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“So I saved us both some guilt and anxiety. Do you want your beer in a glass or straight from the can?”
Cat thought of the trip she was about to make and decided against anything alcoholic. Without answering, she handed him a glass, then filled one for herself with ice and Pepsi and laid out two plates.
Wilson reached for the roll of paper towels. He tore off a couple of sheets to use as napkins and then got a shaker of red-pepper flakes from the cabinet where she kept her spices.
Cat was torn between admiring his good looks and being a bit intrigued with the tiny gold hoop earring he wore in his left ear. As usual, his hair was a style in progress. He wore it in a buzz cut that always seemed to be a week past needing a trim. There was a small scar beneath his right eye and enough of a bump on his nose to know it had been broken more than once. His shoulders were broad, his legs long and muscular, his belly hard and flat.
Cat was well aware of how fit he was beneath the denim and leather, and was thinking of what would come later—after pizza and beer. She wouldn’t lie to herself and pretend she didn’t want him, because she did. They would have sex. Wilson McKay was damn good at it, and she wasn’t a fool. No sane, single, red-blooded woman would turn down a roll in the hay with someone who exuded sex appeal like Wilson McKay. But the moment she thought of having sex with him, she remembered the half-filled suitcase and the chaos in her bedroom.
Shit.
“Uh…Wilson…go ahead and sit down. I’ll be right back.”
She flew out of the kitchen and down the hall without looking back. When she got to her bedroom, she stuffed things back in drawers, tossed others in the bottom of her closet and shoved the half-filled suitcase under her bed. She gave the bedspread a couple of brief yanks to smooth out the wrinkles and then went back to the kitchen.
Wilson was standing right where she’d left him with a curious expression on his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Who? Me? Yes…I’m fine,” she muttered, and then pasted a big smile on her face, grabbed a piece of pizza from the box and took a big bite. “Yum.”
Wilson arched an eyebrow.
“Yum?”
“Have some,” she said, and pointed to the box.
Wilson knew something was going on, but it was obvious she wasn’t going to talk about it. Finally he stifled his curiosity and sat down, picked up a piece of pizza and took a bite. He chewed, then swallowed.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, and toasted her with the slice. “Yum back at’cha,” he said as he took another bite.
Cat grinned in spite of herself. When Wilson McKay wanted to, he could be intriguing—even endearing. Still, there were rules in her world he kept trying to break.
They finished the pizza without serious conversation, but when they began cleaning up, Wilson excused himself briefly to go to the bathroom. It wasn’t until he was coming back down the hallway that he happened to glance into her office and saw the bare walls.
Shocked, he stopped, then stepped inside.
He’d seen the office as it had been before, the walls papered with wanted posters. Now there was nothing left but nude walls peppered with pinholes, and he knew what that meant. Through an odd stroke of fate, in running down her best friend’s killer, she’d found another, as well. He thought of the walls Cat Dupree kept up between her and the world, and wondered how much thinner they were tonight with the absence of those posters.
The banging of a cabinet door reminded him where he was, and he knew that Cat would view his curiosity as meddling. He slipped out of her office as quickly as he’d entered.
“Did I stay gone long enough to avoid doing dishes?” he asked, as he sauntered back into the kitchen.
Cat arched an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Good,” he said, and slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her close.
As their bodies connected, Cat sighed.
Now it began.
She turned until they were facing each other. “I suppose you think we’re going to have sex.”
Wilson’s eyebrow arched as a muscle suddenly jerked near the right corner of his mouth.
“I don’t have sex with you.”
Cat’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Damn it, Wilson, don’t play word games about—”
He put a finger on her lips. “I make love to you, Catherine.”
She slapped his hand away. “While I, on the other hand, have sex.”
“Semantics,” he muttered, then fisted his hand in her hair and pulled gently, tilting her lips to his mouth.
She felt his anger as she slid her arms around his neck; then the kiss deepened, and his anger morphed into lust. That, she could follow.
A low moan slipped up her throat, but when it emerged, it sounded more like a growl.
