Say You Love Me Page 7

  “Come on,” Jean-Paul said. “I’ll take you home, then I need to see what information I can dig up on Elvira Erickson.”

  “You have to locate her family and tell them, don’t you?” Britta asked.

  Detective Dubois’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, I might as well get it over with.”

  “I’ll meet you at the station,” his partner said. “Nice to meet you, Britta.”

  Jean-Paul glared at his partner. Carson was notorious for flirting and he seemed intrigued by Britta.

  He shook off the disturbing thought as he took her home, instead concentrating on the call he needed to make to Elvira’s parents. He hated like hell to tell them the details of her death, especially when he had no suspect or leads in the case to offer them.

  His gaze shot to Britta. Was there a connection in her past that she hadn’t told him about?

  If there was and she’d been lying, he’d damn well make her confess her secrets.

  * * *

  A FEELING OF TREPIDATION overcame Britta as the detective walked her back to her apartment. The tension between them had been palpable since they’d left the bar.

  He scowled at a wino lying near the garbage can next to her building, then at the poster of the magazine cover on the front window as she unlocked the door.

  “You don’t approve of the magazine I work for, do you?”

  His dark eyes met hers as they entered the hallway, climbed the steps and stopped at her door. But he didn’t reply until the locksmith left and they’d stepped inside.

  “No.” The short word was filled with disapproval. “You seem like a smart woman, but you live on Bourbon Street and you work with sickos. You put yourself in danger.”

  Her temper flared and she folded her arms across her chest. “I suppose you think that the way women dress invites rapists, so it’s the victim’s fault if she’s attacked.”

  He leaned closer and braced his arm on the wall behind her. “That’s not what I said.”

  “You didn’t have to. It’s obvious that you want your woman in an apron—tied to the kitchen, waiting with a martini in one hand and your slippers in the other when you arrive home.”

  His look darkened. “Tied to the kitchen?” A ghost of a smile played on his mouth. “Only if she’s naked beneath the apron.” His husky voice sent a tingle through her. “And I prefer a beer over a martini.”

  She lifted her brow at that remark. “One of your fantasies, Detective Dubois?”

  “Jean-Paul.”

  His masculine odor made her dizzy. And that smile…his killer smile, mixed with that sexy rumbling voice was about to hack through her defenses. Dare she call him by his first name or was that too personal?

  “Now tell me one of your fantasies, Britta?”

  She wet her parched lips with her tongue. For him to kiss her.

  “I…We weren’t talking about me,” she stammered, struggling for control. “We were talking about you not liking my job.”

  He lowered his hand, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m simply pointing out the obvious about your safety. That’s my job.”

  Yes, he thought she put herself in danger by way of her work and her apartment. What would he think if he saw her on the streets at night?

  Emotions crowded her chest. “You can’t always play it safe, Detective. And you can’t protect everyone.”

  Pain flared in his eyes, then a shuttered look fell across his face. She instantly regretted her comment, but she couldn’t discuss fantasies with this man and not want him to touch her.

  And touching her would be too dangerous. She might lose control….

  Then the demons that chased her would finally win.

  “I can take care of myself, I always have.” She ducked under his arm to escape his closeness and gestured toward the door. “You can go now.”

  He straightened, heat pouring off his body in waves. “You can’t run forever, chere. Sooner or later, I will figure you out.”

  His words mimicked the killer’s. A cocky smile tilted his mouth as he turned and walked away.

  She closed the door, then faced her desk, trembling. A copy of the latest Naked Desires magazine lay open to the spread on her Secret Confessions column, mocking her. Other people might bare their souls for all to read, but her fantasies were private.

  Yet the killer claimed to know them. And there might be another letter from him in the pile. She had to find it before Jean-Paul Dubois did, just in case the letter revealed too much.

  She couldn’t let him get near, close to her in any way. If he did and discovered the truth, he would destroy her.

