Deadly Desires

by Ann Christopher

  She laughed.

  “And your gym shoes. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

  “Sounds mysterious. Where are you taking me?”

  “On an adventure,” he told her.

  “You cannot be serious,” Kira said.

  “We’ve been through this already,” Dexter replied. “I am serious.”

  Kira stared up at the rock-climbing wall, a monstrous gray slab roughly the size and shape of one side of a small office building, which meant that it was, yes, forty freaking feet high. Footholds of various colors and sizes jutted out from it, making it look, from a distance, as though it had been slashed and assaulted with several gallons of particularly violent paint.

  Several people, all of whom had to be either idiots or insane, she couldn’t tell which, were already attached to ropes and harnesses and climbing on this wall and others, some of which leaned at odd angles, as if climbing a straight wall wasn’t tricky enough. They were secured at the bottom by other people—belayers, Dexter had said—who held the ropes and presumably made sure no one plummeted to his or her death with a nasty splat.

  This, it turned out, was Dexter’s idea of an adventure.

  She’d been thinking more along the lines of a long ride on a bike trail culminating in a picnic by the river.

  “Black folks don’t climb walls for no reason,” she pointed out.

  “Sure we do. And there are lots of reasons.”

  “Name one.”

  “I’ll name several. It’s great exercise. It’s a fun way for us to work together and get to know each other—”

  “I thought we’d already been through a fire or two together.”

  He dimpled but otherwise ignored this salient point. “Depending on who goes first, we can admire each other’s asses.”

  That made her grin. He’d worn a boring but somehow thrilling combo of gray T-shirt and black shorts, both of which showcased his mouth-watering body to perfection. Sinewy and lean, he had the sculpted arms and legs of someone who took his work at the gym seriously. His shirt was just thin enough for her to appreciate his taut belly and the broad strength of his shoulders. As for his butt and thighs, well—

  “You do have a particularly fine ass,” she told him.

  “I know. And climbing this wall is a great challenge. That’s the main thing.”

  “So is helicopter skiing, but you won’t catch me doing that, either.”

  They faced off, shoulders squared, and she tipped her chin up to a belligerent angle so he’d be perfectly clear on her position: she wasn’t gonna, and he couldn’t make her. But then he played dirty, raising a brow and letting his lips curl into an unmistakable smirk.

  “You’re not scared, are you?”

  Those were fighting words to which there was only ever one appropriate answer: “Of course I’m not scared.”

  “Great. Let’s go then,” he said, gesturing toward the Wall of Death.

  She glared at him and then glared at the wall, trying to decide which she hated worse at that moment. It was a tie. “Why do we have to do this?”

  Those were the magic words. He softened, stroking her under the chin with those gentle fingers. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, ever again. But I hope you decide you want to because this wall is a metaphor for everything you’ve been doing. If you can climb this wall even if you don’t like heights—”

  “I hate heights.”

  “And you can choose and build the life you want for yourself, then I hope you know—there’s nothing you can’t do.”

  Was that true? It sure felt true, with his encouraging presence here beside her and that complete faith shining so warmly in his eyes, as though she actually deserved it. And of course Oprah, if she were here, would tell her to face the challenge.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she said grimly.

  That killer grin of his dawned across his face, all dimples and boyish enthusiasm. “That’s my girl.”

  That smile touched her heart. Squeezed it in a way she didn’t think anything else ever had. Unexpected emotions rose up and she had to look away from this growing thing between them. She didn’t think she was ready and yet she couldn’t sprint toward it fast enough.

  As always, his raptor-sharp eyes saw everything, and his smile dimmed a watt or two. “What?”

  She stepped closer and lowered her voice, teasing him because it felt so right and because he’d earned a little needling. “You know,” she murmured, “if I fall four stories to my death, we’ll never get to make love one day, will we?”

  His face sobered into grim determination. “Don’t worry. I plan to throw my body between yours and the ground if I need to.”

  Chapter 20

  Dexter stood at the top of the wall, where he’d been for the last fifteen minutes, peering over at Kira with his breath held and his muscles and nerves stretched to the snapping point. Was waiting for your child to be born, watching your wife do all the work, anything like this? Because, if so, he wasn’t sure he was man enough for the job.

  Hot and scared, crabby and determined, she had about four feet to go, and she wouldn’t give up. There’d been several intermediate spots where she could have made a graceful exit from the playing field without going for the summit, but she’d clung to the rocks like a determined and particularly beautiful mountain goat, her fingertips white with strain and her strong legs shaking with the effort.

  He’d never admired her more.

  “Come on, baby,” he told her, trying to sound encouraging rather than worried or overprotective. “You can do it.”

  Leaning her sweaty face back, she shot him a look of deepest loathing that would have made him smile if he hadn’t been so sure she’d vault to the top and rip his face off if he did.

  “Shut. Up. I don’t want to hear your voice right now. Or ever.”

  “Be nice.”

  “You do understand,” she panted, choosing another toehold and settling her weight on it with painstaking care, “that when I get up there, I’m going to push you off the edge. So you should start your prayers now.”

