Stop Me (22 page)

“I saw him in his car, briefly.”

He seemed to consider her response. “What did the man who came after you look like?”

“He was wearing a mask and a long trench coat. With the fog and the dark, it could’ve been Mrs. Moreau and I wouldn’t have been able to tell.”

“What about height?”

“Not too tall, not too short. I know I should be able to give you more, but details aren’t exactly a priority when you’re running for your life. All I cared about was getting away.”

Romain’s hair was sticking up and his eyes still retained some of their sleepiness, but he was sexy in a delightfully rumpled way. “And now that it could’ve been Phillip and not Black, you’re beginning to believe what Black had to say.”

“I’m just telling you the marks were there, on the door.”

“But anybody could’ve broken in, and for a variety of reasons.”

“It’s just something Huff should’ve considered.” He rolled onto his back, and the muscles in his arms bulged beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt as he linked his hands behind his head. “He did consider what he found—it was my daughter’s blood. What are the chances of being framed for a crime like that?”

Jasmine tried not to notice the appealing spectacle he made—powerful and warm as he watched her from beneath those dark lashes. “Unlikely, but not impossible.”

“Huff doesn’t trust Black.”

“That doesn’t mean Black’s lying about this.”

“It means he’s probably lying.” The bed creaked as he shifted again, this time punching up his pillows. “You said the body was in Moreau’s cellar.”

“That’s right.”

Romain didn’t say anything for a moment. When he did, his words sounded like they’d been forced through his teeth. “Was it a child?” 130

Jasmine nearly reached out to touch him, to console him if she could, but she felt too helpless in the face of his grief, a grief she read in every line of his body.

“No. A man. He died violently—I could sense that a struggle had taken place.”

“A recent struggle?”

“It wasn’t a fresh kill. I’m guessing it happened five, six years ago.” That was better somehow, better for him. But it still wasn’t good news for anyone. “So what does that tell you?” he said, and sat up. He couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Maybe it was his injuries, but Jasmine suspected it had more to do with her presence in his bed. They were too aware of each other on a sexual level.

“That there’s more to this than we originally thought,” she said. “Who called in the tip about Moreau carrying a large bundle into the house the night Adele was taken?”

“The neighbor across the street. A woman by the name of Tracy Cooper.” Jasmine hadn’t seen any activity at that house. “Do you know if she still lives in the same place?”

“I have no idea. Until you showed up, I was trying to put this behind me. I hadn’t even talked to Huff, until yesterday.”

“You called him?”

“I wanted to ask about you.”

“What’d he say?”

“That you’re desperate enough to do or say anything if it’ll help you find your sister.”

“That was nice of him,” she said.

“He thinks you’re faking the psychic thing, that you’re a fraud,” he added.

She confronted that kind of skepticism almost every day of her life, and not just from strangers, either. It went with the territory. But it was never easy, and hearing it from Romain bothered her more than usual. “What do you think?” she asked, bristling.

“I think you aren’t going to find your sister by reinvestigating Adele’s case,” he said. “Regardless of the details, Moreau was a murderer. The body you found should tell you that much. He’s gone. Whether you agree with what I did or not, I’ve done my time. It’s over. Let it go before you get yourself into more trouble.” He was still “doing his time.” But she saw no need to say that. “If it was really over, there’d be no danger to me or anyone else,” she said instead.

He pressed a finger and thumb to his closed eyes. “Why won’t this go away?” He was talking to himself, but she answered. “Because, like I said, there’s more.”

“More what?” he demanded, dropping his hand.

She pulled her knees close to her body, hugging them to her chest—and his eyes immediately fell to the wide legs of her boxers and the bare thigh they revealed.

131

“More secrets. More lies. More guilt,” she said, trying to keep her mind on the discussion. “Why else would someone try to kill me simply for looking around a cellar?”

He blew out a sigh. “What about the dead guy?”

She was losing her focus, concentrating on the shape of Romain’s lips. He had nice lips, lips that made her think of what he’d done to her in that shower fantasy….

“What about him?”

“Do you have any idea who he might be?”

“No clue. The police might, but—” she frowned “—my name hasn’t been added to their phone tree. Even if someone tried to call, they wouldn’t be able to reach me. Whoever stole my purse has my cell phone, too.”

“You can’t get service down here, anyway.” His gaze flicked over her bare legs once again. “Why’d you come to me?”

“This was the only place I could think of that felt safe.” She tried to discreetly lower her legs, but she wasn’t wearing a bra, and that soon became as much of a distraction as her legs had been. “You’re staring,” she finally pointed out.

“Do you mind?”

Jasmine recognized his arousal, but she sensed negative emotion, too. It was her emotional history that bothered him—and the fact that he wanted her but wished he didn’t. “I’d like it better if you weren’t angry.” His eyebrows drew together. “I’m not angry.”

