by Nancy Gideon
He backed up, crouching on the balls of his feet as she struggled to drag some dignity into the wanton sprawl of her position. Her blouse was torn, her knuckles and knees scraped, her arm bleeding. But it was the caution behind her fierce stare that put a scare into him. And he was suddenly filled with frustrated anger that she could so easily reduce him to the beast within him.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His apology was as stiff as his expression.
She started to deny it, but the shaking of her hands as she tried to close her tattered shirt betrayed her. She sat up slowly, scooching farther away from him. They stared at each other for a tense minute, breathing hard.
“For a minute, I thought Petitjohn had convinced you to kill me,” she confessed.
She expected him to laugh off that fear, but his reply was brutally candid.
“He did.”
Sixteen
SHE STIFFENED IN fear when he moved beside her, but it was only to examine the tears in her arm. His expression was distant as he used her scarf to crudely bind the wounds. Because she was shivering, he pulled off his jacket and draped it about her shoulders. The heat and scent of him lingered in its folds, oddly calming her despite his words.
While she watched from her defensive huddle, he made a brief phone call in a voice too low for her to hear. She gauged the distance to her car while his back was to her, the muscles in her legs bunching.
“Don’t.”
She froze at his soft warning.
“As much as I’d enjoy chasing you, I don’t think you have the strength to make it a real race.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she snapped. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a challenge.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, detective.”
He kept his distance, just watching her.
“Are you going to do it here?” She made her tone hard, provoking.
He smiled. “We just finished doing it here.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I know you didn’t.” Layer upon layer of complexity wrapped about that short statement. “Did you think I was going to step over there and tear out your heart? The way you did mine? The suspense must be killing you.”
He was angry and hurt, but that’s all she could tell from his odd, distracted mood. He might have infinite patience, but she hated to wait.
“Just do what you have to do.”
He regarded her unblinkingly. “I am.”
“What are you waiting for? My permission?”
She said it to goad him, to spark some sort of response off his flinty surface so she could prepare. So he wouldn’t know how afraid she was of him and of what he was capable.
But he knew her bravery was a pretense and withdrew to an even chillier plane.
“Don’t be an idiot, detective. I’m not going to harm you. I just need you out of the way for a while.”
Her huge relief couldn’t quite overcome her suspicion. “Why?
“So I can take care of things.”
“What things? What are you up to, Max?”
“Nothing I feel compelled to share with the police.”
He couldn’t have stated it more clearly: She no longer held a position of confidence. She was one of the opposition. And while he might still want to take from her physically, there was nothing he was willing to give on any other level. She fought back uncharacteristic tears.
She was worried about him. Jimmy Legere had at least cared for Max and kept him out of harm’s way as much as possible. She remembered what Max had said about being on a chain and the comfort of knowing those limitations. He was off the leash now, paralyzed by his freedom and not sure which way to run. If he wouldn’t come to her, where would he go? And with him, the power Legere left behind?
He hadn’t called her by her name since leaving her apartment.
There was no trust in his stare anymore, no naivete when it came to his affections. He believed she’d only been using him. He wasn’t totally wrong. But he wasn’t totally right, either.
Legere’s big town car pulled up on the side of the road and sat there idling. Before she could get up, Max bent to scoop her into his arms. His hold was tight enough to convince her not to squirm. As he walked to the car, she looked back at what they were leaving behind. Her car with the driver’s door open, her blood splashed on the interior. Her purse, her gun. Evidence of a struggle there and on the grass. Her DNA on the torn panties. And no sign of her footsteps leaving.
She had just become a missing and presumed dead statistic.
If the driver was surprised to see his new boss carrying a battered policewoman in his arms, he didn’t express it. He held the rear door open as Max said, “Home. Ring up Dr. Curry, Pete, and have him meet us there. Discreetly.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Savoie.”
The interior of the car was almost too cool after the steamy late-day heat. Max slid into the center of the wide seat with her in his lap, holding her firmly but carefully, almost impersonally. One hand held her head to his chest, the other curved behind her knees, keeping her close but doing nothing to comfort or alarm her.
As the big car moved smoothly onto the road, the full weight of her exhaustion settled in. The sleepless nights, the sorrow, the nightmares, the worry, all gnawing away at her ability to rest until she was one knotted nerve. She rode the slow rock of his breathing, feeling the strong, mesmerizing beat of his heart, letting the warmth of his embrace seep into her like a soothing balm. She took a breath and released it slowly, letting go of the tension along with it. This was where she’d longed to be: wrapped in his powerful arms, floating on his tantalizing scent, safe in the care of the most dangerous being alive. Pulling his coat more closely about her, she nestled her cheek into his shirt and, on a sigh, was asleep.
EYEBROWS ROSE AMONG the house staff when Max strode up the front steps carrying an unconscious woman. Most of them knew who she was. Every time she’d left before, Jimmy would curse her name for hours. Some of them were aware that she’d been a point of contention between Jimmy and Max. But none of them had ever seen the aggressive side of Max as he snapped out concise orders.
