Their race to the elevator concluded itself on the carpet by the coffee table in Mick’s suite, a trail of clothing from the suite door to the chair marking their progress to a shattering climax.
As their heartbeats calmed, Cassie ran her lips along Mick’s collarbone and up the side of his neck. “I think I need Vitamin E,” she said between kisses to his jaw. “Intravenously.”
“I’m fresh out.” He pulled her to her feet and led her to the bedroom. “But we can go to the corner drugstore later.”
She went into his arms, wrapping hers around his waist and resting her head on his chest. His musky scent, the tickle of springy hair beneath her cheek, filled her senses. “You have something in mind for right now?”
A purely wicked chuckle rumbled from Mick’s chest. “Oh, yes.”
“MAKE SURE YOU take clothes for tomorrow, so you don’t have to sneak back in here at dawn,” Endora suggested as she watched Cassie brushing her hair and applying lip gloss. At Cassie’s sharp look, the familiar shrugged. “Hey, I just want you to get as much sleep as possible tonight. Of course, you’re probably not getting much . . . Sleep, that is.”
“Endora!”
“Don’t tell me you were napping after dinner.” When Cassie groaned, the familiar added, “Very thoughtful of you to appear at the reception. It would have been bad form if you’d completely skipped it for dessert in Mick’s room.”
“I’m not going to miss a tour function, Dora.” Cassie sighed. “Even if I’d much rather be otherwise occupied.”
The familiar glanced at her watch. “Uh-oh. Red alert! You’ve been deprived of sex for three hours.” She peered closely at Cassie’s reflection in the vanity mirror. “I think I see signs of severe withdrawal. You need a nookie fix.”
It was hard to give Endora a scathing look when all Cassie wanted to do was laugh, but she managed. “You’re impossible.”
Endora acknowledged this comment with a typical lack of repentance. Leaning on the counter, she caught Cassie’s gaze in the mirror. “So, on a scale of one hundred, how good is he?”
Cassie sniffed and put her hair brush in her case. “You’re the kiss-and-meow one, not me.”
“Come on, Cass, don’t get all prissy. I want to know if there’s a legitimate reason I’m spending my second consecutive night in Memphis alone. I’m contemplating doing the Graceland tour all by myself.”
“I’m sure the Jungle Room will be to your liking.”
Endora fixed her best cat I-won’t-blink-for-as-long-as-it-takes-to-break-you stare on Cassie. “Spill it!”
“You just won’t let this drop, will you?” Crossing her arms over her chest, Cassie turned her back to the mirror and leaned on the sink.
“Not a chance, Boss.”
“One-fifty.”
Endora’s eyes popped. “What?”
“You heard me. Mick’s a one hundred and fifty on a scale of one hundred.” She turned back to the mirror to give her hair a brief finishing fluff, then left the bathroom to retrieve her purse from the coffee table.
“Wow,” Endora breathed reverently, following in Cassie’s wake. “Does he like threesomes?”
Cassie spun to face her. “Sweet Mother Goddess, Dora!”
“Just curious.”
“You know what curiosity got the cat, don’t you?” Cassie huffed.
Endora laughed until, gasping, she sank down onto the sofa. “I love getting you riled, Cass. It’s so much fun.” Her eyes shone with fondness. “And I love seeing you happy. He makes you happy, doesn’t he?”
“Very much so.”
“Well, what are you doing here talking to me? Go get happy.” She shoved a small overnight bag into Cassie’s hands.
“You’re the best, girlfriend.” Cassie grabbed her for a quick hug.
“I know. That’s why I’m asking for a raise when we get home. Union scale at least.”
One dark brow rose as Cassie paused at the door and looked back. “I wasn’t aware that familiars had a union.”
“The AFL-MEOW.”
Cassie winced and reached for the door handle. “Call my attorney.”
