by Mary Burton
“Good,” she said. “You’ll be glad. We’ll be good together.”
Hefting her slight form, he carried her toward the tub and forced her to her knees. He grabbed a shock of her hair and dangled her face above the water’s rippling surface.
“What are you doing?” Bravado could no longer hide her terror.
“Confess and be free of your sins.”
“Confess what?”
He shoved her face into the cold water, savoring the way her body flailed and squirmed. Only when he saw bubbles rise to the surface did he draw her head back. She coughed and sputtered and gripped the edge of the tub with trembling fingers.
“Are you ready to confess?”
Wet strands of black hair draped her face and hid her expression as she coughed, sputtered, and tried to pull free.
She screamed.
The sound ricocheted off the log walls and swirled in the air above his head. “No one can hear.”
Her cries slowed and stopped. “Why are you doing this? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
He shoved her face so close to the water’s edge the tip of her nose touched it. “You know why, Witch.”
She yanked at her bindings and shook her head. “Why do you keep calling me a witch? I’m not a witch!”
He shoved her face in the water, counted to thirty, and then lifted it. She coughed and gagged. “I saw you coming out of the sorceress’s tent tonight at the carnival. You held my hand a week ago and spouted your evil.”
She jerked her head and tried to break his hold. “We’re just stupid carnies. The fortune telling is just for fun.”
“You read palms. You do the devil’s work.”
Her black, thick hair clung to her face like a spider’s web. “You know it’s all bullshit. None of that stuff is real. It’s all a show. An act.”
He loomed over her. “You were right about too many things.”
“I’m good at the game. One of the best. But there’s no magic.” She shook her head. “People pay us a few bucks and we tell you a little about yourself. No magic. It’s bullshit.”
This time he held her face under water for the count of forty-five. “Liar. Heretic.”
She gagged and rolled her head to the side, frantically coughing and expelling the water from her mouth and lungs. “You want me,” she said. “I feel it. Let me make you feel better.”
“I don’t want you anymore.”
“You do!” Bitterness tangled around the words.
Defiance still lingered in her rusty voice as her face loomed over the water’s edge. It made sense that she would be strong. She’d been raised among the carnival people, traveling demons that moved from town to town.
This time when he shoved her head under the water, he held it there until her body stopped flaying and went limp. When all the fight had leeched from her body, he jerked her free and turned her on her side to allow the water to drain free. He checked her pulse, and when he felt that it had stopped, he panicked. “She needs to confess.”
He tipped her head back and started mouth to mouth. After several chest compressions, she inhaled sharply and her eyes opened wide. She vomited water from her lungs.
He ripped off her blindfold. He wanted to see her eyes. He wanted her to see his face.
When she looked at him, recognition and shock glistened. “Christ, man, why are you doing this to me? I thought you liked me.”
Contrition. It was the first step toward salvation.
“Why are you doing this to me? Please.” Her voice sounded hoarse and raw.
He leaned forward and brushed the wet hair off her face. Her skin felt cold, clammy. “What are you sorry for?”
Vibrant blue eyes bore into him. “Whatever I did. I’m sorry. Just don’t punish me anymore.”
Again, her gaze caught him off guard. It lured him in as it had before and made him want to forget about crusades and righteousness. He simply wanted to sink inside her warmth. As he’d dreamed of so many times, he kissed her gently on the lips and smoothed hair from her eyes. “If you don’t know what you did, then how can you be sorry?”
Renewed panic replaced the silent pleas. “You called me a witch.”
He’d never deny that she was a smart, clever girl. “I did.”
She licked her lips. “You’re not the first. Other men have said I bewitched them.”
He traced his hand over her flat belly. The idea of other men staring and leering at her troubled him. She was his and his alone. “So you admit you are a witch, a sorceress, a stealer of souls? I wouldn’t be driven to this if it weren’t for your magic.”
Her gaze remained locked on his as she laid her hand on his. “Yes. I’m a witch and whatever else you said.”
He tightened his fingers on her breast and squeezed. She winced but continued to smile. This one understood the powers of her body and how best to wield them. “And you repent? You swear that you are evil?”
“Yes.”
For a moment he laid his head between her breasts and listened to the rapid thump, thump of her heart. “Praise be.”
“Let me go,” she said. “I won’t tell. I won’t. And I can still make you feel real good. I swear.”
He closed his eyes. “After what I just did to you, you still want me?”
“Yes. I want you. Just us, baby, no one else.”
He still longed to suckle her breasts and shove inside her softness. As he lifted his eyes and prayed for strength, his gaze settled on the cracked mortar sandwiched between the logs of the cabin’s wall. He likened the cracks to his own soul. Flawed and damaged, they were still strong enough to carry the burden. With trembling fingers, he combed her hair back. She stared up at him, vulnerable, scared, and ready.
Before he could surrender to temptation, he shoved her head under the water. She fought him, straining and twisting her body as her fists flailed. She tried to kick him with her feet, but he used his weight to render her immobile. Slowly, he counted away the seconds until her struggles lessened and she stopped fighting. Bubbles gurgled to the surface and still he held her face firmly under the water until the three-minute mark.
