Say You Love Me (2 page)

His cell phone trilled and he checked the number. His superior, Lieutenant Phelps. He connected the call, his gaze catching sight of his partner combing the wooden dock.

“Lieutenant, what is it?” Jean-Paul asked.

“We just got a call I need you to check out.”

“Do we have a lead already?”

“Maybe. You know that erotica magazine,
Naked Desires?
”

He grimaced. His sisters had mentioned it at one of their family gatherings. Apparently
they
thought some of the letters were titillating. “I don't exactly subscribe to it.”

Phelps chuckled. “I wouldn't expect my pride-and-joy officer to.”

Jean-Paul grimaced. He hated all the hype he'd received after the hurricane. Just because he'd stuck to his post, done his job and saved a few people, he'd received a damn commendation. Big deal. He'd lost his wife….

“So what is it?” he asked.

“Britta Berger, the editor of the Secret Confessions column called and said she had something we needed to see.”

“Now?” Jean-Paul tapped his boot impatiently. “What is it, some letter that freaked her out?”

“Apparently it's a photograph, not a letter,” Phelps said in a serious tone.

“But doesn't this case take priority?” Jean-Paul asked.

“It is about this case,” Phelps said, deadpan. “According to her description, she received a photograph of a crime.”

“What crime?”

“A murder,” Phelps said. “One that sounds suspiciously like the one you're investigating.”

* * *

H
E STOOD OUTSIDE
the door to Naked Desires, the urge to go in making him shake with need. The moment he'd seen her photograph in that magazine, he'd recognized her.

His Adrianna.

How ironic to finally have found her here in the city. So close to where he had first met her. So close to where everything had gone wrong.

What was she doing now? Studying the photograph he'd sent her? Staring in horror at the woman's vile, bloodless eyes? Wondering why he had sent her the message?

Adrenaline churned through his blood, heating his body.

He had to see her. Touch her. Watch the realization dawn in her eyes….

No. Not yet.

He'd waited years for this moment. Had searched in every face and town he'd visited. Had combed the edges of the bayou—hunting, hoping, yearning, praying she had survived.

So he could kill her.

Laughter bubbled in his chest. And now the moment was so near, his vengeance almost within reach. Yet he had to draw it out. Earn his redemption. Save the other sinners. Make them pay.

And make Adrianna watch them suffer.

With each one, she would feel him breathing down her neck. Coming closer. Know the pain of having death upon her conscience.

Just as he lived with his father's death upon his.

God made the world in seven days and nights. Seven days and nights
he
had been tortured after she took his father's life.

Seven more days until Mardi Gras.

Each day until then, a celebration.

Each day until then, a time to torture.

And on the seventh day, when Mardi Gras reached its grand finale, he would find salvation. He couldn't wait to see the shock in her eyes when she realized that she had never escaped at all. That she had to pay for her sins.

And that she had to die because he loved her.

T
HE DEAD
WOMAN'S
eyes haunted Britta.

She tried to tamp her nerves as the
publisher of
Naked Desires
, R. J.
Justice, paced his office. He'd been cursing ever since she'd shown him the
photo. Of course her insides were knotted. The
last
thing she wanted to do was talk to the
cops.

In fact, she
had held on to the picture all day hoping to convince herself the note and
picture had been a joke, but finally her conscience had worn her down. She
hadn't been able to justify not showing R.J. the photograph.

Not even to save her own
skin.

Hopefully, it
wouldn't come down to that. This was an isolated incident. The police would
investigate.

And she
wouldn't have to be involved or divulge her secrets.

“I know you're shaken, Britta,” R.J.
muttered.

“I'll be
fine. After all, this is probably a false alarm. We aren't positive the
woman is really dead. The photographer could have staged the scene to look
like a murder. For shock value.”

“True. But he had to know we'd check it out before
we printed it.”

Britta shrugged and rubbed at her temple, appalled that R.J. would
consider showcasing such violence in their magazine. “Who knows what drives
people. Maybe he's a photographer and wants to impress us so he can land a
job here.” Or maybe he meant for her to call the police because he wanted
public recognition.

R.J. stopped pacing, his tall lanky frame silhouetted in the window,
his laser eyes piercing her as if contemplating the possibility. Outside,
gray clouds cast shadows across the office, making the room seem even
smaller and more claustrophobic. Zydeco music pounded the air, the shouts of
partiers from the street below echoed through the dirt-streaked window.
Crowds of tourists still cheered and talked about the parade. Although it
was early evening, tourists had already dipped into the happy-hour specials
with tequila and pitchers of beer and were filing into the strip joints for
their first peep show of the night.

