Say You Love Me. Rita Herron
His masculine body screamed Cajun and his raw sexuality hit her in the pit of her stomach. He was rugged, much bigger than he’d looked in the newspaper, probably at least six-four. Tough. Not afraid to fight. His hands were broad, scarred, as if he’d wrestled alligators in the swamp and survived.
If he’d grown up in the bayou, then he probably had.
His razor-sharp eyes looked almost black in the dim light. A five o’clock shadow already grazed his angular jaw and his masculine scent triggered wicked fantasies of her own. Naked, he would look like an ancient Roman god.
“You phoned?” he asked in a deep baritone.
She nodded, searching for her voice and professional manner.
He glanced at the current magazine cover on her bulletin board, a half-nude couple donning elaborate Mardi Gras masks with black and red feather boas as their only clothing. She silently reminded herself she didn’t have to be ashamed of her job or her affiliation with the magazine, either. Besides, it was a cover. “Yes, Detective. Please sit down.”
His gaze slid over her, then lingered a moment too long on her breasts and a disapproving flicker followed. She cleared her throat, irritated at herself for letting it bother her. What did she care if the man found her sexually lacking? She’d never indulge her fantasies or pursue a relationship with a cop.
Recovering quickly, she claimed her office chair and waited until he settled into the wingback opposite her. “I don’t know if this is important or not. It may be a prank, someone wanting to shock me. We…get some of those.” God, she didn’t want to do this. What if he asked too many questions?
Questions she didn’t want to answer.
She’d lied all her life about who she was, what she was, where she’d come from. Sometimes she barely remembered the truth herself.
“I imagine you do.” A suspicious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You like reading people’s secret fantasies?”
How could she answer that without sounding perverted herself? “There’s nothing wrong with sexual fantasies, Detective Dubois.”
“Ever include your own?”
Her chest tightened at the smoldering insinuation in his husky voice. The music outside intensified its beat, drawing her into its seductive lair. The odd love chant of New Orleans rippled through the paper-thin walls from the bar next door. “If ever I cease to love, may cows lay eggs and fish grow legs. If ever I cease to love…”
“No.” She wouldn’t openly reveal her private thoughts. Or her fears. And good heavens, she wished they’d stop that song. She didn’t believe in love.
“This isn’t about me,” she said, struggling to redirect the conversation. “I phoned the police because I received something disturbing in the mail today.”
His jaw tightened. “Yes, of course.”
She handed him the envelope and their hands brushed, sending a shiver up her spine. She drew her hand back quickly. She couldn’t allow this man to charm her. He was a pro.
He might extract information from her without her even realizing it.
Information she would take with her to her grave.
JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS SIGHED in disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? Granted he was a sucker for a woman in trouble but usually he handled his reaction better. But something about the challenge, the wariness, the spark of sexual attraction between him and Britta Berger had him on edge.
Not a good idea. He needed to get back to the crime scene. This visit was probably a waste of time.
Still she was intriguing. Her camisole top, coupled with that long whimsical skirt and sandals gave her a live-and-let-live look, yet he sensed she wore a disguise. She wasn’t laissez-faire at all but as uptight as a wild animal in a cage.
And those dynamite full lips conjured up images of sultry kisses. Plus her fiery short, red hair triggered fantasies of wild, tawdry sex.
But her brown eyes skated over him as if he were the scum of the earth. He reminded himself he was here on business. He didn’t care what she thought about him. A woman was dead, for God’s sake, and he was the lead investigator.
“He left a note with the photo,” she said in a strained voice. For a brief second, tension ruled her slender face, then she inhaled sharply, making her top stretch across her breasts and offering a glimpse of her tantalizing cleavage.
Shit.
He dropped his gaze to the desk while she slid a manila envelope toward him. “Who delivered it?”
“I have no idea. It was on my desk with the other mail when I arrived at work.”
“You lock your door when you leave your office at night?”
“Yes.”
“Who else has access to your office?”
“Just R.J., the head of the magazine.” She ran a hand through her hair. “And Ralphie, the young college kid we hired to sort mail.”
“I’ll need to talk to both of them.”
Britta frowned. “Trust me, Detective, Ralphie had nothing to do with this. He’s just a kid.”
“He has male chromosomes, Miss Berger. Trust me, I know what young men are like.”
Her face paled and he ground his teeth, hating to frighten her, but she shouldn’t trust anyone. Especially with all the crazies in town. “How about your boss?”
A nervous look flickered in her eyes. “R.J. is hard-working, innovative and knows how to make money. We have a business relationship, that’s all.”
Jean-Paul arched an eyebrow, wondering why she’d offered that tidbit, then removed the contents from the envelope. Damn it to hell and back.
The picture was of his crime scene.
The auburn-haired woman was tied to the bed, her face contorted in agony, her chest pierced with the lancet. The torn red teddy, the mask of the part crocodile, part human head on the wall, the CD player, the obscene makeup—the details were identical to the murder scene he’d just processed.
Even more alarming, the victim faintly resembled Britta Berger. Not as good-looking or striking, but her hair color and complexion were similar.
“Did anyone touch the photo besides you?”
“Just my boss. I showed it to him to ask his advice.”
“You weren’t going to call the police?”
“I wasn’t sure it was real, that…the woman was really dead.”
He contemplated her answer, then nodded. “You have no idea who sent this?”
“No.”
“Have you ever received anything like this before?”
“No. Most of the photographs are sent directly to our photography department. Our legal department handles any contacts with submissions.”
He made a disgusted sound but she continued.
“Our magazine doesn’t support murder or violence, Detective Dubois, just healthy sexual fantasies.”
His gaze met hers, emotions flaring in her exotic brown eyes, but also defiance.
“Still, some of those fantasies border on the sadistic side,” he argued. “They come from perverts, sickos, deranged individuals.”
“Everyone has their own tastes,” she admitted quietly.
And his lay toward sweet, simple, quiet, more domestic family-type women like Lucinda. Not with spooky redheads with fire in their eyes. Ones who looked as untamed as a hot July New Orleans night. This one, he imagined, had seen the