’t been this important. Granted, at KOD, there’d been no visions, no ghosts, no dead women in her dreams, no ghostly lover. But this man wanted her to—
Hackett stood over her shoulder, pointing. “Add those high-lighted phone numbers on the calculator.”
His closeness gave her the heebie-jeebies. It wasn’t so much a gut reaction as a familiar sensation deep in her belly. Wendy hadn’t like her boss, not at all.
Max stared at the dash of yellow highlighter across the page. The black numbers were slightly smeared, but still recognizable. She rubbed her nose, her only sign of irritation.
“But that’s like—” Like asking a nurse to demonstrate a blood pressure cuff or a computer whiz if he knows how to send an e-mail. Some things are second nature.
She looked from Remy to the Sharp ten-key—a brand name she’d used exclusively—and back to the phonebook again.
As a boss, the man would suck. As a suspect, Remy Hackett gave her an adrenaline rush. Max positioned the fingers of her right hand on the keypad and dusted off the list of numbers in less than five seconds with one hundred percent accuracy. “Would you like me to do it again? Maybe with some different numbers?”
Remy Hackett beamed. “I know it sounds bizarre, especially after looking at your resume, but you wouldn’t believe the number of people who...” He seemed to search for the polite description. “Let’s be honest. They lie on their work history. Lying is one of my pet peeves.”
It was a logical explanation from a man she’d thought at first wouldn’t need to explain anything to anyone. “I suppose in a small business, they figure they can get away with it,” Max offered, giving him the benefit of the doubt only because she wanted the job.
Remy Hackett wasn’t a big man—though he’d certainly be the big fish in his little appliance-parts pond. He was under six feet, close to forty years old, and ten pounds overweight. When he stood, he sucked in his gut and puffed out his chest. He’d combed back his overlong hair to hide a bald spot. A mustache tried to preserve the masculinity of an otherwise soft face.
She wondered if his budget was as big as his head. Though his oak desk was huge, it was dwarfed by the size of the man’s office. He had a genuine leather sofa and a kidney-shaped coffee table in the right corner. Yet the single chair he’d placed opposite the desk, the one he’d perched Max on, was a cheap wooden straight-back as uncomfortable as hell. It reminded her of the Punishment Chair she’d had to sit on when she’d committed some childhood infraction. After forty-five minutes of Remy’s interviewing techniques, her butt had gone numb.
Moving once again behind his desk, Remy sat down. On the out-breath, his middle sagged over his no-iron, Expandomatic slacks. He crossed his hands over his belly, drawing her eye right to the weakness he’d probably meant to hide.
“So, tell me why a CPA wants to do temp work.”
“It keeps my options open. If I don’t like a situation, I just call up Sunny and say find me another job.” Sticking as close to honesty as possible was the best policy.
Remy raised eyebrows that were two shades lighter than his dyed hair. “And I can call her just as expeditiously.”
The sudden insertion of his fifty-dollar word almost threw her off. It didn’t suit him. Max made a quick recovery with a knowing smile. “You catch my drift.”
“I like your style.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hackett.”
“Please, call me Remy. This isn’t a formal workplace.” He smiled.
She wasn’t charmed. Max moved to her main interview objective. “I have to admit the circumstances are...unusual.”
“You probably feel awkward.” Remy stopped, sniffed the air like a dog on the hunt. “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“No.” Cameron. She should have known he wouldn’t allow her to do this alone.
“We don’t smoke inside Hackett’s.” Remy made it sound like it was a rule of his instead of the law.
Which was, of course, why she’d seen five guys smoking outside the roll-up door in back when she’d driven around the building. Max wondered how much more she’d learn if she took up smoking.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.�
� Max smiled, nodding agreement.
“Back to Wendy’s story. It’s tragic. We knew something was wrong the minute she was late. She often got here at five in the morning to stay on top of the job. But she was never late.”
Five in the morning? Now that was weird. “She might have been sick.”
“If she was ill, she always called before seven in the morning.”
“A good employee.”
“Exemplary.” There he went, popping a word in that didn’t fit the rest of his speech. “And I knew she was upset about something when she left the night before, really upset.”