  * * *

  DISGUISED BY HIS homeless man’s attire, he hid amongst the shadows of the party-seekers and noise along Bourbon Street, so close to Britta Berger’s apartment he could see the light as she switched it off.

  It had taken him a long time to find his Adrianna. In fact, for a while he had given up. Had assumed she was dead. As dead as he had felt inside.

  But he’d searched for her in every woman he’d met since that day. Hoping, yearning, dying to discover that she was still out there. That he could still have her.

  And make her pay for the pain she had caused him.

  Then one day he’d picked up a copy of Naked Desires and had seen the small photograph of her in the editorial section. She was so beautiful she looked like a hand-painted porcelain doll.

  One look into those witchlike eyes, though, and he’d recognized her instantly. His Adrianna.

  She had been so close all along. So near Black Bayou where they had met, where they had almost been joined together.

  Running had only brought Adrianna back full circle. There was no escape for the sins that lived within her. But passing the trial by ordeal, the fact that she’d walked across the gator-infested waters and survived, did not mean she was innocent. Only that she had performed some black magic spell to keep the snapping gators at bay. That she was no ’tite ange.

  That she had been spawned by the devil.

  The reason he had to destroy her. She was here now spreading her wickedness, enticing depraved men with her looks, casting a spell over the weak ones with her bewitching eyes—just as she had him, years ago. Through her column, she’d found the perfect venue to reach the masses.

  He wanted to complete the ritual sacrifice. But he was a man and just as the crocodiles did during mating season, he had to mate with numerous partners.

  Tonight he’d choose another.

  He fell into the shadows and changed his clothing. Another disguise, this time one that would entice a woman. A white shirt and tie. A pair of dress slacks. An air of authority.

  A wad of money.

  And a mask over his face.

  Another redhead, although her wavy hair was dyed an unnatural shade, tapped her foot at the corner of the House of Love, wearing a black micro-mini skirt, thigh-high boots and a flashy green top that looked like a bra. Her cleavage spilled over and through the mesh netting, her dark nipples stood turgid.

  She twisted her head one way, then the other. Her nose jutted in the air as she took a drag from a menthol cigarette and flicked ashes on the grimy pavement. Finally aware he was watching her, she dropped the cigarette to the concrete, crushed it with her boot, then curled a finger toward him, beckoning him to join her. She looked impatient, primed, ready.

  In need of some cash. Probably for drugs.

  He had those in his pocket, as well. One that would give her the high of a lifetime.

  He smiled, then smoothed his jet-black hair into place and strode toward her. Tonight, the whore would pleasure him. He might even draw out the fun a day or two if she was good, play with her, test her resistance.

  Make her beg.

  Then he’d force her to confess her sins before he killed her and added her to his kingdom.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Six days before Mardi Gras

  RATTLED BY DETECTIVE DUBOIS and by the cozy family dinner they’d shared the night before,
Britta settled in her bed the next evening with a cup of tea and more letters. The sooner she figured out who’d sent her the letter and photograph, the sooner the police could catch the murderer and put him behind bars.

  Then she would have no need to see Jean-Paul Dubois again. Or be taunted by his sexuality.

  And more importantly, she wouldn’t have to worry about watching her back for fear he’d discover the truth about her past.

  Determined to block out the sound of the partying below, she put in her favorite Harry Connick Jr. CD and allowed his seductive voice to soothe her as she read.

  My secret confession:

  I’ve fantasized about sex since I was a teenager and have just found the love of my life.

  In my fantasy, we’ve just gotten married and my husband whisks me away to the honeymoon suite. Flowers fill the plush room, and a dozen candles shimmer with soft light across the heart-shaped bed. As he reaches for the champagne, a knock sounds at the door and his two groomsmen appear, still dressed in their black tuxes. My husband invites them in. At first, I’m confused, then one of them, a guy named Jim, smiles and says they are there to pleasure me.

  A shiver goes up my spine as I realize he is talking about all three of them.

