Masked by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  She started to storm from the room, giving him time to call her back with every prideful step. He sat silently. She stopped when she reached the hall, heart pounding with fury, with insult, with shame. But she couldn’t let it go. She couldn’t let him go. She spoke without turning toward him, her back unbending, as inflexible as his posture on the couch.

  “You know who I am and what I do, Max. It’s more than my job. It’s with me all the time. In me all the time. I didn’t plan to hurt you with what I said. That’s the last thing I meant to do. I didn’t know what to tell Babineau when he asked. I don’t know how to explain you and me; I don’t understand it myself. You drive me crazy. I think about you all the time. I can’t stay away from you. But I can’t tell anyone else that.”

  Silence. Then a curt, “Tell me.”

  She revolved slowly. “How can I do my job if they see me straddling the fence between our two worlds? I don’t want what we have now, to become what we do. I don’t know how to keep it separate, but I’m trying, Max. I’m trying so hard, because I don’t want to lose you.”

  There, she’d said it.

  “Come here to me, Charlotte.”

  The tight command made her bristle up. She approached him with her chin angled high and her step defiant, because he was still all fierce and darkly intense and had triggered an “Oh, my God, you are so hot!” pulse that pounded in her ears. She yanked his feet down off the couch so she could straddle his lap and glare down at him from a position of power. He didn’t move as she palmed the tough symmetry of his face, as her fingers sifted back through the black hair at his brow. His eyes never flickered as she bent incrementally until their noses brushed.

  “Don’t.”

  He spoke that single word as if it were some talisman he could fling up between them to ward her off, to hold back the exquisitely tortuous sensations that surged when she stroked her thumb over his bottom lip.

  “Don’t do this to me, Charlotte.”

  “I’ll stop if you mean it.”

  She pulled down firmly on his stubborn chin, opening the way for her tongue to slip into his mouth, to glide over his, to taste him, to trace the hard line of his teeth and the slick softness of the insides of his cheeks.

  He sat perfectly still, as if in a dental chair waiting for the drill to bite into him without Novocain.

  Breath shuddering in her lungs, she looked up from her near feral crouch upon his chest. Her eyes were hot, angry. Aroused.

  “Does this feel like pretend to you, Savoie?” When he refused to react, she sank back into his mouth, taunting aggressively until he made a low, tormented sound in the back of his throat, as if she were killing him, as if the hot plunge of her tongue were a dagger to his heart, carving slowly, painfully, to whittle away all resistance.

  She lifted up at last, frustrated, knowing if she couldn’t break him at least in this, she could never have him. And right then she knew that she wanted him more than anything else she could imagine. But he had to believe her.

  “Do you honestly think I have ever done that or wanted to do that to anyone but you?”

  For a long beat, he didn’t move. Then, so fast it was a blur, his hand shot out to clap about the back of her neck, gripping just tight enough for her to know she couldn’t break free. As he held her captive, as he stared into her eyes until his pupils swelled over hot seas of green, she was reminded again of what he was. Dangerous. A predator. Something wild and deadly and not quite domesticated. Not quite human.

  Instead of struggling against those things, she relaxed within the cuff of his hand, her lips curving into a sultry smile. “There’s only you, Max, and you know it.”

  He dragged her up until their mouths were a whisper apart. He stared into her fiery gaze, his eyes daring. “I think I need more convincing.”

  And he lowered her down to his lips so she could persuade him of her desire, of her need for him, with an attention to detail that had his head swimming. His hand dropped to the small of her back and pulled her against him, into the hard length of his erection.

  She smiled into his kiss. “You’re so easy.”

  “You had me at ‘Drop your pants, Max.’”

  “I’ve never said that to you.”

  “Say it now.”

  She laughed. “You’re an aggravating man, Savoie.” Her fingertips stroked over his brow, along the sharp ridge of his cheekbones. “A foolish man,” she murmured into his kisses. “Arrogant man. Sexy, hot, dangerous man. My man.”