“Damn you,” Wilson whispered, and cupped her backside. “Grab hold, or I swear to God that the sex you have with me is going to happen right where we’re standing, with your pants down around your ankles.”
Cat jumped, wrapped her legs around his waist and slammed her mouth against his. She moaned again, but this time because she tasted blood—her own.
Wilson pivoted with her held tight in his arms and strode down the hallway to her bedroom.
“You make me crazy,” he muttered, as he dropped her flat on her bed.
“Shut up and take off your clothes,” Cat said, as she sat up and began undressing.
Wilson’s eyes narrowed angrily. First she didn’t want him here, and now he wasn’t getting to her fast enough? If he had a functioning brain, he would turn around and leave her naked and wanting. But the thought left his mind as she sat up, pulled her sweater up over her head and tossed it on the floor.
He grunted. To hell with pride and dignity.
Within seconds, his clothes were in a pile on the floor and he was standing at the side of the bed.
Cat rolled over onto her hands and knees and crawled over to him, then rose up and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Wilson tunneled his fingers through her hair, then put his arms around her.
“Witch,” he said roughly.
Cat sighed. She loved the feel of him—the hard muscles beneath smooth, warm skin—and she loved the way he made her feel. But she wasn’t going to admit—ever—that she loved the man himself. She locked her fingers around the back of his neck and pulled until she fell backward, pinned to the mattress beneath the weight of his body. At that point she wrapped her legs around his waist again, and this time, she held on.
“So I’m a witch now?”
“Hell, yes,” Wilson said, as he stared down at her, ever conscious of what awaited him in her bed.
“Then…hocus-pocus, Wilson. Time to disappear.”
He grabbed both her wrists, pinned her arms above her head, then thrust into her without warning, taking satisfaction in the shock, then desire, he saw on her face.
“No more you. No more me. Just us. How’s that for a little magic?”
“Doesn’t feel so little to me,” Cat murmured, and rocked upward.
Wilson gritted his teeth and stifled a groan, then gave back as good as he got. He drove into her without tact or finesse, and took her to a climax so hard and fast that she choked on a scream.
Cat felt as if every bone in her body had just crumbled to dust. She had never—never in her life—been satisfied so completely in such a hit-and-run fashion.
“Oh, man…oh, Wilson…that was…that was…”
“That was for you,” Wilson said. “That was sex.”
He cupped her face with both hands, lowered his head and brushed his lips across her mouth.
Cat inhaled softly.
He swept his lips down the side of her neck, then kissed the valley between her breasts before circling her nipple with the tip of his tongue.
Still reeling from the aftershocks of her climax, Cat was shaken by the sudden urgency she felt to have more.
“Wilson…I—”
“Shh,” he said, and then lifted his head and stared down into her eyes. “You wanted sex. I gave it to you. Now this time is for me. This is what it means to make love.”
Before she could answer, he covered her mouth again, stealing the breath from her body and the good sense from her soul. She would have panicked over what he’d just told her, but he left her no time to think—only feel.
He didn’t leave an inch of her skin untouched as he moved across her body with his hands and his lips. Twice Cat tried to take control of the situation by urging him to take her, and twice he refused with a soft whisper, then a sigh.
“Uh-uh,” he said, and slid his hands beneath her hips and lowered his head.
When he began circling her navel with his tongue, her heart rate accelerated. But when she felt the tip of his tongue sliding down her belly to the juncture of her thighs, she moaned. This was an intimacy involving trust—something she had never had with a sexual partner, something she had never allowed.
Even though she refused to admit there was more between them than a mutual appreciation for sex, she did know he wouldn’t hurt her.
Her muscles began to quiver as the pressure began to build.
“Oh…oh, God, Wilson…”
Wilson had intended this as a means of showing Cat the difference between lust and intimacy, but the urgency in her voice and the way her body was trembling was like a drug he couldn’t quit.
Suddenly he felt the muscles in her body winding up, tightening and tightening toward the inevitable climax. It was the sign he’d been waiting for. He rose up, then slid over and into her body.
