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Lethal in Love

Page 51

by Michelle Somers


  ‘Why are you really here, detective?’

  She pressed every single one of his buttons, and he was tempted to press back—hard. Against the wall, on the carved wooden bench . . .

  A life without living is worthless. Why his father’s words came to him now, he had no idea. He was all too familiar with the weight of regrets.

  Damn!

  Killer she may be, but cold she was definitely not.

  Why was he there? ‘For this.’

  Her lips parted, an invitation in any language. He accepted like the gentleman he was. She tasted of chilled champagne and strawberries dipped in dark chocolate mousse. His hands moved from her waist to her hips and he pulled her in closer still. Just as he’d imagined back when she bowled into his precinct almost a year ago on the pretext of research.

  His heart gunned like a V8 eating up ground on the Grand Prix’s home straight. Her mouth moved tentatively under his and he groaned. If only she wasn’t . . .

  He jerked back. What? A cold-blooded killer?

  What the hell was he doing? Angling to be her next vic?

  Kissing a murder suspect wasn’t the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but it ranked pretty damn close. Even if he found her to be innocent, fraternising within an investigation was taboo, and could spark the end of a career.

  He took another step back, ignored the draw of her body, the memory of how damn fine she tasted. Distance meant sanity, something she sucked from him like a succubus drew life from its victim.

  Some moves were inexcusable, regardless the excuses. ‘That should never have happened.’

  ‘Damn straight, it shouldn’t!’ Her bottom lip trembled, as if she were vulnerable. Hurt. Despite the fact she’d kissed him back.

  He had a crazy desire to do it again, to kiss her pain away. His right wrist began to tremble. He stilled it with his other hand and turned away. He was not weak. Life would not do that to him. He dropped his hand. She would not do that to him.

  He turned back. Now she looked pissed. Well, she could take a frigging number.

  ‘Nice speech up there. I hear there are writers who’ll do pretty much anything for their craft. Is that true?’

  She caressed the green stone nestled between her breasts and he imagined those same fingers slowly caressing him. His groin tightened.

  Was she doing it on purpose?

  She licked her lips and he almost groaned out loud.

  ‘How far would you go to close a case?’

  He shook his head. ‘That’s not the same thing.’

  ‘You think not?’ He dragged his gaze from her hand to her face and hated the knowing look she shot him. ‘Do you love your job, detective?’

  His fist clenched. Not as strong as he’d have liked. ‘I can’t imagine doing anything else.’

  ‘Then we’re a lot alike because neither can I. And if I need to go the extra mile to turn a good story into a great one, I’ll do it. Even if it means talking to a cranky detective.’

  When she smiled, the right side of her mouth quirked and her eyes filled with mischief, knowing, as if she held a secret. It made him want to know it, want to get it from her in any way he could.

  He gritted his teeth. ‘I’m not cranky.’

  She arched her brow. ‘Did I say you were?’

  ‘You said—’

  ‘I know what I said. It’s what you assumed that I find interesting. You think you’re the only detective I know?’

  Time to pull the rug back under his feet from where she’d dragged it. ‘You were telling me how far you’d go for a good story?’

  ‘More to the point, does it bug you that I might know more than one detective?’

  Barely two seconds passed between his question and hers. She was deflecting. Well, it took two to ping-pong and he was an ace at the backspin and block.

  ‘From memory, last time you wanted help around interrogation techniques. Well, here’s a quickie, no charge. Stacey Holland, where were you on the evening of Thursday, fourteenth of May?’

  Her glare suggested he hunt for lost marbles. The hand on her hip suggested he watch out for thin ice. ‘I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but how would I know what I was doing eleven months ago?’

  ‘A knee-jerk response about seventy per cent of suspects give first-up. Now think, what was happening in your life around that time?’

  Her brow furrowed, then cleared. She bit her lip and he pulled his gaze north of temptation.

  ‘I was finishing From Mishap to Murder. So, I guess I’d have been writing.’

