by Nancy Gideon
“What?”
“Worth it, to me. No question about it.”
He stared down at her, eyes huge. “Don’t say that, Charlotte. Don’t say it, and don’t think it.”
“Would I step in front of a bullet for you? Yes. Would I stand off a room full of angry were-creatures to protect you? Been there, done that. Would I tear down the walls of this city with my bare hands to keep you safe? Without blinking an eye. Does that frighten you, Savoie? To know you mean that much to me?”
“Yes.” His fingertips charted the smooth curve of her cheek. “Yes, it does. It scares me and it humbles me and it excites me. It makes me feel like the most powerful man on earth. And lucky. So lucky.”
His hand scooped the back of her head, pulling her up to meet the hard, hungry slant of his mouth. She straddled his lap, holding his face between her palms so she could return the urgency, the longing, the desperate need that always flickered like a pilot light waiting to take flame. It ignited as their kiss grew open mouthed, breaths and tongues shared in hurried plunder. Just as that pyre of want was about to consume her, he fisted his hand in her hair to pull her back slightly so he could study her passion-flushed features, and she could delve into the glittery heat of this stare.
“Would you break your precious laws for me?” he asked with fierce intensity. “Would you look the other way while I broke them?”
Her mood cooled slightly, as did her tone. “I’ve bent them plenty already.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice lowered to a silky rumble. “The truth, Charlotte.”
“It depends on—”
“Nothing. Don’t hedge your bet. Just answer.”
She scowled at him, furious because she’d been tiptoeing around their contrary careers and now he was shoving it in her face, demanding she make a choice. And he would know if she wasn’t being honest, damn him.
“Yes,” she growled. “For you, if you asked, yes, I would.”
A satisfying amount of surprise registered in his eyes. Which irritated her enough to elaborate.
“I would hate it, but I would do it. It would destroy everything I built my life on. It would strip me of every ounce of dignity and self-respect. But I would do it, without hesitation, without regret, if you asked me to. That’s how much you mean to me. And if you care for me even half that much, you would never ask.”
A slow smile spread. “Clever girl. But weren’t you the one who said I had no conscience, no morals? If that’s the case, why would using you cause me any remorse if it got me what I wanted?”
When she didn’t speak for a long moment, he began to regret his goading, wondering if she believed those things of him still.
She finally answered with heart-twisting bluntness. “No matter what else he might have been, Jimmy loved you enough to raise you to be faithful and trustworthy. Tenacious and possessive, too. You would never harm me, or allow me to come to any harm. I know that. I believe that in every beat of my heart. And that’s why I can’t stand not having you touch me. That’s why I would surrender up so much to have you.”
He leaned into her, tucking his head beneath her chin, breathing her in with deep, shaky draws. She simply held him, uncertain of his mood. Until his fingers hooked on the hem of her T-shirt, and began to slowly pull it up. She gripped handfuls of it and yanked it over her head.
His palms cradled the undersides of her breasts, lifting them, mounding them into inviting swells. He buried his nose in the valley between them, inhaling her fragrant heat and unique scent. The tip of his tongue traced the edge of the inexpensive bra she’d purchased for utility rather than sex appeal, making her feel sexy in it as his thumbs dragged across white nylon, revolving purposefully until he’d provoked the desired hard pucker of response. A moan shuddered from her as his mouth fastened hot and hungry over one hard peak, then the other. Raw, fierce sensation rippled all the way to her toes and back.
He unsnapped her jeans. She lifted off his lap so he could pull the zipper down and slip the denim and her nylon panties off her hips. Then he cupped her with his palm, priming her with pressure from the heel of his hand, with the slow glide of his fingers, over her, into her. A riot of tense, bunchy shivers possessed her as she panted out his name; her hips began to rock.
Ringing.
She blinked to clear the glaze from her mind. Her phone?
Max snatched it from her side clip with his free hand and flicked it open. His voice was smoothly professional.
“You’ve reached Detective Charlotte Caissie. I’m sorry but she’s unavailable to take your call. She’ll be with you in just a moment. Please hold.”
They could hear Alain Babineau. “Savoie, I need to talk to her. Max, it’s important.”
Tossing the phone to the other end of the couch, he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her mouth down to his, not giving her time to think as his tongue and his fingers plunged hard and deep. Not giving her a chance to breathe or resist her sudden explosive reaction as he demanded more and more of her. Driving into her, forcing her to surrender all control until at last she gave that soft, plaintive little whimper of abandon that never failed to rock his world.
When she slumped with deliciously boneless satisfaction upon him, he passed her the phone.
“Your call, detective.”
She took the cell, then hesitated in a moment of thought-blanking eroticism as he sucked the taste of her from his fingers and thumb.
“Caissie,” she all but purred.
Babineau’s taut voice cut through her lethargy. “Ceece, I’ll be there in two.”
She was all business as she jerked up her jeans. “What’s happened?”
“I’ll explain when I get there.”
Max said nothing as she scrambled off his lap. He watched her through expressionless eyes as she geared up for battle, tugging on her clothes, restoring her phone, checking her weapon. Her tone was brusque.
