Confession (14 page)

 

EIGHTEEN

Saturday, August 10, 11:00
A.M.

F
ive more days.

The light changed to green, and Scourge eased his foot on the gas, careful to maintain a speed well below the limit. The last thing he needed was to make another mistake. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and sucked hard. He shouldn't have sent those photos to Dr. Clancy, but he hadn't been able to resist the urge to let her know that the Saint was still on the loose. He hadn't been able to resist the urge to let her know he was watching her . . . and her friends. Despite the sweltering heat, his teeth chattered loudly as he considered what would happen if the boy told the police about the black-­haired man he'd seen at Dr. Clancy's house. This damn phobia had thrown his whole system off. He'd never have made a mistake like that in the past.

Concentrate on the task at hand.

Only five more days.

He needed his cure sooner than later. Right now, that was the only thing he should be thinking about. Scourge fixed his eyes on the road ahead. This was one of those rare occasions he'd decided to take his truck on a nonduty run. Generally, he preferred to walk, and when that wasn't possible, he'd bite the bullet—­the metaphor made him chuckle, easing the tension in his chest—­and rake up cab fare. But with his cure just around the corner . . . literally . . . it was time to gas her up, air the tires, and take her for a spin to make sure she was in good working condition.

The cab of his Special Duty truck was cramped, unlike the large, open-­roofed bed in the back, flanked only by wooden slats. The vehicle had previously been owned by a landscaper who used it to haul debris. There was room to breathe in the back, for the living, that is, and more than once, Scourge wished he could ride in that big open bed with the cargo instead of up here in this hot, closed space.

This was one of those times.

He'd rolled down the windows, but that offered little relief. Sweat leaked from his scalp into his eyes, and as soon as he blinked the sting away, more followed. In order to keep as much distance as possible between the roof of the truck and the top of his head, he kept his chin tucked to his chest. Reaching around, he rubbed the cramp out of the back of his neck and scratched the area where his collar rubbed against his skin.

Too much starch perhaps.

No.

No such thing as too much starch in a collar. His cotton shirt clung to his back, and he knew his perspiration had ruined its pristine appearance. Thank goodness Three Little Pigs was around the next turn.

He swerved around the corner. The act of driving didn't faze him—­quite the contrary. The feel of all that power roaring to life when he fired up his truck's ignition, the ability to control that heavy mass of steel with a spin of the wheel gave him a charge. Too bad a convertible wasn't in his budget. It was only this damn claustrophobic cab that made his head ache.

But he would manage. Understanding why closed spaces gave him the willies helped him to cope during the times when driving his truck was warranted. At school, he'd dreamt of white plastic walls, over him, under him, around him. He'd dreamt of peering through metal bars, his eyes wet, his throat hoarse from crying, and he'd wake up with his heart racing in his chest and the certainty he was going to die.

For a time, a young novitiate at Saint Catherine's had taken him under her wing. Cecily snuck him sweets and books and once she even hugged him after a particularly vivid nightmare. On that night, he'd recited his dream to her in detail, then next morning, she'd taken him aside and explained that his dream wasn't a dream at all.

It was a memory.

According to his case file, his mother used to keep him in a puppy crate whenever she drank, which was every night. She claimed this was for his own safety because she was prone to passing out and couldn't properly supervise him. The kindhearted novitiate told him that misguided though it might have been, the crating was an act of love, and anyway, God expects us to forgive those who've wronged us, and he should pray to God to give him the strength to forgive his mother. But Scourge didn't really think there was anything to forgive. Putting a child in a crate seemed logical enough to him.

True, it'd left him with a slight touch of claustrophobia, but nothing he couldn't handle. When absolutely necessary, he could grit his teeth, climb in his truck, and get where he needed to go. And here he was now—­at Three Little Pigs.

The real challenge was not the journey here but rather how to cope with the hematogenous sights and smells of the butcher shop.

Hematogenous: involving or arising from blood.

He removed a surgical mask from his glove compartment and placed it over his mouth and nose, then looped it around his ears. Typically, he used the mask on public transportation, while grocery shopping, and the like, to protect himself from the germs of the masses, but today it would serve to filter out the smell of blood. A scent he'd relished in the past. Once, that scent had made his dick hard and his confidence soar. Now, a mere whiff could bring him whimpering to his knees.

Not for long.

Hoping to mediate the red color of the meats, he donned a pair of dark glasses and exited his car. With his shoulder, he pressed open a glass door painted with a mural of Porky Pig, then eased himself into the butcher shop one body part at a time.

He snorted. If he were the owner, he'd make sure the mural depicted the correct swine, but Hugo apparently didn't see the need for consistency. He seemed perfectly content to allow Porky to welcome customers to Three Little Pigs. Hugo wasn't the sharpest knife in the butcher's block, but he was a jolly good fellow, and Scourge trusted him.

