Desperate to the Max (11 page)

“Yeah.”

“I can’t say that stuff out loud.”

“Didn’t you just say it to him?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Then say it for me.”

“Are you serious?” She knew he was.

“You pick up men you don’t know in bars, you talk sex to murder suspects on the phone, but you won’t even hold my hand, let alone kiss me or tell me what you said to some freaking stranger?”

She focused on only one thing he said. “I don’t pick up men in bars.” Not anymore. At least not for a month. Her cheeks flamed, damn near ready to explode with spontaneous combustion.

“I don’t care about your past, Max. I care about your present and your future.
Our
future.”

She ran scared, sputtering, “Well, well—” Why did he keep on taking her crap and coming back for more? The question burned in her mind. “Why do you even bother?” For that matter, why did Cameron bother with her? “I’m a pain in the ass, and we both know it.”

“Gotta thing for pains in the butt.”

“You’re a masochist.”

“Maybe. But you creep into a man’s heart, and there’s no getting you out.”

She shivered. Having a hold on his heart was the last thing she could handle. “That’s a line, if I ever heard one.”

He didn’t even wince. Which showed how used to her crap he was. Maybe that was Cameron’s excuse, too. Witt reached across the space between them and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of the gesture tore at
her
heart. “You might be psychic, Max, but I gotta read people for a living.”

“So you’ve read me like an open book?”

“Yeah. You don’t even have a clue how special you are. Makes a man willing to do anything just to show you.”

Now
that
was scary. Especially after Horace’s prediction that Witt would have to kill for her. Shivers raced up and down her spine. She still didn’t understand why he wanted any kind of relationship with
her
, and maybe she never would, but she sure didn’t need a guy willing to do
anything
. That was too awesome a responsibility.

He waved a hand, then pushed his leg down and sat straight ahead in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel as he stared her down. “Don’t say a word. I don’t want to hear it right now.” By not answering, she’d hurt him. Again. She knew, though he didn’t show it by even a flicker of an eyelash as he went on. “Just ask me the favor you were going to ask. And don’t give me that innocent look because I know one’s coming. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Too many full sentences and pronouns. The guy was pissed. Just not so pissed he wasn’t willing to listen.

It was also a very good thing he’d dropped the previous topic before she dug herself an even bigger hole. “Do you think he might be smart enough to keep calling in order to throw the police off his track? Just in case?”

“It’s a long shot, Max, but yeah, he might be.”

She took a deep breath and shot out the favor she wanted. “Then I think you ought to ask the police to set me up to take the calls that would have been sent to her so I can lure him out.”

Chapter Twelve

That conversation ended right there. Witt had climbed out of the truck, slammed his door, walked around to her side, and escorted her to the Miata. Then he’d backed the truck up to let her maneuver out, and followed her home.

Half an later, the argument continued on her porch.

“You will not set yourself up as bait.”

“It’s a flawless idea. You already told them I was your girlfriend. You could say we decided to do this because your mother won’t feel safe until the killer is caught. It’s the perfect excuse, Witt.”

“No.” He was an immovable rock. They stood on her small deck. The motion sensor had turned on the light, reflecting off his skin with an angry halogen glow.

“You are not going to become a phone sex operator to find out who killed Bethany Spring. And I am not getting involved with another of your harebrained schemes. You are an accountant, Max, not a cop.”

Uh-oh. More full sentences and no contractions anywhere. Not a good sign. She could argue. She could demand. She could even stomp on his toe. Or she could appeal to his conscience. “I know his voice. You could get a list of all her regulars, but you’d never figure out which one it was. You need me.”

“Forgetting it’s not my case and not my jurisdiction?”

“No. Which is why
I
need to do this. Those ‘on-duties’ will never figure it out without my help.”

He was silent. She could almost see the little wheels click-clacking in his head. She let his thought processes go on for maybe fifteen seconds, then hit him with the homer. “Her killer might go free if you don’t help me do this.”

“Don’t try that trick on me, Max, it won’t work.”

