Maybe. But would he have known she called her lover Nickie?
“Perhaps if you hear anything,” Hal said. “People talk. I need to know. So I can move on.” Move on, go on, a repetitive phrasing he seemed to have practiced.
“Of course, I’ll help you. I know how you must feel.” She really didn’t want to know a thing about how this man felt. He creeped her out.
Pulling his hand away, he reached into his hip pocket, fished out his wallet. “My card. Call me. Leave a voicemail. I always check.” He slid the business card across the table. It was his work address and phone; Hal Gregory, Attorney at Law. A lawyer, she should have known. The only lawyer she’d ever respected was Cameron.
“And if there’s anything you need,” he added belatedly.
“How kind of you.” She put the card in the front pocket of her purse. “I’m taking a little trip to the ladies’ room. I’ll be right back.” She dragged her purse off the table and wound her way through the throng of people. Wendy had her stomach tied in knots.
In the bathroom, amidst chattering female voices, she splashed her face, then put her hands under the hot stream until the chill faded. She shouldn’t have touched him. Her skin felt clammy.
She wasn’t even close to cracking his alibi. But she had access to him now. That was a damn good start.
Leaving the restroom, she stopped a moment at the end of the passageway leading to the dance floor. Alone at their table on the other side of the bar, Hal stood out like a city-slicker in a Brooks Brothers suit. He grimaced when the DJ started the Macarena. Would the life cycle of that dance song never end?
“Get rid of him.” A voice right behind her, the man’s warm breath against her hair was sweet with peppermints. Like Cameron’s. The scent turned her inside out before it was eclipsed by an angry swirl of cigarette smoke despite the fact that Cameron said he’d quit.
She felt the guy at her back, his husky voice beating through her body as a fever raced across her skin. He rested warm hands on her hips beneath her jacket. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. All she wanted to do was lean back until his erection nestled between her cheeks. She didn’t doubt he had one.
She knew who he was without turning around.
Nicholas Drake. Nickie of Monday night, Boise Flight 452, and the backseat of a nice, shiny new car. Wendy Gregory’s lover.
Quite possibly her killer.
Just what the hell was he doing at the Round Up watching her with the dead woman’s husband?
Chapter Eight
Dancing with Nicholas Drake was suicide.
“You’re holding me way too tight, Nickie.”
He didn’t let go. His thighs, molded to hers, robbed her of her objectivity. So did the hard-on wedged between their bodies. Yep, she’d been right about that. His scent, masculine soap and the lingering snap of mint, made her throat dry. The aromatic reminder of Cameron was an unfair advantage. The only saving grace was the knowledge that her reactions belonged to Wendy.
Undulating bodies bumped against them. Keith Urban sang a bone-melting ballad. Nicholas Drake’s hips did a slow slip-slide against her. The aroused ridge forced a shiver deep inside her.
To hell with cracking Hal Gregory’s alibi.
Max had gotten rid of Hal in three minutes flat. She’d patted her purse where she’d stowed his card, promised to call the moment she heard anything titillating, and vowed to herself to somehow get herself invited to Wendy’s funeral. Once the body was released.
It was a morbid ploy, but all was fair in flushing out a killer, even behaving in poor taste.
So bye-bye Hal, for now.
Then she’d ended up on the dance floor with Nick.
Her lower body deliciously vacuum-packed to his as they danced, Nick pulled back to stare down at her with pale blue eyes. “Why did you call me Nickie?”
“It was in Wendy’s planner. Monday night. 7:59 p.m. 452. I’m sure the police are looking for Nickie. I’m not sure they know who he is yet.”
Something flickered in his gaze. Fear? No, not from this man. More like a banked fire that would turn into a raging inferno with a moment’s notice. The bump in his nose from a long-ago break proved he’d lost control at least once. Volatility, however, did not make him a killer.
