His eyebrow arched skyward. ‘I never questioned his ethics. This is about his connection to the Night Terror.’
‘Other than his team investigating the murders, there is no connection.’ She turned away before he could read her fear. ‘This is bullshit!’
‘So is a man killing countless women without once leaving a message, then out of the blue feeling the need to do just that. Killing Bec, leaving that note? It was personal. No other explanation makes sense. Who it was personal to is another question.’
Cardboard crinkled beneath her fingers and she battled not to turn them into fists. Disloyalty laced her tongue like the bitter spike of burnt coffee.
She had to fight it. Because not fighting meant she believed there was something in Seth’s words. Maybe even something in the accusations made to the OPI.
She dumped her coffee onto the table and threw up her arms. ‘Damned reporters! Anything for a story, even if it means accusing an innocent man.’
His head jerked back as if slapped. ‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I never lied about wanting a story, but I want to catch a killer, too. Something I thought you wanted.’ Gun-metal silver glared back at her. ‘If you’d just drop the attitude and think logically—’
‘Logic? The man’s a psychopath. What the hell does logic have to do with that?’
‘For god’s sake, Jayda. Lose whatever bug is up your ass and think about it. This man is meticulous, a creature of habit. Twenty-five years past, and still his MO is the same. Even to the point where he’s started burning his victims to destroy possible DNA evidence resulting from sticking to that MO. Then suddenly he breaks his pattern, kills outside the vic profile, and more, he leaves a message for you. If you can think of another plausible reason for this, I’m all ears.’
His voice softened. ‘I’m not saying this because I want it to be true. Hell, the last thing I want is for this madman to be after you. But if you and every other female in Melbourne is to ever feel safe again, we have to get him off the streets. Solve this mystery once and for all.’
It wasn’t his words that got her. It was his sincerity, the way his gaze devoured her, as though she meant something to him; something special. The fight in her body dissolved. She slumped to the floor, head so heavy it dropped to rest in her arms, but the tears didn’t come. She was too bone-tired to cry anymore. All she could do was shake and clench her lids to block out the world and everything that was closing in.
Liquid splashed as Seth ditched his coffee. ‘Dammit!’
Strong arms wrapped around her. She leaned into him, his warmth, his comfort. If only to feel something other than pain.
Woodsy scents filled her nostrils. So familiar now, so calming. And as warm, masculine palms rubbed circles over her back, the tension seeped from her limbs.
Too easy to get used to this. And that wasn’t the worst of it. The danger was in wishing she could.
20
The body in his arms tensed. Shaky palms found his chest, paused, then pushed.
Jayda edged away, wrapping her arms about her chest as if to hold herself together. As if without that hold she would likely fall apart. ‘This is becoming a habit.’
He shot her what he hoped wasn’t a goofy grin. ‘Not all habits are bad, you know.’
‘Falling to pieces in your arms isn’t exactly good.’
He couldn’t help it. His mind flew back to the rooftop garden and a woman who hadn’t been afraid to do just that. The memory instantly had him wanting, and wishing for better circumstances. A simpler life where she wasn’t a cop who’d lost her sister to a serial killer and he didn’t need her story for his promotion.
He stood and turned, busying himself with setting the pastries on the table. ‘They say food is good for the soul. And pastries are one of the best soul foods there is, second only to chocolate, so I’m told. Why don’t we sit down and eat, and you can tell me what happened between now and when I left you last night.’
He walked over and extended his hand. She took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet, all the while avoiding his gaze.
‘Nothing happened.’ The way she dropped his hand the moment she was up, you’d think it was toxic.
‘I may not wear a detective’s badge but I know when something’s not kosher. And your spin just now reeks of pork spare ribs.’
He watched the colour fill her cheeks, a sure indication he was right. Something other than pique at his presence was behind her outbursts. ‘Jayda. I’d like to think we’re more than just colleagues in this investigation. That we’re friends. If something’s happening, you can tell me.’
‘And see my words misquoted in the next edition of the Melbourne Telegraph?’
The echo of her words buzzed in his ears. ‘I promised your family was off limits.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘But you don’t believe me?’
‘Let’s just say, once a reporter, always a reporter. You can’t turn off who you are any more than I can.’
The accusation stung like a slap to the face. What the hell would it take for her to trust him? Blood spill?
They may not have known each other long, but after the past day and what they’d been through together . . . He’d even told her about Callum, when he didn’t disclose his failings to anyone. A lifetime of not measuring up should have taught him to expect as much.
‘Fine. I guess there’s not much I can do about your lack of trust. Just do me a favour, Jayda. Or make that two. Don’t lie to me. I’d rather you tell me to mind my own frigging business than feed me some trumped-up tale.’ He speared his fingers through his hair, wishing instead he could shake sense into that obstinate skull of hers. ‘And don’t blame me for the sins of others.’
‘I—’
‘If your father’s being accused of something and it has no bearing on our case, I don’t care if you keep it to yourself. But don’t fly off the handle when I throw out a suggestion you know makes perfect sense.’
