Say You Love Me (17 page)

The truth dawned on his face in the ensuing silence. He knew she was right. He couldn't even argue the point.

“My family has had our share of problems,” he admitted quietly. “My brother Antwaun has been in trouble, our house was destroyed, so was the restaurant and Papa nearly lost his leg in the aftermath of the hurricane.”

He didn't mention the woman in the picture on his parents' wall. But she stood between them as if she'd physically walked into the room.

“Your family pulled together because you love each other,” Britta said.

He squeezed her arm, pleading. “That's what families are for.”

“Not all families are like that, Jean-Paul.”

“Britta, I'm sorry if you had a rough childhood.” His voice was low, gruff, reverberating with emotions. “But I'm not sorry my family is close. I see the dark side—the underbelly of violence and crime—every day. My family grounds me and keeps me from crossing to the other side.” He reached for her hand. “I know there's good in you.”

Tears nearly choked her. “The bad stuff's easier to believe.”

“Trust me,” he said softly. “I can help you find it.”

“No.” He'd only end up hurting her. And she would hurt him. It was an impossible situation.

Britta pulled away, walked to the door and gestured for him to leave. He'd condemned her earlier. Thought the worst of her, and he didn't know half of her story.

She didn't want his pity. “The woman you claim you want to see is dead, Jean-Paul. She died a long time ago so I could be born. And no one can save her or bring her back.”

Four days until Mardi Gras

S
UNDAY MORNING DAWNED
with thunderstorms mounting in the sky, the gloomy gray mirroring Britta's mood. Another woman had died last night.

Another one the killer had gotten away with.

Was Jean-Paul blaming himself? Beating his head against the wall wondering who might be next?

Hating her for letting him believe that she had been on the streets the night before?

She had almost picked up the phone a dozen times to call him and confess the truth. A longing to be part of a big happy family like Jean-Paul's had made her ache all night. Then another longing—one to comfort him.

But pride and fear had kept her home alone. Better not to open her heart and take the chance on him breaking it. Besides, it was best for him. How would it look for a hero cop to hook up with a girl who'd grown up on the streets?

Especially one who'd taken a man's life.

No, her only involvement with Jean-Paul pertained to the case.

But the feel of his touch, his lips, still lingered like a phantom lover, and she feared it might already be too late for her, that she was falling desperately in love with him.

Regardless of her personal feelings or needs, she had to help him stop this killer.

Had he sent her a picture this time? Or maybe a clue?

Dread gnawed at her stomach. She had to know.

She quickly showered and pulled on a simple black skirt and tank. Today she brewed her own coffee, poured herself a mug, then hurried downstairs. The stairwell seemed eerily dark this morning, Bourbon Street quiet after the all-night party. In four days, the big Mardi Gras finale would sweep the streets. The city would be even crazier than ever.

She prayed Jean-Paul found the swamp devil before then.

She let herself into the office, then glanced toward the mail slot on the opposite wall. A brown manila envelope lay on the floor. Perspiration beaded her neck as she examined it. No return address, no postage stamp, only her name written in bold black letters. Very neat and straight print. She wondered if the writing style had significance and tried to remember if the other package had been addressed in the same handwriting, but couldn't recall.

Jean-Paul Dubois would know.

Of course, this package might not be from the killer. But she had a bad feeling in her stomach, and she touched only one edge so as not to destroy fingerprints. Her hand trembled as she opened the clasp and removed the contents.

Another picture of a murder scene, this one just as vivid and chilling. Tears burned her eyelids, but she blinked them back. The poor girl was so young….

Just like the ones on the streets. Was she one of Shack's girls? If so, did he know she'd been missing?

The urge to run assaulted her, but she stumbled to the desk instead and sat down. Hands shaking, she unfolded the note.

Britta shuddered and collapsed deeper into the hard wooden chair. She had to call Jean-Paul and R.J. and tell them about the note.

The swamp devil might already be looking for his next victim.