SHE WAS AMAZED at how the pace of her heartbeat accelerated as she knocked on Mick’s door moments later. Her palms were actually sweating. Witches’ palms didn’t sweat! But here she stood, waiting for her lover to appear, fearing she’d leave a salt water puddle on the corridor carpet before he did. Was there a charm to stop palm sweat? Anticipation fogged her brain beyond practical thought.
When Mick opened the door a moment later, she exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Then he smiled, and she stopped breathing altogether.
“Lord, I just want to jump you.” He took her in his arms and pulled her into the room. On a rather strained chuckle he added, “Look at me. Forty years old and acting like some horny teenager.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Cassie wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, rubbing against him from knees to chest. “You taste good.”
Mick groaned. “All right, that’s it. We’re going to the bedroom right now.”
“Lead the way,” she purred.
A sense of urgency permeated their disrobing, and within minutes the preliminaries ended. Mick held himself above Cassie just long enough to shift forward until his hips rode higher than hers. Then he lowered himself.
“This is new,” she gasped, enjoying the sensation of total body contact. Mick’s chuckle reverberated deep inside her.
“Good,” he whispered in her left ear. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“Mission accomplished,” she breathed. “What do I do?”
“Follow my lead.”
The minutes lengthened as they climbed steadily toward the peak. His hips above hers gave constant stimulation, and such sustained arousal made Cassie burn everywhere. Nerve endings thrummed like plucked strings as the heat spread all along her skin—everywhere they touched—from insteps to shoulders. She thought breathlessly that spontaneous combustion was truly possible. Just as she reached critical mass, she heard Mick’s cry and felt his climax at nearly the exact time hers hit.
She had died and gone to heaven. What other explanation could there be for the aftermath of their lovemaking? Usually, she recovered her equilibrium and her breath at the same time. Tonight, she was dangerously close to never regaining either.
“I love you, Mick,” she whispered, certain he hadn’t heard her.
He was asleep.
Ten
THE INCESSANT pounding on his suite door woke Mick from a sound sleep. Careful to pull the covers up around Cassie, he slid out from under her pliant body and reached for the hotel robe lying on the bedside chair.
“Sandor!” Mick heard from the corridor. “It’s Jamison! Open up.”
“I’m coming,” Mick muttered, unwilling to disturb Cassie’s sleep by calling out. He closed the bedroom door behind him and made his way across the room to admit Jamison. “Jesus, Robert, it’s four-thirty in the morning,” he growled as he let the agent in. “Don’t federal employees ever sleep?”
Jamison looked grim. “We’ve got to talk,” he said brusquely, entering before being invited in. “Our boy has struck again.”
“What?” Mick’s heart leapt into his throat. “Jennifer?”
“No. She’s fine. And yes, I’ve still got a man following her.”
“Good.” Mick glanced at the bedroom door and stated quietly, “Robert, I’m not alone.”
Clearly startled, Jamison’s gaze flashed to the bedroom door. Color crept into his cheeks. “Uh, sorry, Mick. God. I didn’t know—”
“Before you jump to conclusions, Jen broke our engagement three months ago. She made this trip mostly to try to convince me not to retire.” At Jamison’s calculating look, Mick added, “That doesn�
��t mean I’m letting you off the hook as far as tailing her goes.”
The agent stiffened in indignation. “She’s under FBI protection until this is over.”
“Fine.” The acid in Mick’s stomach was building to toxic levels. He canted his head toward the smaller bedroom. “We won’t be overheard in there.”
Jamison entered first, taking the bedside chair as Mick closed the door and leaned against it. The Fed actually appeared nervous. Mick saw him swallow hard before adjusting his tie.
My god, he’s dressed for work at four-thirty in the morning. This can’t be good. “Spit it out,” he stated harshly.
If Jamison took offense, it wasn’t obvious. However, complying with Mick’s demand seemed to give him trouble. He opened the night stand drawer and picked up the ubiquitous Gideon’s Bible. After turning it over twice, he placed it carefully back down and pushed the drawer closed. At that point, possibly sensing Mick was ready to leap across the bed and tear out his throat, Jamison said, “The Agency’s Toledo office got called in on a homicide. Forensics set time of death as early morning, March seventeenth.”
