Bayou Hero (20 page)

Landry was swallowing a drink of pop when her words sank in, and he choked, grabbing for a napkin, coughing to clear his throat. “You what?” A croak was all he could manage.

Her look was level, steady. “You heard me.”

“Why?”

She pinched off a piece of sandwich and took a delicate bite. “I told you last night there was another option.”

I like you, too
, he’d told her.
So what do we do about it? Wait until the case is solved?

She’d asked to be taken off a major case because of her feelings for him.

He didn’t know how to react. This couldn’t be a good career move. Major cases put major marks in the advancement column. He imagined solving the murder of an active-duty admiral, to say nothing of the other six victims, would be a giant gold star for everyone involved. And she’d walked away from it. For
him.

No one had ever made that kind of sacrifice for him. He didn’t know if he deserved it.

But
damn
,
she’d walked away from all that for
him.
He was...flattered. Humbled.

She was watching him, her gaze still steady and level, but he saw just a flicker of vulnerability. She’d made a big sacrifice to give this thing between them a chance and was wondering now if she’d misread the situation, if she’d derailed her career for nothing.

Slowly he set his sandwich down, wiped his hands, then slid across the cushion separating them. He took the bit of sandwich from her hands, used the same napkin to wipe them, then for a long moment, he just looked at her. Whatever she saw in his face must have reassured her because the vulnerability faded and was replaced with something smoky and warm and dark.

He touched her face, brushing a long strand of hair back, tucking it behind her ear, then let his fingertips brush her skin. So soft, flawless, stretched across high cheekbones, warm enough to sear his fingers. He recalled the first time they’d talked, wondering if she’d dressed to downplay her looks. He hadn’t realized then that clothing was just a wrapper, that nothing could downplay the delicate lines of her face, the shape of her eyes, the arch of her brows, the stubborn line of her jaw, the kissable shape of her mouth.

Most of her hair was in a braid, but some of it loosely framed her face. It was as silken and sleek as he’d expected, wrapping around his fingers before effortlessly sliding free again. Reaching behind her, he pulled the band loose, then combed his fingers through as it fell loose.

Alia lifted both hands to his face, cupped her palms to it and kissed him. Damn, but he liked a woman who took what she wanted.

Her hands were hot, her touch sure. There was no hesitancy, no tentativeness. Her mouth covered his, and her tongue slid inside, bringing with it the taste of beer and food and something medicinal like a breath mint. Bringing with it hunger and need and a sort of unsteadiness in his gut that he remembered all too well. The first time he’d had sex with a girl, the first time he’d had sex with a woman who meant more than usual to him, and now the first time with Alia. Big moments in his life.

Too soon, she ended the kiss and put a little space between them, not much, nothing either of them couldn’t close by leaning forward an inch or two. “Now we have another option,” she said quietly.

“Keep our distance until the case is over or forget the case and have wild, hot, crazy sex every chance we get? In the real world, which of those is an option?”

She smiled, sweet and sly and a little devilish. “I was hoping you’d think that. So...you want to finish dinner or show me your bedroom?”

Landry picked up her left hand, keeping her from getting up if that had been her intention.” My bedroom isn’t bad. It has an air conditioner and a massive old bed that Miss Viola gave me when she found me sleeping on the mattress on the floor. It even has some stuff—some decor—hanging on the wall.” He gave the word
decor
a twist, making fun of her earlier remark and his own lack of ability and interest in making the place look nicer. “However—”

She faked a pout. “I hate that word. It usually means I won’t get my way.”

He stroked her palm, making her shiver once, then twice before she curled her fingers over his. “However,” he repeated, “I have to be back at work in fifteen minutes. That’s not even enough time to finish one kiss.”

“The last kiss didn’t take fifteen minutes.”

“That’s because you were doing the kissing. I need more than that. I like kissing, and I’m really going to like kissing you.”

Her pout deepened. “I work all day. You work all night. I don’t see time in our schedules for kisses lasting more than fifteen minutes, to say nothing of anything else, until Saturday.” After a moment, she sighed acceptingly. “What time do you get off?”

“Three a.m.”