He ignored her implied threat, took their bodies together into a sweet dip as the song ended and another bump-n-rub, slow-dancing tune started. “And you just naturally associated the name with me, a man you saw at the airport?”
A man whose magnetism left her breathless even from a distance, his current proximity was driving her slowly insane. And yet...she seemed strangely detached, as if, while the physical sensations belonged to her, the emotions did not.
They most definitely belonged to Wendy.
But now wasn’t the time to analyze. Max forged ahead with her probing, trying to catch him off guard. “So you did notice me there? Don’t forget it was the long-term lot. And you were staring at the crime scene of a woman you...knew.”
His eyes narrowed. Again, he masked that quick flash of something.
“Then, of course, there was the Taco Bell two blocks from the police station.”
His lips smiled. The sentiment did not reach his pale eyes. “I thought you’d spotted me. You forgot that you’ve seen me outside of Hackett’s, too.”
She hadn’t noticed him, and the knowledge sent a shiver along her nerve endings. She didn’t mind being watched; she just wanted to know when it was being done. “Why have you been following me?”
“You’ve got me at a disadvantage, ma’am. I don’t even know your name.”
“You don’t need to know it. And you didn’t answer.”
“Why have you been following me?”
“On the contrary, I’ve been trailing Wendy.”
“She’s dead.” Cold, flat, angry, but not self-pitying like Hal.
“That’s why someone needs to speak for her, to tell everyone what happened that night.”
His arms tightened across her back. She almost bit her lip. There was great strength in those arms. Liquid heat stole through her extremities. God, she was melting.
You sound like the Wicked Witch of the West.
Vamoose! She didn’t need Cameron butting in. She was in total control.
Wasn’t she? Well, yes, except for the desire to drag Nick off the dance floor and have her wicked way with him in the backseat of a car parked at the far edge of the lot.
That part of it was all Wendy’s need. Despite what had happened to her in a backseat, she still wanted Nickie.
Instead of slipping her arms around his neck, Max clutched Nick’s hard biceps and the rough material of his shirt. He wasn’t dressed like the rest of the men in the bar. He wore work clothes much the same as he had at the airport. Denim shirt, worn jeans, and tan, beaten-up, steel-toed work boots. His features were lean with a masculine ruddiness, unlike colorless Hal. Nick was tall; even wearing heels, Max had to lean back to look in his face as he spoke.
Wendy had loved that sensation.
“And you think you know what happened?” he taunted.
“Only her killer knows for sure.”
Again, that mirthless smile, and a slight tightening of his muscles against her. “I take it you’ve decided I did it.”
“You were her lover.” Dying for confirmation, she stated instead of asked. Any sign of weakness on her part would give him the one-up.
“You think you know everything, don’t you?”
“I know enough, Nick. I was her friend.”
“Try again. Her husband didn’t allow Wendy to have friends.”
“You seem to know a lot about their marriage, Nickie.”
“Did you know she’d left him?”
Everything stopped inside her, the blood in her veins, the breath in her lungs, even the rush of sexual heat. “Did he know?”
A slow, knowing sneer spread across Nick’s face. “Like you, Hal Gregory thought he knew everything about Wendy.”
<
br /> “But she surprised him?”
“I don’t think he quite knew how to take it. If he had, he’d never have let her out of the house that day.”
“This gives you motive, doesn’t it?”
“This gives Hal motive.”
She tipped her head to one side. “But Wendy made demands on you, didn’t she, Nickie?” It wasn’t even a guess.
“I know how to deal with a demanding woman.”
By killing her? “If you know all this, you’ve proven you saw her that last night.”
“It was you I saw that night.”
A chill spread over her skin. The crawling sensation along her neck and the flush of fear and shame on her skin were completely her own, nothing to do with Wendy. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw you.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“No way.” She had been to the Round Up Monday night, but only briefly, then she’d left again. Alone. She had to admit she didn’t always leave alone. Once in awhile...God, she couldn’t ignore the overwhelming, unstoppable, unquenchable need to feel a real touch. She loved Cameron, she needed him, but his touch was only real when she closed her eyes and sometimes, she had to have it eyes wide open.
