Say You Love Me (13 page)

She nodded. “The mask above the woman's bed—the crocodile head with the human body—it represents Sobek, the crocodile god the Egyptians worshipped in medieval times. The people used to sacrifice women to appease the gods because they feared them.”

The group turned to her, their mouths agape. Horror struck her. Had she given too much away?

“She's right,” Jean-Paul said with a curious sideways look.

Images swirled in Britta's mind; another carving of Sobek haunted her—one she'd seen years ago. One that she was supposed to worship. The chants, the fire, the singing and praying. Then the man and his son….

This killer couldn't be the man she'd run from years ago, could he?

All the clues led back to that day. To the cult.

To the day she'd died.

The trial by ordeal. To test for evil, the medieval people forced the accused to cross a path or group of logs across the river. If the gators didn't get them, they passed the test.

As she thought she had—years ago.

But her escape had been temporary. Had she survived because evil blood ran through her veins? Because she had joined the devil's side when she'd become a killer?

Even as denial swept through her, she had to face the fact that the clan might have survived. That they were still believers. That they still sacrificed women as they had intended to do with her years ago. That this man might be their leader or any one of his followers.

That he had come back to punish her.

And that she deserved it.

R.J.
CHOSE HIS
CLOTHES
carefully. A necessity for the
perfect disguise.

The dark shirt with the button-up collar. The red tie. The black
pants. All his favorite colors. Each garment tailored to hide the telltale
marks on his body. And if that didn't suffice, he could always use a little
of that pancake makeup he'd bought at the S and M shop.

He grinned at himself in the mirror,
remembering the change in himself from the night before. The first time he'd
delved into the dark side, he had felt intense physical pain, an agony that
had forced him to question his destiny. But each time the pain had gotten
easier to bear. Now he embraced it. Each lashing, each moment of
torture—both mental and physical—excited him. Just the hint of animal
pheromones, the bayou odors, the glimmering moonlight made him dizzy with
desire. And launched him into new fantasies, secret ones he wanted to share
with Britta.

But not
everyone understood his dark fantasies or would welcome the black side of
him. The reason for his disguise.

The time was right. Mardi Gras was all about
disguises, the old culture, paying tribute to the legends that went before
them.

Britta would
never know what he did at night. Or that some of the confession letters had
been penned by him.

Not unless she chose to join him.

He walked to his study, pressed the button that
opened the door to his secret chamber and noted the mess. Blood sprinkled
here and there. The smell of raw flesh. Man and beast.

He closed the door and settled the
books back into place, then strode outside into the hot sultry air. Steam
rose from the marshland beyond, the details of his foray the night before
parading in front of his mind's eye.

His lover would be waiting when he returned
tonight. After all, where else could she go? She was tied to the bayou now,
deep in its depth, the shadows of the trees protecting her. The animals knew
her well. They would surround her and hold her hostage until his
return.

Sunlight
bolted through the haze and he dragged on dark Ray Bans, battling the wave
of discomfort the daylight brought. The headaches. The pounding in his
temple.

He was meant
for the night.

But
Britta had already phoned, upset. And he had to deal with Ezra
Cortain.

Blistering
rage rippled through his blood as he drove to the magazine. Tourists and
sightseers crowded the streets, the bars preparing for another influx while
the massive horses who pulled the carriage tours panted in the heat. A
panhandler thrust an old worn hat toward him; the sight of the man's gimp
leg caused R.J. to dig in his pocket for loose change.

Ezra Cortain should be here helping
the homeless, not pounding the pavement shouting about
Naked Desires
. The man was such a fraud he was
surprised that God didn't set him on fire so the world could witness his
demise.

As R.J.
rounded the corner, the protest march was in full swing. Signs waving,
people shouting to shut down the sinful magazine, blaming
his
brainchild on the decadence in
town. He chuckled at the irony.

Ezra Cortain had no idea the part he'd played in
R.J.'s choices. But he would. Bloodlust filled R.J. with exhilaration at the
thought of that day coming.

He pushed through the crowd until he stood
face-to-face with Cortain. The asshole had plastered himself in front of the
window as if he could hide the dirty secrets inside the office with his
billowing robe.

But
Cortain had his own dirty little secrets and R.J. knew all about them. He
ripped off his sunglasses, glared at Cortain's cold gray eyes, reveling in
the fact that his height allowed him to tower over the short, pudgy
man.

“Go away,
Cortain.”

“We must
build the kingdom of the Lord,” Cortain shouted. “Destroy the sins and evil
in the city that you entice with your depravity.”

R.J. gripped the preacher's flabby arm. “If you
don't leave my business alone, you'll be sorry.”

Cortain's eyes bulged. “You're threatening me in
front of God's children.”

“You're not the saint you pretend to be,” he muttered low enough so
that only Cortain heard. “And soon everyone will know the truth. Then see if
your God saves you.”

Cortain clutched his Bible to his chest as if it was a suit of armor
and could protect him.

R.J. laughed. The man had better gather his horde of followers and
leave town before his worshipers learned he was not sent from God, but from
the devil.

R.J.
would expose him now, but first he had to protect himself and win Britta's
favor.

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL CONTINUED TO
assimilate the killer's MO in his mind. Knowing how the man ticked would
help them catch him. But would they do so in time to save the missing
woman?

