The music blasted out, pleasing her. She was in control again.
"Elton John," Boyd said from behind her. "'Honky Cat.' Nineteen seventy… two."
She turned in her chair to face him. He was looking damned pleased with himself, she thought. That half grin on his face, his hands in his pockets. It was a shame he was so attractive, a bloody crying shame. "Well, well, you surprise me, Slick. Remind me to put you down for a free T-shirt."
"I'd rather have a dinner."
"And I'd rather have a Porsche. But there you go—Hey," she said when he took her hand.
"You've been biting your nails." He skimmed a thumb over her knuckles and watched her eyes change. "Another bad habit."
"I've got lots more."
"Good." Instead of sitting back in the corner, he chose a chair beside her. "I didn't have time to get a book," he explained. "Why don't I watch you work?"
"Why don't you—" She swore, then punched a button on the phone. He'd nearly made her miss her cue. "KHIP. Can you name the mystery record?"
It took five calls before she had a winner. Trying to ignore Boyd, she put on another cut while she took the winner's name and address.
As if she didn't have enough on her mind, she thought. How was she supposed to concentrate on her show when he was all but sitting on top of her? Close enough, she realized, that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the mountains to mind one moment and quiet, intimate nights the next.
She wasn't interested in either, she reminded herself. All she wanted was to get through this crisis and get her life back on an even keel. Attractive men came and went, she knew. But success stayed—as long as you were willing to sweat for it.
She shifted, stretching out to select a new record. Their thighs brushed. His were long and as hard as rock. Determined not to jolt, she turned her head to look into his eyes. Inches apart, challenge meeting challenge. She watched as his gaze dipped down to linger on her mouth. And it lifted again, desire flickering. Music pulsed in her ears from the headphones she stubbornly wore so that she wouldn't have to speak to him. They were singing of hot nights and grinding needs.
Very carefully, she moved away. When she spoke into the mike again, her voice was even huskier.
He rose. He'd decided it was his only defense. He'd meant to annoy her, to distract her from the inevitable phone call that would come before the night was over. He'd wanted her mind off it, and on him. He wouldn't deny that he'd wanted her to think of him. But he hadn't known that when he'd succeeded, she would tie him up in knots.
She smelled like midnight. Secret and sinful. She sounded like sex. Hot and inviting. Then you looked into her eyes, really looked, and saw simple innocence. The man that combination wouldn't drive mad either had never been born or was already dead.
A little distance, Boyd told himself as he moved quietly out of the studio. A lot of objectivity. It wouldn't do either one of them any good to allow his emotions to get so tangled up with a woman he was supposed to protect.
When she was alone, Cilia made a conscious effort to relax, muscle by muscle. It was just because she was already on edge. It was a comfort to believe that. Her reaction to Boyd was merely an echo of the tension she'd lived with for more than a week. And he was trying to goad her.
She blew the hair out of her eyes and gave her listeners a treat—two hits in a row. And herself another moment to calm.
She hadn't figured him out yet. He read Steinbeck and recognized Elton John. He talked slow and lazy—and thought fast. He wore scarred boots and three-hundred-dollar jackets.
What did it matter? she asked herself as she set up for the next twenty minutes of her show. She wasn't interested in men. And he was definitely a man. Strike one. She would never consider getting involved with a cop. Strike two. And anyone with eyes could see that he had a close, even intimate relationship with his knockout partner. She'd never been one to poach on someone else's property.
Three strikes and he's out.
She closed her eyes and let the music pour through her. It helped, as it always did, to calm her, or lift her up, or simply remind her how lucky she was. She wasn't sharp and studious like Deborah. She wasn't dedicated, as their parents had been. She had little more than the education required by law, and yet she was here, just where she wanted to be, doing just what she wanted to do.
Life had taught her one vital lesson. Nothing lasted forever. Good times or bad, they passed. This nightmare, however horrid it was at this point in time, would be over eventually. She only had to get through it, one day at a time.
"That was Joan Jett waking you up as we head toward eleven-thirty. We've got a news brief coming up for you, then a double shot of Steve Winwood and Phil Collins to take us into the next half hour. This is KHIP, and the news is brought to you by Wildwood Records."
She punched in the prerecorded cassette, then scanned the printout of the ads and promos she would read. By the time Boyd came back, she was into the next block of music and standing up to stretch her muscles.
He stopped where he was, trying not to groan as she lifted her arms to the ceiling and rotated her hips. In time to the music, he was sure, as she bent from the waist, grabbed her ankles and slowly bent and straightened her knees.
He'd seen the routine before. It was something she did once or twice during her four-hour stint. But she thought she was alone now, and she put a little more rhythm into it. Watching her, he realized that the ten-minute break he'd taken hadn't been nearly long enough.
She sat again, pattered a bit to the audience. Her headphones were around her neck now, as she'd turned the music up for her own pleasure. As it pulsed, she swayed.
When he put a hand on her shoulder, she bolted out of the chair. "Easy, O'Roarke. I brought you some tea."
Her heart was like a trip-hammer in her chest. As it slowed, she lowered to the table. "What?"
