by JoAnn Ross
“Do what?” There was something in his eyes. Something dark and tragic. Something that reminded her of that haunted man she’d first seen outside the cemetery.
“Love you.”
Both pleased and confused, she studied his grim expression. “You don’t exactly sound thrilled by the idea.”
“I want to be.”
She felt the pleasure slipping away, like sand between her fingers. “But?”
“It’s not that simple.”
She surprised him by smiling—a tender smile that had the power to take his breath away. “Nothing worth having ever is.” It was her turn to kiss him, and although her lips lingered, she kept her touch light. And reassuring. “Why don’t I fix some coffee?” she suggested. “And heat up some rolls. We can have breakfast in bed. And talk.”
Talking was the last thing he wanted to do with this woman. But Roman knew he’d put this conversation off far too long already. His answering kiss was quick and hot. “You’re right.”
“Right?” She pressed her fingers against her tingling lips. “About what?”
“You are an intelligent woman.”
“Well, of course.” Her grin was quick and lively and made her eyes gleam. “I already told you that.”
She reluctantly slipped from beneath the sheets, feeling no shame as she watched Roman watching her. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to forget about the coffee,” she threatened with a breathless little laugh.
Before he could answer, the phone beside the bed rang. At the same time the doorbell chimed.
“You get the phone,” he said, retrieving his slacks from the floor and pulling them on. “I’ll take care of the door.”
Flashing him an appreciative smile, Desiree picked up the receiver.
“We’ve got another one.” Adrian’s dark tones shattered the last of her blissful feeling.
While Desiree sank down onto the edge of the bed, Roman looked through the peephole in her door and swore as he viewed the man standing on the front porch. Having no other choice, he opened the door.
“Roman Falconer?”
“You know my name, Detective.” A calm born of the knowledge that this moment had been inevitable from the beginning settled over him.
O’Malley’s stony expression revealed that he was not in the mood to play games. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Falconer,” he said, his deep voice ringing out in the small foyer like a death knell. “About the rape and murder of Tabitha Sue Jackson.”
A sound, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, came from behind Roman. With a sinking heart, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw Desiree. Standing in the bedroom doorway, clad in an ivory silk robe, she looked every bit as pale and fragile as the victims of the French Quarter rapist.
14
DESIREE COULDN’T BELIEVE this was happening. After Michael’s arrival, at both men’s prompting, she’d forced herself to continue with her plan to make coffee. But she went through the motions as if on autopilot.
“Yes, I knew Tabitha,” Roman was saying as she returned to the cozy living room with the tray of mugs. Forced to maneuver her way around the spreading branches of the oversize Christmas tree, Desiree thought back to the night Roman had shown up with the tree and realized that was the night she’d fallen in love with him.
“As a client?” the detective asked in a mild, nonjudgmental tone.
“Of course not,” Desiree interjected, placing the tray on the coffee table with enough force to send liquid spilling over the tops of the mugs. “I can’t believe you’d actually ask a question like that.”
O’Malley returned her furious look with a warning one of his one. “Desiree—” he began in a tone she’d heard before.
“Don’t ‘Desiree’ me, Michael Patrick O’Malley.” Although she did not lose her temper often, she had a feeling this was about to become one of those rare times when it blew sky-high.
“Desiree.” Roman’s tone was softer. Gentler. But it, too, carried a warning. “It was a fair question.” His weary eyes looked directly at O’Malley. “I’ve never paid for sex in my life, Detective. Nor did I receive any ‘favors’ of any kind from Tabitha. We did, however, have several discussions regarding her work. For a book I’m doing.” Roman paused, debated mentioning the topic of the book, then decided O’Malley would probably figure it out anyway. “A sequel to the one that’s out now.”
“Killing Her Softly.” O’Malley nodded. “I liked that one. Even if you did tend to make some of those investigators in the district attorney’s office look like fools.”
A brief smile teased at the corners of Roman’s lips. “They say to write what you know.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard.” Again O’Malley nodded. “I liked your hero.”
That figured, Desiree thought, realizing for the first time exactly how much of Michael O’Malley Roman had put into the dogged detective who’d finally arrested the serial rapist and murderer. That being the case, the irony of the situation did not escape her now.
“Thank you,” Roman answered simply.
O’Malley’s expression hardened from that of a fan back to that of an interrogating cop. “You realize we have a slight problem here, Mr. Falconer.”
“The French Quarter rapist is everyone’s problem,” Roman answered in a cool, emotionless voice, even as he felt the familiar anvil-like pounding beginning behind his eyes again.
“True. But you’re the one who seems to have an interest in rape and murder.”
At that, Desiree had to literally bite her lip. Only Roman’s reassuring glance kept her from arguing in his defense.
“My royalty statements suggest a great many other people share that interest.”
“I suppose I can give you that one.” The wicker creaked as O’Malley leaned back in the chair and took a drink of coffee. Although his expression was thoughtful, his pose was relaxed. Watching him, Desiree knew that appearances were deceptive. O’Malley had always been at his most dangerous when he seemed to be at ease.