  He laughed and took another sip from his water bottle. Her belayer, meanwhile, called up from the ground. “How’re you doing, Kira?”

  “Screw you,” she called.

  That was it. Planting her palms on the top, she gave herself enough of a boost to swing one leg, and then the other, over. Whooping with delight, Dexter grabbed her under her arms and hefted her to her wobbly feet, both of their safety harnesses jangling.

  “You did it!”

  “I did it?” There was one arrested moment where she couldn’t seem to believe it herself, and then she lit up as though the sun, moon, and stars had all been condensed and concentrated in her face. “I did it!”

  A little victory shimmy followed, and then she fell, laughing and triumphant, into his arms, and he held her tight and safe while more of himself than he’d ever shared with another person poured out of his mouth.

  “I’m so proud of you, Kira. I knew you could do it. Do you know how amazing you are? Huh? You’re amazing. Did you know that?”

  “I’m not amazing. I’m just too stubborn to give up.” Pulling back, she glowed up at him. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Are you going to feed me lunch now? It’s the least you can do.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “After we shower first. One of us smells like a farm animal.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  After the laborious process of extracting themselves from all the safety equipment, they went downstairs and disappeared into their respective locker rooms, meeting up half an hour later in the lobby. Fresh and clean now, her hair shower-wet, fragrant, and curly, she wore a pretty little tank top and a flowered skirt that was quite nice but unfortunately covered more of her spectacular long legs than he’d hoped. He supposed he’d been spoiled by a morning spent surreptitiously ogling her gleaming skin, shapely thighs, and tight ass in h
er shorts, so he’d have to get over it.

  “Hey.” Holding out a hand because he couldn’t seem to stop touching her and didn’t see any point to trying, he reeled her in for a kiss on her smiling cheek as they approached the double glass doors to the parking lot. “What do you have a taste for—”

  “Jesus Christ, Brady. What the hell are you doing?”

  Shit. It was Jayne Morrison, exuding so much horror you’d think she’d caught him trying to have sex with an inflatable doll in public. Drop-jawed, with her gym bag slung over her shoulder, she stared at the two of them. Beside him, he could feel Kira shrinking into her skin, trying to become invisible. That pissed him off.

  “What’s up, Jayne?” he said, lacing his voice with a liberal amount of frost. They were cool, he and Jayne. Professional friends who went back many cases and many years, and it was she who’d introduced him to rock climbing after several of the attorneys in her office came to the facility for a team-building exercise or some such. He and Jayne had never had a problem, but that might change real quick here because he had a zero tolerance policy for anyone who made Kira feel bad. “You forget your manners?”

  Jayne’s mouth snapped shut and her brows flattened. “Mrs. Gregory,” she began.

  “Her name’s Kira,” he snapped.

  Jayne ignored him. “Would you mind if I had a word with Brady?”

  “Of course not.” Kira kept her tone upbeat and her smile firmly in place, but he could tell by the new droop in her shoulders and the flush creeping over her cheeks that she was rattled by the appearance of the woman who’d prosecuted her husband. Ashamed.

  Fuck that.

  “I’ll just wait over here.”

  Kira went back into the lobby, selected a bench and picked out a magazine. He and Jayne went outside, already snarling at each other.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demanded.

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “Taking up with the drug kingpin’s wife? Are you serious right now?”

  Choking on his anger, Dexter put his fists on his hips, stared out at the cars and tried to think about something other than his black rage at this woman who was, after all, a friend.

  “What’s your issue, Jayne?”

  “My issue?” Aghast, she had to work on getting the words past her lips. “My issue is that you’ve got a serious conflict going here—”

  “Her piece of shit husband is dead. Conflict solved.”

  “—and don’t you deserve better than that?”

  His temper slipped another fifty notches. “Better than what?”

  “Better than a woman who married a drug dealer and happily lived off the very nice proceeds for years. She was complicit, Brady—”

  “There was never any evidence that she did anything illegal, and you don’t know a goddamn thing about her.”

  “And you do?”

  He would not explain his certainty about Kira, or his relationship with her, to anyone, nor would he be shamed or allow Kira to be shamed for mistakes she’d made and was trying to overcome.

  “What do you want, Jayne?”

  “I want you to think, Brady. What if she’s still got ties to Kareem’s crowd? You think they’ll be happy about this? You think they won’t use that against you any way they can? Maybe come after you? You’re crossing a line—you’ve got to get that.”

  Oh, he got it. He just didn’t care.

  “I don’t give a damn.” He was already pivoting to go back for Kira, Jayne and her dire concerns dismissed from his consciousness because he didn’t have room for negativity in his life. Not now, not with Kira in it. “And you need to stay out of my way.”

  Kerry rolled over and groaned, in no particular hurry to begin this—or any—day. His head was a pounding shriek of pain. For extra fun, his mouth was dead-skunk dry and nasty, and the goddamn sun sliced through his eyeballs the way those fancy TV infomercial knives cut through ripe tomatoes. He might have spent the rest of the day in bed and ridden it out, but his need to pee had, finally, overcome all other considerations, and if he didn’t act now, he’d soon be lying in a wet bed.

