Stop Me

by Brenda Novak

  Romain didn’t say anything for a moment. When he did, his words sounded like they’d been forced through his teeth. “Was it a child?”

  Jasmine nearly reached out to touch him, to console him if she could, but she felt too helpless in the face of his grief, a grief she read in every line of his body. “No. A man. He died violently—I could sense that a struggle had taken place.”

  “A recent struggle?”

  “It wasn’t a fresh kill. I’m guessing it happened five, six years ago.”

  That was better somehow, better for him. But it still wasn’t good news for anyone. “So what does that tell you?” he said, and sat up. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Maybe it was his injuries, but Jasmine suspected it had more to do with her presence in his bed. They were too aware of each other on a sexual level.

  “That there’s more to this than we originally thought,” she said. “Who called in the tip about Moreau carrying a large bundle into the house the night Adele was taken?”

  “The neighbor across the street. A woman by the name of Tracy Cooper.”

  Jasmine hadn’t seen any activity at that house. “Do you know if she still lives in the same place?”

  “I have no idea. Until you showed up, I was trying to put this behind me. I hadn’t even talked to Huff, until yesterday.”

  “You called him?”

  “I wanted to ask about you.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “That you’re desperate enough to do or say anything if it’ll help you find your sister.”

  “That was nice of him,” she said.

  “He thinks you’re faking the psychic thing, that you’re a fraud,” he added.

  She confronted that kind of skepticism almost every day of her life, and not just from strangers, either. It went with the territory. But it was never easy, and hearing it from Romain bothered her more than usual. “What do you think?” she asked, bristling.

  “I think you aren’t going to find your sister by reinvestigating Adele’s case,” he said. “Regardless of the details, Moreau was a murderer. The body you found should tell you that much. He’s gone. Whether you agree with what I did or not, I’ve done my time. It’s over. Let it go before you get yourself into more trouble.”

  He was still “doing his time.” But she saw no need to say that. “If it was really over, there’d be no danger to me or anyone else,” she said instead.

  He pressed a finger and thumb to his closed eyes. “Why won’t this go away?”

  He was talking to himself, but she answered. “Because, like I said, there’s more.”

  “More what?” he demanded, dropping his hand.

  She pulled her knees close to her body, hugging them to her chest—and his eyes immediately fell to the wide legs of her boxers and the bare thigh they revealed. “More secrets. More lies. More guilt,” she said, trying to keep her mind on the discussion. “Why else would someone try to kill me simply for looking around a cellar?”

  He blew out a sigh. “What about the dead guy?”

  She was losing her focus, concentrating on the shape of Romain’s lips. He had nice lips, lips that made her think of what he’d done to her in that shower fantasy…. “What about him?”

  “Do you have any idea who he might be?”

  “No clue. The police might, but—” she frowned “—my name hasn’t been added to their phone tree. Even if someone tried to call, they wouldn’t be able to reach me. Whoever stole my purse has my cell phone, too.”

  “You can’t get service down here, anyway.” His gaze flicked over her bare legs once again. “Why’d you come to me?”

  “This was the only place I could think of that felt safe.” She tried to discreetly lower her legs, but she wasn’t wearing a bra, and that soon became as much of a distraction as her legs had been. “You’re staring,” she finally pointed out.

  “Do you mind?”

  Jasmine recognized his arousal, but she sensed negative emotion, too. It was her emotional history that bothered him—and the fact that he wanted her but wished he didn’t. “I’d like it better if you weren’t angry.”

  His eyebrows drew together. “I’m not angry.”

  He’d lived with that emotion for so long, he probably wasn’t even aware of it anymore. “Would you rather I left?” she asked.

  “No. You know what I’d rather you did.” His voice grew rough. “The question is whether or not you’re as interested as I am.”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  Coming to her knees, she inched closer to him. The wariness that entered his face told her how hesitant he was to trust her. He reminded her of a wild animal, watching the advance of a human. When she smoothed the hair off his forehead, she almost expected him to flinch or knock her hand away. He was so ready to close himself off, protect himself. But he didn’t. He let her touch him, let her kiss his temple, his cheek, his lips. Was he remembering what such tenderness felt like?

  “Be careful,” he warned as her fingers delved into his hair.

  “I won’t touch your injuries.”

  “I’m not worried about my injuries.” He spoke so close to her mouth their lips actually touched. “I’m warning you not to start this unless you’re willing to finish. It’s been too long for me. I’m not playing games.”

  “I’m not playing games, either.” As she pressed her lips to the strong pulse at his throat, his hand moved to her thigh. He let it rest there, testing her to see if she’d object. When she didn’t, he slid his hand up the leg of her boxers to cup her bare bottom. Then his eyes fluttered shut and he dropped his head back as if he’d just sampled heaven. “God, that’s good,” he breathed.

  Jasmine’s heart was racing so fast she could hardly speak. “I should tell you I’m not on the Pill or…or anything.” Generally speaking, she had no reason to use birth control. She hadn’t even kissed a man in two years.

