Remember the Night

by Linda Castillo

  Philip saw panic and humiliation in her eyes, moved to stop both before she did something rash. “I want you, Michelle. But I’m a cop. I can’t be putting my hands all over you during an investigation—”

  “Is that what you were doing? Putting your hands all over me?”

  Oh, hell. Had he said the wrong thing?

  “Maybe you wanted to see if you could get a confession out of me. Maybe you wanted to knock that chip off my shoulder. Or maybe you thought I was a sure thing. I hear those bayou girls put out if you push the right buttons.”

  Anger stabbed through him with surprising force. “Don’t ever let me hear you put yourself down like that again.”

  “You’re right. I don’t have to put myself down. I have you to make me feel like dirt.” Spinning away, she ran toward the guest bedroom, where he’d left her overnight bag.

  Philip followed, cursing, starkly aware that her scent was still on him—and that his arousal showed no signs of abating anytime soon. “I shouldn’t have let that happen, Michelle. I’m sorry. You know I did the right thing by stopping it.”

  She slammed the door in his face.

  He silently counted to ten, willing his temper to cool. “I’ve got a murder investigation to conduct.”

  Silence.

  He waited a beat, then tried the knob, found it locked. “I can’t do this case justice if I don’t have an objective bone in my body.”

  The door swung open. Surprised, Philip backed up a step. She’d thrown on a pair of jeans and an oversize shirt. Her damp hair was piled in an unruly mass atop her head. Her gaze was cold enough to freeze Lake Pontchartrain. “Your number one suspect will no longer be a problem, Detective. If you have any more questions, you can deal with me through my attorney.”

  She looked angry and vulnerable at once. He knew he’d hurt her, humiliated her, in fact. But in the long run, he’d saved them both a lot of heartache. Even so, in a little corner of his mind, he knew no other woman had ever appealed to him as much as Michelle did.

  “You don’t have an attorney,” he pointed out.

  “I’ll get one.” Tossing her bag over her shoulder, she shoved past him and headed for the door.

  Feeling like an ogre—and a fool—Philip trailed her to the foyer. “Let me take you home.”

  A droll laugh escaped her lips. “I’ll take my chances with the muggers. They’re more straightforward. At least I’ll know where I stand.”

  “I’m calling you a cab.” He wanted to stop her, but he knew better. If he touched her, he might not be able to let her go.

  She opened the door, stepped into the night. “Go to hell.”

  Michelle had never been so humiliated in her life. Even as a child, growing up in that tiny shanty without proper plumbing, she’d never been as humiliated as she was walking away from Betancourt’s house. She wanted to blame it on him, but she knew her own weakness had driven her into his arms. When it came to Betancourt, she no longer trusted her self-control. She certainly didn’t trust her judgment.

  How could she have been so stupid? She knew better than to surrender to physical needs. Ten years ago the power of those needs had nearly destroyed her. She refused to let another cop ruin her life.

  A fresh wave of shame sliced through her. A single, earth-shattering kiss and she’d melted, her resolve forgotten, her dignity trampled beneath desire. A single caress from those magical hands, and he’d brought her to the most explosive climax she’d ever experienced.

  Then he’d pulled away.

  Michelle’s face heated as the memory burned through her. Why had she put herself in that position? She should have known what kind of a man he was. He was a cop, for heaven’s sake. He would do anything to solve his case, including seduce her. Had she really thought he would want anything to do with Michelle Pelletier from Bayou Lafourche, Louisiana?

  No, she thought dully, Detective Lieutenant Philip Betancourt wouldn’t want anything to do with a woman like her. What had she been thinking, opening up to him like that? How would he feel after finding out what had happened in Bayou Lafourche?

  If he hadn’t pulled away, she would have made a fool of herself for sure. She should be thanking him for keeping her from making a mistake she would have regretted the rest of her life.

  But the hell of it was she’d wanted him. Apparently more than he wanted her. The realization that she wasn’t attractive enough or sexy enough to keep his attention hurt. Worse, she hadn’t wanted to quit. She’d wanted another taste of that hard mouth, wanted to feel his callused palms against her breasts, his long fingers moving within the deepest reaches of her….