First shock filled her expression, then anger. He saw clearly how tempted she was to throw his words back in his face. Instead, she clamped her lips and stormed into the kitchen. What followed was a cacophony of banging and crashing until she returned and dumped a tray of plates, cutlery, glasses and apple juice onto the table. The glasses toppled precariously, and his hand shot out to save one before it tumbled over the side and smashed.
She stomped out again, this time towards the bedroom and study.
That hair colour obviously ran more than skin deep. How could he have mistaken her for a blonde? He stifled a grin, tempted to point it out. Or, maybe not. Her temper as it was, his chances for survival bordered slim to nil.
Falling back into a dining chair, he munched on a Danish, determined not to call out and ask why she was taking so long or what she was doing. Let her be first to break the silence, huffing not included.
He heard a low murmur. She wasn’t talking to herself, surely? A telephone conversation, then. To who? Chase? His gut clenched. Or perhaps her father? That made more sense. He’d seen the fear in her eyes, the click as her mind gave credence to his suggestion. She was determined to shut him out and too damned stubborn to admit it, to him, or to herself.
No less than ten minutes and two pastries later, Seth heard her return before he saw it, and then the reason for her lengthy absence became apparent. Dressed in jeans and a shirt made from some silky, clingy, burgundy material, the upward tilt of her bottom was the first thing he spied as she dragged a large cardboard box across the tiled floor.
He couldn’t look away, and why should he? Her stupid rules said nothing about enjoying the view. This time he didn’t suppress the grin. Damn, but she wouldn’t dampen his humour. Take that away, and what was left?
‘You could offer to help!’ She straightened, rubbing her hands up and down the worn denim covering her thighs.
‘And be accused of sexism?’ He grinned, undeterred by her chip-spitting glare. ‘Looked like you had everything well under co
ntrol. A strong, independent woman like you.’
She harrumphed. ‘Enough with the wisecracks!’
‘I’m serious. That’s exactly how I see you.’
Her eyes glowered, unconvinced. ‘Some sexless feminist?’
‘Those are your words, not mine. And you should know by now, the last adjective I’d toss your way is sexless.’
The red in her cheeks deepened. She harrumphed again, busying herself with opening the box, pulling out a handful of thick, tatty manila folders. When she next looked up, he could see she’d calmed that red hair of hers.
‘I thought we could look back over the cold cases. I’ve been through them countless times, but perhaps something will jump out that didn’t before.’
He left the chair to take a file from her hands. Doris Tombes, twenty-three, shorthand typist. The first murder attributed to the Night Terror.
‘What are we looking for?’
‘You’re the journalist with a bloodhound mentality. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.’
Whatever she wasn’t telling him had her fired up good. ‘You wound me.’
‘As if that were possible.’
He dragged his fingers across the tightness in his jaw. ‘You know, Jayda, much as you might need a punching bag right now, I’m not sure that person should be me.’
The words mulled aimlessly between them until they hit target. He saw it in her expression.
‘You’re right.’ Her voice cracked. She dropped her files onto the table, the liquid green of her eyes catching his. ‘I’m sorry, Seth. Much as I hate this situation, it’s not your doing. You just happen to be close enough to be in the firing range.’
‘All I can say is, I’m glad you’re short one handgun.’
That won a smile, feeble as it was, and the light in her eyes made his heart jump. Pretty much any scraps she threw his way gave that muscle a severe jolt. The realisation caught him off-guard. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the knowledge now it had hit.
She moved closer, placing her hand uncertainly over his, and the blow from the contact struck him square in the chest.
‘Let’s start today afresh. As friends.’
There was no pattern.
The women were from all walks of life, abducted from a variety of locations. Yes, the killings all occurred in Melbourne’s CBD. And yes, the victims were all blonde, blue-eyed innocents. But that was where the similarities ended.
Bec was the only exception.
Staring out at rain that seemed perpetual—and the man on her sheltered balcony enjoying it—she groaned. Much as she hated to admit it, Seth was right. Finding the killer had to lie with Bec. Perhaps even her father. Although, during their brief phone conversation—minutes after Seth watered the seed she’d fought hard to stifle—he denied any possible Night Terror association other than being on the case.
Still, just because he didn’t know of one, didn’t mean it didn’t exist. Her head dropped into her hands.
What was the connection? The tips of her fingers dug into her skull. Think! Gut instinct said if she could figure that out, she’d find the killer. The same old information whizzed round her brain, none of it leading anywhere. Like a ride on an old-time carousel, she always travelled full circuit and ended up in the same place, like there was nowhere else for her to go.
Even her lists weren’t helping.
She cursed, striking her forehead with her open palm.
‘Time for a break.’
Was the man psychic or something?
He stamped his feet on the doormat before stepping inside and closing the door. It slid easily. Not only was he throwing out her garbage and making her coffee, he was oiling her doors. Making himself too at home for comfort.
Anastasia belted out from the table beside her, and she checked caller ID.
‘Going to get that?’
‘No.’ Heart pounding, she watched until the song cut off and the call clicked over to voicemail.
He dropped into his seat opposite her. ‘That’s the sixth time today you’ve ignored your phone. Who are you avoiding?’
‘Telemarketers.’
