by Nancy Gideon
“Out on the town, huh? Not frolicking in any wild doggy sex, were you? I wonder if that would be considered cheating?”
Unhappy because now she was wondering, she rinsed off the suds and briskly toweled him dry. Then she rose up, letting the towel drop.
“If you’re not going to talk to me, I’m going to bed. You can sleep on the rug.” She snapped off the light, and after a minute heard him skittering his way out of the tub onto the damp floor. After finding some leftover Chinese in the fridge and dropping the open carton on the floor, she went into the dark living room and flopped down onto the couch, irritated, angry, and hurt by his appearance at her door, wondering why he’d bothered to come at all. She could hear the cardboard scoot across her linoleum as he ate. She removed her gun and her shoes and socks and lay down on her back, her forearm braced across her eyes as tears began welling in them. She hated tears. They were so useless. So weak and unproductive.
Then a wet nose nudged under her hand, urging it to slide back over a glossy coat. Unconsciously she began to rub his ears and knead his ruff. He licked her other hand anxiously, quick, wet repetitions that abruptly became his human mouth sucking on her knuckles just as the fingers of her other hand slid into short black hair.
He fumbled impatiently with her jeans, managing to free one of her legs before he was over her, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting into her. Not stopping, not slowing until he heard her breath catch, then let go in a staggering release. A moment later, the hard punch of his own climax left him draped heavy and lax upon her. They didn’t speak. They didn’t kiss. They didn’t look at one another as the sound of their ragged breathing filled the silence.
Don’t let me go, Charlotte. Please don’t let me become what he is.
Gradually he felt her palms move on his bare skin, charting the slope of his shoulders, the muscled striations and swells of his back and arms. He let his head rest on her shoulder, the tension and upset flooding out of him on a sigh, leaving him relaxed and at peace for the first time in weeks.
“He’s not the same person I fell in love with.”
Anguish tightened his chest, spoiling the moment. Worse, he couldn’t argue the fact. So much had changed since she’d first spoken those treasured words to him. And while his feelings had never once faltered, hers, apparently, were more tenuous.
A sudden shrill whistle made him wince, and he lifted his head to find Cee Cee staring at him curiously. She hadn’t heard it. He heard it again, piercing his head that still throbbed from the alcohol. He climbed to his feet, too distracted by the source of the sound from the street below to notice the flash of hurt on Cee Cee’s face. By the time he glanced at her, there was only a tough veneer of pride.
“What was this all about?” she demanded with a low throb of insult. “Just thought you’d pop over for some quick TLC and wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am?”
Another stab of sound had him stumbling away from the couch. She was sitting up, jerking her jeans back on by then. He supposed he was lucky she wasn’t grabbing for her gun.
“No time for small talk? Fine. Fuck off, Savoie. Who needs you?”
She did.
She needed him so bad it was like putting her heart in a blender and serving it up on the rocks to watch him back away without a word. She strode to the door, hurrying, because in a second she was going to be bawling like a baby. She held it open, her features stony, her jaw locked to keep it from trembling. Seeing him standing there in her living room, sleek, naked, and everything she’d dreamed of, she wanted to slam that door shut and barricade him inside with her until they hashed it out or died trying. But her damned pride wouldn’t humble itself to make that first move.
In a blink, he was on all fours, once again the wild thing that had come to her door in search of comfort. He slipped past her to bound down the steps and into the dark car that was stopped at her curb with the door open. It shut behind him and pulled away. And only then did her features crumple.
JACQUES LAROCHE STOOD behind the bar, frowning as he toweled the water spots up. Something was very wrong, and he was wondering when he’d need to do something about it.
Max Savoie had come in an hour before with his new man, Rollo. They sat at Max’s table and proceeded to drink like camels filling a hump. He’d never seen hard liquor touch Max’s lips before, but he was matching the other one glass for glass, growing just as loud and troublesome.
