Vengeance to the Max (22 page)

“I believe you.”

Travelers flowed by, buffeted them with bags and computers, grumbled and murmured, while stiff, formal voices squawked instructions over the intercom. The scent of hamburgers, pizza, coffee, and sweat-stained bodies swirled around them. A child screamed at the top of her lungs.

Witt didn’t let go. His blue eyes studied hers. His aftershave filled her head and buried everything else. “I believe.”

Max almost cried, for Witt’s touch, for Cameron’s loss, for Bud Traynor’s birth.

Witt pulled her to an empty gate, pushed her down into a seat by the windows, then sat next to her, right knee to her left one. Sounds and people faded away.

“Walter Spring’s case tipped him off.” Cameron’s last case before he died. “Your husband was a good prosecutor, left no stone unturned. Had a rep for going back over a detective’s notes and re-interviewing witnesses.”

“And he would have talked to Walter’s business partners.” Walter Spring, of Traynor, Spring, and Gregory, allegedly committed suicide in the fall two years ago. Only a month or so before Cameron died.

Bud Traynor, senior partner in the law firm, had goaded Walter into suicide. Max
knew
. Cameron had suspected murder then, but his work had been forbidden territory between them, confidential, classified. She’d known nothing of his last case, nothing until a month ago.

Back then, when Cameron was alive, she didn’t know about Walter, she didn’t know about Bud Traynor, she didn’t know that Cameron had found his runaway uncle.

“Bud suspected that Cameron would eventually realize Cordelia never left Michigan.” She’d gone over and over this with Witt last night.

“Are you sure she’s dead?”

“She’s in those woods.” Max closed her eyes, sensed Cordelia’s voice deep inside, weaker than it had been in Lines, but
there
, talking to her. “Bud buried her there after he killed her.”

Two airline employees entered the waiting area, headed for the podium. A stubby man rolled his carry-on across the carpeting and sat two spaces from Witt. Seats filled up. Max hadn’t noticed. Voices filtered back into her consciousness.

“Let’s go.” She had things to do. With the time change, their flight arrived a little after four. Bud Traynor would be waiting for her. At his house, at his office, somewhere, he’d be waiting for her. Because he’d known she’d find his past in Lines. He knew she’d come looking for him.

Witt’s hand prevented her from rising. “You aren’t going to see him.”

Her muscles tensed. “You can’t be serious.”

He tugged on her wrist. “I’ll look into it. Do some checking, ask some questions, track the guys who shot your husband, connect them to Traynor.”

“The cops couldn’t find them then.” What was different now?

“
I
wasn’t on the case before.” He skewered her with blue lasers. “Personal stakes count for a helluva lot.”

His personal stakes? “You’re on leave.”

“Doesn’t mean no one’s talking to me. I’ve got resources. I’ll do this, Max.” For her. To protect her. He must have seen the doubt in her eyes. “We don’t want him slipping through our fingers because you fucked with procedure or tipped his hand.”

He knew her buttons. She bit her bottom lip. She’d die if Traynor became an OJ, beating the system, walking free. She’d give anything to see him to pay with his life. The need rose in her, choked her, gnawed on her soul. He
had
to pay. She’d never forgive herself if she screwed the case against him by doing something stupid.

“He’s my fight, Witt. He always has been.”

He put a finger to her lips. “Let it be mine, too. You’re not alone.”

Her chest tightened. Even when Cameron was alive, she’d sometimes felt alone. A lot of times. Maybe this need to take on Bud alone was simply another way to keep Witt on the outside.

“I won’t go see him. But don’t take so long figuring it out that I have to break my word.”

If Witt failed, she’d take matters into her own hands. This time, Bud wasn’t getting away with it.

* * * * *

Night had fallen. Witt dropped Max at her apartment, plopping her overnighter on the rug in the middle of her barren room.

He turned and with two strides backed her up against the wall by the door. His scent surrounded her. Strength, power, warmth.

With his hand beneath her chin, he tipped her head back. “Stay put until I call.”

She didn’t answer. She’d give Witt a chance to do what he said he’d do. And if he couldn’t...

He swooped down and took her lips in a hard kiss. She opened, drinking him in. Desperation made her claw at his shoulders, hugging him close. She rose on her tiptoes to flatten her torso to his. His heat beat against her heart, filled her mouth, but her fingers remained frozen.

“Don’t make me have to save you again.”

She closed her eyes against the laser blue of his gaze. She would give anything not to force him to actions they’d both live with for the rest of their lives. She feared Bud Traynor wouldn’t give her a choice.

He held her chin firmly. “I don’t like that look in your eye.”

“What look?”

“Don’t play innocent. You’re already planning how you’re going to sneak out without me knowing.” He suddenly grabbed her thighs, hauled her up, and wrapped her legs around his waist, then pressed his erection to her crotch.

She gasped and felt a trickle of answering moisture between her legs. “How can you be hard at a time like this?”

He grinned ferociously. “Haven’t you noticed you always make me hard?”

“No, I haven’t. Now put me down.”

He braced her against the wall and ground into her. It didn’t hurt. It turned her hot and wanting. Wet. “Detective,” she warned.

“Max,” he mimicked. Then he took her mouth once more. He forced her wide, demanding her tongue, sucking her soul from her. “If I tire you out, you won’t be able to go anywhere.” He pressed harder between her thighs, spreading her legs to the maximum.

