by Cynthia Eden
“Been another what?” Joel asked again, his voice all deep and rumbling, as if the question had been torn from him.
“Dr. Landry…Joel.” She shouldn’t have to explain this, but he’d obviously not paid enough attention to Cedric’s badge. He needed to be far more observant in the future. Especially if they were going to work together. “There’s been another murder.”
Joel’s dark eyes widened. “Why the hell would that involve you? Wait, are you a cop?”
“No.” If she’d been part of the New Orleans PD, she would have mentioned that fact to him when all of the other cops swarmed the scene. She was strictly freelance. “It involves me because I have to catch the bastard. Now, have a good day.”
He was gaping when she left him.
And she almost looked back at him. Almost, but at the last moment, she realized it was better to just walk away.
***
Cedric slammed his car’s passenger side door shut. He stared through the glass at Chloe’s profile. As usual, no expression showed on her face. She was always so good at hiding what she felt. If she felt.
He hurried around the car. Opened the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. He knew he shouldn’t ask but… “Are you playing some game with that guy?”
She turned to him, and her smile made his heart ice. “You know better than that, detective. I don’t play games.”
Hell. “What are you planning?”
“Why don’t you just wait and see? Surprises can be fun.”
“Not when those surprises involve you.” He cranked the car. “Your surprises are pure hell.”
Chapter Three
The pounding at his door woke Joel in the middle of the night. The pounding ripped him from sleep—yet another nightmare that wouldn’t stop plaguing him—and he shot up in bed. His heart raced in his chest, and sweat slickened his body.
The pounding came again.
Joel shoved the covers aside and leapt to his feet. He rushed to the door of his small apartment, wearing just boxer shorts and not stopping to grab other clothes. A fast and furious glance at his clock told him it was nearing one a.m. Who the hell would be at his door at one a.m.?
The pounding rattled his door once more.
He yanked it open.
Chloe Hastings stood there, clad in jeans and a flowing, red top. High heels adorned her feet, and her hand was curled and ready to pound again.
Joel had to shake his head. “You aren’t real.”
“Of course, I’m real.” Her head cocked as she did that click, click type of look where she surveyed him and blinked. “Do you often have hallucinations?”
Did he often…
Joel started to swing the door shut on what he sure as hell hoped was a hallucination.
“Wait!” Her hand flew out and curled around the door. “I need your help!”
“It’s one a.m.”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“And you’re at my door, pounding,” he grated, aware that his voice was rising. “You’re at my door, pounding, and you expect me to—”
The door across the hall flew open. His neighbor—a guy in his late seventies with a shock of white hair and wearing a darkly stained and tattered t-shirt—snarled, “Shut the hell up! People are trying to sleep!” Carl Jones backed away, then slammed his door.
Chloe’s nose wrinkled. “He drinks too much beer.”
What?
“Drinking away his pain won’t help. It never does.”
“Lady, what is your deal?” But, because he didn’t want his neighbor calling the cops, Joel grabbed Chloe’s wrist and hauled her inside his place.
He shut the door. Locked it. Then flipped on the lights.
“Oh.” She winced. Spun around. Stared at the thread-bare furniture. The dusty clock on what passed for a kitchen table. The pile of books in the corner. The empty walls. Walls that showed the old, peeling paint and layers of dirt. Then she looked at him again. Click, click. “You can afford more. You can afford just about anything. But you choose to live like this. That’s interesting.”
He didn’t want to interest her. “How do you know what I can afford?”
“Because I reviewed your bank records.”
He stood there, wearing only boxers and his temples throbbing as sweat still slickened his body. “Why would anyone give you access to my bank records?” Was he having a nightmare? One that seemed horribly real? Only instead of his normal torturer, he had…her.
She smiled at him. Appeared oddly angelic. Too freaking beautiful. “Well, in case you forgot, I did foil a bank robbery today.”
“We,” Joel heard himself mumble. “We foiled a bank robbery.”
A pleased nod. “So we’re a team? You’re in agreement?”
“What? No!” He surged toward her. “Don’t look at my bank records! Don’t come to my home in the middle of the night—”
Dismissively, she fluttered her hand in the air. “This isn’t a home. It’s more like a hotel room. You have to put things inside to make a place a home. Things that matter.” Her shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
“How did you even know where I lived?”
“Well, the bank manager was very grateful…”
Joel’s eyes squeezed closed. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed, she’d disappear. Maybe she’d turn out to be nothing more than another nightmare. He circled back to his original hallucination idea. Maybe she wasn’t even really there. Maybe he’d finally slipped over the line and he was—
“You have more scars that I realized. I’m sorry for the pain you must have endured.”
Shit. He’d forgotten. How could he have forgotten? Even for a moment? But there he was, standing in front of her, revealing far too much.
She was beautiful. Perfect skin. Probably perfect life. Some mystery woman playing a weird game with him. Jerking him around. With his eyes still closed, he ordered, “Leave.”
“Did I say the wrong thing?” The floor creaked as she moved toward him. “Aren’t people supposed to say they’re sorry when they see evidence of someone else’s pain?”
“Only if you actually mean you’re sorry. I’m sick to death of fake words.” His eyes opened.
