by Lisa Jackson
“So what do you think?” Morrisette asked.
“Since she wasn’t exactly candid, I think it’s time to get a court order for a sample of Mrs. Bandeaux’s blood.”
“Sounds good to me. And while we’re at it, we’ll ask for a search warrant for her place. We could get lucky and might just find the murder weapon.”
Adam leaned on the time-worn railing of the verandah and swirled his drink. From this vantage point of the house he’d rented, he had a bird’s-eye view of Washington Square. It was near dusk, sunlight fading with each passing second. Traffic was light, a few cars rolling past, and the promise of darkness was near. And he was feeling like crap. Lying to Caitlyn had been harder than he’d imagined. He should come clean. Now. He took a long swallow from his glass and knew the reason he was wavering. Because he was attracted to her. Which was asinine. Could cost him his license if he let things get out of hand. He’d have to be careful.
It’s just because you haven’t been with a woman in a long time.
Nope. That was only half of it. He hadn’t been attracted to a woman in a long time. Probably because of his ex-wife. Had he ever really gotten over her?
Maybe finally.
At least he’d found someone else to fantasize about.
Except that she’s your patient.
“Oh, hell,” he growled, staring at the square.
A couple was strolling hand in hand under the trees, and an old, emaciated man was seated on a bench, hands folded on the top of his cane, fedora angled jauntily upon his head. Overhead two squirrels pirouetted and dived, scrambling nimbly through the branches and whispering through the leaves.
What had Rebecca said the last time she’d called?
“I’ve got a breakthrough on this case that you won’t believe. This is it, Adam. Remember I wanted to write a book about a case? I finally found it. I’ll be taking a couple of months off, going to try and organize my notes, and then, with the client’s permission, I’ll write it. You’re going to be so jealous!”
She’d been laughing, almost flirty, and he’d felt that there might be hope for their relationship after all. It had been so long since he’d heard any hint of gaiety in her voice, any trace of lightheartedness, and he wondered with more than a measure of guilt how much of that had been his fault.
He missed her lighthearted banter. Or he had.
After the last phone conversation, he’d never heard from her again. He’d called, leaving messages, hoping to recapture that hint of breathlessness and resurrected youth he’d heard in her voice.
It hadn’t happened. She’d never returned his calls, and when he’d come down here he’d found her landlady distressed, her clients disbursed, his own silly dreams of rekindling a fire long dead, dashed.
Then he’d met Caitlyn Bandeaux.
Beautiful, sexy, recently widowed Caitlyn Bandeaux.
And she presented a whole new problem.
The ice in his glass clinked softly. He didn’t know what he was going to do with her. She’d called tonight, had sounded shaken up and had asked to meet with him tomorrow. He’d agreed.
In fact he was looking forward to the session. Couldn’t wait to see her again.
So you’re gonna play the shrink again?
His jaw slid to one side and guilt scratched at his conscience. He should stop this charade right now; go to the police and be done with it. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had a job to do, a promise he’d made to himself. Even if Caitlyn Bandeaux held a fascination for him.
It was the kind of fascination that was certain to cause a man grief, but it was there just the same. He just had to figure out what do to about it. What to do about her.
The trouble was that no matter what he decided, he knew he’d regret it. He took a long swallow of aged Kentucky whiskey.
Like it or not, he’d just stepped into a lose/lose situation.
And it was only going to get worse.
Fourteen
Sugar stood in the shower and let the cool water wash away the dirt, smoke, sweat and sin that seemed to cling to her body. Closing her eyes, she leaned into the spray. Her head echoed with the loud music she’d heard for three hours, and a few of her muscles ached from the high heels she’d worn as she’d gyrated to the music, making love to the damned pole while the perverts watched from their darkened tables. God, she was glad when a night was over.
