by JB Skully
"You already have. Even when I'm not with you.” He groaned softly. “Jesus, especially when I'm not with you."
God, she wished he'd quit saying those pseudo-sexual things. They started her pulse racing. At least she wasn't cold any more. Well, only a little.
They came abreast of her car; it was then she saw his big truck parked behind the tiny Miata with only an inch to spare between the two vehicles. With a white Honda in front of hers, to which she'd parked a scosh too close, she couldn't have gotten out of the spot if she wanted to. She did want to get out. Badly.
Witt pulled his own set of keys out of his pocket, unlocked the passenger side door of his truck, and stood beside it with the door open, his hand out graciously. “We'll talk inside."
She stared. First at him, then the inside of the cab. No way. Absolutely no flipping way. The devious man knew about her fondness for Dodge Ram trucks, specifically the black and red Sport model like his. He knew her penchant for a Dodge Ram kind of guy. Especially him, especially while he was wearing that black and red plaid shirt. She was a goner. Climbing into that truck with him for a “talk” was like giving an alcoholic that first drink. She'd sworn off relationships. She'd even sworn off sex. She'd particularly sworn off DeWitt Quentin Long.
"Too conspicuous out here,” he offered, by way of explanation since they stood beneath a bright streetlight. Still, it smacked of something close to coaxing a prom date into the back seat of the car by promising you wouldn't try to coax her out of her dress, too.
Max wasn't falling for it. She simply stared him down.
"Don't worry, won't try to have my wicked way with you once I get you inside."
She narrowed her eyes. That was exactly what she wanted. Not that she'd tell him that. Despite the horrible taint of that phone call, sexual tension still thrummed through her body.
He sighed. “I swear."
She stared at the arm behind his back.
He pulled it out, drew an X with all seriousness across his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die."
He was too damn cute to deny. She was a big girl. She could control herself. Totally. She could control Bethany, too. She slipped beneath his arm, catching a whiff of his musky aftershave, and climbed in. One whiff was too much. Yet nowhere near enough.
He stood there a moment, barring her exit. “Unless, of course, you beg me."
She smiled thinly. “Dream on, Long."
He stepped back. “Always do, Max, always do. My dreams are getting sweeter, hotter and wetter all the time."
"I don't think wetter is proper English.” Though it did describe her state perfectly.
He winked. “Not proper at all.” Then he shut the door, trapping her inside.
It had gotten too damn cold out there anyway, the night air cutting through the material of her sweatshirt. She turned to watch as he rounded the tail of the truck, waited as he climbed up beside her, and noticed as he pushed the seat back and settled his long legs.
God, there was a lot of room. Enough that she could have straddled his lap with ease and still had plenty of room between the steering wheel and her butt. Plenty of room for...
Well, that really was Bethany getting carried away. Like a shot, Bethany would have taken the Dodge Ram fantasy and made it her own. Max fanned herself ferociously and only managed to fill the cab with his potent male scent.
Bethany breathed it in, luxuriated in it. Max crowded up against the door as far from him as she could get. Thank God the console separated them.
"What are you doing, Max?"
Playing Squirmin’ Herman and feeling like a fool. “What was it you wanted to talk about?"
He shifted, leaned against the door, and hiked one leg across his knee until she could see his booted foot. He watched her a full ten seconds, light through the windshield reflecting in his eyes. “Still don't get how you do that."
"Do what?” she asked, mimicking his position.
"Had the best head of steam going there, really gonna lay into you about these idiotic notions you get into your head, straighten you out on a few things, like who's the macho cop and who's the dainty woman around here, and then wham-bam, I look at you, and all I wanna do is drag you home.” He rolled his head from side to side slowly. Remorsefully. “Just don't get it."
Damn. That was one of the longest speeches she'd ever heard from him, and he'd definitely used the “I” word twice. She couldn't decide what it meant. She only knew that his words made her skin prickle in a nice way. A very nice way. Too nice. “Maybe you weren't all that mad in the first place."
He shook his head. “Can't even stay pissed with you when I want to. Not like my ex-wife. Not at all. Stayed mad at her for days. Like the time she threw out all my underwear..."
"Boxers or briefs?” She couldn't resist. Or maybe the question had come from Bethany.
He raised his eyes heavenward.
"Sorry.” She still wanted to know the answer.
"She threw out all my stuff and bought...” He cut himself off this time. She could have sworn his cheeks turned pink.
"Yeah. She bought what?"
"Colored Speedos.” He looked thoroughly disgusted.
Her lips twitched. “I take it you're a white-cotton man."
He answered indirectly. “A man has a God-given right to choose his own underwear."
"Is that anything like the God-given right to take a leak standing up?” Which was the reason he'd given her for his divorce, the fact that his ex-wife had insisted he sit while performing certain bodily functions.
"Damn right."
God. Another Witticism. She almost laughed out loud this time. He was too damn cute for words. Too damn dangerous to her plans to stay unencumbered. This conversation had gotten way too intimate. She threw an immediate monkey wrench into the works, her tone intentionally belligerent. “Do you want to know why I went to Bethany's or not?"
