Say You Love Me (20 page)

All her false bravado, her acts of defiance, the magazine and her nights on the street—what did it mean? Today, she looked like a different person. Like a young innocent girl, all scrubbed clean, void of makeup and show, free of the disguise. Or was this persona the disguise and the dolled-up version the real one?

Determined to make her come clean, he strode forward. The chatter in the room abruptly came to a stop. A few men and two young girls hid their faces. A hushed whisper of fear reverberated through the sudden silence. He realized his badge was showing.

The people in the line turned around and he froze as Britta's gaze landed on him. Her brown eyes pierced him with anger. Then she raised her hand to the crowded room and spoke calmly, “Relax, he's not here to harm you or arrest anyone.”

A second later, she handed over her task to another volunteer and rushed toward him. He wanted to grab her, but she jerked him outside beneath an awning. The mist in the air added a chill that matched the cold look on her face.

“Are you following me, Jean-Paul?”

Guilt flared, along with his own anger. “Hell, yes. I followed you. But I wouldn't have to if you weren't so secretive.”

“You had no right to invade my privacy.” She released his arm and paced in front of him. “I thought you were eating with your family.”

“I did, but I was worried so I left to check on you.”

“You mean to check
up
on me?”

Their gazes locked, tension rippling between them. A thunder cloud rumbled above, the gray sky painting shadowy streaks along the grimy, graffiti-covered walls. The vile scent was barely tolerable, yet Britta didn't seem to notice.

“When I left you, you were with Justice,” he barked. “I found out some things about him that aroused my suspicions.”

“And when you called, I told you I was fine.”

“You also said you were going to stay home and work.”

She sighed. “So you showed up here and scared the bejesus out of these homeless people. All they want is a hot meal, not to be harassed by the cops or treated like criminals.”

He hadn't considered their reaction. “I didn't come here to hurt anyone, Britta.”

“They don't know that.” Her voice rose with such passion that he nearly smiled. “Half of them are junkies or winos, all of them are homeless and a few probably have records or minor offenses that put them where they are now.”

“So you come here to help them?” he asked in a low voice.

“I come here because they're my family.” Britta pressed a fist to her heart. “This is where I belong, Jean-Paul. Now, go back to your family and leave us alone.”

* * *

W
ITHOUT ANOTHER WORD
, Britta stormed into the center. How dare Jean-Paul Dubois check up on her? Didn't he realize she could take care of herself? That she didn't need him around?

Good grief. What did she care what he thought? She wasn't trying to fit in with the Duboises.

And he's not here because of anything personal. He's just doing his job.

She'd overreacted. Heck, she should have told him about the man with the cape. But she scanned the crowded room again and didn't see him. He was long gone by now.

Besides, he hadn't approached her. He was probably just a tourist or another wino and she was panicking.

Suddenly, Jean-Paul stepped back inside, removed his jacket and tie and tossed them on a side table. He seemed oblivious to the fact that several men eyed them with envy. The clothing probably wouldn't be there when he returned to retrieve them.

The next two hours, he worked alongside her, pitching in to clean and bus tables, empty the garbage and wash dishes. She tried to ignore him, but watched out of the corner of her eye and noticed a few of the women tidying their appearance as he approached them. Then he paused to assist a physically handicapped war veteran to a table and her heart squeezed.

By the time they finished and the last person left fed and happy, she was not only physically exhausted but mentally drained. Her feet and body ached from tension and lack of sleep.

As always, she'd searched each face for her mother but hadn't found her. Someday, maybe she would accept the fact that she'd lost her forever.

Jean-Paul spoke to each of the volunteers, then leaned close to Wynona and murmured a Cajun expression that made the heavyset woman giggle.

Britta rolled her eyes. Even Wynona had fallen prey to Jean-Paul's charm. And he'd made friends with the others as if he'd always been a part of their team. She had no idea why she resented it, but she did.

If he didn't go away, she was going to fall for him.

“Come on,” he said as he dried and stacked the massive pots. “I'll walk you back to your apartment, Britta.”

“I can find my own way, Jean-Paul.”

His smile faded and he fixed her with an intense stare. “We have to talk. You're not running from me again.”

She ran a hand through her hair, knowing it was sweaty and that she smelled like creole and soapy dishwater. And he was standing so close, smelling the same way, yet still so sexy and brooding that she had the strongest urge to kiss him.

His dark eyes skated over her, a sultry smile curving his mouth as he reached up and plucked a bread crumb from her hair. “What do I have to do to earn your trust,
chere?
”

Her throat closed, emotions warring inside her. Trusting a man was impossible.

But it didn't stop her from wanting him or aching to have his arms around her.

* * *

“I
WANT YOU
, Sissy. Say you want me, too.”

Sissy Lecher struggled against the bindings, a tear dribbling down her face. “Why are you doing this?”

He tightened his fingers around her throat. Felt her muscles contract. The breath whoosh out. Her eyes flared with panic and fear. God, she had beautiful eyes. “Say it. Say you love me.”

She shook her head, but he jerked her neck, shoving her into the pillow. “Say it.”

“I…love you,” she whispered, choking on the words.

Heat fired his blood. The more resistance she offered, the more excited he became. The more she strained against the bindings, the harder he got.

He stroked his cock, then shoved his full length toward her mouth. He'd make her eat out of the palm of his hand.

Laughter escaped him at the double entendre. But he'd better not indulge. He might leave evidence. And he had to be careful. Couldn't get caught.