This time when he released her, her body slumped to the dirty floor, pale, cold, and dead. “Go with God, Grace.”
“Mariah!”
Grace Wells screamed her sister’s name even before she was fully awake. She sat up in her twin daybed searching the dark as she grabbed her throat. She struggled to breathe and to catch her breath. Slowly, she hauled in enough deep breaths to calm herself.
She searched the dark room of her trailer for signs of her sister’s return. Light seeped into the small window and illuminated the flowered coverlet, stuffed animals, and a poster of Brad Pitt in a scene from A River Runs Through It.
She pulled at the frayed edges of her pink nightgown and struggled to calm herself. She’d endured endless nightmares since her mother had died three years ago, and for the most part she’d gotten used to waking up alone and terrified. But this night terror was different. She saw no faces and heard no sounds except for Mariah’s cries for help.
Grace pressed trembling fingers to her temples and stared out the window. The grassy fairgrounds were located on the outskirts of town. The ground had been soft when they’d arrived and the carnival’s trucks had left deep ruts in the ground and torn away large patches of grass. This field looked much like so many other fairgrounds in cities she’d long forgotten.
The carnival’s Ferris wheel and flying scooter sat still and dark. The flaps to the rifle shot, ringtoss, and basket jump shot games were closed, and the ticket booth’s window was shuttered and locked.
All normal.
She crossed the room she shared with Mariah to the small crib and peeked in on the baby. The girl, Sooner, was just five days old, and already looked so much like Mariah.
The baby’s deep even breathing did little to ease Grace’s fears. Grace should have been working tonight, but she’d not felt well so Mariah had agreed to take the shift. Because the carnival would be c
losing in four days, they’d all anticipated big crowds.
You owe me, kid.
I know. Thanks.
Don’t wait up for me. I’ve got a date.
Mariah had met another boy. A prince, this time, who was most valiant and who just might be The One. But the boys that lingered around the carnival weren’t looking for lasting love.
Theirs was a gypsy’s life with no regular address, schools, or roots of any kind. Not for the first time this season, she longed to move on to the next stop, thinking that maybe it would be better.
The room chilled with loss and grief. She hugged her arms around her chest. “Oh, God, Mariah, what have you gotten yourself into this time?”
Chapter I
Present Day
Tuesday, October 19, 5:15 a.m.
She had a power over him.
In this room, alone with her, words failed him. Here he followed her lead, moving with an economy of motion, undressing quickly and falling into bed before reason spoke. Their sex was always urgent. Hot. And it left his heart punching against his ribs.
This time, like every time before, she rose out of bed, his scent clinging to her, and dressed in silence. He knew what would follow. She’d manage a quick fix of her tousled auburn hair, they’d share obligatory, if not embarrassed, pleasantries, and she would leave, never suggesting that there should be a next time.
However, this time when she rose, Daniel wasn’t content to just let her leave. He rolled on his side and watched her trembling fingers smooth the bunched cream silk slip down over her naked hips. She moved to the mirror and inspected once well-applied makeup now sinfully smudged and pale skin, crimson with sex’s afterglow.
He wanted her back in bed, curled at his side, but he hesitated to ask. She’d been clear from the beginning that she’d only signed up for good, hot sex. She didn’t want a lover or a boyfriend or anything that involved commitment.
That first time he’d agreed to her terms, counting his lucky stars and fully expecting little more than satisfaction and a pleasant memory. But from that initial release until now, he couldn’t get enough of her. The more she gave, the more he wanted.
And the line she’d drawn between professional and personal had entirely faded—for him.
Manicured fingers slid over the slip as she glanced at the clock on the nightstand, sighed, and collected her scattered clothes from the floor.
He made no effort to hide his fascination with her. They’d shared this motel room five other times now, but he’d yet to see her fully naked. She had a long sleek form, creamy skin, a narrow tapered waist, and a nicely rounded bottom. He wasn’t sure what she hid from him, but found the mystery more consuming each time they had sex.
Last time he’d seen the scar marring her side and thought he’d discovered her secret. When he’d asked her about it, she’d shrugged and said, “I was shot.”
Curious, he’d pulled the police file and read the details of the shooting. It had occurred three years ago. She’d been working late. A client’s hit man had entered her office and shot her because she’d been considered a loose end. Bleeding and alone, she’d escaped to a bathroom and locked the door. The shooter, unable to reach her, had barricaded her inside and left her for dead. It would be another eight hours before she would escape and call 911. The crime scene photos had stirred primal anger in him. Even now he could vividly recall photo images of her blood staining the bathroom’s carpeted floor; the door hinges she wedged free with the tip of her high heels; and her bloodied silk blouse left behind by EMTs.
“Do you think about the shooting?” he’d said as he’d kissed the scar.
She threaded her fingers through his hair. “No.”
“It’s got to bother you.”
Her fingers stilled. “I never dwell on the past.”
If she weren’t hiding the bullet hole scar, then why not take off the slip? Last night when he’d tried to tug it off her, she’d resisted. What else was there to hide?
