Captured by Moonlight

by Nancy Gideon

  “Just one?”

  “I’m afraid the other didn’t survive the encounter.”

  “Geez, Savoie, those cost me half a paycheck.”

  A flash of guilt crossed his eyes. “I’ll buy you another pair. I’ll buy you a closetful.”

  Frightened by his intensity, she gripped his chin, holding him so he couldn’t look away when she told him, “It’s not about the shoes. I don’t care about the shoes.”

  To prove her point, she gave the lone survivor a careless toss over the balcony rail—then hoped it didn’t impale someone.

  “I don’t want to argue with you,” she told him in exasperation. “Let’s not do this, Max.”

  “Maybe you should just go home.”

  The flat words felt like a slap.

  “Is that what you want?”

  He didn’t give an answer, and she couldn’t find one in his impassive features.

  “I thought I was home.” Aggravated and more upset than she’d let him see, she went inside to rummage through their shared dresser to pull out a change of clothing.

  “Are you leaving?”

  She hadn’t heard him come up behind her, and jumped at his quiet words. She whirled, then caught back a tart reply because he looked so miserable. She took a slow breath and asked with all the calm she could manage, “What do you want me to do, Max? Tell me what you want me to do.”

  He was still and somber for so long, she’d started to turn away when he said softly, “Stay.”

  “Okay.” She picked up her clothes and carried them into the bathroom, where the bright light illuminated the damage done to her face and arms. She shook off her shock with a low curse and reached for a miracle in her makeup bag. As she was dotting cover-up over the ugly smudges, she saw Max standing in the doorway watching her without a flicker of emotion. She continued to resurface, gloss, and fluff. She shrugged out of the dress she knew she would never wear again, and covered the bruising on her body with jeans and a cotton pullover. Then she stared at her reflection. “I look like hell.”

  “You’re beautiful,” Max corrected tonelessly.

  She met his opaque stare in the mirror and beckoned him to her. He stepped up behind her to rest his head on her shoulder, his eyes closing as she rumpled his hair.

  “Change your clothes,” she said softly. “I’ll wait for you.”

  SHE SAW THE wisdom in presenting a united front when they came down the stairs together and relief lit the faces of the household staff lingering uneasily in the foyer.

  “Are our guests behaving?” she asked Helen, acting as if there were no reason for the woman to have been fretting for her safety.

  “They’re loud and energetic, but they’ve kept their manners.”

  “Good.” She glanced up at Max. “Let’s go make sure some of them are sober enough to drive the rest home.”

  She reached out and curled his fingertips lightly into her palm, and they walked into the whirlwind of music, drink, and dance.

  Aware of the speculative glances when they appeared together, a sedate and newly clothed couple, Cee Cee relaxed in her role of hostess where she couldn’t before. When she pressed Philo Tibideaux’s hand between hers, he responded sincerely to her condolences and thanked her for her part in bringing his brother to be buried. When Max attempted to do the same, the grieving redhead staggered back, muttering something that sounded like, “No thanks to you.”

  Seeing the question in Cee Cee’s eyes, Max took her hand and urged, “Dance with me, cher.”

  The tune was a rollicking Cajun two-step, with Jo-El Sonnier’s Acadian accordian pumping out “Evangeline Special.” Max held her lightly, snapping her to and fro as she backpedaled in her bare feet. Usually when they danced together it involved lots of contact and some not-always-discreet groping. The fast, peppery rhythm kept them moving, circling and spinning, until they were both breathless. When the music slid into Ben Harper’s tangy “Gold to Me,” Max reeled her in a bit closer but they still didn’t really touch. Cee Cee was surprised to find that rather nice, because then she could watch him move and there were very few things she found as appealing.

  She doubted that Jimmy Legere had signed him up for dance classes, and she’d be surprised if he’d ever taken a turn about a floor before their first unconventional date. But Max Savoie was a fast study. Light on his feet, with a powerful grace, he picked up the sassy rhythms and had her stepping to a hip-and-shoulder-rolling cha-cha that was sexy as hell. And fun. She’d missed that—the snap and crackle of their banter, the unpressured tease of his sly smile, the way his eyes would smolder like a long-stoked fire. The way they did now. Their relationship had flared so hot and fast and all-consuming, they hadn’t had much of a chance to simply enjoy one another. Like now.

