Desperate to the Max (31 page)

A car pulled in across the street, a bright shaft of sunlight piercing her eyes until the car inched forward to a slightly different angle.

A white Cadillac. Like Traynor’s.

The interior of her car turned ice-box cold. Goosebumps roughened her skin. She reached for her purse where she kept Witt’s cell phone—she no longer left it in the glovebox.

She punched in a number she shouldn’t have known.

The man in the white Cadillac reached down to the seat beside him. “Hello, Max.”

She couldn’t see his face clearly through the tinted glass, but she heard the smile and cunning in his voice. She thought of the old cliché, something about the blood running cold. His voice, Achilles voice, made her blood icy. She wondered how it could possibly have taken her that long to put the two voices together. She should have known it with that very first vision of Bethany. But then Bud Traynor had always skewed her psychic talents.

“Why are you following me?” She thanked God her voice didn’t crack.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right after your little run in with poor Virginia.”

Poor Virginia. “Did you tell her to kill herself? That it was her only way out?”

“I didn’t have to tell her that, my dear. She already knew it.”

He had all the right words, but she wasn’t beaten yet. “Is that what you did to Walter, convince him he had no other choice?”

“Walter knew his daughter was going to win the suit, and that on the heels of that loss, the District Attorney’s office was going to investigate him for embezzlement of client funds. I would have been forced to cooperate with them.”

The District Attorney would investigate. She wondered if Cameron would have handled the case. She wished to hell Cameron remembered.

Failing to find the words to vanquish Traynor, she attempted only to cut him down to size. “How many people have you killed, Bud?”

He chuckled. “You never disappoint me, Max. I like a woman who fights to the bitter end.” He fell silent. She thought she saw him stroke his chin. “I covered for you, Max, and told the police Virginia had asked you to stay with her during the funeral.”

A series of chills raced down her arms.

“I think that means you owe me.”

The blood roared in her ears. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“I can always change my story.”

“Then they’ll start investigating
you
.”

“I will have you, one day. I don’t care if it has to be drug-induced. I’m not particular.”

“You’ll never get that close to me.”

She felt his gaze pierce her from across the street. He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “I want to see your face when you wake up in my bed and realize I’ve just fucked the hell out of you.”

“I’d kill myself before I’d let that happen.”

“I think I’ll tape it so we can watch it together. Does that scare you, Max?”

“I think you’re pathetic, praying on little girls and confused women.” His words did something to her, made her think of the times she’d done desperate things, made desperate choices. Like Bethany. Like all the women who had died and climbed inside Max’s body, forcing her to find their killers.

Every one had led straight to Bud Traynor. Their Pied Piper. Her nemesis.

Even with the list of his crimes running through her head, there was one more thing Max had to know. “Why’d you call Bethany and pretend to love her?”

“I called Helen, and maybe neither of us was pretending.”

“Don’t give me that line of bullshit. Somehow you found out what she was doing, and you called her to torment her.”

“I told her what she wanted to hear. I told her that I loved her.”

“You set her up. You started pushing to meet her. You wanted to terrify her.”

“I told her she was beautiful. No one else could tell her that.”

“You tell me everything else you do blow-by-blow. Why won’t you tell why you did that to Bethany?”

The phone crackled. She heard him breath. Finally he answered. “She hated it when I touched her. So I found a way to make her beg for my touch.”

The hairs on her arms stood straight up. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew he was smiling.

His voice came again, soft, cajoling, hypnotic. “Isn’t that how it was for you that night, Max?”

She shivered in the sunny warmth of her car. “What are you talking about?”

He laughed softly. The sound of it chased the breath out of her throat. “Remember ride ’em cowboy, Max?”

Oh Jesus. It was a fantasy, just a fantasy she’d told some guy on the phone because she had to. It was part of trapping Bethany’s killer. All along it had been Bud, another voice, another incarnation. She’d fallen right into his trap.