“I’ve seen you before. When I’ve come in for a drink with a few of the boys from Hackett’s.”
Max swallowed hard. She’d never noticed Nick at the Round Up. She’d certainly never noticed him watching her go for the conquest.
Her hands turned frigid. Her nipples shriveled inside her white cotton shirt. All her dirty little secrets seemed to be unraveling. First with Witt Long and what happened the night Cameron left her, now with this man and her...extra-curricular activities.
Max shrugged, feigning indifference. “I like to dance.”
“And you always leave with a different guy.” He tipped her left hand, looked down at the ring on her finger. “What does your husband think of that?”
Not always. He made it sound sordid. Okay, it was sordid, but even before the words were out of her mouth, she hated them. She didn’t need to explain. “He’s dead.”
God, how horribly easy it was becoming to say that word. The effortlessness scared the crap out of her.
Until death do you part. Though Cameron was dead, they’d never parted, but he could only love her in her dreams. Sometimes she ran to the Round Up to pretend it was him.
Liar. She ran to the Round Up to feel someone real.
Nick’s nostrils flared as he took in a breath, his lips twisted. “I’m sorry.”
She’d succeeded in surprising him. Damn him, she didn’t want a sympathetic glance from those pale, understanding eyes. “What did your wife think about your little affair?”
“I’m not married. Not anymore.”
“You were when it started. So was Wendy.”
“The state of my marriage doesn’t have a bearing on this.”
“Like hell it doesn’t.” She tossed her head when he glared down at her. “What about Wendy’s marriage?”
“Leaving that ass was the best thing she could have done.”
“Except that she got killed the night she did it.”
The slow thrum of music ended. The DJ picked up with a foot-stomping, line-dance beat. Still moving slowly, Nick’s arms wrapped around her, they were in the way.
He dragged her off the dance floor, keeping a tight hold on her wrist. Leaning close, his breath bathed her cheek. “If I take you home with me, do I get to know your name?”
“Bastard.” Max stumbled as she pulled back, tugging against his grip. “Let go of me.”
“Do you tell any of those guys your name?”
She jerked free. “Don’t ever put your hands on me again.”
“Only when you beg.”
She thought about slapping him, but he might have liked the challenge. She settled for a man-hating glare.
He spread his hands. “Hey, I thought you wanted to accuse me of murdering Wendy.”
“Did you kill her?” she snapped back.
“Why don’t you stick around and find out?”
Max grabbed her purse from the table where she’d left it. Stupid, someone could have ripped it off, and so engrossed with him, she’d never have seen. She backed away, unwilling to take her eyes off him in case he tried to grab her. “I don’t hang around with murderers after dark.”
“But do you sleep with them?”
Her skin turned alternately hot, then cold with his words.
He raised a brow. “No, I forgot. You only pick up urban cowboys. Much safer that way. Except for sexually transmitted diseases. But there’s condoms for that, isn’t there?”
Why did everyone keep bringing up—yeah, the detective—STDs with her? As if she wasn’t quite clean in some way.
That was probably exactly how Nick saw her. Unclean. Tainted. Diseased. He knew her secret. He knew her shame. He knew her. “Get away from me.”
“Till we meet again, Max Starr.” He’d known her name all along.
She’d totally lost control of the whole info-mode thing.
Her heart pounding, Max did something totally in conflict with her goal of finding Wendy’s killer.
She ran away.
* * * * *
“What does he want from me?” Max lay in her claw-foot tub, steam rising into the air, perfumed bubbles up to her chin, her handmade gardenia soap—one of her few indulgences—in the tray beside her. She’d turned the lights off, lit scented candles and lined them up along the tile wainscoting. The mixture of flowers and vanilla intoxicated her. So did the memory of Nicholas Drake’s hands on her body as he held her close, rubbing his cock against her. She was sure Wendy Gregory was somehow influencing her.