  She smiled at him, and his smile flashed back with answering warmth. The tempo slowed, slipping into John Hiatt’s bluesy “Feels Like Rain.” Coaxed into closer proximity by the sultry guitar licks and pulsing drumbeat, they swayed at a cautious distance for a moment, then leaned familiarly into each other, her face nestled up against his throat. In that comfortable embrace an easy desire simmered like a slow-thickening roux, and when the song ended they simply stood, wrapped up in the quiet passion.

  “Sometimes I forget how much I like just being with you,” she sighed, listening to his heartbeat and riding the rhythm of his breathing.

  His lips moved against her hair. “Like on a date? You want to start dating? Should I court you and woo you again? Can we still date when we’re sharing dresser drawers?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed? If I’m going to pick you up for dates, I should probably learn how to drive a car.”

  “I can pick you up.”

  “How forward of you, detective. I prefer a genteel woman,” he teased.

  “No, you don’t,” she scoffed.

  “I prefer you, Charlotte, above all things.”

  “You have remarkably good taste, Savoie.”

  His tongue traced along the curve of her ear. “And you taste remarkably good.”

  She smiled. “Time for our guests to go home.”

  It intruded stealthily, that gradual stiffening and withdrawal from the tender warmth of the moment. She wanted to hang on tight, to not let him retreat but found herself easing out of his arms, letting her palms slide reluctantly down the sleeves of his fresh white cotton shirt.

  “I’ll stopper the booze while you steer them to their cars.”

  When she started to step away he caught her hand, pulling her back. Then his mouth settled over hers, brief and devastating, before he walked quickly away.

  She watched him, worried. He was avoiding her, staying purposefully out of reach while his hot gaze rarely left her.

  The last thing she wanted to do was leave him. But unless she could find some other answer, one that she could convince him to try, she might have to. She understood his fear, his concern, and loved him fiercely for it.

  She didn’t underestimate the danger. He humored her into thinking herself a match for his strength, but she knew the truth. If she miscalculated and he harmed her, killed her, how would he ever recover from that? With so much horror already weighing on his heart, how could he survive it?

  It would be unfair to put him into that position, where the possibility could slip so quickly and fatally into probability. She couldn’t control him—and now, he couldn’t even control himself.

  The lawn was mostly empty but for the leftovers of a good time. Bottles and cans, cigarette butts, discarded plastic cups and plates. She started picking up, needing to keep busy while she waited for Max to return. He was talking with LaRoche, Philo, and a few others, and something was wrong. LaRoche was trying to steer Philo toward their car, but he was determined to finish whatever he was saying to Max. His voice rose, wavering drunkenly and undercut with pain.

  “Don’t tell me how sorry you are. You brought this on us—they’re here for you. They killed my brother because he wouldn�
�t give you up. He’s dead because you dragged us all into your ugly business.”

  LaRoche interceded with forceful patience. “That’s enough, Philo. It’s the drink talking, Max. He’ll be sorry for it in the morning.”

  “I’m not sorry,” Philo bellowed. “You think we’re scared of you, Savoie? You’re not invincible. We don’t need you. Your daddy’s not the only one who could be tempted to turn you in for a profit.”

  Max went very still.

  As she approached, Cee Cee began to burn. Max was somehow connected to the boy’s death, so why hadn’t anyone said anything to her? LaRoche had condescendingly claimed that she could do nothing, but he was wrong. If not through their channels, then through her own.

  LaRoche dropped the drunken man with a tap on the chin, then draped Philo over his shoulder with ease. “Thanks for the hospitality, Max, and for the dance.” He grinned, rubbing his ribs. “Good night, Charlotte.”

  She could feel Max’s tension through her hand on his back. He glanced at her quickly, and it was apparent that she was in the way.