  And he wondered why Kira didn’t want anything to do with him. Big mystery there.

  He staggered into the bathroom, dick in hand before he had the seat up. Letting loose with his stream—ah, shit, that was better—he dropped his head back with relief and made a terrible mistake: he opened his eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror.

  The sight threatened to freeze his piss midsplash, but then he didn’t need the red-eyed, haggard-fleshed confirmation to know the ugly truth: he was skirting the thin line between a guy who shouldn’t drink and a drunk.

  And, hell, maybe he was only fooling himself about which side of the line he was on.

  Kira didn’t love him. Had never loved him. Couldn’t love him.

  You’d think that a fifth of Jack chased with five or six Ambien would wash away that memory, but no such luck. He was beginning to think that Kareem was the fortunate one. Kira didn’t love him, either, but at least the MF’ er was dead and didn’t have to worry about what he was missing.

  Five minutes after he started peeing, he finally ran out of urine. Great. That hurdle cleared, he was free to start thinking about what he wanted to do today.

  Option 1: He could start drinking now.

  Option 2: He could start drinking later. In, say, an hour or so.

  Option 3: He could clean himself up and think about being a doctor again because, hey, maybe the market had changed since he passed out last night and there was a shortage of former criminals who now wanted to walk the straight and narrow.

  Man, he just cracked himself up.

  Anyway, it was Saturday, right? Yeah, Saturday. No career building for him today.

  No more dialing while drunk, either. Kira had finally told him the truth, he’d accepted it, and it was time to move on. End of story.

  So. That just left the drinking options, and there was no time like the present to start, was there? Except that he’d drunk everything last night.

  Which meant a field trip to the liquor store was in order.

  Five minutes later, he was dressed and ready, headed down the hall to the entry with his keys in hand, and he—what the hell was that?

  Lying on the carpet near the front door was an envelope, which was weird because he didn’t get much mail, and it was made of some heavy, expensive ivory linen paper, which was weirder, because God knew no one he knew had any class.

  He picked it up, his skin already doing a slow crawl.

  Inside was a single-sided card typed in one of those fonts that made it look like calligraphy, elegant and beautiful except for what it said:

  Did you think you’d get away with it?

  Kira studied her wine list for as long as possible, and then, when Dexter still showed no inclination to talk, turned her gaze to the Ohio River, sparkly blue today rather than its other usual colors, surly gray or muddy brown. They sat on the terrace of a pretty little café on the Kentucky side, with market umbrellas protecting their faces from the sun and the Cincinnati skyline laid out for them to enjoy. Not that anyone had enjoyed much of anything at this lunch.

  Dexter glared down at his menu. If she squinted just right, she was almost positive she could see slow swirls of steam coming out of his ears.

  “You’re going to have to help me out here,” she told him.

  Looking up, he made a valiant effort to rouse himself out of his dark thoughts, blinking and working at a smile. “How’s that?”

  “When you’re in a mood, should I: a) be my usual charming and witty self and cheer you up; b) maintain a silent vigil until you’re ready to talk; or c) pick a fight to help you blow off steam?”

  This time his grin was the genuine and thrilling article. “Does that C option ever lead to mind-blowing makeup sex?”

  Flushing until the roots of her hair burned, she tried to think of a witty reply, something to make him smile ag
ain and keep the banter going. But she was, suddenly, overcome with a flash of being naked in his arms, hot urgency, and him moving between her legs and murmuring her name between desperate panting breaths.

  “Of course,” she said softly, holding his gaze.

  This raw honesty was more than she’d intended, but it did the trick. His expression intensified, doing a slow smolder, and, when he slid his hand across the table, palm up, she didn’t hesitate to stroke her fingertips across the sensitive skin of his inner wrist and then take it.

  “The thing is,” he murmured, “Jayne is an old friend and she made some good points.”

  That’s what she’d been afraid of. “Let me guess: ‘Kira’s no good for you. Run far, far away.’ Something like that?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  “So ... you’re upset because you think she’s right?”

  “No. I’m upset because I’m positive she’s wrong, and I don’t know where that certainty is coming from. And even if she was right, and this leads to some dire consequences with my career, I’m past caring.”

  What did that mean? Excited as she was to be with him, and to see how determined he was to be with her, she’d never want to cause him problems with his job.

  “I’m not sure I get that. I thought you loved your job.”

  “I do. Nothing makes me happier than squashing drug dealers like roaches. But it’s a job, not a life. It doesn’t fill me up.”

  Oh, God. The potential answer scared her—thrilled her—but she couldn’t leave an implication like that dangling without asking the obvious follow-up question.

  “What fills you up, Dexter?”

  “You do.”

  Another of those delicious moments swelled between them, filling her up, too, and she had the urge to put the breaks on, to inject a note of caution into the proceedings, because certainly nothing in her life so far had gone well, and why should this be any different?

  “You say that now,” she told him, “but the first time I get PMS, you’ll be running for the hills, begging to be put on twenty-four-hour surveillance in some terrible neighborhood just to get away from me.”