  “I’m convinced.” His tongue plunged deep and his palms roamed her breasts, the curve of her hips, reckless, rough, urgent. She had on a skinny, ribbed tank top and gym shorts that provided easy access. He was wearing way too much. She started working down the front of his shirt, then impatiently gripped either side and gave a savage pull. Buttons bounced across her coffee table and carpet.

  When he let her up for air, she had one demand.

  “Drop your pants, Max.”

  “Anything you say, detective. But I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t say ladies first.” He tugged down her shorts, then unzipped his trousers with one yank. With a quick move, he was over her. And inside her. Pinning her shoulders to the couch cushions, he took his time, teasing her with long, deep strokes even as she began to twist and beg with the arch of her body.

  “Max, hurry.”

  “Wait for it.”

  Her head tossed. Her breath came thick and fast. Her fingers dented his arms, digging deep, making future bruises with their desperate clench. He took a savage pleasure in watching her eyes glaze. Wild for him. Hot for him. He burned with the force of his want, to take her, to claim her, to lose himself in her.

  “With me, Max. Please.” She was shivering at the edge, holding on for something just as fiercely as she was holding on to him. “Let go. Dammit, Max, I love you.”

  Surprise broke his rhythm. As he struggled to recapture his restraint, she gripped his hips and pounded him into her.

  Sudden hot waves of urgent sensation rose and flashed through his body, the floodgates bursting open. Barreling, drowning, unforgiving, until there was no stopping the climax that ripped control from him with a stunning violence. Her name was on his lips. The only name that had ever been in his heart.

  He could hear her hoarse cries through the roaring in his ears, and then silence settled.

  Her unexpected laugh was soft, husky as she rubbed her palms along his damp back. “Geez, Savoie, you could have stocked a pond.”

  He let himself collapse upon her long, luxurious lines, crushing her beneath his dead weight. He had absolutely no desire to move. Ever.

  “You tricked me,” he grumbled.

  “Did I?” Her fingers played with his hair. The strength of her contented sigh lifted him and let him down easy.

  “Don’t care. Worth it.” His face nuzzled between her breasts.

  “I need sleep.” She kissed his wet brow. “We can crowd onto this couch and wake up all knotted and achy, or we can take a few steps down the hall and stretch out in my nice comfy bed.”

  “Here’s fine.”

  “Move, Max.”

  He staggered to his feet, feet that were tangled in his trousers, forcing him to drop back down onto the couch to kick his way free of them. Charlotte took his hand, hauling him up, letting him topple into her. Holding him close. Panicking briefly because they fit so well together.

  After herding him down the hall, she let him flop on the bed, face first. One bounce and he was out.

  She smiled with wry tenderness. “Next time, remind me to enjoy a few more go-rounds with you before I say the magic words.”

  She busied herself washing up, locking up, too restless, too nervous to settle beside him. Because of the words she’d said out loud. Those magic words that had thrown open the floodgates of his desire and the restraint from her heart.

  Finally exhaustion drew her down to the embrace of her mattress, and something deeper, stronger, drew her to Max Savoie. She curled into
him, despite the sultry heat, to press a kiss to his shoulder. He muttered softly and pulled her arm up to his chest, trapping her tenderly against him. She didn’t struggle.

  Thinking he was asleep, she vowed quietly, “I’ll keep you safe, Max.”

  His reply was a rumbled whisper. “You’re my every dream, Charlotte.”

  A PHONE RINGING in the middle of the night was never good.

  Alain Babineau gave her the details like a surgeon making one quick cut to minimize the trauma. She told him in a level voice that she’d be ready when he swung by in fifteen minutes. Then she hung up and sat motionlessly.

  “Charlotte? What is it?”

  The tremors started small in her hands. She made fists. They moved up her arms until she hugged them against her broken heart. Her shoulders began to quake, and then Max’s hands were on them, turning her, scooping an arm beneath her knees to pull her up into his lap to cradle her like a child.

