Say You Love Me. Rita Herron
“Chasing a potential stalker is dangerous, Miss Berger. You should have called the police then.”
“Are you serious?” Nerves made her voice high-pitched. “The cops would have thought I was being paranoid. Artists are always taking pictures, drawing sketches, painting the scenery and people in the streets.”
True. But under the circumstances…
“I’ll have forensics examine the note and lingerie. Maybe we can find out where he purchased the teddy.” He cleared his throat. “And we should dust your place for prints.”
She nodded, although turmoil filled her dark brown eyes. Eyes that bled with distrust. Eyes that were so hypnotic, the need to hold her tugged at his chest.
But he ignored the pressure. It was his nature, his job, to protect the innocent. And the only way he could protect her was to find the maniac threatening her.
To do that, he needed a clear head. Not one complicated by images of her wearing a teddy for him or whispering her secret confessions into his ear while he took her to bed.
Which only planted more doubts and questions in his mind. “Miss Berger, have you considered the fact that the killer might be someone you know?” She paled, but he forged ahead. “Maybe an old boyfriend? A lover?”
“No…that’s not possible.”
He ignored her protest. She was a heartbreaker if he’d ever seen one. “Are you sure? Do you have a current boyfriend? Or maybe someone you just broke up with?”
“No, Detective, I’m not dating anyone.” Her voice dropped a decibel. “I haven’t in a long time.”
“How about an acquaintance? Maybe a man who asked you out? One you turned down?”
A faraway look settled in her eyes, but she shook her head. “No one that I can think of. Like everyone else after the hurricane, I’ve been trying to survive the past year and a half. There hasn’t been time for personal relationships.”
He nodded, unable to argue that point, yet something about her tone indicated that her lack of a social life was more of a preference, not a result of time restraints. And that she’d lied about no one asking.
“Not even since you started at Naked Desires?” he asked. “Your boss?”
“No.” She shifted as if she’d lost her patience. “Now, I’m really tired, Detective. You can see your way out.”
He was right—she was hiding something. But would she hide a killer?
“I’m not leaving now. Not until a crime-scene unit arrives to process your place. In fact, you shouldn’t stay here tonight,” he said. “Do you have a friend you can call? A family member?”
She shook her head. “No. No family.”
“I hope you didn’t lose them in the hurricane?”
She averted her gaze, picked at an invisible piece of dust on the end table. “No. It was a long time ago.”
A note of sadness tinged her voice. “Where were you living before you came here?”
Panic slashed across her face. “In one of the small towns that got wiped out. I had nothing there and decided to move on.”
“Have you always worked in journalism?”
Irritation flared on her face. “You certainly ask a lot of questions, Detective.”
“I’m a cop. That’s my job.” He leaned forward again, this time so close he inhaled her citrusy scent. “What did you do before you came to work for Naked Desires?”
“Odd jobs,” she said, meeting his gaze head-on. “Now, I’m tired of this inquisition. You’re supposed to be trying to find this madman, not dissecting my life.”
He’d pushed enough for the night. She looked exhausted and had had a harrowing day. “Let me drive you to a hotel. We’ll get your locks changed in the morning and add a deadbolt.”
“With Mardi Gras in town, there won’t be any empty hotel rooms,” she said, pointing out the obvious. “And if this man wants to kill me, another lock won’t keep him out.”
“Maybe not, but we sure as hell aren’t going to make it easy for him.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “If you’re afraid to stay alone, I’ll arrange for a guard tonight.”
Wariness flashed in her expression, but she jutted up her chin. “No, I’m not afraid. New locks will do just fine.”
Why did the mere thought of having the police around frighten her so? And why would having the police dust for prints bother her? Unless she didn’t want them to pick up her own prints…. Which meant she might have a record.
Was she more afraid of the cops than a ruthless cold-blooded killer?
BRITTA STRUGGLED to maintain her composure while Detective Dubois conferred with the CSI team. He’d also called a friend who did locksmith work for the police department to change her locks and add a deadbolt.
“Come with me while they finish up,” Detective Dubois suggested.
“I’m all right here.”
“It’ll do you good to get out for a while. Besides, I haven’t had dinner and there’s a quaint Cajun café near here. We can discuss the magazine.”
“I’ve already told you everything I know,” she said defiantly. “And I’ve eaten dinner.”
Detective Dubois touched her arm gently. “Come on. They have great desserts at this restaurant. You can have coffee and tell me more about yourself.”
Exactly what she didn’t want to do.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Detective. I’ll be fine alone.”
He angled his head toward her. “What’s wrong? You aren’t afraid of me, are you, Britta?”
She stiffened. “No, don’t be ridiculous.” Hadn’t she learned long ago not to draw attention to herself?
His dark eyes pierced her, probing.
Unnerved, she nodded, knowing the only way to quiet his suspicions was to appease him. He couldn’t seduce information out of her—not if she didn’t let him. “All right. But I intended to search those letters tonight to see if this guy might have written to me before.”
“You can review the letters tomorrow.” His voice softened. “It’s been a long day already.”
He instructed the others that he would return within an hour and pressed a hand to her waist, guiding her outside. The gesture triggered another round of nerves. He was so strong that she felt safe by his side, yet not safe at all. She couldn’t allow herself to depend on any man, much less Jean-Paul Dubois. He might stir desires and hungers that could never be sated. Might awaken a sexual beast within her….
Not something she could allow to happen with a cop.
The sultry evening air aroused another longing inside her, one that conjured images of a real date, of strolling hand in hand with a lover, listening to the sexy blues and jazz music wafting around them while the Mississippi lapped softly against the bank.
“We’re here.” He stopped at a small café that had cropped up after the hurricane and gestured for her to enter. Dubois Diner. Wonderful heady odors wafted toward them. Hot, spicy Cajun sausages and gumbo, jambalaya, shrimp po’boys….
“Do you own this?”
“No, my father does. It’s a family business.”
A tall, broad-shouldered, older man with wavy, gray hair and a slight limp met them at the door. One glance into his eyes and she recognized him as a Dubois.
He clapped