by Stuart, Anne
His denim shirt was soft and worn beneath her hands. She yanked it open unsnapping the snaps, and touched his chest, letting her hands revel in his smooth, sleek skin. She could feel the furious pace of his heart beneath her touch, feel it match the racing pulse of her own, and she knew he’d managed to unbutton the shirt she wore so that when she leaned against him her breasts were against the muscled hardness of his chest, her heart was against him, just as her mouth knew his, and she felt his hands reach down to the zipper of his jeans. She started to shift, to give him room, when he stopped, reaching out and clutching her arms, grasping them, as he pulled his mouth away from hers.
And then he put her away from him, moving her gently off his lap as he climbed to his feet and walked from the room, leaving her kneeling on the carpet, cold, shaking, awash with conflicting emotions, one of which, she knew, was the never-before-experienced sensation of sexual frustration.
She rebuttoned the shirt with shaking hands, then reached for her jeans and pulled them on. Part of her wanted to crawl back into the bed and pull the covers over her head, rather than face him. But she was too strung out, too tense, too angry, to pretend nothing had happened.
He was standing in the darkened living room, looking out over the city through the cracked picture window. He hadn’t bothered to re-snap the shirt she’d almost torn off him, and she could see him quite clearly, tall and lean and impossibly beautiful. He didn’t turn when she walked up to him, but his voice was low and cool. “You don’t want this, Lizzie,” he said.
“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t want,” she shot back, furious. “Who are you to tell me what I need? I didn’t start this.”
“No,” he said, staring out into the darkness, keeping his face averted. “But I finished it. Damn it, woman, you have no more sense of self-preservation than a week-old kitten.” He turned to face her, and his eyes glittered in the darkness. “How long has it been since you’ve slept with a man? How long?”
She considered lying, but she decided he already knew the truth. “Why bother to ask, when you know the answer? Almost three years. What has that got to do with anything? Maybe I’m hard to please.”
“It has a great deal to do with things. Maybe you’re a fool when it comes to men. You’re not someone who jumps into bed with the first man you finds attractive. You keep your distance, which is even more proof that it isn’t desire that’s making you want me, it’s panic.”
They said counting to ten was an effective way to control one’s temper. That, or reciting the books of the Bible. Lizzie didn’t know the books of the Bible, and counting to a thousand wouldn’t calm her down now.
“I never thought panic was an aphrodisiac,” she said tartly.
His smile was devastating, she thought, staring at him. He reached for her, then let his hand drop before she could go to him. “Where you and I are concerned, Lizzie, everything is an aphrodisiac,” he said wryly. “I want you to go back to bed.”
“Why?”
“Because if you don’t, I might take you there. And that would be a mistake for both of us.”
“Why?” she asked again.
“Because I’m not in the market for a roll in the hay, a two-night stand, a relationship, or true love. I don’t need anyone. I don’t have the time or the energy for anyone other than myself right now. I don’t want you, Lizzie. And I don’t want to hurt you.”
I don’t want you, Lizzie. He thought he could say that to her and still not hurt her? She stared at him stonily. “I’m glad you made that clear,” she said evenly.
“And you don’t really want me. You want safety, you want comfort, and you may have a very normal longing for sex, but it has absolutely nothing to do with me. I’m just an available male, trying to protect you, and you’re imagining that I might fill those other needs. I can’t. I never will. Go back to bed, Lizzie. Before I take what you’re offering and to hell with better judgment.”
“I’m not offering you a damned thing,” she shot back, furious and embarrassed.
“Aren’t you?” Before she realized what he intended, he’d pulled her into his arms again, threaded one hand through her thick red hair and tilted her head back beneath his. He set his mouth on hers, and his kiss was brief, thorough and totally sexual. And when he lifted his head, only the rapidity of his breathing betrayed his own reaction. “You see?” he said, calmly enough. “I could have you on your back in a matter of moments. Run away from me, Lizzie. Tomorrow I’ll put you on a plane, and you won’t ever have to see me again.”
“Don’t planes fly all night long?”
He still had his arms around her. The tension sizzled between them like a charge of electricity, and yet his grip didn’t loosen. “Why are you baiting me, Lizzie?” he asked finally.
“Because I want to know what you’re hiding from me,” she said. “I want to know what you were about to say, back in the bedroom. I want to know what you think you’re going to do to me, that you have to send me across the country to keep me safe. You’re not sending me away from the Ripper. You’re sending me away from you.”
He didn’t move for a long moment, and then he released her, turning away, staring out the window once more. “You know, you’re too damned smart for your own good,” he said.
“I’ve asked you before, and I’ll ask you again, Damien. What are you afraid of?”
The telephone rang, the sound sharp and shrill in the darkness. He started, making a step toward it, but she reached out and caught his arm. “Let the answering machine get it,” she said. “Tell me what you’re afraid of. Are you afraid you might care about me?” It was a bold, embarrassing question, but she was determined to force an answer from him.
