Thrill Me to Death

by Roxanne St Claire

“Max was…involved with my father’s death. They were both DEA agents, both at the scene.”

  “My God. What happened, Cori?”

  There was no escaping Breezy when she wanted something. “I’d just told my father we were going to get married the night before. That didn’t go over big, because Dad believed that life with a DEA agent husband is the kiss of death for a marriage—as it had been for him and my mother. The next day, he and Max were arresting a drug dealer at O’Hare and my dad was killed and…”

  “And?”

  “And I believe that Max could have prevented his death, but didn’t.” Cori looked away, over the precipice of the infinity pool. “I told that to the DEA. Max got demoted, not punished since there was no proof. And we said good-bye. End of story.”

  “Until last week, when the story began again.” Breezy pulled out another cigarette, rolling it between her fingertips.

  “No, nothing’s begun.”

  “Hah. You hummed like a metal detector when he showed up at your house.” She stared pointedly at Cori.

  Cori smiled. “I admit I was…surprised.”

  “I bet you were. What a coincidence. Of all the bodyguards in the whole world, you get your ex.” She put the cigarette down without lighting it, her moss green eyes sparking. “I don’t believe in coincidences, Cor.”

  “Neither do I.” Cori swallowed another sip of her drink.

  “So what do you make of this one?”

  “I don’t know.” She lifted her glass and looked at Breezy over the wide rim. “He left the DEA, and now he works for the security firm that the insurance company recommended. I got him. Weird stuff happens.”

  “I think he’s still hot for you and lobbied for the job so he could get back at you.”

  “Get back at me? I was the one who lost my father.”

  “And he lost his job.”

  “Not technically,” Cori corrected. “He just got pushed aside. It’s how the agency works.”

  Breezy waved her hand. “Whatever. But you shouldn’t trust anyone bent on revenge. It’s the worst kind of bad.”

  Her skin prickled, heat and alcohol mixing her blood. “Can we change the subject?”

  Breezy narrowed her eyes. “And what about you, Mrs. P?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you still hate him?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Seems kind of pointless now.”

  “Or do you still want him?”

  Down to the bone. “Not in the least.”

  Breezy just laughed and lit her cigarette. “You can want him—it’s perfectly normal. The guy’s freaking gorgeous, and you’ve been living like a nun for too long. Maybe you need to get him out of your system with one good shot of that big gun he carries around.” She gave Cori a lecherous grin. “Tonight.”

  Laughing, Cori rolled her eyes. “I’d rather you come and have dinner with me tonight. I’ll get Marta to make something you love.”

  Breezy signaled for the waiter and a refill. “I can’t, honey. I can’t leave Giff for the night.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Misery pulled at Breezy’s pretty features, softening the sharp lines of her cheekbones and jaw. It was definitely time to get the focus off Cori and onto Breezy.

  “You sounded really down the other morning,” Cori said. “What’s going on with you?”

  “I’m just…it’s nothing.” Breezy shifted in her chair, toying with the gold lighter, her gaze flitting over the crowd.

  “Hey.” She tapped Breezy’s hand. “You forget who you’re talking to. What’s the matter?”

  “I’m worried about Giff.” She snuffed the half-smoked cigarette. “He’s really distracted these days. He’s not himself. The whole business with Peyton…”

  Discussing the company with Breezy was awkward, but sometimes it couldn’t be avoided. “What business in particular?”

  “The Petaluma Mall.”

  “What about it?”

  “William talked to Giff about this property before he died.” Breezy leaned over the table, her voice low. “He told me William wanted that mall to be built, without question. It was important to him. But Giff gets the feeling…well, he feels like you don’t trust him to handle the whole thing.”

  “It’s not that I don’t trust him, Breezy, it’s that—”

  Breezy held up her hand. “Stop. I hate talking about Peyton stuff with you. Let’s go back to the bodyguard. Give me some disgustingly personal details. Just one thing. Anything. Has he ever—”

  “I’ll talk to Giff about that mall property. I promise. Maybe he can convince me going forward with it is the right thing to do.”

