My Naughty Jaguar

by Celia Styles

  Was it possible for someone to make you feel both at the same time?

  “I’ll have my office send over the discovery,” she said. “You want it at the B and B, or your office in San Antonio?”

  “The bed and breakfast. I think we’re going to stick around here for a few more days, do a little investigating on our own.”

  Amy nodded. She had half expected that.

  She hadn’t expected the little twinkle of pleasure that thought created, though.

  “Okay. I’ll have it sent over this afternoon.”

  “Great.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Deacon leaned closer, just the sheer size of him trapping her against the side of her car. He studied her for a moment, his eyes lingering on hers before they dipped down to her throat, then slowly moving up again. She pressed a hand to her throat that shook just a little.

  “I think you’ve done more than enough,” Deacon said softly. “But I’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

  “Okay.”

  It seemed like he wanted to say something else. He lingered a long time before he finally stepped back.

  “It was nice meeting you, Amalia,” he said as he walked away, and climbed into a black Lexus parked just a few spots from her.

  It was a long time before Amy’s heart stopped pounding, before she felt competent enough to drive back to the office.

  Chapter 2

  Amy stepped out on the back porch of the house she shared with her mother. She settled on one of the wicker chairs nestled there and wrapped her hands around the hot mug of cocoa she’d made for herself. It was a little before dawn, insanely early to be awake. But she’d had a series of intense dreams that she just couldn’t endure any longer.

  It was odd, these dreams. They began simple enough. She was walking in the trees behind the house, enjoying the quiet, the cicadas, the normal sounds of home. And then she was running. Not just running, but running so fast that it wasn’t humanly possible. It was almost as though she was no longer human, but some sort of predator running from—or to—something she couldn’t completely define. And then there was something else there, someone else.

  She couldn’t even begin to describe it. It was…animalistic.

  Even now she could feel that other something touching and feeling, invading her body in ways she never could have imagined before. She woke in such a state of arousal that she was sure her nerves would never return to normal, that her heart would pound right out of her chest. She had never felt anything like it before.

  But she wanted to.

  She sipped her cocoa, wishing things were different. Wishing she was a normal twenty-six year old with the freedoms to live a normal life. She wished she was out dancing at clubs every Friday and Saturday night like her college friends, dating whoever came around, living life like tomorrow didn’t matter. But that wasn’t her. It never had been and it likely never would.

  She was a good girl who worked hard to make her mother proud. She was the youngest assistant DA to take the lead on a high profile murder case, the responsible prosecutor who put away the bad guys, paid her bills, and made sure her mother no longer had to work two or three minimum wage jobs just to make ends meet.

  Sex was a memory of the past.

  It was Deacon Simons. Meeting him had turned on a switch in Amy’s head, reminding her of all the things she couldn’t have.

  She sighed as she lifted the mug to her lips again. Just as she was about to drink, a loud, rough sound filled the morning air. It sounded like some sort of animal, a coughing roar that echoed against the trees and the neighboring houses.

  Amy stood up and looked out into the darkness, but she couldn’t see beyond the willow tree and the cedar fence. But she felt like something was there, like something was watching her.

  “Hello?”

  There was no answer. But she couldn’t shake that feeling…he was there, just beyond her line of sight, watching. Waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure, but she knew instinctively it was true.

  ***

  “Eat something, mija,” her mother urged as Amy gathered her things at the kitchen table.

  “No time, Mami. I have a meeting.”

  “So take it with you. That’s what tortillas are for.”

  Amy groaned, but she obediently grabbed a warm tortilla from the stack her mother had set out and scooped a spoonful of eggs into it.

  “Happy?” she asked, holding it up where her mother could see it.

  “I’ll be happier when it is in your stomach. You cannot work on an empty stomach.”

  Amy took a big bite as she continued to grab the paperwork she had been reviewing last night and shoved it into her bag. She had less than twenty minutes to get to the office so that she could present her cases to the DA at the weekly office review meeting. She was just about finished when her mother touched her arm.

  “You had trouble sleeping last night.”

  “I’m fine, Mami.”

  “Did you have bad dreams?”

  “I have to go.”

  “He’s come for you, hasn’t he?”

  Amy had been rushing toward the door, but she stopped then and turned. “What?”

  Her mother shook her head, but there was a bright smile on her lips that lit up her entire face. “I heard it this morning, the sound of a jaguar calling to his mate.”

  “We don’t have jaguars in this area.”

  Her mother just nodded, as though agreeing, but the dreamy look on her face suggested she didn’t even hear what Amy had said. Amy retreated, caressing her mother’s cheek with the back of her hand.

  “You okay, Mami?”

  Her mother reached up and took Amy’s face between her hands. She ran her thumbs almost roughly over Amy’s jaw.

  “Don’t push him away. Let him show you the beauty of what lies ahead.”

  “Who?”

  That dreamy look just continued to live and dance on her mother’s face. It struck something like fear in Amy’s chest. Was her mother experiencing the first symptoms of Alzheimer’s? Or was it a stroke?

