Shiver

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Suddenly, he was in front of her, backing her against the wall. The heat from his body scorched her skin right through the stiff cotton fabric of her dress. She gasped short breaths. Her heart pounded in her ears. He leaned down close. His cologne, rich and spicy, overwhelmed her senses.

“Stop,” she murmured.

His dark eyes filled her vision and clouded her mind.

“What are you hiding?” he said softly, the rich timbre of his voice stroking sensitive nerve endings.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you hiding?” he whispered and gently released her hair clip. He speared his fingers through her hair, lifting it and letting it tumble across her shoulders. His fingertips brushed against the skin on the back of her neck, sending a slow shiver tumbling down her arms.

She couldn’t get enough air. His heat, his touch, his pure animal masculinity was making her weak in the knees. Her eyelids fluttered, her skin burned and a yearning deep down in the pit of her stomach made her want to scream.

“Leave me alone,” she pleaded, knowing full well she didn’t want him to leave her alone. She wanted him to pull her up against him, to soothe the pressure building in her aching breasts, to smother her lips with a kiss so passionate it could rip the fabric of her being.

How could I want him? She almost cried the thought out loud.

“Why was Michelle wearing your locket?” he persisted, his voice a husky whisper, his breath hot on her cheek.

She barely heard him. Her peripheral vision darkened and all she could see, all she could focus on, was his mouth. What would he taste like?

“Tell me why,” he demanded, shaking her loose from her fervent thoughts.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want to know who killed Michelle,” he insisted, clearly exasperated.

“I said I don’t know!”

He pulled away from her and stormed out of the room. Shaken, she fell into the nearest chair. She heard the water running in the bathroom and took a deep breath. Why wouldn’t he just leave her alone? She couldn’t help him. She wouldn’t. Lord, she was scared. She was confused, and she felt sick to her stomach. And on top of all that, she’d never been more attracted to anyone in her entire life. And he hated her. She could feel it with every breath he took.

And worse, she hated him. He was a bully, a cretin, a scourge of the earth. The very last thing she wanted was for him to touch her. She placed a hand over her fluttering heart.

The very last thing.

DAMN THAT WOMAN! She had to be the most exasperating female he’d ever met with those big blue eyes and tremulous lips. She looked tempting enough to ravish—almost. Until he reminded himself what a chameleon she was, an expert manipulator. Well, she wouldn’t work her charms on him. He was on to her game.

Riley splashed cold water onto his face, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes and a hard grimace exposed fatigue and hopelessness. He had to get hold of himself. He wouldn’t get her to crack by flying off the handle. He had to be smart about this. He must get his emotions in check. He couldn’t go home empty-handed. He had to have something to tell Mac and his dad. Anything. He would get this woman to talk.

In the mirror’s reflection, he saw a room behind him. He stood just outside the door and listened down the hallway. All was clear. In the room, a large desk littered with papers held a sleek computer. He didn’t know computers very well, but he could tell that this was one impressive setup. He walked into the room and noticed several boxes half full next to the closet door. Packing?

He approached her desk and glanced at the papers lying next to the keyboard. All double-spaced pages with the name Miller in the header. Miller? More pages lay facedown in the top tray of a laser jet. He picked them up, and scanned the first few lines. Alarm tightened his gut as he continued to read.

From the shadows he watched the blonde sashay down the stone tiles of St. Peter Street. Plastic gold-and-green dice bounced on her chest as her turquoise pumps clickity-clacked in rhythm with her sway.

“Hey, lady, looking good tonight. Want me to read your fortune?”

The woman glanced at the tarot card readers lining Jackson Square, then threw a cute one a wave. “No, thanks. Tonight I make my own fortune.”

“I just bet you do,” the man responded, laughing.

He watched their exchange, then saw her steal a glimpse behind her, searching for whoever had been following her as she’d left the Café Du Monde and headed toward Bourbon Street. His footsteps had been steady, but in the darkness, she hadn’t been able to make out the source. He’d made sure she wouldn’t.

She slipped her hand under her jacket and shifted the Glock in her waistband. He knew she was carrying one; what cop wouldn’t when in the Quarter alone? The way she was dressed, he guessed she was trying to lure out the night stalker who’d been cutting up whores. He’d been watching her for over an hour, if anyone was helping her, he’d have known it. It was foolish of her to go it alone—foolish for her, advantageous for him. Tonight, she’d get more than she bargained for.