“I have to meet with our legal team. Do you think
you can handle the police?” R.J. asked.

Britta clenched her hands together.
“Sure.”

For a moment,
R.J. reached for her. Twice when they'd discussed her column, debating over
which submissions to print and which ones were too graphic, R.J. had hinted
at wanting a personal relationship with her. Hinted that he'd like to share
his secret sexual fantasies with her.

She backed toward the door. R.J. was barely
thirty, only a few years older than her and was well-dressed in his Armani
suits. Attractive. Single. Sexy. Mysterious.

But dangerous.

The collection of gargoyles on his bookshelf made
her uneasy. And he had dozens of nude sketchings on his walls—all macabre
with scenes of violence—along with an S and M calendar and bronze sculptures
of mutant creatures—part human, part animal.

Some men had dark sides. R.J. was one of them.
She'd witnessed his charm and ability to seduce a woman. Then his volatile
temper.

His
fantasies teetered on the narcissistic side.

And she didn't want to be any part of
them.

* * *

T
HE HEAT FROM
the New Orleans air simmered
with sexuality and smelled of raw body sweat that only heightened R.J.'s
lustful thoughts. The magic of Mardi Gras fed his addiction to the night
life and celebration of man's greatest pleasure—the physical coupling of man
and woman.

He wanted
Britta. He had wanted her for a long damn time.

But she wasn't ready—yet.

In fact, if she knew the gritty
cravings in his mind, she would run a million miles away.

She might even suspect that he'd sent
that lurid photograph.

A soft laugh escaped him. But she couldn't run forever. One day she'd
see that the two of them were meant to be together. That he had built this
magazine with her in mind. That each day as he walked the streets of the
French Quarter, he imagined seducing her in his office, ripping off her
clothes and taking her on his desk. Each night he fell asleep with fantasies
of her on top of him, her legs spread wide on his bed, taking his aching
length into her warm body. With her tied to the post, the black leather
squeaking as she shifted, the whip in his hand, passionate cries floating
from her lips. And then vice versa.

His cock swelled, throbbing like hell. He intended
to unleash Britta's darkest desires. And she had desires…even though she
refused to admit them.

Her terror over the photo might be his ticket to win her trust. She
needed comfort. Protection.

And he'd open his arms and watch her fall right
into them.

* * *

D
ESPERATE TO ESCAPE
R.J., Britta raced
away, but her breath caught at the sight of the hulking man in her office.
Neon lights twirled and blinked intermittently, painting a kaleidoscope of
colors across his angular face as he stared out the window overlooking
Bourbon Street. A mixture of blues, jazz and gospel music engulfed her, its
pounding mirroring her beating heart.

Who was he? The man who'd sent her the
picture?

As if he
sensed her presence without even facing her, he murmured her name. “Miss
Berger?”

He knew
she'd been watching him. “Yes?”

He slowly turned toward her, his intimidating
stance personified by his huge masculine body. “Detective Jean-Paul
Dubois.”

She inhaled
sharply as recognition dawned. His picture had been plastered all over the
paper. That reporter Mazie Burgess had written a half-dozen hero-worshipping
pieces on him. Apparently, Jean-Paul Dubois had risked his life to save
hundreds after the latest hurricane disaster.

He was also a hard-ass when it came to the
law.

Fear tightened
her chest as she scrutinized him for signs that he wouldn't pry too deeply
into her life. That he'd accept what she gave him and ask for nothing
else.

But the steely
expression in his eyes told her not to count on it. His masculine body
screamed Cajun and his raw sexuality hit her in the pit of her stomach. He
was rugged, much bigger than he'd looked in the newspaper, probably at least
six-four. Tough. Not afraid to fight. His hands were broad, scarred, as if
he'd wrestled alligators in the swamp and survived.

If he'd grown up in the bayou, then
he probably had.

His
razor-sharp eyes looked almost black in the dim light. A five o'clock shadow
already grazed his angular jaw and his masculine scent triggered wicked
fantasies of her own. Naked, he would look like an ancient Roman
god.

“You phoned?” he
asked in a deep baritone.

She nodded, searching for her voice and professional
manner.

He glanced at
the current magazine cover on her bulletin board, a half-nude couple donning
elaborate Mardi Gras masks with black and red feather boas as their only
clothing. She silently reminded herself she didn't have to be ashamed of her
job or her affiliation with the magazine, either. Besides, it was a cover.
“Yes, Detective. Please sit down.”