If it wasn’t for the money, she would stop. Dickie Ray actually had the gall to insinuate that she worked at Pussies In Booties because she enjoyed dancing nude, that she was enough of an exhibitionist to get off on the leers, jeers, hoots and hollers from the crowd, but he was wrong. It was just for the money. Nowhere else in this town could she bring in the kind of cash that she was making at the club. But then, her younger redneck of a brother didn’t understand that. In fact, he didn’t understand much. Oh, he was motivated by money, all right, but he expected it to come knocking on his door. His only ambition was to buy a lottery ticket every week. It was a wonder she put up with him. Because he was kin. The whole “blood is thicker than water” thing. Which she was beginning to think was a pile of crap.
She shampooed her hair and used the runoff suds to wash her face, shoulders and back. Then she splashed on some violet-scented body wash and took special care around her breasts and abdomen.
Though she didn’t get off on displaying her body for the nameless Joes in the audience at the club, she did enjoy showing off her curves and “spectacular breasts,” as she’d been complimented endless times, but only to one special man . . . the one who had promised to come by. As exhausted as she was, there was a certain frisson of excitement just at the thought of being with her new lover. She tingled at the thought. Not that the relationship would ever go anywhere. You don’t know that. Why not dream a little?
She felt sexy and naughty and a little wicked and she loved the feeling. She also experienced a twinge of superiority when she was with him, as if she was pulling a fast one on the bluebloods of Savannah. Supposedly the city had a reputation for being the stepsister to Atlanta, a Southern lady with a dirty hem on her antebellum gown, but if that was true, Sugar Biscayne never wanted to set foot in the state capital. There was plenty of snobbery here in Savannah to suit her style. Now finally, she was getting a little of her own back.
She twisted off the shower, toweled off and rumpled her hair with perfumed mousse. Body gel and lotion followed before she slipped on a black thong, piled her hair on her head loosely and let one wayward, damp curl slip free. A little rouge on her nipples, a brush of mascara and a quick sheen of lip gloss—he liked her to look young and innocent and hot. His ultimate fantasy was for her to play the role of seductive virgin, an untouched woman/girl who wanted him to give it to her . . . well, maybe that was every man’s fantasy, but for this one, she’d do anything.
You’re his love slave and he’s playing you for a fool, her conscience nagged, but she didn’t listen, already heard the sound of a finely tuned engine roaring ever closer and the crunch of expensive tires in the gravel drive. She gave her nipples one final pinch to make certain they were red and hard, then slipped her arms through the sleeves of a short white robe, the one he’d bought for her, the one that just barely covered her ass.
Beams of headlights splashed light on the wall as she hurried through the bedroom and down the short hallway, only pausing for a second at Cricket’s door. It was ajar and as Sugar pushed it open, she eyed the mess—rumpled bed with the sheets sagging to the floor, glasses and plates littering every surface—stereo, dresser, window ledge, night stand. Towels and clothes were dropped haphazardly on the floor, slung over the vanity chair or tossed casually over the open closet door. A bag of chips spilled and crushed into the carpet, shoes kicked off and left.
A pigsty.
Cricket had better clean up her room and clean up her act if she didn’t want to be kicked out on her butt. Sugar paid the bills, so she set the rules. Her baby sister could damn well abide by them no matter what form
of current depression, obsession or dependence Cricket was into. Sugar would be damned if she was going to pick up after Cricket. The kid was old enough—nearly twenty-four, for crying out loud—to clean up after herself. She wondered if her sister would show up at all. It was already pushing three in the morning.
Sugar shut the door to Cricket’s room. The rest of the house could pass a military inspection. Aside from the couch showing signs of wear, cat-claw marks compliments of Cricket’s cat, Diablo, and a couple of stains no amount of cleanser and elbow grease could erase, the double-wide was clean enough, just a little shabby, showing signs of age.
The purr of the engine stopped.
Caesarina growled low in her throat.
“Stop that!” Sugar ordered, but Caesarina was on her feet, big and glaring at the front door as Sugar swept by. “Be good,” she warned the dog as she flung open the door. He was already up the steps, his warm hands anxiously parting the robe to slide familiarly around her waist.