"Tea," he repeated, offering her a cup. "I brought you some tea. You drink too much coffee. This is herbal. Jasmine or something."
She'd recovered enough to look at the cup in distaste. "I don't drink flowers."
"Try it. You might not hit the ceiling the next time someone touches you." He sipped a soft drink out of the bottle.
"I'd rather have that."
He took another sip, a long one, then passed the bottle to her. "You're almost halfway there."
Like Boyd, she looked at the clock. It was nearing midnight. This had once been her favorite leg of the show. Now, as she watched the second hand tick away, her palms began to sweat.
"Maybe he won't call tonight, since he got me at home."
He settled beside her again. "Maybe."
"But you don't think so."
"I think we take it a step at a time." He put a soothing hand at the back of her neck. "I want you to try to keep calm, keep him on the line longer. Ask questions. No matter what he says, just keep asking them, over and over. He may just answer one and give us something."
She nodded, then worked her way through the next ten minutes. "There's a question I want to ask you," she said at length.
"All right."
She didn't look at him, but drained the last swallow of the cold drink to ease her dry throat. "How long will they let me have a babysitter?"
"You don't have to worry about it."
"Let's just say I know something about how police departments work." It was there in her voice again, that touch of bitterness and regret. "A few nasty calls don't warrant a hell of a lot of attention."
"You're life's been threatened," he said. "It helps that you're a celebrity, and that there's already been some press on it. I'll be around for a while."
"Mixed blessings," she muttered, then opened the request line.
The call came, as she had known it would, but quickly this time. On call number five, she recognized the voice, battled back the urge to scream and switched to music. Without realizing it, she groped for Boyd's hand.
"You're persistent, aren't you?"
"I want you dead. I'm almost ready now."
"Do I know you? I like to think I know everyone who wants to kill me."
She winced a little at the names he spewed at her and tried to concentrate on the steady pressure of Boyd's fingers at the base of her neck.
"Wow. I've really got you ticked off. You know, buddy, if you don't like the show, you've just got to turn it off."
"You seduced him." There was a sound of weeping now, fueled with fury. "You seduced him, tempted him, promised him. Then you murdered him."
"I…" She was more shocked by this than by any of the gutter names he had called her. "Who? I don't know what you're talking about. Please, who—"
The line went dead.
As she sat there, dazed and silent, Boyd snatched up the phone. "Any luck? Damn it." He rose, stuffed his hands in his pockets and began pacing. "Another ten seconds. We'd have had him in another ten seconds. He has to know we've got it tapped." His head snapped around when Nick Peters entered, his hands full of sloshing coffee. "What?"
"I—I—I—" His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Mark said it was okay if I stayed through the show." He swallowed again. "I thought Cilia might want some coffee."
Boyd jerked a thumb toward the table. "We'll let you know. Can you help her get through the rest of the show?"
"I don't need help." Cilia's voice was icy-calm. "I'm fine, Nick. Don't worry about it." She put a steady hand on the mike. "That was for Chuck from Laurie, with all her love." She aimed a steady look at Boyd before she punched the phone again. "KHIP, you're on the air."
She got through it. That was all that mattered. And she wasn't going to fall apart the way she had the other night. Cilia was grateful for that. All she needed to do was think it all through.
She hadn't objected when Boyd took the wheel of her car. Relinquishing the right to drive was the least of her worries.
"I'm coming in," Boyd said after he parked the car. She just shrugged and started for the door.
Very deliberately she hung up her coat and pried off her shoes. She sat, still without speaking, and lit a cigarette. The marked cruiser outside had relieved her mind. Deborah was safe and asleep.
"Look," she began once she'd marshaled her thoughts. "There really isn't any use going into this. I think I have it figured out."
"Do you?" He didn't sit down. Her icy calm disturbed him much more than hysterics or anger would have. "Fill me in."
"It's obvious he's made a mistake. He has me mixed up with someone else. I just have to convince him."
"Just have to convince him," Boyd repeated. "And how do you intend to do that?"
"The next time he calls, I'll make him listen." She crossed an arm across her body and began to rub at the chill in her shoulder. "For God's sake, Fletcher, I haven't murdered anyone."
"So you'll tell him that and he'll be perfectly reasonable and apologize for bothering you."
Her carefully built calm was wearing thin. "I'll make him understand."
"You're trying to make yourself believe he's rational, Cilia. He's not."
"What am I supposed to do?" she demanded, snapping the cigarette in two as she crushed it out. "Whether he's rational or not, I have to make him see he's made a mistake. I've never killed anyone." Her laugh was strained as she pulled the band from her hair. "I've never seduced anyone."
"Give me a break."
Anger brought her out of the chair. "What do you see me as, some kind of black widow who goes around luring men, then knocking them off when I'm finished? Get the picture, Fletcher. I'm a voice, a damn good one. That's where it ends."
"You're a great deal more than voice, Cilia. We both know that." He paused, waiting for her to look at him again. "And so does he."
Something trembled inside her—part fear, part longing. She wanted neither. "Whatever I am, I'm no temptress. It's an act, a show, and it has nothing to do with reality. My ex-husband would be the first to tell you I don't even have a sex drive."