The sick feeling in Mick’s stomach doubled in intensity. “And the vic was a white, thirty-ish businessman killed in the same way as the Toledo victim in Mortal Sin.”
“Yes.”
Mick slid to the floor, lungs refusing to draw air, fingers convulsively clutching the plush carpet beneath him. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
“That’s not all.”
Raising his head to look at Jamison was almost impossible, but Mick forced himself. However, he couldn’t form the words to ask. The agent spared him from that.
“Around an hour ago, another body was found. In St. Louis. Same pattern—the killings follow your books.”
With another epithet, Mick buried his face in his hands. “This isn’t happening, Robert!”
“I’m afraid it is,” came the not unkind reply.
“The bastard was supposed to hit your setup in New Orleans.”
“I—”
“We were supposed to prevent this!” Mick surged up, advancing on the hapless Fed. In three strides he crossed the room, grabbed Jamison by the lapels and hauled him to his feet. “God dammit, we’re supposed to be catching this guy, not letting him kill more!”
Jamison calmly pulled Mick’s hands from his suit jacket and set his clothing to rights. “That’s why I’m here. It’s your call. How do you want to play this?”
It took Mick a moment to process that statement. When it finally registered, he turned away and paced the small room. Putting his fist through something held appeal, but he resisted the temptation by crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his hands into his armpits.
“How do I want to play this? I want to move to a deserted island and try to forget that my writing spawned a maniac who’s killing people!”
Jamison resumed his seat on the bed. “You’re not responsible for this guy, Mick. You know that.”
“Right now, I’m having an exceptionally difficult time swallowing that FBI profiler bullshit you’ve been feeding me.” The agent’s tone remained matter-of-fact. “Serial killers are completely deranged. Your books have nothing to do with their mental health.”
“That’s easy for you to say. No wacko’s using the FBI manual as a blueprint for slaughter.” The image of making love to Cassie burst into Mick’s head, and his stomach clenched harder. Had he put her in danger? “We’re telling all the authors what’s going on.”
Jamison shot to his feet. “What? We can’t do that!”
“You said it was my call. Either they’re told the truth and allowed to decide for themselves whether to continue the tour, or I’m out.”
“That’s blackmail,” Jamison protested. He took two steps toward Mick, anger clearly showing in his heightened color.
Mick refused to back down. Panic clawed inside his chest at the thought that Cassie, horrified by the truth, would bolt and never speak to him again. But he had to risk it. This was far bigger than his love life. “Take it or leave it. We don’t think the other authors are in any danger, but we can’t be completely sure. And I want them to know that. To know exactly what’s happening and why. What they do with that information will be up to them.”
Jamison rubbed his eyes with both hands. “What they do with it could be disastrous. If word gets out, our killer may go to ground.”
“Then ask them to cooperate and keep this secret until we catch the killer.”
“I’m beginning to dislike you, Mick.”
“Too damn bad. These people won’t walk blindly into potential danger. Either put our cards on the table for them, or bait your trap with another sucker, because I’m gone.”
With that, he spun on his heel and left the bedroom. In ten angry strides, he was across the sitting room and into the master bedroom. He closed the door firmly but quietly behind him, leaving Jamison to find his own way out of the suite.
“WHAT IS IT?” Cassie asked the moment Mick entered the room. She knew, of course. Jamison’s aura had radiated urgency, and she’d had no qualms about using her preternatural hearing to eavesdrop on his meeting with Mick. The dark aura she’d seen in Mick’s press kit photo now had an explanation. A horrifying one. Just how much would he tell her?
He sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands dangling. Cassie reached up to rub slowly between his shoulders. Comforting, encouraging.
“There’s no easy way to say this.” Mick swallowed hard, and Cassie knew he feared her reaction.
