Lover's Bite

“I’ll take the ten if you’ll promise to keep your hands off me for the duration.”

“I’ll give you the twenty-five if you won’t make me promise that.”

They stared at each other for a long electric moment.

“I’ll compromise,” he said at last. “Fifteen percent and I won’t touch you until you ask me to.”

“Like that’s gonna hap—”

“I’m not finished.”

She clamped her lips and waited.

“I won’t touch you until you ask me to. But you have to feel free to touch me any time you want. In any way you want to. Fully secure in the knowledge that I won’t touch you back unless you want me to.”

She frowned as she let the images of what he was suggesting burn through her mind. Then she said, “You don’t have the willpower.”

“Try me.”

She thought about leaning closer, maybe trailing her lips over his neck, just to prove her point. Because she had no doubt that he would wrap his arms around her, flip her onto her back on the sofa and mount her within about five seconds.

Or maybe it wasn’t his reactions she didn’t trust. Maybe it was her own.

“Chicken,” he whispered. “Ten percent, then. Take it or leave it.”

“And if I leave it?”

“I’ll stay and help you anyway, return your money with no interest at all—as soon as I can lay my hands on it, that is—and touch you whenever the urge strikes me—knowing damn well you want it as much as I do.”

She drew a breath and sighed. “Fifteen percent, your conditions.” She held out a hand for a shake. “Deal?”

“Deal.” He held his hand out, too, but he didn’t take hers. He just waited. She finally closed her hand around his to seal the bargain, and when she took her hand away, she skimmed her fingertips over his palm and thought she felt him shiver.

Sighing, Jack managed to keep his control. But he was wondering, even before the touch of her hand on his had faded, what he’d gone and promised. The impossible, probably. Was he testing her—or himself?

Time for a new subject. “So you’ve read up on the men in your mother’s life?”

“Yeah.” She gathered her papers, shuffling through to the photos, and laid them out one by one. “The police seem to have focused on the men she was rumored to have been sleeping with in the year prior to her death.”

“Including your father?” he asked.

She lowered her eyes, shielding them. “I don’t know which of them is my father. There were a couple whose blood types made it possible, but there was no DNA testing back then, so the courts awarded me to the one they felt was most likely to provide a stable home.” She picked out a five-by-seven black-and-white photo of the man who’d raised her, taken back in his younger days. “Thomas Martin, businessman.”

“What kind of business?”

“Mostly government contracts. He owns several manufacturing plants. They make weapons.”

Jack looked up quickly. “He’s an arms dealer?”

“Yeah. And according to the cops, there were rumors he wasn’t too fussy about who bought his products. But no one could ever find proof he sold weapons to unapproved nations.”

“Unless maybe your mom stumbled onto some.”

“Yeah. That would give him a motive.”

“He raised you?”

She nodded. “He and his series of wives. He got older. When his women did, too, he just traded them in for newer models. And I do mean models.”

“Was he good to you?”

She glanced at him briefly, and he saw a flash of something—pain?—in her eyes, but she averted them so quickly that he couldn’t be sure. He guessed the answer was no. Which made him wonder just how “not good” the man’s treatment of her had been. Had he just been cold and uncaring, or something more? The notion sent a darkness through him.

She laid out the next photo. “Frederick Ramirez, state senator.”

“Corrupt?” Jack asked.

“He accepted exorbitant campaign contributions from a reputed mob boss—Tony Bonacelli.” She pulled another photo from a folder. “Interestingly enough, he was also sleeping with my moth er. Or at least that was the gossip.”

“Was the mob boss a suspect, too?” Jack asked.

“He was cleared early on. Airtight alibi.”

“He could have had someone else do it for him.”

“There was no evidence of it, though. If he did, he covered his tracks very well. Or maybe he had the cops on his payroll. Who knows?”

Jack whistled softly under his breath, then glanced at the one remaining photo in her hand. “And our final contestant?”

“Wayne Clark Duncan.” She laid the photo down. The man was stunningly attractive, the shot unmistakably professional, even without the autograph scrawled in the corner. “Actor,” she said.

“I could have guessed.” He frowned. “But not one I’ve heard of.”

“No, neither have I. And while he was questioned, there’s nothing in the police reports about a possible motive. He’s probably the least likely to have killed her.”

“Those are the ones to watch out for,” Jack said, and sighed. “So what’s your plan? You want to talk to each of these guys, see what they have to say?”

“Yeah, later. First, though, I want to talk to Rebecca Murphy. She was my mother’s agent and lawyer. I think she might know more than anyone—if she’s even still alive.”

He nodded. “Good place to start. You have any idea where we can find her?”

“As luck would have it, she’s in the book. Or at least, someone with the same name is. I was just about to call when you arrived.” She reached for her cell phone, flipped it open and frowned. “Damn. I had it on vibrate. Got a voice mail, just a sec.” She hit a button. “It’s from Reaper.”

“Put it on speaker,” Jack said. “I want to know how things are going, too.”

With a nod, she hit another button, and Reaper’s message played.

Topaz saved the message. “I’m glad they’re okay. And especially glad they lost whoever was following them. That was creepy.”