The muscles in his thighs tensed and she tried to press her legs together. But he pried them apart, rolled on the condom and straddled her. Her bare nipples stood erect, begging for his mouth but he twisted them with his fingers instead. Dressed in the crotchless red teddy, her pale skin looked like an angel's yet her eyes held a devil's desires.

He'd finish with her now.

Then he'd take another. One that nobody would guess. A stray from his pattern that would have the cops jumping up and down with shock.

Two more days until Mardi Gras.

Two more days until he had Britta.

But Dubois was in the way.

His plan took shape in his mind. He knew the perfect way to get back at Dubois for interfering. A way to assure himself that Britta would come to him.

A way to hurt them both.

And show them that he would win.

Sissy began to convulse around him, and he emptied himself inside the poisoned condom, then watched as she clawed the sheets from the pain.

Seconds later, it was over. She screeched a ragged breath. Gasped and choked on the bile. Then her chest ceased to move up and down.

He climbed off and studied her in disgust as he raised the lancet toward her heart. The blade pierced her skin, then ripped through cartilage and muscle. Bones snapped and cracked. Her organs appeared, exposed and raw. She looked so ugly. Her eyes aghast.

He'd had to do it.

Satisfied she had been punished, he snapped a photograph to send to Britta.

* * *

“We
MUST WIN THE WAR
over sin!” Reverend Cortain shouted.

Hilda Holliday bowed to him in front of the fire, desperate for answers and relief. Ever since she'd heard her baby girl Ginger had been killed by the swamp devil, she'd been sick.

She'd cried till her tear ducts had dried up, had yelled and screamed at her husband and blamed him. If he hadn't been such a tough son of a bitch, her little princess never would have run away. And Lord Almighty, to have turned to selling herself on the streets—No, no, no, it just wasn't possible.

“Thank you for having this special prayer service, Reverend,” Hilda whispered raggedly. “I'm just so hollow with grief.”

He pressed his hands gently over hers. “To lose a loved one, even though we know they've gone to a better place, is hard for the mortal soul.”

“The police, they don't know who did it yet. But I want justice.” Her hand shook violently as she removed an old worn photo of her daughter at age three and laid it on the altar. “I know she strayed, but she didn't deserve this. The Lord forgives all, don't he, Reverend?”

Reverend Cortain shifted, tugging at the white-collared shirt. “Yes, sister, he heard your daughter's whispered plea to be saved before she met her master.”

Sweat created dark pools on his shirt below his armpits as he raised them to spread his fingers across her head. “The Lord told me himself.”

She nodded, grateful to hear his words of comfort. She'd waited for answers to her prayers when Ginger had first left home, but she'd never made a connection like some of the sainted chosen people claimed. But then again, she'd been lost herself when she was young. Her pappy had told her she weren't worth nothin' and then she'd married Jim Bob and proved his point.

Only good thing she'd ever done was birth Ginger.

“Reverend, someone has to pay the price for killin' innocent children, for leading them astray.”

You're right,” Cortain said. “The ones who entice our children into temptation should suffer.”

“You mean my husband and me?”

“I mean the other street girls. The pimps. All those who run the strip clubs and bars. Feeding alcohol and drugs to ravage the young people's minds.” His voice rose with conviction, “Just look at that magazine
Naked Desires
. They're positively shameless the way they print pornography. They emphasize the rewards of sinning and entice girls to cross over into the dark side. Britta Berger, the confessions columnist, encourages sex with strangers. The hussy must be stopped.”

Hilda nodded, finding a new focus for her anger. She could crusade against the bars and strip clubs. And she could help destroy that magazine. Especially that Berger woman. Women ought to be helping one another, not glorifying sin.

She spotted Elvira Erickson's mama and headed toward her. Debra Schmale's mother claimed that her daughter had run out that day looking like a whore. Together they could band together to try to save the children.

Maybe they could even run that Berger woman out of town.

* * *

“W
HY WOULD YOU
keep it a secret that you help the homeless people, Britta?” Jean-Paul rushed to keep up with her as she practically sprinted through the streets.

She swung around as if desperate to escape him. “I'm not looking for rewards or attention,” she said. “Like I told you, they're family to me just like yours are to you.”

Silence lapsed, taut and thick, charged with tension. They passed a walking ghost tour, a cool mist falling, making the air gray with fog. Up ahead, the daily parade had started with dozens of floats, motorcycles, dancers, horse-drawn carriages filled with sponsors, a train of voodoo princesses and other cultural displays. Britta wove through the side streets, avoiding the crowd.

“You don't have to follow me home,” she said.

“Dammit, Britta, I'm trying to keep you safe.”

“I can take care of myself. Why don't you go work on the investigation?”

Her jab hit home and he sighed in frustration. “That's just it. We're checking leads, but so far nothing. Well, except for Justice.”

She paused, planted her hands on her hips and fumed at him. A smudge of creole sauce had splattered and dried to her cheek, her hair was flat and sweaty, her clothes damp with perspiration and food. She'd never looked more beautiful.

“What about him?”

“Justice has a collection of medieval weapons. I'm talking swords, lancets and spears. I've requested a search warrant now for his house. If we find out he bought the ones used in the murders, we can nail him.”

“You're determined to pin this on R.J., aren't you?”

“And you're determined to defend him.” He arched a brow. “What kind of hold does he have on you, Britta?”