(Moon 1) - Killing Moon

by Rebecca York

  She lifted questioning eyes to his, her expression dreamy; he wondered if she was as aroused as he.

  With an effort, he managed to ask, "Were you expecting anyone this morning?"

  "Expecting anyone? Where?"

  "At your house."

  "No. What are you getting at?"

  "After you left, a car stopped at the curb. When I looked out the kitchen window, it sped away."

  She sucked in a breath. "Who was it?"

  "I couldn't tell in the fog."

  He saw a little shiver go over her shoulders.

  "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have mentioned it, but I didn't want to keep you in the dark."

  "I appreciate that." Her fingers clamped themselves onto his. "But it doesn't make me want to go home alone tonight."

  "Do you want me to come back with you?"

  "Yes."

  The way she said it, just that one syllable, tightened his body again. He'd stopped kidding himself. Both of them knew what going back to her house would mean.

  It was an effort to pull his hand away. They ate in silence then, but he felt the need to hear her voice, to learn everything he could about her. "You said you have a sister?"

  "Yes. Dory. She's a couple years younger than I am, and she's still in Boston, where we grew up."

  "Is she a doctor, too?"

  Megan laughed. "No. She's had a succession of jobs, cocktail waitress being the latest." Her expression sobered again. "And she's gotten mixed up with a succession of men who remind me of our father. I guess the difference between her and my mother is that Dory's prepared to leave them when things get really bad."

  "And what kind of men have you gotten mixed up with?"

  She flushed. "Not too many. I never had a relationship that went very far. I've always looked for non-threatening guys. Then it turns out there's not enough substance to make them interesting." She said it forcefully, as if offering him a challenge.

  "So I'm not exactly your type," he heard himself saying.

  "I told myself you weren't." She raised her eyes to him. "You know how far that got me."

  About as far as he'd gotten warning himself away from her.

  "Do you want to leave?" he asked, giving her another chance to back away.

  She didn't take it. "Yes. Where are you parked?"

  "Near Hecht's."

  "That's convenient. I'm over there, too."

  DONALD took a sip of his Coke.

  "Speaking of vices, it's amazing what people come into the shop to spend their money on," Sandy chirped.

  He gave her an indulgent smile. "Yeah, you've told me about some of them."

  "The guy this afternoon takes the cake. Cathy was waiting on him, but I was in the stock room, and I could see him and his girlfriend. After they left, Cathy told me all about him.

  "She said a couple of months ago he bought an expensive pair of Bausch and Lomb binoculars. Top of the line. Five hundred dollars. Then this afternoon, he comes back and tells her he lost them. So he pulls out his credit card and buys a replacement pair. Just like that."

  He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. The binoculars he'd found in the knapsack outside the fence were Bausch & Lomb. And he knew they were a damn expensive pair.

  Sandy broke into his thoughts. "In fact, there he is over there eating dinner. Him and the girlfriend."

  Donald went rigid. "Where?"

  "Over there. Behind that bank of plants. It looks like they're getting ready to leave." She inclined her head.

  He swiveled around in his seat and saw a good-looking couple—a dark-haired guy and a little blonde.

  They got up and walked through the court, their total attention focused on each other. Still, he bent over his hamburger, hiding his face under his cap. Then he looked at his watch. "Hey, sorry, I just remembered, I've got to check on a car that broke down in the parking lot this afternoon. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  "No, that's okay. I'll see you later."

  He stood, turned, and started down the aisle after the couple, keeping far enough behind them so that they didn't know they were being followed.

  They walked through Hecht's and into the parking lot, where they separated.

  Pulse pounding, he followed the guy, who headed up a lane and opened the door of an SUV. A Jeep Cherokee.

  The license number was DEK 782.

  DE—the same fucking first two letters as the SUV that had driven away from his house two nights ago. The same fucking binoculars.

  Christ! He felt his heart literally stop—then start up again in double time. He had the bastard—if he could just get a little more information out of Sandy. And if he couldn't, there was always the DMV. Somehow he'd figure out how to get the guy's name out of them.

  He went back into the mall and sprinted toward the food court. When he found that Sandy had already left, he bolted up the escalator to Indulge Yourself. She was behind the counter.

  "Sorry about that," he said. "I figured I'd better take care of it before the mall closed."

  She nodded, looking like she believed him.

  He leaned toward her across the counter. "I've been wanting a pair of binoculars like the ones you were talking about. For bird watching."

  "They're pretty pricey for bird watching." She reached into the case and brought them out.

  He took them from her and turned to look at a sign in the store across the aisle, not really paying much attention to the focus. "Nothing's too good for my hobby."

  "I know what you mean. I try not to spend too much on jewelry. But it's such a temptation when you see a piece you want. There's this diamond and ruby pin in Katz's that's just calling to me," she said, like she thought he might jump at the chance to buy it for her.

  He managed a noncommital response, then put the binoculars back and looked around the shop and asked, "Where's, uh, Cathy?"

  "She went home when I got back from dinner. Why?"

  He gestured toward the binoculars. "These seem okay. But I'd like to ask that guy if he thinks they're worth it. Can you look at the credit slip and give me his name?"

