Her cheeks blazed even hotter, but she managed to say, “Blowjobs, eh?” with fair composure. Definitely getting hotter in here.
Mick’s arm shifted to the back of the sofa. Behind her. “Mm-hmm.”
She did her best to ignore it. “What about the wives? Did they have, um...”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“So the men didn’t reciprocate?”
“Apparently not. Although...remember the leather residue? It was found inside them.”
“Leather? Inside?”
“We’re thinking gloves. Though—” he shrugged again “—who knows? There are a few other possibilities.”
His thigh against hers was getting hotter and more solid by the second. She struggled to concentrate, but the subject matter was nearly as unsettling as his nearness.
“What about semen?”
“In all the usual places. Lots of it. Wild nights in suburbia.”
“But no condoms,” she managed. “I don’t suppose the killer left his DNA anywhere?” She knew he hadn’t, or it would have been mentioned, but she was grasping at anything to keep the conversation moving.
“Just the husbands on the first two women. It’ll be a few days for the full results from the latest vics, but I suspect he’s been just as careful.”
Caro got up from the couch as nonchalantly as she could and wandered over to the mantelpiece, where she set about straightening the knickknacks and mementos. What she really wanted to do was fan her face. “So, does that mean the killer didn't rape the women? Or just that he used protection?”
“Good question.” Mick picked up his beer, his eyes tracking her movements like a killer watching his prey. “With this kind of organized murder, you'd expect him to rape her before he killed her. It's almost always part of the fantasy.”
“But this guy is unusual, right?”
“Right. The husband definitely plays a role in the fantasy, having sex with the wife while she's tied up and the killer watches. But from the amount and position of the semen inside her, the M.E. doesn't think it's been disturbed by subsequent intercourse with the killer.”
“So the leather...whatever...was used before the final time.”
“Yep.”
Mick rose and strolled to the other end of the mantel from where she stood. He fingered a framed photo of her graduation from the Academy which sat under the softly glowing Tiffany lamp, then ran his thumb along the uneven edge of the lamp shade. All the while he kept his eyes on her.
“Maybe he's using the husband as a surrogate because he can't perform himself,” he suggested.
She tore her eyes from his hands and slid away from the mantel. “Didn't Tim say that by staging the woman's body and cleaning up the blood from her and the bed, it indicates he wants to put her in a good light?” She walked over to her easy chair and sat on the arm. “To create an impression of purity and innocence?”
“Yes, that's what Agent Woodruff said,” Mick replied stiffly. “What's your point?”
If she didn't know better, she'd think her use of the profiler's first name irritated him.
“Well, maybe this guy doesn't want to have sex with her. Maybe that's not what this is all about.”
He nailed her with a bald stare. “Caroline, it's always about sex.”
“Yes, but not necessarily about having sex.”
His eyes narrowed and he took a few steps toward her. “You don't know a hell of a lot about men, do you?”
She doused a flare of annoyance. “Well, maybe it isn't a man,” she shot back, jumping up to pace behind the couch.
He looked momentarily astonished, then his brows knit together. “You must have been distracted when Tim was going through the part about ninety-eight percent of serial killers being male.”
The only thing distracting her from Tim's profile had been Mick's unrelenting gaze on her through practically the whole presentation. The same way it was distracting her now. She really had to pull herself together.
“I was listening,” she ground out. “I just think there might be an alternative explanation.”
He looked more than skeptical, but folded his arms over his chest and said, “Okay, I'm all ears.”
Lord, was he actually taking her seriously? Shocked, she took a sip of wine to stall for time. “Well, first of all, the killer doesn't have sex with the woman. Has the M.E. looked at the husband for traces of other partners?”
His mouth parted, then snapped shut. “I expect so.”
“Does the report mention anything?”
With obvious reluctance he admitted, “It doesn't mention that specifically.”
She refrained from smiling. She hadn't really thought this through, she'd just made an impulsive suggestion in reaction to his sex-biased assumptions. But now she was determined to see where she could take it—as unlikely as the theory was.
She paced back and forth behind the couch. “And then, there's the fact that the killer stabs the man in the back right after ejaculation, when he's completely vulnerable and most likely unaware of what their guest is doing.”
“The timing is part of the fantasy,” Mick explained with exaggerated patience. “It ties in with how the killer stages the woman's body after strangling her. The man defiling the woman enrages him and he kills the husband in a heinously vicious manner, then restores the wife to innocence after the repugnant act. Of sex. Maybe he witnessed his mother being raped when he was young, or something like that.” He took a swig of beer and looked pensive. “You're right, though. This could be about not having sex.”
Well, wonders never ceased. “Yes. But why couldn't it be a woman who is reliving a horrible experience, where she herself was the one being defiled? It would explain why she'd want to kill the man as he completed the sex act on a helpless woman, all tied up. And why she'd want the woman to appear pure and innocent afterwards.”
He nodded. “I see your point. But then why doesn't she just cut off the guy's balls instead of gutting him? Why kill the woman at all?”
