Evil to the Max (33 page)

He ignored that one, probably for his own good. “Cops don’t rat on each other. At least, not for something as simple as asking too many questions. And my cases are clean.”

“So, you’ve just been using that as an excuse to keep me in line.”

“Max, I’d never presume you could be kept in line.”

“Good.” She opened her door. “I intend to testify, you know. In both cases.”

“I know. Still hope you don’t have to.”

“And your D.A. pals can wonder about it all they want.”

“They will. But at least there’s not a shred of forensic evidence against you. Cops are big on forensic evidence, you know.”

She climbed out. “I know. But it’s sure a helluva lot easier when the bad guys confess, isn’t it?”

He laughed. Another good sign. But damn, such an incredibly sexy sound. It sent a little shiver right straight down her center. “Yeah. Don’t I know it.”

“I’ll walk back. You’ve got a case to work.” She slammed the door and walked around the hood. She thought briefly about asking if he’d give her a call some time soon, but decided against it.

“Hey,” he called, “no more dead bodies, okay?”

She took a step closer to his car door. “I can’t promise.”

“Okay, so promise you won’t talk to any ghosts.”

“I
really
can’t promise that.”

“Come here.” He waved at her with one hand while with the other he reached across to snap in his seatbelt.

“You’re gonna be late,” she warned.

“Mom wants you to come for dinner a week from Wednesday.”

“For dinner?” It came out as a definite squeak. “At your mother’s?”

“Yeah. She’ll scalp me if you don’t.”

She bent over, hands on her knees, her head almost touching the car door, and managed at last to take a deep breath. Then she looked up. Damn, what had the man been saying about her? “You must be out of your mind.”

“Five o’clock. She likes to eat early.”

“Why a week and a half?”

“Takes her that long to choose the menu, make sure the house is clean, buy a new dress, and have the gardener in.”

Oh my God. Max was silent. Dumbfounded. Intimidated.

“Say okay, Max.”

“Okay, Max,” she answered like a parrot.

Then, quick as a snake strike, his hand curved around her nape. “Didn’t sound particularly sincere. Can’t say yes to Mom and back out at the last minute.”

“I won’t,” she said, barely above a whisper.

He pulled her forward until her nose was less than an inch from his. “Kiss me, Max.”

He smelled of musky aftershave, toothpaste, and pure animal magnetism. She was sure he’d taste better than Cookie Dough ice cream on a hot August afternoon. The idea was almost better than sex itself. But ...

“Hell, Max, work with me here.” His hand was warm against her skin, his fingers kneading the back of her neck. “At least tell me you wanna. Bad. But you’re afraid.”

She loved a challenge. But she’d never admit she was afraid, not aloud, not to him, and certainly not now. “You don’t scare me, Long.” She bit her lip. “But ...” She drew the moment out.

“But?”

“But I want to. Bad.” She looked at his lips so close, then let her gaze rise to his again. “Really bad.”

“Then just get it over with,” he whispered. “Might not be as bad as you think.”

That was the problem. She was sure it wouldn’t be bad at all.

“Just do it, Max.”

She gripped the edge of the door and focused on those lips. She couldn’t be sure whether it was his hand at her nape that pulled her in, or her own fingers tugging on the door.

She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. Her lips parted and when she finally touched hers to his, she was amazed at the softness, the sweetness.

He sighed, or maybe groaned. The taste of him overwhelmed her. Chocolate and ice cream and powdered donuts, all the sweetest, most forbidden things. She leaned in, put a hand on his shoulder and opened her mouth to his tongue. He moved against her, took her, swept her along until she wanted nothing more than to climb right back in the car.

Then he pulled away. She opened her eyes once more, surprised at the dark hue of his irises. “Why’d you stop, Detective?”

He grinned and said, “Because it’s all I can take.” His fingers slid from her neck. “For now.”

Epilogue

Witt would kill her if he knew.

Cameron surely did know and had washed his hands of her.

But a girl had to do what a girl had to do.

