Читать книгу Silent Confessions - Julie Kenner - Страница 8
ОглавлениеThe image filtered through his exhausted mind, taunting and teasing him.
Her chestnut hair was pulled back with a single ribbon, the only adornment she wore. In front of her, she held a thin blue scarf. Too sheer for modesty, the material did nothing to hide the dark circles of her nipples. She was smiling, a silent, seductive invitation....
“Jack? Yo! Parker. You wanna join the living, buddy?”
With a lurch, Jack pulled himself away from the dream and back to reality, rubbing his hands over his face to try to wake up.
Donovan grinned, glancing down at the desktop. “Fantasizing about the evidence?”
“What?” Jack asked, still groggy. Following Donovan’s gaze he saw the postcard. A blonde, nude from the waist up, was flirting with the camera from behind a single flimsy scarf.
Jack blinked. In his dream, the half-naked woman on the old-time postcard had been a brunette. Soft waves cascading over bare shoulders...dancing green eyes...a pert mouth.
Veronica Archer.
Damn, but the woman had gotten to him. He wanted her with an urgency he’d never felt before. And from what he could tell, she was pissed as hell at him.
Too bad.
“There’s more,” Donovan said, his voice hinting that more didn’t mean good.
One last shake of his head and Jack grounded himself. “Tell me.”
“Another postcard.” He tossed the evidence bag onto the desk. The antique card showed a flapper, this one wearing nothing but stockings, a long strand of pearls and a come-hither smile. “Special delivery just this morning.”
Automatically, Jack’s eyes drifted to the caged clock on the far wall. Not even ten. “It didn’t come by mail.”
“Special pillow delivery.”
Jack frowned. “Shit. Another one.”
“Yup. In Brooklyn. A buddy of mine hooked me up with the detective on the case. Seems there’s a woman over there who’s been getting the same treatment as Mrs. Crawley.”
“Great. A serial stalker. Our Mr. Naughty’s just spreading cheer all over the boroughs.” He sighed. “A blessing for us, a curse for these women.”
“Only a blessing if we can find a link between our Brooklynite and Mrs. Crawley.”
“Found anything so far?” Jack asked, sure the answer would be no.
“Other than the erotica? Nothing I’ve discovered in the last forty-five minutes.”
Running a hand through his hair, Jack sighed. “Well, it’s a solid lead. Let’s get on it, start checking their backgrounds. Maybe something will overlap.”
“Overlap we’ve already got.”
Nudie postcards and titillating tales. “True enough. This erotica stuff is the key. But damned if I know how.”
“What did Professor Baker have to say?” Donovan kicked his feet up onto Jack’s desk and twisted the top off a bottle of antacid.
“The man was useless.” And tedious. The professor talked like a living telegram, except the stop came between every single word, slowing his speech to a mind-numbing pace. After about two sentences, Jack had been ready to strangle the man. “He didn’t know a thing about erotica other than that it existed. Oh, and he’d heard of Fanny Hill.”
Donovan shrugged. “That’s something.”
“That’s nothing. Every junior high school boy looking for a thrill knows about Fanny Hill.”
The corner of Donovan’s mouth twitched. “Not me. I was a Playboy kinda guy.”
He ignored the comment. “The point is, he’s no help. While you’re running down connections between the women, I need to find someone who can make sense of this stuff, tell me if there’s some pattern, some hidden meaning. Something. Anything.”
“The department doesn’t have that many intellectuals lined up to consult, Jack. You tell the professor to take a hike, and we’re gonna be out of luck.”
Maybe. Maybe not.
An adorably crooked smile. Emerald eyes. Deep, rich hair. The images swirled in his head, and he mentally reached out, wanting to pull the vision closer.
“Donovan, my man. This just might be my lucky day.”
* * *
“What do you think?” Joan paced in front of the break-room table, twirling a pencil in her fingers. Postcards, books, prints and sketches littered the tabletop, along with a single three-ring binder, one burst of modernism in a sea of vintage paper.
Ronnie picked up the binder and studied the pages of inventory. “Postwar erotica? Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller? Frank Harris’s My Life and Loves?”
“Sure. Along with Rojan’s lithographs and those cool postcards you brought back from Paris. I bet it’ll be our best catalog yet.”
“Sort of a banned-books theme,” Ronnie said, smiling. Archer’s Rare Books issued two catalogs a year covering the finer items from the entire stock, along with one specialty catalog that focused on erotica. Debating with Joan over the theme of the special issue was one of her favorite summer activities.
