Picture Me Dead (22 page)

“I'm going to be a cop.” Actually, maybe she wasn't, not soon anyway. The forensic position did seem too good to turn down. But she wasn't about to tell Dilessio that now.

“But you were scared tonight.”

“I wasn't expecting any danger at the hospital. I wasn't armed.”

“And you weren't scared enough, maybe,” he said, suddenly angry.

“Why does a conversation with you always turn into a fight?” she demanded.

“This isn't a fight. I'm just trying to teach you how not to be a fool.”

“What's your problem with me?”

“I don't have a problem with you—except that you're an arrogant beginner with the illusion you're the only one out there who gives a shit or can make things happen.”

She felt as if she were turning into a pillar of ice. She didn't blink but kept her eyes on his. “Gee, thanks. Well, thanks for the help, Detective. Excuse me. I think I'll call it a night.”

“I'll walk you back to Nick's.”

“You don't need to. I'll be inside in two minutes.”

“I'll walk you.”

“Why?”

“You thought you were being followed tonight. Cops watch out for cops, Montague.”

“Great. Should I walk you back to your boat afterwards? We can just keep walking back and forth all night.”

“Listen to yourself. You haven't listened to a single warning I've given you.”

“What do you expect from an arrogant beginner with delusions of grandeur?”

He drew back. She thought she could hear his teeth grating, his muscles snapping with tension. “All right, Montague. I'm sorry if I'm blunt. You're a cute kid, with a lot of the right stuff. I'm older, worn, jaded and I've seen way too much stuff go down, okay? Humor me.”

He started past her, taking her arm. He didn't jerk her, but he had one firm hold. She walked along—stumbled first—after him, smarting anew from his words.

Cute kid?

“There's a door to my wing right there.”

“Great.”

He scissored over the low wooden wall that separated the dock from the shore. She followed suit, and he walked her to her door.

“Thanks for the escort. We cute kids are always grateful to make it home safe.”

“Great.”

“Well?”

“Open the door and get inside.”

She threw up her hands, reached into her purse…and couldn't find her keys to save her life. She fumbled blindly through the contents. He was still standing there. Impatient, she went down to her knees and dumped the contents out on the walkway. Miraculously, her keys appeared immediately.

He bent down to help her throw the wallet, pens, lipsticks, compact and other paraphernalia back in.

“I've got it, thanks,” she said.

He stood, not replying. She twisted the key in her lock and went inside. “Okay, I'm in now.”

“Good night.”

He turned and started back for his boat. She bit her lip, watching his back. Well, that was it, he was leaving. Over and done. After giving her nothing but facts and discouragement. Had she envisioned another scenario? Him welcoming her onto his boat, discussing the case seriously with her, telling her that together, somehow, they would find the answers?

Of course not.

But she also hadn't thought he would walk her to the house as if she were indeed a child. That he would stay, make sure she had the key, that she got inside safely.

Had she hoped that he was going to follow her in, check out the room, move close to her again, talk softly in that gruff voice?

Stay?

Cute kid.
Why on earth did that asshole appeal to her so much?

She'd never thought of herself as cute. She wasn't small; she didn't have a round face or dimple. She might not be a raving beauty, but she knew she was attractive, that her posture was good, that she had, at the least, some essence of sophistication.

He was such a jerk.

But when she stood there, close to him…

Don't you ever just want to have sex?

Yes, Karen! At the moment, rather desperately, I'm afraid…. With a royal jerk.

When he stood there, insulting her, she just took it all in with indignation, all the time thinking that she liked the darkness of his eyes, the structure of his face. His flesh. His
naked
flesh. He just had to live on a houseboat, where it was the most natural thing in the world to sit around on deck in nothing but cutoffs.

He turned, and she was still standing there at the door, watching him go.

“Get in and lock that door,” he shouted impatiently.

She closed the door and locked it.

 

To Jake's amazement, he returned to the
Gwendolyn
feeling an unreasonable tension and anger. His neck was sore. It had been a long drive up and back in the one day. And all he felt was frustration, both with the Bordon case—and Fresia's.

Frustration…with Nick's niece. She had to slow down.

Frustration…because he wanted to shake her. Only because he wanted to keep her from harm.

