Bad Moon Rising (17 page)

“What the hell are you afraid of?”

A spasm of emotion crossed her face. Her chin quivered.
“You. I’m afraid of you. I’m afraid of how you make me feel. Damn you, Damascus, just let me go. Why did you have to come looking for me?”

As she drew away again, he closed his hand more
tightly on hers, drawing her back, forcing her down beside him though she
refused to look at him. He held her tense body against him and stroked her
hair.

“Stay. Just for a little while. You feel so damn good.”

She remained silent then. Motionless. The rain beat
against the roof and slashed against the windows as lightning shot sporadic
illumination through the dim room.

As they lay there, embraced by the drone of the storm
and the collecting shadows of the late afternoon, a realization crept into
J.D.’s thoughts as he continued to hold Holly. She believed he wanted her body,
just like the others who had held her, whispered lies into her ear, games
played by lonely johns who hungered only for sexual surcease.

Reluctantly, he released her and rolled to his back,
watched the play of lightning flash in streaks over the ceiling. A long moment
passed before she moved, rolled to her back as well, and looked over at him.

He grinned. “Anyone ever tell you that you look beautiful
in shadows?”

Her lips curved. “No.”

He slid his hand over hers, closed his fingers gently
around it, and looked back at the ceiling. She continued to watch him, her
cheek nestled in the down pillow. Minutes ticked by, then she rolled to her
side and moved closer, rested her head on his pillow, so near he could feel her
breath brush his cheek.

“Feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She touched the bruise on his brow, then her
fingertips drifted to the cut near his mouth, lingered there before moving
slowly to ease over his lower lip. His eyes drifted closed as the touch warmed
him and caused his heart to beat faster.

Careful. Careful. The last thing he needed was to lose
control.

Closer. “You’re very good to me, John.” He smiled,
eyes still closed. “I don’t understand why.”

“Not every man walking the face of the earth is a
jerk, honey.”

Closer. Her body pressed against his. Her hand lay on
his chest. Surely she could feel the fast, strong beating of his heart. Her
words teased his ear.

“Would you like to kiss me?”

“Of course.”

She cupped his cheek in her hand and turned his face
toward hers. No trepidation in her eyes now. Something else. “Then why don’t
you?”

Moving her body partially over his, she lowered her
lips to his, a feather brush that sluiced through him. He cradled her head between
his hands and tipped her face, lifting his mouth against hers firmly. He parted
her lips, drawing in her breath, and setting fire to his stomach. His sweat
began to rise and his breathing quickened.

Christ. One kiss and he was lost. Restraint crumbling.

She drew away from the kiss, slid down his chest, her
hands sliding under his shirt and tugging it up so she could press her lips
against his belly, tongue twirling around his navel. He groaned, twisted his
hands into the sheets, and gritted his teeth. With one flick of her tongue he’d
grown hard as a crowbar and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Her hand slid over the ridge in his jeans, then she
cupped him in her palm, slid her face down to his crotch, and breathed against
it. The heat made him tense. His hips rose and his legs spread to accommodate
her. Every instinct collided in his brain, caution and testosterone a dangerous
amalgamation that made his body shake.

What the hell was she doing?

“Holly.” He groaned it, his hands reaching for her,
fingertips sliding through her hair.

Her head lifted and her gaze speared him. “I know what
you’re doing, John.” Her lips curved as her fingers tugged at the zipper of his
jeans. “I know what you want. Really. Did you think I would believe your
attempts to make me trust you? Compassion. Understanding. Patience. Been there
and heard it all, Damascus.”

Holly’s tongue flicked along the straining rise
beneath his underwear. Her breath felt warm and moist through his cotton
jockeys, and he gritted his teeth.

“A man like you couldn’t really give a damn about a
woman like me.”

Fingers parted the Y fronts of his underwear and her
tongue licked his engorged head, sending a jolt of white-hot fire and pain
through him. Blissful pain. Consuming heat.

“Stop.” He moaned, eyes closed.

“Let’s get it over with. It’s inevitable. I owe you
big-time for your
kindness,
so let’s stop the game playing, why don’t we?”

“Stop it.” He grabbed for her and dumped her beside
him on the bed, moving his body partially over hers to arrest her attempt to
escape. “Look at me, dammit. Stop that and look at me.”

He shook her. Her eyes flashed like the lightning
erupting through the room as he pinned her arms to the mattress. “Hey, we
both know men think with their dicks, Holly. Sorry about that. Can’t help it.
It’s that testosterone thing that screws up our judgment. When a woman goes
down on a man there isn’t a whole lot we can do about it. You’re right. There’s
nothing I would love more at this moment than to crawl between your legs, but I’m
trying to prove something here and you’re not making it easy for me. Get it
through your head that that’s
not
what I need from you right now.”

Taking a deep breath to control his anger, J.D. closed
his eyes, briefly, feeling Holly shake beneath him. “All I want...” He
swallowed. “I want your arms around me. So maybe I can sleep for the first time
in years without nightmares and memories. I’ve got this gut feeling you can
help me do that, Holly.
Please.
Just for a little while.”

With a resigned sigh, he released her and rolled away,
onto his back. “My head hurts. My body hurts. I don’t want to fight with you
again and end up saying something out of frustration that will make me feel
guiltier than I already do. If you want to leave, get the hell away from me. I’m
just too damn tired to deal with this right now.” He zipped up his jeans and
turned away from her, focused on the glass balcony doors where rain ran in
runnels down the panes.