“They weren’t all banned. And, anyway, back in the twenties and thirties, these books really pushed the envelope. It was a whole new era.”
With a quick twist, Ronnie pulled her hair up, securing it with a pencil. “So you’re wanting to make some sort of historical or sociological statement?” She frowned. Joan wasn’t usually the political type.
“Nah,” Joan said with a shrug. “Mostly it’s just that we have enough stock from the period to put together a good catalog.”
Ronnie laughed. How could she argue with logic like that? Especially since Joan was absolutely right—they could put together a hell of a catalog. Smiling, she nodded. “It’s a great idea.”
Joan clapped her hands, bouncing like a little girl. “Good. Because I’ve already started pulling stock. We have Henry Miller, and all four volumes of the Harris—those should fetch a lot—and we have an inscribed Anaïs Nin.” She did a fake swoon. “I don’t know how you get your hands on some of this stuff.”
“Trade secret,” Ronnie said with a wink. The truth was, it had taken her five years and endless hours building up the store’s erotica section. And now that the store had a reputation, collectors often came to her when they wanted to sell a prized book or manuscript.
For as long as she could remember, she’d put her heart and soul into the store, and Ronnie couldn’t even imagine another career. With the sad state of the current economy, though, the store was going through some tough times, and Ronnie was doing her damnedest to keep the place profitable. Which made the fact that some creep had broken in all the more infuriating. What if he’d made off with some of her valuable stock?
“What’s wrong?” Joan asked, her brow furrowed.
“Nothing. Just thinking about our intruder.” She waved her hand, then rifled through the pages in the binder, trying to look nonchalant despite the image of Nat in big-brother mode dancing through her mind. Without an update from the police, he was going to stay in New York instead of taking the career opportunity of a lifetime.
The bummer of it was, so far she’d completely struck out in the detective department. First she’d been scorned that morning by a detective who doubled as her own personal fantasy man, then she’d received the big brush-off when she’d called a few hours later. Detective Parker may have specifically told her that someone named Donovan was on her case, but the police department didn’t seem to be too clued in. When she’d complained to the clerk, she’d been told that Donovan wasn’t assigned to the matter. So far, she’d left two voice-mail messages for the cop who was supposedly running the show, but she hadn’t heard back. She tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “No surprise there,” she said.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Joan asked, studying Ronnie over her psychedelic rims.
“Nothing. Ignore me.” She shot a glance toward the phone on the wall. “I’ll try the precinct again in an hour or so. Sooner or later they’ll send someone out just to shut me up.”
“Just call 911,” Joan said, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a soda. She popped the top and took a swallow. “Tell them we’ve got another intruder.”
Except for the fact that a false emergency call was probably a felony, it sounded like a heck of a plan. This was sort of an emergency, wasn’t it? After all, getting rid of Nat really was reaching critical status. So maybe she should...
No. She was a responsible business owner. She paid taxes. She shopped for groceries and voted when she remembered.
But she did not make fake emergency calls.
She took a deep breath. “Let’s just work on the catalog. I’ll call again in a little while.”
Joan nodded and brought over an archival box filled with French postcards from the twenties and thirties. “I thought we could scan these and do an illustrated catalog.”
Ronnie pulled out one of the sepia cards, lightly running her finger over the edge. Unlike the ones that often turned up at flea markets or on eBay, these were in pristine condition, their edges clean, the images crisp. Someone—the photographer, probably—had hand-tinted each card. Just a touch to highlight the model’s jewelry, the ribbon in her hair, the nightgown pooled at her bare feet. The effect was dreamlike. Sensual.
Joan started pulling cards out of the box and laying them faceup on the table. “They’re not quite as erotic as the Rojan lithographs, but that’s okay, right?”
Ronnie nodded, pulling her thoughts back to the conversation. True, the lithographs tended to feature couples lost in their own private passions, while the postcards each featured a single woman. But, to Ronnie, the cards were just as alluring.
She plucked one out of the box. A nude woman, wearing nothing but a long strand of beads, reclined on a chaise longue, one arm behind her head, a coy look on her face. A sultry siren tempting the man behind the camera. “These cards have secrets,” she said, passing it to Joan. “That’s why they’re so erotic. It’s like we’re sharing a private moment between the woman and her lover.”
“I guess that makes her an exhibitionist and us voyeurs,” Joan said, grinning as she pulled up a chair.