With one hand stuck out behind him, he backed up to the counter and cleared his throat to get Hugo's attention. Just in case backing into the shop wearing a mask hadn't done the trick. Anyway, he had no intention of turning around so that he could face off with a long counter of meaty steaks and fatty rolls of fleshy sausages, all leaking juicy red blood onto the white butcher paper below.

“That you, Scourge?” Hugo boomed in a louder than normal voice, perhaps assuming Scourge's mask signaled some sort of hearing impairment.

That would be very Hugo.

Scourge was one of Hugo's best customers, and in the days before he'd developed his hemophobia, he'd loved lingering in the shop, discussing the butchering process and hearing details from Hugo's glory days at the slaughterhouse. Hugo still had slaughterhouse connections, and this enabled him to get extraordinary deals and pass on the savings to his customers.

It hadn't been unusual for Scourge to spend the better part of a Saturday chewing the fat (again, he chuckled under his breath) with Hugo. Once, Hugo had even given Scourge a tour of the meat locker, allowing him to make the acquaintance of the carcasses as they patiently awaited their turn to be carved into the finest fresh meats in Santa Fe. It'd thrilled him, and his mouth watered in anticipation of being able to enjoy such a treat in the future—­the very near future.

“It's me,” Scourge said.

“Do you maybe wanna turn around and tell me why you're wearing that mask? You sick or something?”

“Not sick exactly, but no, I can't turn around. Come out from behind the counter, and I'll explain everything.” Scourge sidled up to a round Formica table with a steel base and sat facing the window, his back to the dangerous meat counter. Even filtered through his mask, the smell of fresh blood made his palms sweat and his knees knock. He blew out a few panting breaths.
Hee hee hee—­
like expectant ladies do in Lamaze class, but it only made him dizzy.

Hugo pulled up a stool facing him. “What'cha need, buddy. You sure you're not sick?”

“I already said I'm not. I've got a job for you. A very important one.”

Hugo eyed him sideways. “This job you got for me. Is it legal?”

“Pays real good.”

“I'm up for most anything if the pay is right. Mrs. Simpson—­that saucy gal works down at the lab with you—­said you had some kind of a crackdown and lost your job. You sure you can pay me?”

“Breakdown, Hugo, not crackdown, and yes, I promise to make it worth your while.” His hot breath, trapped beneath his mask, blew back against his face as he spoke. “You still got a buddy down at the slaughterhouse?”

 

NINETEEN

Saturday, August 10, 7:00
P.M.

F
aith had begun the celebration early. One more sip of champagne couldn't hurt, she thought, and swilled what remained of her third glass. Yesterday, Dante had met with Torpedo and officially recanted his confession. Tonight, Luke was treating her to a nice dinner as a thank-­you, which seemed a perfectly civil, perfectly reasonable thing, given her role in persuading Dante to recant. But as she'd prepared herself for an evening out with Luke, she'd felt anything
but
reasonable.

This morning, she'd awakened even earlier than usual and gone for a run, followed by a hard workout at the gym, but upon returning home, she'd found herself still full of restless energy. After cleaning her kitchen twice, she'd picked up the latest Sandra Brown but couldn't concentrate. She'd then decided to treat herself to a rare mani-­pedi. At the salon, the manicurist had commented on her trembling hands. She dripped more champagne into her glass. She hadn't been this keyed up since senior prom—­the night she gave it up to Ricky Charleston.

And Luke wasn't helping matters any by being ridiculously thoughtful. Not that Luke had been thoughtless to this point, far from it, but she hadn't expected all the extra little touches he'd added to make tonight special. This wasn't a date. They'd both agreed on that much, but for a thank-­you dinner, he seemed to be going a bit overboard.

Earlier today, he'd messengered over a case of white-­chocolate-­covered dog bones for Chica—­an impossible-­to-­resist gesture—­and three menus. One each from El Meson, Geronimo, and Café Pasqual and asked her to choose her poison. She'd wound up selecting Geronimo because she wanted to try the
mignardises,
a treat described as pâté de fruit, toffee, fudge, truffles, and housemade marshmallows. Housemade marshmallows—­just think of it. Later, the messenger had returned for her reply and delivered a large bouquet of flowers, all white, all fragrant: lilies, roses, carnations, and her favorite—­gardenias. A stunning combination that not only filled her entire home with sweetness and light, it showed Luke had been paying attention. He already knew her tastes. That was the kind of chivalry a man couldn't fake. He hadn't sent the most expensive flowers; he'd sent the flowers she loved most.

When the doorbell rang, she knocked over her champagne flute—­fortunately it was both plastic and empty—­and stepped outside. Golden porchlight sifted across Luke's profile, striking his face just so, darkening shadows and highlighting his strong jaw, polishing the hard blue of his eyes into shining lapis. His appearance was so striking, she had to hold back a little gasp of appreciation.