Thunder rumbled.

Minutes of silence ticked by.

The bed moved and Holly’s body pressed against him.
Her arm slid around his waist. Her face nestled against the back of his head. “I’m
sorry,” came her whisper.

The phone jarred him awake. The bed beside him
was empty. Then Holly appeared
at the bedroom door holding the cat in her arms.

He reached for the phone.

“Damascus, Mallory here.”

Holly moved into the room as he listened to Mallory
talk.

“Christ,” he said, drawing Holly’s gaze to his. She
must have sensed the tension and dread that shot through him at Mallory’s news.
“Was she murdered like the others?”

Holly gasped and turned white. “Oh God.”

He nodded. “Right. We’ll be down in half an hour.”

Gently, he hung up the phone. “It’s Melissa, isn’t it?
She’s dead.”

“They’ve recovered a body
...”

Holly sank to the floor and the cat scrambled from her
arms. She covered her face with her hands.

Sinking to one knee beside her, he took her in his
arms, held her as she struggled to shove him away. “The body needs identifying,
Holly. I’ll go—”

“Bastard. That lousy bastard—”

“If it’s Melissa—”

Her head snapped up, her face smeared with mascara. “They
don’t know for sure?”

“Not until I’ve IDed her.”

“I’m going with you.”

He touched her tear-streaked cheek. “I don’t think
that’s a good idea. She’s ... been dead a while.”

“I’m going with you,” she repeated. “Melissa was my
friend, dammit. Not yours.”

By
the time they reached the
morgue, the rain
was falling in sheets and rising fast on the streets, which were
virtually empty. Thunder crashed as they stepped into the reception area where
they were met by Mallory and his wife. They were surprised to see Holly with
J.D. and shot him a concerned look before opening the double doors, allowing
them access to the morgue.

“The young woman was found in someone’s backyard at
eight-twenty this morning. Brought up by flood waters from what we can
ascertain.” Mallory glanced again at Holly, whose face was as white as the
clean smock Janice was wearing. Holly hadn’t spoken since they had left J.D.’s
apartment, hadn’t so much as flinched at the lashing of wind-driven rain and
the explosions of lightning. Her eyes appealed as glazed as blue glass.

J.D. understood the feeling, the cold shock and dread
that was filling her up, the frantic holding on to a sliver of hope that the
body would prove to be someone else’s. He wanted to drag her back out into the
rain, force her into his car, and lock the door until this was over. But, most
of all, he wanted to protect her from the nightmares that would follow.

“Dead around three days, perhaps slightly longer,” Janice
said. “Slight putrefaction but not so severe as to hamper identification.
Cause of death is strangulation. Obviously, this doesn’t appear to be the same
signature as the others, unless our serial killer is changing his normal
routine to throw us off.”

The diener, a tall, overly thin African American man
wearing a green jumpsuit, stood as they entered the room, his long face
expressionless. Janice nodded and he moved to the box and opened it, slid out
the slab containing the sheet-covered body, then stepped back.

J.D. turned to Holly where she stood, frozen, her gaze
locked on the covered form.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said softly. “You don’t
need or want this kind of image to haunt you for the rest of your life,
sweetheart. Trust me.”

“I’m her only true friend. Her only family. I... have
to do this.”

He looked away, then nodded to Janice and braced himself.

Janice stepped forward and eased the cloth from the
cadaver’s face.

“Oh God,” Holly sobbed. “It’s not her.”

He sits in the shadows of the locker, feeling the
thrust of the storm throughout his body. He does so enjoy the power of it. The
electricity tingles his nerve endings, fills him with a euphoria not unlike
that which he experiences from the terror he can see in Melissa’s eyes.

He has told her that he intends to kill her now. A
lie, of course. He is enjoying the drawn-out torture. It is new to him, this
putting off of death. It is unending arousal. When the orgasm comes, it will be
the best of his life. As electrifying as the lightning plundering the earth and
sky.

Closing his eyes, he feels the building shudder from
the wind-driven waves against the pilings below. At any moment, the old
building could cave. Yet it won’t. He won’t allow it. Not yet. He is one with
the universe. He holds the power of the cyclone in his palm. It infuses him
with Godlike control—domination over life and death.

At last, he stands, sways from side to side as the
floor moves beneath him. With knife in hand, he approaches her, smiling as her
eyes widen and her body writhes, wrists and ankles bleeding from the thin wires
that he has bound her with these last few days. The red-gold hair that had felt
smooth and soft as silk looks dull, the tangles like a rat’s nest cushioning
her head. A shame. It was her glorious hair that had first attracted him to
her. Long and flowing, giving her a virginal look that he had found stimulating.
A virginal whore. No doubt the perverts who bought her did so because they
lusted for children.

Bending, he slowly peels the tape back from her raw
lips. “Would you like to scream?” he asks. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

She tries, but hen voice is weak and drowned out by
the rain pummeling the metal roof. He lightly places the knife against her
throat, the keen blade biting just enough so blood trickles over her pale and
bruised flesh. The flash of fear in her bloodshot eyes causes his blood to warm
and sing in his veins. Fear is good. So very, very good. Fear invites respect.
He has learned this from the others who did not respect him until he introduced
them to fear. Oh yes, their smugness and contempt was soon transformed with
the first flash of his knife.