  He nodded. ‘Now what if I told you the fourteenth was the first dry night after a week of solid rainfall? In fact, it was the wettest May on record for the past twenty years.’

  He spotted the moment she remembered and tried to act like she didn’t. Her frown frosted over, her expression clouded, and her gaze dipped beyond his left knee. ‘I was researching a scene for my book.’

  ‘What scene was that?’

  Her head jerked back. ‘What’s this really about?’

  ‘Helping you.’

  ‘Can we at least be honest?’

  ‘You first.’ He rolled his hand.

  She watched like it was bug-infested, or riddled with leprotic boils. ‘You think I’m lying about something?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Air puffed through her lips disturbing the blonde wisps slung low over her brow. Then she rolled her eyes in that typical stop-yanking-my-chain look. ‘Why are you really here?’

  He searched her expression. ‘I’m on a case.’

  Her reaction was immediate—a war between curiosity and feigned disinterest. If he’d been a gambler, he’d bet all his chips the writer in her would triumph.

  She wavered before moving closer, winning him his bet amidst a flurry of honeysuckle and heat. ‘Anything interesting?’

  Funny, but this time he’d swear she wasn’t holding anything back. Or maybe the awkward-and-absurd act concealed a damned good liar.

  ‘Only if you view murder that way.’ Still no reaction. She was good. Better than. Her talents were wasted in books when she could easily have graced the widescreen. ‘But it’s an ongoing investigation and off limits.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ His hand spasmed and he clenched it before it started to shake. ‘I should get back to my date.’

  Her poker face didn’t span past masking murder. It seemed that jealousy was harder to hide.

  Her palms smoothed over her thighs and only a dead man would miss how the material hugged every curve she’d pressed against him when they’d kissed.

  ‘See you around, Stacey Holland.’

  She tilted her head. ‘You know one thing I believe in less than fate?’

  He raised his brows.

  She raised hers in return. ‘Coincidence.’

  2

  ‘I’ll take one, no, make that two metres of the three-strand rope. And this.’ Stacey dropped the fishing line onto the counter and dug into her bag.

  ‘Going fishing?’

  Heat flooded her face. She ploughed around for her purse, looking anywhere but into eyes that stripped every scrap of sense from her brain.

  Was the confounded man stalking her? Today of all days, with her shoddy pre-weight-loss tracky dacks and hoodie.

  Not that her wardrobe or the frizzy wildness of her hair should matter.

  It didn’t matter.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘No maybe about it.’ His voice was as dry as her not-so-honey-blonde split ends. ‘Fishing tackle, boat anchor rope. That smells of fishing to me. Can I come?’

  She slanted her gaze upward of denim and muscle-hugging cotton until it met with eyes fifty shades of irritating and irresistible. Her heart rate spiked. Why’d the devil have to look so damn hot in blue?

  Her fingers contacted the smooth leather of her purse. She dragged it out, shooting Chase what she hoped was a cactus-wilting glare. ‘You may think you’re funny, but it’s just d
elusion.’

  ‘Ouch! That’s a kick right where it hurts.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve enough ego to spare.’ She pushed the items across the counter to Burt, or so his nametag said. It also said he was there to help in any way he could. Shame that didn’t extend to tossing an overzealous detective out of her life. ‘No doubt I have fate to thank once again for bringing you to Hook, Line and Sinker the exact moment I happen to be here. Are you stalking me, detective?’

  Burt leaned in, no pretext of anything but lapping up their exchange. Her glare did nothing but elicit a wide grin from both men.

  Burt’s behaviour, she could understand. Their “conversation” had to be reels more riveting than fishing-talk. Chase, on the other hand, had no excuse. His hip rested against the counter, his arms folded across a chest she’d experienced up close and personal only a week ago.

  The gleam in his eyes said he knew exactly the effect his presence had on her equilibrium. ‘And why would I do that?’

  Flames swept across her face. All she needed was for him to add one plus one and come up with a window. This was anger, not attraction.

