Evil to the Max (30 page)

He could have no idea he’d be taking Tiffany to bed, too.

If
she let him. She wasn’t sure he’d win the toss.

Would you, Max? Would you really
?

God, even when he wasn’t around, she felt Cameron hammering inside her head.

Jake reached out to touch Max’s red necktie. “Your tie’s a little too tight, don’t you think?” He loosened it, then undid the top three buttons of her white shirt. She let him. It was part of the game. Her nipples were hard against the stiff material. There was no doubt she hadn’t worn a bra.

How did he feel standing in the same place he’d stood with his wife the night she was murdered? She wanted to ask, but didn’t. She wanted to push him enough to get answers, not enough to make him run.

“Why the change of attitude, Jake? A couple of days ago, you told me to stay the hell away from you. What’s your game?” She knew damn well sex was only part of it. Sex was only
part
of what anyone at the Round Up was looking for.

He leaned close to catch her words. He smelled of aftershave, one reminiscent of Witt’s, and his voice, when he answered, was honey in her veins. If she closed her eyes, she could almost make believe he
was
Witt.

“Why not confess your game instead?”

“To nail someone’s ass to the wall for murder.” She smiled. “Might as well be yours.”

“If anyone’s gonna get nailed, sweet cheeks, it’ll be you.”

She traced a fingernail down his sleeve. “Is that a double entendre, Jake?”

The music changed. Couples moved onto the dance floor. The Drifter. Tiffany’s last dance. Jake took Max’s hand. “Dance with me.”

She let him lead her into the throng. They turned, back to front. She fit neatly against him, her butt wedged against his crotch. He was hard. She closed her eyes and for just a moment felt his hand beneath her skirt. But that was Tiffany’s skirt and that had been another night.

Feeling Tiffany squirm inside her, Max shivered.

Would you do it
?

She was damned sure Tiffany would. Tiffany
had
. Right before she died.

Max moved to the music on instinct, leaning her head back against his shoulder. His hands passed over her breasts without touching.

“You were supposed to do her right on the dance floor, weren’t you?”

The music, the dance, the moment seemed to hold him in thrall. “I couldn’t do that,” he rasped.

“Admirable,” she murmured. “You want me to believe she made the arrangements for that night?”

“Yeah.”

“And you just went along?”

“Sometimes it was easier that way.”

“And you hated it the whole time,” she mocked, tilting her head to look at him.

He turned, dipped, and rotated his hips, taking her with him. Moisture pooled between her legs. “I’m not saying that either. I just shouldn’t have let her leave without me.”

“If she didn’t leave with
you
, Jake, then who did she leave with?”

He grew silent, then, after a long moment, said, “I didn’t see. She left the bathroom first. There was a lot of shouting. I stayed behind to make sure they didn’t follow her.”

“But someone did. Who was there that night? Who was supposed to watch the two of you fucking on the dance floor?”

Another dip of his knees and a thrust of his hips. He punctuated the movement by bringing her ass up tight against him, grinding against her. It was probably the word
fuck
that set him off. Feeling him pulse, she was almost sick, even as she heated deep inside.

She looked up then, straight into Witt’s eyes. He stood at the bar by her abandoned beer, his features carved from granite, his blue eyes icy. Max shuddered.

Despite the sexual moves, the obvious evidence of his desire, and Tiffany raging inside her, Jake Lloyd couldn’t satisfy her. Not the way Witt could.

Another tune, a slower beat, Max turned in Jake’s arms and laced her fingers behind his neck. Witt’s gaze was like an ice pick in her back. She picked up where she left off, only one goal in mind, to get answers. “Who was watching, Jake? Who followed you here? Who would she have left with?”

He kept her flush against him, but leaned back to look at her, pushing his cock against her crotch. “Miles Lamont.”

Shee-it, as Bubba would say. Her pulse raced. She leaned her forehead against his shoulder. She’d guessed it, but the confirmation still stunned her. And for just a moment, her stomach fell to her knees.

She’d hoped that he’d tell her it was Bud Traynor.

Wrong again.