“But you didn’t know what?”
Watch it, baby, don’t sound like a cop. Don’t make it seem that important to you.
But Remy didn’t seem to find the question too probing. “Wendy was a quiet person.”
Cameron was right, in asking too much, she might lose everything. Max backed off, saving the rest of her questions for another, more opportune time. Besides, at this point, she’d learn the most by listening. “I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you. I’ll miss that girl. She was my right-hand man around here. She did everything. You might even say Hackett’s would have fallen apart without Wendy. I don’t quite know how we’ll replace her.”
Oddly, Max believed every word Remy Hackett said. He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, fingers laced, index finger tapping his lips. He seemed to have forgotten she was in the room.
Then he sat back abruptly, resuming the original position, hands folded over his paunch. “You’ll have to forgive me.” He was all business again. “About the job. I still haven’t found out who called your agency. But I will.” His lips tightened, whitened, then relaxed. “But it was...” He circled his hand in the air as if searching for a word. “Fortuitous,” he finally found. An appropriate word, but again, somehow out of place for him. “You’ve impressed me. Sunny Wright faxed me the rate sheet along with your resume, and I’d like to try it out if you’re willing. But first I need to know if you’d consider making this permanent?”
“Permanent?” The word sent a trickle of fear skipping down her spine. She didn’t do permanent. Max took a deep breath. She was okay, just playing a role. “Well...if everything worked out, if we all got along...”
“We?”
“You. Me. The rest of your staff.”
His folded hands tensed on his stomach. “I make the decisions around here.”
Yes, he would. She had a feeling he’d crush anyone who thought too much on their own.
“So, what do you say, Max? If you and I like each other, we’ll do temp-to-perm?” He beamed. Boy, that man could beam. It was a sight to behold. A display of his salesman personality. His mustache lifted, his teeth gleamed, even his brown eyes sort of smiled.
Now that the initial rush of permanency fear was over, Max didn’t hesitate. “Okay, Remy.”
“Wendy had a set of keys. Unfortunately, they haven’t been...returned to me.” With just the right amount of discomfort, he looked down, around the room, anywhere but at Max. The man was concerned, upset. Or putting on a darn good act. “We’ll get another set. Now, we do have a few rules around here I’d like to go over.”
“Should I get out a notepad?”’
He laughed. Max laughed with him. “They’re easy,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll remember, and if you don’t, I’m always here to remind you.”
“Shoot.” Don’t give him any invitations. Max smiled and let Remy Hackett think she smiled at him instead of Cameron’s not so subtle reminder of why she was in Remy’s office.
Remy held up the index finger of his right hand, and she felt it like a jab to her nose. Deep on the inside, Max cringed. Remy had done an awful lot of finger-jabbing at Wendy.
“First,” he enunciated with a harsh bite. “Lunches are half an hour. That’s the law. I’m not about to get reamed by the state again. If you come back early, don’t bother clocking in until the half hour’s up.”
She felt her jaw drop. “You want me to clock?”
“Everybody clocks.”
Max blinked. She’d never had a job ruled by the time clock. “I can handle that.”
In a pig’s eye. Cameron’s chuckle filled her head.
Remy’s middle finger went up. Luckily it still had the index finger to offset its usual meaning. “Second. No swearing.”
“Certainly not in a professional atmosphere.”
“Oh, I’m going to like you, Max. That’s what this place is lacking. Professionalism.” He beamed once again, and up went his ring finger. “Third. You do timecards. Report immediately to me on anyone who abuses overtime.”
“Abuses?”
Remy’s glower was as potent as his beam. “These hourly workers know every trick. They work thirty-seven hours one week, then forty-three the next and end up getting time-and-a-half for three hours. They’ll screw you out of every dime.”
She’d have to remember “screw” wasn’t a swear word. “Sounds like a real problem.”
“It won’t be if you do what you’re told.”
Her hackles rose. “I’ll report it to you immediately.” Dickhead, she added silently.
Remy’s pinkie, elaborately adorned with a ruby class ring, went up. Four unblemished fingers. Wendy had torn at the fingers around her throat. Remy didn’t have a scratch on him. Damn.
