Femme Fatale (8 page)

Maybe. We’ll see…

But in her heart, Savannah already knew how she felt for the PI. Now, they’d just have to see what the future held for them. One step at a time.

“I think you’re going to enjoy being a vamp,” Savannah murmured to him. “I promise, there are perks to the deal. There’s immortality, there’s strength, there’s—”

His head turned. His eyes locked on her. “There’s you,” he said simply.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. He’d risked so much for her. Just as she had been ready to risk everything for him. “There’s me,” Savannah said as she curled her arms around him. His head lowered toward hers. She kissed him.

And nothing,
nothing
had ever been as sweet to her as Mick’s kiss.

Six months later…

When the drop-dead gorgeous blonde stepped into his office, Mick Swayne knew that she was trouble.

Savannah flashed Mick her slow, sexy smile, and he was a goner. But then, he’d been lost in her for a very long time.

“I think I found us a new case,” Savannah said as her high heels clicked on the floor, and she closed in on him. “There’s a vamp in Atlanta who needs our help…that special help that only we can provide.”

Because he’d kept his PI business going after his transformation into a vamp. Only now, he sometimes also handled
special
cases, cases that Savannah found for them.

She walked around the desk and sat in his lap. Her arms linked around his neck, and she gave him a lingering, tender kiss.

When she pulled away, Mick had to say, “I love you.” Because it was long past time she knew. Nothing in his life had ever mattered to him the way she did. His life—his
afterlife—
whatever the hell it was.

For an instant, tears gleamed in Savannah’s eyes, and Mick tensed. He hated for her to be unhappy, and if he’d done something to—

“I love you, too,” Savannah whispered.

Hell, yes.

He kissed her again. Harder. Deeper. Yes, the blonde was trouble, the very best kind.
His
kind of trouble.

The End

###

No one should die that way.

Detective Jane Hart stared at the broken body in the middle of Bourbon Street, a doll that had been cast aside. The victim’s skin was too pale. Her eyes were wide open—dark—seeming to still show the girl’s poor terror.

A crowd had gathered. Hardly a surprise. There was always a crowd on Bourbon Street. Jane could hear the whispers and rumbles behind her as everyone strained to get a look at the body.

The
naked
body. The victim had been dumped, just tossed aside, near the side of Hell’s Gate. Music blasted from the interior of the bar, and plenty of folks were still packed inside the place.

How long had the victim been out there, those desperate eyes still open in death as she waited to be found? How many people had just walked past her before someone had actually stopped and realized…

She’s dead.
Not passed out. Not in some drunken stupor. She’s dead.

The fact that her throat was ripped open—that should have given someone a freaking clue.

“Detective Hart?”

It was one of the uniforms, looking green. He’d been the first on scene, and when he’d called in the homicide, she’d been close by. Her captain had sent her over.
My first official case as a homicide detective.
More cops were coming—a crime scene team was on the way.

“There’s so much blood,” the uniform murmured. Mason. Mason Mitchell. A guy in his early twenties with light blond hair and the horrified gaze that told her he hadn’t seen very many bodies before.

Maybe he was new to the beat.

There are always bodies in this city.
Once upon a time, the Big Easy had boasted the highest murder rate of any U.S. city.

But things had changed.

Tell that to the girl on the ground.

“Just help me keep everyone back,” Jane told him, rubbing at her right side. An old habit, one that she’d never been able to shake. Her fingers pressed hard in that spot, just for a moment, then she squared her shoulders. “I want a closer look at her.”

Mason was right. There really was a whole lot of blood. Way too much for a typical scene. It looked as if the victim’s throat had been slit wide open, from ear to ear. A horrible way to die but…

Maybe it was quick. The slice of a knife, then she fell.

The victim had been pretty. With long red hair and pale skin. Too young, far too young. But then, there were plenty of girls who were too young on Bourbon Street. They stood in dimly lit doorways, clad in negligees that offered little to the imagination, and they invited passers-by to come in for dances.

Jane crouched over the body, trying to be very, very careful not to touch the victim. The girl was on her back, with her hands spread out at her sides and her legs closed. Perfectly closed.
He posed her at death.

Chill bumps rose on Jane’s arms. The posing was
not
a good sign.
Right, like slitting her throat was a good thing.
Her eyes narrowed. There wasn’t any strong light out there, and maybe that was why the girl had just laid there so long.

And not because the people just hadn’t given a shit about her.

Jane pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight app. She directed the light at the girl’s neck.

No missing that horrible slice but…

Something else was there. On the left side. About a centimeter above the slice, Jane could see…

Two small holes. Puncture wounds? Yes, yes, they looked like puncture wounds.

Her gaze trailed back up to the victim’s face.
No one deserves this death.
Jane wanted to take off her jacket and cover the young victim—
there was just something about her eyes—
but she knew that wasn’t possible. She’d contaminate the scene, and the last thing she wanted to do was destroy any evidence.

She heard the cry of a siren behind her, and Jane jumped. She glanced back over her shoulder, her gaze cutting through the crowd, and that was when she saw—

Him.

Tall. Broad shoulders. He was wearing black—a black t-shirt and dark jeans. His hair was dark, too—dark and thick, as it framed his face. A face that wasn’t handsome, but rather…dangerous. Intense.

Predatory?

Yes, the way he was staring at the scene was all wrong. The way he was staring at her was just
wrong,
and Jane’s hand automatically went to her holster.

His gaze—she couldn’t tell what color his eyes were—followed the movement, and a faint smile curved his lips.