  His eyelashes lifted, revealing fresh intent. “I have a couple of condoms. They were given to me by a friend when I left prison, so they’re pretty old, but they should work.”

  Prison. That word hit her like a blast of cold air, and she instinctively pulled back.

  He didn’t reach for her, didn’t try to convince her not to worry about his past. He froze as though he expected the encounter to be over. Maybe that was why he’d brought up the subject—to make sure she knew what she was doing. But it didn’t matter. She wanted him too badly to stop. He was a stranger, and yet she felt as if she knew him, as if they’d already made love. “A condom is better than nothing.”

  His hand slid back up her leg, seeking what he’d found earlier. “I’m glad you see it my way.”

  “You’re right,” she said when she’d recovered enough breath to speak.

  “About what?” He watched her closely, reading her responses, feeding off her excitement.

  “I much prefer this to a dream.”

  He smiled as he pulled her against him. But when he touched her lips with his, it was very light. He was merely growing familiar before coaxing her to open her mouth to him and let him take the kiss deeper.

  He smelled like the outdoors, which was intoxicating in itself, but the security she felt in his arms was even better. She felt as though he could protect her from anything.

  She let him kiss her, kissed him back—and clung to him as the hand in her boxers grew bolder and more possessive.

  He broke away first, breathing heavily as he looked down at her. “Je suis ivre sur le seul goût de toi.”

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “In summary, wow,” he said while yanking off his T-shirt. He’d done it as a practical matter, not to show off, but the sight of his bare torso sent a fresh charge of hormones through Jasmine.

  “Wow indeed,” she breathed.

  “What?”

  She tugged at her bottom lip. “Nice chest.”

  He was too focused on her to respond to the compliment. “Your turn.”


  She struggled to gain some control over her galloping heart rate, but it felt as if she’d stepped off solid ground. She couldn’t remember ever being so completely enthralled. “I hope you weren’t making false promises on the phone,” she teased. Suddenly self-conscious, she’d resorted to talking as a way to put off removing her clothes.

  “I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” he said and placed her on her back.

  Jasmine’s hands curled into fists. “That’s good news. I think.”

  His gaze swept over her. “I only see one problem.”

  That she was suddenly terrified to go past the point of no return? “What’s that?”

  He ran a finger beneath the elastic waist of her boxers, raising gooseflesh on her belly. “Access.”

  He began to remedy that, but she quickly stopped him. “I’m a little nervous,” she explained. “Maybe I can make you…uh…happy another way.”

  His eyebrows went up. “You’re serious?”

  “I think so.”

  “Sorry, I’m not remotely interested in a consolation prize.” He slipped his hands under her shirt, brushing his thumbs over her breasts. “But we don’t have to do anything until you’re ready.”

  She didn’t remember giving the go-ahead on the clothing removal, but her shirt was gone a minute later. She didn’t object. Catching his whisker-roughened chin, she forced him to look her in the eye. “This is crazy. Are we sure we want to do this?”

  “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” He was obviously too far gone to even consider bailing out.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “Trust me.” He trailed kisses down her neck, moving lower until he touched the tip of one breast with his tongue.

  She gasped and tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. Her escape attempt was halfhearted to begin with.

  “Something wrong?” he murmured.

  She didn’t answer him. Her boxers were already on their way to her ankles, and from then on he made sure the only thing she uttered was a moan.

  * * *

  Romain’s injuries hurt, but not nearly as much as he’d expected. He made love to Jasmine twice before he even remembered he’d been in a fight.

  “I’ve finally made up my mind.” Her shyness gone, she lay next to him covered only in a fine sheet of sweat, one arm over her face.

  He rolled onto his side so he could admire the view. She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. But very different from Pam—smaller, darker-skinned, bigger-breasted, with stunning, almond-shaped eyes that’d been so unguarded they’d held him mesmerized as he moved on top of her.

  He hated that Pam had already entered his thoughts, but he supposed it was inevitable. “About what?”

  Smiling, she lifted her arm to peer at him. “I don’t think we should make love.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I won’t touch you.” But he ran a finger from her collarbone to her belly button, and she didn’t stop him. “We’re out of condoms, anyway.”

  “Then my timing’s good.”

  Personally, he wished they had one more. “You ready for breakfast?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Do you like pain perdu?”

  “What is it?”

  “French toast.”

  “As long as it comes with coffee,” she said and yawned as she stretched.

  He resisted the urge to cup her breast again. “I can arrange that. Would you like cream?”

  “And sugar.”

  He got up to put on his boxers, jeans and a sweatshirt. It was a crisp morning. Now that they were no longer sharing body heat, he was beginning to feel the cold. He needed to start the stove. “Would you like a pair of sweats until I can get a fire going?”

  “That’d be great.”

  He tossed her the clothes, then told himself to get busy. But he couldn’t help lingering to watch her dress.

  “What?” she asked, smiling.

  His clothes almost swallowed her. They would’ve fit Pam a lot better. She’d been nearly six feet tall, only three inches shorter than he was. But he actually preferred the look of Jasmine in his sweats—which made him regret letting her wear them.