She pulled the Miata into Bud Traynor’s driveway, next to his Cadillac. No sneaking this time. It was late afternoon. The sun cast long shadows across his green lawn. She climbed out. Down the street, children laughed. Someone started a lawn mower for that weekend chore. She climbed his red brick steps and rang the bell.

He kept her waiting. Max didn’t ring again. She knew; somehow, he expected her.

Five minutes passed. The door opened. He wore plaid golf pants, a navy polo shirt, saddle shoes, and a cunning smile.

“Here for a little sex, Max? I do so love a good lay after a round of golf.”

Friday night she’d been in the one-down position, scared, hiding the DVD, and totally unsure of herself. Not today. She went for the jugular. “Pippa Lamont confessed to Tiffany’s murder. It’s only a matter of time until she tells them about your part in it.”

He smiled, relaxed and in control. “Pippa doesn’t even know what my part is. You should understand that, Max. Women simply can’t admit, even to themselves, when they’ve been manipulated.”

“What about Jules?”

She’d expected the name to at least crease his brow. His eyes merely sparkled with the challenge. “Jules, poor soul, was another victim of Pippa’s machinations.”

“She isn’t admitting she killed him.”

“It is, however, obvious.”

She hated him and his smugness, his indefatigable belief in his own power. “Yes, it is obvious. Why did you kill Jules?” She asked though she had little doubt there was anything to connect him. The man was beyond dirtying his own hands.

He laughed outright. “Oh, Max, you are so transparent. You’d give anything to pin
something
on me. But you’re sadly lacking in evidence.”

“I’ll get it.” Her hands fisted at her sides. She didn’t care if he saw. “I’ll spend my whole life getting it, if that’s what it takes.”

He shook his head in wonder. “Why do you care, Max? That’s what I find so fascinating. Two whores and a moron. What possible difference can their deaths make to you?”

If she’d had a gun, she’d have shot him for the monster he was. “What I find fascinating is that you can say that about your own daughter.”

“Wendy was a whore. We both know that beyond a shadow of a doubt. And you know about Tiffany. After all, you watched the DVD, didn’t you?”

That disk. The one she’d stolen and thereby destroyed all proof of his involvement. The one she’d remember for the rest of her life. The one that would always remind her of her own guilt in Jules’s death. It was that guilt that had driven her here.

“I watched.” Just the way he’d wanted her to.

“I’d say she was a whore, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d say they were whores because men like you taught them how to wield the power of sex when they were nothing more than little girls.”

“Oh please, Max. That whole child abuse thing is so politically correct these days, don’t you think? We should excuse serial killers and other murderers because of their terrible childhoods. The abuse excuse.”

“What’s
your
excuse?”

He raised a white brow. “I don’t need one. I’m very proud of what I am.”

“And I’ll be proud of bringing you down.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorjamb. “Did you ever consider that by becoming my lover, you’d be privy to all my dirty secrets?” He held out his hand.

She stared at it as if it were an alien appendage. “I’d rather fuck a dead rat.”

“You don’t give up. I admire that. It will make my eventual win so much more pleasurable.”

“And here I was thinking it was good that triumphs over evil in the end.”

He laughed again. A chill settled in her chest. “Good versus evil, is that it, my lovely little Max?” He looked at her as if he pitied her. “Haven’t you outgrown fairy tales? The truth is that a master gamesman always wins. And you aren’t even in my league. You’re like a hummingbird beating its wings against an eagle.”

“You mean a vulture.”

He gave her a heavy-lidded look, seductive, ageless, and terrifying. “I look forward to our next battle. I look forward to you in my bed.” He wagged a finger as she curled her lip in a sneer. “And you will be there, Max. In fact, I predict you’ll be begging me to take you. Despite your knight errant, Detective Long.” One side of his mouth curved in a barely perceptible, deadly smile. “By the way, does he know how close you were to letting me fuck you the other night?”

“Only in your own mind, Traynor.”

He laughed.

The man wielded words like a sword. Good versus evil. Good was supposed to win every time.

