Deadly Desires

by Ann Christopher

  “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”

  Enemy action.

  It was just a doubt. He knew that. But he had a few questions that he wanted to put to rest. So he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the coroner’s office.

  Two mornings later, her cell phone buzzed just as Kira was dragging her tired and crabby behind out of bed for work, and she fumbled it on without checking the display. Max, who’d been sleeping on his little bed in the corner, raised his head to give her a disgruntled look through sleepy eyes.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s me. Kerry.”

  “How are you? Where are you?”

  “I’m at my cousin Ernie’s house. Outside Dayton. He’s a truck driver, so he doesn’t mind letting me crash here.”

  “Is that safe?”

  “Safe?” Yeah. Dumb question; she knew it even before she heard his little snort of amusement. “You’re kidding, right?”

  She got up, holding the phone with one hand and making the bed with the other. “Are you doing okay?”

  “I’m having a grand old time. A laugh riot.”

  Tiptoeing through a minefield had to be easier than this. She struggled, thinking hard for something upbeat to say to him, something that didn’t involve her rejection or his dismal prospects for living a normal life.

  “So ... no more threats?”

  “Not a peep.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  He hesitated, and she could almost feel his frustrated shrug. “Who knows? I almost liked it better after the threat. This silence works my nerves. I don’t know which direction to look.”

  “But you’re sober. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “That’s my Kira. Always looking for a bright spot.”

  That made her smile. “I see several bright spots. You’re alive. You’re sober. You’re still speaking to me. Seems like a pretty good day to me.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I took a little field trip to the liquor store last night. I’m staring at a fifth of Jack right now.”

  For some incomprehensible reason, this news didn’t disturb her. “But you won’t drink it. You promised me, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I promised. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. As you know.”

  Man, he just killed her. Every single time. “The only thing you need to do for me is take care of yourself. Okay?”

  “Anything for you, Kira.” He sighed, the sound as exhausted as a ninety-nine-year-old man at the end of a long day. “I gotta go. I don’t want to miss the Today show.”

  Sudden reluctance made her clingy. She knew she couldn’t save him—not from his enemies, and certainly not from himself—but that didn’t make it any easier to let him go.

  “Stay in touch, Kerry.”

  Forever passed before he answered. “Bye, baby.”

  She hung up, tears collecting tight and hot in her throat, and went to take her shower.

  She was brushing her teeth ten minutes later when her cell phone rang again. Startled, she checked her watch as she hurried back to the nightstand, thinking that it might be the hospital calling with a shift change.

  “Hello?” she mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “Hi.” Oh, God. It was Dexter. “I want to talk to you.”

  Surprise made her swallow the toothpaste, which would make for a serious stomachache in a few minutes, but she didn’t care about that now. “Ah ... Okay. Were you thinking about lunch, or—”

  “We’ve lost enough time over this stupid argument. Come on out. I’m in the driveway,” he said, and hung up.

  In the driveway? No freaking way—

  A quick glance out the window assured her that there was, in fact, a way.

  What, now? He had to come now?

  Cursing, she paused long enough to tighten the belt of her silky robe before she scurried down the steps and out the front door to meet him where he stood leaning against the driver’s side of his truck. Apparently he didn’t have any court appearances today, because he was deliciously casual in his blue Oxford and khakis. He didn’t smile, but his cool gaze flickered over her, lingering on the robe’s short hem and her bare thighs.

  She stopped three feet from him and waited, every inch of her body tying itself up into excruciating knots.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  “Have you cooled off yet?”

  Cooled off? Would that include the anxious, stomach-churning hours she’d spent regretting her harsh words and wondering if she’d ruined what might have developed into a beautiful relationship?

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got a hot temper,” he said flatly.

  The observation stung even though it was perfectly true, and she puffed up accordingly, feathers ruffled. “I do not—”

  “You need to keep it in check. I’m not the enemy.”

  “Yeah?” Every second that he stood there, studying her with that indecipherable expression, agitated her a little bit more. “Well, I’m not going to stand by while you judge me, Dudley Do-Right—”

  “I was not judging you, and if you’d let me get a word in edgewise, I’d’ve explained that to you.” He paused, scrubbing a hand over a cheek that was growing redder by the second. “I was, ah, jealous.”

  This was no surprise; she’d pieced this much together using her brilliant skills of deduction. The surprising thing was that he’d admitted it. Men, in her experience, rarely if ever admitted any vulnerability.

  “You—what?”

  He eased closer and his voice dropped, becoming as warm and thrilling as a stroke of velvet across her skin. “The thought of any other man touching you, even if it was years ago, makes me want to smash something.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’m a big boy and I know you had a life before I came along.” His lips twisted, as though it was a major effort to force the tricky words out of his mouth. “And anything you did to survive your ... ah, marriage is, ah, fine by me.”

  The corners of her mouth began to creep up in a smile. “Thank you for telling me that.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You know, Special Agent, I probably wouldn’t be so defensive with you if I knew you’d made a bad decision or two in your life.”

