Heather Graham (13 page)

“Mark,” he said, stretching out a hand.

“Gregory, Cynthia, good evening.”

Ann’s head snapped around. Lieutenant Mark LaCrosse was standing right behind her.

He hadn’t come through the front just now, had he? She didn’t know where he’d been, only that he was suddenly there. At her side.

“Mrs. Marcel,” he greeted her, silver-gray eyes as sharp as knives, his voice thick with repressed aggravation. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in his book. And she suddenly felt as guilty as a school child.

She had a right to go anywhere she wanted! She wasn’t up on murder charges.

“Lieutenant,” she replied as coolly as she could manage. But of course, he was staring at her with those eagle eyes. Piercing through her with them, making her tremble inside, shake outside. She reached blindly for her beer, finished it in a swallow.

“How are things going, Mark?” Gregory asked.

Gregory was calling him by his first name; they obviously knew one another. Fairly well. Mark knew Cindy, too. Of course, he’d probably had to question people here already.

Perhaps he came here as well. As a customer.

Frequently.

“Things are—just going,” Mark said. He glanced at Cindy. “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m fine.”

“Be careful,” he told her.

She shrugged, then glanced at Ann uneasily. “I understand you feel that you have the killer in the hospital.”

“Maybe. And maybe Mrs. Marcel, who is surely here to delve her nose where it shouldn’t be, is right. Maybe someone else is walking around out there in the shadows with a long knife—ready to strike. You be careful.”

“Thanks, Mark, for the concern,” Cindy said. The words were sincere.

“I won’t let her head out alone,” Gregory promised.

“Mrs. Marcel?” Mark LaCrosse said. She stared at him. She felt again that strange trembling.

As if she were an errant school girl, caught with her hand in the cookie jar. She felt flushed and uncomfortable, as if she had done something wrong.

Maybe there was more to it than that. This place might be filled with erotic dancers, but it definitely had its share of exotic men as well. Gregory, like an ebony god; Duval, the striking best of two races; and Jacques Moret, handsome almost to the point of beauty. Yet, somehow, Mark LaCrosse seemed to make all those around him pale in comparison. There was something rock hard, masculine, virile and real about him. Something in his attitude, in the way he stood. He was a handsome man, but craggy. Character was worn into his face, blending with his well-cast, strong features. His eyes were the most unique she had ever known, capable of looks that spoke volumes, that seemed to rip right into the soul, and demand answers.

“I think we should go, Mrs. Marcel,” he said.

She smiled, and spoke in a low, soft purr. “I didn’t remember that we had come together, Lieutenant.”

“Maybe we didn’t. We should leave together,” he replied.

“It is getting quite late,” Cindy said. “Mrs. Marcel, it was great meeting you. Gregory, I’ll take you up on seeing me home. You’ve got another set; I’ll just wait in the dressing room.”

“I should be getting back to the stage,” Gregory said.

Ann realized that both he and Cindy were doing their best to leave her at the mercy of Lieutenant LaCrosse.

“Wait—”

“Shall we go, Mrs. Marcel?”

His hand was on her elbow; she was being propelled off the bar stool. His grip was firm. Before she knew it, she was being led toward the door.

“You’ve no right to do this—”

“Do you want to be in danger, Mrs. Marcel?” he demanded.

“How can I be in danger as far as you see things, Lieutenant? Jon is in a coma, no danger to anyone.”

“You’re out to prove me wrong, right?”

“You bet.”

“Then you’re an idiot, digging into this place and playing with fire if someone else is the murderer. Now come on, I want to get you out of here!”

She gritted her teeth, fully aware that she was either going to have to go with him, or have a screaming fight at the entryway to the place. She didn’t want that; she didn’t want to be obvious or obnoxious.

Gregory! she thought suddenly. He’d offered to take her to Mama Lili Mae’s. She had to get out to the bayou and find out what Gina L’Aveau had been discussing with the woman on the day that she had died.

“Wait—”

“We’re leaving!” he insisted firmly, eyes now a smoldering gray.

“Fine, fine, we’ll leave. It’s just that Gregory bought me a drink; I want to say thanks.”

She managed to flee his hold, hurrying to Gregory, who was already walking back to the musicians’ dais. “Gregory!”