Her lips were parted. Her eyes wide. “Me, too,” she whispered. Her slender throat moved as she swallowed. For an instant, he could have sworn that he saw a flash of pain in her bright blue eyes. Then the flash was gone, and her gaze was drifting over his body. Lingering on all the scars that reminded him too much of a past that he wished he could forget.
Joel marched around her and headed into his bedroom. Where the hell had he left his t-shirt? His gaze raked the room. Not like the place was much to see. Nothing on the walls. Just two stacked mattresses on the floor. The two windows were wide open, letting the night air drift inside. Night air and bugs because there were always bugs in New Orleans. Dammit, she couldn’t see this. She couldn’t—
“This room is even worse.”
Great. She’d followed him. Without an invitation. Surprise, surprise. “Do you always enter a man’s bedroom without permission?” He spied his t-shirt on the floor. He yanked it on. Hissed out a hard breath when the wound on his arm throbbed.
“Careful, or you’ll make it bleed again.” Her heels tapped across the floor. “Men do usually give me permission, by the way. I’ve never had a problem getting into a man’s bedroom before. In fact, usually the men seem quite happy to have me in their bedrooms.”
He just bet they did.
Joel yanked on a pair of jeans. Then he spun to face her as he zipped up and hooked the snap.
Her chin lifted. “You may need to dress up a bit more for where we’re going. That t-shirt looks far too much like the one Carl was wearing.”
He gaped. “How the hell do you know my neighbor’s name?”
“Because it was on the mailbox downstairs.”
She’d stopped to look at the pile of battered mailboxes? What was up with Chloe? He
stalked toward her. Stood toe-to-toe with his gorgeous, late-night intruder. “I am not going any place with you. You’re going to get out of my home—”
Her lips parted. He knew she was about to correct him. Say this wasn’t a home. Nope, not happening.
“Home,” he growled, beating her to the punch. “It might not be much, but it’s mine, and I don’t want you here. You need to leave.”
Click, click. She blinked in confusion and kept studying him. “You want more than this. I know you do.”
“What I want is to go back to bed.” Actually, he was going. Screw this. Joel threw himself onto the bed—mattresses. Slammed a fist beneath his lumpy pillow. “See yourself out, would you?”
“Fine. I thought you would be interested in helping me on the case, given your past.” Chloe turned away. “It’s very unusual for me to be wrong. I don’t think I like this feeling.”
Do not ask her. Do not ask her— “What about my past?”
She was at his bedroom door. One slender hand rose and slid along the chipped wood of the frame. “You survived an attack from a serial killer.”
Joel was glad that Chloe couldn’t see his face. Glad her back was to him. “Read that somewhere on the Internet, did you? Or maybe you saw it on the news when the story first aired?” No matter how far you ran, sometimes you just couldn’t escape your past.
Instead of answering him, she noted, “You have triple locks on your front door. Do you think the killer will find you one day?”
Joel surged out of the bed, his hands fisted at his sides. “He’s dead. The dead won’t come calling.”
Now she glanced back at Joel. Most people—when they knew the truth about him—they looked at him with pity. Maybe morbid fascination. She didn’t stare at him with either. She just…looked. Gazed straight into his eyes.
Joel swallowed.
Then she spoke. Her voice was low and quiet as she said, “He cut you over one hundred times, didn’t he? Kept you chained up, locked away. He drugged you in your own hospital and snuck you down to the bottom level. Your friends and colleagues were right there. You thought they’d help you. You thought someone would come to save you. Only no one did.”
Another lump rose in his throat. “I don’t need a fucking walk down memory lane, thanks so much.”
“No.” She inclined her head. “Memories don’t help. I thought perhaps you’d want some payback. That could help. But like I said before, I guess I was wrong.” Another low exhale. “I won’t be bothering you again. Good night, Dr. Landry.”
He didn’t move.
The floor creaked in the other room as she made her way to the door.
Payback? That word slithered through him. Dark. Sinister. Tempting. “Payback?” Joel bounded after her. She’d already undid the three locks. He caught her arm and swung her around to face him, pinning her between his body and the door. “What the hell do you mean, payback?”
“All of that rage inside of you. The pain that wants to break free. Don’t you want to give it a proper outlet?”
His heart was about to burst out of his chest. “Lady…”
“You may call me Chloe. I think I told you that already. If I didn’t, my apologies for not allowing the familiarity sooner.”
His back teeth clenched.
Her face softened as she stared up at him. “You’ve seen behind the curtain. Gotten a glimpse at the real monsters out there. Other people can pretend that bad guys are just on TV shows or in movies, but you know the truth.” Her gaze didn’t leave his. “Dangerous people fill this world. Killers hide in the shadows, and there are freaks out there who get off on giving pain to as many people as possible.”
“Lady…”
Her lips tightened.
“Chloe,” he corrected. Disturbing curiosity filled him. “Just what is it that you do for a living?”
Did she smile? Maybe. A brief curl of her full lips. “I solve crimes.”
“You said before that you weren’t a cop.”
A shake of her head. “I don’t deal well with rules and regulations.”
Like he hadn’t already figured that out about her.