He offered her his arm.

She took it, and he stole her breath when he bent and placed a tender kiss on the top of her head.

“You're stunning, Faith.” The low timbre of his voice sent shivers racing down her spine. Her knees went weak. She was a cliché walking—­no, make that stumbling. Next thing you know, she'd have butterflies in her tummy. He smiled and shook his head. “Absolutely stunning.”

Yep. A whole swarm of winged creatures took flight right on cue.

“Thanks,” she said, and drew a shuddering breath. “But this is all too much and oh, my goodness, you
really
didn't need to pick me up in the limo.”

“Oh, but I
really
did.” His eyes probed hers, as if searching for approval. “You and I got off on the wrong foot right from the start. First at my gallery, then later, when I scooped you up—­”

She flapped a forgiving hand as she wobbled down the drive. “To stop me from putting a heel in doggie doo.”

He grinned. “Sure. Let's go with that, and then I locked you—­inadvertently locked you—­in my limousine.” He opened the door for her, and she slid inside. He climbed in after her. “I know how frightening my imitation of a caveman must have been. I was completely out of line, and I'm hoping you'll forgive me. I brought the limo tonight because I want to wipe the slate clean. I want a do-­over . . . if you will.”

“I will,” she whispered. “But believe me, Luke, this whole pampering and seduction scenario is truly unnecessary. I'm thrilled that your brother recanted his confession, and I'm very glad that I was able to help convince him. But I don't need expensive dinners and my favorite flowers. I consider Dante my responsibility.”

“And you think that's what this is about. I'm plying you with flowers and champagne in order to secure your ongoing help with my brother?” He reached for a bottle of bubbly.

No more alcohol. She covered a hiccup and waved a no-­thanks. “Aren't you?” Apparently, she was as susceptible to the Jericho charm as any other woman because even though she knew Luke had ulterior motives, her tummy had gone fizzy as a flute of Dom Pérignon.

“No.” His voice came out gruff, and he looked away so quickly she couldn't see the reaction in his eyes. If she didn't know better, she'd swear, his feelings were hurt.

On impulse, she reached out and turned his face back to hers. Heaven help her, his eyes had deepened to a blue-­black that reminded her of the sky just before midnight. She dropped her hand quickly to her lap. “Then why go to all this trouble?”

“I've already told you. I want a do-­over. Is it really so difficult for you to believe I like you?” He leaned in, and she detected a highly male scent rising off his heated skin.

She wished she could just close her eyes and inhale, enjoy the moment like any other woman.

“Dante's recanted his confession. I promised myself I wouldn't make my move until then. But now I don't see any reason not to pursue what I want.”

She drew back, fanned herself with her hand. “And . . . are you saying . . . me? You want me?” Her voice squeaked out in the most juvenile way.

Their eyes met. There wasn't a hint of falseness in his expression. In fact, he looked almost vulnerable. Her gaze fell on his massive shoulders, his powerful arms. Maybe
vulnerable
wasn't exactly right.
Sincere.
Yes, that was more like it.

What was the big deal anyway? Luke was right. She was no longer treating Dante. She'd succeeded in persuading him to listen to his attorneys. She planned to refer him to another psychiatrist as soon as he was released from jail, and anyway,
Luke
wasn't her patient. She would never be foolish enough to allow herself to fall for a man like Luke Jericho, or any other man for that matter, but there was no harm in one night of . . . celebration. “I'm thirsty,” she said, and closed her eyes, inhaled, enjoyed.

“I'll pop a cork.” He reached for the bottle of champagne, and she reached out, touching his forearm. The softness of his skin and the brush of fine hairs on her palm made her head feel lighter than champagne ever could.

“I'm not thirsty for champagne.” She walked her fingers down his arm all the way to his hand and turned his palm up, traced circles with her thumb, like he'd done to her that day in her living room. The dusky look that came over his face, the way his eyes took on a hooded appearance encouraged her. “What was it you said before?”

He sat perfectly still and silent, his mouth tipped into the slightest smile.

She leaned toward him, tilted her face near his, and closed her eyes. “I believe you said something like,
I don't seduce women, they seduce me.
” Heart fluttering in her chest, she found and kissed the tip of his nose. “Well, Mr. Jericho, prepare to be seduced.”

She waited a beat and let her hand fall to his lap, exploring. She opened her eyes, leaned in closer, then she heard a hoarse moan.

“No way, Clancy. If anyone's in charge of the seduction tonight, it's me.” His hand clasped the back of her head and pulled her in for a kiss. A rough, hard unapologetic meeting of the lips . . . and of the minds. He kissed her until she couldn't breathe, and when she pulled back for air, he slipped his hand around her back and unzipped her dress.