“However, not all those readers have an intimate... Strike that,” he corrected at Roman’s suddenly sharp look. “A relationship with the deceased. And not all of them drive the black Porsche that picked the girl up outside Armstrong Park the night she was killed.”
The words, casually spoken, landed in the middle of the room like a bomb. A silence resembling the aftermath of a nuclear explosion settled over the room like a dark cloud.
Unable to remain silent any longer, Desiree said, “There are other black Porsches in this town.”
“True. But we have a witness that saw the license plate. A plate assigned to your car,” he told Roman.
Roman cursed inwardly. “That’s not possible.”
“Are you saying you were somewhere else that night?”
“What night?”
O’Malley nodded, silently granting his opponent that point.
“I’ll have to check my calendar,” Roman said when the detective named the night in question. He already knew the answer. He’d been home the night the unfortunate Tabitha Sue Jackson had been picked up and murdered. Home alone. Lost in a damn bottle.
“I’d appreciate you doing that, Mr. Falconer,” O’Malley answered with official politeness.
“It’s possible that Roman’s car was stolen without his knowledge,” Desiree suggested. “The garage isn’t attached to the house. If he’d been distracted or working or asleep....” Her voice drifted off as she exchanged a quick glance with Roman that told him they were both thinking the same thing. Asleep? Passed out was a helluva lot more likely.
“Then, after killing the girl, whoever it was returned the car to the garage?” O’Malley didn’t even try to conceal his disbelief about that one.
“It’s possible,” Desiree insisted, receiving only a grunt in response.
More questions followed. Some about the body that had been discovered last night. The body of a prostitute who’d last been seen the night of th
e Christmas tour. The night Desiree and Roman had first made love.
Some of the questions were routine, some increasingly intimate. Unfortunately, much of the evidence, while circumstantial, seemed to point directly to Roman.
When the interrogation ended nearly an hour later, Desiree ignored Roman’s quiet protest and insisted on walking O’Malley out to his car.
“I can’t believe you think Roman could do such a thing,” she sputtered.
“If I truly believed the guy was guilty, I’d be arresting him right now, just to keep you from becoming his next victim.”
“That’s ridiculous. Roman would never hurt me. Besides, in case you’ve forgotten, I spoke to the rapist on the phone. And he didn’t sound anything like Roman.”
“Voices can be disguised. And if you’d talked to the rapist on the secured line, we could prove that once and for all with a voice print.” For the first time, his own irritation with the situation showed. “But for now we can only work the evidence we’ve got. And as unpalatable as you might find the idea, it all points to your lover.”
“Is that what this is all about?” she demanded hotly. “You’re jealous?”
“Hell, no.” When she continued to glare at him, he shrugged. “Maybe just a little.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “That doesn’t make a great deal of sense, considering your relationship with Karyn.”
“You’re the one who was always telling me I needed to get in touch with my feelings,” he barked. “So, my feelings about you and that mystery-horror writer may not make sense, but it’s how I feel, dammit. Just because we’re not together anymore doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, Desiree. Or that I don’t remember the good times.
“However,” he said, “just because I don’t like the guy sleeping with you, there’s no way I’d consider him a murder suspect without due cause.” He whipped a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. “Check this out.”
She took the paper, unfolded it and found herself staring at a black-and-white drawing. “What is this?” she asked, even as her blood, heated by her anger, began to quickly cool.
“It’s the police sketch of the guy who ordered those flowers sent to you. The same flowers left with all the victims,” he reminded her. “We released it to the press this morning.”
The drawing was surprisingly detailed. She could, she considered bleakly, have been looking at a photograph of Roman.
“It’s him,” O’Malley insisted when she didn’t say a word. “And believe me, Desiree, if it weren’t for the fact that Falconer was so connected uptown, he’d be behind bars right now.”
“He didn’t do it.”
“I wonder if you’d still say that if you weren’t involved with the guy.”
“I’m not involved.” She folded the paper and unconsciously slipped it into the pocket of her robe. At his arched, argumentative brow, she said, “I’m in love with Roman.”
O’Malley’s curse was brief and ripe. “I was afraid of that.” He gave her a long look. “You remember my beeper number?”
“Of course.”
“Do me one favor?”
“If I can.”
“Try to think with your head. And not your heart. And if you have the slightest suspicion you might be in trouble, call me?”
As she looked up into his concerned face, Desiree felt horribly torn between the man she’d once tried desperately to love and the man she’d fallen in love with in spite of trying desperately not to. “Roman would never hurt me,” she repeated insistently.
He ran the back of his broad hand down her cheek. “I hope you’re right.” He gave her one last look rife with worry and frustration, then got into his sedan.
Desiree remained on the sidewalk, watching him drive away. Then, with a soft sigh, she returned to the house.
Roman was standing by the window. Desiree knew he’d witnessed O’Malley’s tender caress. “He worries about me,” she said softly, in way of explanation.
“He’s not alone.” Once again she looked so delicate. So damned vulnerable.