“I’m strictly freelance,” she explained. “I come in when a department needs a fresh pair of eyes.”
He couldn’t look away from her.
“A killer is hunting in New Orleans right now. It’s my job to find him. But I could use some help tonight, and that’s why I came to you.”
The drumming of Joel’s heartbeat nearly drowned out her voice.
“So what do you say, Joel? You want a little payback for all the pain you’ve endured? You want a chance to help me put away a killer?”
And even before he spoke, Joel knew there would be no turning back. Because she was right. The rage and pain were tearing him apart. Payback? “Hell, yes.”
***
“You brought me to a strip club?” Joel’s voice was a rough growl that raked across her skin.
Chloe slid her fingers down the neck of her beer bottle, enjoying the cold sensation against her skin. Music blared around them, and one very flexible woman spun and twisted on a big pole right in the middle of the stage. “Yes, I did.” Chloe took a sip of her beer. Made a face. She hated beer but she’d figured she should try to blend in with everyone around her. “You’re welcome.”
His fingers tapped on the small, round table. It immediately wobbled. “You’re jerking me around.”
Her gaze flew to him. “Men like strip clubs.”
He stared at her.
“Women do, too.” She motioned vaguely around the room. There were plenty of men and women in the crowd.
“Chloe.”
Fine. “We’re not just here for the show. We need to talk to one of the strippers.”
“Why do we need to do that?”
“Because she’s a witness.” She motioned to the flexible woman on stage. “Because I didn’t believe all the info that I read in the police report.” She was ticking off points left and right. “Because I want to hear her responses for myself.”
He drank his beer. Didn’t seem to mind the taste. He hadn’t bothered changing when they’d gone out. Battered shirt. Battered jeans. Sneakers. But he still looked good. Sexy, in that rough way of his.
She’d noticed other women eyeing him when they came inside the club. Back off, ladies. I’m using him right now. He was her ticket that night. The witness she wanted to interview—Coreen Miller—apparently had a slight issue with women. Perhaps not so slight. Time will tell. Time would tell her many things. In the police report, Cedric had noted that Coreen had only cooperated once he came into the conference room. Coreen had refused to talk to the female detective stationed with her.
Chloe wasn’t sure why Coreen only wanted to talk to men, but Joel Landry was about to prove very useful. For a variety of reasons.
“That’s our witness?” His gaze was on the stage. “Limber.”
Coreen’s red hair raked across the floor as she twisted on the pole.
“Very,” Chloe agreed.
Dollar bills were thrown onto the stage. The music hit a big crescendo, and then Coreen was sliding off the pole. Waving. Tucking the money into itty-bitty straps on the side of her hips. Wolf whistles followed her off the stage.
“Our turn,” Chloe said as she sprang to her feet. A bouncer was blocking the way backstage. A big, burly guy, but Chloe figured she could handle him.
“Wait.” Joel’s slightly callused fingers curled around her wrist. “You ever been to a strip club before?”
What kind of question was that? “Absolutely.”
He frowned, as if her answer had surprised him.
“I was even on the stage once.” She wouldn’t go into details on that experience. He could take her response however he wanted.
His finger slid along her inner wrist in what might have been a caress.
A shiver slid over her. The shiver caught her off guard. What was…what was that about? It wasn’t cold in the club. “Let go.�
�
Immediately, he did. He also rose. Chloe stood at five-foot-eight, but with her heels, she was closer to his height. Not eye level or anything. But closer. Close enough that if she’d wanted to, she could have slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him toward her. Kissed him.
If she’d wanted to.
She didn’t, of course. This was a business outing. Not a date.
“I’m betting I’ve been to more strip clubs than you have,” Joel retorted.
Ah, he shouldn’t make that bet. He shouldn’t ever bet with her. He’d lose.
Joel added, “Let me handle the bouncer, all right? You want to talk to the stripper, then I’ve got this.”
Wonderful.
She weaved through the crowd, with Joel right at her back. The bouncer caught sight of her, and one heavy brow rose.
Even though Joel had said he could handle the guy, Chloe opened her mouth to speak—
“We want a private dance with the lady who just left the stage,” Joel’s voice was smooth as rough silk. He shoved some money toward the bouncer. “Very private.”
The money vanished. “You want Cinnamon?”
Uh, Cinnamon? They wanted Coreen…but, yes, Chloe could see where Cinnamon might be a much more appealing stage name in an establishment such as this one.
“You want her? You got her.” The bouncer opened the black door that he’d been blocking. “Second entrance. She should already be in the room, waiting.” A smirk. “Folks always want a private dance with Cinnamon after her big show.”
That was good to know. It was nice that Cinnamon was popular. Probably led to a very good income. Chloe didn’t move past the bouncer, not yet. She had a question. “If Cinnamon has a problem during one of her private dances, would she call out for you?”
His bloodshot eyes narrowed on her. “There gonna be a problem?”
Joel’s fingers closed around her shoulder. “No. There won’t be a problem.”
The bouncer grunted. He crossed his arms over his chest, and the impressive tattoos that covered his skin seemed to dance. Chloe’s eyes darted over the intricate tattoos and down to his fingers.
