Remember the Night

by Linda Castillo

  “I put my clothes in the dryer. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Philip spun, nearly dropped his beer when he saw her standing in the hall just as he’d imagined her a moment ago. A white terry robe fell modestly to her knees. One of his navy-blue towels was wrapped around her head turban style. Philip’s clothes were still damp, but the coolness against his flesh didn’t keep the heat from rising in his groin.

  “That’s fine.” What the hell had happened to his voice?

  She approached him, frowning. “You didn’t have to bring me here. I know my being here could cause problems with your job.”

  She had no idea the kind of problems she was causing him, he thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other to accommodate his arousal. “Don’t read something into it that isn’t there, Michelle. You’re here because I want some answers.”

  “You still think I’m lying.”

  Her smoky voice wafted over him like a drugging cloud. He smelled baby powder and her own womanly scent. Soft. Clean. And so damn sexy that for a moment he couldn’t look away. What was it about her that had him acting like a pimply faced teenager with a bad case of hormones? Making him do crazy things that could cost him much more than merely the case? Things like losing himself in that lush mouth in the ladies’ room of the police station….

  Philip gave her a hard look. “You lied to me.”

  He made the mistake of letting his gaze drop. Her mouth opened, revealing the space between her teeth. He’d never seen such a tempting, interesting mouth. He knew how soft it was, remembered every curve, and the sweetness of her breath.

  Steeling himself against an attraction that would only cause him trouble, Philip stepped back, determined to keep his mind on the business at hand. “I don’t like surprises, Michelle. When it comes to working a murder case, I downright despise them. I have the feeling you’ve got a few up your sleeve. I’m out of patience. If you want to keep yourself out of jail, I suggest you start talking.”

  His stare hit her like a physical blow. His gaze was angry, forceful and filled with the kind of hunger that should have sent her scrambling for the front door.

  “Thanks for setting me straight on that, Betancourt. For a moment I thought you’d brought me here out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “Goodness has nothing to do with it. And you’ve probably realized by now I don’t have a heart. I’ve been patient with you, Michelle. I’ve put a hell of a lot on the line for you. You owe me the truth.”

  “I didn’t realize you were keeping score.”

  She turned away, but his hand shot out and clamped on her arm. “No games. I want the truth. All of it. Starting with why you were arrested as a juvenile.”

  She slapped his hand off her arm. “Maybe you should get out the handcuffs and brass knuckles.” Her voice was strong, but his touch had shaken her. Needing a minute to regroup, she brushed by him, hating it that her legs felt like rubber.

  A fire blazed in a marble-front hearth. Aside from a futon in the corner, the room was completely devoid of furniture. A leafless plant stood next to the picture window. A set of dumbbells lay scattered in the center of the room. Classic rock and roll hummed from a small radio on the windowsill.

  “What happened to your furniture?” she asked.

  “My ex took it when she left. I haven’t replaced it.”

  She’d often wondered what kind of a place he lived in, and realized this suited him perfectly. Hard. Cold. Empty. “How long ago—”

  “Why were you arrested, Michelle?”

  She moved closer to the fireplace, suddenly needing its warmth. “What happened to me as a juvenile has nothing to do with Armon’s murder.”

  “I’ve had your record subpoenaed. I thought maybe you’d want me to hear it from you.”

  “You won’t get the records. I was a juvenile. They were sealed.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  She spun to face him. “And what? Use it against me? So you can arrest me for a crime I didn’t commit? So some fresh-faced prosecutor can convince a jury I murdered my best friend?”

  “No, dammit, to help you!” His voice echoed through the house like a gunshot. “How the hell am I supposed to help you when you don’t trust me enough to tell me the truth?”

  “By finding the real killer.” Her voice was thready and thin.

  “I need to know what happened that night, Michelle. I need your memory. Dammit, I need your cooperation.”