It
was
working. She could see by the play of emotions across his usually impassive face. He was noble, a man of honor. Letting a killer get away because he didn’t do everything in his power wouldn’t set well with him. “You know this is the perfect set up, Witt.”

“There’s not a damn thing perfect about it. How the hell am I even going to tell them she did sex calls without having to answer questions about you and how you know?”

A smile stretched across her lips. “Did they tell you about the headset?”

“The headset?”

“She was wearing it to make the calls. Then she threw it across the room. Didn’t they think it was a little strange that a woman who had her DVR programmed for Oprah, Judge Judy, and
Real Housewives of Orange County
needed a phone headset?” Did they simply think she sat on the phone discussing the shows with her friends?

“They thought she used it for her damn courier business.”

Ah, so they had told him about headset and tried to figure out a reasonable application for it. Just not the most important function for Bethany. “Why don’t you suggest another use to them?”

“Fine. Then all they have to do is check out the phone records of the service she used.”

“There’s no way they’d figure out which customer was Achilles.”

“They’d look at her regulars.”

“She had a ton of regulars.”

He raised a brow. “The ones living in the area would comprise their hottest suspects.”

“What if he came a long way to meet the woman he was obsessed with?”

His nostrils flared. She’d finally out-gunned him but resisted clapping her hands.

“I don’t like it.” He was definitely weakening.

“But you’ll help me.”

“I wouldn’t trust you not to set up a meeting with this guy behind my back.”

She didn’t even suggest that he could tap into her phone any time to check up on her; she knew he’d have it done anyway. She put her hand up. “I promise not to meet him without telling you first. Cross my heart and hope to die.” She put her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers.

“Do not cross your damn fingers behind your back.”

“I’m not.” She didn’t uncross them.

He groaned. “How the hell do you do that?”

“What?” she asked innocently.

“Turn me inside out, upside down, make me change my mind.”

He wanted to make love to her, he was terrified of her, he could easily throttle her, and finally, he had to give in to her. She knew exactly how he felt. She almost felt the same way about him. Though she’d never admit it.

“I’m appealing to your sense of honor and justice,” she said.

“I must be crazy.”

She knew
she
was. “But you’ll do it?”

“Make that freaking insane. I’ll do it. Only you’re gonna have to pay up.”

Her heart leapt. “How?”

“One kiss.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Yeah, like you just blackmailed me.”

“That wasn’t blackmail, it was—”

He put his hand over her mouth. “Appealing to my sense of honor and justice. You’re still gonna have to pay.”

“When?” she muttered against his hand, callused from all that yard work in his mom’s garden. She was so very tempted to lick his palm.

That slow-growing, devastatingly sexy smile she hated, absolutely hated, creased his lips. “Now.”

“The timing’s really bad.” Bethany’s phone ditty with Achilles still hadn’t completely worn off. Beneath her sweatshirt, her nipples were hard. “You have to be up early.”

He pressed to muffle her words. “Now. Or I rescind.”

She debated, pulled his hand away, then asked, “Do I have to open my mouth?”

“Yeah.” His eyes sparkled.

“Do I have to use my tongue?”

“Oh yeah,” he answered, nodding for punctuation.

“How long do I have to do it for?”

He laughed. “You know you want to. You’re fighting ‘cause you think I won’t guess.” He leaned in close, skimmed her ear with his lips, then whispered, “But I know how badly you want to.” He raised a hand and slid his palm over her hard, tight nipple. “See how you give yourself away?”

She slapped his hand. “Okay, okay, I’ll kiss you, but none of that other stuff.”

He chuckled at her. “
I
won’t start it. Not so sure about you, though.”

“Come here.” She grabbed his ears and pulled his mouth down to hers. She’d give him a peck, a little lip, a little tongue, then it’d be over.

Instead, he pulled her off her feet. Of course, that meant she had to wrap her arms around his neck to hold on. She opened her mouth to yell at him, but he shut her up with his lips and his tongue.

And Max was lost.

