He knew he was being set up for dismissal. Knew it and couldn’t do much about it but make sure everything he did on the job was aboveboard.
Still, the only thing that could make him forget about his professional life was drinking his way through his personal life.
He ran his fingers over the two-day stubble on his chin, his head reminding him of his binge the night before. Facing a murder investigation involving an FBI agent hostage when he had a hangover wasn’t his idea of a good time and didn’t bode well for the outcome.
He reached around the counter to toss the empty coffee cup into the wastebasket.
“Would you like another cup?” Josie asked.
Alan looked at her, finding it surprising that he hadn’t thought to flirt with the very attractive young woman. But just as his professional life had taken a nosedive after his affair, so had his sex life. “Why? Do you see something I didn’t ruin with this one?” he responded gruffly.
She smiled at him faintly, collected the paper towels, then disappeared through a doorway behind the counter.
He turned the page in his notebook, absently watching as the black body bag holding the recently deceased Miss Claire Laraway was carried down the stairs on a gurney.
He heard his cell phone chirp and had to look in three pockets before he finally found it.
“Chevalier,” he said, dabbing at a spot he’d missed on his tie.
“This is Jean-Claude Lafitte and I am innocent of the crime I’ve been accused of.”
Alan looked at his phone, the display indicating a blocked number, then moved it to his other ear as he also reached for his pen. “Mr. Lafitte, you haven’t been accused of anything.”
Yet. The word hung in the air.
A technicality really. And one dependent on the suspect’s actual capture so he could be officially charged with the crime in question.
Alan motioned for his junior detective who stood nearby conversing with the medical examiner. “Mr. Lafitte, it would be better for everybody involved if you turned yourself in.”
“Not until I prove my innocence.”
In Alan’s experience, if he were to believe ninety-nine percent of those he arrested, they were all innocent.
“And the agent?”
Silence.
But it told Alan what he’d needed to know. That Lafitte still held Akela Brooks.
“She’s fine.”
“I’m sure Akela’s co-workers and family will be glad to know that, Mr. Lafitte.”
He glanced at two of the agents in question who were deep in conversation near the door. Mentioning the hostage’s first name and family served to remind the suspect that what he held was a human being with a name, not an inanimate object that wouldn’t be missed should anything happen to her.
“Make sure you tell them she hasn’t been harmed then,” Lafitte said. “I’ll be in contact when I find the evidence.”
“What about—”
But Lafitte had already hung up.
Damn. Alan resisted the urge to smack his cell phone against the lobby desk a few times to vent his frustration. Too much was on the line now for him to play cat and mouse with a murder suspect.
5
AKELA STRAINED against her restraints as Lafitte came back into the house. But his attention wasn’t on her. It seemed instead to be on the conversations he’d had outside. Conversations she hadn’t been privy to because of the radio, which undoubtedly he’d purposely turned on to keep her from overhearing him.
He glanced at her. For a moment she thought he might have forgotten he’d taken her hostage, his look of surprise was so genuine. He put his cell phone down on the counter, turned down the radio, then strode across the room toward her.
Akela’s every nerve ending went on alert. He had yet to put another shirt on and was still barefoot, and his casual attire made her feel more awkward still. She wasn’t used to people being so casual around her. At her parents’ house, no matter the heat, full dress was expected, even at night and in the morning.
Lafitte reached for the chain around his neck that held some sort of coin along with what she realized was the key to her cuffs. He pulled the simple silver chain over his head then unlocked the cuffs from her wrist.
He stood looking at her expectantly. Was he waiting for her to make a run for it?
“Didn’t you say you had to go to the bathroom?”
Akela stopped rubbing her wrist. She’d forgotten she’d made the request. Part of the reason might be the subtle scent of spice that reached her nose, a scent that emanated from him and probably came from whatever soap he’d used during his shower.
She eyed his wide chest and the way his waist narrowed, then caught sight of the light sprinkling of hair below his navel that disappeared in a line down the front of his buttoned jeans.
“Um, yes.”
He gestured toward the door in the corner. “It’s over there.”
Akela couldn’t have moved fast enough. As soon as she closed the crude wood door after herself, she found out why he hadn’t insisted on coming with her. The small room didn’t boast any windows, and held only the bare necessities.
She quickly took care of business and started looking through the narrow medicine cabinet. Aspirin, rubbing alcohol, cotton swabs, shaving cream and a straight razor comprised the contents. She opened the razor, tested its sharpness, and then lifted the hem of her slip and slid it into the top elastic of her underpants. On the bottom shelf she found a needle bearing a short length of thread. She picked that up, as well, tested its strength, then fastened it just inside the cup of her bra.
There was a rap at the door and then it opened.
Akela started.
“I figured chances were better than good that you’d either be still on the commode or going through my medicine cabinet.”
She stiffened and straightened her slip. “I have a headache.” She grabbed the bottle of aspirin and shook out a couple of tablets.