“Then just say it,” she encouraged softly.
He caught a quick breath. “A serial killer’s patterning his crimes after my books.”
Cassie gasped despite having some inkling of this news. Endora’s encounter with pure evil in St. Louis flashed into her mind, and she instantly understood who the killer was. “Oh, Mick.”
“Jamison’s FBI. He set up this tour to trap the guy, but apparently the bastard’s not cooperating. He stepped up his killing spree.” The anguish in Mick’s eyes nearly broke Cassie’s heart as he struggled to continue. “He’s killed two more people just since the tour started.”
And nearly killed Endora, Cassie thought grimly. Great Mother Goddess, is Mick in danger, too? “Could this maniac be after you?”
Mick laughed bitterly. “No. As a matter of fact, he’s likely killing to impress me.”
“Oh, no,” Cassie whispered. “How can I help you?”
“I’m not sure.” He drew a shaky breath. “Could you just hold me?”
“That’s the easy part.” Scooting backward until she was propped against the headboard, Cassie coaxed him back against her, then crossed her arms protectively over his chest. Mick, I swear to you I’ll do my best to keep you safe. I’m not completely up to speed with many of my skills, but I know some unique power brokers, too. In a league with the FBI for sure.
Mick raised his hands to cover hers and leaned his head back against her cheek. “God, Cassie, this is a nightmare.”
More than you even suspect, love. Maybe more than any of us suspect. She hugged him tighter.
“NOW YOU KNOW everything you need to know.” Special Agent Robert Jamison closed his briefcase and sat down next to Mick in the small conference room the Peabody had provided. He looked around the table. “Are there any questions?”
“Just one,” Steven Jones said. “How can we help nail this son of a bitch?”
Louise Jones squeezed her husband’s hand and added, “Steven and I will do anything we can to help.”
Mick, who had practically put dents in the tabletop with his fingers as Jamison debriefed the other tour participants, almost smiled. He released his death grip but didn’t take his gaze off Cassie. It was one thing to have your lover disclose a terrible secret in the intimacy of
a bedroom and quite another to have that secret made public. So far, except for a flush to her cheeks, she didn’t seem ready to run screaming for the next plane back to Massachusetts.
“We’ll let the experts can take care of that, Steven,” he said.
Jones snorted. “Looks like the experts aren’t making any headway.”
Mick felt Jamison stiffen beside him. “The FBI made the connection between my books and the killer’s routine. If they hadn’t, this guy would still be completely anonymous. As Special Agent Jamison said, the killer is copycatting my plots. None of you write anything remotely like I do, so you won’t attract this guy to you. “
It didn’t take a witch’s powers to perceive the tension in the room, especially between Jamison and Jones. Cassie turned to the Fed. “What can you tell us about the suspect? That isn’t classified, that is.”
“The standard profile,” Jamison responded immediately, looking somewhat relieved that he could stop trying to stare down a former Pro-Bowl defensive end, a man who looked like he probably pulled the arms and legs off men Jamison’s size just for warm ups. “Women and minorities very rarely become serial killers, so we’re looking for a white male, twenty to thirty-five, who’s obsessive about the details of his kills. He selects his victims with care. In this case, he’s targeting people who resemble characters in Mick’s books. He’ll have all the props, the restraints, the venue.” He paused a moment and looked around the table. “Personality-wise, he gets off on the suffering and death of another human. Sometimes sex drives him. Sometimes power. Sometimes both.”
Mick took up the narrative. “None of you fits the profile of a single victim in any of my books, so there’s little danger any of you are targets. As has already been said, the audiences your books attract don’t in any way fit the killer’s profile, either. But I insisted you be told what’s happening so you can make your own decision on what you wish to do.”
“Because this particular killer is following Mick’s books,” Jamison added, “we’re trying to lure him into a trap in New Orleans.”
“With Mick as the bait,” Jones stated.
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