  His brows contracted. “I’ve messed up before.”

  “Really? Library fine? Jaywalking ticket? Broken taillight?”

  “One time I snuck into the kitchen and ate half the batter from this pound cake my mother was making for some church thing.”

  They laughed together, but then, without warning, his smile was eaten up by the sudden heat in his eyes and urgency in his voice.

  “You should know by now that I want you as is. You do know that, don’t you?”

  The relief was so fierce and overwhelming that she couldn’t blink back her tears fast enough. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

  He wiped the drops from her cheeks—gently, sweetly—and then raised her hand to his mouth for a lingering kiss. “So we’re on for tonight, then?”

  “Tonight?”

  “The houseboat. Eight o’clock. We’ll have a dinner cruise.”

  Chapter 25

  Breezin’, which was docked at the far end of a marina on the Ohio River outside the city, swayed gently atop the sparkling gray water. Much bigger than she’d expected, it was white with white railings, large windows with fluttery curtains, two levels, and seemed to be large and sturdy enough to cruise them all the way down the Ohio to the Mississippi and New Orleans, if they decided to go. With a ridiculous and unshakable grin plastered to her face, she walked up the gangplank and, not being sure about the correct procedure for boarding a boat, called through the open window and hoped Dexter heard her.

  “Are you there, Captain? Permission to come aboard!”

  After a minute and the sound of hurrying feet, Dexter appeared at the door, his eyes widening with surprise. “Hi.”


  “Hi.”

  That seemed to max out her limited speaking abilities, but the flush in the apples of her cheeks intensified, burning white-hot. Beneath her skin, meanwhile, her flesh felt as though it was shimmering with awareness—of him; of the water and the breeze; of the night’s possibilities—and she wondered if she’d glow once the sun disappeared past the horizon.

  God, she was a mess. Had been since she saw him this morning.

  Being in his presence again didn’t help her composure. If anything, the sight of him made her thoughts scatter like fall leaves in the path of a high-powered blower. Not that he was dressed up or anything; he wasn’t. Wearing only a white T-shirt and khaki cargo shorts, he had a checkered dishcloth slung over one powerful shoulder and a wooden spoon held aloft with something red—spaghetti sauce, probably—dripping from the tip.

  He stared, his bright gaze skimming all of her, from tank top to flowered skirt and fancy flip-flops, in one sweeping glance. He didn’t smile, and yet she had the feeling that nothing could have pleased him more than her arrival, not even the secret to eternal life gift-wrapped with a hot double-cheese pizza and season tickets to the football team of his choice.

  After a long pause, he checked his watch and told her what she already knew: “You’re early.”

  “Yeah,” she admitted. “Forty-five minutes.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Hungry, are you?”

  “I missed you,” she blurted.

  Way to go, genius. There was nothing like being needy and clingy to kill a promising relationship, so this was probably the beginning of the end—

  “Yeah ?” There was a distinctive husky note in his voice now. “Since this morning, you mean, or—”

  “Since this morning, yeah.” Since he showed no signs of screaming and slamming the door in her face, bolting it against her, she decided to go for broke. “And in the last week, since you picked that ridiculous argument with me.”

  He snorted with laughter.

  “And for the last six months,” she added softly. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  Intense pleasure went directly to her head, intoxicating her, and she lapsed back into a full simpering smile before she caught herself and toned it back a little. “Yeah?”

  “A lot.”

  “So ... I don’t need to wait out here until eight o’clock?”

  He held out a hand to help her onto the boat. “Absolutely not.”

  “Nice boat.”

  “Come see it.”

  Their bare arms brushed as she stepped past him, sending sparks along nerve endings that had been dormant for too long. The logical next step would be for her to look around the boat a little. She could already see that it was more like a cheery and spacious condo decorated in—what else?—a nautical theme, with a little entry area, stairs, a living room with wicker furniture and, yes, a galley kitchen. And then maybe she should ask if he needed help setting the table or anything.

  Instead, she lingered, caught in his body’s powerful gravitational pull.

  He smelled good.

  Having worked up a light sheen of perspiration in what she assumed was a steamy kitchen, he had the delicious clean sweat scent of a man whose grooming routine has exactly three steps: shower; apply deodorant; get dressed.

  It worked for her.

  She stared, fascinated by a dewy spot between the hard knobs of his collarbones, and might have stayed there until the apocalypse if he hadn’t cleared his throat and snapped her out of it.

  An awkward shuffle followed, during which they tried to decide who should go in which direction. Since he was bigger, he won. He steered her by the arm down the few stairs and into the galley kitchen, which was really nice, with white counters, a full-sized fridge, and a stove.

  No wonder he and his parents had loved it so much here.

  Dinner was well underway, she saw. A pot of marinara sauce bubbled over on the stove, filling the boat with one of her favorite aromas—garlic, and lots of it. Inside another pot, several large pasta shells were draining in a colander.

  “Manicotti?”

  “Ah, yeah.” His flustered gaze flickered between her and the spoon, which he seemed to have trouble using. A beat or two passed before a lightbulb apparently went off over his head, and he gave the sauce a cursory stir. “I hope you like Italian.”

