She made a sound in her throat, but he couldn't tell if it was a protest or sigh. He was too far gone to care. Too far gone to do anything but kiss her and hope one of them came to their senses before things went too far. His intellect made a last ditch effort to stop him, reminding him of the havoc a woman could wreak upon a man's life. But Nick's body didn't give a damn about ancient history. Didn't give a damn about boundaries or right or wrong.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear his breaths corning short and fast, as if he'd just run a marathon. The blood roaring in his cars was like a raging sea, rising up to crash against a jagged shore. He was painfully aroused, his erection straining against the constraints of his jeans. A sweet agony that tortured him like the keen blade of a knife. A razor edge that cut deeper with every beat of his heart.
Nick couldn't remember the last time he'd been with a woman. Tanya, at some point before he'd begun his prison term. After being alone for so many years, the needs rampaging through him built quickly into desperation.
Nat turned her head slightly, breaking the kiss. He heard his name on her lips, but before she could say anything, he captured her mouth again, coaxed her into submission with his tongue. Pure male pleasure rippled through him when she opened. Growling low in his throat, he went in deep, tasting her, exploring her, encouraging her to enter him as well.
Nick had never been an impatient lover. He preferred to take things slowly, let things build to a natural crescendo. But kissing Nat Jennings was like nothing he'd ever experienced in his life. It was as if he were oxygen starved and no matter how hard or deeply he breathed, he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.
Never taking his mouth from hers, he skimmed his hands downward. She shivered when he ran his fingertips over the outer curves of her breasts. He wanted his hands on her. His tongue in her mouth. Her skin against his. His body sliding into the tight, wet heat of her body . . .
She stiffened when he brushed his hands over her nipples. He felt the tiny peaks harden through her bra. He knew the moment had affected her, and the knowledge drove him a little bit insane. "I've got to touch you," he whispered. "Now."
"Nick ... "
He was pretty sure she'd been about to stop him. He didn't give her the chance. She arched when he molded her breasts with his hands. When her head lolled back, he kissed her neck. Her shoulders. The tops of her breasts, the valley between them. Desperate to touch her skin, he slipped his hands beneath her shirt. Kissing her, he fumbled for the closure of her bra, located the tiny clasp between her breasts. But his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't manage. Frustrated and a little embarrassed at his ineptness, he took the simpler route and lifted the scrap of silk over her breasts.
He raised her shirt, and the sight of her shook him, awed him, made him realize how desperately he'd missed this, how much this moment meant to him. "Aw, God," he whispered. "You're beautiful."
"Wait.
A sound that was part sigh, part moan escaped her when he cupped her breast. Her flesh was incredibly soft and warm against his palm. Her entire body jolted when he scraped the pads of his thumbs over her nipples. He skimmed his hands lower, and for the first time felt the pucker of the scar. It ran from just below her left breast to her navel. She tensed the instant he made contact, and a slow wave of anger rolled through him that someone had hurt her, disfigured her.
Because he wanted her to know whatever scars she bore didn't detract from her beauty, or make any difference to him, he traced his fingers over it. "It doesn't matter," he whispered.
“It’s ... ugly.”
"It's not."
"Nick, I can't."
"Yes, you can." Lowering his head, he took her nipple into his mouth. She cried out when he began to suckle, laving the engorged tip with his tongue. She tasted hot and sweet, and all he could think was that he would die if he didn't get inside her. At the moment, he couldn't think of a better way to go.
# # #
Nat couldn't believe this was happening. She couldn't believe he'd kissed her. That she'd kissed him back. That she'd liked it, and now the moment was spiraling out of control. Somehow the grief that had held her in its grip for so many months had morphed into a need so powerful she felt it all the way to her foundation.
The sensation of his mouth on her nipple shocked her, sent hot electrical impulses from her breast to her brain and every erogenous zone in between. He was making her feel things she didn't want to feel, making her want things she was a fool for considering, at a time in her life when she was lucky just to make it though the day.