  “Charlotte, you go on up. I’ve got to take care of some things. I won’t be long.”

  She wondered which situation had him more worried: the one with Tibideaux or the one with her.

  “Go ahead.” She gave him a light push. “Take care of your business.” And your secrets. When she strode back to the house, Helen met her on the porch. Her expression masked, she nodded toward the remaining stragglers veering toward their cars.

  “What are those people?”

  What, not who. Cee Cee chose to misunderstand. “They’re Max’s friends. They work the docks.”

  “He’s never had a friend in his life, and now so many…and so strange. Mr. Legere would not have approved.”

  Cee Cee watched Max help load the limp Philo into the backseat of LaRoche’s ancient Caddy. Then Max climbed into the front seat and they drove away.

  “No, I don’t suppose he would have. But they’re powerful friends and Max needs them.”

  “Not as much as he needs you.” Helen touched her arm. “Go to bed, child. Leave the cleanup to us.”

  Cee Cee dragged herself up the stairs and into a hot shower to ease her body aches. When she saw the bruises discoloring her grim face in the mirror, she snapped off the light, wishing she could switch off her worries as easily.

  How deadly were the secrets Max kept from her?

  SHE BOLTED UPRIGHT, bathed in sweat, shaking from the violence of her dreams. Dreams that seemed so close, so real, because of the pain that had followed her into wakefulness.

  Only when she recognized where she was could she let go of the terror and let it recede.

  She was alone in the big bed.

  “Max?”

  The need to have him wrap her up tight in his strength and warmth overwhelmed her. But there was no sign that he’d been here, though the bedside clock read four a.m.

  She lay back down and closed her eyes, but the violent images were still there from the nightmare that was really a memory. Staring up at the high ceiling, listening to her panicky breath, she cursed herself for her weakness, just as she had then. And she longed for rescue now, just as she had then.

  Too churned up to relax, she finally got out of bed, pulled Max’s heavy leather coat out of the closet, and slipped it on, letting its weight and his scent embrace her. Then she crawled back into bed, hugging it close as she wished she were holding him. And surrounded by his presence, she sank back into a dreamless sleep.

  WHEN SHE WOKE again nearly an hour later, it was to a strange clicking sound. She listened for a moment, trying to place the rhythmic tapping on the hardwood floor. Then dark ears appeared at the far edge of the bed, followed by a long muzzle. Baleful green eyes regarded her unblinkingly. She almost smiled.

  “Figured you were in the doghouse, huh? You were right. Go away.” She rolled over to put her back to him.

  Silence, then the click of toenails on wood, circling the foot of the bed to come over to her side. A low, plaintive whining sounded until she couldn’t stand it.

  “Oh, all right.” She patted the mattress. “Come up.”

  He bounded up onto the bed, huge and more than a little intimidating in his pure animal form. A cold, wet nose rooted under the covers, nudging beneath her hand for affection.

  She shoved at him. “Stop it. Lie down.”

  He circled once, twice, then sank down to simply watch her through those uncanny eyes, nose on paws.

  A small whimper.

  With a snort of resignation, she reached down to rub his snout and was immediately drenched by an enthusiastic hand licking.

  “Oh, hell. Come here, baby. You know I can’t resist a big, dumb animal.”

  He edged up in a belly crawl, dropped his heavy head on her shoulder, and heaved a huge, weary sigh. His eyes closed.

  Quarter to five. Where had he been?

  Cee Cee stroked her hand absently over his head, between the stiff ears and along the surprisingly soft ruff. He gave a low animal moan of contentment as he flopped onto his side and pushed back against her. Smiling, she nuzzled her face into his thick black fur. With her arms around him, she drifted off until the slow, silky touch of his tongue on her lips startled her awake.

  Ready to shove him away, her objections melted when her hands encountered smooth, strong shoulders. Murmuring his name softly, she shifted onto her back, encouraging Max to slide up over her, parting her lips to welcome his kisses.