She could feel the strength in his arm beneath her hand. And then he pulled free. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid I might kill you.” And he picked up the telephone, just as the answering machine clicked on.
Both voices came from the machine, amplified—Adamson’s and Damien’s. “We’ve got another one, Damien.” His voice was weary. “I’m trying to find Lizzie.”
“She’s here.”
There was a momentary silence on the other end. “I thought she might be. Can I talk to her?”
“I’ll give her your message. She’s asleep right now, and I don’t want to wake her.” He lied easily enough, not even glancing at Lizzie to see whether she objected or not.
“No wonder. She’s probably worn out. We’ll have to have her identify the mask. She knows the drill—God knows she’s used to it by now.”
“Where was the body found this time?”
“You know I can’t tell you that, Damien. Why bother to ask? Just another hooker, her body ripped apart by some monster.”
“You can tell me whether he’s come back to Venice or not,” he said. “Whether she was found on the beach, or in some back alley.”
“Back alley,” Adamson said, his voice sharpening. “How did you know?”
“Most of them have been found in back alleyways.”
“True enough. It’s on the police scanner. I don’t imagine it’ll do me any good to try to keep it quiet. She was found out behind the Greasy Cat. You know, the strip joint over by the freeway.”
“I know it,” Damien said in a hollow voice.
“I sort of hate to make her ID it, but I’ve got to. It’s a real mess this time. Soaked with blood.”
“Aren’t they all?” Damien said, refusing to meet her troubled gaze.
“This is worse than usual. He cut off her ears.”
Damien closed his eyes, feeling the blood drain from his face. “In the morning,” he said hoarsely, and slammed down the telephone.
And then he began to shake.
ALL THOUGHT OF the murdered girl fled Lizzie’s mind. Whoever she was, she was dead, butchered, beyond pain and beyond anyone’s
help. The man in front of her was tormented by demons he refused to name.
She wanted to go to him. She was wise enough not to move. “What is it?” she asked.
He roused himself, his color gray and bleak. “You heard Adamson. Another murder.”
“It’s more than that. You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
He shook his head. “Not a ghost,” he said, in a flat, dead voice. “Just the murder.”
“Damien . . .”
He held up his hand. “Don’t come any closer, Lizzie. You have no sense of self-preservation at all, but this time, at least, do as I say. I don’t . . . trust myself.”
She sucked in her breath in shock. “What do you mean?”
“You know what my name is, Lizzie?” he asked, out of the blue. “J. R. Damien. John Ripley Damien. I was called Jack when I was a little boy.”
She waited for the panic to fill her, but none came. “Damien,” she said gently, “are you trying to tell me you really think you’re the Ripper?”
“I don’t know,” he said angrily. “I saw her. I’ve seen them all. Smelled the stench of death, seen the ripped-apart bodies. And my hands have been covered with blood.”
“There’s a logical enough explanation,” she said. “You’re psychic. You’re having precognitions, visions.”
“Like Lees?” he said bitterly.
“Who’s Lees?”
“Robert Lees. Psychic to Queen Victoria. An odd, twitching sort of fellow. He had visions of the original murders. He was one of the original suspects. One of a hundred.” He made an abrupt, dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’m thirty-seven years old, Lizzie, and I’ve never had a vision in my life. Not only do I not possess psychic abilities, I don’t believe in them.”
“Then how do you see the crimes?”
“There’s only one logical explanation. That I was there. That I committed them. Even if I have no conscious memory of doing them.”
“Damien,” she said, taking a tentative step toward him. “You were asleep beside me tonight. You haven’t left my side since late this afternoon.”
“You were asleep when I came into the bedroom,” he countered roughly. “What makes you think you hadn’t slept for a couple of hours, long enough for me to commit the murder and get back to the apartment?”
“I wasn’t asleep that long.”
“The Ripper can accomplish his work in not time. I could have done it in less than an hour, including the drive and cleaning up afterward.”
She crossed the room then, taking his hands in hers. “Don’t you think there’d be a trace of blood? Beneath your fingernails, for instance?” His hands were deft, beautiful and spotless, and they jerked beneath her touch.
“Maybe I wore surgical gloves.”
For a moment his flat words penetrated her self-assurance, and she felt a frisson of horror fill her. And then she shook it off. “You’re not the Ripper,” she said.
“Then who the hell am I? And how do I know what I know?”
She stared at him in mute frustration. “I can’t answer that,” she said. “But I know someone who can.”
“Lizzie . . .”
“Have you talked to anyone? Told anyone what you suspect?”
“I’m not particularly interested in landing in a mental hospital or in jail,” he snapped. “Unless I’m sure. And if I were, I think I’d be better off wrapping my Austin-Healey around a tree.”