  She glanced toward the door, then back at him. "Oh, I couldn't do that. It's confidential information."

  He gave her his most boyish smile. "It would be a big help—before I spend that kind of money. I mean, I'm not some fat cat. I have to live on my salary."

  When her expression softened, he added, "Please." Jesus, he hated to beg, but he'd make her pay for that later. "I'd really appreciate it."

  She hesitated a beat, making him sweat. "Okay. You can stop by tomorrow morning and look."

  "Why not right now?" he asked, somehow managing not to shout.

  She shot another glance toward the door. "Because my boss comes in sometimes in the evenings, and if he caught me letting someone look at the charge slips, I'd be in big trouble."

  He gave her a conspiratorial wink. "I'm mall security," he reminded her. "There's been some credit fraud in the mall, and I need to look at your records."

  She managed a nervous smile. "Tomorrow."

  He could see that pressing her would be a bad idea. But he was sure of her now. Sure he could get the name. Feeling expansive, he said, "What are you doing after you get off?"

  Her face brightened. "I don't have any particular plans."

  "What about if we go down to Brennan's? There's a nice crowd there. Music."

  "I'd like that. But I'd like to go home and change first. Why don't I meet you around ten-thirty?"

  "Great!" He looked at his watch. "I'll see you later, then."

  "Yes."

  He exited the shop, feeling better than he had in days.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  « ^ »

  ROSS PARKED IN the same spot as the night before, then walked through the darkness to Megan's kitchen door. If someone had leaped out of the bushes and assaulted him, he would have had no warning. The scenery around him was a blur—just the way the mall had been. There was a buzzing inside his head, and his vision had
narrowed to the dim triangle of light beyond the doorway.

  He stepped inside and saw that she'd turned on the fluorescent light over the sink, so that most of the room was in shadow.

  Somehow he remembered to slam the door closed with his foot before reaching for her.

  She came into his arms with a sound that was a cross between a sigh and a sob.

  "Ross."

  He folded her close, held on, trying to bring himself back to sanity. Apparently there was still enough blood in his brain for some of the cells to function.

  "I've got to check the house," he managed to say.

  Her face was flushed as she lifted it toward him. "Check for what?"

  "To make sure nobody's broken in. I think you asked me back here because you were worried about that."

  "Partly. And partly it was an excuse." Her voice was high and thick.

  He made himself turn her loose, forced his mind to focus on his surroundings as he pulled the Sig .40 from the holster under his arm.

  Her eyes widened when she saw the automatic. "Why do you have that?"

  "Because I'm supposed to be prepared for trouble."

  When he moved toward the dining room, she followed.

  "Stay here."

  She stopped in her tracks, swaying slightly, and he exited the kitchen, checking rooms and closets before coming back to her.

  "Everything's okay." He brushed past her, turned the lock on the back door.

  The trip through the house had given him a chance to cool down. "Megan—"

  She didn't allow him to finish. "I'm in perfect shape to make sexual decisions."

  The buzz was back in his head. Sexual decisions.

  "Could you put down the gun?"

  "Yeah." He laid it on the kitchen table as if it were a piece of crockery, and she came back to him, holding out her arms.

  He walked into her embrace, and everything became sharp, vivid. The scent of her in his nostrils, the scent he remembered from the morning. The feel of her in his arms. The taste of her as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Their lips touched, fused, sealed with heat.

  With a small sound she opened for him, and he swept into the warmth of her mouth, his tongue investigating the inside of her lips, the serrated edges of her teeth, the sensitive tissue beyond.

  She moaned into his mouth, her tongue no less bold as it found his, then stroked the inner surface of his lips.

  A whirlwind coalesced around him, pressing him more tightly to her as his hands swept up and down her back, cupped her bottom, lifting her against his erection.

  His mouth never left her. But, finally, like a diver too long below the surface, he was forced to come up for air, his breath rasping in and out of his lungs.

  "Come to my bedroom."

  He nodded, took a step toward the doorway. The gun registered in his peripheral vision. "Wait a minute."

  Her eyes were wide as he snatched it up.

  "Can't leave it here," he said, his throat so constricted he could hardly get the words out.

  He didn't know whether she was following his logic, whether she understood that anyone looking in the window could see the weapon—use it on them.

  PI and lover shot with his own gun.

  He abandoned that thought as they stepped into the bedroom. Again the weapon clunked onto a flat surface, this time the dresser, and then he reached for her, clasped her to him, the length of her body pressed to his.

  The roaring in his head increased to hurricane force, sweeping away everything in its path but the woman in his arms.

  He wanted to see her, wanted everything. Reaching toward the lamp on the dresser, he pressed the switch, sending golden light over her hair, her face, her shoulders.

  Mad to feel her satin skin against his, he yanked his shirt over his head, fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She seemed to be caught in the same wild surge of need as she dispatched the hook at the back of her bra and pulled it out of the way. He tore away the button at her waistband, hearing it ping against the floor.

  "Sorry."

  She shook her head, helped him shuck off the skirt, her panty hose, and panties.

