by Nancy Gideon
He slowly leaned against her, easing his hard contours along her long, lavish ones. Halting when panic flared in her eyes.
“Step back, Savoie.”
Her gruff command must have lacked conviction, because his head lowered until his breath feathered against her lips. Soft. Warm.
“Don’t.”
Not quite so tough.
He tasted her slowly, riding the jerk of her chest, gentling his hold on her hands, finally releasing them. Her palms came up to rest against his shoulders, motionless at first, then beginning to push. He lifted off her by a scant inch, his stare delving into hers, his breathing hurried.
“Max, stop.”
That hoarse whisper still didn’t convince him. The tip of his tongue lightly traced her full lower lip, the gesture so provokingly intimate, she trembled with helpless response.
His challenge brushed silkily over her damp mouth. “I will if you mean it.”
And for one startling moment, she didn’t.
Knowing it, he smiled faintly and settled in to kiss her more deeply, druggingly, as if searching for something he was determined to find. And she was willing to let him look, lost to his increasingly urgent explorations. Rough then soft, hungry and hot, then devastatingly sweet.
The aggressive jut of him pressing into her hip shook her. She stiffened into a taut column of denial as he rocked against her, the motion frightening, stirring panic instead of passion. She began struggling, pushing for distance. He left the cushiony softness of her mouth and rubbed his cheek against hers, going completely still when he felt the dampness of her tears.
With a resigned sigh, he stood back from the impossible temptation she’d become. She was so beautiful, so strong yet so alarmingly fragile, her eyes tightly closed, shutting him out with the glistening fan of her lashes. They fluttered open as he stroked his knuckle down her cheek, as soft as sunwarmed satin.
“The next time you come chasing after me, sha, you’d best be sure you really want to catch me.”
With a small smile, he turned and walked away. In no particular hurry, as if he weren’t leaving behind two dead men and a far-from-impartial witness.
Charlotte sank down on suddenly strengthless legs behind the wheel of her car. She instinctively started to reach for her radio, then paused. Max Savoie had come to her rescue and had left the grisly remains of her attackers. He’d killed them without a weapon, with enough brutal strength to separate a man’s head from his shoulders. A signature like that would be impossible not to link to the murders she was investigating. He’d saved her life, and she was going to repay him by putting him in jail?
She hadn’t actually seen him do anything, had she?
Her thoughts took an abrupt detour down a dangerously unfamiliar road as she licked her lips slowly, still feeling the imprint of his kisses. Kisses he’d poured onto the parched earth of her soul, and she’d soaked them up with a greedy desperation.
Just where did he get off, deciding to move their comfortable sparring relationship into treacherous emotional waters? She expelled a shaky breath and leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes to ease the pounding in her head.
Why did he have to complicate everything? First by coming to her aid, when he had no reason to do so and every reason not to. Then he’d slipped through her stony defenses, conquering her not with brute strength, but with calm determination. And she’d let him. She’d let him. Then he stopped, even though he hadn’t wanted to, because she’d asked.
That hot, compelling light in his eyes had been desire. The kind that accompanied all the cumbersome baggage she’d done her best to avoid.
“Damn you, Max,” she whispered.
The last thing on her mind when she’d gotten out of bed that morning was stirring up a mobster’s interest in her, be it physical or with all the scary trimmings.
As she started the car, a clear, cold notion clicked in her analytical cop mind.
Max Savoie was her way to Jimmy Legere.
She drove straight to her apartment, stepped into her shower and washed all the DNA evidence down her drain, then threw her torn clothes into the trash. Slipping on a pair of sweats, because she was suddenly chilled to the bone, she wrapped herself up in Max’s coat and huddled on the couch with every light blazing. The clock was edging toward seven a.m. when exhaustion pulled her under.
But when she woke from the expected nightmare from the past an hour later, it wasn’t to frantic screams. It was to the soothing sound of a low-pitched voice and words that were both so familiar.