  ‘Boredom?’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, Stacey. You are anything but boring.’

  She slapped her card against the payWave reader, then stuffed her receipt and purchases into her bag. Time to leave Burt and his over-eager interest behind. If she was lucky, Chase would take her none-too-subtle hint, stay put and keep the other man company.

  She strode to the exit and pushed through the heavy wooden door. Her luck had to come in at some stage. Just clearly not today. The wind whipped about her hair as Chase joined her on the footpath.

  She gathered the frizz-ridden strands in one hand, holding them back so she could see. ‘Okay, let’s get this awkward stuff over with. If you’re angling for a date, forget it. I don’t date.’

  The blue in his eyes deepened. Then his lips curved upward and she locked her knees for fear of crumpling like a house of matchsticks to the ground.

  ‘Interesting.’

  At least the cold on her cheeks provided a reason for the red. ‘Not really. Just reality.’

  ‘Yet nothing exists for no reason. Why don’t you date, Stacey?’

  Heart conga-drumming in her ears, she lifted her chin. ‘Why do you need to know?’

  ‘Curiosity.’

  ‘Just as well you’re not a cat.’

  His gaze narrowed. ‘Otherwise you’d write me into one of your books?’

  ‘I don’t kill cats.’

  ‘But you do kill people?’

  ‘With a pen.’

  He cocked his head. ‘Painful death.’

  ‘Like this conversation.’ She backed up. ‘I have somewhere else to be, so goodbye detective. And next time you have an inclination to follow me, don’t. Just for the record, you’re not my type.’

  The wind urged her on as she turned and strode away. If wishes were guaranteed, that’d be the last she’d see of Detective Chase Durant.

  Congo heartbeats amped up to techno.

  ‘I wasn’t angling for a date.’ His laughter pranced about the wind, meandering playfully through her mind. ‘And just for the record, you’re not my type either.’

  Gloved fingertips bump-bumped across rows of spooled fishing line, the dry thuds matching the dry empty thud of his heart. Dust eddied and unsettled, drifting downward and showering the muddy brown of his steel-tipped boots.

  Red bloomed across her cheeks. Through cracks in the shelving he could see she was riled. Flustered. A wildcat on heat. Over an idiot detective who wouldn’t recognise a clue if he rammed it up his tight ass and lit a match to it.

  He flicked the grime from his gloves, then turned his head, found sudden interest in the array of rods as the bitch stormed past and slammed through the store’s front exit.

  Dick on a lead, the pig-cop followed. Her voice grated through the glass, anger and denial in one overwrought outburst. Her trembling body told another story. She wanted him. Wanted him to fuck her until she couldn’t remember her name, or his.

  It would be her downfall. Always picking the wrong man.

  The fishing line slipped easily into his pocket. Strolling the aisle, he added sinkers to his basket. A packet of hooks joined his pocketed nylon. He smiled at the young assistant straightening a display. She flushed, smiled back, invited. Tempted.

  He headed for the ropes, ignoring the weighty need that filled and tightened his balls. His path was set. Straying, no matter how sweet, was not an option. Not yet.

  He fingered the nylon strands. His gut told him the climbing rope would be better, but he picked up the three-strand anyway. It was her choice. The drama, the deliverance, the death. Her choice.

  All but the finale, the last bow. They would be his.

  Stacey threw her bag onto the table and her body onto the couch.

  After she’d tossed the flowers from her front doorstep into the trash, curbing her breath and her temper all the way. She wasn’t stupid enough to believe that Brad’s fortnightly delivery signified more than control. Three years divorced and he was still manipulating her and her emotions. Still making her feel small and insignificant, and a damned laughing stock.

  Something the entire male population seemed intent on these days. Or at least the male population she came into contact with. Very close contact.

  The thought flicked a switch and heat flooded her body.

  Damn!

  Had she just made a blithering fool of herself?

  Of course she had. Hence the reason—well, okay one reason—she didn’t date. She could write a relationship in a matter of hours, minutes even. But give her a real, live man and she couldn’t connect enough words to start a shopping list.

