by Rita Herron
“Just stay off the streets until this guy is caught,” he warned them. “Most serial killers look sane and blend in with the rest of us. And some of them were nerds, targets for bullies as kids.”
The Lundi Gras celebration by the river was in full swing as he left. He ducked through the alley to avoid the congestion, then climbed into his car and headed toward the hospital.
It was crazy to take Britta to his place. She was a potential witness in a crime. A possible victim.
And he was not supposed to be involved with her.
But he refused to let her return to that smoky apartment alone. If he had to play bodyguard to keep her safe, then he’d damn well do it.
* * *
BRITTA PACED THE hospital room, her nerves on edge. The sky was dark, daylight disappearing once again, and the swamp devil was still roaming the streets.
She had watched the news. Seen the paper. Knew the press was crucifying Jean-Paul. And that he must be going crazy.
She had to see him. Get out of this room. She felt like a virtual prisoner. The guard outside had not left his post, but stationing him by her side had invaded her privacy. When she’d tried to walk down the hall to the nurses’ station to beg them to dismiss her, he’d refused to let her leave the room. Then she’d summoned the doctor to check herself out, but he’d insisted she stay a few more hours until all her tests came back clear.
This was what it would be like if she told Jean-Paul the truth about her past, that she had taken a man’s life. She’d go to prison. Only jail would be worse because she’d be locked up with other dangerous criminals.
Did she deserve to be punished?
Jean-Paul Dubois, local hero, would say yes. He was the letter of the law. Even now, he was tracking down the swamp devil.
The door screeched open and she spun around. Jean-Paul stood in the door with a small overnight bag. He looked haggard. He needed a shave and dark circles rimmed his eyes.
Their gazes locked and she wanted to launch herself into his arms. But would he want her?
“My sisters gathered some things for you. I hope it’ll do.”
Emotions surged through her. She’d never had sisters, never had anyone do something so thoughtful. “Thank you.”
He set them on the bed. “If you want to get dressed, the doctor’s preparing your papers to release you.”
Thank God. But the memory of her burning building rose, gray and depressing. “Did the firemen save my apartment?”
“The structure’s intact,” he said. “But there’s smoke and water damage inside. It’ll take time to repair.”
She hugged her arms around her waist, feeling lost.
“I stopped by and got this. I thought you might want it.”
She narrowed her eyes as he reached inside his pocket. Then he handed her the photograph of her and her mother, and tears filled her eyes. “Jean-Paul…” She hugged it to her chest, overcome. “Thank you.”
He gave a clipped nod and she wanted to hug him but forced herself to remain still. Her lies still stood between them.
“You’re going home with me,” he said in a quiet voice.
Britta stared into his eyes, searching for any hint that his intention was personal. But the steadfast hero cop was looking back at her. God help her, she wanted him so badly she hurt. But he deserved so much better.
He stepped into the hallway and she opened the overnight bag and dug inside, anxious to leave. Jeans and a soft cotton shirt; both fit her although the shirt was a little tight. She blushed, wondering what his sisters had thought when they’d chosen the sexy undergarments for her. Did they have any idea how much she wanted to sleep with their brother?
Jean-Paul knocked on the door, then pushed it open slightly. “Are you ready?”
She nodded. “Yes, let’s get out of here.”
During the ride to his house, she tried to remind herself that she didn’t belong to Jean-Paul or his world. Getting involved with her might jeopardize his career, especially if the public found out about her past. She was selfish to want him. To even contemplate being with him. But she couldn’t stop herself. She’d never known what it was like to crave another human being so much that you physically ached.
And she’d never wanted to please a man the way she wanted to please him.
For the first time in her life, she wished she could change the past. She’d still have run on D-day, but she wouldn’t have picked up that gun. Then the preacher wouldn’t have died and that suicide pact would never have been made.
Her heart clenched. She had all those deaths on her conscience, too. Just as she did the swamp devil’s victims.
* * *
JEAN-PAUL COULDN’T SHAKE the feeling that Britta was on the killer’s list. That she would be next. And that the killer’s pattern had changed to throw them off.
“Did you find Teddy?” Britta asked.
“No. He’s disappeared. And none of the other street artists seemed to know him very well, either.” Which made him look even guiltier. “I sent the sketches around. Hopefully we’ll get a lead and find him.”
The gray sky mimicked his dismal mood as he pulled into the long oak-lined drive leading to his house. He felt so damn helpless. But the FBI and police were working round the clock. Antwaun was watching the House of Love for anyone suspicious and he’d taken Teddy’s picture to see if the bartender or dancers recognized him from the club. Carson checked Debra Schmale’s computer but that was another dead end. No secret love affairs on the Internet, notes to strangers or dating services.
“I wish he’d contact me again,” Britta said in a low voice. “Maybe I should go back to my apartment for that reason.”
“I’ve already arranged to have your phone calls routed to my house,” Jean-Paul said. “That way if he calls, we can talk to him.”
“But if he’s watching my place and I don’t return, he’ll know I’m not home so he won’t call.”
Jean-Paul gave her a sharp look and cut the engine. He knew what she was thinking and it scared the crap out of him. “You’re not going to go back and set a trap, so don’t even suggest it.”