  Blinking back tears, Michelle quickened her pace. She was tired and emotionally wrought. Her feet hurt. The way the lightning was splitting the sky, she was going to get soaked again.

  “Oh, this is just peachy,” she grumbled, cutting south on Carrollton and heading toward St. Charles.

  She didn’t want to go back to her apartment. The reality that she didn’t have anywhere else to go struck her hard, sent shards of panic cutting through her. For the first time in a long time she felt completely and utterly alone.

  She didn’t even realize where she was heading until she found herself standing outside the wrought-iron gates of St. Louis Cemetery. Not caring about the rain or the derelicts known to prowl the cemetery after dark, Michelle tossed her overnight bag over the top of the gate. Bracing her foot against scrolled iron, she hoisted herself up, dropping soundlessly to the other side. She wanted to say goodbye to Armon in private, without the threat of Danielle or Baldwin or Derek, or the prying eyes of his colleagues.

  Light rain fell as Michelle made her way past a row of live oaks and some small crypts bleached white by the subtropical sun. Her footfalls were nearly silent against the wet grass as she cut between rows, careful to stay clear of the shadows where muggers were known to hide. She neared the Landsteiner family crypt, then stopped cold when she caught sight of a shadow darting from behind the tomb.

  Chapter 8

  Ducking into the shadows of a crypt, Michelle fought down an uncharacteristic jab of fear. She wasn’t afraid to walk the streets at night, had done it many times since she’d moved to New Orleans. She was cautious—as well as street savvy—but tonight her hair stood on end as she pressed her back against the cold, wet tomb.

  Footfalls sounded a few yards away. Heart pounding, she watched as a shadowy figure moved slowly past her. A man. If he turned, she would be in plain sight. She held her breath. He continued on, disappearing into the night like a phantom.

  For several minutes she stood motionless, listening. She heard nothing but the sound of the rain and the hiss of tires against wet pavement coming off Esplanade. Relief swamped her. Telling herself she was being silly for hiding when no one had threatened or approached her, Michelle slung the overnight bag over her shoulder and stepped out of the shadows.

  Maybe she would forgo the visit to Armon’s crypt. Maybe she would just go back to her apartment, come back tomorrow when it was light and—

  Strong fingers dug into her shoulder. A scream tore from her throat. She spun, punched blindly. A grunt sounded as her fist connected with a solid body. Wrenching free, she broke into a dead run. Clutching her bag, she ran as she had never run before. Angels and crosses blurred by, their shadows forming ominous shapes. Footsteps sounded behind her. Adrenaline kicked through her muscles. She changed direction, slid on gravel and nearly went down. Recovering, she darted between two crypts, only to realize she’d lost her sense of direction in the darkness.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. What now?

  Panting, she looked around wildly. She was standing in the middle of a wide path. Mist hovered around the crypts like spindly fingers. Light slanted through the branches of a gnarled live oak. Which way was the entrance?

  The sound of shoes against gravel sent a scream to her throat. Michelle spun, watched the figure emerge from between two vaults. The scream wouldn’t come. A choking sound bubbled up from her che
st. Then she was running, animal sounds coming from low in her throat. Rain slashed down, blinding her. The gate loomed into view. Ten yards. Oh God, how was she going to get over the gate? He would be on her before she could get over the top.

  Headlights washed over her, blinding her. Michelle flung herself at the gate, her arms absorbing the impact. Her fingers closed over iron. “Help me!” Terror clawed at her. Wedging her foot in the grillwork, she pulled herself up and over the top.

  Strong arms caught her as she plummeted down. “Michelle! Whoa. Easy.”

  She fought the hands gripping her. “Let go of me!”

  “It’s me, Philip. Hold still, dammit. Stop fighting me!”

  Recognition spiraled through her, followed by relief so powerful she nearly collapsed. “He was there. A man. At Armon’s crypt. He—he tried to…” She remembered the way the man’s fingers had closed over her shoulder, realized she didn’t want to finish the sentence. “I got away, but he came after me.”