Roman jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans to keep from crushing her to him, to keep from ravishing her here on the flowered needlepoint rug, beneath the oversize Christmas tree, until they could forget they weren’t alone. Unfortunately, the French Quarter rapist had been between them from the beginning.
“I’d better leave.”
The finality in his flat tone set off internal alarms. “You’re not talking about just for now, are you?”
He was not surprised that she understood his intentions. Desiree’s intelligence and insight were two of the many reasons he’d fallen in love with her. “No.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “This isn’t going to work out.”
“It won’t if we’re not willing to try,” she agreed with a calm she was a very long way from feeling. Three weeks ago she’d been trying to convince herself that getting involved with this man would be impossible. Now she realized that it was impossible to imagine a life without him.
She crossed the room until they were standing nearly toe to toe. “One question.”
He suspected he knew what was on her mind. “I didn’t do it. Any of it.”
“I know that.” The smile in her still worried eyes flickered. “What I’m a little less sure about is whether you meant what you said earlier.” She drew in a nervous breath. “About loving me.”
Roman knew he should lie. That he should tell her he’d merely gotten caught up in the moment, after a night of great sex. But looking down into her lovely, open face, a dozen conflicting emotions hit him at once.
“I’ve never spoken truer words in my life.”
Despite the seriousness of their situation, a warm, golden glow spread through her. “Well, then...” She pressed her hand against his chest, pleased when his heart began to beat hard and fast beneath her fingertips. “Since you love me—” she kissed his rigid jaw “—and I love you—” she nipped the other side of his jaw “—and we both love each other—” she nuzzled the cleft of his chin “—how about we go back to bed and make love? Then,” she suggested silkily, as her lips plucked at his, “we can make plans. What would you say to a New Year’s Eve wedding?”
Her breasts were pressed enticingly against his chest, making him ache to taste that delectable flesh. “Wedding?” he asked distractedly as he slipped his hand beneath the lapels of her silk robe.
She arched against his tender touch, her soft sigh becoming a faint moan. “I think it’s best, don’t you? For the children.”
Roman didn’t think there was anything left that could surprise him. He caught hold of her hair and lightly urged her head back. “Children?” His dark gaze searched her face, taking in those gleaming eyes, the soft flush adorning her cheekbones, the soft siren’s smile that he knew would still possess the power to make him weak when he was a hundred. “Are you—”
“Not yet.” She wrapped her arms around him, her silver laugh slipping beneath his skin. “But after the day I have planned for you, Roman Falconer, I’ll be amazed if I don’t end up carrying your child.”
His child. The idea was, Roman realized, incredibly appealing.
He scooped her up into his arms. “You know,” he said, as he deftly maneuvered his way past the tree, brushing against a few middle branches, “I always fantasized having a brother or sister.”
“Me, too.” Despite O’Malley’s intrusion on this halcyon time, Desiree felt absolutely giddy.
“That being the case, it would probably be unfair for us to stop with one child.”
“Good point. What would you say to three?”
“Three’s good.” Roman would consider himself blessed to have a single child with this woman.
“Of course, four is a nice, even number,” she mused as he lay her on the unmade bed.
“Even numbers are always nice, too.”
“My aunt Evangeline had eight kids. And her house was always filled with noise and laughter.” A
faint sadness crept into her tone.
Hearing it, Roman drew her into his arms and began kissing her temples, her cheeks, her eyelids. “If we’re shooting for eight, we’d better get started right away.”
Desiree loved the way he could banish the dark clouds. She loved him. “I believe,” she said, as she began working on the buttons of his shirt, “that’s exactly what I suggested in the first place.”
They made love with a sweetness that made Desiree cry. After kissing away her tears, he drew her against him and they fell asleep, making up for the hours they’d missed last night.
When they finally woke, the sun had set and the bedroom was bathed in dark shadows. “It’s almost Christmas,” Desiree murmured against Roman’s chest. “Do you want to exchange presents tonight? Or tomorrow morning?”
They were due at his parents’ home for Christmas brunch. The warm family feelings she’d witnessed in the Falconer home, along with the emotions evoked by her very enjoyable lunch with Roman’s mother, where she’d learned so much about her mother’s early years, had made Desiree resolve to try again with her father’s family.
“I’ve already had all the gifts I could ever want.” He pressed his hand against her stomach, imagined his child growing beneath his palm and felt a warm surge of emotion.
“Oh, dear,” she complained prettily, “whatever shall I do with the tie and socks I bought you?” She had actually unearthed a leather-bound first edition of Poe’s short stories she thought he might enjoy.
“The socks we can take back. As for the tie, I’m sure we can find a use for it.” He glanced up at the lacy wrought-iron headboard. “Perhaps I’ll use it to keep you in this bed, so you’ll be here, right where I want you, whenever I want you.”
He spoke without thinking and in jest. But as soon as he heard the words leave his mouth, Roman groaned inwardly. Smooth move, Falconer.
“It’s not the same,” she insisted softly. “What you were talking about and what he does.”
She was so sweet. So trusting. Even as he realized how fortunate he was to have found her, Roman knew that it was time—past time—to tell her at least part of the truth.