The music flowed around her, along with the voices, the laughter, and the shouting. Miles Lamont. She didn’t doubt Jake’s statement in the least. She simply doubted his motive. Had he followed her here tonight, planning all the while to hammer a nail into Lamont’s coffin, just as Miles had tried to do to him? And if so, why hadn’t he implicated Miles a week ago? Why hadn’t he told the police?

Why couldn’t he have wanted
her
, no strings attached?

A ridiculous thought. It came from Tiffany. It was her pain and jealousy, almost child-like in quality.

And it
was
only Jake holding her. Not Cameron. Not Witt. Just some fantasy man whose potent desire would fill her like a drug, like the drug she’d taken time after time since the day Cameron had died.

The music played the soft strains of Diamond Rio singing “You’re Gone.” Such a sad, old ballad. It reminded her of Cameron. Of loving him. Of losing him.

The last words drifted away.

“You’re gone,” she whispered and looked over Jake’s shoulder straight into Witt’s unreadable eyes where he stood watching her from the bar.

Max remained in the loose circle of Jake’s arms and knew the ringing of that little pseudo-Cameron voice inside her head was absolutely right. She would
never
have slept with this man. Not for Tiffany. Not for Jules. Not even for herself. She’d think about it, she’d tell herself to do it, but in the end, she’d walked away.

He wasn’t the one she really wanted. And tonight, no one else would do. She couldn’t take Witt up on his offer, but she wouldn’t fill the spot with anyone else.

“Where’s Nadine?” No more banter. No more pretending. Her tone was hard and demanding.

Sensing the change, Jake dropped his hands and backed up a step. Dancers flowed around them, bumped her arm, and slammed into his hip. “How the hell should I know? I’m not her keeper.”

Max tapped a finger to her lips. “Sure hope nothing’s happened to her, Jake. After all, she’s your alibi for the night Tiffany died.”

His gaze dropped. He shifted from one foot to the other.

Max glanced over at Witt. He’d straightened away from the bar. On alert. She didn’t have much time before he made his move. “Nadine’s in love with you, Jake. Or at least she thinks she is. What’s going to happen when she finally figures out you don’t give a damn about her?”

He stiffened and narrowed his gaze. “I care. She’s a friend.”

Couples now gave them a wide berth. Stared. Strained for a word or two of the
lovers’
spat they were having. Max sneered, “You just want to be friends. That’s the kiss of death in a love affair. Have you told her that, yet?”

“I don’t need to.”

“Maybe you
have
told her. Maybe that’s why no one’s seen her. Maybe you had to deal with your little alibi problem. Or, should I say your lack of one?”

“I don’t know where Nadine is. But I didn’t kill Tiffany, and I sure as hell haven’t done anything to her sister.”

She wasn’t learning anything new. Witt started towards them. Time was up. “I gotta go.”

“Why?”

Why? Because she needed to think. She needed to figure out how to feed Detectives Scagliomotti and Berkowsky the scant information she’d gleaned about Miles. She sort of needed Witt for that. But not tonight. Tomorrow. When her head was clear, clear of Corona and clear of wanting a man.

Maybe she should tackle Miles herself. Tonight even. Yeah. Catch him off guard.

She left Jake standing alone amid the dancers, his erection painfully obvious. Witt was at the edge of the dance floor. She turned the other way, pushed through the line of onlookers, and cut through the tables. But Witt gained on her.

“Hey, sweetie pie, where ya going in such a hurry?”

She grabbed Bubba’s arm and pointed. “See that blond guy?”

“Yeah. Is he giving you grief?”

“He’s bugging me. Slow him down a bit while I get to my car, would ya?”

“Sure thing.”

Bubba rounded his massive shoulders, fisted his hands, narrowed his eyes, and got that shit-kicking-bouncer look.

“But don’t hurt him,” Max called as she scooted out the door before the fireworks started. Once she rounded the corner of the building, the parking lot was dark, the light poles fewer and farther apart.

Approaching her car, she realized the passenger side door stood open. Damn it. Someone had broken in.

Well, hell, at least there was a good-looking cop inside the Round Up she could turn to.

She reached into her blazer pocket for her keys.

They were gone.

Something crunched behind her. She turned. Too late. Pain exploded at the back of her head. She fell to her knees, and everything went black.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Her skull pounded like someone had taken a jack-hammer to it. Her head spun like she’d been on a three-day binge. Her neck cricked painfully to the left. And she was sure she’d gone blind. Until she saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

Oh my God. She was dead.