“That’s not fair.” But he found the right rhythm, the right angle, melding her panties to her clitoris and stroking her with the material as if it were his tongue.

“Tell me you don’t want it.”

“I—” She couldn’t tell him because he’d invaded her mouth again and stolen her breath. It would have been a lie anyway. She wanted him to fill her up. She had so many cold empty places, so many more than she’d had when they left for Michigan. When he let go of her lips, she practically begged. “All right. If you’ve got to do me before you go, do me.”

He chuckled. “Love to hear that enthusiasm bubbling over.” He let her slide to the floor, then tugged at her snap of her pants. She toed off her shoes. He slid her panties, pants, and socks off in one smooth move. Then he reached to his back pocket.

“Do not tell me you’re carrying condoms in your pocket.”

He held one up in front of her nose.

“Bastard.”

“You’re happy I thought ahead.” He flicked a finger across her hard nipple. “Very happy.”

She was naked from the waist down. He still had on his jacket and jeans. All it took was a quick
ziiiiiip
and little hand movement, and he was ready.

“Aren’t we even going to take off our coats?”

He shook his head, then hoisted her into the same position against the wall. “Ready?”

She leaned back and tested herself. She was getting sort of used to touching herself for him. He liked it. She couldn’t say why. But his eyes went all dark and hot, his breath hitched, and his condom-encased cock seemed to grow another inch.

“Roger,” she said.

She expected him to slam home. Instead, he held her with one hand beneath her butt and stroked her clit with the tip of his penis. The weird latex friction made her wriggle in his arms.

“Hello? I said I’m ready.”

He looked down, ignoring her, seemingly mesmerized by the sight of his cock entering her. A soft meld. He eased his crown inside her, pumped lightly. Her body grasped at him.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” he murmured.

She held onto his arms as his legs began to quiver beneath her. “Yes, it feels good. But—”

“Shh. Feel it, Max. That slow glide inside you. Savor every centimeter as it enters.”

She closed her eyes, let her head fall back against the wall and gave herself up to the sensations he wanted her to study. His pubic hair teased her clitoris. The muscles of his arms rippled. His nipples were cherry-tight against her fingers. The head of his cock hit a tender, sensitive spot, slid across it, and set fire to her flesh. The ridge caught a moment as he pulled back out. Rocking gently, he caressed that inner spot again and again. She moaned. With her eyes closed, the sensations intensified, his breath beat in her hair, and inside her body tried to tighten and hold him.

“Oh Jesus, do it, Witt, please, you’re driving me crazy.” She grabbed hold of his arms and pushed off the wall, impaling herself on his thick flesh. “That’s better, that’s so much better.” She panted and chanted in his ear.

He pounded her into the wall, the padded down jacket saving her spine. She wrapped her legs high and took every stroke. He held her butt and angled her for the deepest penetration. Her orgasm hit like a fireball, so fast she didn’t even have time to see the stars before she went mindless.

He was holding her tight when she came back to earth, his head on her shoulder. Still harsh of breath, he clutched her close and throbbed inside her.

“Trust me, Max. I’ll take care of Bud for you.”

She traced a finger around the shell of his ear. “I will.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

Rather than deny it, she made a request. “Take me with you.”

He tipped his head, and his eyes traveled from the tussle of her hair to her chin. “No.”

He didn’t offer an explanation, and his tone didn’t broach an alternative other than the one he’d given. He let her slide to the floor. While he took care of the condom, she pulled on her undies and pants. Flipping the light off behind him, he stood in the bathroom doorway longer than necessary. His command of
stay put
echoed as if he’d repeated it. Then, after one more quick punch of his lips against hers, he sprinted down her stairs.

If she was the kind of girl who needed long, gooey minutes of post coital afterglow, she was shit out of luck. Witt had given her something more. He’d given her his promise.

She had to trust him. She
did
trust him. But she didn’t trust Bud, and that knowledge had her pacing a hole in the flooring. Buzzard the Cat sat on the bed, watching her, his yellow eyes tracking her agitated movements. So close to Thanksgiving, silence cocooned her. No sound rose from the rooms below. Desertion scented the house around her.

Except for Cameron. She smelled his peppermints in the air. Had he watched her with Witt?

“No.” Utter weariness laced his voice in her head.

Max realized she hadn’t given his feelings a thought since she’d seen Bud in the yearbook. Her own rage had blinded her. “I shouldn’t have called your mother a murderer.”

“She was a good woman. Despite what she did to those pictures in the album.”

“You remember her now?”

“I ... remember ... now.” A wealth of emotion parsed his words.

“Do you want to talk about her and Cordelia?” She’d listen. She should have asked years ago.

“I loved them. I missed them. But they’re both gone now.”

She wished she could have put her arms around him. “It must seem as if you only just lost them.”

“It’s not as if I’m alive to feel grief. I lost them long ago.”

Alive or dead, Cameron was full of emotion, no matter what he said. Max didn’t know how to reach him. Except by going back to what they both already knew.

“I should have looked at that picture in the yearbook carefully before we left,” she said aloud. Cameron should have told her about meeting Bud Traynor before he ever went into that 7-11. Water under the bridge. Secrecy had been an integral part of their lives back then. “I would have seen him if I’d looked.”