  Breezy held up two hands in surrender. “Nope, no shop talk. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “You didn’t,” Cori corrected. “I could tell something was bothering you the other morning and I knew it was more than misplaced earrings.”

  “I just love him a lot, and…and he doesn’t seem healthy. I’m afraid….” She reached across the table and squeezed Cori’s hand. “You know better than anyone what stress can do to a man. Look at what happened to William.”

  The need to share nearly buckled her. Breezy was like a sister to her; there was something fundamentally wrong about holding back the truth.

  Cori folded the damp cocktail napkin into small squares. “Breezy, what if…” She leveled her gaze across the table. “What if William’s death wasn’t natural?”

  Breezy’s mouth dropped opened. “You were with him, Cori.”

  “But what if someone did something, or gave something to William that…” She lowered her voice. “Killed him?”

  “Who the hell thinks that?” Breezy demanded.

  “The insurance company is considering the possibility.”

  Breezy’s eyes blazed. “What? Who are they accusing? You?”

  “Nobody is accusing anyone. It’s a theory,” she said gently. Of course Breezy would feel this way. She tried denial, too, for the longest time.

  “Whose theory? It’s stupid. And it’s desperate.” Breezy lifted her empty glass, then slammed it down on the table. “Can’t the man just rest in peace?”

  Cori shifted on her chair. “Not if it’s true. Maybe the insurance company is on to something.”

  “They should spend their time and your money chasing after real murders, not sixty-three-year-old workaholics who have heart attacks,” Breezy said sharply.

  “The ME is missing,” Cori said.

  “What’s an ME?”

  “The medical examiner. The pathologist who did the autopsy on William.”

  Breezy made a face as though discussing the details of pathology turned her stomach. “Where is he?”

  Cori shrugged. “Somewhere in Japan. They don’t know.”

  “What difference does that make? No one questioned his findings three months ago.” Breezy shook her head. “Why now? What gives?”

  Should she tell Breezy what William said when he died? Could she help solve the mystery? Or would she be burdening her friend, or fueling gossip—or worse, risking having someone find out? “I don’t know.”

  Breezy stared at her for a moment, her green eyes suddenly narrowing like she was aiming at a target. “Well, I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. It all makes sense now. Your ex-boyfriend shows up out of the not-so-blue,” Breezy said knowingly. “And he just happens to work for the insurance company who doesn’t want to pay you, so they are trying to make a perfectly accidental death look like murder.”

  “William’s life insurance was a small part of his estate.” But Breezy’s point couldn’t be ignored. “And Max doesn’t actually work for the insurance company. He works for a firm that the insurance company recommended.”

  “Same difference.” She looked hard across the table. “Isn’t it?” she demanded.

  Yes. No. “You don’t know Max.”

  “I know this about men: You hurt them and they’ll hurt you worse. Max Roper is out to de
stroy you, Cori.”

  The hair on the nape of Cori’s neck lifted, and the muscles in her stomach tensed. The image of a box of condoms in William’s bag flashed in her mind. Could Max have planted them there? Was he capable of that? Did he still hate her for ruining his DEA career? “I don’t think he’s like that,” she said uncertainly.

  “You’re blinded by lust. That man wants the big Get Even and he’ll take you down trying to get it.” Breezy tightened her jaw as she spoke. “He’s out to crush you. You ought to get rid of him or get away from him. Fast.”

  A chill ran down Cori’s spine.

  She gasped as two hands landed on her shoulders and warm breath hit her ear. “Can you come back to the massage parlor with me now?”

  Cori glared at Breezy, who had to have seen Max approaching from behind. “You should have warned me,” she hissed.

  Breezy’s steady gaze remained riveted on Cori. “I just did.”

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  M ax purposely brushed his lips against Cori’s hair, close enough to warm her ear and then count the goose bumps on her bare arms. When she turned, he didn’t move, so their lips nearly met.