“It made you so hot, didn’t it? You wanted me so bad you almost came with the sound of my voice.”

The way Bethany had used
her
voice, over and over, with hundreds of men, loving it, enslaving them, enslaving herself.

If Bud had been sitting next to her, Max would have gouged his eyes out.

“I’m right, aren’t I, Max?”

She cut the connection, threw the phone onto the seat, jammed the car into gear, Sutter’s package undelivered beside her, and raced away as if a monster were on her tail.

The monster had a name. It was Bud Traynor.

Max knew she’d never be rid of him. Not until one of them was dead.

Epilogue

The red numbers of her clock flipped over to twelve. Midnight.

Cameron wrapped his ethereal being around her. “I love you. Don’t think about it.”

How could she not think about it? He’d died on this day two years ago.

“Sleep with me, Max, and we’ll wake up tomorrow night when it’s all over.”

“It’ll never be over, Cameron. You’re dead.” Tears pricked her lids, and she dug her nails into the flesh of her palms.

The phone rang, and she grabbed at it like a lifeline, an excuse not to think, not to remember. “Hello.”

“Helen.”

Didn’t the guy know Helen didn’t live here anymore? The service was supposed to have cut them off. She almost sniped at the voice.

Then she realized who it was.

Witt.

“You must be my Achilles heel, sweetheart,” he said. “Can’t seem to leave you alone. Even when I should.”

“Please, don’t use the name Achilles.”

She heard a soft snort of laughter. “Are you still Helen on your message machine?”

“I haven’t gotten around to changing it yet.”

“Then I’m still gonna be Achilles.
Your
Achilles, no one else’s.” His voice dropped a note, and he whispered, “Make love with me.”

“Now?” she squeaked like a mouse. One day, sooner rather than later, their weird relationship would end. Badly. But right now? She wanted him more than anything.

“Yeah. Now.”

“Over the phone?”

“Yeah. On the phone.”

She thought of phone sex, Bud Traynor’s tricks, and Bethany Spring’s desperation. Suddenly she knew exactly why the young woman had craved the anonymity of it.

She’d been safe. She’d been wanted, desired, lusted after. And safe. In the end, when the threat came, it had not been from the outside; it had come from within.

Max heard Witt’s breath over the phone and knew she, too, was safe. She didn’t have to remember Cameron’s death, she didn’t have to think about Traynor’s threats, and she didn’t have to plan tomorrow.

Doing what Witt had asked her to do, she wove a tale. Damn if she didn’t make sure it included a Dodge Ram and a cowboy, too.

In spite of that bastard Bud Traynor.

###

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Enjoy the following excerpts and meet the author!

Power to the Max

Kinky Neighbors

She’s Gotta Be Mine

About the Author

Don’t miss the next exciting installment in the Max Starr series!

Power to the Max
, Book 4

Sonuvabitch Lance La Russa had a thirst for power, exotic tastes, and the money to pay for both. Angela Rocket, the beautiful, quirky call girl willing to fulfill his every fantasy, was the last person to see him alive. And the prime suspect.

To solve the crime, Max Starr must enter the world of sex for hire, much to the chagrin of her ghostly late husband Cameron and sort-of boyfriend homicide detective Witt Long. She’ll need all her psychic skills to save Angela from going to prison for a crime Max is sure she didn’t commit. Max also has a new challenge. Can she find the real murderer without being possessed by the murdered man’s spirit?

And the scariest thing of all? Witt’s Mom Ladybird Long wants to help do the detecting!

Excerpt from
Power to the Max

Copyright 2011 Jasmine Haynes

Cover design by Rae Monet Inc

Excerpt

He’d wanted her the minute he first laid eyes on her. The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, he wanted to wrap her around his throat like a tie, wear her body like a fine cashmere jacket, and feel her lips on his cock every moment of every day. He wanted to cage her close to him, always with him, so he could have her whenever the whim struck.

He wanted to own her.