“Not a phrase I hear often, although it seems to be a staple of most marriages.”
Akela shot him a glance. “Are you talking from experience?”
He crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned against the doorjamb. “Non. Never been tempted down that path.”
He didn’t seem in a hurry for her to leave. Then again, there really was no reason for him to be. She was essentially blocked in.
She took her time putting the aspirin onto her tongue one by one then following them up with water she scooped from the faucet into her mouth. Well water.
“You won’t want to be doing that often,” Lafitte said. “There’s bottled water in the fridge.”
She wiped droplets of the liquid in question from the side of her mouth then stood before him, indicating she wanted out. He stood solidly unmoving.
Akela was acutely aware of his proximity, standing tall and proud, regarding her openly. While he was tall, so was she.
He leaned closer, his nose mere millimeters away from her neck. He almost seemed to be smelling her.
“Mmm,” he made a sound that was both intensely personal and heart-poundingly suggestive.
She suddenly couldn’t draw a breath.
“Tell me, Akela—” her first name on his lips made her shiver “—have you ever not been in control of a situation?”
“No.” The word came out as a harsh rasp.
He fingered a strand of her hair that had long escaped her twist, considering the dark strand with interest. She watched the shadows shift in his eyes, the dilating of his pupils, the shallowness of his breathing.
“I have,” he said. “A long time ago. And I don’t like that I’m not in control again now.”
His other hand was at her hips, setting a tiny fire there that nearly scorched her skin through the flimsy fabric of her slip. She caught her breath, her body yearning for exactly what he seemed to be offering with his touch.
All too abruptly he stepped back, holding up the straight blade he’d taken from under th
e elastic of her underpants without her even realizing it.
Akela swallowed hard, trying to rein in her runaway emotions.
“How did you know?”
He put the object into his own pocket. “Because if our roles had been reversed, it would have been the first thing I’d have gone for.”
“You could have made things much easier by removing it before I went in.”
“What would the fun have been in that?”
“Fun. Is that how you view this?”
He stared at her, the darkness back in his gaze. “I was speaking figuratively.”
He moved away from the door, but didn’t seem intent on refastening her to the bed. For that, at least, she was grateful. And she was careful not to make any quick moves that might cause him to change his mind.
“What do you do for a living?” she asked quietly, watching as he looked through the cupboards.
While he appeared unconcerned with her movements, she didn’t kid herself into thinking that he didn’t know exactly where she was and what her intentions were.
“I’m a business owner.”
“What kind of business?”
His gaze narrowed on her face. “Why don’t you sit down?”
He motioned toward a stool near the counter.
Akela slowly did as he asked, making sure her slip covered her and gauging the distance between him and her, and her and the door.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“My brother and I began an airboat tour company in a nearby bayou and slowly expanded to include selling boats some years ago. I’m in the process of buying him out now.”
His movements slowed as he took a couple of cans out of the cupboards, then a can of beans and a bag of rice. Another cupboard bore spices.
She was mildly surprised he was going to cook. Most men she knew couldn’t boil an egg, much less knew their way around a kitchen. Her ex certainly hadn’t known how to do anything beyond pour milk on top of store-bought cereal.
Lafitte appeared not only at home there in the small, makeshift kitchen, he looked somehow…right in his surroundings, despite the tension radiating from him in waves. She supposed it could be the way he moved, as if he really didn’t have to think about what he was doing.
“What kind of boats?”
“Do you really want to know?”
She held his gaze, then admitted, “No.”
“Didn’t think so.”
She couldn’t help thinking that a man who had so much going on wouldn’t jeopardize that by killing his lover.
He turned away from her to begin combining the ingredients in what she recognized was a crude, basic gumbo.
“How long you been an agent for the FBI?”
Akela pulled her gaze from where she’d been watching his back and the scar there. “Six years.” She noticed there was a subtle red ring around her right wrist and gently rubbed it. “Do you have a prior criminal record?”
He didn’t immediately answer, which she knew probably revealed more than what he might have said.
“Violent crime?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then if you’re innocent, why are you running?”
NOW THAT WAS a question, wasn’t it?
Claude was acutely aware of where Akela was at all times. Not merely because he needed to keep tabs on her movements to prevent her escape, but because he seemed tuned into her on a level that bothered him because it had little to do with her as a hostage and everything to do with her as a woman. Yet it had only been a short time ago that he’d been in another woman’s arms. But it wasn’t the limited passage of time that disturbed him; rather it was the fact that that woman was now dead.
“As my brother and I are fond of saying, ‘our mama didn’t raise no fools.’”
“Why would turning yourself in make you a fool?”
“Because I would be putting my destiny in someone else’s hands.”
She seemed to give that some thought as she rubbed at the mark the cuffs had made on her wrist.
“You believe I did it? That I murdered Claire?” he asked point-blank.