LaRoche had no use for Rollo, finding him obnoxious and aggressive, a dangerous combination. And now Max was mirroring the kind of behavior he wouldn’t tolerate from his clientele.
One of the clan women caught Rollo’s roving eye. It didn’t matter to him that she was mated to another. He stepped in to scoop her up for a dance, squeezing her close and groping her unforgivably. When her mate started from his seat, LaRoche held up a staying hand, then, sighing, put himself in the middle of it. He waded out onto the dance floor, twirled the indignant female back into her lover’s arms, then put his own beefy one about Rollo’s shoulders.
“Come sit down, my friend, and have a drink on the house.”
“I’d rather have that little tasty piece under me.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” Jacques agreed with a wide grin, steering him away from trouble. As Rollo dropped into his seat, scattering the careless stack of empty glasses, Jacques smiled amiably. “On second thought, why don’t I bring you some coffee to clear your heads before you head for home.”
Rollo sneered. “Are you saying there’s something wrong with our thinking? I’m thinking you’ve got a helluva lot of nerve suggesting that, weakblood. Bring us a bottle and keep your fuckin’ nose out of our business. Just do what you’re told. That’s all you’re good for.”
LaRoche gritted his teeth until they cracked, then said softly, “Max, are you gonna let him talk to me like that?”
“He can talk to you any way he pleases, as long as he’s with me. And he’s with me.” Max said that quietly, with an icy smoothness. His gaze lifted slowly to fix on the big man’s. His eyes were flat, still and deadly. “Now, bring us a bottle.”
“Shit.” He took a breath. “Don’t make me have to ask you to leave, Savoie.”
“No. You don’t want to do that.”
LaRoche wasn’t a huge fan of diplomacy. But he was a huge fan of staying alive, and he knew Savoie could change that in an instant. The smart thing would be to back away and pray they didn’t decide to tear his place to pieces. But Max’s superior attitude was wedging like a chicken bone in his throat, and he was going to have to force it up or down.
“Max, I need to speak with you about something.”
“Make an appointment at the office, puppy. We got no time for your kind.”
LaRoche ignored Rollo’s rudeness to smile rather grimly at Savoie. “Max, a minute.”
Max rose up slowly, all distilled power and edgy silence, to follow LaRoche back to his office. The minute the door closed, LaRoche had him by the back of the neck, their faces inches apart.
“I don’t care who he thinks he is or if you can rip me in half for saying it, but nobody talks to me like that in my place. Nobody. Not even you, Savoie.” He waited, breath seething, for Max to tear his head off.
But Max placed a reassuring hand on his arm and said in a surprisingly sober voice, “I’m sorry, Jacques. I’m going to have to ask you to trust me on this. Things aren’t what they seem.”
The breath gushed from him. “I was about to kick your ass.”
“You were about to try.” A rather sloppy smile, then Max was all somber intensity once more. “Let it go, Jacques. Please. Trust me. I won’t let him get out of hand. Give him some space.”
“Why are you doing this? Why are you letting that loudmouth push you around?”
“There’s a difference between being pushed and letting someone push you. I’d just as soon he not know that difference for a while yet.”
“Why?”
“It’s personal. It has to do with who I am and finding ou
t where I come from.”
“And what about your girl? What does she have to say about this?”
Max’s expression and voice were suddenly murderously smooth. “Nothing. She doesn’t know and I want to keep it that way. I’m doing it for her. For the both of us. I know what I’m doing.”
“I hope so, Max. It’s your game. I’m just on the sidelines.”
But for all of his confident assurances, Max wasn’t sure at all. All he knew was the dark joy he’d felt running the night, and the slick queasiness in his stomach from watching Rollo torture his victim in the alley. The game he was playing was life or death. He couldn’t afford to get caught up. His only objective was to keep Charlotte out of it.
He’d been a fool to go to her. He’d risked everything just to see her, to feel her stabilizing touch, to lose himself within her. But she’d managed to do exactly what he needed done. She’d put his head and heart into perspective. And he’d almost given it all away at that glossy shimmer in her eyes.
