Heather Graham (21 page)

“Umm.” She arched a wry brow to him. “It seeps into the breasts and sags them as well.”

He shook his head, laughing again. “Personally, I like yours right where they are. On the chest. They’re actually great boobs. Even my partner said so.”

“Did he?”

He nodded, fondling one of the mounds in question. “He pointed out the assets of your butt as well.”

“Very professional.”

Mark shrugged. “At least he only commented. His was an artistic appreciation. I admit to having been blinded; I saw you as rather tiny at first.”

“I’m still tiny.”

“God, but great things do come in small packages.”

“You really think that?”

“I do.” He studied her more intently, touched by her uncertainty. “Just how old are you, Ann Marcel?”

“Forty-five.”

“Ah.”

“Does it matter?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have given a damn if you were any age at all. Well, that’s not true; I wouldn’t want you to be too young.”

“That’s a relief.”

“I’m not a spring chicken myself.”

“I don’t know. You’re one hell of a rooster.”

“Red-hot Cajun?” he teased.

She nodded solemnly.

He took her face between both hands. “I love the way you look; you’re a beautiful woman now, you were probably beautiful twenty years ago, and you’ll be beautiful twenty years from now. Your heart is beautiful; it shows in the way you care about people. It shows in your passion and care for others, in your simple courtesy, in your art, in your movement. I haven’t felt as good as I feel at this moment just holding you since...”

She moistened her lips. “Since your wife died?”

“Since before,” he admitted. “She was sick, you see, for a while. I knew that she was going to die. The last days were precious; they were also agony.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“The agony was worth it; I loved her.”

She nodded, understanding what he had said, not needing to say anything further on the matter.

He laced his fingers behind his head, the better to study her.

“I’ve been with a number of women since,” he told her.

“Men are like that.”

“Like what?”

She grinned. “I saw it on a television talk show. Men just need to be near women to want them; women need emotion to want men.”

He grunted. “I’m not so sure that’s always true.”

“Does that mean that this was more than sex?”

She was teasing him, he thought. Yet perhaps it went a little deeper than that.

“What was it to you, Ann Marcel?”

She straddled him, watching his face, thinking over the question. She drew a line over his chest.

“You are quite an appealing male. Devastatingly handsome in all the right, mature ways. Broad, muscular chest, wonderful spattering of silver in the rich, masculine growth of hair upon it.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve got great eyes. Just like a pair of knives.”

“Umm. Somehow, that didn’t sound terribly romantic.”

“You’re right. It didn’t come out quite as it should have. You have the ability to look at someone and...and see into them. And kind of strip them in a way. It can be extremely annoying, of course. And then again, well, it can be terribly sexy.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded solemnly.

“Go on. Keep talking.”

“You’ve a great voice. Husky, deep, rich. Gets beneath the skin. It can cause hot, shivery sensations inside the bloodstream.”

“Great.”

“Then there’s the way you kiss.”

“Yeah?”

“Woah.”

“Woah?”

“Sooo...intimate,” she explained.

“That’s good, I hope?”

She nodded again. “And by the way...”

“Yes?”

“You’ve actually got a great butt yourself.”

“God, am I glad you approve.”

She smiled.

“So, tell me,” he demanded. “Is it just sex with you?”

She leaned against him. “You are trying to fry a very good friend of mine.”

“Ah, the old ex-husband.”

She nodded. “It shouldn’t even be sex,” she told him primly.

“But desire was overwhelming?”

“Something like that,” she admitted dryly.

“My butt was just too damned good.”

“Yes, well, then you got into it...and there was a lot that was just too damned good.”

Her voice was low, honest, husky, sincere. It caused some of those hot shivers she’d been talking about to leap into his bloodstream and more.

“I think I’d like to test a little more gravity,” he told her suddenly.

She was tiny.

Compact.