‘You can’t evade them forever, you know. Sooner or later, they’ll catch up with you.’
And that’s what she dreaded. Eventually, the OPI would give up leaving messages and come knocking. And when they did, she had no idea what she’d do. Defend her father, yes. But what did they imagine she knew?
Her gaze lifted to find Seth watching her through narrowed lids.
Ignoring the flutters in her stomach, she closed the file in front of her, stood up and stretched. ‘I could use a change of scenery. To refresh the senses and revive the old grey cells.’ She tapped her head, eliciting a smile that freshened senses of a different kind.
Why couldn’t she get past her adolescent fascination with the man? The first few buttons of his shirt gaped open, revealing tanned muscle she remembered all too well. Even though he’d been under cover outside, his hair was damp and ruffled from being shoved back too many times, while his lips were shadowed by stubble that made her wonder how that rasp would feel . . .
She dragged her eyes away, hoping her top was loose enough for him to miss the reaction beneath it. Her breasts felt weighty, swollen, her nipples hard and sensitive against the restriction of her bra, lost in vivid memories of the attention they’d received. Was it really less than a week ago?
He unfolded himself from the dining chair and reached back to scratch between his shoulder blades. The stretch of fabric over his torso proved deliciously distracting. And the look on his face as his gaze met hers said he knew it.
‘Let’s go out for dinner. There’s a great Italian place not far from here.’
‘Like a date?’
His brow shot up as he dropped his hand. ‘That’d mean we’re romantically interested in each other, which, of course, you’re not.’ The grin he shot her way stated he thought otherwise. If only he weren’t so damned sure of himself, she might have been tempted . . .
No. No dating work colleagues. Which for all intents and purposes Seth was. And no distractions. That included the distraction caused by noticing he never denied his interest in her, romantic or otherwise.
‘I could go some Italian.’
‘But not me?’
It took her all of three seconds to get his meaning. The heat in his gaze helped her translation. ‘What is it with men and comedy? Do sexual innuendos get you off or something? Because I can tell you right now, they do zip for me.’
‘Just when I’d hoped my irresistible charm and wit would be enough to win you over. How could I have misjudged?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Funny, ha ha.’
‘So you do have a sense of humour?’
‘When something’s amusing, yes.’
His palm slapped his chest. ‘Just stab me and smear on the salt, why don’t you?’
‘Tempting as it may be, sadism’s not really my thing.’
‘Touché.’ He grinned, then gestured at the table’s scattering of cups, cutlery, plates and crumbs. ‘I’ll tidy this while you freshen up.’
‘Is that guy-speak for “you look like crap and need to change”?’
His gaze raked her body—the burgundy top she knew made the green in her eyes deeper, and the tight, shape-hugging jeans—leaving spot-fires in its wake.
‘What do you want me to say, Jayda? That you could put on one of those old burlap potato sacks and I’d still find you attractive? Because it’s true.’
Her face burned, not only at his words, but at the undeniable heat in his eyes, his tone.
‘I’ll be out in five.’
‘Chicken!’ The word and its precision followed as she fled the room. It was getting harder. Much as she kept telling herself that he was a reporter, that his profession was ruthless and unprincipled, every one of his actions so far indicated he was anything but.
She rifled through her closet. Even though it wasn’t a date—because, as Seth so accurat
ely stated, that would mean something other than work going on between them—she took more time than strictly necessary to choose what to wear.
Three outfit changes later, she scowled at her reflection, then grabbed a fourth. Clothes were Bec’s department. When it came to pretty versus practical, no guessing which one she chose. That said, her lack of fashion sense had never worried her before. No reason why it should now.
She pulled the emerald cowl-neck top over her head, refusing to notice the way it hugged her breasts or the display of cleavage designed to tantalise and make a man want to see more. The black skirt wasn’t particularly short, but at knee length, with her ankle boots, she knew it showed enough leg to entice. Her black leather jacket completed the outfit, not because it was sexy, but to ensure she wasn’t a contender for Melbourne’s next wet t-shirt contest if it continued to rain.
Her underwear was still her customary basic black. Not that it mattered. This wasn’t a date.
The look on Seth’s face, after waiting almost three times longer than she’d promised, said the effort was worth it. Just because nothing was going to happen, didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy a little unsolicited admiration.
‘Did you want to go home and change?’
He checked his black cargos and shirt. ‘Are you saying I need to?’
Her eyes followed his and heat fluttered through her belly. She’d spent the better part of the day struggling—unsuccessfully—to avoid this. Admiring his body, the way it filled her gaze. Remembering how it had felt in those moments when pressed hard against hers.
Their gazes locked, and it was clear Seth guessed the direction of her thoughts.
She swallowed, tried for blasé. ‘Rather than incriminate myself, I’ll go all American and plead the fifth.’
Humour skimmed across his lips, dimpling his chin. She’d never seen lips like Seth’s. They were wide, what some women called ‘kissable’. That had to be the reason for her need right now.
‘We should go.’
Opening the door, he didn’t comment on what was clearly an admission of her attraction—her words and her body’s too obvious signs.
Lethal in Love Page 14