He stopped, turning back to her, catching her with firm hands when she would have slammed right into him.

“Thanks for the drink. When do I meet you to go out to the bayou and visit Mama Lili Mae?” she said in a single swift breath.

He glanced over her shoulder to Mark.

“I shouldn’t—”

“Please!”

“But you could put yourself in danger—”

“You’ll be with me.”

“I—”

“Gregory, help me. Help Jon, and help me get real justice for Gina, please.”

He glanced over her shoulder again. She turned her head quickly. Mark was coming toward her with his typical, determined long strides.

“Gina’s funeral is tomorrow morning. Meet me after. Here. Outside the club. I have a black Buick sedan.”

“I’ll be here,” she promised in a whisper.

Even as she did so, she felt a hand fall upon her shoulder. Strong, firm. Determined. “Mrs. Marcel, let’s go. Gregory, good night.”

“Night, Mark. Don’t forget, anything at all that I can do to help—”

“Thanks, Gregory.”

If they were back just a few thousand years, Ann thought, he’d hit her over her head and drag her out by the hair. As it was, he now thrust her in front of him and all but pushed her out of the club.

He didn’t leave off as they left the club, but continued to propel her toward his car.

“Maybe I want to walk—”

“Fool!” he exploded.

“For being there—”

“Yes!”

“You were there.”

“I’m a cop! You’re just asking to put your own throat out there on the line.”

She spun on him. “How could I be in danger if your killer is in the hospital?” she nearly shrieked.

He stood still in front of her, hands on his hips, staring at her. He started to speak; he went silent. “There’s been another murder,” he said.

Ann gasped, staring at him. “Of a—of a stripper? Does that make Jon definitely innocent?”

He shook his head. “The victim is a Jane Doe. Found naked in the Mississippi.”

“But—”

“She was strangled.”

“So—”

“So the murders are most probably unrelated. Hell, I wish murder was a unique thing here in New Orleans. It isn’t. We don’t know who she is. We don’t know that she is a stripper, but then...we don’t know that she isn’t.”

“Then why—why would I suddenly be in danger.”

He shook his head, looking down for a minute.

“Why?”

“Cop’s intuition.”

“What? You can’t push me around because of a cop’s intuition!”

“Yes, I can.”

“No—”

“Let’s get out of here, shall we?”

“Now, wait a minute!” Ann persisted.

But he wasn’t waiting. She found herself prodded and folded into his car.

And he was beside her. Jaw set. Eyes on the road. She was furious. She was shaking.

He was irritating beyond measure.

He smelled too pleasantly and subtly of a woodsy aftershave. She wanted to hit him; shake him.

She wanted to set her hand upon his shoulder, feel the texture of his jacket...

Feel the warmth of his flesh and bone and muscle and body beneath.

S
HE DIDN’T ASK HIM
if he’d like to come up; it didn’t seem to matter. It was a very short drive from the club to her house, and when the car was barely parked he was out of it and around to the passenger’s seat to let her out. She was suddenly swept into the main street entrance of the house, soaring past the door to the shop on the first floor and flying up the stairs to the second-floor apartment.

“Well, thank you, Lieutenant,” she seethed, digging for her key, slipping it into the lock. “It wasn’t necessary for you to see me home, but—”

The door was open; she was propelled inside. He was inside, and the door was closed behind him.

“What qualifies you to dig into this case?” he demanded.

“I don’t need ‘qualifications’ to go to a club for a drink, Lieutenant,” she returned, barely keeping her temper in check. She tossed her purse down on a chair and walked to the sofa, sitting.

It was a mistake. He followed. And towered over her.

“There are clubs all over New Orleans!”

“I heard that that particular club had the best jazz.”

She wasn’t sitting anymore. He’d reached for her, drawn her to her feet.

“Crime is bad enough for the police without the need to make someone babysit you.”

She tried to wrench her arms free from his grasp; he was staring into her eyes and seemed unaware that she was making any effort at all.

“You don’t need to babysit me—”

“I don’t need for you to get yourself killed, Ann.”

“I won’t—” She struggled for a moment, searching for something to say. Had he called her Ann before? She didn’t think so. There was suddenly something she was taking as ridiculously personal about the way he had used her given name.