Don’t be afraid. They won’t ever hurt you again. I took care of them for you.
Her eyes sprang open; her fingers clutched the lapels of the coat. Max. Wasn’t that what he’d said to her in the alley?
No—not quite the same words.
Had his rescue intruded into her dreams, wishing that he could have saved her then, as he had now?
Or were his words part of a long-hidden memory?
Three
SHE FOLLOWED BABINEAU down the alley, stepping over the tipped trash cans on her way to the plastic-draped form on the bricks. Feeling safe behind dark glasses, with her hair combed artfully over the spectacular bruise on her temple, she sipped her coffee while her partner peered into the Dumpster.
“Yeech.”
Joey Boucher caught sight of them and straightened from the small vinyl square that covered the rest of the first victim. “Hey, long time no see.”
“Same ole story, Boucher?”
“Same ole song and dance. Got any more of that coffee, detective? I’ve been here since dawn trying to match part A to victim B, and could really use a jolt of something to tide me over.”
Because she was impressed by his steadiness after a rather rocky prior night’s performance, Charlotte passed him the half-full cup of espresso. “Help yourself.”
Boucher was a homely kid, all ears and nose and Adam’s apple, but he had the makings of a fine cop. A little green, a little soft around the edges, but dedicated and smart in all the right ways. He also treated Cee Cee like she could walk on water. She rather liked that about him, too.
“You’re a life saver,” the young officer sighed after he took his first sip.
Glancing around the alley, Cee Cee could have argued that claim. Struggling to remain dispassionate, she reminded herself why these two men were dead and what they’d planned to do if they hadn’t been stopped. “Did they find a weapon?”
“A weapon?”
“A knife, a hatchet, machete? Whatever was used to slice and dice.”
“We haven’t come up with anything. It looks a little . . . messy to be a blade.”
“What are you suggesting, Joey? That these big, hulking guys were pulled apart by brute force?”
“I hate to say it, but yeah. That’s what it looks like.”
“Just popped that man’s head off like a rabbit’s?”
Boucher never blinked. “Yeah.”
Dovion’s words whispered into her mind. Fangs and claws.
She gave a snort of disbelief. “Oh, come on. What kind of man has that much strength?” Even as she said the words, she was thinking of powerful arms cradling her close. “How can that happen? How the hell can that happen?”
“Don’t know, Detective Caissie. But Hammond has someone he likes for it at the station. He supposedly got a tip. Probably while on his knees.” That last part was muttered under his breath.
She didn’t respond with the usual disgusted agreement, because sudden cold had seeped into her like ice. “Anyone we know?”
“That spooky knee-breaker of Jimmy Legere’s. Hey, Cee Cee, don’t you want to finish up here?”
She was striding back to the car with a puzzled Babineau in pursuit. “Go ahead, Joey. I’ll sign off on it later.”
As her partner buckled up, his question was as direct as his stare. “What’s going on, Ceece? Something I should know about you and this Savoie character?”
“Don’t be stupid, Babs. I have n
o reason to wish anything but hard time on one of Legere’s men. I just think Hammond is making a mistake, is all.” She couldn’t meet his gaze. She couldn’t convince herself that what she was saying was true, so how could she sway him?
Babineau pursed his lips but kept the rest of his comments to himself until they reached the station. She went quickly to Holding Two and stared through the one-way glass. Junior Hammond, a slick third-generation cop looking to make first grade, had his palms braced on the tabletop and was shouting into the calm face of his cuffed prisoner. Max Savoie stared up at his accuser with a flat, unblinking stare.
Suddenly Max’s posture stiffened, and his head swiveled sharply. His gaze fixed on the opaque glass. Cee Cee took a startled step back as his stare seemed to meet hers. Ridiculous, of course. She knew he couldn’t see her there, but she recalled his odd claim.
I smelled your perfume . . .
Though his expression didn’t change, his attention never left the mirror, even as Hammond was called out by their buzz.