  She met his gaze, felt her breath stop dead in her chest at the power behind his eyes. He could go from dry-ice cold to furnace hot in the span of a heartbeat. He was volatile and unpredictable, with the kind of temper that sent alarm bells clanging in her head. Why couldn’t she stay away from him?

  “What did Dr. Witt say about the hypnosis session?” she asked.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “The tests results were inconclusive, but in his opinion you were probably telling the truth.” One side of his mouth hiked up into a cynical smile. “Of course, you know hypnosis results aren’t always admissible should this go to court.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Taking a deep breath, Michelle took a moment to organize her thoughts. “There is something else.”

  His gaze snapped to hers.

  “When we walked into my apartment tonight, I had a flashback of sorts. When I got dizzy.”

  Setting his beer on the fireplace mantel, Philip approached her, his jaw set, eyes intense. “What did you remember?”

  “Basically what I saw in the hypnosis session. Only now I know the man in black is real. I know he’s the one who shot Armon. I know he aimed the pistol at me. It was almost as if he changed his mind and decided not to kill me at the last second. And he wore a mask. Not a ski mask, but a Mardi Gras mask. Black, I think. The kind that usually has feathers, but this one didn’t. I’m certain of that now.”

  “That doesn’t leave us with much more than what we knew from the hypnosis session.”

  “I wasn’t sure of the man or the mask then. I am now.”

  Philip contemplated her. “Why did Armon go to see you that night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you know you’re the beneficiary of a life insurance policy?”

  The revelation jolted her. Pain flashed across her chest, so sharp and intense that she couldn’t draw a breath. “I didn’t know.”

  “A small policy to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars.”

  Michelle rubbed her brow where a headache threatened to break through. “My God.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about a will?”

  “He brought the subject up once or twice, but talk of death and wills made me uncomfortable.” She laughed dryly. “I never wanted him to think it mattered. The money, I mean, so I never let him talk about it. I just…couldn’t handle it.”

  “Did he say he would provide for you?”

  “Yes. But I told him it didn’t matter.”

  “Do you know if he used an attorney?”

  Michelle acknowledged the headache, even as her mind skimmed through the names of the dozens of attorneys Armon had used on occasion. “There was a small firm not far from the Warehouse District. He went to Tulane with the senior partner, Dennis Jacoby. Armon had used Dennis to draw up some of the documents when he donated money to Charity Hospital for the wing. Then again for the foundation he set up for homeless children.”

  Philip arched a brow.

  She smiled wryly. “I’m sure that throws a wrench into your perception of the proverbial lawyer, but Armon Landsteiner had a heart of gold. I’m living proof of that.”

  “What was the name of the firm?”

  “Jacoby and Perez. Armon and Dennis Jacoby were friends. They kept in touch. In fact, Armon and I had dinner with Dennis and his paralegal about a month ago, right before Christmas.”

  “Did they talk about Armon’s will?”

  “What are you getting at? Do you think Armon’s murder has something to do with his will?”


  “I’m checking into everything at this point.”

  “The only people who would have something to gain in regard to a will are Danielle, Derek and Baldwin. They’re not murderers, Betancourt.”

  “If you were listed on the will, it might make you look guilty.”

  The words lanced her, but she didn’t react. “I’m not a murderer.”

  “So you’ve said, Michelle. But the bottom line is you keep lying. That’s one of my cardinal rules. No lying.”

  “I haven’t lied to you.”

  “Lying by omission is the same. Worse, probably, because it’s so premeditated. Refusing to tell me what that juvenile charge was makes me wonder what the hell else you aren’t telling me. One lie usually leads to another, and eventually they get all tangled up. I’ll get the truth, Michelle. And if need be, I’ll nail you to the wall.”

  Everything inside her went perfectly still. He wanted to know about Bayou Lafourche; she couldn’t tell him. She could still taste the betrayal at the back of her throat, still feel the stinging slap of humiliation and shame. She wondered if Betancourt would betray her, too. “The charges against me were dropped. There is no record. Therefore, your witch-hunt is irrelevant.”