She made a rude face, walked around to the coffee table and set her glass down. “Then, there is the fact that these couples seem to have no problem inviting a total stranger into their home, tying up the wife, and having sex in front of this person. A woman would be much less threatening.”
“True.”
She dropped onto the couch, spinning out the theory in her mind. “Lots of men fantasize about a ménage à trois with two women. I just think it would be much easier all around for a woman to get herself into a position to commit the crimes.”
“Maybe.” He walked over and stood in front of her. “But you forget how charming these killers can be. They come off as normal as the guy next door, so no one ever suspects them. They're talkers, able to put people at ease and make them do things they never even dreamed of.”
She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed another pull of beer, then swiped a drop of moisture from his lip with his tongue. Her pulse kicked up a notch. What things could he make her do that she'd never even dreamed of?
She cleared her throat and forced herself to study her glass. “Yes, well. It was just an idea.”
“And an interesting one. It's good to keep our minds open to all kinds of possibilities,” he said in an oddly gravelly voice.
She felt the cushion next to her dip and tamped down on her increasingly wobbly nerves. “Does he take trophies?” she quickly asked.
“Family and neighbors haven’t spotted anything missing.” He paused slightly. “But I suspect he does. Something kinky. Like a collar or whip. Or...something like that.”
She blinked away the image that created, wishing she hadn’t brought it up. She couldn't get up from the couch again without looking totally obvious, so she scooted back a bit and slung her elbow over the back cushion. “So what's your theory?”
“About the killer?” He peeled off a corner of the label from the beer bottle. “He's a sociopath. Bad childhood. Abusive father, abused mother. Frustrate
d sexually, rigid in his habits. Doesn't trust people. A loner.” He shrugged. “You know, the usual serial killer spiel.”
She studied him, wondering about the man behind the cool, detached façade. She was beginning to think there was a whole lot more to Mick McGraw than what he let people see. “What about you?”
He looked up sharply. “Me?”
“Yeah. Do you trust people?”
He relaxed almost imperceptibly and gave her a wry smile. “Sure I do.”
“Uh-huh. That's why you're Mr. Warm-and-Friendly at work.”
He chuckled, going back to his label. “I like being the Iceman. Suits me.”
“Why? Why don't you want to get close to anyone on the job?”
He lifted his shoulders uneasily.
“Afraid someone you like will get hurt? That you'll lose your edge if it's a friend or a lover in the line of fire?”
“Partly that,” he said, rolling the bottle between his hands. “Partly ancient history.” He took a long draught and gave her a crooked smile. “Partly because I like my sex a little over the edge. Who needs that making the rounds at the water cooler?”
Her breath hitched. The idea of the Iceman liking kinky sex should have made her laugh. But the laughter died in her throat. Deep down, she suddenly knew it was true. This afternoon when he'd been dressed in that leather harness, she'd seen it in his eyes—the dark, primitive passion swirling in their depths like a vampire's cape.
It had scared the hell out of her. But as much as it terrified her, it also fascinated her. And drew her to him as to no other man she'd ever known.
Dangerous.
With a shaky laugh, she grabbed her barely touched glass and got up to refill it at the wet bar. She flicked on the lights again. “If that were really true you wouldn't be telling me about it.”
“I trust you with my secret.”
She turned in surprise. “Why?”
He took another sip from his beer. “Because you're already over the edge.”
This time her laughter was genuine. “Right.” If only he knew.
“So,” he ventured. “What's your excuse?”
“For what?” she asked, nearly sloshing her wine.
“For not getting involved.”
She made another face. “Don't be ridiculous. I have tons of friends in the department.”
“Ever invite them home?”
“Sometimes.”
“And lovers? Why no lovers?”
“You don't. Why should I?” she fired back, ignoring the heat that suddenly rocketed through her veins.
“I have plenty of lovers. Just not on the job.”
An unexpected jolt of raw jealously pierced her gut. She clamped down hard on it. “Well, if you must know, Julio—”
“Is gay.”
She looked up from her wine in shock. “How did you—”
“I'm a detective, Caroline. And you're avoiding the question.”
She made a physical effort to calm her unruly reactions. “That's because it's absurd. Everyone knows my reputation.”
“Uh-huh. A reputation based on your assignment in vice.” He nodded, a calculated expression crossing his face, as if a puzzle piece had just fallen into place. “Short skirts, flirty smile, always a sexy come-back. Yeah, I know the drill. But you're pretending to be hot and heavy with a gay man, and the only other guy you’ve ever actually come on to—namely me—was a whole year ago and you knew damn well I would turn you down. Now, when you finally get me alone, you won't let me come within ten feet of you.”
She stared, helpless to deny his annoyingly accurate observations.
“You don't want to get involved any more than I do,” he said. “You just have a different way of avoiding it.”
“Who died and made you so damn smart?” she muttered.
Before her eyes, his features subtly changed, became edgier. More forceful. More dangerous.
His smile was slow and lazy, like a wolf's. “Like I said, I'm a detective.”
In a supple movement he rose and prowled around the furniture toward her. At the floor lamp he stopped and carefully turned it off. Goosebumps skittered down her arms. Oh, God.