And eventually he was coming for her.

* * *

T
HE KILLER WAS COMING
for Britta.

Jean-Paul's anger mounted as he reread the note. His ironclad control snapped like twigs in the wake of a violent wind. He wanted to kill the man who'd sent it.

At the same time, he wanted to drag Britta into his arms and hold her. Keep her there and never let her go.

One look into her terrified face and he did just that.

She stiffened at first, seemingly shocked by his actions, but then she lowered her head and leaned into him. A shudder tore through her. He felt it in the trembling of her delicate body.

“He's not going to hurt you,” he whispered. “You're safe.”

“I…don't want to be afraid,” she whispered. “I won't allow him to have that much control.”

Her breath hitched and he rubbed slow circles on her back. “Don't worry. I'll find him and make him pay.”

Questions assaulted him, though. How could he promise her that when two women had already died? When he'd let his own wife suffer? When he was no closer to finding the killer than he had been three days ago?

“I have to do something to stop this.” She raised her head and he read fear in her expression, but also strength. Determination.

The realization startled him. She was more upset for the other women who'd died than afraid for herself.

Emotions welled in his chest. Unwanted, but they were there. Tenderness. Desire. A longing unlike anything he'd ever known.

“Maybe I should go public, make a plea.” She clutched his arms, her voice growing more insistent. “Or I could offer to meet him somewhere. We could set him up.”

“That's crazy,” Jean-Paul growled. “Don't even think about it, Britta.”

“But I can't let him kill anyone else.” Her fingernails dug into his arms. “And he will. You read that note. He'll kill again and again, then he'll still come after me.”

“Listen to me.” He cupped her face in his hands and traced one thumb down the side of her cheek. “This is not your fault, and you're not going to do anything crazy like try to trap him. You're going to let me handle it.”

“But he won't stop,” she whispered. “You heard him, he wants me. If I offer him that—”

“Shh.” He tightened his hold on her, the thought of her putting herself in danger tearing him in two. “My brother, the FBI, we're all working the case now. Just give us time. We'll catch this psycho.” She started to pull away, but he kissed her. He had to get through to her. He couldn't lose her now.

Her lips felt warm, sensual, pliant, giving. He felt her need in the soft whimper in her throat, in the way she held on to him, in the gasp she emitted when he pulled away.

“Damon discovered this guy may have killed before,” he whispered. “In at least two other cities. Savannah, Georgia and Nashville, Tennessee. All his vics were prostitutes.” He had to make her see his point. Didn't want her blaming herself. He'd done enough of that for both of them. “We'll request their evidence, compare notes. Damon's having his guys look at the handwriting samples now. I will catch him.”

Her body tensed, but she finally relented and allowed him to pull her into his arms again. He cradled her against him and savored holding her. Last night he'd barely slept for thinking about Britta. For wondering about her past. Her secrets. The other men in her life.

Her lies.

Images of another man lying naked with her had driven him from bed, so he'd hiked to the edge of the bayou and listened to the animals in the swamp, hoping the noises would obliterate the sultry sound of her voice in his head. The softness of her skin. The touch of her lips on his. The heady feel of her body against his hardness.

The fact that he'd torn himself away earlier when he'd wanted nothing more than to drag her to bed and make her his.

The fact that she was alone, had been so starved for a family that she'd taken a dead woman's name, made his heart clench.

He'd failed with Lucinda even before she'd died. But Lucinda had nothing to do with today.

Or his feelings for Britta. The past was over. He couldn't change it or go back.

Britta was here now.

He'd always followed the letter of the law. Had lived by it all his life. Had even left his wife alone so he could stand up for what was right.

And they'd called him a hero.

Yet he hadn't been a hero in his wife's eyes. Because the law had been all that mattered.

What would he do if he had to choose this time—between what was right and Britta?

* * *

B
RITTA'S FRIGHTENED VOICE
echoed in R.J.'s head. She'd received another note, more photos and was terrified. She needed him. This was finally his chance.