He had to keep her away, to stay away even if he was hurting her. Even if it meant losing her.
Because her life was the one stake he wasn’t willing to wager.
Eleven
CEE CEE POURED herself into the job, going over both crime scenes again and again. She immersed herself in the private lives of both victims, reaching beyond the obvious political connection to Cummings in hopes of finding some other angle. But nothing was there.
She returned to her apartment only long enough to feed her pets and grab a change of clothes. She didn’t stay, because the suit she’d had cleaned for Max still hung on her bedroom door in plastic and his red high-tops were on the floor beneath. She couldn’t look at them and keep it together. She knew she should return them to him, but part of her clung to the hope that he’d return for them.
He didn’t. Nor did he call. Not even to apologize.
She wasn’t making excuses for him, she told herself when she thought of that quick, hard ride on the couch. She was the one who’d told him to step back, to give her room to work the case. She was the one, when he disobeyed that command by coming to her door, who’d let him take her, then tossed him out with a brittle “Fuck off.” And he’d gone. Without a word. Without a kiss.
She was so hungry for his kiss, her soul rumbled emptily. There was an intimacy to it that sex alone couldn’t match. She’d risked her job for that quick taste of him after his arrest. But he hadn’t kissed her.
To hide from the pain, she’d insulated her emotions in the job, blanketing them beneath exhaustion and a brutal self-imposed deadline. Because if she allowed herself even a second to mourn the loss of Max Savoie, she’d come apart at the seams.
What am I not seeing?
She needed to call California to see how Mary Kate was doing, but she was afraid to. Afraid she couldn’t handle the news that she was no better.
She spent her nights in the station with a pot of coffee, raking through Cummings’s causes and projects, smiling faintly when she came across the news of the riverfront reclamation effort that would provide substantial housing for low-income workers. Karen Crawford’s video clip almost deified Cummings. But there was no mention of LE International’s involvement or influence. Apparently Max had gotten the last word.
Rubbing her eyes, she switched off her computer. There was nothing in Cummings’s business activities to suggest someone was leaning on him to the point of doing murder. And if it wasn’t a why, it was a who. If not business, then personal. She didn’t know who had killed the two women or why. But she knew what had. And she knew where to go to find out more.
After speaking to LaRoche, she’d pushed an entire section of her investigation aside that only she could pursue. The dark preternatural side went so much deeper than the surface connection to Savoie. She knew he hadn’t committed the crimes, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know who did.
And that meant it was time to question him. Unofficially.
She called the house to be told curtly by Helen that he was not there and she didn’t know when he was expected. She called his office, even though it was after hours. A recording. Finally she took a breath and dialed his cell phone.
“Savoie. Leave a message.”
The sound of his voice shocked her into disconnecting. She studied her shaking hands, then cursed with irritation. Why was she stalling? She knew where he was.
CEE CEE PARKED several blocks down from the club, then stared at her reflection in the rearview mirror until she had her best game face on. Though she could control her expression, her heart was racing like an Indy 500 car. Nervousness put extra aggression in her stride as she went down the uneven sidewalk. When she recognized a sleek Mercedes and the bulky figure leaning back against it, she stopped.
“Detective.” A genuine smile.
“Giles. Is he inside?”
The pleasant expression faded. “Is he expecting you?”
Something in his tone quickened a quiver of ugly suspicion. “No. Why?” A spear of panic. “Is he with someone?”
Giles squirmed. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”
He was seeing someone else. He was with someone else.
“He’s not himself, detective. Hasn’t been, since he showed up.”
“He who?”
“Rollo. His new right-hand man. They’re inseparable. He won’t listen to anyone else. Not since you . . .”
Kicked him to the curb. She got it: whatever she was about to walk in on was her own fault. “Who is this guy? This Rollo?”