  Suddenly, she was afraid to leave.

  But then her mother’s face cleared and she smacked Amy’s face a little harder than she probably intended.

  “Go to work.”

  Amy hesitated, studying her mother’s face with concern. But then her mother physically turned her and pushed her toward the door.

  “You’re late! Go to work.”

  Amy did, but not before calling her Uncle Tomas to ask him to check in on her mother.

  ***

  “Ms. Hernandez.”

  Amy’s heart jumped into her throat as she recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Mr. Simons.”

  “I thought we agreed you’d call me Deacon.”

  “Then you should probably call me Amy.”

  “Amy…” He drew out her name like he was tasting the sweetest strawberry fresh off the vine. It made something deep inside her belly tighten even more so than the simple sound of his voice.

  “What can I do for you, Deacon?”

  There was a soft chuckle. “That is a complicated question, Amy. But I suppose the short answer is that I need to discuss my client’s alibi with you.”

  “We talked about that yesterday. The police established that your client didn’t have a sufficient alibi.”

  “Yes, well, my client has informed me that she misrepresented her alibi to the police. She would like to offer a more substantial one to you.”

  Amy flipped the pages of the legal pad she’d begun taking notes on in court the day before and scribbled down the word: alibi.

  “What is her story now?”

  “I’d rather discuss this with you in person. Would you have time to stop by this lovely bed and breakfast where I’m staying? I’m afraid I’m waiting for an important package and can’t leave.”

  Amy glanced at the time on her cellphone. 4:30. She had another meeting in
fifteen minutes. “I can probably stop by in an hour or so.”

  “That would be perfect. I’ll be waiting.”

  The line went dead in her hand. Amy slowly set the phone back in its cradle, ignoring it when it began to ring again almost immediately. There was something strange about that man. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it…

  He was hot.

  He made her blood boil.

  Every time she heard his voice, her stomach quivered, her heart sped up, and nerves she had thought long dead came back to life.

  She was attracted to him.It was as simple as that.

  Amy dragged her fingers through her hair, feeling like she needed to go take a cold shower or something. Had it really been so long that she was drooling over the first good looking guy to come along?

  Well…to his credit he was more than just good looking.

  But still…

  Get a grip, Amy!

  She kind of shook herself, trying to push him to the back of her thoughts as she grabbed a file and headed off to her meeting. But that didn’t stop her from slipping into the ladies’ room afterward and sprucing up her makeup, running a comb through her hair, and checking out her outfit before she headed out to meet him.

  It never hurt to be prepared.

  Chapter 3

  “Amy.”

  How was it that he made her name sound like it should be up in lights?

  He seemed so casual, standing in the doorway of his room in jeans and a t-shirt that fit so perfectly over his sculpted pecs that she wished for a moment that she was a piece of cotton just so she might have the chance of being a piece of that shirt. He was barefoot and that normally did nothing for Amy—men’s feet weren’t exactly the most beautiful thing in the world—but everything about Deacon was different. Even the sight of his feet turned her on.

  He stepped back and waved her into the room. Amy hesitated. She had expected his two assistants—the pretty women who’d been with him in court the day before—to be there, but the room was empty beyond the two of them and an impossibly large bed that stood unavoidably smack dab in the center. The sight of it made Amy’s knees grow weak.

  “I’m set up over here,” Deacon said, gesturing to a small roll top desk in the far corner of the room.

  A hot blush burned Amy’s cheeks as she turned and sank into the chair he gestured her in to.

  At least the bed was behind her. Maybe if she didn’t have to look at it…

  “You wanted to talk alibis?”

  Deacon nodded, shuffling through some papers before he settled in a chair in front of her, sitting so close that their knees were practically touching.

  “My client told the police she was at a club in Houston at the time of the murder.”

  “Yes. But the detective couldn’t find anyone to support her story. And her own chauffer claimed she turned in early that night, sending him home earlier than usual.”

  “That’s because she didn’t want her driver to know where she really went that night.”

  Amy studied Deacon’s near black eyes. “Oh? And where did she go?”

  Deacon handed Amy the piece of paper he had taken from the pile on his desk. “She was visiting a friend. And he was gracious enough to give us a written affidavit.”

  Amy glanced at the paper. When her eyes fell on the signature at the bottom, her stomach dropped.

  “Jonathan Tyler.”

  “Yes.”

  Amy shook her head. “Jonathan Tyler owns half of downtown and there are rumors he plans to run for governor next fall.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  Amy read the affidavit, nausea building with every word. This was not good. If Jonathan Tyler vouched for Jeannette Huntington, Amy had no case. The DA would drop charges, the cops would have to start from scratch on their investigation, and Amy would look like a fool.

  “This can’t be real.”

  “I assure you, Amy, it is.”