  “If I found out about your record, someone else can. I’m not the only one looking, Michelle. Armon Landsteiner had friends in high places. Those people want blood. They want an arrest. They don’t give a damn who the sacrificial lamb is.”

  Fear quivered deep in her stomach. “I’m innocent. I’ve got the truth on my side.”

  “Then why do you keep lying?” He moved toward her, like a storm cutting a violent path across the gulf, dark, dangerous. “Not everyone cares about justice, Michelle. Not everyone cares about the truth.”

  She stepped back, felt the heat of the fire against her calves. “You care about the truth. Shove all the cynicism and suspicion aside and you care.”

  A hard laugh broke from his throat. “Really?”

  Her back thudded against cool stone. She felt trapped beneath his gaze, like a sailboat stalled in the path of that approaching storm, awaiting a deadly trip to the bottom of the sea.

  “Maybe I care about more than just the truth,” he said.

  The words sent a bolt of panic up her spine. “Lying now makes you a hypocrite, Betancourt. So please don’t.” She wasn’t sure what he was trying to say, only that she didn’t want to hear it.

  “Don’t what? Tell you I’m a hell of a lot more involved in this case than I should be? That I care what happens to you?”

  The stark admittance sent a ripple of shock through her. She didn’t want to believe him. To fall for that bad-boy charm now would open her up to the same kind of hurt, the same kind of betrayal she’d suffered at the hands of another cop, in another era of her life. “Don’t play games with me. I can’t handle it right now.”

  “You can’t handle it?” His eyes glittered menacingly. Leaning toward her, he braced his arms on either side of her, pinning her against the wall. “Let me tell you what you can’t handle. Arrest. A trial. Prison time. Do you think you can handle all that? Have you even considered the possibility?”

  Michelle’s heart banged hard against her ribs. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her face. His scent surrounded her, pressed into her, filling her with needs she swore she’d never succumb to.

  One side of his mouth curled. “No, you haven’t thought of prison. Just as you haven’t considered the possibility that I might care about what happens to you. You’ve convinced yourself that no one could ever care about the poor little girl from the bayou, haven’t you? Isn’t that why you carry around that giant chip on your shoulder?”

  “You’re wrong about me.”

  “I hit the nail on the head, only you don’t have the courage to admit it.”

  Her temper ignited. “Don’t lecture me about courage.”

  “You need it, Michelle, because it takes courage to tell the truth. It really ticks me off when you lie to me.”

  His mouth was less than an inch from hers, so close she could almost taste him. Her breath hitched. If he didn’t let up her heart was going to explode.

  “That makes you a coward.”

  Her hand shot out, connected with his cheek.

  His face darkened, but he didn’t so much as flinch.

  “Don’t you dare call me that,” she said breathlessly. “You don’t know anything about me. What I’ve been through. What I’ve overcome—”

  “You’re tough, aren’t you, Michelle? You take care of yourself. You don’t need anyone else, do you? You don’t need me. You didn’t need Armon.”

  She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Her pulse raced out of control, and the blood rushing through her ears was so loud she could barely hear him. He was using his proximity, his cruel words to confuse her, to overpower her, to disarm her. “Stop it.”

  “Why? Because I’m right?”

  “Because you’re wrong.”

  “Help me help you, Michelle. I need to know the truth. All of it.”

  Denial rose up in her, only to free fall when he moved his hands to her face, cupping her cheek. His gaze bored into hers, angry, pleading. The only sound between them was their ragged breathing. But she was helpless to steady hers, just as she was helpless to resist what she knew would happen next.

  His body came full length against hers. Michelle’s brain stalled. Her heart seemed to explode in her chest. The only information that processed was the pleasure shooting sparks to all the wrong places.