  I’ve always dreamed of having multiple partners and the idea of the man I love and his two best friends all going down on me at the same time ignites a fire in my stomach.

  “I don’t know if I can take so much pleasure,” I say.

  My husband laughs, then presses a kiss to my hand. “It’s your wedding night, love, I wanted it to be special.”

  He peels off my wedding dress, slowly unfastening each of the tiny pearl buttons down the back, drawing out the seduction with kisses and tongue licks along my spine, while Jim plucks the pins from my hair and runs his fingers through it. Chad, the other groomsman, kneels and removes my white satin shoes, while my husband plays his tongue along my lips. Soon, they lay me down, prop me up on pillows and caress my entire body. I tingle with need and hunger. Just as Chad tugs my nipple into his mouth, Jim slides his hand up my thigh and strokes my clit. Chad sucks my breasts then my husband enters me. Soon the three of us become a tangle of naked, throbbing bodies, frenzied, panting and sweating, rocking our bodies together until we finally climax all at once….

  Heat rushed up Britta’s neck, and she forced herself to skim the remainder of the letter for hints of violence, then placed it in the stack of possibilities for publication. Remembering her mission was to search for possible notes from the killer, she quickly skimmed the first paragraph of the next few letters, looking for details of S and M, violent tendencies or indications that the man hated women.

  A blue envelope caught her eye and she opened it; the first line made her pause.

  My secret confession:

  I have an odd attraction to animals, especially golden retrievers. The guy next door is really hot—big with blond hair and gorgeous blue eyes. Every night when I see him walking his big dog, I start dreaming about what it would be like…

  Britta slid the letter back into the envelope. Bestiality held no appeal to her, but it didn’t mean the person was a killer. Besides, it was written by a woman.

  The killer was male.

  Using that logic, she sorted the letters by sex, so she could focus on male submissions.

  In the next letter, the woman fantasized about bondage. Hmm. A perfect target for the killer.

  A disturbing thought struck her. What if the killer chose his victims from her letters?

  But how would the killer know who had submitted the letter or how to find the woman? He’d have to tap into their computer base….

  Tomorrow, she’d verify that Elvira Erickson hadn’t written to her. If she had, she’d alert R.J.

  And Detective Jean-Paul Dubois.

  The phone rang and Britta jumped, the last strains of Harry Connick’s voice dying as the song ended. She stared at the caller ID, half expecting to see the detective’s number, but the display read as an unknown listing. She must be crazy. Just because she’d thought of Jean-Paul Dubois, didn’t mean he was telepathic. Or that he was thinking about her.

  “Hello.”

  Heavy breathing rattled over the line. “Did you like the picture I sent you?”

  Britta’s breath caught in her throat. “Who is this?”

  “The man who knows your secrets.”

  A bead of sweat rolled down Britta’s neck. She started to slam down the phone, but hanging up on him would do nothing to help the woman he’d murdered. “Why don’t you tell me your name?”

  Laughter, low and sinister, rumbled from him. “One day I will. But I must build my kingdom first.”

  A frisson of alarm rang through her. His kingdom, meaning he was just getting started. Detective Dubois was right; her column had drawn sexual deviants like sweet molasses drew flies. “You’re a coward,” Britta whispered.

  His voice held a threatening edge. “No, Britta, I’m the one in control now. You feel it, don’t you?”

  He’d never control her. No man would. “Then why hide behind the phone? Behind the notes?”

  “Because my work has only begun.” Another laugh, even more sinister, filled the silence.

  “I must save those women, make them repent for their sins. Just as you must.” Agitation made his voice raspy. “You run from town to town—changing your name, your hair—until you don’t even know who you are anymore. You’re as dead as the people whose names you steal. I can see it in your eyes.” He lowered his voice. “Your fear controls you.”

  She twirled the phone cord around and around her fingers, winding it into a knot. He was right.

  But how did he know so much about her? How long had he been following her?

  “Please leave me alone. I don’t want any part of your twisted games.”