“I’ve got to—”
“Go. I know. Don’t apologize.”
His quiet acceptance knocked the wind from her for a moment. Then she fixed upon his lips, kissing him with hurried longing.
“Stay here,” she urged between needy nibbles. “Wait for me. Wait here for me, Max.”
“Okay.”
She straightened just enough to devour him with her gaze. “Take a nap. You’ll need all your strength. When I get back, I’m going to ride you like a Grand Canyon pack mule.”
He blinked, then smiled faintly. “That sounds delightful.”
Her resolve melted down into a ridiculous puddle of tenderness. She kissed him again, softly, slowly, with all the grateful, mushy sentimentality he stirred within her usually practical soul.
A horn sounded.
“To be continued,” she murmured against his mouth, while she still had the willpower to leave him.
MAX PUT ON his blood-stained shirt and his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles from unconscious habit. Then he sat quietly, motionlessly on the sofa, closing his mind to all the conflicts of his day. Waiting for her return some hours later.
With Babineau.
One glimpse at her stern expression told him everything.
There’d be no Grand Canyon ride for the two of them tonight.
He asked no questions as she reached down for his hands; he could smell violent death all over her. As she ratcheted on the cuffs, she told him with a level gravity reminiscent of her father, “You have the right to remain silent. . . .”
Six
BY THE TIME he was fingerprinted and photographed and processed and led to interrogation, Max’s attorney, Antoine D’Marco, was tapping his briefcase impatiently. He gave his client a quick once-over, checking for signs of mistreatment.
“Always nice to hear from you, Max, but I prefer more pleasant circumstances and a more civilized hour. Are you all right?”
“Fine. I’ve been Mirandized.” He settled into the seat beside D’Marco and looked across the table to meet Alain Babineau’s steely glare. Charlotte stood a few
steps behind her partner but he didn’t glance at her. All he would have seen was her somber game face.
“Would you like some time to confer with your attorney?”
Max regarded Babineau with a mild disinterest. “No. Let’s just get this over with.”
“What are the charges, detective?” D’Marco demanded as he flipped open a yellow legal pad. “How soon can I arrange bail, if necessary?”
“Suspicion of murder, premeditated. You can assume that means not anytime soon. We’ve got forty-eight to hold him before an arraignment and we’re gonna hang onto him for every minute of it.”
“And the victim would be?”
“Vivian Goodman, forty-two, married, mother of three. Stalked, raped, and mutilated between seven and eight thirty this evening.” He slapped a line of color photos down on the table, from a smiling, attractive, dark-haired woman to progressively grisly depictions of her body sprawled nearly naked and close to dismembered on some playground.
Max studied the pictures without a betraying flicker of response. “Who is she?” he asked at last.
“She owned a public relations firm recently hired by Simon Cummings. She was in charge of the PR campaign for his run at the mayor’s seat. See a pattern, Mr. Savoie? Other than the one detailed in blood and internal organs?”
Max made no comment.
“All right. Let’s get this show started. Mind if I put this on record, counselor?” When D’Marco gave the go-ahead, Babineau prefaced their discussion on tape, then began with the obvious. “Give me a rundown on your movements leading up to your arrest.”
“I was at my office for most of the day. I had meetings in the morning and contracts to review in the afternoon. Mr. D’Marco was with me until about three, while we worked on the legal language of a proposal to present to, ironically enough, Mr. Cummings.”
“What kind of a proposal?”
“A marriage of convenience, detective. I have some property he wants to develop. He was doing a mating dance with Jimmy—”
“Legere.”
“Yes. But Jimmy didn’t trust him, didn’t like the numbers or the players, and was planning to go courting elsewhere.”
“So what made you want to sleep with him?”
“There was a lot of baggage between Jimmy and Cummings. I don’t know the particulars. If Jimmy didn’t like someone, it didn’t matter how sweet the deal was, he wouldn’t bite. That’s just the way he was.”
“And you’re not as discriminating about who you get under the covers with, is that it?”
Max’s eyes narrowed slightly but there was no change in his voice or posture. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that at all. It’s a trust issue with me. I insist on loyalty. I refuse to invest anything without assurances of a mutual degree of commitment to the end result. I don’t care about the details. If it’s all one-sided, you might as well save yourself the aggravation and just jack off.”
Babineau’s jaw tightened. “Are we still talking about business here?”
“I was. Were you speaking about something else, detective?” His tone was mild, his eyes glittered. “We were discussing my day, I believe.”
“Yes. Go on.”
“After we prepared the rough drafts of some contracts, I met with Francis Petitjohn until four thirty to go over some labor issues on the docks, then I dictated some correspondence to my secretary, Marissa Oliver, until five fifteen. I ate the other half of the muffuletta that was delivered at noon that I hadn’t had time to finish. Undressed with extra hot sauce, detective, in case you were wondering how I like it. I walked to St. Bartholomew’s and spoke with Father Furness for a few minutes. Then I went to visit my mother.”
“And where was that?”
“At her permanent address. St. Louis No. 1.”
Babineau had the decency to look disconcerted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” When Max had no reaction, he cleared his throat and continued. “How long were you there?”