“Do you know about the next murder? Anything that you could warn the police about?”
“I told you, I’m not Robert Lees! I know what’s happening when it happens. I’m there, Lizzie.”
“In spirit, maybe. I can’t believe you’re there in body,” she said.
“I’ve already told you, you’re too innocent.”
“There’s one sure way to find out,” she said, moving away from him. “I’ll call my friend Courtland.”
“You won’t call anyone.”
“She’s got an amazing gift,” Lizzie said desperately. “She’s the real thing, Damien, even if you won’t believe it. If she were the kind of charlatan you think they all are, then she’d be willing to make money off her talents, rather than struggling to get by as a waitress at the Pink Pelican. She can hypnotize you, find out what you’ve got hidden so deep inside.”
“No.”
“Cast the runes for you, do a tarot reading.”
“Lizzie, that’s just a bunch of crap. It’s worthless.”
“It’s worth a try.” She reached for the telephone, and he came up behind her, grabbing it out of her hand. He was very strong, and he hurt her, just a little bit.
“The Ripper comes up behind his victims,” he said, in a cool, almost meditative voice. “Both the Venice Ripper and the London one.”
Lizzie froze, waiting for panic. None came. She could feel his heat, the muscled hardness of his body, his tension. “Damien,” she said evenly, “she might be able to give you the answers. You’re a fool not to try.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. And then he released her, moving away, and she was suddenly unbearably cold. “Do what you want,” he said wearily. “Anything’s worth a shot, no matter how farfetched. I’m going to get drunk.”
She picked up the telephone before he could change his mind and try to stop her again. She felt no fear at all. Damien wasn’t the Venice Ripper, despite his terrible visions and memories. Damien wasn’t a violent man, he was a man possessed, tormented by dreams and memories that weren’t his doing.
Courtland would sort them out. Courtland would come up with the answers, the possibility of a happy ending. The alternative was unacceptable. If Courtland couldn’t find reassurance, then, despite Lizzie’s certainty, Damien might be right after all.
And if that was true, having Courtland delve into other dimensions could sign both their death warrants.
Chapter Ten
“SO THIS IS WHERE Damien lives?” Courtland said when she walked into the apartment two hours later, just before dawn. She looked around her with bright curiosity. “It doesn’t look like the sort of place where an upscale reporter would reside.”
“I’m not upscale,” Damien said from the kitchen doorway, his voice low and dour. “Did you come alone?”
Lizzie stiffened, though she’d been prepared for Damien to be his most unsociable. “Courtland, this is J. R. Damien. Damien, this is Courtland Massey.”
Courtland looked up at Damien with an appraising gleam in her bright blue eyes, one that was frankly sexual, and Lizzie knew a sudden moment of misgiving. Courtland was as traditionally beautiful—blond-haired, blue-eyed beautiful—as an aspiring actress should be. Lizzie had never seen her set her sights on a man and fail to get him. Now Courtland’s gaze sharpened as she looked at Damien, and her beautiful mouth curved in a faintly challenging smile. “So this is the patient. You don’t appear to be looking forward to this, Damien.”
“I’m not. I don’t believe in it.”
Courtland moved closer, and Lizzie could smell the seductive, musky fragrance of her perfume. She’d sprayed it on more liberally than usual, a sure sign of danger. “Most people say they don’t,” she murmured. “But deep in their souls they’re just as gullible as anyone.”
Damien just looked at her out of cold eyes. “Trust me, if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s gullible.”
She glanced up at him appreciatively. “No, I would say you’re probably not,” she agreed with a breathy sigh. “You’re being very broad-minded in letting us do this.”
He shrugged, his remoteness not giving way before Courtland’s practiced charm. “Lizzie wants it. It can’t do any harm.”
“Spoken like a man,” Courtland said wryly. “Come with me, Lizzie. I need you to fill me in on a few things.”
“So you c
an come across sounding knowledgeable?” Damien didn’t move from his spot in the bedroom door.
“I’m not getting anything out of this, buddy,” Courtland said, finally ruffled. “I’m just trying to help a friend.”
Lizzie caught her arm and tugged her over to the sofa. “What do you want to know?”
“Is he always this charming?” Courtland grumbled.
“Sometimes he’s even worse.”
The blonde glanced toward the open bedroom door, but Damien had disappeared, and there was an appraising gleam in her eye. “Still, he’s damned cute. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers. I assume you two don’t have anything going?”
Lizzie didn’t blush, which was a wonder. She managed to keep her expression cool. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I don’t poach on my friends’ property if I can help it. If you’re sleeping with him, I’ll keep my distance.”
It would have been easy enough to say something. To tell Courtland to keep her roving eyes off Damien. But she couldn’t say it. Besides, despite her friend’s insistence that she didn’t trespass, Lizzie had seen her do it countless times. Asking her not to wouldn’t keep her away.