“I—I won’t get killed,” she said. She cleared her throat. “I—”

This man was obnoxious. He was trying to fry Jon. He was authoritative, pig-headed and extremely annoying. A bully. She should call someone about police brutality.

Yet she was suddenly at a loss for words. She wanted to shout out that he had no right to be in her home, had no right to hold her the way that he was holding her. But she liked him in her home; oh, God, she liked the feel of him holding her, liked the scent of him, the nearness of him, the look of his shaven cheek, the texture of his jacket against her, the way that his gaze pierced into her and seemed to warm and heat her. Her mouth was suddenly dry; she couldn’t swallow, couldn’t think. Oh, God, he’d made her feel like a school girl again. Trying to play with the big boys. And oh, sweet Jesus, but that was just the problem; she wanted to play. She barely knew him, and she wanted to touch him, wanted to be touched by him in return. He wasn’t just a handsome man whom she could look at and admire with an artist’s eye. She wanted to touch. And feel.

It was the club. Duval had been right. It stirred the blood, scintillated, titillated, seduced. Her life had simply been too pure since she’d gotten divorced; a date here and there, friendships, fun evenings...but nothing like this. Nothing like this awful urge to reach out and rip the clothing off a near stranger and feel him, his chest against her own, his hands...those clean-shaven cheeks against her flesh.

“The club is dangerous! Something can happen to you.”

She was watching his lips move. He had a great mouth. Generous. Sensual. His hands still gripped her arms. She was closer to him as he made his point. She inhaled him with each breath, and with each breath she felt absurdly weaker; the tremors within her seemed to race more hotly.

“You need to—get out,” she whispered.

“You’re not listening to me.”

“I am. You think that the club is dangerous, and that I should stay away from it.”

“What were you doing there?” A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead. His features were so intense. She felt the emotion in him making the muscles in his arms as taut as wire.

“Jon’s paintings...,” she said vaguely.

“Paintings? You little fool—”

“Then Jon can’t be guilty!”

“Whether Jon is or isn’t guilty, there are undercurrents in that damned place, don’t you realize it? The streets are dangerous, Ann, and you damned well know it. I’m telling you that you—”

He broke off. He was staring at her. She was closer, closer. Watching his mouth.

Suddenly, amazingly, almost savagely, it was on her own.

His hands...

Were moving.

His mouth encompassed hers, seared with passion and fury, invaded. She felt his tongue, hot against her lips, past her teeth, deep. So deep that it seemed to steal her strength, that it seemed a far more intimate touch than a kiss alone. So deep that it ignited fires in her, fanned them, urged them to greater heat, sent them searing throughout her. His hand cupped her cheek, fingers stroked her throat, then encompassed and cradled, teased and tormented her breasts over the sheer fabric of her black gown. His kiss...the depth of it swept into her like a jagged streak of lightning, making her tremble, making her shake and sear to the very intimate insides of her, throughout her limbs, down to her sex, causing her to burn...

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the onslaught ended. His mouth was parted from hers, just a breath. “Oh, God,” he groaned.

Then his hold eased, and suddenly she was sitting again. He had brought her down to the sofa; maybe he had known that she would fall if he did not.

He placed her hands in her lap. Eyes still dark with passion, features far more tense than she had seen them yet, rich auburn hair tousled and mussed, he stared at her. “Dammit!” He opened his mouth to say more, but stood instead. “Shit!” he swore violently. “Shit!” He paced to the door, running his fingers through his hair. He pointed a finger at her. “Stay away from the damned club!”

And he slammed his way out of her house.

Gregory walked Cindy the few blocks to her small apartment.

“She’s going to keep coming back, you know,” Cindy told Gregory worriedly.

“She thinks the cops have framed the wrong man.”

Cindy shook her head. “I’m afraid for her. If she is right, she’ll start pushing the wrong buttons.”

“The club is open to the public, and this is America; she’s going to keep coming back.”

“But seriously, Gregory, do you think you should be taking her to see Mama Lili Mae?”

“Might as well. She’ll get out there herself if I don’t.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Cindy agreed. “It’s just that...”

“It’s just that what?” Gregory demanded.