She slipped on her blouse and efficiently buttoned it. Sliding on a pencil-thin black skirt, she tucked in her shirttail and with the flick of the zipper was again all elegance and class. Maybe some old lesson from charm school kept her from stripping totally.
Thinking about that slip and what it hid gave him another hard-on. “Why don’t you stay?”
She found her panties and, facing him, tucked them in her purse. “We both have early calls.”
“You gave your final summation yesterday. The pressure is off until the jury comes back. Go in to the office late today. You’ve earned it.”
She arched a neat eyebrow. “I’ve never been late before.”
He propped his head on his hand. “Be late.”
“Why?”
“Once is not enough when it comes to you.”
She readjusted her pearl necklace so the diamond clasp was again in the back. A smile played with the corners of her lips. “I wish I could stay for an encore. Really. But I’ve got appointments.”
“All work and no play makes Charlotte a dull girl, counselor.”
“All work keeps Charlotte liquid and her bills paid, detective.”
Naked, he rose off the bed and moved toward her until he was inches away. Towering, he fingered the pearls around her neck. She smelled of Chanel and him. “We should have dinner sometime.”
She grinned. “We just had dessert.”
“I’m talking about real food. Tables, chairs, forks, knives, and spoons.”
She didn’t pull away. “I don’t think so.”
“You’ve got to eat sometime.”
“We drew a line. It has to remain fixed and secure.”
He curled the pearls around his index finger. “The defense attorney doesn’t want to be seen with a cop?”
“Maybe the cop shouldn’t be seen with the older defense attorney.”
“Three years doesn’t count as older. And I don’t care who sees me with you.”
She untangled his finger from her pearls. “We are judged by the company we keep.”
The wistful, if not sad, edge surprised him. She wasn’t talking about him. But who? Another mystery. Another reason to want her.
As she picked up her purse, he pressed his erection against her backside. “Stay just a few more minutes.”
She tipped her head against his chest. Tonight there’d been more urgency in her lovemaking, which he’d attributed to the murder trial’s conclusion. “I can’t.”
“That sounds halfhearted.” Sensing a shift, he pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. Her sharp intake of breath pleased him.
“I have to go.” The trademark steel in her voice had vanished.
He turned her around and unfastened the buttons of her blouse until he could see the ivory lace of her slip. He kissed her shoulder, her chin, and the top of her breast.
“We have rules about avoiding tangles.”
“Fuck the rules. And the tangles.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. When she broke the connection, she was breathless. “I really have to leave in twenty minutes or I will be late.” The whispered words gave no hints of the woman he’d seen on the courthouse steps late yesterday. Swamped by reporters, that woman had been cool, direct, and flawless ice.
The contrasts added to the mystery. “Have dinner with me.”
Her fingers wrapped around his erection. “No time for talking, detective.”
He swallowed, struggling to hold on to clear thought. “You are avoiding the question.”
Her hands moved in smooth, even strokes. “Nineteen and a half minutes.”
Until now she’d called the shots. But that would change. Soon.
Dinner and power plays relegated to another day’s battle, he kissed her as he scooped her up and laid her in the center of the bed. Straddling her, he reached for the package of condoms on the nightstand. Urgency blazed through him. He tore open the pack with an impatient jerk and slid on the rubber.
As she wriggled
under him, tugging up her skirt, he thought he’d explode. There was nothing else in the world that mattered more now.
When he nestled between her legs, his beeper vibrated on the nightstand. Fuck.
She glanced at him expectantly. “Do you need to get that?”
“They can wait,” he growled.
She gripped his shoulders as he pressed into her. “You sure?”
“Very.”
They both forgot about deadlines, clients, and responsibilities.
Chapter 2
Tuesday, October 19, 6:45 a.m.
Detective Daniel Rokov pulled up at the crime scene and shut the car engine off. He got out of the car and retrieved his suit jacket from the hanger in the backseat. Sliding it on, he took a moment to adjust the jacket collar, and then do a quick check of his gun, phone, and badge, which hung on his belt. He shook off his lingering drowsiness and closed the squad door.
The scene was at The Wharf, an abandoned restaurant sandwiched between Union Street in Old Town Alexandria and the Potomac. The faded white building was square and set eight feet off the ground on stilts. The exterior had been neglected since the place had closed over a decade ago, and the wooden decking and stairs looked as if they’d tumble in the next real windstorm. The place had been a popular restaurant back in the day, and the roof top dining had offered some of the best views of the Potomac River in the area. He’d heard that the city had purchased the building and planned renovations, but given a tanking economy and a dwindling tax base, that wasn’t likely.
The trees along the river had turned from a deep green to a mixture of oranges, browns, and yellows. The air was a cool sixty degrees, which compared to the summer’s triple-digit numbers, felt phenomenal.
The paved parking lot, fenced off from Union Street by a ten-foot chain-link fence, was filled with a half-dozen white Alexandria Police marked cars. The city’s forensics van was parked on the side of the building, and the vehicle’s back-bay doors were open. He surveyed the area and searched for any orange cones used to indicate stray shell casings, tire marks, or anything else that might be considered evidence. He didn’t see any.