  In the tenderness of his embrace, she wept. She sobbed her soul dry for all the times she’d denied herself tears. For the days and nights of terror when she’d had to be strong for Mary Kate. When she’d washed her father’s blood out of her favorite sweater so she could wear it to his funeral. For the times she’d stood straight and tough when confronted with the brutality of her job and the loneliness of her life. And for an irreplaceable loss still too great for her to comprehend.

  And while she drenched his shoulder with sorrows, Max did all the right things. He stayed silent. He held her close but not too tightly. His touch was unobtrusive on her hair, along her arm and shoulder. His mouth moved across her brow in light, gentle sweeps to express his understanding of her pain.

  When her grief had worn down to soft sniffles, he asked, “What can I do?”

  Her wet cheek rubbed against him. “You’re doing it.” Her breathing rasped like a saw across the tethers of his emotions. “It hurts so bad, Max. I don’t know how I’m going to stand it.”

  “I’m sorry.” And because that was so inadequate in expressing the panic and regret ripping through him, he desperately sought something else that might bring her some comfort. “Her thoughts were of you.”

  Cee Cee went still. Her breathing stopped. She hadn’t told him what was wrong. Slowly, she lifted her head from the damp haven of his shoulder to look at him. She stared, expression curiously calm.

  Her first blow was a surprising shock of pain, mashing his nose, momentarily blanking his mind. He instinctively held on to her, reeling while she pounded him with her fists until he no longer felt their impact. She struggled to escape him, cursing wildly, her elbows, then her heels coming into play to finally break his grip. While he floundered, hanging on to consciousness by a primal need to survive, she scrambled away.

  Then the barrel of her gun cracked against his teeth. “You killed her!” she raged at him. “You came here to me after you killed her.”

  “No!”

  “Liar.” One vicious swing of the gun butt dropped him to the sheets they’d shared.

  “I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

  She straddled him, breathing hard into the madness of pain and betrayal. She jammed the barrel against his temple, pressing his head into the mattress. “You walked away. You left her there, knowing what they were going to do. You coward—you monster. You let them kill her. Why didn’t you tell me? I could have saved her. She didn’t have to die.”

  “I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Which is it, you lying bastard?” she roared.

  At the sound of the revolver cocking, he squeezed his eyes shut. Perhaps there was an irony in dying at her hand rather than Jimmy’s. He forced his head around, just far enough so the last thing he’d see was her face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I love you, Charlotte.”

  If anything, that increased her fury. He waited for her to pull the trigger. When she didn’t, a deeper, darker agony filled him.

  “Don’t you say that to me,” she snarled. “You don’t know what it means. You’ve brought nothing but pain and death into my life, and I want you out of it. Do you hear me? Stay away from me, or I will kill you.”

  She angled off him and pushed hard, shoving him off the bed to thump onto the floor out of sight.

  “I never meant to hurt you, Charlotte.”

  She shuddered at the wretchedness in his voice. “Really? When you walked away from us twelve years ago? Do you know what they did to us during those hours you were trying to make up your mind whether we were worth the risk of pissing off your boss? And you didn’t think it would hurt me now, doing nothing to keep my best friend from dying? Get the hell out of here. Go groveling back to Jimmy Legere. I have to go claim a body.”

  She went into the bathroom and slammed the door, her breathing labored. Violence and grief shook her in debilitating spasms until she finally managed a fragile control.

  The face in her mirror was unrecognizable. Her eyes were huge and dulled, mouth still kiss-bruised, and ice-pale skin splattered with red. The face of what she’d become. What she’d always been. Hard, cold, and empty. Alone with her vengeance.

  She washed slowly, numbing her heart and mind for what she had to do. She didn’t glance at her bloody sheets, pausing only to jerk on clean clothes and to strap on her holster. When she entered her living room, a rain-cooled breeze came in through the open balcony doors.

  The only thing left of him were the buttons on her floor.