For Halloween night, she hid her perfect features behind a mask, its long black feathers shot through with threads of red. Eyes the rich shade of aged cognac glittered in the eyeholes, mocking him with arrogance, desire, and power. Another of her fantasies lay in wait for him tonight. His cock jumped to life.

The black velvet cocktail dress skimmed her thighs, barely covering the beckoning delight of her plump, hot snatch. She’d draped her arms in above-the-elbow, black satin gloves that he needed to feel on his skin. Black stockings and black suede fuck-me pumps completed the ensemble. Her sable hair curled down the center of her back.

He loved her hair, loved running his hands through it, fisting his fingers in it when she sucked him off.

“Hold out your hands, palms up.”

She did as she was told. He fisted both hands above hers. “Pick one.”

In his right, she’d find a tennis bracelet, sapphires set in gold. In his left, she’d find the key to a newly furnished condo. Whichever hand she pointed to, he’d give her the bracelet as an appetizer and the key as dessert after he came on her face. Or inside her.

She dropped her hands. Something indefinable flickered in her eyes behind the mask. “No.”

All his carefully laid plans went up in smoke. For now, he hid his anger beneath his own golden mask, the one she’d given him, cajoled him to wear. “Why?”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You love them. What about the time I finger-fucked you while the bartender served your drink? You loved that surprise.”

“Sex is never a surprise.”

Her deep, silky voice melted his anger. He put his hands in his jacket pockets and let the gifts fall from his fingers into the depths. He’d blown it. But there would be another time, another place. He’d give her the presents then, force her take them if he had to.

Drawing his hands out, he cupped the front of his pants, giving her the universal gesture. “How about this for a present?”

She smiled, her teeth even and pearly white, thousands of dollars of dental perfection. He wanted her mouth on him.

“That’s more like it,” she purred like a cat. Turning, she swept a hand across the desktop. Pencils, pens, holder, letter opener, and notepads went flying to the carpet. She hopped on the polished mahogany and spread her legs.

She wasn’t wearing panties. She didn’t believe in them. They hampered her job, she’d told him once. Lace edged the tops of her thigh-high stockings. God, to sink himself inside her was a dying man’s fantasy.

“Do me,” she whispered.

“I’ll turn out the lights.”

“Don’t.”

He glanced out the windows of the high-rise. They were on the twenty-second floor. Lights still blazed in the twin building across Market Street, and there was movement behind the glass.

“You’re wearing a mask, and this isn’t your office,” she coaxed.

Her voice seduced him. She was right. No one would know. The office belonged to his wife.

He started to unzip his pants.

She put her arm out, hand fisted, the black of her satin gloves glistening against her creamy flesh. “Hold out your hand.”

For the second time that night, she cut him off. He didn’t like the little power play. She still had a lot to learn about him. “No.”

She tipped her head to the side, the black feathers of her mask quivering. Her eyes glittered. Her lips smiled. “You wanna fuck me?”

Yes, she needed a lesson. But he had months ahead to teach her, years. For now ... he held out his hand as she instructed.

She dropped the gold-wrapped condom onto his palm. He made quick work of it, then slipped between her thighs. She fell back against the wood desktop and moaned. Her pussy glistened, beckoning. The lights of the San Francisco high-rises burned across her body as he entered her, then rocked against her, intensity and speed building. Suddenly he liked the sensation of an audience, liked the idea that a beautiful woman might be sitting alone in her office. Watching. Lifting her skirt. Putting her hand between her legs. Fucking herself with her fingers. Coming in a hot, creamy flow.

He shot his wad in an explosion of color. He might have screamed. She certainly did. She was the best he’d ever had, ever would have.

She was worth every penny he’d paid for her.

* * * * *

“Now blow, Max. Really hard.”

Max gave Witt the evil eye. He grinned. A shit-eating grin.

“DeWitt, behave yourself,” Ladybird Long admonished her son.