  With one arm clamped protectively around her shoulder, Betancourt shone his flashlight through the gate at the endless rows of weathered crypts. “There’s no one there now. You’re safe.”

  Michelle looked over her shoulder, saw shadows dancing in the beam of the flashlight. “He was so close I could hear him breathing.”

  Betancourt extinguished the flashlight, turned her to face him, his dark eyes assessing her in a single sweep. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. I ran.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No. It was too dark.”

  Philip’s eyes hardened. “You know better than to come out here at night. You’re not some tourist just off the bus.”

  Censure sharpened his voice, but she let it roll off her. She was too shaken to care if he was angry or not. “This guy wasn’t a mugger or some crazed vagrant just hoping for a victim to stroll by.”

  “What does a mugger look like, Michelle? They don’t wear signs, you know.”

  She saw the man clearly in her mind’s eye and shivered. “He was wearing a suit.”

  “A suit?”

  “And shoes with leather soles. I could tell by the way they sounded on the gravel.”

  “I’m surprised you don’t know the name of the maker.” Jaws working, Philip turned his head again to sweep the cemetery with his gaze.

  She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder once more. She figured she’d be looking over her shoulder for a long time.

  “Whoever it was, they’re gone. It’s over.”

  Something in the way he said the words made her think of the scene back at his house, and a wave of embarrassment cut through her fear. “How did you know I was here?”

  His gaze latched on to hers. “Logic. I drove by your apartment, and you weren’t there. I thought you might be here.”

  It perturbed her that he’d figured her out so easily. Still, she was glad he’d shown up when he did.

  “You’ve got to stop running the streets at night, Michelle.”

  Annoyance rippled through her. “I don’t own a car, Betancourt. I walk. Unless I win the lottery, that’s not going to change anytime soon. I’m careful. I keep my eyes open. I know these neighborhoods like the back of my hand. I know what I’m doing—”

  “Yeah, it looked like you knew what you were doing when you ran up to that gate screaming your head off.”

  He had a point. “Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “All it takes is once. This was stupid, Michelle. You know better than to put yourself in this kind of position. You could have been hurt, or worse.”

  “That would be a big loss to the world, wouldn’t it?”

  A sigh of what could have been frustration whistled between his lips. “Look, I came looking for you because I wanted to apologize for some of the things I said to you. Uh…for what happened back at my house.”

  The image of her writhing in his arms as he brought her to climax flashed through her mind, and a hot blush crept up her cheeks. Michelle turned, started to walk away. “That was a mistake. Don’t say anything else. I don’t want to deal with it right now.”

  He stopped her with a gentle touch on her shoulder. “You’re an attractive woman, Michelle, and I…we got carried away. I want you, but you’re vulnerable right now. I don’t want to take advantage of that. It would be not only unprofessional, but unethical. I’m in the middle of an investigation, and I can’t afford to…get involved.”

  The words stung. Turning to him, she forced a smile, but her face felt like plastic. “Let’s just leave it at that, shall we, Betancourt? No big deal.”

  He contemplated her, his face inscrutable. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the hotel.” Picking up her overnight bag, he set it in the back seat of his unmarked car.

  Michelle didn’t want to go back there. She felt out of place among the old-world elegance and richly dressed patrons. But she wasn’t ready to go back to her apartment. One more night at the hotel, she promised herself. Tomorrow she would start looking for a new apartment. Tomorrow she would launch her own investigation into the murder of Armon Landsteiner.

  “How close are you to an arrest in the Landsteiner case, Lieutenant Betancourt?”

  Cold Case Squad Commander Hardin Montgomery was the last person Philip wanted to deal with at seven o’clock in the morning. He hadn’t slept, hadn’t shaved, hadn’t even had his first cup of coffee yet, and Montgomery was already breathing fire.

  “Sergeant Sanderson and I are following up on leads. We’re looking into the possibility of a will. We’re checking alibis and backgrounds. You’ve already seen the reports from the lab and medical examiner.” He’d copied Montgomery on everything. So why in the hell had the old fox called him into his office for an early morning grilling session?