  She inched back. “It’s a spa, not a massage parlor.”

  “A massage parlor?” Breezy coughed pointedly. “Wouldn’t Swen love to hear it called that?”

  Max remained close to Cori, ignoring the other woman. “Swen gave us suite number four.” He lifted her handbag from the ground next to her. “Let’s go.”

  Cori shot an uneasy glance at her friend.

  “It’ll help you remember what happened.” He nudged her gently with the bag. “Let’s go,” he repeated a little more forcefully.

  Breezy leaned forward and crossed her arms, a move she’d no doubt perfected to show off her plastic surgeon’s handiwork. “This is why I hate you, Corinne Peyton. Right in the middle of a perfectly good cocktail, you get dragged off to a massage table by your personal alpha dog.” She winked at Max. “Bow wow.”

  Max gave her a look that usually shut up a smart-ass, but this one just responded with glare equally as steely.

  “I realize that compelling security business is forcing you to do this,” Breezy told him, picking up an empty cocktail toothpick and sucking on the tip. “But do you have to take her just when our conversation was getting interesting?”

  “I’ll go,” Cori said quickly, pushing back her chair.

  “You know, Cor, everyone’s talking about how the bodyguard is the must-have accessory this season.” Breezy’s smile drifted into predatory territory. “I might have to get one now.”

  Cori rolled her eyes, then bent over and air kissed her friend. “I’ll see you soon.”

  The humor evaporated from Breezy’s eyes as she slid thin fingers around Cori’s bare shoulders. “Remember, you’re still not seeing things clearly.” Her gaze drifted to Max. “Especially now.” She pulled Cori closer and whispered something in her ear.

  Cori just stood and nodded. “I’ll call you,” she said, then took her bag from Max. “Let’s get this over with.”

  At the end of the terrace, Max guided her down the stone steps that led to the spa entrance. “What were you two talking about?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him. “You.”

  He knew that. They went past the receptionist and headed for the elevator that would take them to the fourth-floor massage suites. Once inside, Cori positioned herself as far away from him as possible.

  “What did Swen say?” she asked.

  “Nothing of consequence.”

  She looked disappointed and pressed the fourth-floor button again.

  “Though he did tell me all about his marriage, it might have been to convince me he’s not gay.”

  “What about his drug bust?”

  The elevator doors opened to a cool, hushed hall. Max stepped out first, holding the elevator door. The hall was empty, lined with rice-paper doors and minimal oriental artwork. “He admitted it openly. Said it was a boyhood indiscretion.”

  “Did you ask him about William and the herbs?”

  Max had handled the issue of William carefully, giving no indication that he suspected foul play. “A little. Swen was at a dinner with the advertising agency that handles the spa the night your husband died, but he did see him that day to give him a massage. He corroborated your statement that William refused herbs of any kind.”

  She froze midstep. “There’s nothing to corroborate. And it wasn’t a statement. I was sharing a fact with you, to figure this out. Don’t…” She slammed her hands on her narrow hips and glowered at him.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t put me on the defensive,” she said. “I want to find whoever did this more than you do. Don’t be an adversary.”

  He frowned at her. “What were you drinking out there?”

  “Go to hell,” she muttered, pushing him with one hand and heading straight for suite four.

  He grabbed her elbow. “Seriously, Cori. Your color’s up. Your pupils are dilated.”

  “I had half a French martini, Dr. Roper,” she said sarcastically. “And other things besides alcohol can induce those symptoms.”

  “Such as?”

  “Stress. Lack of sleep.” She flitted her gaze over his face, then met his eyes again. “Sexual attraction.”

  He held her look, then reached for the handle to the suite door. “Then you should relax and get some sleep.”

  Brushing by him, she ignored the comment. “The room’s been cleaned,” she said, looking around. “Has it been dusted for fingerprints?”

  “You didn’t file charges, so it’s not a crime scene.” Max closed the door and turned the flimsy lock. “Swen said he cleaned it himself.”