“You smell good,” he growled, lips at her nape, fingers cupping her buttocks to pull her tight against him. His erection pressed against the zipper of his slacks and she felt a little thrill, the beginning of desire firing her blood. Oh, this was good. So good. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, feeling the warmth of his lips and the slick promise of his tongue.
He let out a soft moan, then walked her backward and managed to kick the door closed. Slowly his fingers scaled her ribs, inching up her skin until he cupped her breasts. “Do me,” he growled, nibbling her earlobe.
“Don’t you want a drink first?”
“Later.”
“Then come into the bedroom—”
“Just do me.” It was an order, one that held a desperate edge. He pushed her head down and she slid to the floor, kneeling in front of him, the hem of her robe fanning around her. “That’s it, baby, that’s what Daddy wants.”
This and a whole lot more, she thought, slightly disappointed as he angled his hips toward her. But she wouldn’t be unhappy for long. This was part of their usual routine. First she serviced him as if she were some kind of whore and then he might take the time to spank her just until her cheeks were hot, as if she was supposed to be a young innocent, but in the end he always, without fail, became an eager, indulgent lover, someone who would satisfy her every need.
As long as his were taken care of first.
She told herself she really didn’t have any room to complain.
He treated her better than any other man she’d ever been with.
She glanced up at his handsome face and ignored the dog watching her. Making eye contact with her lover, Sugar offered him a naughty smile, licked her lips and then, slowly, oh, so slowly, her long fingernails tracing the metal teeth, she slid the tab of his zipper down.
Atropos lurked in the shadows. It was dark, still night, but dawn was threatening to the east. Soon gray light would steal across these weed-choked, dry acres and the thicket of scrub oak that provided her with cover. Her car was hidden half a mile down the road. No one knew she was here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Listening to the feral, animal grunts and moans that emanated from the trailer. Her mouth twisted with disgust. Even she needed a smoke after all the screwing that went on inside the old tin can. She checked her watch. Nearly five a.m. and Sugar Biscayne’s lover was still inside, still going at it. He was as bad as she, sneaking around at night, visiting his white-trash whore in this dump of a double-wide.
The sounds of rutting soon ceased and within minutes, the door to the mobile home opened. The lovers’ silhouettes were backlit by garish flourescent bulbs that flickered an eerie blue. His suit was wrinkled, his shirttail hanging out of his pants, and Sugar was standing barefoot, the short little robe not hiding much of what she so proudly displayed down at the Pussies In Booties, her hair mussed . . . pathetic cunt. Sugar Biscayne was a low-life whore who showed off her glistening, sweat-soaked body for a few lousy bucks. She was the worst kind of woman.
And her lover was perfect for her.
Because he was the worst kind of man. One who was caught in the trap of sex and lust she so brazenly displayed. And he bought into it. The married scumbag dropped one last kiss on her, grabbed her ass, then dashed to his expensive car and his other life. What would he tell his wife? What excuse would he make? How would he hide the smell of sex, booze and another woman? But then, the wife probably knew. And no doubt the husband wouldn’t return home until he’d stopped off at a motel somewhere, shaved and showered, ready with excuses. Either his wife didn’t want to face the truth or was afraid to admit that her man had strayed.
He was in his car now, already preparing his alibi. Headlights splashed twin beams across the thicket and Atropos froze, her heart drumming. But he didn’t see her, no, he was already making his frantic escape. The expensive car’s engine turned over, raced, and he twisted on the steering wheel, backing up quickly, gravel crunching beneath spinning tires.
Sugar stood in the doorway, her lipstick long faded, her robe gaping. She lifted a hand to wave, expecting her lover to flash his headlights or honk or roll down the window and blow a kiss. Desperate, needy cunt. Didn’t she know he was already gone, his alibi set, ready to wash away any hint of lingering scent or feel of her?
The entire situation was sickening.
But soon over.
Sugar’s days and nights of lovemaking were numbered. Atropos reached into her pocket and felt the braid within—Sugar’s life had been measured and soon would be cut. It was only a matter of days. Atropos was feeling smug, ready to slink back to her car, when she heard Sugar’s voice.
“You want to go out?”