The stocky officer glared at them in irritation. He was built like a Brink’s truck, from the squared bulk of his body to the landing strip of his blond buzz cut, a mean aging Hitler youth on steroids. Unfortunately, he could never get his temper locked down tight, which kept him from advancing through the ranks as fast as he’d expected.
His fellow officers didn’t like him because there was nothing he wouldn’t stoop to for praiseworthy attention, which frequently meant undercutting their solid police work and claiming the results as his own.
Cee Cee didn’t like him because he’d had to be told twice about the boundaries of her personal space. The second time had him wearing dark glasses for more than a week. Any fool knew she could drive a railroad spike with her fist; it wasn’t her problem that he’d had to learn that hands-on.
“Whatchu mean pulling me off an interrogation?” He started to get up into her face, but caught himself just in time as her eyes narrowed. “You know he’ll be lawyered up the minute Legere knows he’s here. He was about to break.”
Cee Cee laughed. “Into a smile maybe, but certainly not into a sweat. You got nothing, Junior.”
“I got a call—”
“From who?”
“A source.”
“What source?”
“A reliable source.” His jaw hardened like a cement block, daring her to push beyond those boundaries of privilege.
“Uncuff him. Savoie was with me this morning.” She heard Babineau choke beside her but continued on. “We were at St. Bartholomew’s, discussing theology with Sister Catherine.”
“What?” A shriek that quickly dropped in register to a furious growl. “The hell you say.” Hammond made a tight circle, chewing on his ire as his “career maker” evaporated right out of his greedy hands. “Theology. Right. Anatomy maybe,” he grumbled.
Cee Cee took a step into his path. “Excuse me? Did you say something to me, Officer?”
He drew up short, his eyes blazing. “No, detective. I got nothing to say to you.” He stormed back into the interrogation room to grab up Savoie’s hands and spring the cuffs. No apology for the inconvenience, just a curt, “Get the fuck outta here.”
Rubbing his wrists, Max came out into the hall, stopping when he saw her.
“This is your lucky day,” Hammond snarled, shoving past him. “Detective Caissie vouched for your whereabouts. Prayer meeting, my ass.” He stalked down the hall.
As she met Max’s cool-eyed gaze the corner of his mouth bent up slightly, the only sign that she’d just surprised the hell out of him.
“Alain, I’m going to walk Mr. Savoie out. I’ll be right back.”
“Sure. You do that.” Her partner’s look said she wasn’t sneaking off without an explanation. “I’m sure he’s forgotten the way.”
They moved down the crowded hall side by side, not looking at each other.
“Nice coat,” he said at last.
“You like it?” She adjusted the lapels of his black trench and stroked her hands over the smooth fabric. The Armani label said it must have cost him a small fortune. “It’s hard to find the right fit when you’re as tall as I am, and so stain resistant, too. Even the nastiest stains.”
“Are you saying I’m the right fit for you, detective?”
“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Max.”
“When he said he’d gotten an anonymous tip, I thought . . .” He left the rest unspoken.
“You thought I dropped that dime?” Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? She was a cop.
And yet he’d stepped in to save her, knowing who she was, what she was.
He glanced at her, tilting his head to one side as he studied her. She bristled up because his look was asking the same questions she was demanding of herself. And she had no answers. None that made any sense, anyway.
“Max, if I wanted you on the hot seat for it, I’d have snapped the cuffs on you myself. I wouldn’t send someone else to do the honors.”
He smiled. “Does this mean you were actually impressed by my kisses?” Enough to lie for me to keep me from behind bars?
The tip of her tongue slipped across her lower lip, as if she could still taste him there. The sensual gesture defused her harsh, “Dream on.”
“Was I in them, Charlotte?” There was no tease in that question. He stared at her, his unusual eyes probing.
And she could hear his voice whispering at the edge of her nightmare.
She said tightly, “Sometimes you creep the hell out of me, Max.”