“Send the doctor up to my room when he gets here. Giles, collect every one of the camera tapes. I want nothing of our arrival on record.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Savoie,” the bulky Giles murmured, remembering the threat about his eyeballs being devoured on toast.
“As far as anyone here knows, I’ve just returned from visiting with my attorney in the city and I am alone.”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t see anything.”
“If Petitjohn shows up, put him in the parlor and come get me at once.”
“Yes, sir. Happy to do it for you.”
Max paused, giving the man a closer look. “Don’t let the eyeball remark concern you. I rarely eat breakfast.”
A weak smile. “Yes, sir. Never gave it a second thought.”
Max carried Cee Cee upstairs. The moment he laid her down on his bed, the cavernous space in which he’d spent nearly thirty indifferent years became a warm, intimate surrounding. Because she was in it.
She made a small sound and nestled into his covers in a way that tightened everything inside him. He reached out to touch her hair, but held back. She seemed so fragile, with the dark bruising of weariness beneath her eyes. So he sat on the floor, his back against the bed, content just listening to her breathe.
She was safe. For the moment, she was safe. But he didn’t kid himself. As much as he disliked Francis Petitjohn, he couldn’t argue with his logic in this instance. Charlotte Caissie would be seen as a liability and as leverage. If he went forward in Jimmy’s place, anyone close to him would be in danger. He’d be compromising her safety; she’d be jeopardizing her job. And those were things neither of them were willing to negotiate on.
So where did that leave them?
With no future.
That’s what Jimmy had been trying to tell him. What he did, what he was, wasn’t compatible with
this woman.
He’d been so careful all his life to stay protected, to keep himself from being vulnerable to anything and anyone. And here he was, his emotions on display, before the one person who could truly hurt him. He had no defenses. He couldn’t harm her, he couldn’t help her, he couldn’t stay away. The only common ground they had was sex, and while that was marvelous for them both it wasn’t enough. Because he liked her—he always looked forward to her conversation, to the clever turnings of her mind, to the way she looked at him as if he were . . . normal.
Her hand touched the back of his head, startling him from his thoughts. For an instant he froze like her little furry pets, the heartbeats hurrying in his chest.
Her unexpected touch was like everything about her. So simple, so straightforward, yet stirring up a chaos of reactions he didn’t know how to deal with. Just from the brush of her fingertips through the hair at his nape.
He leaned his head back into her palm, his eyes closing. And he found himself talking, because he hadn’t had anyone to talk to. He’d actually never had anyone to talk to but her, and there were things inside him that needed to be said, whether she wanted to hear them or not.
“I don’t know what to do, sha. They’re looking to me to tell them, and I can’t abandon them. I can’t leave them to T-John. I’m a coward—I’m not a leader. I don’t know what they expect from me.”
He turned his head to look at her and couldn’t look away. She was lying on her side, scuffed and bruised and worn, and so beautiful.
“Step up, Savoie,” she told him with more scold than sympathy. “They expect you to take care of them. To do the right thing by them. To be worthy of their trust.”
His sigh wavered. “I never thought I’d be responsible for anyone, and now I’ve got all this. I’m going to lose it if I can’t think of a way to hang on tight. Vic Vantour is dead.”
“I kinda figured as much.”
“I didn’t kill him, but someone went through a lot of trouble to make it seem like I did.” He paused, his brow puckering. “Someone who knew about the thumbs.”
“What?”
“Mr. Savoie?” Giles stood awkwardly at the door. “Dr. Curry is here.”
“Show him up.” He gave an easy hop to his feet, seeing Giles step back as if something dangerous had reared up in front of him. Max crossed to the door and, with a flush of embarrassment heating his face, said quietly, “Giles, see if you can come up with a pair of ladies underwear for my guest.”
Giles blinked, then cleared his throat in what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Yes, sir. I’ve been looking for an excuse to charm Jasmine out of her panties. And don’t worry, sir. I’ll be discreet.”
Max glared at the big man, pitching his voice low and menacing. “You find something amusing?”
“No, sir. I wouldn’t dare.” But a small, contrary smile twitched about his lips until Max muttered, “Thank you, Giles.”
Stuart Curry had lost his medical license due to operating while under the influence. After that, he developed a lucrative practice with clients who couldn’t afford to go through regular channels for treatment. He was a round, gaudily dressed man with a bad combover and more gold hanging off him than the average rap star. He charged a small fortune and never asked questions.
“Max, sorry to hear about Jimmy.”
“Thank you.”
Cee Cee perched on the edge of the bed as the doctor’s close-set eyes skimmed over her. As he set his case on the side table, he asked quietly, “Are you all right, my dear?”
She glanced at Max, who remained by the door, wearing his inscrutable face. “Yes. We had an accident with my car and I’ve cut my arm.”
“If you say so. Let me see.”
Four groves ran from her elbow over the swell of her forearm. There was no mistaking them for anything other than claw marks.
“I’ll have to do some needlework or you’ll have a good deal of scarring.”
“Go ahead.”