Another moan. This time from her. Anticipation pulsed through her, softening her, making her ready. Beneath her palm, he was already hard, his erection straining against his slacks. She rubbed her hand over the fine linen, delighting in the heat seeping through the cloth. She traced his long shape with her fingers, and then it was her turn to unzip.

“Faith.” He closed his hand over hers. “I know how to control my body, but even I have my limits, and we're reaching them fast. So if you think this is something you might regret—­”

Her eyes squared with his. “I want this. I want you.”

“Right here? Right now?” His Adam's apple worked in a hard swallow.

The briefest moment of doubt flashed across her mind. The tenderness in his voice, the hunger in his eyes reached someplace deep inside her heart, and like a hand snatched away her defenses. She might indeed regret this later, but for now . . . She slipped her dress down to her waist and unsnapped her front-­closure bra. Her head fell back, and her eyes closed once more.

Luke pressed the intercom—­she assumed. Because she heard him bite out an order to the chauffeur. “Drive around. I'll let you know when to take us to the restaurant. Until then, I don't want to be disturbed.”

“Yes, sir,” the driver responded without intonation.

“Open your eyes, Faith. This is your last warning.”

His commanding voice both excited and terrified her.

Luke wasn't the safe, controllable type of man Faith usually allowed herself to be with. He was warning her, and she knew she should heed his message. She opened her eyes to find his gaze scorching her bare breasts. She touched her nipples, pinching them between her fingers. “No, Luke. This is
your
last warning.”

A sound very much like a growl came out of his throat, and he reached under her dress, pulled her thong to her ankles and urged her onto her back in one swift motion. The leather seat squeaked as her skin slid over it. Luke slipped off her shoes and thong, then pushed her dress to her waist so that now both her top and bottom were exposed. Her body was tightening and aching and demanding his touch.

He plucked her hands from her breasts, then leaned back and took a long look. “You're even more beautiful than I imagined.” Cradling her breasts with both hands, he said, “Your nipples are so pink.” His head bent between them. “You always smell like flowers.” He murmured something else against her skin and pulled one nipple into his mouth, setting off ripples of pleasure.

Her back arched, and he tugged and nipped at her until she was writhing beneath him. Fumbling with his slacks, she finally managed to push them down and dip her hands inside his silk boxers. The waistband pressed against the back of her hand and his cock leapt beneath her palm. Scents of musk and leather mingled heavily around them as she sank deeper into the billowed cushions.

Luke kicked off his shoes and boxers and lifted her leg in the air, caressing her ankle. Her other leg bent at the knee and fell back against the seat, opening her to his devouring gaze. “I've thought of you like this, you know.”

His words stole her breath with their intensity. His open desire set her body ablaze. She was helpless against the whispering in her heart.
Yes.
More please.

Watching her eyes, he spread her folds with his fingers, then his gaze traveled to her most intimate places. “I've imagined stroking you.” He reached between her legs and pressed two fingers inside, working them higher, deeper.

Luke.

“I've imagined tasting you,” He kissed his way up her thigh and pressed his tongue between her legs, his fingers and mouth playing in unison until she cried out with need. Her heart fluttered dangerously with every caress, but it was too late to stop this now.

“Please.” She tugged at his shoulders, and he surged over her. His weight crushed her chest, but she didn't care. She wanted him closer, on top of her, inside her.

“Faith.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, and she opened her lips. He slipped his tongue inside her mouth and ground his pelvis against hers. She was ready, so ready, arching into his touch, her hand stroking him, and guiding his hard length to where she needed it. “Please,” she begged, and brought him against her opening.

“Not yet.”

He slid higher so that his shaft rubbed over her. “I love the way you feel, Faith. So wet, so sweet.” He slipped his fingers inside again. “So tight. I want to feel that tight energy around my cock.”

He swirled his fingers inside her and circled his tongue over her nipple, and she felt herself climbing up, up, up toward that tight, aching peak.

“Now.” He moaned in her ear, slid his fingers out, then pressed into her. And when he'd sunk himself to the hilt, he began to thrust, slowly at first then faster and harder. The limo hit a dip in the road and drove him even deeper, adding to her pleasure . . . and her torture. There was no holding back now. As her muscles clamped around him, he whispered in her ear, “That's it Faith, come for me. Since the first moment I saw you, this was what I wanted, to feel you shatter in my arms.”

Unable to stop herself from doing just what he'd asked, she cried out. He drove into her over and over, still whispering in her ear, urging her forward until at the very moment she soared to her peak, he jerked his head back and let out a low moan.

After, when they'd put themselves back together and reassembled their clothing as respectably as possible, she rested her head on his shoulder.

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, and the realization of what she'd done started to sink in. She'd held nothing back from Luke, opened not just her body but her heart for him. And her heart was something she hadn't intended to offer up. She raised her head to meet his gaze. “This was just for tonight. You know that, right?”