But so damned perfectly tiny and compact. She was easy to flip. She was on her back in seconds, and he was on top of her. And the words he used to describe just how fine he found her breasts to be were muffled by the fact that he lathed them again with his lips, teeth, and tongue as he spoke, feeling his own arousal grow as her nipples puckered and hardened to the play of his mouth. The sweet, natural scent of her was mingled with soap from the shower and the musk of their previous lovemaking, awakening his primal senses once again. He moved against her body, bathing her with his tongue, kissing, licking, caressing, giving, demanding...

This time, when it was over, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, amazed that he could feel it only got better and better.

He pulled her against him once again.

“So is it only sex?”

“The sex is awfully good.”

“Is it only sex?”

“Did I just tell you that women needed the emotion?”

“You told me that a television show said that women needed the emotion.”

She laughed. Then she spoke seriously. “You’re quite incredible, Mark LaCrosse. Half the time, I wish that I were really huge, a prizefighter, and that I could beat you to shreds.”

“Hmm. That doesn’t sound very good.”

“But maybe not quite so bad. You arouse incredible emotion—be it anger, or something else. And I admire you, I like you. I like your honesty, and even your persistence.” She grinned. “I like your personal struggles; I like your outlook on life.”

“I’m glad.”

“So, I’ve poured half my heart out. What about you?”

“It’s just the sex.”

“What?” she demanded indignantly.

“Just the sex.”

He laughed. She moved to strike him; he caught her hand. He drew her to him, kissing her lips, then whispering against them. “I wish it was just the damned sex. I wish you weren’t beneath my skin; I wish I wasn’t worried sick about you.”

She smiled, easing against him. “There’s no reason to worry about me.”

“Yeah, I find you running around in the worst storm in years in the middle of the swamp, and I shouldn’t worry about you.”

“What were you doing in the swamp?”

“I came to find you.”

“Why?”

“I was worried.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, intuition.” He hesitated, realizing that he still hadn’t told her about Jane Doe. “You know that another woman was found dead, right?”

She nodded, frowning. “Strangled?”

“With a nylon stocking.”

“So, could the two killings be related? I thought that serial killers had to have some kind of a pattern, that they kill because their twisted needs were fulfilled in some way by the very method of their killing?”

“This wouldn’t necessarily fall into serial killings,” he told her. He rolled over. “Way back when I just started in police work, the killings we investigated were usually personal. Jealousy was a motive, greed was a motive. The world has changed; we do have more and more crime that is carried out by bizarre people against total strangers to fulfill those warped needs you’re talking about. But I’m convinced that Gina’s killing was personal.”

“You’re back to Jon—”

He lifted a hand. “I’m not.”

“You’ve decided he’s innocent—”

“No. I’m just not as convinced of his guilt as I was.”

“Why?”

“Jane Doe,” he told her.

“You’ve found out about her?”

“We know that she was in the club the night that she died.”

“Oh, my God! She was another of the dancers?” Ann said with horror.

“No, she didn’t work at the club. She was just there, in Annabella’s that night. Several of the staff saw her. The only problem is, no one knows who she came with, if she came alone, or who she left with.”

“That doesn’t help a lot.”

“We’ll have her identity soon; in this day and age of computers, there are certain things the police can do quickly.”

“The cases could still be unrelated,” Ann mused.

“They could be. Jon Marcel could have stabbed Gina; a nut case in the club could have followed Jane Doe.”

“Maybe Jon will come out of his coma soon.”

“Maybe. And when he does, we’ll have to pray that he can help us—without convicting himself.”

“He has to know something.”

“We can only hope,” Mark agreed.

She laid her head down against him, shivering. He tightened his arms around her.

“Mark?”

“Yes?”

She hesitated. “Mark, when I was with Jon in the hospital the night Gina was murdered, he did actually say something to me before he became unconscious.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“You’re a terrible liar. I knew that he had said something the minute you said that he hadn’t.”

“Really.”

“Yes.” He was quiet a minute. “Well, did you bring that up because you’re willing to share now?” he queried.

“Yes.”