  “I just wanted to…” the past intruded, destroying the euphoria of a moment before and overwhelming him with guilt “…thank you,” he finished.

  “For what?” she asked in surprise.

  Now cold and empty inside, he forced a smile. “For this morning.”

  She eyed him, suddenly leery. “You don’t have to thank me.”

  “I should. That was the best fuck I’ve had in years.”

  Her expression changed, grew shuttered. He’d taken what she’d given him, what amounted to the most incredible two hours of his life since Pam died, and thrown it in the dirt. He supposed that, subconsciously, he’d been trying to remind himself that she wasn’t Pam, that she would never be Pam. And he hated her for being able to satisfy him in a way only Pam could satisfy him before.

  But he instantly cursed himself for lashing out. He knew it had everything to do with him and nothing to do with her, one of those things the psychologist had told him he did to ruin his own happiness. Except this time he’d ruined someone else’s, too.

  An artificial smile replaced the sincere response of a moment before. “Yeah, well, that’s what they all say.”

  She was trying to shrug it off, to pretend she didn’t care that he hadn’t valued what they’d shared. But he saw how quickly she folded her arms over her chest, how desperately she wanted to hide herself from his view. Until just now, she’d been completely trusting, warm—and he’d made her pay for it.

  Shoving a frustrated hand through his tousled hair, he searched for the words to undo what he’d done. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it.”

  She held up a hand to stop him. “No need to explain. I understand. Meaningless is meaningless, right?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Jasmine couldn’t wait to get out of Romain’s house. She’d known better than to get involved with him, but she’d never expected him to make her feel so cheap. Actually, she was more embarrassed than offended—because their lovemaking had been special to her.

  God, she was an idiot. She generally had a good head on her shoulders, lived a cautious life, avoided anything that might be awkward later. How had she stumbled into this?

  She hadn’t been herself yesterday. She’d been through too much, must not’ve been thinking straight. Let it go. Forget it.

  After a mostly silent meal, Romain forked up the last of his French toast and looked at her. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “Why?” She added more sugar to her coffee. Thanks to the potbellied stove, the house was growing warm. Had she been less eager to escape his company, she would’ve enjoyed the morning. The primitive but comfortable house. The isolation. Even the surrounding bayou. For the first time, she could see the peace and beauty of this place.

  “I’m curious.”

  She took a sip of her coffee. “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you ever been married?”

  She briefly considered whether or not she wanted to tell him but figured it didn’t matter. After the next few minutes, she’d never see him again. “Once.”

  “So Stratford was your married name?”

  “No, it was a short marriage. I went back to my maiden name.”

  “How short?”

  “Two years.”

  “Why?”

  “We were too different. It just didn’t work out.”

  “No kids?”

  She hesitated. Why was he trying to get to know her now? As far as she was concerned, it was a waste of time. “Does it matter?” she asked.

  “That’s too personal a question?”

  “I have a steady boyfriend and a couple of kids waiting for me at home,” she lied.

  He gave her a wry glance over his coffee cup. “You wouldn’t cheat on him.”

  “And I wouldn’t be here at Christmas if I had kids. So I
guess you could’ve answered both questions yourself.”

  “Not even for your sister?” he said.

  She cut off another bite of French toast and pushed it around in the syrup. “Not for anyone.”

  “Didn’t you and your husband want a child?”

  “My husband was infertile. Or—” she caught herself, realizing that wasn’t fair to Harvey because she didn’t know for sure “—maybe it was me.”

  “There are tests for that sort of thing.”

  “We weren’t together long enough to pursue it. But he was married three times before and had no children, so I’m thinking there’s a good chance it’s not me.”

  Romain had been leaning back in his chair, watching her as she attempted to finish her breakfast. When he heard this, his chair thumped as it hit the floor. “Your ex was married three times before you?”

  Fairly certain she was getting a headache, Jasmine rubbed a finger over her left temple. “He was a bit older.”

  “What’s a bit?”

  “Thirty years.”

  His jaw dropped. “Holy hell! How old were you when you married him?”

  “Twenty.” She raised a hand to forestall his reaction. “But he wasn’t wealthy by any stretch, so don’t imagine I’m some kind of gold digger.”

  “You married for love?”

  No. But it seemed unkind to simply admit it. “In ways,” she finally said.

  “That’s hardly what I’d call an unequivocal answer.”

  She didn’t have to give him an answer at all, but it was as pointless to refuse as it was to finish the conversation, so she remained polite. “I was completely screwed up. He turned me around.” She shrugged. “I owed him a lot.”

  “So you decided to thank him with ‘I do’?”

  As famished as Jasmine had been when Romain first mentioned breakfast, she found she couldn’t get through more than half of her pain perdu. It tasted great but kept getting stuck in her throat. Giving up on the meal, she pushed her plate away. “It happens.”

  He eyed her leftovers. “I thought you were hungry.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Don’t you like it?”

  “It’s fine. I’m just…full.”

  The way his lips drew into a straight line—the same lips that had touched every part of her body this morning—indicated he wasn’t pleased by her answer, but he didn’t press her to eat more. “Where’d you meet this guy?”