  “What about the young woman Landsteiner was involved with? Last report I read, she was your number one suspect. You haven’t mentioned her.”

  Philip went on full alert. Montgomery might be fat and lazy, but he wasn’t stupid. “She’s still a suspect.”

  “Why haven’t you arrested her?”

  “The lab reports were inconclusive. She didn’t fire the gun that killed Landsteiner. There were no powder burns on her clothes or her hands.”

  “Couldn’t she have changed clothes, worn gloves?”

  For the most part Philip liked Hardin Montgomery. But the commander didn’t like to make waves, even if it meant standing up for what was right. He let individuals with a higher authority jerk his chain at their leisure. Philip wondered who was jerking his chain this time.

  “It’s possible,” Philip said.

  “We’ve got motive, means and opportunity, Lieutenant. What’s the delay?”

  “I’d like some more physical evidence before I make an arrest, sir.”

  Montgomery didn’t look happy. “She’s got a record, for God’s sake.”

  “We’re working on getting the records released. She was a juvenile at the time. Judge Thomas issued a subpoena.”

  “I’ll see what I can do to expedite that. Maurice Thomas and I go way back.” Montgomery rubbed a hand over his beefy neck and grimaced at the reports in front of him. “Dr. Witt’s report said his session with Miss Pelletier was inconclusive. She could be lying about the memory thing.”

  “Or she could be telling the truth. There’s another witness claiming to have seen the man in black running from the house. Plus, her apartment was broken into and ransacked last night.”

  Montgomery’s brows knitted. “You think it’s connected to the case?”

  “I think it’s likely. Lab team couldn’t lift any prints.” Philip considered telling him that Michelle had been accosted in the cemetery as well, but he knew that bit of information would raise questions about his own presence, so he remained silent.

  “Look, Lieutenant, to make a long story short, I’ve got politicians breathing down my neck. We don’t need any more PR problems.” He looked
at Philip over the tops of his bifocals. “Frankly, Lieutenant, you don’t, either. Not after the Rosetti fiasco last year.”

  Anger lashed through Philip, but he didn’t let himself react. “I was cleared of any wrongdoing, Hardin.”

  “We’re talking PR, Lieutenant. I want this thing wrapped up yesterday. Understand?”

  Philip nodded. As he left Montgomery’s office, he realized someone wanted Michelle to fry regardless of guilt or innocence.

  Philip’s temper simmered all the way to the division’s community coffeepot. Who the hell had Montgomery been talking to? he wondered as he poured engine sludge into his cup. Baldwin Landsteiner? Or was the pressure coming from higher up? Armon Landsteiner had had a lot of friends in high places. The police commissioner. City Hall. The mayor. Rumor had it he’d even wined and dined a congressman or two in his Garden District mansion on occasion. But who would want the case closed with the wrong person behind bars?

  Philip had lost his objectivity, and that scared the hell out of him. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking of the way Michelle had melted in his arms the night before. He remembered every shudder, every sound. He remembered the warmth of her breath on his ear, the feel of her body when he’d stroked her and she’d let go of her control.

  He cared about her a hell of a lot more than he should.

  Michelle was the most desirable woman he’d ever known. Not just physically, but in spirit. Beneath the thin veneer of street toughness—and that chip she wore so steadfastly on her shoulder—resided a deeply emotional woman whose heart had taken a beating. Her life hadn’t been easy. She had demons. She’d been hurt, but he didn’t know why, or by whom.

  Still, she’d lied to him. Not outright, but by omission. Philip couldn’t live with that. Just as he hadn’t been able to live with Whitney and her lies. Her betrayal had bled him dry of tolerance for deception. He wouldn’t set himself up for another slash of the feminine sword.

  Philip ground his teeth and acknowledged the fact that he’d lost more than just his objectivity. The moment he’d touched Michelle, he’d lost his logic, his professionalism, his ability to think clearly. How the hell was he going to solve this case when he couldn’t keep a handle on his own lust? What if he was wrong about her?