“I don’t know exactly. Until dark. The police warn you not to loiter there after sunset because it’s dangerous.”
Babineau crooked a smile at him. “Yeah, I’m sure you feared for your safety.”
“As any unarmed, law-abiding citizen would.”
“Can anyone verify your presence there or what time you left?”
“I didn’t see anyone. It’s very quiet, very peaceful. That’s why I like it.”
“And after you spent this indeterminate and unverified amount of time there, where did you go?”
“Since I was in the neighborhood, I stopped to say good night to Jimmy Legere. He let my mama have a corner in his family’s plot because I . . . I was just a boy when she died and didn’t have any way to take care of her.” He took a slow breath, then continued in the same easy tone. “I didn’t stay because a couple of teenagers were necking on the step. Since they weren’t bothering him, I didn’t bother them.”
“Did they see you? Could they recognize you?”
“I think they were too preoccupied to even notice the second line of a marching band, detective.”
“Too bad for you.”
Max shrugged. “I didn’t know I was going to need an alibi, or I might have intruded. Maybe I should hire Karen Crawford and her news crew full-time to follow me around to document where I am . . . and where I’m not. She seems to enjoy making my private life very public.”
No reaction from Babineau. “So you left the cemetery and then what?”
“I waited at Charlotte’s car for her to go off duty. We went to her apartment. We were in the middle of discussing dinner options when you called.”
“That’s Detective Charlotte Caissie?”
“You know it is.”
“And it’s Detective Caissie who can also vouch for your whereabouts on the night that Sandra Cummings was killed?”
“Not entirely.”
Cee Cee struggled not to respond to that calm admission. Max, what are you doing?
“I left her for a period of about an hour and a half.”
“What time would that be?”
“From about one a.m. to two thirty.”
Dammit, Max. Don’t do this!
“And where were you during that time period, when Sandra Cummings was being raped and murdered?”
“It was a nice night. I went out for some air.”
“Did you go into the city?”
“On foot? That’s a twenty-minute drive, detective, and I don’t drive. I can provide you with the security tapes from that evening that will show no vehicles left the property.”
“Do that. And why are you sharing the news of your little unwitnessed fais-dodo now, and not at the time you were originally questioned?”
“A memory lapse, I guess. Once I was reminded of it, I wanted to make sure I said nothing contrary to Detective Caissie’s potential testimony.” He did look up at her then, his gaze cool and emotionless. “Because I love her that much.”
She clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from trembling. Why did he have to pick the absolute worst times to make his declarations?
Babineau was clenching his teeth, too. He gritted out, “Witnesses said you spoke with a man outside St. Bart’s, that that’s where you got the blood on your shirt. Care to tell me about that, Max?”
“There’s not much to tell. He was a stranger. He called me over to ask a couple of questions. He thought he knew me, but he was mistaken. The blood on my shirt is mine. I had a nosebleed.”
“We’ll want to test that.”
“Of course.”
“What did you think to accomplish by this brutal attack on Vivian Goodman?”
Max interrupted D’Marco’s objection, saying evenly, “I didn’t know the woman. I’ve never met her, seen her, or even heard her name before you showed me these photographs.”
“You didn’t know she was working for Simon Cummings?”
“Why would I?”
“Because the leverage of having killed his daughter and his PR director might encoura
ge that fidelity you’re so keen on. Is that part of the business proposal you were putting together for him? Did threats entice him to listen to what you had to say?”
“I’ve never even spoken to the man. I have no personal interest in him, in his family, his employees, or his campaign.”
“Then why,” Cee Cee asked abruptly, “did you approach his wife some months back and threaten her?”
Both Max and Alain looked to her in surprise. Max recovered first.
“I never made any threats toward Mrs. Cummings.”
“Do you deny speaking to her at a charity event you were attending with Jimmy Legere?”
“No, detective, I don’t deny it.” D’Marco started to lean in but Max waved him back. “I complimented her on her daughters. They’d both given speeches at the fund-raiser and they impressed me. I just made a comment to her about the danger of putting children into a controversial situation.”
“You threatened her children.”
“No. I did not. I just thought she and her husband should be more careful. Cummings was making a lot of dangerous enemies.”
“One of them being your boss.”
“Yes.”
“Did Jimmy tell you to scare her by hinting that her daughters might be targets of some kind of violence?”
His voice became slightly colder. “No. He didn’t. I don’t terrorize women and I don’t endanger children. But I thought it was naive of her not to realize there were others who might not be as honorable.”
“Why would you feel it necessary to warn her? Were you aware of any such plot to harm Cummings or his family?”
“I was not involved in any such plot.”
“That’s not what I asked, Mr. Savoie.”
“I’m sorry. I thought it was.”
“Why did you warn Mrs. Cummings that her daughters might be in danger?”
“Because, as you well know, that’s the kind of business I’m in, detective. That’s the kind of thing people do.”
“People like Jimmy Legere?”
“Yes.”
“And Francis Petitjohn.”
“You’ll have to ask him. I have no personal knowledge of his activities at that time.”
“And you? You’re a Boy Scout, Mr. Savoie?”