The light hurt, but Max stared at it through slitted eyes. Concrete walls rose on either side of her. Something jammed into her armpits. The back of her head ached like hell where it bounced against a sharp object.

Still, she stared at the light. The proverbial Light people saw before they died. It wasn’t supposed to be a bare bulb in a dark stairway, but that’s sure as hell what it looked like. What the hell was happening? Where was she? Vague figures moved in the dimness.

Oh God. She was being carried down a flight of stairs by creatures from a nightmare. Her body swayed from side to side with every step they took. Her head slapped hard concrete once more. A pebble dug into her skin. Her arms were pulled from their sockets, her legs ripped away at the hipbones.

Someone carried her into a dungeon. A torture chamber. She tried to scream. Her throat tightened and seized up on the sound. They’d lock her in. They’d tie her up. She’d never get out. She’d die like a rat thrown down a well. No one would hear her screams. No one would save her.

Help me, Cameron
. He didn’t answer.

Shit. Now, when she needed him, he’d run out on her.

Oh God, oh God. Shit, shit, shit. Another head-slam against the concrete step. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even moan. Ears ringing. Beyond pain now. Just sick. Bile in her throat. Needed to puke. Bad. Now. Probably choke on it. Suffocate. Asphyxiate in her own vomit.

Warm, wet drops at the corners of her eyes.
Help me
. Cameron. Witt. Anyone. Anyone at all.

“Set her down.” The voice, tinny and harsh, echoed in the narrow hall. Just like in the video. Tiffany’s death song.

Oh no. No, no, no. It couldn’t be. Please, no. She couldn’t die like that. No. Please, God. Not that. Flashes of Tiffany screaming. Bloody bubbles at her nostrils. No. Not like that.

She landed hard on frigid cement. The cold leached into her bones and surrounded her, froze her right through to her organs. Fresh pain spiked through her head, down her arms, her legs, and finally twitched her toes in agony. Her groan stayed trapped inside. Her legs fell to the side. One shoe slid off. Her skirt rucked up beneath her, and her butt screamed from the freezing touch of concrete.

The bulb was overhead, the faces above her elongated in deep shadow. Keys jingled, then chattered in a lock. Sounds of breathing, one fast, one slow and steady.

The door whooshed as it opened. Air rushed out. At floor level, it reeked of damp, mold, and something dead. A scrabbling sound somewhere nearby. Rats. The rest of her body froze.

Another light went on. Max forced her eyes closed against it. “Drag her in.”

Move. Get up. Run. Fight.

Scrambled thoughts, commands, and demands. Her body refused to obey.

Dragged by her arms, she was pulled across the floor. Pebbles bit into her butt. Shock waves raced from her heels to the base of her skull. She almost passed out again, almost lost her Corona on the floor. Their words were lost beneath the ringing in her ears, the renewed pounding in her brain.

Cameron
. She choked, sobbed out, though she knew no sound left her immobile lips.
Don’t let me die in here with the rats and the monsters.

Cameron. Please
. What would he tell her to do? That thought was the only thing she had left to hold onto. What?
Stay calm. Be strong. Use your wits. You can win.

The hammering inside her head slowed to a dull throb.
Be calm
, she repeated. She lay on her side, facing the door. Another bare bulb hung from the ceiling. Blurred figures stood in the doorway.
Be strong
, she pretended to hear Cameron’s voice. After a moment, she could hear the two. They spoke softly despite the fact that they thought she was unconscious.

“... shouldn’t have brought her here ...”

“... didn’t know what else to do ...”

“... idiot, it should have been Ariel, we agreed ...”

“... sorry ...”

“Stop whining ... what we have to do now, don’t you ...”

“... no, please, we don’t need to kill ...”

Max caught only fragments. What she heard turned her blood to icicles.

“I ... get the equipment ... watch her ...”

“... come with you ... please don’t leave me ...”

“... don’t want any surprises ...”

“... wait—”

The door slammed shut. The sound kicked her in the head, set in like a microphone on reverb. And then she realized the one left behind pounded on the closed door.