He kissed her as he did everything else, with concentration and tenacity. His tongue played with hers, then he backed out to lick her lower lip. Finally, he angled his head and took total control of her mouth. She slid down his chest, her nipples hard and aching with the contact, until her shoes hit the deck planking.

He didn’t let her go.

She didn’t want him to.

She shoved her fingers through his short, spiky hair and kissed him back for all she was worth. She poured all her long lonely months without Cameron into that sweet, yet all-consuming kiss.

He slid his hands down her back, slowly, to her butt and pulled her close. He was hard and delicious against her belly. His taste burst in her mouth. His tongue stroked, mimicking the ways he could use it elsewhere on her body. He retreated to nip her lip, then soothed the spot with a warm, wet caress.

“Ask me,” he whispered.

Their lips so close they brushed, she tingled, then murmured, “Ask you what?”

“Invite me inside.”

Her lungs hurt as she dragged in a breath. She wanted to. She wanted to so bad.

He rocked her slightly, his erection at her belly, her nipples hard and tight against his chest. Her fingers spasmed in his hair.

“I can’t,” she whispered, then threw her arms around his neck and crushed herself against him. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t smile. She couldn’t beg. She didn’t actually think she could cry. Her body ached with everything she wanted and couldn’t have. She felt his arms go round her back and his big hands stroke her soothingly.

“One day, you won’t be so afraid, Max.”

“I’m not afraid,” she mumbled against his neck.

She
was
. Terrified, even. Worse, she couldn’t figure out why anymore.

Chapter Thirteen

It was after two in the morning. Max lay in her twin bed, Buzzard the Cat snuggled in the crook between ear and chin. Her mind and body still buzzed like she was pumped full of drugs. Her thoughts jumped from one image or sound to another.

Witt’s big hand resting on the steering wheel. Those killer boots. His musk aftershave. That incredible, devastating kiss. Her crippling fear at that last moment. His sweet goodnight. The crunch of the gravel on the drive as he walked away.

And more, from earlier in the night. Bethany’s darkened dining room. The script. The things she’d said to those men. The words they whispered to her, the begging voices. Bethany had so loved the neediness that sneaked through each harsh utterance. She’d thrived on it, blossomed beneath its overwhelming brilliance.

Then Achilles had called her a bitch.

Max sat straight up in bed. The cat slipped down the pillow, came to rest on the mattress beside her, curled close once more, and started to purr.

“What’s the matter, my love?” Cameron’s voice filled the otherwise quiet room. She always imagined that she could hear him through her ears instead of her mind, as if that made talking to a ghost somehow more palatable. Not quite so ... crazy.

She took a deep breath. “I know where I heard Achilles’ last words.”

“Where?” The sound smoothed out, lengthened, soothing her with its softness.

“A dream I had during that first case.” It had been more a “vision” of a past event in a murder victim’s life. A terrible event. A defining moment.

“Wendy Gregory’s case.”

She called it a case. She didn’t know what else to call it. She’d been driven to find Wendy’s killer herself, though, of course, Witt had accused her of hindering his investigation, even suspected her of having something to do with the murder. Witt was long past suspecting her.

Witt now wanted something else. She shoved the thought aside.

The words in that dream had stuck. So had the dream voice. So had the man himself.

Bud Traynor. Wendy Gregory’s horrific father. Through the dream, the vision, Max had seen the worst of the terrible things he’d done to his daughter, and she’d vowed to make him pay. She hadn’t fulfilled that vow, but somehow she’d known she’d get another chance. Maybe this was it.

Achilles’ words had echoed the ones Bud Traynor uttered in that vision.

Max didn’t believe in coincidence. Everything under the sun, moon, and stars was connected. Everything had a purpose and a reason. She just had to figure out that reason.

“You’re obsessed with the man, Max. He’s the bogeyman hiding in your every vision.”

“He’s been in the last two visions. Maybe
he’s
the connection between all these murders.”

Cameron was silent longer than necessary. “
His
voice?”