“Well? What did he say?”

“I thought that he recognized me. That he was clinging to me, that he was trying to say my name.”

“But that’s not what he was saying.”

He felt her shaking her head no against his chest. “He said, ‘Annabella’s.’ As I did tell you, when he fell into my doorway, he kept saying that he hadn’t done it. And then, in the hospital room, he said the name of the club.”

“So that’s why you went to the club?”

“The murderer is connected with the club.”

Mark hesitated. It hadn’t been a shocking revelation. But if Marcel was innocent...

And all right, so maybe it was starting to look a little bit as if the guy didn’t do it.

Annabella’s.

He pulled her more tightly against him. “You get your nose out of everything going on with this, do you understand?”

She didn’t reply.

He tugged on her hair, drawing her head back so that she was forced to meet his eyes.

“I want you to keep your nose out of this case.”

“Fine.”

She was lying. She had no intention of listening to him.

“This really could get very dangerous.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You don’t see anything. You were running around out here in the swamp—”

“I came to see an old woman just to ask her a few questions. I didn’t come alone—”

“But you wound up alone.”

She sighed.

“Ann, I mean it. You stay out of this case.”

“I said, fine!”

“Damn it!” She was making him angry again. Hell. And getting angry again did something to him. Physically. He wanted her again.

Two things could happen: They could leave this cabin and, in the days to come, form a real relationship.

Then again, they could leave this cabin, and the world could fall apart on them.

“One more time, Ann. I mean it! Stay out of this case!”

She opened her mouth to protest. He kissed her, determined that she wasn’t going to tell him another lie. It was going to be dawn soon.

And he was going to make love to her one more time before the light of day came to start the world rolling on them once again.

Mark could feel the growing light and warmth of the sun as some sense of danger woke him. His eyes flew open. There was someone...

Someone outside the cabin.

He rose, carefully, silently, reached for the flannel shirt he had pulled from the closet last night, and slipped it on. He backed to the closet, listening, found a pair of jeans, and slipped into them.

Footsteps. Furtive. Slow.

Foliage rustled, just slightly.

He had set his service revolver in the closet before heading out for the shower. He reached for it, still listening, weighing every quiet footfall.

Every rustle of each little leaf...

He walked across the cabin floor on his bare feet.

Silent...

He waited.

The door burst open.

He jumped forward, his gun at the ready in both hands. “Freeze!” he cried. Then, “Son of a bitch! You!”

I
T WAS EARLY. APRIL
didn’t know why she was coming into the club so early herself, except that Marty, who choreographed many of the numbers done by two or more of the dancers, needed to come in to work out a few steps in his mind on the stage. Normally, she would have stayed home being a mom; today, her sister was available, and she felt the need to stay close to Marty.

She sat at the bar, drinking coffee. She hadn’t said anything to Marty about the awful feeling she’d had coming home the other night, when she’d been so certain she was being followed. When she’d felt eyes...

Watching her.

But she was unnerved, and her husband knew it. Now, of course, he was unnerved, too.

Because that woman had been here, in the club, before she’d been murdered.

Gina had been murdered.

And now a stranger had been murdered.

Life had gotten so scary. And the newspapers didn’t help. There had been a few articles hinting that women who frequented clubs deserved to be murdered. That made her feel so indignant she was tempted to write and demand to know if poor innocent college girls deserved to be murdered for being young and wearing bikinis to beaches. Maybe she would write a letter to the editor. Soon.

Not now.

She was too unnerved.

With her life; with everyone in it. She had thought Harry Duval okay as a boss. Now, she didn’t know. She hadn’t been close to him, but others had. He’d treated her decently, he didn’t beat anybody, but still...

She had thought that their customers were, for the most part, okay. Now, she didn’t know.

April was startled when Cindy suddenly crawled up on the stool next to hers, reaching over for the coffeepot.

“Cindy!”

Cindy was ghastly pale, exhausted-looking. “What are you doing here at this hour?”