  “I love Italian.”

  God, she’d edged back into his space again, leaning over his shoulder under cover of watching his cooking techniques, so close that her nose could skim the soft cotton of his shirt. Her twitchy hands longed to run over the heavy cords of his arms, but sudden paralysis kept her from reaching for him.

  They were supposed to be taking this whole thing slow and smart, and anyway, men were supposed to make the first move. It was a rule. If she were smart, she’d stop thinking about moves being made, first or otherwise, and focus on, say, slicing the veggies down at the other end of the counter into a salad.

  Only the smart thing felt unnatural, like walking across ceilings, while touching Dexter felt as inevitable as her next heartbeat.

  He seemed to know it. His stirring arm slowed down until he gave up on the sauce altogether. Letting go of the spoon, he turned the burner off and gripped the oven handle until his knuckles went white, bracing himself against a force that was stronger than either of them.

  His gaze remained down, stubbornly fixated on the digital clock’s blue numbers, and he let out a serrated sigh that seemed to go on forever.

  “You sure don’t make things easy, do you?” he murmured.

  Surrendering to the urge, she took that one last step, the one that brought the front of her body up against the back of his, making both of them shudder. She ran her hands up those arms—hard, silky, hot—and her lips up the side of his neck to his ear, where she whispered, “That’s what I’m trying to do,” she told him. “Make things easy.”

  He grinned, smothered the grin, and then gave his head a firm shake. The tension in his muscles tightened, and she could almost hear the whining hum as his body strained past his control.

  “This is too important, Kira. I don’t want to ruin it by taking it too fast.”

  “Look at me.”

  He didn’t want to. Still staring at that clock, he put it off as long as he could, and if her body hadn’t been twisted into so many knots, she would’ve admired his control. After a millennium plus a lifetime, he straightened and turned, nailing her with a heavy-lidded gaze of deepest brown.

  “What could make you walk away from me?” she asked.

  He answered without hesitation. “Nothing.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Something in his face softened, as did his voice. “Nothing.”

  They stared at each other, the connection between them strengthening and growing into something unbreakable, and she thought, with wonder, that there was every possibility that she was falling in love with his humor, quiet strength, and integrity.

  Falling in love ... with him.

  Doubt never had a chance against something this right. Being with him, now, like this, was one of the smartest things she’d ever done.

  “Touch me,” she told him.

  Linking their fingers and moving as though they had all the time in the world, he led her out of the kitchen, up the stairs and down a narrow hallway, to the bedroom.

  A breeze and the sun’s dying rays streamed through the windows, making the curtains sway and turning the bedroom into a secret hideaway where the outside world could never intrude. The view beyond was of the glittering crystal river, and only passing birds would see them if they cared to make the effort.

  With a firm but gentle grip on her hands, Dexter walked backward into the golden glow, tugging her into the light and releasing her hands only to capture her face between his palms so he could angle her head the way he wanted it.

  That accomplished, he studied her with rapt attention.

  The air i
n her lungs slipped away into the night, leaving her breathless and light-headed, with both desire and trepidation.

  She felt exposed, teetering on the emotional equivalent of a bridge over a glacial crevasse with the wind at her back and no hope of rescue if she fell. What if his scrutiny turned up all of her flaws in high-definition clarity and he didn’t want her anymore because—let’s face it—who would?

  What would she do then?

  No detail escaped the skim of his gaze, which started with the wispy-fine hair at her forehead and temples, slid over her brows, lingered forever on her eyes, and then dropped, riveted, to her lips. Once his eyes had blazed the trail, his thumbs followed suit, running across her overheated skin as though she were newly blown glass, too precious to handle.

  God.

  She couldn’t breathe ... couldn’t breathe ... couldn’t breathe for so long that her chest began to heave with the effort, and the rubbing friction of her bra over her tightening nipples was the sweetest torture imaginable. Desire spiraled low in her belly, agitating her. Making her so slick and engorged that she had to rub her thighs together to relieve some of the ache.

  “Dexter,” she began.

  “Shh.” His heavy brows contracted, warning her not to dare distract him from his tour of her features, and she tried to stand still. But his hands were now double-teaming her, fingers massaging her nape in the back and thumbs circling the column of her neck on either side, and there was no way to keep her growing frustration from pouring out of her mouth on mewling little cries and confessions.

  “Dexter.” Her head fell back, too heavy and weightless to stay upright, but she struggled to keep her eyes open, determined to see his emotions play across his shadowed face even if she couldn’t read them. “I want you. I want you ... want you.”

  But his attention had shifted to covering every far corner of her skin with a kiss, and he didn’t seem to hear her. This time he started low, licking her neck from base to chin with one languid sweep of his hot tongue, stealing a sharp cry of surprise from her. Her jawline got a nip; her earlobe, a hard suck. Those murmuring lips—what was he saying?—traveled over the arch of her forehead, from temple to temple, and then, finally, zeroed in on her mouth, hovering.