“But, Jean-Paul—”
He pressed a finger to her lips to cut her off. “Shh. Trust me, Britta. I don’t want you hurt.”
The look of guilt that crossed her face mirrored his own emotions. “Stop blaming yourself, Britta.”
“But he’s killing these women to taunt me.”
Her voice broke and his heart clenched. “He’s killing these women because he’s a sociopath. You didn’t make him that way.” He squeezed her hand. “Now, let’s go inside. It’s starting to rain.”
She grew quiet as they entered his house. The familiar scent of wood and fresh paint usually soothed him, but his body was wound too tight tonight for his home to offer comfort.
Britta seemed to survey the remodeling, her gaze landing on the photos on the sofa table. His family, sisters, brothers, Chrissy. Lucinda.
He had an entire shelf of pictures while she had one lone photo of her mother.
Britta gestured toward the picture of his wife. “Who was she?”
Jean-Paul cleared his throat. He didn’t want to talk about her tonight.
“Jean-Paul?”
The way she said his name tore him in knots. “My wife.”
Britta’s gaze met his. “She’s beautiful. Where is she now?”
Jean-Paul closed his eyes and spun around. He couldn’t bare to admit the truth and watch the disappointment in her eyes. “She was killed after the hurricane.”
Her soft gasp filled the silence. “I’m so sorry, Jean-Paul. You must have loved her very much.”
He had, once, when he was just a kid. “It’s my fault she died.”
There, he’d said it. The truth was out.
Now Britta knew he wasn’t a hero.
He was a man who’d failed his family.
* * *
BRITTA’S HEART SWELLED with grief. “Jean-Paul, outside you told me not
to blame myself for the swamp devil’s victims. You can’t blame yourself, either—”
“But it was my fault.” His voice sounded gritty, rough with pain. “She was working in a small store when the hurricane hit. She begged me to come and pick her up, for us to evacuate, but I refused to leave. I told her to go on without me.”
“You had to work,” Britta argued. “You were doing your job.”
“My job was to protect the town, to protect my own damn wife.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “But I failed that, too. Looters went in, things went crazy. She tried to call me, but some guy panicked and shot her. She died before I got there.”
“You didn’t pull the trigger, Jean-Paul,” Britta said. “It was a horrible time. Everyone was crazy, panicked, scared. All those prisoners were released.”
“Excuses. Don’t you understand, Britta?” His voice was harsh. “She died while I was out playing hero to someone else.”
“She died because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Britta said earnestly. “And she should have listened to you and left earlier.”
He looked so tortured that she closed her hand over his. “It’s all right, Jean-Paul. Let it go.” She traced a finger along his cheek, then pressed a kiss to his jaw. He was the most honorable man she’d ever known and she wanted to erase his pain.
He didn’t deserve to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Jean-Paul gripped her arms, his dark eyes piercing. “Britta…”
“I know I’m not Lucinda, I could never be like her,” she whispered. “But I’m here, Jean-Paul, here with you tonight.” She pressed another kiss to his lips, this one soft and inviting, filled with the whisper of desire. She needed him. Wanted him. He had to know that.
Silence stretched between them for an excruciating second, emotions warring in his eyes. But finally, he lowered his mouth to her ear and groaned. “I don’t want her,” he said in a gruff voice. “I want you, Britta. I have ever since I met you.”
Then he cupped her face in his hands, lowered his head and kissed her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JEAN-PAUL TOLD HIMSELF to stop.
But his brain refused to listen.
He had wanted Britta for so long now, and she was in his arms, alive and wanting him in return. Hunger burned his veins as she threaded her fingers into his hair, and he forgot about Lucinda and conversation as he deepened the kiss.
Britta was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman. Strong. Brave. A fighter.
Yet a tenderness lay beneath her toughness. He tore his mouth away and looked into her eyes, unsure he should continue. “Are you certain you want this?”
“I’ve never wanted anything more,” she whispered raggedly.
Her eyes looked stormy, her breath was erratic and her fingers sank deeper into his hair. She teased his lips apart with her tongue and he dragged her closer, so close he felt her breasts press against his chest. She moaned and darted her tongue along his lips and then down his neck, until he groaned her name.
The one thing he’d learned from his wife’s death was that life could be taken in a nanosecond.
He had to live for the present.
And tonight, for just a little while, he wanted to forget that a killer was out there. That he had failed to stop him from murdering more than once.
That he wanted Britta.
Because as long as she was in his arms, the man couldn’t touch her. No other man could.
One second, logic and reason warned him to go slow. The next, she rubbed her hand down to his crotch and resistance fled. He grabbed her hand and held it to his chest, unable to stand the torture. He wanted to touch her, to taste every inch. And she was driving him wild. Whispering his name. Teasing him with those luscious touches. Pleading with him to take her with fiery eyes.