His gaze slid over her, then lingered a moment too
long on her breasts and a disapproving flicker followed. She cleared her
throat, irritated at herself for letting it bother her. What did she care if
the man found her sexually lacking? She'd never indulge her fantasies or
pursue a relationship with a cop.

Recovering quickly, she claimed her office chair
and waited until he settled into the wingback opposite her. “I don't know if
this is important or not. It may be a prank, someone wanting to shock me.
We…get some of those.” God, she didn't want to do this. What if he asked too
many questions?

Questions she didn't want to answer.

She'd lied all her life about who she was, what
she was, where she'd come from. Sometimes she barely remembered the truth
herself.

“I imagine
you do.” A suspicious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You like
reading people's secret fantasies?”

How could she answer that without sounding
perverted herself? “There's nothing wrong with sexual fantasies, Detective
Dubois.”

“Ever
include your own?”

Her chest tightened at the smoldering insinuation in his husky voice.
The music outside intensified its beat, drawing her into its seductive lair.
The odd love chant of New Orleans rippled through the paper-thin walls from
the bar next door. “If ever I cease to love, may cows lay eggs and fish grow
legs. If ever I cease to love…”

“No.” She wouldn't openly reveal her private
thoughts. Or her fears. And good heavens, she wished they'd stop that song.
She didn't believe in love.

“This isn't about me,” she said, struggling to
redirect the conversation. “I phoned the police because I received something
disturbing in the mail today.”

His jaw tightened. “Yes, of course.”

She handed him the envelope and their
hands brushed, sending a shiver up her spine. She drew her hand back
quickly. She couldn't allow this man to charm her. He was a
pro.

He might extract
information from her without her even realizing it.

Information she would take with her
to her grave.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL
D
UBOIS
SIGHED
in disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? Granted he
was a sucker for a woman in trouble but usually he handled his reaction
better. But something about the challenge, the wariness, the spark of sexual
attraction between him and Britta Berger had him on edge.

Not a good idea. He needed to get
back to the crime scene. This visit was probably a waste of
time.

Still she was
intriguing. Her camisole top, coupled with that long whimsical skirt and
sandals gave her a live-and-let-live look, yet he sensed she wore a
disguise. She wasn't laissez-faire at all but as uptight as a wild animal in
a cage.

And those
dynamite full lips conjured up images of sultry kisses. Plus her fiery
short, red hair triggered fantasies of wild, tawdry sex.

But her brown eyes skated over him as
if he were the scum of the earth. He reminded himself he was here on
business. He didn't care what she thought about him. A woman was dead, for
God's sake, and he was the lead investigator.

“He left a note with the photo,” she said in a
strained voice. For a brief second, tension ruled her slender face, then she
inhaled sharply, making her top stretch across her breasts and offering a
glimpse of her tantalizing cleavage.

Shit.

He dropped his gaze to the desk while she slid a
manila envelope toward him. “Who delivered it?”

“I have no idea. It was on my desk with the other
mail when I arrived at work.”

“You lock your door when you leave your office at
night?”

“Yes.”

“Who
else has access to your office?”

“Just R.J., the head of the magazine.” She ran a
hand through her hair. “And Ralphie, the young college kid we hired to sort
mail.”

“I'll need to
talk to both of them.”

Britta frowned. “Trust me, Detective, Ralphie had nothing to do with
this. He's just a kid.”

“He has male chromosomes, Miss Berger. Trust
me,
I know what young men are
like.”

Her face paled
and he ground his teeth, hating to frighten her, but she shouldn't trust
anyone. Especially with all the crazies in town. “How about your
boss?”

A nervous
look flickered in her eyes. “R.J. is hard-working, innovative and knows how
to make money. We have a business relationship, that's all.”

Jean-Paul arched an eyebrow,
wondering why she'd offered that tidbit, then removed the contents from the
envelope. Damn it to hell and back.

The picture was of his crime scene.

The auburn-haired woman was tied to
the bed, her face contorted in agony, her chest pierced with the lancet. The
torn red teddy, the mask of the part crocodile, part human head on the wall,
the CD player, the obscene makeup—the details were identical to the murder
scene he'd just processed.

Even more alarming, the victim faintly resembled Britta Berger. Not
as good-looking or striking, but her hair color and complexion were
similar.

“Did anyone
touch the photo besides you?”

“Just my boss. I showed it to him to ask his
advice.”

“You
weren't going to call the police?”

“I wasn't sure it was real, that…the woman was
really dead.”

He
contemplated her answer, then nodded. “You have no idea who sent
this?”