“I have to get up at five if I’m going to run before work.” Drawing a set of keys from her tiny purse, she peeled off a house key and gently squeezed it into his hand. “I’ll leave some lights on for you. Don’t do anything foolish like wander around the house or use the bathroom before you let me know you’re there. I sleep with a weapon.”

“So I’ve heard.” He didn’t look at the key, but the shape of it was practically burning into his palm. He’d never had a key to anyone else’s house before, not even his parents’. Camilla had been willing to trust him with it by the time he started middle school, but not Jeremiah. The housekeeper was always there during the day, and in the evening, Jeremiah assumed, Camilla always was. It had been her, Landry’s and Mary Ellen’s secret that sometimes when their father left town, their mother went out on it.

Alia trusted him with her key. Trusted him to come into her home in the middle of the night, when she very well might be asleep.
Trusted
him. That was a damn good feeling.

They polished off their dinner, and he turned down an offer of a cookie. He liked sweets but not the way she did. Even his nieces the sugar demons didn’t like them the way she did. She could indulge her sweets craving in the cookies.

He would indulge his in her.

His fifteen minutes had passed five minutes ago when they finally locked up and went downstairs together. Just outside the gate, where her car was parked in his boss’s spot, he slid his arms around her and pulled her near, feeling the bump of her pistol at her waist beneath her shirt. “There it is,” he teased.

“Mmm-hmm. The handcuffs are on the other side.”

“I bet a lot of guys, when they find out you’re a cop, ask you to use the handcuffs on them.”

“Um. But you’d be the first one I might actually say yes to.”

The streetlights were starting to come on, buzzing like giant insects, and foot traffic had picked up on the sidewalks. Music came from the open doors of the bar, a decent rendition of “The Sky is Crying,” competing with something heavy metal across the street. It was a good evening for taking a lazy walk through the Quarter, sitting in a restaurant courtyard over a leisurely meal...or laying down a beautiful woman and exploring every centimeter of her lovely body.

Soon.

Not soon enough.
But he’d taken too much time off the past week, all for bad reasons, and would be off the day of Camilla’s funeral this week. Alia was worth waiting for, damn, as long as he had to.

He leaned close to her, nuzzling her neck, smelling the faint fragrance of perfume, the fainter scent of lemon and sugar. “You sampled Evie’s cookies on the way over,” he murmured, his lips barely brushing her skin.

“Murphy gave them to me this morning. It’s nothing less than a miracle that I hadn’t inhaled them by noon.”

With a laugh, he kissed her mouth, quickly, reining in the passion and need. “Thanks for dinner.”

“You’re welcome.” The look she gave him was filled with something far more than the routine gesture the words denoted, something more like a statement of fact. An invitation.

With a reluctance that matched his own, she pulled free and went to her car. Before sliding inside, she gave him a glance, a tiny wave, and murmured, “I’ll see you.”

“Absolutely.” He watched her get in, back up, then drive away down the street before he went inside the bar.

Nothing less than a miracle
, she’d said
.
Simple words applied to a lot of things that, honestly, weren’t the least bit deserving of the designation. But feeling the way he did, after all the ugly emotions in his past...

That really was nothing less than a miracle.

And its name was Alia.

* * *

The ring of the cell phone an hour later jerked Alia out of a lazy, satisfied, full-stomach-glass-of-wine stupor. Drying her hand on a towel, she picked it up from the table next to the tub, glanced at Caller ID, then turned it to speaker. “Hey, Jimmy.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“If I’d been asleep, I wouldn’t have answered.”

“Liar. Are you busy?”

“No.” She gazed at the few remaining jasmine-scented bubbles dotting the surface of the water. She nudged the faucet with her toe, turning it to full blast to both revive the bubbles and reheat the water.

“Are you taking a bath?” he asked at the sound of the rushing water. “Hell, sweet pea, that’s not fair. How am I supposed to talk business when I’ve got this image of you in my head all naked and wet and soapy?”

She ignored the question and sank a little deeper into the water as it warmed. Her hair was piled on top of her head, but strands of it trailed in the rising water. “What business? I’m off the investigation, remember?”

“Does that mean two old friends can’t talk about their work?”