  Again she started to hang up, but his next words stopped her cold.

  “You don’t want to know who I have now?”

  Britta clenched her hands into fists. “Let her go,” Britta whispered. “Please don’t hurt anyone else.”

  “I can’t, Britta. Not yet. Not until she learns her lesson and pays for her sins.”

  The phone clicked, then went dead in her hand.

  A vision of the woman begging for her life taunted her. Then the crude mask of Sobek and an image of this man offering the woman as a sacrifice to the half crocodile, half man.

  Time swirled backward. The smell of death, blood and the marsh assaulted her. Then the hiss and snapping of the gators as they churned the muddy water, anxious for their meal….

  * * *

  TWENTY-FOUR HOURS since they’d found Elvira Erickson. Jean-Paul Dubois sighed, loosening his collar in the smothering heat as he exited the precinct. Another long, frustrating day. And no headway on the case. He’d questioned the two mask-makers in town for the festival and neither of them made or sold one like they’d found at the scene. Both men had alibis, too.

  The necklaces, however, were a dime a dozen.

  Several reporters suddenly rushed him, jamming microphones in his face. A camera flash nearly blinded him and he threw up his hands to block another.

  “Tell us about the woman murdered in Black Bayou!” a reporter shouted.

  “Is it true she was stabbed with a lancet?”

  “Did the gators get to her?”

  “He raped her before he killed her or after?”

  “Do we have a serial-killer case?”

  Jean-Paul had to make some kind of statement. But what could he tell them? That so far they had no evidence, no name, no one to arrest? He spotted Mazie Burgess and headed toward her. She was a friend of sorts; had written stories on the hurricane and was fair. She’d also asked him out, but he hadn’t been ready or interested in dating. She smiled and met him halfway and he took the mike.

  “We did find a woman murdered yesterday,” he said matter-of-factly. “At this time we have no suspects in custody, but the police are doing everything possible to fi
nd the woman’s killer. Now, get out of the way so I can do my job.”

  Mazie thanked him. But instead of backing up, the mob moved in, surrounding him. He shouldered his way through, shrugging off a skinny guy who chased him to his car. “Come on, Detective, you have to give us more than that. Someone said that the killer contacted the editor of the Naked Desires magazine.”

  Bon Dieu! If they caught wind of the picture Britta Berger had seen, there would be widespread panic. “No comment,” Jean-Paul barked. The last thing he wanted was the press hounding Britta. They might even scare off this guy from sending her information.

  And he refused to give the swamp devil the pleasure of seeing a big write-up in the paper.

  He tried to pry the man’s fingers off his car door but the reporter resisted. “If you don’t move out of the way, I’m going to arrest you for interfering with a police investigation and charge you with assault.”

  “I didn’t assault you!” the man screeched, but he did back away. Jean-Paul hit the accelerator and bolted.

  Next on his agenda—he had to check R.J. Justice’s alibi. He drove to the pricey new lofts near the edge of town and met Carson. Debbie Waller, the woman with whom Justice claimed he’d spent the night, supposedly lived in one of the units. The inside of the building consisted of chrome and cement and showcased exposed beams and concrete walls. Apparently the artsy, rich twenties and thirties crowd had flocked to buy the units.

  He knocked on the metal door, his shoulders tight. Loud rock music nearly drowned out the voice who yelled for him to hang on.

  Carson shot him a wired look. “What do you want to bet that this chick has a sugar daddy?”

  Jean-Paul chuckled. “Maybe Justice himself.”

  The door opened revealing a twentysomething platinum blond in three-inch metallic-black heeled boots, a leather skirt that…well, Jean-Paul wouldn’t consider a skirt, because the front was split to her crotch and she wasn’t wearing underwear. Damn.

  Tattoos of scorpions danced along her arm as she gestured with her hands. “I didn’t invite the cops.”

  “We invited ourselves,” Carson said, inching one booted foot inside the door.