The ME left,
and Jean-Paul and Britta gathered around the conference table with coffee
and po' boys he'd ordered from his parents' restaurant. They'd insisted he
invite her to Sunday dinner the next day.

Hell, he didn't even know if he'd make it, not
with this investigation still hot.

Britta glanced up from a stack of letters in her
hand. “So, we're looking for any mention of a spear, a serpent necklace,
Sobek or poisoned condoms?”

Her sarcasm wasn't lost on him. If the guy had
submitted previous confession letters, he probably wouldn't have been so
damn obvious. “You think this is a waste of time?”

She shrugged and absentmindedly massaged her neck,
calling attention to her bruised skin. He'd kill to know who had hurt
her.

R. J. Justice?
Was she into the kinky S and M like her boss?

“No. We have to do something,” she said
wearily.

He felt her
frustration. Hopefully, Carson would return with something from Swain's
apartment to help them. And he was still waiting on Antwaun to find the
pimp.

“Tell me about
Justice,” Jean-Paul said. “What do you know about his personal
life?”

Britta fumbled
through the stack, obviously sorting hers by male and female confessions.
“Not much. He lives on the outskirts of town in a refurbished antebellum
house. It's near the bayou.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“No.”

“Did you two date?”

“No. We've discussed this before, Jean-Paul.” She
glanced up at him. “Besides, you don't really think R.J. killed that
woman?”

“I have to
look at every angle.” He used his fingers to mark off his points. “First,
the guy owns a sexually explicit magazine. Like Swain, publicity could help
Justice's sales.”

“Not with Reverend Cortain's slanderous protests.”

“Even negative publicity can hype
business,” he pointed out. “He had access to your office. What about your
apartment?”

“I don't
know,” Britta said with a frown. “He may still have a key. He stayed there
when he first came to town and was renovating the building for the magazine.
When he hired me, he moved into his house and I took the
apartment.”

Jean-Paul
clenched his jaw. “He has access, motive and he's into S and M. Definitely
fits our UNSUB's profile.”

“I thought R.J. had an alibi for the night Elvira Erickson was
killed?”

Jean-Paul
rocked back in his chair. “He does. But the woman could be lying.
She's…strange herself.”

“What do you mean?”

His chair hit the floor with a thud. “He's into some weird stuff
sexually.”

Britta
nodded. “I gathered that from the items and artwork in his office. But being
kinky isn't a crime.”

Jean-Paul's blood ran cold. It certainly made him a more likely
candidate. “If he keeps those things on display, think about what he might
be hiding at home.”

“Everybody has something to hide,” Britta said softly.

He shook his head. “Not everyone,
Britta. With me, what you see is what you get.”

“Then why aren't you married with your own
family?”

Pain knifed
through him like a razor blade. She was right. He did have secrets. A part
of his life he wouldn't discuss.

She leaned closer, her dark eyes probing his. “See
what I mean? You want to tear apart my life and examine it, but you won't
let me look into yours.”

Her comment hit so close to home that emotions crowded his throat.
“Just be careful around Justice,” he ground out. “He could be dangerous,
Britta.”

“You really
think he might hurt me?”

“I think he wants you,” he said deadpan. Not that
he
didn't want her, too. But in
another way. “And Justice strikes me as a man who gets what he wants no
matter what he has to do to get it.”

* * *

J
EAN
-P
AUL'S COMMENT ABOUT
R.J. disturbed Britta, but not as much as the pain she'd seen on his face
when she'd asked why he didn't have a family of his own.

She should have kept her mouth shut.
Shouldn't have tried to get personal. But the man was getting to her on more
than one level. Sexually, she had to admit wanting him. Craving his touch.
Even fantasizing about his hands on her body.

And God, he'd been so compassionate with the
Ericksons. He was smart, too. And worried about R.J. hurting
her.

He's simply doing his job. He doesn't care about
you.

But what would it feel like if he did? She'd ruin it with the
truth.

Reality
intervened quickly and she forced herself back to the task.

Britta licked her lips, her own body
feeling hot and heavy, then glanced up to see Jean-Paul watching her. She
had forgotten that she wasn't alone, had allowed the woman's fantasy to
become her own. And Jean-Paul Dubois was on the floor in the restaurant
giving her the orgasm of her life.

“Should I read that one?” Jean-Paul asked in a
thick voice.

His
dark gaze met hers, the telltale smile in his eyes indicating that he
realized exactly what had happened. Humiliation flooded her cheeks and she
shook her head.

“No.
This one isn't violent.”

His chuckle rumbled through the air, and she closed the letter,
deciding to include that fantasy in her column. But it told her nothing
about the killer, so she moved on to another submission, this time skimming
for any mention of lancets, snakes, S and M, poisons or the swamp
devil.

Just the
image the killer's name produced destroyed any lingering sexual desires she
might have had.

* * *

T
WO HOURS LATER
. All Jean-Paul had learned
was how titillating the written word could be.

Each minute his awareness of Britta had grown
stronger. He'd loosened his own tie and shirt, the air growing warmer and
the room smaller with each letter. A few times he'd even forgotten his
purpose because he'd become engrossed in the fantasy. And in each one, the
woman he'd been making love with was Britta.