“Sex,” Cameron said.
“What?”
“He wants sex.”
“I’m serious. He has ulterior motives.”
“I’m serious, too. I think you should give it to him.”
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Why? You give it to every other Tom, Dick, and Harry that can dance the pants off you.”
“That’s really a low blow.” Nor was it true. It wasn’t every Tom, Dick, and Harry. It wasn’t even that often. Why couldn’t he understand that sometimes she just had to get out or...die?
She was glad when Cameron didn’t seem to hear the thought, or at least ignored it. He merely went on needling her about Nick. He was just dying to pick a fight. “You want him bad, sweetheart. I know all your little signals.”
“Stop it.”
“The dreamy, half-closed lids. The quickened breath. The hardened nipples. The sweet little moan in your throat.”
“I didn’t moan.”
“Don’t deny it. You’re wet, and you’re hot, baby. I can feel it. And this time it’s not for the macho detective.” The water swirled gently around her.
She slapped the gardenia bubbles as if he were next to her. “What do you expect? Of course, I’m hot and wet. I’m in a steaming bath.”
“Why didn’t you just fuck his brains out the way you’ve been fantasizing for the last fifteen minutes? He was offering.”
“Hey.” She sat up, water and bubbles streaming down her breasts. “You know damn well that was all about Wendy’s emotions.”
“Sex. That’s what it’s all about, what it was always about. Even with me. You always called it sex, Max, never making love.”
Her body chilled in the steamy bathroom. She couldn’t deny his accusations, but nor could she answer them. “Where is all this coming from? Why are you so angry?”
“Did we ever make love, Max?” His voice was a whisper in the air, soft as a teardrop on her cheek.
She closed her eyes, breathed deep. “Of course we did.”
“Then how can having sex with strangers replace what we had?”
It couldn’t. It never had. It only kept her warm for a little while. The way it had before she’d ever met Cameron. She’d never had a relationship bef
ore him, just...casual sex. She’d given all that up for him. He left her anyway, even if it wasn’t his fault.
“A woman has needs,” she whispered. The need to feel flesh-and-blood arms around her.
His answering murmur reached inside her, tore her heart out. “You need a real man for that, Max, not a fleeting encounter with some useless gigolo you meet only in the dark. Someone you can wake up and face in the morning. Someone who loves you back.”
“I’ve already had that.” She couldn’t bear to let him go. She couldn’t bear to even the contemplate that kind of loss ever again. She wouldn’t survive it a second time.
“I never meant for you to stop living your life, baby. I only stayed to protect you. Because I thought those bastards would kill you that night, too, if I didn’t watch over you.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.” She was cold, so cold, despite the heat of the water.
“I only stayed afterward to help you get over what they’d done to you, what you watched them do to me.”
“Please don’t,” she whispered. “Not another word.” First the detective. Now Cameron was reminding her all over again. Twice in two days was more than she could handle. She stood, grabbed a towel to cover herself, and resisted the urge to clamp her hands to her ears. Been there, done that. Right now she needed control.
“I’d have thought picking up guys in bars would terrify you after what my murderers did to you. How can you bear to have strangers touch you now?”
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“You’re burying yourself with those barflies, hiding what you really feel. But you can’t hide from it forever. You’re going to explode, and God help me, Max, I’m afraid what will happen when you do. I’m afraid you won’t be able to live with what you’ve turned yourself into.”
“Get the hell out of my head, Cameron. Please.” The words hurt her throat and all she wanted to do was hunker down in a tiny ball. Hiding from everything he said.
Cameron ignored her strangled voice. “It’s not like this is anything new to you. It’s how I found you, what you’ve always done under stress. Isolation by shutting off your emotions and fucking men whose names you don’t even ask.”
Dead to the Max (Max Starr Series, Book 1, a paranormal romance/mystery) Page 9