His body caught on fire with sensation as he walked her backward to the sofa, then he unfastened the top button of her shirt. She kissed his neck while he trailed his tongue down her ear and to the soft swell of her breasts. She yanked at his shirt, practically ripping the buttons free and he pushed it off his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. A sliver of moonlight painted her body in a golden glow. He savored the moment, memorizing the sight of her bare skin as he stripped off her bra and held her breasts in his hands. His mouth came next, hungry and hot, licking and lapping her up, suckling her until she cried out his name. Shivers of anticipation rode through her and she clung to his arms but he didn’t stop. Hunger consumed him, drove him faster and he tore at her jeans, stripping them off as he eased her onto the couch. Her hair was mussed, wild around her face, while her big eyes danced with desire.
He licked his lips at the sight of her bare legs. They went on for miles. Then the lacy panties, black, see-through, they covered nothing. Yet they were still too much.
He peeled them off, licking and teasing her stomach, then down to the insides of her thighs. She quivered and reached for his hands, but he pushed her back on the sofa, spread her legs and buried his head between them. He hadn’t tasted a woman in two years, had never had the desire to eat her inside out, but he did with Britta. She clawed at his arms, then moaned and whispered his name. He drove his tongue inside her, his body hardening as her sweet juices filled his mouth.
She tasted like sweetness and spice. Innocence and sin.
He relished the moment, delving deeper and holding her tighter as her body spasmed its release.
“Jean-Paul…”
He finished licking her moist center, then rose above her, a satisfied man. But only for a moment. His cock twitched, begging for fulfillment, to be inside her hot center.
He kicked off his jeans, threw them across the floor, then crawled on top of her and braced his hands on the couch beside her face. A sultry look darkened her eyes, and she cupped her hands on his butt, then raked her nails downward, pulling him to her. His cock rubbed her belly, twitched again with arousal and thickened more. The waiting was almost painful, the most seductive torture he’d ever endured.
Then she wrapped her bare legs around his waist and kissed his lips. He lowered his hips enough to stroke her folds with his length, then saw her face flame with passion. She wanted more.
His heart pounded as he pushed himself inside her. She was so tight. He hesitated, giving her body time to adjust, then thrust deeper, deeper, all the way inside her wet heat. But she cried out and he stilled.
His gaze swung to hers. Shock hit him in the gut. She felt so tight, as if she’d never been with a man. Impossible. He’d seen her on the street, his brother had said…
“Britta?”
She bit down on her lip and pulled at his hips, embedding him deeper inside her. “Please don’t stop, Jean-Paul. I want you so much.”
He searched her face. Saw a small flicker of pain in her eyes, yet he also read desire mingled there. The questions he wanted to ask had to wait. They were both hurting, yearning, on fire.
If this was her first, dammit he should have taken it slow. Not mauled her on the sofa like a sex-starved teenager. Recriminations raced through his head. What kind of man was he?
Certainly not a hero in her eyes….
He pulled away slightly. Stood. But she grabbed his hand. Her fingers suddenly found his cock. Stroked him. His cock pulsed harder, throbbing for release. Tension built inside him, all the way to his soul.
More than anything, he wanted this woman, wanted to be closer, deeper, wanted her harder and faster.
“Please, Jean-Paul. We need each other tonight.”
Her soft plea echoed in his head. Drove him crazy because she was right.
She dropped to her knees on the floor and flicked her tongue across the tip of his penis. A sharp bolt of excitement shot through him. Naked, on her hands and knees, she looked like a vixen.
He wanted to be inside her, coming completely.
He grabbed his pants, removed a condom and rolled it on, his hands shaking. She smiled, sultry and catlike, then pulled him to the r
ug. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her and traced her fingers over his length, urging his cock to stroke her. He growled and rubbed his length over her belly. Her hiss coaxed him on, making him even more engorged and greedy.
Then he thrust inside her, sucking in a sharp breath as she spread her legs wider to take him in. His pulse raced with desire and he pounded her harder, sliding his hands beneath her hips to angle her so he could grind deeper. Hungrily, he kissed her neck, then lower, teasing her nipples with his tongue, biting and sucking until she cried out, mindless with pleasure. He moved faster, stroking and building the rhythm, faster and harder, deeper, then more. Over and over until they were one, dancing together, making love. Over and over, until his body stiffened and shook with tremors.
She whispered his name. He moaned hers in return.
Together they climaxed, their bodies jerking and quivering out of control. He was lost in the intensity of the moment. Lost to stop his emotions from rocketing through him.
Lost as to how he’d ever tell her goodbye.
But he would when the case ended. He’d go back to his job. She’d go back to her life. He’d never marry again. Never fall in love.
And he knew Britta wouldn’t cling to him. Wouldn’t ask him to change or give up his job.
She’d accept that it was over.
But tonight…he pressed a kiss to her neck and rolled them to his side where he could take his weight off her. Where he could hold her all night. They lay there, panting and stroking, murmuring words of lust, whispering their pleasure. Finally, the air grew cool and he stood and carried her to bed, then wrapped them in the covers.
He fully intended to show her a romantic night. Prove to her that a man could make slow love to her. That he didn’t have to be an animal and take her on the floor.
The gift she’d given him was as pure and unselfish as any a woman could give a man. He didn’t deserve it.
But she’d given it to him anyway.
He would find the man who was after her and take him apart limb by limb. To hell with his job.