He couldn't wait to get to her.

Traffic was nonexistent, allowing him to make it to the office within minutes of her call. He rushed inside, his pulse pounding. He could already feel her in his arms.

But Jean-Paul Dubois had beaten him at his own game.

Son of a bitch.

He cleared his throat. Vowed to get rid of Dubois some way.

The two jerked apart. Dubois's eyes speared him. Britta's glittered with pain. R.J.'s blood heated with desire.

“I came as fast as I could.”

She gave Dubois an odd, almost intimate look, then sank onto one of the chairs. “I…was rattled. The note…the killer hasn't finished yet.”

Dubois folded his arms and glared at R.J., who knew what was coming. An inquisition.

“We found the woman's body last night,” Dubois said in a gruff voice.

R.J.'s mind quickly sorted through his alibi for the previous evening. The woman tied to his bed. The blood on his hands. The sound of her cries.

Would she stand up for him if he needed it? Or would she let him fry?

* * *

B
RITTA STUDIED
R.J.'s reaction. He looked as if he hadn't slept the night before. Scratches marred his hands. She could see a fresh claw mark on his chest where his shirt lay open. And he smelled of sex and sweat.

She'd trusted R.J. Had worked for him for months. Could he possibly be a killer and she not realize it?

Her mind raced with possibilities. Had she known him from her past? If so, how? Where?

She glanced at Jean-Paul and tension thickened between them. His professional mask clicked back in place.

He had a job to do. And she was part of that case.

And so was R.J. He shot her a look of disdain as if by being in Jean-Paul's arms, she had cheated on him.

R.J. would accept her as she was; somehow she knew that.

So why did her body still yearn for the impossible—for Jean-Paul Dubois?

R.J. scribbled a woman's name on a note pad. “I was with Lena last night. We met at the Lover's Lair.”

“The S and M club?” Jean-Paul asked. R.J. nodded. “I'm sure she'll vouch for me.”

Jean-Paul frowned, but accepted the information, then turned to Britta. “I'll run the killer's note and the photos by the precinct for trace. Maybe the handwriting or paper will tell us something.”

She nodded.

“Stay here, Britta.” His eyes implored her to obey. “You're not going out alone.”

“Don't worry about me,” Britta said. “He's not coming after me on Sunday afternoon, not in the broad daylight.”

“You can't be certain of that. After all, we don't know exactly how long he kept the girls, when he abducted them.” Jean-Paul's mouth tightened. “Although he most likely picks them up on the streets at night.”

His silent warning echoed in her ears. She should stay home tonight.

“If you think of anything that might help, or if he phones you again, call me.” Jean-Paul sent R.J. an intimidating look, then turned back to her. “Remember, keep him on the line so we can trace his location.”

She nodded.

“After the task force meeting, I'll come back and you can stay with me the rest of the day.”

Go to his family dinner? She didn't think so. “Jean-Paul, I can't—”

“I'll play bodyguard,” R.J. said, angling a sideways grin her way. “In fact, we might take a trip over to that wax museum. There's an interesting display. That would make a good story for the magazine.”

Jean-Paul moved forward as if hoping she'd disagree with her boss, but she'd already leaned on Jean-Paul too much today. And she had her own plans, ones that didn't involve either man. “Go on, Jean-Paul. Conduct your investigation. Visit your parents. I have plenty of work to do myself right here.”

“I'll call you later.” He hesitated as if he meant to say more, then glanced back at R.J. and his jaw went rigid. He turned and strode out the door.

She had the vaguest feeling she'd just made a mistake by declining Jean-Paul's request to dine with his family. But if they knew her identity, about her past, they wouldn't want her at their house.

Her heart swelled with desire for Jean-Paul anyway. She wanted to be with him. But pipe dreams didn't come true for girls like her. She'd visit her own family today just as she did every other Sunday.