What. In. The. Hell?

Her eyes narrowed as she marched toward him.

Other cops were finally at the scene. And she saw the flash of yellow police tape. Perfect. About time that area got sectioned off.

Two uniformed cops hurried toward her, blocking her before she could reach the guy who was
still
smiling.

“Detective Hart—”

“Secure the scene’s perimeter,” she said, getting straight to the point. “And get those idiots with the camera phones to stop taking their pictures.” Yeah, she’d seen those fools, too. Frat boys who were laughing as they recorded. Drunk idiots. This wasn’t some show—it was a person’s life.

Death.

At her words, the tall, dark stranger glanced over at the frat boys. His smile vanished and she saw his square jaw harden.

Using his inattention to her advantage, Jane closed in on him. She saw his nostrils flare when she was about five feet away, and his head jerked back toward her. Their eyes met—for an instant—and then he backed away. Fast.

Oh, no, you don’t.

She surged forward and her hand slapped down on his arm. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m gonna need a word.” Her southern accent thickened a bit with those words.

Not a New Orleans accent, because that was a different beast. Mississippi. Gulf Coast. Because once upon a time, she’d been a Mississippi girl.

Until her world had ripped apart.

Her hand tightened on the guy’s arm. He’d stopped backing away. Actually, he’d gone as still as a statue beneath her touch. A big statue. About six foot three, two hundred twenty pounds.

Maybe he was the kind of guy who used his size to intimidate people.

She wasn’t intimidated.

“I’m Detective Jane Hart.” She nodded. “And you are…”

For a moment, she didn’t think he’d answer. Her left hand gripped his arm and her right was still poised just above her holster.

“Locke.”

She waited, but there was nothing else. Jane let her brows climb. “That a first name or a last?”

His head tilted toward her. “She suffered.”

He said it as if it weren’t a question. Alarm bells were going off like crazy in Jane’s head. The way this guy was acting—it was so
not
a typical bystander response. It was more the response of…

A predator.

A killer.

“Why are you out here tonight, Mr. Locke?” Jane pushed.

His gaze swept over her. She didn’t like that. Didn’t like him. He was making her feel too on edge, and where she touched him, her skin actually felt warm.

Bad.

Killers could be attractive. Alluring. She knew, she’d sure spent plenty of time studying them. Ted Bundy had certainly used his looks to lure in his victims. Handsome faces could hide horrible monsters, she knew that.

This guy isn’t handsome. He’s big and strong and dangerous.

“I own Hell.”

Her hold tightened on him.

But he motioned to the club behind her. “Hell’s Gate, it’s mine. So when I heard about the body, I had to come outside. Terrible thing, this. Terrible.”

He owned the club. The victim had just been left outside his place of business…right, not suspicious
at all.
“Did you know her?”

“I haven’t gotten a good look at her yet.”

She didn’t believe those rumbling words.

“It’s a shame,” he suddenly said, his voice dropping, “what some people will do in this city…the lengths they will go to…people want to stay young and strong forever.”

Jane looked back at the victim.
Dead far too young
.

“Good luck finding the killer,” Locke said.

She turned her focus back to him. “I’ll want to talk to your staff. They may have seen something—”

“They didn’t.”

He was too sure of that.

Her lips thinned. “Do you understand what cooperation is? Because if you don’t, you’re about to. When a woman’s body is
dumped
outside your business, it’s bad. Very bad. And when you stare out at the scene like you’re some kind of—of—” Words failed her.

He waited.

“You look predatory,” Jane said flatly as her hand slid away from him. “There is no sympathy on your face. You seem to be…”
Hunting.
But she didn’t say that part, not out loud. She did have
some
restraint. Sometimes.

His head inclined toward her. “I hate this happened to that young woman.” Now his words were coated with emotion—emotion that she actually wanted to believe. “It’s a waste. A terrible shame. She should still be living her life and now things will just…end. They have to end.”

Uh, yeah, about that…“
I think they ended when some SOB sliced her throat open.”

Mason called her name.

She didn’t move.

“I have more questions for you,” she said to Locke, a warning edge in her voice.

“I wish I had answers for you.”

Okay, that was just a weird-ass response. She didn’t have time for weird-ass anything. She glanced over at Mason. “I want you to make Locke comfortable in the back of a patrol car until I can question him again…”

Mason bounded forward. “Make who?”

“Locke.” She glanced back at her suspect. “Make him—” Only he wasn’t there. Locke had vanished, disappeared in an instant. “Sonofabitch.” She surged forward, pushing through the crowd, elbowing her way past the frat jerks with their phones—still filming. Such assholes.
I will so be confiscating those phones later.
She didn’t see Locke, not to the left, and not to the right. The guy had slipped away from her.

Jane whirled back to look at Hell’s Gate. Did he really own the club? Or had that just been bull?

Mason rushed toward her, huffing. “The ME is here.”

“Get in Hell,” she told him curtly. “See if a man named Locke is there. If he is, drag his ass out for me.”

“Um…do what, ma’am?”

“Drag his ass out,” Jane snapped. Then she squared her shoulders. The body wouldn’t stay out there much longer. The victim would need to be moved. And she wanted to be there. She wanted to make sure the ME saw those puncture wounds. Jane needed to make sure the victim was taken care of—the victim was her priority. And finding the girl’s killer?

Oh, hell, yes, I’m on that, too.

She marched back toward the body. She’d be seeing Locke again. Very, very soon.