“I have that effect on folks. Just a natural talent, I guess.”
They stepped out into the hazy heat and Max turned to her. A fresh shirt and jeans replaced the blood-stained garments from the early hours, and he was showered and clean shaven. He’d had time to return to Legere’s to wash away any damning evidence and change. When had he gone back to the scene to sanitize it, so no one would find her scattered shirt buttons?
“You’re full of surprises yourself, detective,” he said in a light, mocking tone. “Is your career going to survive being linked to me in a purely physical sense?”
She was too startled to be indignant. He couldn’t have heard them talking. Not through soundproof walls.
I came back because I smelled your perfume.
This was her chance to plant the seeds of favors owed, to curry a gratitude that would be the first weapon in her attack on Legere. But as she looked into those rough-edged features, as she recalled the unconditional security of his embrace, tasted again the conquering heat of his mouth on hers, she couldn’t do it, even though the whys and wherefores would have her beating her head against the wall later.
She said coolly, “We’re not linked in any sense, Savoie. Not now. This puts us square.”
He’d saved her; she’d saved him. The dangerous matter dropped into a confining box with the lid locked down. Case closed.
A slow smile lit his eyes with a smoldering flare of mischief. “Does this mean no more anatomy lessons?”
She almost grinned. “Step back, Max.” When he complied, she asked, “You want your coat?”
“You can hang on to it.” His gaze swept over her, that small, self-satisfied smile still on his face. “It looks right fine where it is. Think of me when it’s wrapped around you.”
“Beat it, Savoie. We’re going to be having a conversation real soon.”
“You know where to find me.”
She watched him saunter down to the street, blending into the early tourist bustle without a backward glance.
Charlotte released a weighty sigh. What the hell had possessed her? She’d just lied to let a killer go free. Well, not exactly lied. She and Max had been together, and gruesome bits of anatomy had been the topic.
But what could she have said if she’d reported the attack, if they asked how she’d been taken down so easily? If they asked why Savoie had to come to her rescue when she’d been armed, trained, and supposedly on her guard? How could she say th
at a flashback to another weaker time had crushed her courage like an empty cigarette pack? That even after all those hours on Forstrom’s couch, she’d folded, and Savoie had picked up the pieces?
That instead of following protocol, she’d destroyed evidence and protected a killer by her grateful silence?
She hadn’t asked for his help. And he hadn’t asked for hers.
Those men would have killed her; no question about it. But not right away—and Max had stopped that from happening. Fiercely and permanently.
Suddenly the raincoat wasn’t enough to keep the chill out.
She went back inside to find Babineau. His suspicious and slighted look was harder to face than her squirming conscience as she announced, “I’ve got to take off for a while after lunch.”
“A little afternoon delight with your new best friend?”
“Don’t think you’re gonna get away with busting my chops, Babs,” she warned, bumping him out of the way as she strode to her desk in the middle of chaos central.
After the strangeness of the last few hours, the familiar noise was a steadying relief. Angry pimp, sulky working girls, sobbing assault victim, anxious parents filing a missing persons report. The usual mix, none of them even remotely suggesting that such a thing as fangs and claws were involved in their problems.
“I can’t help it. You don’t usually give me much to razz you about,” Babineau said.
“Let it go, or I’m gonna have to tell your new Mrs. about your inordinate fondness for the cross-dressing decoy detail.”
He plopped into his chair at the opposing desk, his good nature restored. “I did look killer in a short skirt and heels. But damn, I hated waxing my legs.”
“Oh, how we girls suffer for fashion.”
He grinned, and his easy good looks and trusting expression socked her hard beneath the ribs. Why was she risking so much for a troublesome thug like Savoie?
A troublesome thug who could stir up a hornet’s nest of confusion beneath the first warm slide of his lips.
One who could open the doors to a revenge she coveted almost beyond her love for her badge.
And suddenly she was walking in those shadowed shades of gray she’d never been tempted into before.