What? Atropos felt a whisper of fear crawl up her spine.
“Well, come on . . .” Sugar opened the door wider, and the dog shot out of the trailer.
Oh, shit! Atropos didn’t move a muscle. The dog lifted its nose into the air, then looked her way. Atropos didn’t dare breathe. The animal was large, with a massive neck and shoulders. It let out a growl. Started her way.
This wasn’t in the plan. Definitely not in the plan. Reaching slowly into her pocket, Atropos’s fingers curled over the handle of her surgical scissors. They were long, the blade thin and deadly.
“Caesarina! Stop it! Get to your business.” Sugar was impatient in the doorway, holding the lapels of her robe together with one hand.
The dog glanced at Sugar, then, lowering its head, growled again and started toward the thicket.
“Quit foolin’ around!” Sugar ordered.
Atropos’s heart nearly jumped from her chest. This was no good. No good . . . Sweating, she reached into her pocket again. Found her cell phone and, glancing at the illuminated dial, pressed a preset number.
The dog was advancing, its beady eyes centered on the thicket, her white teeth bared.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, get in here” Sugar said, but her eyes were trained on the thicket and dawn was offering a little more light. Soon Atropos would be visible. “You see somethin’ in there?” Sugar asked, her gaze centered on the tiny copse.
Come on, come on. Ring, damn it.
“Caesarina?”
From inside the trailer, Sugar’s phone jangled loudly.
“Who the hell—?” Sugar wondered, but then turned, expecting, no doubt, to hear her lover’s voice on the phone. She hurried out of the doorway and Atropos started backing away, inching out of the thicket and toward the low slope and fence she’d have to vault to get to her car parked on a seldom-used lane. Never once did she take her eyes off of the advancing dog. But she dropped her phone into her pocket and searched again with her fingers . . . it was in here . . . surely she hadn’t forgotten . . .
“Hello?” Sugar’s voice could be heard on the phone. Atropos was backing up faster and the dog, head low, was starting to break into a lope. Closing the distance.
“Hello? Who is this?” Stupidly Sugar called her lover’s name. Fool! Atropos ha
d the scissors pointed at the mutt and the fingers of her other hand found the canister.
The dog leaped, its huge maw wide. Teeth like razors. Atropos pushed hard on the spray button.
“Hey! Who is this? Hello? Hello?” Sugar was yelling, angry now, her voice muffled in Atropos’s pocket.
Mace hit the dog square in her eyes. It squealed.
“Die, bitch!” Atropos struck. Her scissors were a dagger. She plunged the deadly weapon into the side of the beast’s huge neck. Once. Twice.
Caesarina gave off a pained yip and fell back.
“What?” Sugar screamed, her voice muted.
The dog, whimpering, trailing blood, ran back to the double-wide, and Atropos took off running toward the car.
“Caesarina? Oh, God . . . what happened?” Sugar’s voice was suddenly concerned. Panicked. “Did you get into a tussle with a possum? Jesus, you’re bleeding! Oh, God . . . we’ve got to get you to the vet!”
As if that would help.
As the first light of dawn spread over the fields, Atropos raced over a final rise and saw her car. She’d made it. The dog was probably dead, but that was good. It would give the Biscayne bitch something to think about.
Rapping lightly on the door to Adam’s office, Caitlyn steeled herself. This is necessary, she told herself, you need to talk things out. She was here to get help, not because she thought Adam Hunt was the slightest bit attractive, or sexy, or even a tad interesting. This was a professional meeting, counselor and client.
“Come in,” he called as the door, already ajar, inched open.
She walked inside and found the desk pushed out at an angle, Adam on his knees behind it. He looked over the corner of the desk and smiled as if he were a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. “Excuse me.” He stood and dusted off his slacks. “Something fouled up with the computer. I thought the surge protector might have switched off. No such luck.” He edged the desk back against the wall with his hips and she couldn’t help but notice his buttocks. Nice. Tight. Damn it, what was she thinking? “Now, before we get started, can I get you something?” He motioned distractedly toward the small table with its pitcher and carafe.