"Would be nice for starters. Business first. Save the hot stuff for last."
"No hot stuff."
He snapped his fingers. “Shucks."
The man was simply adorable. Was that a Bethany word or her own? The longer she sat in the confines of his truck, the harder it was to distinguish. Nor could she remember what she'd been so upset with Witt about. That thing about Cameron and Bethany's father. And ... oh yeah, the phone calls. “Coming here wasn't something I planned, you know."
Witt observed her skeptically, but let her go on without interruption.
"As I was laying in bed..."
"Naked,” he flashed out. The man was quick.
"Noo. Cut it out if you want to hear the rest."
He leaned his head back, watched her beneath hooded lids.
She went on. “It suddenly occurred to me that the cops didn't know about Bethany's little side business."
"And you wanted to see if he called back."
There. He'd done it again. Read her mind. She'd like to know how he did it. She didn't even have to ask who “he” was. “Yes. If Achilles called, that would go a long way, in my mind, to proving he didn't know she was dead. If he didn't call..."
"You'd send out the cavalry to look for him."
"Yeah. There's got to be a way to trace the calls through the 900 service. Or if he used a credit card, you could get him that way.” Her excitement rose, the fun of the chase took over.
"So what happened?"
"He called."
She noticed Witt's shoulders visibly sag, and then he shrugged. “So he's not our man."
She liked the way he said “our,” the way he automatically threw them together in this. “Well..."
"Well, is he or isn't he? What's your psychic little brain tell you?"
"The conversation was kind of odd.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I can't exactly put my finger on it.” She sure as hell wasn't going to tell him how explicit Bethany had gotten with the man.
Witt shifted, sat a tad straighter against the door. “Did he talk sex?"
God, she was blush
ing, she just knew it. “Yeah."
"What'd he say?"
"He didn't talk to her the way he did in my vision of the night she died.” There, that was honest, and really all the detail that Witt needed. “That night he said he wanted to meet her, sort of threatened, and I'm pretty sure they used to fight about that a lot. But this time he didn't ask."
A shudder ran across her shoulders. She'd stopped short of telling him about the creepy feeling she'd gotten because she didn't understand it herself. She knew if she said anything at all, she'd have to explain the whole she-bang. And ... well ... she couldn't tell Witt everything.
He leaned forward, his face thrown into shadow. “What'd you say back?"
"I played along. I had to."
"What'd you say, Max?"
There was something in his voice. It was deeper, harsh, and his features intense as he strained forward.
"You mean you want to know specifically?” Uh-oh.
"Yeah."
"I can't say that stuff out loud."
"Didn't you just say it to him?"
"Yeah, but..."
"Then say it for me."
"Are you serious?” She knew he was.
"You pick up men you don't know in bars, you talk sex to murder suspects on the phone, but you won't even hold my hand, let alone kiss me or tell me what you said to some freaking stranger?"
She focused on only one thing he said. “I don't pick up men in bars.” Not any more. At least not for a month. Her cheeks flamed, damn near ready to explode with spontaneous combustion.
"I don't care about your past, Max. I care about your present and your future. Our future."
She ran scared, sputtering, “Well, well...” Why did he keep on taking her crap and coming back for more? The question burned in her mind. “Why do you even bother?” For that matter, why did Cameron bother with her? “I'm a pain in the ass, and we both know it."
"Gotta thing for pains in the butt."
"You're a masochist."
"Maybe. But you creep into a man's heart, and there's no getting you out."
She shivered. Having a hold on his heart was the last thing she could handle. “That's a line, if I ever heard one."
He didn't even wince. Which showed how used to her crap he was. Maybe that was Cameron's excuse, too. Witt reached across the space between them and pushed a lock of hair away from her ear. The gentleness of the gesture tore at her heart. “You might be psychic, Max, but I gotta read people for a living."
"So you've read me like an open book?"
"Yeah. You don't even have a clue how special you are. Makes a man willing to do anything just to show you."
Now that was scary. Especially after Horace's prediction that Witt would have to kill for her. Shivers raced up and down her spine. She still didn't understand why he wanted any kind of relationship with her, and maybe she never would, but she sure didn't need a guy willing to do anything. That was too awesome a responsibility.
He waved a hand, then pushed his leg down and sat straight ahead in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel as he stared her down. “Don't say a word. I don't want to hear it right now.” By not answering, she'd hurt him. Again. She knew, though he didn't show it by even a flicker of an eyelash as he went on. “Just ask me the favor you were going to ask. And don't give me that innocent look because I know one's coming. I wasn't born yesterday."
Too many full sentences and pronouns. The guy was pissed. Just not so pissed he wasn't willing to listen.
It was also a very good thing he'd dropped the previous topic before she dug herself an even bigger hole. “Do you think he might be smart enough to keep calling in order to throw the police off his track? Just in case?"
"It's a long shot, Max, but yeah, he might be."
She took a deep breath and shot out the favor she wanted. “Then I think you ought to ask the police to set me up to take the calls that would have been sent to her so I can lure him out."