But she could feel her pulse hammering. Her breasts aching, swelling beneath his hands. The wetness hot and pulsing between her legs.
She jolted when the backs of her calves made contact with the sofa. In some far corner of her mind, she acknowledged that there was a small, reckless part of her that wanted this. She was tired of hurting, of being alone. She wanted the pain to go away, if only for a little while.
But Nat knew sex for the sake of sex wasn't going to pull all the broken pieces of her life back together. Nick Bastille might be attractive and sexy and willing to use both of those things to get what he wanted. But going to bed with him was not the way to healing. She knew it would only interfere with the alliance she'd worked hard to forge. That in the long run a relationship with him would hurt her far more than it would help.
He was so close she could feel the heat coming off his body and into hers. He trailed kisses up her neck. Then his mouth was on hers, tearing down her resolve, stealing the last of her resistance. He'd lifted her shirt and bra. She could feel the wetness of his saliva on her nipples. Her body clenching, releasing. Her control skittering just out of reach.
All the while his mouth worked dark magic on hers. It was as if he'd put her under a spell. She couldn't stop kissing him, accepting him into her mouth. Vaguely she was aware of his hand at the snap of her jeans, the zipper being lowered. An alarm blared inside her head. The words to stop him echoed in her brain.
Then his hand was against her pelvis. She could feel her womb contracting in response. The sensation wrenched a moan from her. Guilt and pleasure screamed through her, but it was now tempered by the need to protect herself.
Nat wasn't sure if her knees buckled or if she sat of her own accord, but the next thing she knew she was sitting on the sofa, and Nick was pushing her back. The breath rushed from her lungs when he wedged himself between her legs and came down on top of her. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection against her belly. He moved against her, and she got the impression of hot steel sliding against her body. She tasted desperation on his mouth, felt it in the way he touched her. He'd braced his arms on either side of her to keep his weight off of her, and she could feel his muscles straining with tension.
The sound of breaking glass came to her as if from a great distance. For an instant she thought the sound was her imagination. Something shattering inside her . . .
Then Nick was clambering off the sofa. "What the hell?"
Nat sprang to a sitting position and immediately spotted the cloth-covered bundle on the floor just inside the window. She stared at it, taken aback by the sight of blood, aware that the curtains were billowing in a breeze. Then she noticed glass on the floor and realized someone had thrown the bundle through the window.
"What is it?" she asked, righting her clothes.
"Don't touch it." Giving her a quick look over his shoulder, Nick rushed to the door. "Call the police," he said and was through the door and sprinting across the porch before she could say anything else.
Nat rose unsteadily to her feet and crossed to the window on shaking legs. She pulled the curtain aside and saw that the window had, indeed, been broken. Glass sparkled like ice crystals at her feet. Within the shards lay the bundle. A bundle that looked very much like a newborn baby wrapped in a blood-stained blanket.
The blanket was old and frayed with little blue hippos and yellow giraffes. The colorful print looked macabr
e spattered with red. Her hand shook when she reached for the corner of the blanket. Pinching it between her thumb and forefinger, she slowly unraveled the bloody mass from within. Nat saw matted hair. Dark smears of blood and tissue. She smelled its horrible. familiar stench.
The mass rolled onto the hardwood floor. Revulsion shuddered through her when the pale, wrote face came into view. She could hear herself breathing hard. The scent of blood filling her nostrils with its terrible copper stench. Nausea churning thick and hot in her gut.
She put her hand over her mouth to stifle the scream clawing at her throat. "Oh, no." Wrapping her arms around her stomach, Nat sat back on her heels and closed her eyes. "Oh, God, no."
She nearly jumped out of her skin when Nick came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. His fingers tightened, digging into her skin, lifting her. "Come on," he said. "Get away from it. You don't need to see that."
"It's a ... Oh, God, Nick, it's a baby."