She was about to point out that they weren’t friends, but the realization that they really were stopped her. How had that come about? She’d loved him, hated him, wished he would disappear off the face of the earth. But, yeah, in their own way, they’d become friends.

“You know I’m supposed to be out of the loop now,” she reminded him.

He snorted. “You know I decide who belongs in my loop. That’s why I never became a big-time fed like you. I live by my own rules.”

He did. He had his own code of honor, and his first priority was doing right by the victims of the crimes he investigated. He broke rules and took shortcuts, but he got the job done, and truth was, if she was ever the victim of a crime, she couldn’t think of a better cop to handle the investigation.

“Did you go with Murphy to interview the Wallace sisters?”

“I did. It was like refereeing a bare-knuckle fight. Older one’s a coldhearted snake, and the younger one acts like a spoiled-rotten teenager having a bad day. They were spitting and hissing at each other the whole damn time. Older one did most of the talking. Younger one did all of the drinking.”

“Did they admit to the abuse?”

“Number one flat out denied it ever happened, then began cussing at number two for making up more lies about dear beloved daddy. Her reaction was so over-the-top it was obvious Murphy hit a nerve. The second one didn’t admit it, either, though. She’d just say things like, ‘He never learned that actions have consequences,’ and ‘You reap what you sow.’ Enough of an admission for me.”

For her, too, Alia acknowledged. In that sense, the Wallaces weren’t so different from Mary Ellen and Landry. She pretended nothing had ever happened, and he’d found it impossible to pretend but damn hard to admit.

“Do you think either of them could be the killer?”

“You know my philosophy—anyone can kill for the right reason.”

So if he was conspiring with the others, why implicate himself by confiding in Alia?

With her free hand, she rubbed an ache between her eyes. “If the abuse is the motive—” and she believed that with every gut instinct she had “—why now? Mary Ellen’s the youngest of the kids, and she’s in her late twenties. Presumably the abuse ended when the kids were in their late teens, graduating from high school, going off to college, gotten old enough to lose their appeal. What happened now to cause the murders?”

“Here’s a scarier question,” Jimmy said grimly. “You and I both know pedophiles don’t just stop abusing kids because their victims get too old. They go out and find new victims. Where have these bastards been getting their thrills since their own kids grew up?”

Just the question was enough to tie Alia’s stomach in knots. One more thing for the team to look at: what contact did the men have with kids in the right age group? They could volunteer at church, coach a sports team, lead a social organization, mentor at-risk youth, prey on young cousins, nieces, nephews or neighbors... The possibilities were depressingly endless.

“Well, now that I’ve brightened your day...” Jimmy heaved a sigh, and she knew from experience that it was accompanied by fingers raking through his hair. “I think I’m gonna call it a night and give Nina a call. You should do the same.”

“Nina’s not my type,” she said drily.

“You know what I mean, sweet pea. Call Landry. He owes you after what you did for him.”

“He
owes
me? You think that’s the only reason he would want to spend the night with me, because he owes me?”

He laughed at her incredulity. He’d laughed a lot when they were married, whether her outrage was real or feigned. “Aw, hell, darlin’, you know that’s not what I meant. I’d spend the night with you if you’d just ask.” His tone turned hopeful. “You think you might be asking anytime soon?”

“When I’ve gone stark raving stupid. Good luck with Nina tonight.”

“I’m good. That’s why I don’t need luck.”

It was her turn to laugh, but she sobered quickly. “Hey, Jimmy. Thanks for the call.” Quickly, before he could think of a comeback, she hung up, set the phone aside and pulled the old-fashioned stopper from the tub. She was tired and would be getting up—at least, waking up—two hours before her regular time. She needed to rest...and store energy.

After a shower to rinse away the suds, she dried off, wrapped a towel around herself and went to the closet, rooting through dresser drawers for something to sleep in. She was a fan of snug-fitting tanks and girl-cut boxers for pajamas, but surely she had one nightgown, one silky-satiny-sexy sort of thing left over from her marriage. God knew, she’d been given plenty of them at her wedding showers, all wasted on Jimmy, who could get turned on by a woman in a hobbit costume.