Chapter Twelve
That conversation ended right there. Witt had climbed out of the truck, slammed his door, walked around to her side, and escorted her to the Miata. Then he'd backed up, let her out, and followed her home.
Twenty minutes later, the argument continued on her porch.
"You will not set yourself up as bait."
"It's a flawless idea. You already told them I was your girlfriend. You could say we decided to do this because your mother won't feel safe until the killer is caught. It's the perfect excuse, Witt."
"No.” He was an immovable rock. They stood on her small deck. The motion sensor had turned on the light, reflecting off his skin with an angry halogen glow.
"You are not going to become a phone sex operator to find out who killed Bethany Spring. And I am not getting involved with another of your harebrained schemes. You are an accountant, Max, not a cop."
Uh-oh. More full sentences and no contractions anywhere. Not a good sign. She could argue. She could demand. She could even stomp on his toe. Or she could appeal to his conscience. “I know his voice. You could get a list of all her regulars, but you'd never figure out which one it was. You need me."
"Forgetting it's not my case and not my jurisdiction?"
"No. Which is why I need to do this. Those ‘on-duties’ will never figure it out without my help."
He was silent. She could almost see the little wheels click-clacking in his head. She let his thought processes go on for maybe fifteen seconds, then hit him with the homer. “Her killer might go free if you don't help me do this."
"Don't try that trick on me, Max, it won't work."
It was working. She could see by the play of emotions across his usually impassive face. He was noble, a man of honor. Letting a killer get away because he didn't do everything in his power wouldn't set well with him. “You know this is the perfect set up, Witt."
"There's not a damn thing perfect about it. How the hell am I even going to tell them she did sex calls without having to answer questions about you and how you know?"
A smile stretched across her lips. “Did they tell you about the headset?"
"The headset?"
"She was wearing it to make the calls. Then she threw it across the room. Didn't they think it was a little strange that a woman who had her VCR programmed for Oprah, Sally Jessie Raphael, and Jerry Springer needed a phone headset?"
"They thought she used it for her damn courier business."
Ah, so they had told him about it. “Why don't you suggest another use to them?"
"Fine. Then all they have to do is check out the phone records of the service she used."
"There's no way they'd figure out which customer was Achilles."
"They'd look at her regulars."
"She had a ton of regulars."
He raised a brow. “The ones living in the area would comprise their hottest suspects."
"What if he came a long way to meet the woman he was obsessed with?"
His nostrils flared. She'd finally out-gunned him but resisted clapping her hands.
"I don't like it.” He was definitely weakening.
"But you'll help me."
"I wouldn't trust you not to set up a meeting with this guy behind my back."
She didn't even suggest that he could tap into her phone any time to check up on her; she knew he'd have it done anyway. She put her hand up. “I promise not to meet him without telling you first. Cross my heart and hope to die.” She put her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers.
"Do not cross your damn fingers behind your back."
"I'm not.” She didn't uncross them.
He groaned. “How the hell do you do that?"
"What?” she asked innocently.
"Turn me inside out, upside down, make me change my mind."
He wanted to make love to her, he was terrified of her, he could easily throttle her, and finally, he had to give in to her. She knew exactly how he felt. She almost felt the same way about him. Though she'd never admit
it.
"I'm appealing to your sense of honor and justice."
"I must be crazy."
She knew she was. “But you'll do it?"
"Make that freaking insane. I'll do it. Only you're gonna have to pay up."
Her heart leapt. “How?"
"One kiss."
"That's blackmail."
"Yeah, like you just blackmailed me."
"That wasn't blackmail, it was..."
He put his hand over her mouth. “Appealing to my sense of honor and justice. You're still gonna have to pay."
"When?” she muttered against his hand, callused from all that yard work in his mom's garden. She was so very tempted to lick his palm.
That slow-growing, devastatingly sexy smile she hated, absolutely hated, creased his lips. “Now."
"The timing's really bad.” Bethany's phone ditty with Achilles still hadn't completely worn off. Beneath her sweatshirt, her nipples were hard. “You have to be up early."
He pressed to muffle her words. “Now. Or I rescind."
She debated, pulled his hand away, then asked, “Do I have to open my mouth?"
"Yeah.” His eyes sparkled.
"Do I have to use my tongue?"
"Oh yeah,” he answered, nodding for punctuation.
"How long do I have to do it for?"
He laughed. “You know you want to. You're fighting ‘cause you think I won't guess.” He leaned in close, skimmed her ear with his lips, then whispered, “But I do know how badly you want to.” He raised a hand and slid his palm over her hard, tight nipple. “See how you give yourself away?"
She slapped his hand away. “Okay, okay, I'll kiss you, but none of that stuff."
He chuckled at her. “I won't start it. Not so sure about you, though."
"Come here.” She grabbed his ears and pulled his mouth down to hers. She'd give him a peck, a little lip, a little tongue, then it'd be over.
Instead, he pulled her off her feet. Of course, that meant she had to wrap her arms around his neck to hold on. She opened her mouth to yell at him, but he shut her up with his lips and his tongue.