  She walked to the windows, a floor-to-ceiling wall of glass that looked out over blindingly blue water. The light behind her beamed right through the pale pink summery dress she wore, outlining her long, lean thighs and the enticing little gap where they didn’t touch at the top.

  “This room gives me the creeps now,” she said, turning sideways and changing his see-through view to a profile. “How long will this take?”

  “A few minutes. Have you ever heard of forensic hypnosis?”

  She shook her head. “Waste of time, Max. I can’t be hypnotized—I’ve tried.”

  “Why?”

  She dropped her handbag on the counter and walked to the massage table, scooting up on the edge. “Because I just can’t get into that alpha state.”

  “I meant why have you been hypnotized?”

  “Breezy had this California hypnotherapist at a party once who was supposed to get us in touch with our inner spiritualist.” She waved a hand dismissively. “It was ridiculous. And I couldn’t go under.”

  “That’s different,” he said, following her footsteps to the window. “This is something developed for crime witnesses, and I’m pretty good at it. I’ll need to re-create the atmosphere. Were the drapes closed yesterday?”

  “Yes. Swen had lit some candles, over there. And he had music on; he likes the ocean sounds.”

  Max drew the heavy gold drapes, instantly cloaking the room in darkness. “Incense?”

  “Patchouli, I think he mentioned. And there was a…” She turned on the massage table, looking down the little hole in the head support. “An orchid down there, but not today.”

  At a long counter that lined one wall, he pulled open a drawer, spying some incense sticks and a black lacquer urn. “What were you wearing? Do you get massaged in the nude?”

  “Is that part of the reenactment?”

  He flicked a lighter and touched the tip of the incense, focusing on the tiny orange dot. “If you want it to be.”

  In the drawer, he saw a pile of CDs and he flipped through, plucking out Seascapes and sliding it into a CD player. “Okay. We’ll start with the moment Swen left. What were you thinking about?” The sound of a zipper jerked him around.

  Her sundress hit the floor with a whoosh th
at matched the air flowing out of his lungs.

  “You.”

  He stared at her. At the challenge in her eyes, first. Then, God help him, at her body, bathed in shadows and bared to him. Her breasts were firm and smooth, tipped with ripe, dark nipples that jutted defiantly in the air. Below them, her waist narrowed, and around it, she wore a thin silver chain that rested on her hips, touching the edge of something silky—not quite a thong, but not quite functional panties, either. At the bottom of her endless legs, the dress lay in a pool around four-inch heels.

  Evidently, Cori Cooper was in a betting mood.

  “Me?” he asked with as much nonchalance as humanly possible. “Why were you thinking about me?”

  She kicked off one sandal, then the other. In a smooth move, she slithered onto the massage table, facedown. “I happened to be thinking about one night…in our past.”

  He stared at the round curve of her ass, barely covered in pink satin, and the tight, tempting vortex of her thighs. His jaw went completely slack. His cock did the opposite.

  “What night was that?”

  “New Year’s Eve.”

  The words punched him almost as hard as the provocative lift of her backside, and she turned her head so he could see the gleam in her eye.

  He reached down and pulled the cotton sheet over her, committing the view to memory. “Put your face down and close your eyes,” he ordered.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Not what he’d done on that New Year’s Eve. Although his mouth actually watered for the taste of her again. “Shhh. Close your eyes and your mouth.”

  She let out a tiny sigh of exasperation.

  “The first part is building rapport. I’d say we passed that stage, oh, that New Year’s Eve.” Her shoulders moved in a quiet laugh. “I’m going to do something called progressive relaxation, to help you—”

  “Will I know what I’m saying?”

  “This is no different than being mesmerized by a movie or book. You are vaguely aware of outside stimuli, but mostly you’ll be deep inside the sensory memory of your brain. Our goal is to jar that memory, to get you to dig far enough into your subconscious to unearth some detail that you might have forgotten. In ten minutes, you might know who was in here that day, Cori. This is very effective.”