Читать книгу Say You Love Me - Rita Herron - Страница 8

THE DEAD WOMAN’S eyes haunted Britta.

She tried to tamp her nerves as the publisher of Naked Desires, R. J. Justice, paced his office. He’d been cursing ever since she’d shown him the photo. Of course her insides were knotted. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to the cops.

In fact, she had held on to the picture all day hoping to convince herself the note and picture had been a joke, but finally her conscience had worn her down. She hadn’t been able to justify not showing R.J. the photograph.

Not even to save her own skin.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come down to that. This was an isolated incident. The police would investigate.

And she wouldn’t have to be involved or divulge her secrets.

“I know you’re shaken, Britta,” R.J. muttered.

“I’ll be fine. After all, this is probably a false alarm. We aren’t positive the woman is really dead. The photographer could have staged the scene to look like a murder. For shock value.”

“True. But he had to know we’d check it out before we printed it.”

Britta shrugged and rubbed at her temple, appalled that R.J. would consider showcasing such violence in their magazine. “Who knows what drives people. Maybe he’s a photographer and wants to impress us so he can land a job here.” Or maybe he meant for her to call the police because he wanted public recognition.

R.J. stopped pacing, his tall lanky frame silhouetted in the window, his laser eyes piercing her as if contemplating the possibility. Outside, gray clouds cast shadows across the office, making the room seem even smaller and more claustrophobic. Zydeco music pounded the air, the shouts of partiers from the street below echoed through the dirt-streaked window. Crowds of tourists still cheered and talked about the parade. Although it was early evening, tourists had already dipped into the happy-hour specials with tequila and pitchers of beer and were filing into the strip joints for their first peep show of the night.

“I have to meet with our legal team. Do you think you can handle the police?” R.J. asked.

Britta clenched her hands together. “Sure.”

For a moment, R.J. reached for her. Twice when they’d discussed her column, debating over which submissions to print and which ones were too graphic, R.J. had hinted at wanting a personal relationship with her. Hinted that he’d like to share his secret sexual fantasies with her.

She backed toward the door. R.J. was barely thirty, only a few years older than her and was well-dressed in his Armani suits. Attractive. Single. Sexy. Mysterious.

But dangerous.

The collection of gargoyles on his bookshelf made her uneasy. And he had dozens of nude sketchings on his walls—all macabre with scenes of violence—along with an S and M calendar and bronze sculptures of mutant creatures—part human, part animal.

Some men had dark sides. R.J. was one of them. She’d witnessed his charm and ability to seduce a woman. Then his volatile temper.

His fantasies teetered on the narcissistic side.

And she didn’t want to be any part of them.

THE HEAT FROM the New Orleans air simmered with sexuality and smelled of raw body sweat that only heightened R.J.’s lustful thoughts. The magic of Mardi Gras fed his addiction to the night life and celebration of man’s greatest pleasure—the physical coupling of man and woman.

He wanted Britta. He had wanted her for a long damn time.

But she wasn’t ready—yet.

In fact, if she knew the gritty cravings in his mind, she would run a million miles away.

She might even suspect that he’d sent that lurid photograph.

A soft laugh escaped him. But she couldn’t run forever. One day she’d see that the two of them were meant to be together. That he had built this magazine with her in mind. That each day as he walked the streets of the French Quarter, he imagined seducing her in his office, ripping off her clothes and taking her on his desk. Each night he fell asleep with fantasies of her on top of him, her legs spread wide on his bed, taking his aching length into her warm body. With her tied to the post, the black leather squeaking as she shifted, the whip in his hand, passionate cries floating from her lips. And then vice versa.

His cock swelled, throbbing like hell. He intended to unleash Britta’s darkest desires. And she had desires…even though she refused to admit them.

Her terror over the photo might be his ticket to win her trust. She needed comfort. Protection.

And he’d open his arms and watch her fall right into them.

DESPERATE TO ESCAPE R.J., Britta raced away, but her breath caught at the sight of the hulking man in her office. Neon lights twirled and blinked intermittently, painting a kaleidoscope of colors across his angular face as he stared out the window overlooking Bourbon Street. A mixture of blues, jazz and gospel music engulfed her, its pounding mirroring her beating heart.

Who was he? The man who’d sent her the picture?

As if he sensed her presence without even facing her, he murmured her name. “Miss Berger?”

He knew she’d been watching him. “Yes?”

He slowly turned toward her, his intimidating stance personified by his huge masculine body. “Detective Jean-Paul Dubois.”

She inhaled sharply as recognition dawned. His picture had been plastered all over the paper. That reporter Mazie Burgess had written a half-dozen hero-worshipping pieces on him. Apparently, Jean-Paul Dubois had risked his life to save hundreds after the latest hurricane disaster.

He was also a hard-ass when it came to the law.

Fear tightened her chest as she scrutinized him for signs that he wouldn’t pry too deeply into her life. That he’d accept what she gave him and ask for nothing else.

But the steely expression in his eyes told her not to count on it. 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 seedy side of life and not cowered from it. A vixen in disguise.

One who had secrets.

“Did you know this woman?”

“No, I’ve never seen her before.” She bit down on her lip. “Why, Detective? Is it real?”

He met her gaze head-on. “Yes. I just came from the crime scene. I’m afraid this woman was murdered.”

A faint gasp escaped her. “Oh God, no.” A heartbeat of silence stretched between them, taut, filled with unanswered questions. “Who was she?” she finally asked.

“We’re still working on identifying her.” He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “I’d like for you to keep this confidential. No press. No publication of this picture. Don’t tell anyone else that you received it. Understood?”

Britta nodded. “Of course. We’ll help any way we can.”

Her mouth twitched slightly as if she wanted to say more, but she clamped her teeth over her lower lip instead.

He shifted and tapped the envelope with one finger. “Has this man written you before?”

“You mean for the column?”

“Yes.”

She massaged two fingers to her temple. “I…don’t know. But I’ll review our prior issues and see if I find anything that appears connected.”

“I’d also like to take copies of the magazine with me. And don’t forget the letters you didn’t print.”

Alarm shot through her eyes. “There must be hundreds.”

“Bring them to the station. My partner and I will help sort through them.”

Wariness pulled at her features but she agreed.

“You also mentioned a note?” He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

She handed him the sheet of charcoal-gray paper, and he read the message silently.

I know your secrets.

And you know mine.

His gaze rose again to meet hers. “What does he mean by that? He knows your secrets?”

She remained so still that he didn’t think she was going to answer. But fear momentarily settled in her eyes. “I assume he’s referring to the magazine,” she said in a low voice. “My column is called Secret Confessions.”

Liar. “It sounds more personal.” He closed the distance between them. “I think you know more than you’re telling. You may even know the killer. At least, he knows you.”

She lifted her chin a notch. “A lot of people who write into the magazine think they know me.”

“You’re hiding something, Miss Berger.” He leaned across the desk, so close his face was only a breath away. So close he inhaled the hypnotic scent of her perfume.

So close he felt the tension vibrate in her lean muscles.

“But secrets have a way of coming out. And before this investigation is over, I will find out exactly what you’re keeping from me.”