  Naked, she came back to him with a strangled cry that rose to a kind of desperate moan as he clasped her by the shoulders, moving her body so that her breasts swept back and forth across his chest.

  He felt the softness of the mounds, the twin points of her nipples. His hands trailed down her back, over her rounded bottom, touching her everywhere he could reach.

  Needing to taste as well as feel, he shifted her away from him. Her little exclamation of protest turned into a gasp of pleasure as his mouth closed over one distended nipple.

  He drew on her, his body responding to the taste, the texture, the pleasure of her response.

  "Ross. Ross. Oh, God, Ross." She chanted his name as she fumbled to open his belt buckle, opened the metal snap at the top of his jeans, lowered the zipper so she could push the jeans away along with his shorts.

  When her hand closed around his taut, aching flesh, his brain momentarily shut down. He wasn't conscious of moving. All he knew was that one minute they were standing near the dresser. The next, they were stretched the wrong way across the bed, touching, kissing, exploring each other with a freedom and a passion that overwhelmed him.

  He had never needed a woman more than he needed this one. And at the same time, it had never been more important to please his lover as well as himself.

  He worshiped her breasts with his hands, his mouth, his teeth, the taste of her driving him close to madness. As his fingers stroked the hot, slick folds of her sex, he watched the tautness of her face, listened to the breath rasp in and out of her lungs.

  "Ross… now… please." She reached for him, her hand firm on his penis as she guided him to her.

  His body sank into hers, and he felt completed.

  "Oh, Ross," she breathed, her hand lifting to touch his face, her head angling so that her lips could capture his at the moment they became one flesh.

  He knew in that instant that he had been alone all his life, and now he had found his mate.

  A kind of fierce joy rose in his breast as he lifted his head and gazed down at her.

  Her face was radiant, glowing, suffused by passion as he began to thrust himself into her.

  She matched his rhythm, clung to his shoulders, climbed toward orgasm with him. The pleasure of it was almost unbearable as he held himself back, waiting for her to reach her climax. And when he felt her start to contract around him, the all-consuming tension exploded into a release that rocked his body, rocked him to his soul.

  He didn't have to ask how it had been for her. He had felt it. Sensed it.

  He had been made for this woman—and she for him.

  She moved her lips against his cheek, clasped him tightly when he tried to shift his weight away from her.

  "Stay," she whispered, her hands settling into the place where his spine met his hips as she nibbled her lips against his face. And he felt himself responding to her touch, growing hard again while his body was still joined to hers.

  When he raised his head and stared down at her, she grinned, then cupped the back of his head and brought his mouth back to hers, kissed him deeply.

  It was incredibly erotic to feel her arousal building again, to feel the small tremors that contracted her inner muscles around him. Incredibly erotic to move his hips just enough to feed the tension building in his own body. Slowly, sweetly until the languid pace suddenly accelerated, and they were racing toward another shattering climax.

  Afterward, when he shifted to his side, she let him leave her, but she didn't break their contact completely.

  Her hand stroked the damp hair back from his forehead.

  "You're exhausted," she murmured. "I should have my head examined, taking that much from a man who got shot a few days ago."

  "You weren't taking anything. You were giving."

  "And taking." She squeezed his shoulder, then slipp
ed out of bed. "Come on, we need to swing around and get under the covers."

  The room came back into focus, and he realized they were lying the wrong way across the bed.

  While she pulled the bedspread down, he maneuvered his head toward the pillows, then let her cover him. She turned off the light on the dresser but left on the one in the hall.

  He listened to sounds from the bathroom, then watched her come back into the room and open a drawer. When she took out a T-shirt, he roused himself enough to say, "Don't. I want to feel your skin next to me."

  Silently she put down the shirt, then came back to the warmth of the bed. He pulled her close, needing to feel the length of her body tight against his.

  She rolled to her side, her breast pressed against his arm, and he reached out in the darkness, stroking her, feeling her respond to his touch once more. He grew hard again. Wanting her even now.

  But he had enough sanity left not to do more than hold her in the darkness as he drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  « ^ »

  IT WAS LATE. Mrs. Anderson had long since gone to bed, giving Jack a look that said she thought he was working too hard.

  He'd told her he'd come upstairs shortly. Instead he'd sunk into the worn leather chair in his office. His thinking chair.

  It was the place where he settled when he needed to put together the pieces of a puzzle. Usually that meant he was mulling over a case, trying to fit together motive, means, and opportunity. Tonight he was working on the puzzle of Ross Marshall.

  Until the beginning of this week, he'd thought he had a handle on Marshall.

  Christ, had it really been only Monday when he'd picked up Ken Winston's old case file from his desk?

  It seemed incredible. But there it was.

  Purely as a ploy, he'd told Dr. Sheridan that some guys might attack a woman and pretend to rescue her to make themselves look like a hero. She'd been outraged by that suggestion and had told him heatedly that Ross was a hero.

  He hadn't exactly thought about Marshall in those terms. Now he leaned back, closed his eyes, and mentally catalogued the kinds of individuals who fed information to the cops.