  Twelve

  THE STENCH OF smoke and wet ruin hit Cee Cee the second she opened the car door. Though the older section and part of the sanctuary had escaped with only minor damage, the only home she knew was gone—nothing but smoldering rubble.

  The moment Joey Boucher spotted her, he trotted over, shaking his head in disgust. “What kind of sick animal kills inside a church?” There was no change in Cee Cee’s expression. What kind of animal indeed? That’s what she had to find out.

  Boucher continued. “It’s a miracle the rest of them got out all right. There was enough accelerant used to power a shuttle launch.”

  “Somebody didn’t want the cause of death found,” Babineau mused. “Any word on that yet?”

  “Dovion just went in.”

  “Go see what you can find out.”

  When they were alone, Babineau asked what Cee Cee knew he would. What she was asking herself.

  “He got an alibi for tonight?”

  “From eleven to when you called me.”

  Her partner fidgeted. “Airtight?”

  “Vacuum sealed.” She took a shaky breath. “But he was here earlier.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me.”

  Babineau blinked. “Just came right out and told you? I never figured him for that kind of careless.” Seeing Cee Cee flinch, he rushed to make awkward amends. “Look, Ceece, this ain’t gonna get any easier from here on out. Maybe you’d best step on out and put a little distance between you and . . . and whatever turns up.”

  “Distance? How do you calculate distance, when wondering if your lover just happened to murder your best friend before stopping by to get naked?”

  That was a little too much information for Babineau. He muttered a curse beneath his breath, unable to read his partner’s taut expression. “Maybe he wasn’t involved.”

  “And maybe my butt’s made of banana creme.”

  He wisely made no comment.

  They stood hunched in the drizzle, not wanting to step on any toes of the investigating team. She couldn’t force herself to step inside, nor could she leave without knowing, so Babineau stoically tucked up his shirt collar and said nothing. Because that’s what partners did.

  She was wearing the Armani jacket, having grabbed it out of her closet without thinking as she darted out the door. She shivered inside the elegant folds, wanting to rub her arms but afraid to touch the fine material. She couldn’t let her feelings drift in that direction. She had to stay frosty. If she buckled, Babineau would boot her home and she wouldn’t
blame him. A murder scene wasn’t a place for misty-eyed regrets. So she wouldn’t think of how much she needed the strength of Max Savoie’s presence while everything that meant anything to her went straight to hell. Because he was the one who’d sent it there.

  Dovion himself came out with the news. He and Charlotte had spent enough long nights poking around in a cold chest cavity to share stories and swap histories. He knew how just standing on the periphery was killing her by slow degrees.

  “Charlotte, darlin’, I surely am sorry about all this.”

  “Thanks, Dev. Save it for later. What do you know?”

  “They’re saying arson.”

  “What time?”

  “Maybe one thirty, two.”

  Her knees wobbled. Not Max. It wasn’t Max. She swallowed hard. “Was she . . . harmed in any way?”

  “No.”

  “Would you tell me if she was?”

  A sad smile. “No.” Then he pressed her hand. “No one touched her. But she knew they were coming.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She sent the mothers and their children away. She was alone, on her knees with her God. She was holding her rosary and two photographs. Couldn’t tell what they were of.”

  Cee Cee knew. Her and Mary Kate. The Malones.

  “If she knew she was in trouble, why didn’t she call me?” she wondered. “If I’d known, I could have saved her. I would have been here.”

  “And maybe,” Alain suggested softly, “she knew that’s what someone was counting on.”

  But they hadn’t counted on Mary Kate and Max both hiding the truth to keep her away. The way they’d kept secrets together for twelve years.

  Because they loved her.

  Just then, two officers came down the steps of St. Bart’s carrying a zippered plastic bag. Both Babineau and Dovion gripped an arm, but she wasn’t going to collapse. She was frozen in a strange, disconnected calm.

  But the sack was too thin to contain Mary Kate Malone—there must have been some mistake. When she started forward their grips tightened. Something in her eyes convinced them to let go. That she needed to see for herself.