Nudging her aside, he knelt for a better look. "It's a doll," he said. "Some sick bastard's idea of a joke."
Nat forced herself to look. A wave of abhorrence rose inside her at the sight of the blood and staring eyes. But for the first time she could see that it wasn't real. "Who would do something like this?"
Nick grimaced, shook his head. "I don't know."
Sudden rage sent her to the window where she ripped back the curtain and looked at the broken pane. "I'm not going to let them do this to me."
"Nat ... "
"I'm not going to let them get away with this."
He reached for her, but she danced out of reach. Her heart pounded with fury as she yanked open the door. She heard Nick behind her, heard him callout her name, but she didn't stop. She burst through the front door and hit the porch running. She took the steps two at a time to the sidewalk and ran to the driveway. In the thin light of dusk, she could see the lingering rise of dust that had been kicked up by the tires of the vehicle that had sped away just moments earlier.
"Bastard!" she screamed. "Goddamn you! Leave me alone!"
For a full minute she stood there, grappling for control. But she could feel her emotions spiraling, a sob clogging her throat. She sensed Nick behind her, watching her, and wondered if he thought she was crazy.
When he came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder, she didn't shake him off. She closed her eyes and tried to absorb the comfort he was offering, even though she knew it wasn't enough. That it would never be enough.
"We need to call the police," he said.
"I don't want to deal with the police."
"Then I'll deal with them."
She turned to face him. "Did you see the vehicle?"
"By the time I got through the door, they were already too far away." He grimaced. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, but she was far from okay. She was outraged and furious and completely unable to fathom how someone could do something so vicious. "Who would do something like this?"
"It could have been anyone," he said. "Kids. Some misguided jerk who thinks you had something to do with the murders."
Her laugh was bitter. "Half the town."
He thought about that for a moment. "Anyone specific you can think of?”
"Hunt Ratcliffe. Jim Arnaud. Elliott Ratcliffe. Take your pick."
“I don't see Elliott stooping to juvenile pranks."
"He could have hired someone."
"Not his style, chere. Men like Elliott Ratcliffe aren't going to bother with some juvenile prank. If he wants to get you, he'll buy a cop or have the district attorney put you in front of another grand jury."
Nat knew he was right. It was bad enough having enemies. But to not know who they were was infinitely worse. "Frankly, I'm surprised he hasn't done more. He certainly hates me enough."
"Or maybe we're thinking about this all wrong. Maybe this doesn't have anything to do with a town blaming you for something you didn't do, and everything to do with your being back and asking questions."
The words chilled her. "You mean the killer."
"Think about it. He was home free. Everyone thought you did it, and you were tucked neatly away in a coma. Three years later, you show up and start asking questions. He's not going to be happy about that."
"A prank like this ... it seems like an odd tactic for someone brutal enough to kill a child."
"Maybe he doesn't want to alert the police. Maybe he just wants you gone."
"It's going to take a hell of a lot more than some teenage hoax to scare me off," she said hotly.
"Yeah, well, I think it's time we talked to Alcee."
Nat choked out a laugh, but she could feel her hackles rising. "And tell him what? That I'm here to solve a three-year-old murder that I was once a suspect in? Oh, and by the way, something happened to me when I was in a coma and now I'm psychic and communicating with my dead son." She shook her bead. "I can do without a one-way ticket to the loony bin."
Nick shot her a dark look. "Don't tell him about the trance writing. But for your own safety, I think you should tell him what you suspect."
"I've already told him that the person responsible for what happened to Kyle and Ward is still free. Here's a news flash for you, Nick. He didn't believe me. If I take it any farther, he's going to have questions I don't know how to answer."
"Yeah, well, maybe that bloody doll in there will help convince him, because I have a feeling the son of a bitch who put it through your window is just getting warmed up."
Chapter 17
"You didn't find another dead body, did you?" chief of police Alcee Martin removed his hat and stepped into the foyer.