“You know, I've been wondering about something.”
“What's that?” she said, battling the herd of butterflies that all at once invaded her stomach.
He moved a few steps closer.
She was holding her glass so tightly she was afraid it might crack, but for the life of her she couldn't loosen up.
“I've been wondering what you have on under that T-shirt.”
She froze. This time his words didn’t leave much open to interpretation.
“Well, what do you think?” she hedged, whirling to refill her glass again, her mind suddenly unable to function. What was he doing?
Before she realized he'd moved again, he was right behind her.
His warm breath fanned through her hair, tickling the nape of her neck. “I think you're naked under it.”
A strangled noise squeaked past the lump in her throat. Her eyes locked with his in the mirror over the wet bar. She wanted to tear them away—oh! how she wanted to!—but she couldn't. The power of his gaze, too potent to fight, held her helplessly captive. He reached out and flicked off the bar lights, leaving the room in a pale blue glow. Then he opened his hand, and several small, red packets spilled onto the bar.
Her pulse scrambled. God no. Not this. She didn’t want to make this choice. He was too tempting.
“You don't even like me,” she choked out.
“You'll get over it.”
Her temper made a last-ditch effort to save her from herself. “You are a fucking arrogant bastard.”
“Three out of three.”
“You can't be serious!”
He stepped closer still, and all she could think of was how very much she wanted him to be serious. She must have a giant screw loose.
The large frame of his body whispered against the back of hers, from his jaw all the way down to the boots grazing her bare feet. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sensation, only to feel his incredible heat penetrate the thin layers of cotton that separated them. Just as surely as he'd already penetrated her inadequate defenses.
The scent of him, dark and musky, wove around her, snaring her in its seductive web. Deep, rough masculine breaths licked across her ear. He moved infinitesimally. His steel hard arousal settled intimately into the cleft of her bottom.
Ohgod-ohgod-ohgod.
“And I think no matter how much you want to deny it,” he murmured, “you want me as much as I want you.”
She swallowed, weakening. “You want me?”
“Oh, yeah. From the first time I saw you in that lunchroom, I've wanted to bend you over a chair, lift those disgracefully short hooker skirts and put an end to this infernal craving I have for you.”
She opened her eyes and lost herself in the feral promise offered in his shadowy reflection. “Why didn't you?”
A harsh sound vibrated from deep in his chest. His fingers dipped under the hem of her T-shirt, skimmed up her thighs and over her hips to her waist, dragging the shirt up as they went. Gripping her firmly, he pulled her back into him, so her bare bottom pressed against his jeans, her hips framed by his muscular thighs. “I don't fraternize at work.”
Excitement shuddered through her body. God, he felt so good, smelled so arousingly male. He bent and kissed up her neck, catching her earlobe between his teeth. His hands left her waist and traveled slowly up. He touched her naked breasts and she cried out softly, a shock of desire streaking right to her center.
“I don't want a relationship,” she managed to stammer past the haze. Just to keep things straight. He was too much to resist, but she had her priorities.
“I think you and I both want the same thing.”
His hands enveloped her and squeezed, just enough to make her ache for more. She very nearly dropped her wine glass.
“Wouldn't that be classified as frater
nizing?”
He turned her in his arms and gripped her hips with strong fingers, her sleep-shirt riding on his wrists. “We left our badges at the door, remember?”
“I don't understand,” she said, fighting to latch onto a last, coherent thought. Struggling not to think about how much she wanted him. Or how she was completely bare from the waist down. “Why now?”
He stared down at her, a searing heat filling his eyes. “This afternoon, when I saw you on your knees in front of me, a zipper away from—” He paused, letting the silence fill in the blanks. “I knew there was no way in hell I could ever be alone with you for more than five minutes and not get you naked.”
His mouth slanted over hers, pausing there like a succulent fruit, just out of reach. “I really had only two choices,” he murmured.
She could taste his breath in her mouth and her throat ached in anticipation of the taste of his tongue on hers. She pried her fingers off the edge of the counter and placed them on his chest. If she had any kind of sense she'd push him away. She didn’t.
“First, I could throw you off the task force.” He looked deep into her eyes. “I came here tonight to fire you, you know.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“Who says I have?”
“You could always fire yourself,” she suggested tartly, giving his chest a shove. He clamped down tighter on her hips.
“Yeah, I could remove myself, and give you to Bobby to work the case with. Would you like that?” He pulled her closer. “He wants you, too, you know.”
Her fingers moved over the hard muscles lining his broad chest. “I don't want to work with Bobby. And you can take—”
“Women think Bobby's a good-looking guy,” he interrupted. “Sexy. Don't you think Bobby's a good-looking guy?”
“Yes, but I don't want to—” She skidded to a halt.
Mick raised a brow. “Be his pleasure slave?”
“That's right.”
He spun them both a quarter turn and she landed with her back against the narrow section of wall next to the wet bar. The plaster was chilly against her skin, but his body pressed into hers, sending ribbons of heat zinging through her.
Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length) Page 6