  Her hands tunneled into his short hair as their mouths mated sweetly. A low sound escaped her as her neck arched, his mouth trailing along it. His hands pushed his coat open, his long fingers caressing her breasts, making her heart flutter beneath his cherishing touch. Her back bowed as she tugged his head down, and the wet drag of his tongue was followed by exquisite suction. She was trembling when he rested his head on her belly and anticipation tightened through her as his hand rubbed along her hip. His fingertips skimmed up her inner thigh and paused there.

  “I’m sorry I was rough with you.”

  “I’m tough, Savoie. I can take it.” She parted her knees to urge him to continue. “At the moment, I’ll take you anyway I can get you. Now, please.”

  She felt him smile, and then there was nothing beyond the slow glide of his fingers up inside her. She closed her eyes and let it build, let the glorious splinters of sensation roll over her in a splendid wave of tension and relief.

  She opened for his kiss, drawing him in, drugging herself with the taste of him, losing herself to the feel of him.

  He waited until her eyes drifted open to ask, “I want you desperately. Can I have you?”

  “Now, please.”

  “Thank you, sha.”

  He tried to go slow, but that’s not what she had in mind. The feel of him, so hard and strong above her, within her, didn’t allow for gentle and easy. Her hands cupped his rear; her body rocked to his rhythm until her breath was ragged, and passion bloomed lush and wild as they lost themselves to one another.

  He thanked her again when he finally rolled onto his back and sank into unconsciousness.

  Cee Cee leaned up on her elbow to study him. With his features softened and the harsh angles gentled, he looked younger. And thoroughly and completely exhausted. But not just from the great sex. Fatigue settled over him like a blanketing weight, heavy and smothering. Concern nudged aside her glow of pleasure. He hadn’t told her where he’d been until the blush of dawn.

  She whispered, “What’s going on, Max? What are you doing? Why won’t you tell me so I can help you?”

  There was something about Tito Tibideaux’s death that he had to hide from her. Something he didn’t feel he could trust her with? She hoped not.

  Because he’d been right: She didn’t have anyone else to go to. She’d buried all of her family. Her dearest friend was in a hospital in California with little hope of recovery. Her work and Max were all she had.

  And so, she would protect what was hers. The
only way she knew how.

  Eight

  CEE CEE WAS LOOKING forward to the gathering of her fellow cops, even with Max in tow, because it would alleviate the awkward tension building between them and help her work out her frustration over her dead-end case.

  Dovion was raising holy hell about the body mix-up. When he’d asked her if she knew anything about it, she’d regarded him with a steady stare and told him no, she didn’t. She promised to follow up and see what she could find out with her investigation into the John Doe’s death that, as LaRoche had predicted, was going nowhere.

  She’d returned to the apartment the next day to find it professionally swept clean of belongings and blood. The window had been replaced. None of the neighbors had seen or heard anything, or knew anything about Tito except his habit of playing the horn at all hours. He had no written lease and paid his bills in cash or money orders.

  When the dark-haired girl didn’t show up for her bar shift, her boss had shrugged and given the hours to another. Her type came and went without notice all the time, he told Cee Cee.

  How did one find a ghost, a shadow existing on the wind of indifference? How hard could she push for a truth that no one wanted revealed? She was down to pursuing leads as thin as cobwebs, waiting for the ax to fall on her case.

  And for the past three days, she’d been walking on eggshells with Max. She didn’t know what to do, how to act. He was a distracted, restless, short-fused stranger who treated her with polite caution—when he was around. He stayed in the city later each night. When he arrived at the house he prowled, unable to settle down. The staff avoided him as obviously as he avoided her.

  They didn’t share any meals; he was gone before she awoke. They almost didn’t share a bed. He’d lie on his side until she drifted off to sleep, then he was gone. She didn’t ask where; he didn’t offer an explanation. He’d slip back into the room close to dawn, shower, and slide in beside her, exhausted. Only then would he turn to her, cradling her in his arms, his face buried in her hair. The absences and showers suggested another woman, but she couldn’t quite believe that. Because he loved her so, and because the tension came home with him. But he was too fatigued to find release with her.