Say You Love Me

Jean-Paul glared at his partner. Carson was notorious for flirting and he seemed intrigued by Britta.

He shook off the disturbing thought as he took her home, instead concentrating on the call he needed to make to Elvira’s parents. He hated like hell to tell them the details of her death, especially when he had no suspect or leads in the case to offer them.

His gaze shot to Britta. Was there a connection in her past that she hadn’t told him about?

If there was and she’d been lying, he’d damn well make her confess her secrets.

A FEELING OF TREPIDATION overcame Britta as the detective walked her back to her apartment. The tension between them had been palpable since they’d left the bar.

He scowled at a wino lying near the garbage can next to her building, then at the poster of the magazine cover on the front window as she unlocked the door.

“You don’t approve of the magazine I work for, do you?”

His dark eyes met hers as they entered the hallway, climbed the steps and stopped at her door. But he didn’t reply until the locksmith left and they’d stepped inside.

“No.” The short word was filled with disapproval. “You seem like a smart woman, but you live on Bourbon Street and you work with sickos. You put yourself in danger.”

Her temper flared and she folded her arms across her chest. “I suppose you think that the way women dress invites rapists, so it’s the victim’s fault if she’s attacked.”

He leaned closer and braced his arm on the wall behind her. “That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s obvious that you want your woman in an apron—tied to the kitchen, waiting with a martini in one hand and your slippers in the other when you arrive home.”

His look darkened. “Tied to the kitchen?” A ghost of a smile played on his mouth. “Only if she’s naked beneath the apron.” His husky voice sent a tingle through her. “And I prefer a beer over a martini.”

She lifted her brow at that remark. “One of your fantasies, Detective Dubois?”

“Jean-Paul.”

His masculine odor made her dizzy. And that smile…his killer smile, mixed with that sexy rumbling voice was about to hack through her defenses. Dare she call him by his first name or was that too personal?

“Now tell me one of your fantasies, Britta?”

She wet her parched lips with her tongue. For him to kiss her.

“I…We weren’t talking about me,” she stammered, struggling for control. “We were talking about you not liking my job.”

He lowered his hand, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m simply pointing out the obvious about your safety. That’s my job.”

Yes, he thought she put herself in danger by way of her work and her apartment. What would he think if he saw her on the streets at night?

Emotions crowded her chest. “You can’t always play it safe, Detective. And you can’t protect everyone.”

Pain flared in his eyes, then a shuttered look fell across his face. She instantly regretted her comment, but she couldn’t discuss fantasies with this man and not want him to touch her.

And touching her would be too dangerous. She might lose control….

Then the demons that chased her would finally win.

“I can take care of myself, I always have.” She ducked under his arm to escape his closeness and gestured toward the door. “You can go now.”

He straightened, heat pouring off his body in waves. “You can’t run forever, chere. Sooner or later, I will figure you out.”

His words mimicked the killer’s. A cocky smile tilted his mouth as he turned and walked away.

She closed the door, then faced her desk, trembling. A copy of the latest Naked Desires magazine lay open to the spread on her Secret Confessions column, mocking her. Other people might bare their souls for all to read, but her fantasies were private.

Yet the killer claimed to know them. And there might be another letter from him in the pile. She had to find it before Jean-Paul Dubois did, just in case the letter revealed too much.

She couldn’t let him get near, close to her in any way. If he did and discovered the truth, he would destroy her.

DISGUISED BY HIS homeless man’s attire, he hid amongst the shadows of the party-seekers and noise along Bourbon Street, so close to Britta Berger’s apartment he could see the light as she switched it off.

It had taken him a long time to find his Adrianna. In fact, for a while he had given up. Had assumed she was dead. As dead as he had felt inside.

But he’d searched for her in every woman he’d met since that day. Hoping, yearning, dying to discover that she was still out there. That he could still have her.

And make her pay for the pain she had caused him.

Then one day he’d picked up a copy of Naked Desires and had seen the small photograph of her in the editorial section. She was so beautiful she looked like a hand-painted porcelain doll.

One look into those witchlike eyes, though, and he’d recognized her instantly. His Adrianna.

She had been so close all along. So near Black Bayou where they had met, where they had almost been joined together.

Running had only brought Adrianna back full circle. There was no escape for the sins that lived within her. But passing the trial by ordeal, the fact that she’d walked across the gator-infested waters and survived, did not mean she was innocent. Only that she had performed some black magic spell to keep the snapping gators at bay. That she was no ’tite ange.

That she had been spawned by the devil.

The reason he had to destroy her. She was here now spreading her wickedness, enticing depraved men with her looks, casting a spell over the weak ones with her bewitching eyes—just as she had him, years ago. Through her column, she’d found the perfect venue to reach the masses.

He wanted to complete the ritual sacrifice. But he was a man and just as the crocodiles did during mating season, he had to mate with numerous partners.

Tonight he’d choose another.

He fell into the shadows and changed his clothing. Another disguise, this time one that would entice a woman. A white shirt and tie. A pair of dress slacks. An air of authority.

A wad of money.

And a mask over his face.

Another redhead, although her wavy hair was dyed an unnatural shade, tapped her foot at the corner of the House of Love, wearing a black micro-mini skirt, thigh-high boots and a flashy green top that looked like a bra. Her cleavage spilled over and through the mesh netting, her dark nipples stood turgid.

She twisted her head one way, then the other. Her nose jutted in the air as she took a drag from a menthol cigarette and flicked ashes on the grimy pavement. Finally aware he was watching her, she dropped the cigarette to the concrete, crushed it with her boot, then curled a finger toward him, beckoning him to join her. She looked impatient, primed, ready.

In need of some cash. Probably for drugs.

He had those in his pocket, as well. One that would give her the high of a lifetime.