No. Because he wanted a lot more. He wasn't sure why it had taken him so long to notice that Ashley Montague's eyes weren't just green. They switched from a cool lime to a deep emerald when she spoke, when she grew angry. She wasn't just slim, lean and agile; she had really great curves. She smelled subtly of a soft, deep, underlying perfume. Her hair wasn't carrot red or flaming; it was deeper, like her scent, seductive as a soft, hot whisper.

He opened the refrigerator, meant to take another beer.

He closed the refrigerator.

He looked around the living area of the houseboat. He was sure there had been someone on the
Gwendolyn
the other night. Nothing was gone, but he knew someone had been here.

And now Ashley had said she'd been nearly accosted in the parking garage.

There could be no relation between the two incidents.

Still…

Jake put on a pot of coffee and sat in front of his computer. He pulled up the records he'd been keeping for years.

Was that it?

Had someone come onto the boat to examine his private files, knowing that he'd kept much of his research on his private computer, rather than at work? Maybe.

Tomorrow he would get someone out to change the locks. He should have had that done today.

He laced his fingers behind his head, remembering his conversation with Bordon.

Smoke and mirrors…

Mary Simmons was convinced Harry Tennant had been crazy. That he listened to voices. Lazarus.
Lazarus…awakened from the dead.

Stuart Fresia had been writing a story.

Ashley Montague had the greenest eyes he'd ever seen, with sparks of fire. Great breasts. Really nice, tight ass.

He swore out loud, stared at his computer screen and began to type, back taut and painfully tense. He rubbed his nape. Impressions, notes, things that had been said that somehow seemed important, jarring.

Lazarus. The kid had been crazy; he'd listened to voices.

Smoke and mirrors.

Stuart Fresia had been working on a story.

Ashley Montague had great—

He erased the last. Called himself every name in the book. Turned off the computer. Then went back outside to stand on the
Gwendolyn
's deck.

Damn, she was close. Right across the grass.

Good. Not good. She shouldn't be a cop. She didn't have the patience. She didn't have…

Not true. She would probably make a great cop. Like Nancy. But Nancy had made a mistake and now she was dead. Other cops had made mistakes. They, too, were dead.

Smoke and mirrors…

Lazarus.

What if the kid hadn't been crazy? Maybe he hadn't been listening to voices. One of the sect members might have been called Lazarus.

He wished he had Bordon in front of him again. Wished it were legal to put the man on the rack, force him to tell what he knew.

It wasn't. But it was galling, because he was certain there was an answer right in front of him that he wasn't seeing. Smoke and mirrors. Bordon had sworn he'd had nothing to do with Nancy. Jake had never taken her with him when he'd questioned the People for Principle members. He'd taken two trips out there—alone. The first time, she'd gone to question the tourist who had stumbled on the second body. The second time, she'd been busy tracing Bordon's financial sheets.

Then…she'd been gone.

Strange. Bordon hadn't met her, but he seemed to know all about her. All about her problems with Brian.

Smoke and mirrors. Lazarus.

Sleep on it,
he told himself wearily. Maybe something would make sense by morning.

He locked up the
Gwendolyn
and went to bed. Sleep eluded him for a long time.

 

He dreamed again that night.

He was in a forest, a forest filled with mirrors. An old man in long white robes was walking through the trees. Lazarus. Awakened from the dead.

The mirrors dissolved into crystal. Like powder, they drifted onto the breeze. The forest faded away and he was staring at the shore next to the marina. A woman was walking toward him. Slim, lithe, sensual, moving slowly, provocatively. Soft flesh shimmering in the moonlight. Hair seemingly afire.

She was naked.

She walked slowly down the dock.

A moment later, she was on the boat. On him. Another moment later…

He woke abruptly, sweating, swearing.

The dream had been so damned vivid, he was drenched. He shook himself fully awake. Hell, no more coming straight home. He was obsessed. He had to get out. Tonight he would take himself to a club on the beach.

He sat still, listening. Had the dream awakened him? Or a sound? He slid out of bed silently. Padded through the houseboat, listening. He focused on sensual recall. A sound…not on the boat. Just somewhere…near.

Well, hell, he didn't live out here alone. Someone else had been coming home, boarding their own boat. Or someone had left Nick's. Or Nick had thrown out his trash.