The sensation was shattering, and it was only beginning. He took her slowly, burying himself deep, then pausing to savor the sensation. Then Cat moaned, and the sound pushed him over the edge. He rode the feeling as long as he could, and when the orgasm hit, he went with her, coming undone in her arms. When it was over, he lay spent and shaking, unable to move.
A short while later, he glanced over at the windows. Raindrops glittered on the outside of the glass, but it appeared that the storm was over.
Cat moved.
He thought he heard a soft sigh, but then she rolled off him and got out of bed.
“Do you want some coffee before you go?”
His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. He sat up and then swung his legs over the side of the bed, staring at her in disbelief.
“Before I go?”
Cat glanced at him, then looked away, well aware of how this sounded, but it was his own damn fault. He was pushing her into corners where she didn’t want to go.
Wilson stood, towering over her as he paused at the foot of the bed. Then he grabbed his clothes and started putting them on as quickly as he’d torn them off.
“Hell no, I don’t want any coffee, Catherine. I couldn’t possibly want anything more from you other than the fucking we just had.”
The word was rude, but no ruder than she’d been with him.
“Okay, then,” she said, and turned and walked into the bathroom.
When she came out, she paused in the middle of her bedroom, listening to the silence, and knew he was gone. But when she glanced toward the bed, her heart slammed against her chest with a hard, painful thud. She stared until her vision blurred and her throat was thick with tears. Taking a deep breath, she leaned over and picked up the money he’d thrown on her mattress.
A hundred dollars—in twenties.
She didn’t know what the going rate for a whore might be, but he’d made his point.
“Damn you,” she muttered, then drew a slow, shuddering breath, refusing to admit that he’d gotten to her.
Angry with herself, she threw the money into a drawer and then dragged her suitcase from under the bed and finished packing. Her steps were slow as she headed for her office to check her laptop. The blip was motionless, which was good, but according to the map on the screen, it was in the middle of nowhere.
Too tired and too hurt to think about it anymore tonight, she shut the laptop and took it back to her room. Within minutes, she was in bed, with the alarm set for six o’clock. She closed her eyes, trying desperately to sleep, but it was useless. She couldn’t forget the hurt she’d seen on Wilson’s face or the fact that she was the one who’d put it there. Then she rolled over on her side, thumped her pillow angrily and, with a skill she’d honed over years of disappointment and despair, blanked everything from her mind and went to sleep.
Two
Still reeling from Cat’s rejection, Wilson went straight from her apartment to the office. By daybreak, he had a good lead on Paulie Beach, one of his bonds who’d failed to appear, and was packing to go get him. As always, he wore a bulletproof vest under his shirt and his badge on a chain around his neck. There was a can of mace in one pocket of his coat, a Taser in the other, a pair of handcuffs clipped onto the back of his belt and his handgun in a shoulder holster.
Beach had been arrested for B & E—breaking and entering—his third strike for the same offense. That should have been a warning to Wilson, when he’d agreed to bond him out, that Paulie wasn’t the type of man who learned from his mistakes.
Wilson grabbed the file he had on Beach and was walking out of the office as his secretary, LaQueen Baldwin, was coming in.
LaQueen was six feet and two-hundred pounds of Jamaican beauty, and had an opinion about everything, including Wilson’s single state. She had worked for him for four years, was the best secretary he’d ever had and reminded him of that fact on a daily basis.
Even though he never talked about his personal business, she knew all about his fascination with Cat Dupree. She knew when they’d been iced in together during Christmas and when he’d taken off to West Texas in the middle of the night to help Cat after she had discovered her best friend Marsha Benton’s body. She knew when Wilson followed Cat Dupree to Mexico to aid her in catching Marsha’s killer, and, after one look at his face this morning, she knew Wilson McKay was not in a good mood, and she promptly attributed it to Cat.
“Good morning to you,” she said briskly, as he held the door back for her to enter.
“Yeah, it’s a doozy,” he muttered, as he pointed to her desk. “I left you a note.”
LaQueen glanced toward her desk, then back at Wilson.
“Yes. I see that. However…since you are still here, and since I have arrived at this marvelous establishment to devote the next eight hours of my life to it and to you, you may tell me in person just where it is you might be going.”