  Idiot!

  She banged her head against the back of the couch. Relief factor—zero. And now her head was a bass drum in a marching band.

  What had seemed the most logical explanation for his turning up every which way the past week, was wrong. Very wrong. He didn’t want to date her.

  You’re not my type either. Her heart did that little dive-bomb thing that came latched to the feeling labelled idiot. Of course, a man like Chase Durant wouldn’t fall for someone like her. Not with a choice of clichéic willowy blondes or stunning redheads like his partner. And that was a good thing.

  He was too close to the kind of man she’d sworn to stay clear of.

  Memory clutched her chest, squeezing until she thought her ribs might shatter. Her father. The yelling. The hurt. The last time he walked out their front door. The reasons he left her behind and never turned back. Brad’s control. His need to change her a rejection itself. Thoughts she’d mulled and turned over time again, cutting deep into old wounds.

  Neither man deserved her energy, her time. They’d robbed too much of both already.

  She plucked a loose thread till it unravelled, the hole growing in sync with her unease.

  Why have you been following me, detective?

  Since the awards dinner, something niggled. Something in their exchange made little or no sense. Something past the kiss she would not think about.

  She crossed her legs, clenched her thighs. Mind out of the rose garden and into reality.

  What date did he mention? May fourteenth? In seconds she was at her desk, tapping her keyboard. A lead weight slammed her chest. She clicked on the link. Dropped her jaw all the way to the overworn cream carpet.

  It was a joke. It had to be a joke.

  The front page headline slashed that theory to shreds.

  Nine Knife Slasher Strikes Again.

  The more she read, the deeper she fell into a fictional world that was From Mishap to Murder. A fictional world she’d created which had suddenly become real.

  No!

  No-no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no.

  This wasn’t happening. In Hollywood, yes. Melbourne, Australia? No way. Not with her story. Her murder.

  Her head spun, a spinning-top off its trajectory and headi
ng straight for trouble.

  Oh, god! Was that it? Chase believed she was a murderer. That she killed to make her murders authentic?

  She stumbled up from her chair and dashed for the bathroom. Do not vomit. Do not vomit.

  She made it to the toilet bowl just in time. A sinful waste of toast, eggs and perfectly seasoned avocado.

  She dropped to the floor, jarring her knees, her nerves.

  Bile lurched in her stomach and surged up her throat.

  Whoever said positive affirmations worked didn’t know shit from sugar-free strudel. They sure as hell never worked for her. She was better off without them. And him.

  He’d kissed her, for what? Not because he was attracted. Oh, no. He’d kissed her for a confession, for her to trust him and tell him she killed people.

  She gagged. Waved farewell to another lot of good cuisine. Probably last night’s Thai tofu and noodle salad. She rinsed, then wiped her mouth with a wad of toilet paper, tossed it into the bowl and flushed.

  She’d acted out her book, then someone had gone and acted it out for real. As if her book were a prescription. A recipe for murder.

  Great name for a TV crime show, not her life.

  Comprehension shuddered through arms and legs that struggled to push up from the floor. Slowly, shakily, she stood. He knew. That whole conversation, the flirtatious chit-chat, the supposed advice for her novel . . . He knew and not once had he let on. He’d followed her, led her to believe he was interested . . .

  A sluice of cold water over her face and a vigorous rub of the towel replaced anger with disgust.

  Since when was seduction a prescribed interrogation technique of Melbourne police? All the time she’d worried over trespassing on private farmland, he’d been looking to convict her for murder. Naive fool that she was, she’d read his continued presence as interest. How he must have laughed after their exchange outside the store. How he must be laughing still.

  Only this was nowhere near funny.

  Clutching the white marble sink, she blinked at the mirror. Coincidence. A pale reflection of herself nodded back.

  Once the cops looked closer, the murder would appear nothing like her scene. There’d be differences. Big differences. Then the police would have no choice but to continue hunting for the killer elsewhere.

 

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