He went to his bedside drawer and pulled out his gun. He walked through the living area and opened the door to the deck.

He walked out. The night was silent, other than the lapping of the water against the boats, the soft thumping when the tide brought the vessels against the bumpers.

He walked onto the dock and looked down the length of it. All seemed quiet.

He looked across the grass.

Ashley Montague was out there, just outside her door. She was wearing a long T-shirt with a cartoon character and something written on it.

It was the most erotic outfit he'd ever seen.

He stood for a moment, staring at her, knowing she was staring at him.

He leapt over the rail and strode over to her. She looked at the gun in his hand, then at him, but she didn't move.

“Are you going to arrest me?” she asked him.

“No. What are you doing out?”

“I heard something. What are you doing out?”

“I heard something.”

“Think we heard each other?” she asked.

“Maybe.”

The night breeze moved by, soft, cool. They continued to stare at one another. He could hear her breathing, see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the gently hugging cotton.

“You have your gun.”

“The safety is on.”

“Good.” She moistened her lips, her eyes, very emerald, on his. “So…?”

He shrugged. He felt like a tower of lava himself. Mount Etna on a bad day. He was nowhere near touching her, but it felt as if little sparks were shooting from her, filling the air between them like diamond dust.

“Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head. What the hell was he doing?

Then she said, “Your place or mine?”

A whisper. Not as ballsy as she had intended, he was certain. Then she shook her head, and he thought she was going to renege, withdraw.

She didn't.

“Your place,” she said, and grimaced. “This is still my uncle's house.”

He didn't reply, just took her arm with his free hand, starting back across the grass.

R
ed.

All he could see was red. The richness of it spread across his pillow, a mane of it, tangling and inviting, as tempting as original sin.

Jake was sure he was insane, of course. But it didn't matter. They were both insane.

Maybe one madness canceled out the other.

She was simply, at that moment, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The most desirable. She moved as no other woman had ever moved. Her eyes were green fire, her lips…he'd never seen a mouth so perfect. The air was filled with electricity wherever she stepped. No one had ever, ever, made a cotton T-shirt appear so blatantly erotic.

God, she was perfect.

What the hell was she doing?
Ashley wondered. Then she rejected the question. She had dreamed of this, dreamed of him. And God, he was perfect. Rugged face, with lines that still bordered on the classical. Handsome, but still dripping with rugged machismo. Broad shoulders and chest, hard flat stomach, lean hips, muscles rippling, golden, catching the moonlight. And the scent of him…So compelling. Sea, salt, soap…some distant aftershave, elusively tantalizing, beckoning…

Jake argued with himself that she could have stopped, could have pulled back, could have spoken. Because it would take a far better, stronger man than he to back away now.

She didn't speak.

In fact, they hadn't exchanged another word. Not as they walked to the
Gwendolyn,
not as he paused to lock his door behind them, and not even when he indicated the few steps to the master cabin. He hadn't spoken when she'd doffed the T-shirt, couldn't have, because his breathing had gone so erratic. The black lace thong she wore was in direct contrast to the silly cotton T-shirt.

A contrast that sent a rush of adrenaline erupting through him like a geyser.

He'd ripped the covers from the bed with the expertise of a magician, revealing the clean sheets beneath, and it was there that she had crawled, lying back, waiting, all but blinding him in the maze of red, a red he felt, as if he could see it pumping through his bloodstream, just as he could see it splayed across the white sheets of his bed.

At last he spoke. “Jesus,” he whispered. One word. Not blasphemous. Awed.

He forgot his own cutoffs in his haste to join her. His attention went from the red of her hair, to the tiny wisp of black lace.
Straight to the point, eh, buddy?
he mocked himself, but what the hell, it wasn't as if they were in the midst of a slow seduction. He crawled atop her, met her eyes briefly…

Color, more color. Green, cat green, and as sensuous as ever those of a feline had been. Half closed, lashes low.

And her lips…moist, parted, her breath emerging in quick little pants. She touched her lips again with her tongue. Perhaps in anticipation. He ignored her mouth, no matter how appealing. He had a one-track mind.