She turned right down Royal, heading for a more isolated street. He smiled at his good fortune. This time of night there were too many hosts standing outside trendy bars and restaurants, hoping to draw in the tourists.

His heartbeat rose in anticipation. Excitement crawled along his skin as she turned left onto Orleans Street, once again heading toward the raucous noise of Bourbon Street. Here, no one would hear her scream.

He closed in. Her quick furtive glances behind her betrayed her fear. She could feel him hunting her. He enjoyed this part of the game, perhaps even more than the kill itself. She quickened her pace. He left her.

From his new vantage point, he watched her turn again. She stopped and listened, becoming aware that his footsteps had fallen silent. She let loose a deep sigh, and the corners of her mouth lifted slightly as she shook her head. She continued up the block to Bourbon Street, toward him. People up ahead were laughing and stumbling their way down the neon alley. She visibly relaxed even more.

As she approached, he stepped out from behind an old-fashioned cast-iron lamppost. Alarm chased across her face. She reached behind her, grasping the Glock’s handle.

“Hey, Michelle,” he said softly and gave her a disarming smile.

She squinted into the dull light from the dirt-encrusted lamp, trying to get a handle on him. Recognition dawned. She relaxed, dropping her shoulders. “Hey. What’s up?”

“What are you doing out here?”

“Just heading to Bourbon Street.”

“It’s not safe to be out here alone. Let me walk you.”

“You know I can take care of myself.” She took a quick glance behind her, then threw him a smile. “But I don’t mind the company.”

They’d only taken a few steps before he motioned to a doorway on the right. “What’s that?”

She peered into the darkness. Before she could turn back, he seized her. His big hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing as he shoved her up against the wall. She clawed at his wrists. He could feel her heart hammering with fear. She let go of his wrists and tried to reach behind her for the Glock.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he hissed.

He twisted the beads around her neck, applying more pressure, squeezing harder. Her eyes widened as she choked for air. She slumped forward. He pushed her back, grabbed the gun and pocketed it.

Breath surged back into her lungs and she gulped it. The blade flashed in the dim light from the street lamp. In one swift movement, it was over and she slid down the wall. He took something gold and shiny and slipped it around her neck. A gold heart with a rose etched across the front dangled between her breasts, nestling amidst the rivulets of blood seeping from her throat.

Riley swayed as pain and confusion obscured his vision. He stormed through the house, a burning rage pushing him beyond control. He slammed the wad of papers bunched in his hands onto the table. “I want the truth and I want it now.”

Devra’s eyes widened as she stared at the papers.

“You were there. You saw the whole thing. Tell me who killed her.”

She stood, her chair falling behind her with a loud crash. “I wasn’t there.”

“Then what is this?”

“It’s just a scene from my book.”

“Bull. This is a reenactment of Michelle’s murder.”

Devra covered her face with her hands.

He gripped the table’s edge to stop himself from grabbing her shoulders and giving her a good shake. “You know too many details for someone who wasn’t there!”

She tried to back away from him, but hit the wall behind her. “I wasn’t there. I swear.”

“Liar,” he roared.

She covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m not a liar. I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.”

He stepped closer, leaning down into her face. “I want the truth.”

“I didn’t.” She swayed before him, her eyes glazed and frightened. “I didn’t kill Tommy, Papa.” The color drained from her face and she collapsed in a heap onto the floor.

Stunned, Riley dropped to his knees beside her. “Come on, lady. Wake up.” He gritted his teeth to restrain himself from clutching her in his arms to make sure she was okay.

Long lashes fluttered on her cheeks. She opened luminous eyes full of hurt and vulnerability and pinned him to the wall. He felt a need to apologize, to help her in some way. Dammit, why wouldn’t she just tell him the truth?

“What happened?” she asked with a shaky voice.

“You fainted,” he muttered, and tried to swallow his irritation.

She sat up, cradling her head in her hands. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. I know you want answers, and I wish I had them for you. But I don’t. I just don’t.”

Tears filled her eyes, and damn if they didn’t work. He could feel the fury seeping right out of him. Apparently, he was in worse shape than he thought. He needed sleep. He needed food. He needed to go home, recoup and try to sort this mess out again later.

“Listen—”

The sound of crashing glass reverberated through the room. Riley jumped to his feet as splintered shards scattered across the floor. Clumps of glass mixed with something red hit the sides of the sofa and oozed down the fabric. Devra let out a bloodcurdling scream, shattering Riley’s ragged nerves.