Ronnie laughed. “Maybe it does.”
“So,” Joan said, leaning in closer, “have you ever done anything like that?”
“Exhibitionism?” Ronnie asked, sure her voice was squeaking. “Not hardly.”
“No, no, no.” Joan rolled her eyes. “Not for all the world.” Her devious smile lit up her entire face. “For just one guy. Burt? Anybody?”
“Have you?” An obvious avoidance tactic, but maybe Joan wouldn’t notice.
The bell in the main room jingled, cutting off Joan’s response. Instantly, she hopped to her feet, pointing a finger at Ronnie. “You stay. See if you like the other stuff I picked for the catalog. I can handle a customer.” Then she slipped out the door. A second later, she was back, peering around the door frame. “And the answer to your question is yes. Andy might have been a jerk out in the real world, but in the bedroom he was blue-ribbon material.” She winked, then disappeared again.
Alone, Ronnie gazed at the image of a 1920s ingenue, coy and flirtatious. The woman was perched on the edge of a padded bench, looking almost ethereal as yards of diaphanous material swirled around her.
What would it be like to be that woman? To feel the caress of her lover’s eyes on her, to know that he wanted her, and then to open her arms in silent invitation?
She closed her eyes, her body tightening as she imagined the press of her dream lover’s body against hers. His hands in her hair, trailing down her shoulder. She’d conjured the dream man the same night she’d walked out on Burt. Her ex-husband may have known all about sex, but her imaginary lover knew all about her.
A composite of the men she read about in her books, today he had the face of a certain sexy detective. Her dream lover was a man who wanted to please her, who was so in tune with her—body and soul—that he could almost read her thoughts. A man who knew if she wanted him to kiss her hard and take her right there on the kitchen table, or if she needed it slow and languid. A thousand caresses. Soft words and even lighter touches. Hours of exploration. Teasing and tempting until she couldn’t stand it anymore and she begged, begged, for him to enter her.
The man in her fantasies played her body like a symphony. Compared to him, Burt had played her like a ukulele.
She wasn’t asking for true love. Hell, she wasn’t even sure it existed. And the thought of committing to another man...
She shook her head. Right now? No way. But, oh, how she wanted passion. The heart-pounding, blood-boiling, loins-throbbing kind of desire she read about in her books.
She glanced back down at the woman on the card. “I bet you don’t have any problem finding lovers,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
Oh, hell. That was a male voice, and it most definitely didn’t belong to her brother. She felt her face warm, and she looked up...straight into the amused face of Detective Parker.
She swallowed, her cheeks heating in what surely had to be a blush red enough to start a fire. She flashed the postcard for him to see. “I was talking to her,” she said, then mentally kicked herself for such an idiotic comment.
“So I gathered.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, revealing a sexy dimple, and she cursed herself for noticing. Damn the man for materializing when she had erotica—and him—on the brain.
“I’m not exactly sure what a two-dimensional woman needs with a lover,” he added, “but I have no doubts she’ll find one.” The twitch turned into a full smile and the dimple deepened. “But if you want to help her get lucky, I’ve got a copy of Fortune in my car. Maybe she’s into two-dimensional, entrepreneur types.”
Swallowing a laugh, she tried to glare at him. “I spent the entire morning being furious with you. Waltzing in here unannounced and making me laugh isn’t fair.”
Immediately, the smile vanished, replaced by a firm mouth and apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, pulling out a chair. He sat opposite her at the table, and she had the unreasonable urge to reach out and touch his hair. “Unfortunately, I’m still not going to be a lot of help.”
Still? He hadn’t even tried to help earlier. Instead he’d just tormented her.
Even so, something about those pale gray eyes called to her, silently telling her he was sorry, that he did want to help. And that if she kicked him out now, she’d be making the biggest mistake of her life.
Well, maybe that was a little melodramatic, but she did want to hear what he had to say. And, frankly, she hoped it was good. She took a deep breath, then took the plunge. “Okay, give. What are you talking about?”
“Your robbery. No fingerprints, no motive, no suspects. Nothing missing—”
“That I know of.”
“Nothing expensive, then. Nothing obvious.”
She nodded. “Right.”
He shrugged. “That leaves us with nothing to go on.”
“You could have just told me that this morning, instead of putting me through the erotica edition of Trivial Pursuit.”
“Right.” He shifted in his chair, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Sorry about that.”