Giles possessed the fierce loyalty of a bull mastiff, along with the heavy features and brutal strength. Oscillating between his devotion to Max and his distrust of Rollo and the police, he spoke slowly, carefully. “I don’t know. Bad news and bad habits. None of this is like Max. None of it. I don’t know what’s going on with him and I don’t much like it. Not going in to work, leaving it to Petitjohn. Gone all night, spending all his time and money with booze and easy pieces.” Remembering who he was talking to, he flushed unhappily.
Cee Cee had gone cold clear through. “Thanks for the heads-up.” Her voice was as razor-edged as her mood.
Giles nodded miserably.
At the door, she was stopped by the icy female bouncer, who allowed a sneering smile.
“I’m sorry, detective. Mr. Savoie is otherwise occupied this evening. I can’t let you in.”
“He told you to tell me that?” Her tone crunched on the ground glass shredding her heart.
“He didn’t have to.”
“Get out of my way. This isn’t a personal visit.”
Smirking, the woman stepped aside.
Drawing upon years of grit and bravado in the worst possible situations to give her a “Don’t mess with me” attitude, Cee Cee strode into the dark heartbeat of the nightclub.
His leather jacket was on the back of an empty chair. Four glasses, a butt-filled ashtray, and a host of empty bottles littered the tabletop.
Cee Cee scanned the dance floor. It was elbow to elbow with couples moving to a raspy-voiced Aretha Franklin crooning “Chain of Fools.” And right in the middle of them, with his eyes closed, a cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth and a longneck hanging from one of the hands curved about the waist of a phenomenally built beauty, was Max Savoie.
She was startled enough to stand there staring. At the way the woman’s palms moved with a stunning familiarity along his shoulders, her fingers teasing up into his hair. She said something to him and Cee Cee watched a slow smile move his mouth. That wide, sensuous mouth that had said things to her that now wedged up hot and huge in her throat. She couldn’t keep her gaze from scalding over the strong angles of his unshaven face, down the long leanly muscled body swaying with a lethally sexy grace to the music and to a deeper, more intimate beat with someone else. And the fury punching through her was almost as great as the pain. Almost.
His eyes came open slowly to do a quick scan of the crowd. Before he could spot her, Cee Cee stepped b
ack and turned sharply—right into Jacques LaRoche. She jerked away from the big hands that instinctively caught her arms to steady her. LaRoche’s sympathetic smile tore her heart and pride in two.
“Here to arrest him or shoot him?”
“I’m trying to decide.”
LaRoche grinned at her fierce tone. But he’d also seen the hurt she was scrambling to suppress. His expression sobered. “Take him home. Get him out of here. He needs you, detective.”
“It doesn’t look like it to me. He appears to be enjoying the hands he’s in.”
“Looks can be deceiving. He’s playing a dangerous game. I don’t think he realizes how dangerous.”
“I wouldn’t waste a bullet on him and I’m not about to waste any more of my time.”
His hand was firm on her elbow. “Charlotte, he’s in trouble.”
She shook him off. “It’s not my problem.”
His attitude suddenly cooled, as if she’d plunged in his estimation. “Can I give him a message?”
“Tell him—” She swallowed hard. “No. No, I got the message already. Good night, Jacques.”
“Take care, detective.”
She was pushing her way toward the exit when Max was suddenly in her path.
“Looking for me?”
She didn’t dare meet his eyes.
“Not anymore. Move.”
His feet planted, forcing her to look up at him. “I smelled your perfume.”
“That’s not all I smell on you. Step back, Savoie.”
His voice lowered to a seductive rumble. “You look so good.”
“You don’t.” That was a lie. Her gaze did a quick assessment of his features, loving, wanting what she saw. “You look like you’ve slept in those clothes and with that—” She broke off, lips pressing tightly together. Her hands fisted at her sides when his circled her wrists, tugging her toward him.
“Dance with me. Sit with me. Have a drink with me.”
She twisted her hands free. “I don’t want to do anything with you.”