"I wasn't so sure a few minutes ago," Nat said.
His gaze went from Nat to the grotesque bundle on the floor, then to Nick. "What happened?"
"Some joker tossed a doll wrapped in a bloody baby blanket through the living room window," Nick said.
"Anyone hurt?"
"No, but I'm pissed,” Nat answered.
Martin looked pained. "Anyone see who did it?"
Nick shook his head. "They were gone before I could get a look at the vehicle."
"Sounds like teenagers."
"Or someone with a vendetta," Nick shot Nat a pointed look.
Martin followed his gaze and stared hard at her. Nat knew that was her cue to tell the chief what she suspected. But she knew all too well what it was like to tell the truth and not be believed. She knew that without some shred of proof to back up her theory, there was no way in hell Alcee Martin would believe her.
After an uncomfortable moment, Martin walked over to the bundle and squatted. Removing a pen from his uniform pocket, he used it to lift the blanket and made a face. "Smells like blood."
"I thought so, too," Nick said.
"Probably animal blood," the chief said. "But I'll go ahead and send it to the lab in Baton Rouge to make sure it's not human."
"Nat thinks this might have something to do with what happened three years ago." Nick gazed steadily at her for the span of several heartbeats. "Tell him or I will."
Chief Martin raised a brow, looked expectantly at Nat. "Tell me what?"
Silently cursing Nick for pushing her into doing something she wasn't ready to do, she shook her head. "I think the person responsible for Kyle's and Ward's deaths might be behind this. I think he's still in Bellerose. And I think he's threatened because I'm asking questions about what happened three years ago."
Marlin looked like a stomach cramp hit him. "Nat, you know my take on that--"
"The killer isn't some transient," she snapped. "He's here. In your pretty little town. Hiding behind some face you know."
"I know you want this cleared up, Nat. Damn it, so do I. But pointing fingers at some phantom bad guy isn't the way to do it."
For a crazy instant she was tempted to tell him about the trance writing. The notes. How she'd known where to find Ricky Arnaud's body. There was a part of her that wanted to let it all come pouring out and let the cards fall wh
ere they may. But she simply wasn't willing to destroy what little credibility she had left.
"He doesn't want me asking questions, Alcee. In fact, he wants me gone. That's why he did this."
"So he throws a doll through your window?" he asked incredulously. "What's that going to accomplish?"
"Maybe next time it'll be a Molotov cocktail," Nick cut in. “I think she's right."
Martin shot Nick a killing look. "I'm not interested in conspiracy theories," His gaze cut to Nat and his eyes narrowed. "How did you get that bruise on your face?"
"I ran into a cupboard door when I was cleaning."
"Uh huh." He rubbed at his eyebrow. "How the hell do you expect me to do my job when you keep lying to me?"
"I expect you to do your job by finding the bastard who murdered my husband and son."
''I'm a police officer, Nat. I operate on facts. On proof and evidence and the law of the land. You give me something solid, and I'll be the first cop on the scene. If you can't do that, then I suggest you curtail the accusations."
She could feel her credibility slipping, and it hurt. She needed Alcee to believe her. He was a smart man. A good man. A by-the-book cop who was trying to do the right thing. But he was also the product of a small Southern town. There was no way he would believe Kyle had spoken to her from beyond the grave. Most days, she could barely believe it herself.
Nick stepped toward Martin. "At least send a cruiser out this way every couple of hours to check on her."
Martin frowned, his gaze flicking from Nick to Nat. "I'll see what I can do," he said and started toward the door.
# # #
Nat knew there wasn't much Chief Martin could do on the information she'd given him. A petty vandalism hardly warranted the expense of police protection or a high tech forensics lab. She figured she was lucky he'd taken enough interest to place the doll in one of her tall kitchen garbage bags to have it checked for fingerprints and the blood tested to see if it was human. But she was disappointed just the same when he left.
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