“Fourth,” he enumerated. “Never try to cover up a mistake.”
“You mean don’t lie about it.”
He gave her a wide grin. “You’ve got my number, Max. Be honest with me, I’ll deal fairly with you. But you lie, you die.” Not a second after he’d uttered those words, his face drained of all color. His eyes widened in horror. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Neither can I.” Normally, Max would have been sympathetic. Remy Hackett, however, needed to be cut off at the knees. “Don’t worry, though, I won’t tell the police about it.”
Flesh tones returned. Remy figured she’d made a joke. “They were here quite a while yesterday going through Wendy’s stuff.”
“Did they make an arrest?”
“Not anyone here.”
“Well, hopefully they’ll be able to find some evidence.”
Remy followed her lead perfectly. “I’ve heard they always look to the husband first.”
“And do you think they’d be right?”
He opened his mouth, on the verge of something, then shut it. A moment later, “We’re straying from our real topic. As long as you follow my four little rules, we’ll be set.”
She had the job, but she was pretty fricking sure she wasn’t cut out for this undercover detecting thing. She’d have a very hard time not giving Remy the finger he deserved. “I’m ready, willing, and able, Mr. Hackett.”
“Please. Call me Remy.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
“Remembering is key, Max. Now, let’s get you started.”
The whole thing seemed like prostitution without hope for an orgasm.
* * * * *
“Remy Hackett did it. I don’t care that he didn’t have any scratches, I know he did it,” Max murmured to Cameron as she drove away from the store. She’d clocked out for her mandatory half-hour lunch, setting her watch to beep five minutes before she was due back.
“Little Hitler of Hackett Appliance Parts. But that doesn’t make him a killer, my love.”
“Details. Anyone with that many rules is neurotic. Plus, it was more than four. There was the one about doing what he wants when he wants. And the one about neat desk drawers.”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t have found Wendy’s appointment book if he hadn’t insisted you clean up her desk.”
“My God, what a mess.” Max shuddered. “I had to straighten all those piles of paper before I could even look at the drawers.”
“Speaking of neurotic.”
“I was speaking of the disarray.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t feel right. Her notebooks and binders were so neat and organized
. Why was the desk such a mess?”
“Maybe the cops did it when they searched?”
“Yeah, well, they sure didn’t search very hard. True, the date book was shoved to the back with some rubber stamp pads on top of it, but...Columbo wouldn’t have missed it.” You had to love old reruns—which was just about all she got with her cheap-as-dirt basic TV service and her Goodwill-vintage fifteen-incher.
“Columbo had one case at a time.”
“And it only took him two hours to solve it. These guys’ll take months if I don’t help.” If she left it up to the police, she’d never get rid of Wendy’s spirit.
Max turned down a side street, away from the heavy traffic on the main road. It was an industrial area, no sidewalks, no trees, no grass. She pulled over and parked. Heat rose in waves from the concrete. With the top down on the Miata, the sun beat on her head. At least it was September with the promise of cooler weather around the corner.
She plucked Wendy’s planner out of her purse. She’d barely managed to shove the book inside before Remy returned.
Nope, she wasn’t cut out for this detecting stuff.
Max flattened the book on her lap and flipped pages. A monthly calendar with small blocks for each day, the appointments were registered neatly in different colors. Aqua every other Monday at 4:30, a woman named Lilah, a phone number written beneath. Max rescued a bit of scratch paper from the bottom of her purse and jotted down the info. Lime green Tuesdays at five p.m., Dr. Shale, a phone number.
“Our little Wendy was methodical,” Cameron reflected.
Something ran the length of Max’s body. Not a chill, not a shiver. More like the feeling she got when she listened to a beautiful song or saw a gorgeous guy wearing black and red flannel.
“Wendy loved color. Colors soothed her, made her feel safe. Did you see the folders in her filing cabinet? Different shades of blue, pink, purple and more.” Brilliant splashes of color like a painter’s pallet. “And rollerball pens in every hue imaginable.”
Max decided the colors soothed her, too. Had they always? Or only since the nightmare vision?
Dead to the Max (Max Starr Series, Book 1, a paranormal romance/mystery) Page 4