“You should be.” She grabbed up a small Rojan print—the one showing a couple in the back of a limousine, the man in a trench coat, intimately touching his companion, and the woman in a garter and stockings, her skirt around her waist. She waved the print in front of him. “I’m sorry if my life’s work offends you, but at least you could be professional, even if this kind of thing rubs you the wrong way.”
Coughing, he reached up and tugged at his tie, loosening the knot. His gaze dipped toward the lithograph, then back up to her. His eyes bore into hers with dark intensity, and she shivered, certain he’d touched her without even lifting a finger. “Trust me, lady. That picture rubs me a lot of ways, but wrong isn’t one of them.”
“Oh,” she said stupidly. Intelligent thought abandoned her, replaced by the image of her and Detective Parker in the back of a black stretch limo....
Her cheeks heated and she looked away, suddenly fascinated with a brown stain on the ancient vinyl flooring.
He must have picked up on her discomfort, because he took the print from her and turned it facedown on the table. “I didn’t mean to offend you earlier. I don’t work robberies, and I’m not assigned to your case. I thought you were somebody else.” Absently, he picked up the postcard she’d been examining and began tracing the outline with his fingertip.
She waited for him to keep talking, but he stayed silent, apparently waiting to gauge her reaction.
This was all very odd. Part of her wanted to jump out of the chair, chew him out for being a jerk and run back into the main room to help Joan with the customers. Another part of her just wanted to sit and stare into those fabulous eyes.
Besides, she didn’t really want to run from him. If what he said was true, he’d actually gone out of his way to help her by investigating her robbery even though it wasn’t his case. And she didn’t really have any reason to doubt him. After all, the police clerk had told her that neither Parker nor Donovan had anything to do with investigating the robbery. Which left some big questions—who had he mistaken her for, and why was he here?
“Okay, Officer.” She took a deep breath. “Keep talking.”
“Detective,” he said as he laid the postcard faceup on the table between them, like a gambler playing his card. “I need help. With this,” he said, glancing down at the card. He looked up again, his eyes burning into her. “I’m assigned to the sex crimes division.”
She frowned. “Sex crimes?”
He nodded. “I’m investigating a stalker.”
“That stuff you showed me...”
“That’s what he’s been leaving. His calling cards, you could say.”
“I’m not sure I’m following you. How can I help?”
“You’re an expert on this stuff, right? Well, I need an education.” He smiled, and her heart picked up its tempo. “An erotic education.”
Lord have mercy.
The thought that this man, this six-foot-something hunk of pure maleness needed help in anything erotic was almost beyond comprehension. The entire situation was surreal. They were sitting in a break room, of all places, surrounded by plastic and Formica, lit with fluorescent lighting. Nothing could be less sensual, and yet every nerve ending in her body was hyperaware. Her pulse beat in her throat, and she was sure her palms were sweating.
“I realize it’s not an ordinary request, but I can probably scrounge up some sort of hourly rate. A consulting fee.” He shrugged. “Maybe.”
She nodded vaguely. He made it all sound so professional, so academic. But academic or not, lessons in erotica with this man would be dangerous...in an absolutely delicious way.
“Miss Archer?”
Nibbling on her lower lip, she glanced down at the card on the table. He was waiting for her answer, waiting for her to put her cards on the table
She picked up the postcard, taking another look at the flapper whose erotic adventures she’d been so envious of only moments before. Then she lifted her eyes to look once again at the man. The shadow of his beard. Those enigmatic eyes. The sturdy angle of his jaw. All of it put together in a face that somehow pushed her senses into overdrive.
If she were thinking rationally, she’d ask more questions, would try to figure out exactly what he needed. After all, she had a business to run and a dissertation to write.
But on the other hand, in a lot of ways he was the answer to her prayers. If she could honestly tell Nat that she had an in with the cops—a source for information about the investigation—surely that would be enough to get him on that plane.
And the work did sound right up her alley....
But all that was just an excuse, a blatant justification for the real truth—that instinct, primal, pure and dangerous, had taken over. Here was a man who’d made her blood burn since the first moment she saw him, who in five minutes had left her with damp panties and a yearning for more. And that was only after talking business. Just imagine if they’d actually been discussing erotica....
Perhaps she was behaving foolishly, but she wanted to keep him around, even if only for a few more hours.
Slowly, she laid the card back on the table. “It looks like you win, Detective. Class begins promptly at eight.”