“I don’t know you well enough to say if you like corn on the cob.”
That was honest.
“Besides, it’s not part of my job to ascertain guilt or innocence.”
“Whose is it if not yours?”
She squinted at him. “How do you mean?”
He’d combined the ingredients for the gumbo, now it needed only to cook at a simmer. He turned and leaned against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He noticed the way her gaze kept trailing to his abs—which intrigued him. Seemed he wasn’t the only one having trouble with keeping to their assigned roles. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, either. From the graceful sweep of her neck to the outline of her collarbone above her slip to the gentle swell of her breasts beneath the silky material.
“You, Agent Brooks, were the one who made the snap judgment that since I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, I must be a suspect.”
“The hotel owner put you in the room with the girl.”
“Sure. But I went out. Isn’t it possible that it happened while I was gone?”
Her gaze skittered away. “That’s not for me to decide.”
“But you did decide. By pulling your gun on me and ordering me to freeze, you decided on the spot that I was guilty.”
“I decided you were a suspect.”
“With coffees and beignets? What do you suppose I planned to do with the extra? Feed them to a corpse?”
The expression on her face told him she’d seen others do worse.
Claude lifted his brows. He’d experienced much during his life. From the streets to the hills of Kosovo, he’d witnessed many things that had surprised him and changed his perception of the world, but nothing like what she was considering. “Are you that jaded?”
“I’m that educated.”
Yes, perhaps that she was. But on all the wrong topics as far as he was concerned.
Oh, Claude didn’t kid himself into thinking that there was no role for law enforcement. While his bayou roots dictated an eye for an eye, the injured party choosing revenge over reporting the incident to the police, he understood that things didn’t work that way everywhere.
He also understood that those with badges were just as fallible as the next guy—his being under suspicion for killing Claire another glaring example of that.
“How was she killed?” he asked quietly.
That squinty-eyed look again. Claude frowned, realizing that she really did think he’d done it and he could virtually hear her ask, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?
“Her throat was slit.”
Claude rubbed his face with his hands, remembering Claire’s long, flawless neck. He could never have done something like that.
“And what is the FBI’s interest in the case?”
She seemed to shift uncomfortably. “I was there on another matter.”
“So your involvement is unofficial.”
Her gray eyes flashed. “It had been until you took me hostage.”
“Now I’m not only wanted for murder, but for kidnapping a federal agent.”
“You’re the one who got yourself into this mess.”
“By making love to a beautiful woman?”
He reached into the fridge and took out two small bottles of water. He handed her one, noticing the way she automatically said thank you.
“You have to admit, Lafitte—”
“Call me Claude.”
He knew she wouldn’t. “Your taking me hostage does not reflect well on your innocence.”
“So it makes me guilty.”
“It makes you highly suspect.”
He noted that as they spoke she eyed the door a few feet away.
“Ever been this deep into the bayous before?”
She blinked at him but didn’t answer. He hadn’t expected her to.
“Essentially your
only way out is for me to take you out.”
“I think you underestimate my abilities.”
“I think you underestimate mine.”
While physically, Claude came across his equal often, it had been a long, long time since he’d encountered a mental equal. But as he faced off with the lovely Agent Akela Brooks, he had little doubt that she was every bit his match.
And he had little doubt that she would somehow find her way out of the bayou if given the chance—with or without him.
But first, of course, she’d have to get past him.
“So tell me, Akela Brooks,” he said quietly. “How do I go about proving my innocence?”
6
THREE HOURS LATER, Akela thought about her answer to Claude’s question of how he could prove his innocence. Or rather she considered what had been, in essence, her nonanswer.
The cuffs clinked above her head and she had a crick in her neck from sitting upright for so long. After Lafitte had fed her a bowl of gumbo, he’d resecured her to the headboard then disappeared outside again, taking his phone with him. This time, however, he hadn’t switched the radio on, leaving Akela alone with her thoughts and the sound of the bayou around her.
“Most suspects will try everything in their power to convince you of their innocence.” A snippet of her training came back to her. “And you must do everything in your power to ignore them.”
Something Akela had never had a problem with—until now.
It wasn’t that Claude’s…Lafitte’s proclamations of innocence were any different from the others she’d encountered in her six-year career. Rather it was something she sensed rather than could explain, even though everything pointed to his guilt.
She supposed part of the reason was that he had yet to do her any harm. If, indeed, he was guilty of the crime, wouldn’t he have done away with her by now? Wouldn’t he have used her to try to escape the country?
Then again, if the crime was one of passion, then Lafitte wasn’t a killer in the traditional sense of the word. He’d lost control in a fit of rage and committed manslaughter.
She moved to scratch her head with her bound hand, the cuffs stopping her. As she stared at the piece of unforgiving metal, she considered that perhaps the root of her dilemma was that no one had actually asked her the question Lafitte had: “How do I go about proving my innocence?”
Possession Page 4