  She stood up and began to pace, her mind working everything she knew about this case. The housekeeper was found in the basement, her throat ripped out, her body slashed from head to toe like someone had taken a razor blade to her. The house was locked from the inside, the only other occupant being Jeannette Huntington. There were no fingerprints, no murder weapon, but the coroner found hairs—black hairs—that matched Jeannette Huntington’s DNA.

  Jeannette Huntington had an alarm system on her house that was state of the art. She claimed that her ex-husband had made threats, so she had a company from Houston come and install the system. It was functioning perfectly the night of the murder. No one could have gotten inside the front gates, let alone the house, without the system recording every movement. They had time stamped video that proved no one came or went through the gate the entire night.

  It couldn’t have been anyone else.

  “How does she explain leaving the house without being recorded by the security system?”

  “She left through the servant’s entrance in the kitchen.”

  Amy dragged her fingers through her hair, scattering long, silky strands around her face. “There’s no camera there.”

  “No.”

  “But she would have had to leave through the front gate.”

  Deacon stood, too, as though watching Amy pace made him restless.

  “No. There’s a gate at the back of the property.”

  “Without a camera on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why? Why would someone who is so security conscious leave two such obvious holes in her security?”

  “They must not be that obvious if the police didn’t consider the possibility.”

  “You’re suggesting,” Amy said slowly, “that Mrs. Huntington snuck out the back of her property through the only holes in her security system, thus denying herself an alibi, and then a random killer snuck into the house through the same breaches in the system to murder the housekeeper, and then back out, all while Mrs. Huntington was having a clandestine meeting with the most influential man in town?”

  Deacon shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  “You don’t have to, Amy. All you have to do is show that affidavit to the DA.”

  “And he’ll drop charges.”

  “Exactly.”

  Amy turned away, her eyes again falling on that massive bed. For a moment, she imagined crawling into it and hiding under the quilt, shutting the world out. She was on such a high yesterday, and now…

  “I’m sorry,” Deacon said, suddenly too close behind her. “I know this is an important case for you. But my client didn’t do this.”

  “Then who did?”

  “That, I can assure you, has been dealt with.”

  Amy turned, so surprised by the intensity of his tone when he said those words that she needed to see his face. And when she did, it took her breath away.

  That power she had sensed in him the day before was right there on the surface, an electricity that seemed to crackle all around her. He was still, barely breathing, but the heat coming from his eyes, from the force of his stare, seemed to move and swirl around her, trapping her in his space.

  Her dreams came back to her in a rush. Her bones turned to liquid, her belly tightening as moisture seemed to drip from the deepest part of her. She wasn’t in control of her own body any more, and that seemed no more evident than when her hand slipped under that tight t-shirt without a conscious command, the affidavit fluttering to the floor as her other hand followed.

  Still, he didn’t move. Her hands explored his abs, a finger sliding over the rim of his navel, moving up to his pecs, admiring the tightness of his muscles, the hardness of his masculine physique. He raised his arms as her exploration forced his shirt upward, allowing her to pull it free of his body.But he didn’t move to touch her, to return the gesture. He was like a statue, willing to forsake his curiosity to allow her to assuage her own.

  Amy had never been the type to initiate sexual
contact. With Joshua, it had always been he who touched first, who offered the first kiss, whose hands suggested the first caress. It had been her role to slow him down, to make him wait for as long as she gauged his mental faculties could stand it. She had been the one in control even though it was his role to excite and satisfy.

  It seemed that wouldn’t be the case with Deacon.

  She stepped into him, pressed her face to his chest, the smell of him—musky and rugged, like a warm summer afternoon in the jungle—surrounding her. She ran her lips over the soft, hairless flesh of his chest, nibbling at a tiny nipple before sliding down his ribs and back up to the other side. He was so quiet, still not moving. She wanted to hear him moan, wanted to feel his hands on her body. She wanted to know that he wanted this too.

  When she looked up at him, his emotions were hidden behind a hard mask of indifference. Yet, when she caressed the curve of his jaw, he turned his head into her touch much like a cat would into the gentle stroke of its owner.

  She had to stand on her tip toes to reach him, but she did, pressing her lips to the tender hallow of his throat. She thought she felt the vibration of a moan then—almost like a purr—but she couldn’t be sure. She tasted him again, running her tongue up over his Adam’s apple, something inside her head just popping loose with the excitement of it all. It was like every inhibition she’d ever had disappeared and all these things she had heard of, but found unpleasant, were suddenly like dessert to the survivor of a long, intense starvation diet.

  She wanted to touch him, to feel him in her hand, her mouth, her body. She wanted to feel his fingers on her skin, wanted to feel his mouth on her breasts, her belly, her cunt. She wanted him inside of her with a passion she had never thought herself capable of. She ached so desperately that even the squeezing of her thighs did nothing to quell the need in her swollen clit. She wanted passion, she wanted violence, she wanted to be dragged to the bed and ravaged like a badly written scene in an old historical romance novel.

  “Please,” she whispered against his throat as she buried her fingers in his hair, drawing him down toward her, “please.”