  He crushed his mouth to hers with a barely concealed violence that left her breathless. She tasted heat and male frustration. Her knees went weak. To keep herself from sliding to the floor, she put her arms around his neck, felt his muscles cord with tension. Vaguely, she was aware of one of his hands slipping to the back of her head, angling her mouth so that he had better access. He deepened the kiss, a growl rumbling up from his chest. Thoughts staggered through her brain, churning out sensations, emotions, everything but logic. Helpless to resist, she melted against him, opened her mouth. His tongue dipped inside, tasting her, taunting her with the satiny texture of his mouth, his own unique flavor. She welcomed the intrusion. All she could think of was that she’d forgotten how powerful a kiss could be. She fed on him like a starving woman, giving as much as she took, her body all the while humming with arousal.

  It barely registered when he took her hands in his. Slowly, with devastating surety, he eased her hands above her head. The act was so unexpected and so incredibly sensual that Michelle let go of her iron-fisted control. A groan bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her. Her swollen breasts ached as her nipples pebbled against the terry cloth of the robe. For the first time she recognized the force of her own arousal, pulsing and wet between her legs.

  She’d forgotten how it felt to be touched by a man. This particular man’s touch moved her like no other. Feather light, but at the same time as shocking as the snap of a whip. The way his mouth moved over hers was quite simply something she’d never experienced. The result devastated her, shook her to her core. A small corner of her brain denied that she was falling for a cop even as delicious sensations washed over her. But she knew it was true. She felt it in her every fiber. Worse, she knew it in her heart.

  Her vision went black-and-white when he trailed wet kisses down her throat. Releasing her hands, he parted the robe. Michelle shivered when cool air brushed over her breasts. Then the heat of his mouth on her nipple stole her breath. Her body clenched, released as he suckled. A groan escaped her. Heat built low in her belly, spreading lower, building, exploding, burning her until she felt feverish. She closed her eyes and let the sensation carry her. White light exploded behind her lids. Control tumbled away, replaced by need that was insane in its intensity. She arched into him, giving him full access to her breasts. Sensation pounded through her as he caressed her nipples with his tongue.

  “I can’t stay away from you,” he panted. “This
is crazy, but I want you. I want this. I’ve wanted you all along.”

  Michelle barely heard the words. She was beyond hearing, beyond understanding. Insanity descended the instant she felt his hand at the juncture of her thighs. A sound that was part need, part alarm escaped her. But she didn’t stop him. Her thighs opened of their own accord, cool air rushing over wet heat.

  She cried out when his finger found her, slipped into her very center and went deep. He stroked her there, and she met him stroke for stroke. All the while his mouth worked dark magic on hers. The pleasure overwhelmed her; it was too much, too soon. Then she was falling…tumbling end over end….

  The climax swept over her with stunning force, shocking her. Even as she tumbled into oblivion, Michelle knew she’d crossed a line that could never be recrossed. Another mistake. Another lie. Another cop.

  Philip hadn’t meant for things to go this far. But they’d spiraled out of control so quickly, he’d been helpless to prevent what had been inevitable from the moment he’d first met her. He wanted to blame lust. The fact that he’d been alone for a long time. It was easier to think he’d put everything he’d ever worked for on the line because of long-neglected male needs and good old-fashioned lust.

  But he knew better.

  He also knew he couldn’t let it go any further. Both of them would be irrevocably damaged if he did. Her emotionally. Him professionally. He refused to consider anything deeper than that.

  Even as his rock-hard erection strained painfully against his slacks, he eased himself away from her. “This is insane.”

  Perspiration slicked her forehead. She blinked at him, her brown eyes wide, her expression stricken.

  He’d never seen a woman look quite so beautiful—or wanted anyone quite so badly. The need ate at him like a voracious creature hollowing him out. “I’m sorry. I…that was a mistake.”

  Clutching the lapels of the robe together with white-knuckled hands, she stumbled back. “You’re right. Oh, I…you’re right. I’ve got to go.”