Except when it came to this man.

Max looked Bud Traynor, evil incarnate, straight in the eye and knew her nightmare visions were far from over.

###

Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving a review for this book.

Enjoy the following excerpts and meet the author!

Desperate to the Max, Book 3

Invitation to Seduction

Revenge Sex

About the Author

Desperate to the Max Excerpt

When phone sex operator Bethany Spring is murdered, the brutal slaying plunges Max into the woman’s kinky after-midnight world. Barely surviving this crash course in Phone Sex 101, Max turns once again to her late husband Cameron and hunky detective Witt Long to help her crack the case.

Needing Witt for his detecting skills is one thing, but meeting his mother is scarier than facing down a cold-blooded killer. What commitment is the irresistible detective going to extract from her next? Max almost prefers being possessed by a spirit.

Excerpt from
Desperate to the Max

Copyright 2011 Jasmine Haynes

Cover design by Rae Monet Inc

Excerpt

She luxuriated in a perfumed tub, silky water lapping at her breasts. Caressing her nipples into tight buds, she dipped beneath the surface to cup herself. The warmth of the bath, her body’s redolence, her own light touches, all drove her close to orgasm, but she held back. It wasn’t time yet. Orgasm required perfect timing to reach that ultimate pinnacle.

Drying off with a fluffy towel fresh from the wash, she blotted the droplets, then buried her face in the clean, sweet scent. The rich aroma of sesame oil tantalized her nose as she smoothed it into her skin, softening her thighs, her belly, her breasts. She imagined a man’s big hands kneading the oil into the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. A moan fell from her lips as she savored the delicious sensations. Next she dabbed her favorite cologne. At the back of her knees. The crook of her elbow. Behind her ears. The hollow of her throat. Between her ample breasts. They were her best asset, the kind that filled a man’s cupped hands, the kind a man could pillow-fuck and feel like he’d driven himself deep inside a woman.

The peach robe slipped along her arms, then caressed her shoulders like velvet. She slid her feet into forties-style mules, the boa-like feathers across the strap tickling her toes, then sat in front of the vanity for half an hour, primping, pampering, rouging her cheeks, turning her lips ripe and full with liner and red lipstick. A beauty mark at the corner of her mouth was the crowning touch.

She rose, descended the stairs, and once in her living room, lit two peach candles for scent and four votives for mood. The wine she poured was a sweet, white dessert variety which perfectly complimented the plate of succulent Belgian truffles. She allowed herself twenty; they’d have to last the whole night. She knew she could do it.

Settling on the sofa, head cradled by a satin pillow, she put on the headset and plugged it into the phone. She preferred the headset to Bluetooth because it didn’t suddenly run out of juice—so to speak—at a critical moment.

Then it was midnight. She came alive at midnight. The phone rang at twelve-o-one.

“Hello, this is Helen. What can I do for you tonight?” she purred.

“I wanna ram my cock in your mouth. Take it all, bitch.”

God, some men were so unimaginative. They went straight for the climax instead of enjoying the journey.

She moaned for him. “Oh baby, you’re so big. Give it to me. Mmmm. Come to Mamma, big boy.”

They said she had a voice that could make a man come in two seconds flat. This one climaxed in less. Or maybe his problem was premature ejaculation. She didn’t know and didn’t care. She clicked off and waited.

Another call. Another voice. Virtually the same words, once she got him going. She waited for something more, some
one
more. While there was power in listening to men groan and moan, listening to them come merely from the sound of her voice, the fantasy was missing and the feeling that they wanted her, only her, no one but her. Only one voice gave her that sense.

A sound came from the kitchen. Kitty-Kat jumping from the floor to the counter to the top of the refrigerator. She almost got up to shoo him away, but the phone rang again.

Two more calls. Short. To the point. One wanted her to be an underage teenage hitchhiker; the other pretended she was his wife whom he’d discovered in the bedroom sucking the mailman’s cock. Her body had picked up the rhythm, the hum of sex. Now she craved one particular man, one special phone call. And she waited.