He lowered his head against her, breathed in the sweet scent of her flesh. Tasted her from the valley between her breasts downward with the tip of his tongue. God, that strip of lace. He paused briefly at her navel. He was in love with whatever soap she used, whatever lotion, perfume. Maybe it was just the scent of her flesh. The touch of it, the feel of it. Like silk, but hot, so alive. Lower, his tongue moved finding the lace, teasing at the band, stroking over the sudden roughness. He was aware of the intake of her breath. Just a brush of his mouth at first, over silk, over lace. His fingers gripped the elastic then, moving fabric, sliding beneath. He gripped the band, drew it away.

Red.

His mind exploded as if the color shot through it. Her fingers ploughed into his hair. She was saying something then, but words made no sense. Maybe there were no words, just sounds, whispers, moaning. She moved, she moved…arching, sinuous, sensuous. Elastic snapped in his fingers. The wisp of silk and lace was gone, and he teased, tasted, laved, teased again, breathed…. He was unaware at first that her grip on his hair was achingly powerful. She had filled his senses. His blood raced through him as if pounding out a staccato beat; his entire being and concentration were filled with the taste and scent of her. He was aware of the way she moved, aware of the sounds escaping her, aware that she had reached the brink, strained like a cat, exploded into drifting crystal. Her fingers lost their death grip. He crawled atop her, looking down. Her eyes were half closed again, lashes sweeping her cheeks in midnight…red….

Then there was her mouth. He kissed her, and she burst back to life. Arms around him, fingers kneading his shoulders, and her tongue, caught with his, twisted, wet, hot, even more seductive. Yet even as she returned the moist heat of his passion, she was pushing him away, determined that her lips would discover more, as well. To his amazement, he found that the red fire was sweeping down his body. What she could do with her lips against his flesh, the tip of her tongue teasing against the dark hair on his chest, swirling against him as she followed his natural curves, and that mane of red hair tangled over his flesh with every movement.

Her fingers fell to the band of his button-fly cutoffs, dexterous, slow…torturously, deliciously slow. Her hand slipped beneath the band. Fingers curled around the pulse of his erection. He prayed suddenly for restraint. The blood beating like thunder in his system threatened to deny him. He eased himself from her, shed the cutoffs and caught her in his arms, taking her lips again before she could inflict a madness he couldn't resist and slid into her. She was soft, passionate, mercury, fire. He didn't remember ever moving with such a rampant surge of desire, feeling such sweet, exquisite torture in every second that led toward climax. Madness was stilled only by a fleeting roar of pride inside.

She tensed beneath him, arching as taut as a bowstring, letting out a cry that she quickly smothered against his neck. And he let the blood-thunder-drum seize him, climaxing himself in a rush of release that, for a moment, seemed to steal every ounce of life from his body, every breath from his lungs. Sated, drenched, heavy with the aftermath of release…

That realization brought life to his limbs, and he eased off her, drawing her against the length of his body. She was still shaking. He held her. They both began to breathe.

A moment later, he said softly, “Do you want to talk?”

“No.”

Plain, simple, in a nutshell.

But she didn't make a move to leave. Nor did he draw away.

The lights were dim; the boat was rocking. She felt so sensual in his arms. Fire draped over his flesh, soft, the mane of her hair. She was still silk. Vibrant silk, so alive, so real. He drew his hand along her arm, down the length of her spine.

Damn, what a spine.

His fingers brushed over the rise of her buttocks.

Seconds later, he pulled her against him hard, the flow of blood sending his heart into overdrive. She was wet, hot, tight and arced, and she moved as if to the most erotic salsa beat. His fingers gripped her midriff, curved around her breasts, stroked, solicited…fell to her hips and held hard until the explosion burst upon them both again. Even then, he was loathe to withdraw, so he stayed inside her, calming slowly in a glove of heat.

In time he smoothed his fingers over her shoulder, smoothed the fiery hair that teased his nose. She seemed no more inclined to talk, so he remained silent himself, holding her. And it was then that he realized he hadn't felt so comfortable in eons, had never felt as much pleasure in holding a woman when the deed was done as when he was in the midst of it. The surf lapped against the bow, slight, gentle. He closed his eyes.

 

Lucy Fresia sat in the hospital chair at her son's side. He hadn't improved, but she had no intention of giving up on him. Stuart was in there somewhere, and he had a will of steel. She just kept telling him over and over again that she loved him.