She sat unflinching while he ran neat seams. It wasn’t the first time she’d been stitched up, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. She was aware of Max’s scrutiny but didn’t look up at him. When she made an involuntary sound as the needle took a bit too much meat, he went to stand out on the balcony.
Bandaged and dosed with antibiotics, Cee Cee left the bottle of pain pills on the nightstand and went to join Max after Curry departed.
“He left his bill. Extortion, if you ask me. Do you want me to turn it in to my insurance?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
She leaned against the frame of the French doors. Her arm ached dully and her palms and knees stung. But the worst pain came from his refusal to look at her.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I never meant to frighten you or hurt you. I had no right to . . . touch you.”
“I overreacted.”
“This isn’t your fault,” he bit out fiercely. “None of this has been your fault. I walked away. I just left you and your friend, knowing what they were going to do. Now I’m no different than they were, taking what wasn’t offered to me.”
“Would you have stopped if I asked you to?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t ever say anything that stupid again.”
When Max finally spoke, his voice was deep and raw. “I keep thinking about those hours, and everything that I could have kept from happening. I go over and over it in my mind. I tried to make it not my problem, to not matter. But I couldn’t.”
“The worst had already happened, Max. I doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters!” He shoved his fingers through his hair, clenching it tight. “Every second mattered. Every second that I did nothing. I can never be forgiven for that.”
“Is that what you asked Mary Kate to pray for? For God to forgive you?”
“No.” He turned. His eyes glittered in the failing light. “I asked for you to forgive me.” A pause. “Don’t tell me that you do, because I know that’s not true.”
“Why did you bring me here, Max? To keep me safe if your world goes to war?”
He didn’t answer, looking away.
“Max, my job is dangerous. It’s what I do. I’m not going to hide from it here. You’d lose all respect for me if I did.”
“I’ll take that risk,” he said grimly.
“No, you won’t. I won’t let you. Tell me what’s going on—off the record. Talk to me, Max.”
His relief at finally releasing the tension was so great, the words spilled out in a rush. “Petitjohn wants a partnership. He doesn’t think Vantour’s people will trust me alone.” As he filled her in on the rest that he could tell her, she listened and processed the information in her clever cop brain.
“And you trust Petitjohn?” she asked.
He shot her a frown. “Of course not. He killed Jimmy. And I’m pretty sure he killed Vantour to frame me, after the arrangement for someone to shoot me at the church failed. And he wants you dead.”
“Well, I’m not about to oblige him.”
“He wants me to do it, or else he’ll have someone else take care of you. So let’s let him think I took care of it. For a while, at least.”
“And then what? Max, he’s a dangerous man.”
“So am I.” His eyes glowed.
She stayed silent, seeing him transform into something more deadly than a beast, something more beyond her control: a thug in a silk tie.
“You don’t have to become Jimmy in order to honor what he wanted for you,” she said quietly.
He looked startled, then turned away again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
She studied his bold, angular profile. Of course he knew; he just didn’t want to deal with it. Well, too bad for him. He’d brought her here as his quasi-prisoner, so he could damn well listen to her. “If you pick up where he left off, you and I will have to go toe-to-toe. Maybe not right away, but someday. You know that. Then I’ll have to do something about you, before you d
o something about me.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, detective.”
“Yes, it does. You know it does.”
“I would never let anything happen to you.”
Her silence mocked the forcefulness of his vow.
“I’m not Jimmy Legere. I’m nothing like him,” he swore.
She didn’t respond.
“He had my mother killed.” Horror quivered in his voice. “He killed her so he could take me and use me to control the docks, the same way his father did by using one of my kind. My kind. I don’t even know what that means.”
“I think I do.”
Max’s gaze was glittery, anxious, and vulnerable. “Tell me.”
“That’s one of the reasons I came looking for you. I spoke to Dolores Gautreaux.”
He shook his head slightly; the name meaning nothing.
“I was wearing her brutish husband on my new boots.”
“Ah.”
“She didn’t know who you were, either. But she knew what you were. She told me you were one of her kind. That’s why she felt justified in calling on you to take care of her situation.
“I want you to go someplace with me, Max. No questions; just trust me. Can you do that? Will you do that?”
He stared into her eyes for a long moment. “Yes.”
“We’re going to a club in the French Quarter. You’re overdressed, and I’m underdressed. I’m going to clean up and then we’ll go.”
“Like a date?”
She smiled. “If you want to call it that.”
He watched her walk across his bedroom, admiring her no-nonsense stride.
Trust me. How easily she said that. How quickly he’d agreed. Jimmy would have called him a fool, and perhaps he’d be right. But if he had to place himself in someone’s hands, he’d rather it be hers than Francis Petitjohn’s.
She went into his bathroom and closed the door, then he heard the shower turn on. He stood for a long moment, thinking of her hands on her wet body, of her standing naked under the spray. A tap at his door tore him from the direction of his thoughts, making him testy when he glowered at Giles in the hallway.
“Here you go. Jasmine probably would have preferred you to ask her for them yourself.”