His eyes sharpened. "You never mentioned you'd been married." And she hadn't intended to, Cilia thought as she wearily combed a hand through her hair. "It was a million years ago. What does it matter?"
"Everything applies. I want his name and address."
"I don't know his address. We didn't even last a year. I was twenty years old, for God's sake." She began to rub at her forehead. "His name, Cilia."
"Paul. Paul Lomax. I haven't seen him for about eight years—since he divorced me." She spun to the window, then back again.
"The point is, this guy's on the wrong frequency. He's got it into his head I—what?—used my wiles on some guy, and that doesn't wash."
"Apparently he thinks it does."
"Well, he thinks wrong. I couldn't even keep one man happy, so it's a joke to think I could seduce legions."
"That's a stupid remark, even for you."
"Do you think I like admitting that I'm all show, that I'm lousy in bed?" She bit off the words as she paced. "The last man I went out with told me I had ice water for blood. But I didn't kill him."
She calmed a little, amused in spite of herself. "I thought about it, though."
"I think it's time you start to take this whole business seriously. And I think it's time you start taking yourself seriously."
"I take myself very seriously."
"Professionally," he agreed. "You know exactly what to do and how to do it. Personally… you're the first woman I've met who was so willing to concede, she couldn't make a man dance to her tune."
"I'm a realist."
"I think you're a coward." Her chin shot up. "Go to hell."
He wasn't about to back off. He had a point to prove, to both of them. "I think you're afraid to get close to a man, afraid to find out just what's inside. Maybe you'd find out it's something you can't control."
"I don't need this from you. You just get this man off my back." She started to storm past him but was brought up short when he grabbed her arm.
"What do you say to an experiment?"
"An experiment?''
"Why don't you give it a try, O'Roarke—with me? It should be safe, since you can barely stand the sight of me. A test." He took her other arm. "Low-risk." He could feel the anger vibrate through her as he held her. Good. For reasons he couldn't have begun to name, he was just as angry. "Five to one I don't feel a thing." He drew her inches closer. "Want to prove me wrong?''
Chapter 4
They were close. She had lifted one hand in an unconscious defensive gesture and now her fingers were splayed across his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, slow and steady, beneath her palm. She focused her resentment on that even rhythm as her own pulse jerked and scrambled.
"I don't have to prove anything to you."
He nodded. The barely banked fury in her eyes was easier for him to handle than the glaze of fear it replaced. "To yourself, then." Deliberately he smiled, baiting her. "What's the matter, O'Roarke? Do I scare you?"
He'd pushed exactly the right button. They both knew it. He didn't give a damn if it was temper that pushed her forward. As long as she moved.
She tossed her hair back and slowly, purposefully slid her hand from his chest to his shoulder. She wanted a reaction, hang him. He only lifted a brow and, with that faint smile playing around his mouth, watched her.
So he wanted to play games, she thought. Well, she was up for it. Tossing common sense aside, she pressed her lips to his.
His were firm, cool. And unresponsive. With her eyes open, she watched his remain patient, steady, and hatefully amused. As her hand balled into a fist on his shoulder, she snapped her head back.
"Satisfied?"
"Not hardly." His eyes might have been calm. That was training. But if she had bothered to monitor his heartbeat she would have found it erratic. "You're not trying, O'Roarke." He slid a hand down to her hip, shifting her balance just enough to have her sway against him. "You want me to believe that's the best you can do?"
Angry humiliation
rippled through her. Cursing him, she dragged his mouth to hers and poured herself into the kiss.
His lips were still firm, but they were no longer cool. Nor were they unresponsive. For an instant the urge to retreat hammered at her. And then needs, almost forgotten needs, surged. A flood of longings, a storm of desires. Overwhelmed by them, she strained against him, letting the power and the heat whip through her, reminding her what it was like to sample passion again.
Every other thought, every other wish, winked out. She could feel the long, hard length of him pressed against her, the slow, deliberate stroke of his hands as they moved up her back and into her hair. His mouth, no longer patient, took and took from hers until the blood pounded like thunder in her head.
He'd known she would pack a punch. He'd thought he was prepared for it. In the days he'd known her he'd imagined tasting her like this dozens of times. He'd imagined what it would be like to hold her against him, to hear her sigh, to catch the fevered scent of her skin as he took his mouth over her.
But reality was much more potent than any dream had been.
Chain lightning. She was every bit as explosive, as turbulent, as potentially lethal. The current sparked and sizzled from her into him, leaving him breathless, dazed and churning. Even as he groaned against the onslaught, he felt her arch away from the power that snapped back into her.
She shuddered against him and made a sound—part protest, part confusion—as she tried to struggle away.
He'd wrapped her hair around his hand. He had only to tug gently to have her head fall back, to have her eyes dark and cloudy on his.
He took his time, letting his gaze skim over her face. He wanted to see in her eyes what he had felt. The reflection was there, that most elemental yearning. He smiled again as her lips trembled open and her breath came fast and uneven.
"I'm not finished yet," he told her, then dragged her against him again and plundered.
Books by Nora Roberts Page 352