She held his hand, leaned back. It was late. She closed her eyes. In seconds, despite the constant trauma that raged in her heart, she found herself drifting off.

She heard a click…a slight clicking sound, and it jolted her into awareness. She sat up, looking around. Nathan had come to spell her, to tell her to go home for the night. Or the sweet nurse was coming to check on him, to do whatever she could to make him more comfortable.

She glanced at the door. Through the glass, she could make out a figure in green hospital scrubs. She started to straighten, to force her smile, to greet the newcomer with all the spirit she could muster.

The figure saw her; she was certain of that, despite the fact that she was really tired and blinking away sleep.

The door didn't open. There was a pause, and the person walked away. Puzzled, Lucy rose and walked to the door. She opened it, and looked out, but saw no one down the corridor. With a shrug, she returned to her vigil, drawing her chair closer to her son. She spoke softly. “You will make it, Stu. You will! You have to, you know.” Despite the fact that she'd been there day and night, new tears welled in her eyes. “You have to, Stu. Your dad and I…your dad and I love you so much. You're everything in the world to us, Stu…please, Stu.”

The rise and fall of the respirator was her only answer. She squeezed his hand. “We'll never give up. We'll be here, no matter what.”

 

The sound of the alarm was painful.

Jake bolted up, pressing his hands against his temples.

“Shit.”

“Shit,” echoed from his side.

She was half sitting up as well, sheet clutched to her, hair tangled and full, spilling around her face like wildfire.

By morning's light, she was even more desirable. Stunning, sensual…and somehow vulnerable.

But morning's light was far too real, as well.

They stared at one another.

What the hell had he been thinking?
Jake wondered. She was Nick's niece. Arrogant, too sure of herself, bound to get into trouble. He needed her the way he needed to walk around with a dagger sticking into his side. Hell, it had been sex. Just sex. Spontaneous but consensual. Good sex, damned good sex, but just sex.

Wrong. Not with this woman. She'd gotten under his skin before he'd ever touched her. He wondered how he'd gone so many years, passing by once in a blue moon, noticing her from a distance, maybe even getting a beer from her from time to time. He'd thought of her only as Nick's niece. As a kid. Well, she was definitely not a kid. She was a simmering blaze, and he should have felt the lick of the flames.

God, he was an idiot. She was still Nick's niece, and in the academy, besides. It wasn't against the rules for officers to date, so long as they kept their relationships for their personal time. But she was still in the damned academy. And they weren't dating. They'd had sex.

Arrogant trouble.

And she was staring at him now with something akin to pure horror.

What the hell had she been thinking?
Ashley wondered. Obviously her mind hadn't been any part of it. His hair was tousled, his flesh bronze, and damned if his ass wasn't just perfect as she'd expected, but…

He was Detective Jake Dilessio.

And she didn't do things like this. Karen did, once in a while, and she'd thought about it, but…she didn't do things like jump into bed with a complete stranger.

“Shit,” he said again. He seemed to be looking at her as if he had awakened next to a cobra.

“Shit,” she repeated, then bounded out of the bed, searching for her underwear and sleep shirt. “What time is it?”

“Six-thirty. You'll have to hustle to make class by seven.”

“I don't have to be there at seven. I have until eight.” The thong was a loss. She would have to streak across the grass with a bare butt under the T-shirt.

“Why?”

“I—I've got a meeting. You'd better hustle. Oh, no, that's right. You're Detective Dilessio. You make your own hours, do your own thing. But you're right, I have to get moving.”

Ashley slid into the T-shirt and hurried down the two steps, through the living area and over to the front door. She was pleased with her exit.

Except that she couldn't work the lock. He came up behind her, clad again in his cutoffs, and unlocked the door.

“Ashley?”

She didn't look at him.

“What? I do need to hurry.”

But she
felt
him there, and lifted her head to meet his gaze.

“Be careful, all right? Don't go thinking you can solve the problems of the world—or even solve the mystery about your friend.”

“I am careful.”

He nodded. She stood there, chafing beneath his gaze, feeling her face redden. He was going to give her some speech about last night not having meant anything.

But he didn't. He smiled. And his voice was soft. “Thanks for coming. That was one of the nicest nights I've had in as long as I can remember.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, well…thank you.”

“Great sex,” he told her. The door opened.