He’d lived with that emotion for so long, he probably wasn’t even aware of it anymore. “Would you rather I left?” she asked.

“No. You know what I’d rather you did.” His voice grew rough. “The question is whether or not you’re as interested as I am.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

Coming to her knees, she inched closer to him. The wariness that entered his face told her how hesitant he was to trust her. He reminded her of a wild animal, watching the advance of a human. When she smoothed the hair off his forehead, she almost expected him to flinch or knock her hand away. He was so ready to close himself off, protect himself. But he didn’t. He let her touch him, let her kiss his temple, his cheek, his lips. Was he remembering what such tenderness felt like?

“Be careful,” he warned as her fingers delved into his hair.

“I won’t touch your injuries.”

“I’m not worried about my injuries.” He spoke so close to her mouth their lips actually touched. “I’m warning you not to start this unless you’re willing to finish.

It’s been too long for me. I’m not playing games.”

“I’m not playing games, either.” As she pressed her lips to the strong pulse at his throat, his hand moved to her thigh. He let it rest there, testing her to see if she’d 132

object. When she didn’t, he slid his hand up the leg of her boxers to cup her bare bottom. Then his eyes fluttered shut and he dropped his head back as if he’d just sampled heaven. “God, that’s good,” he breathed.

Jasmine’s heart was racing so fast she could hardly speak. “I should tell you I’m not on the Pill or…or anything.” Generally speaking, she had no reason to use birth control. She hadn’t even kissed a man in two years.

His eyelashes lifted, revealing fresh intent. “I have a couple of condoms. They were given to me by a friend when I left prison, so they’re pretty old, but they should work.”

Prison. That word hit her like a blast of cold air, and she instinctively pulled back.

He didn’t reach for her, didn’t try to convince her not to worry about his past.

He froze as though he expected the encounter to be over. Maybe that was why he’d brought up the subject—to make sure she knew what she was doing. But it didn’t matter. She wanted him too badly to stop. He was a stranger, and yet she felt as if she knew him, as if they’d already made love. “A condom is better than nothing.” His hand slid back up her leg, seeking what he’d found earlier. “I’m glad you see it my way.”

“You’re right,” she said when she’d recovered enough breath to speak.

“About what?” He watched her closely, reading her responses, feeding off her excitement.

“I much prefer this to a dream.”

He smiled as he pulled her against him. But when he touched her lips with his, it was very light. He was merely growing familiar before coaxing her to open her mouth to him and let him take the kiss deeper.

He smelled like the outdoors, which was intoxicating in itself, but the security she felt in his arms was even better. She felt as though he could protect her from anything.

She let him kiss her, kissed him back—and clung to him as the hand in her boxers grew bolder and more possessive.

He broke away first, breathing heavily as he looked down at her. “Je suis ivre sur le seul goût de toi.”

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“In summary, wow,” he said while yanking off his T-shirt. He’d done it as a practical matter, not to show off, but the sight of his bare torso sent a fresh charge of hormones through Jasmine.

“Wow indeed,” she breathed.

“What?”

She tugged at her bottom lip. “Nice chest.”

He was too focused on her to respond to the compliment. “Your turn.” 133

She struggled to gain some control over her galloping heart rate, but it felt as if she’d stepped off solid ground. She couldn’t remember ever being so completely enthralled. “I hope you weren’t making false promises on the phone,” she teased.

Suddenly self-conscious, she’d resorted to talking as a way to put off removing her clothes.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” he said and placed her on her back.

Jasmine’s hands curled into fists. “That’s good news. I think.” His gaze swept over her. “I only see one problem.” That she was suddenly terrified to go past the point of no return? “What’s that?”

He ran a finger beneath the elastic waist of her boxers, raising gooseflesh on her belly. “Access.”

He began to remedy that, but she quickly stopped him. “I’m a little nervous,” she explained. “Maybe I can make you…uh…happy another way.” His eyebrows went up. “You’re serious?”

“I think so.”

“Sorry, I’m not remotely interested in a consolation prize.” He slipped his hands under her shirt, brushing his thumbs over her breasts. “But we don’t have to do anything until you’re ready.”

She didn’t remember giving the go-ahead on the clothing removal, but her shirt was gone a minute later. She didn’t object. Catching his whisker-roughened chin, she forced him to look her in the eye. “This is crazy. Are we sure we want to do this?”

“You’re kidding, aren’t you?” He was obviously too far gone to even consider bailing out.

“I’m not kidding.”

“Trust me.” He trailed kisses down her neck, moving lower until he touched the tip of one breast with his tongue.

She gasped and tried to pull away, but there was nowhere to go. Her escape attempt was halfhearted to begin with.

“Something wrong?” he murmured.

She didn’t answer him. Her boxers were already on their way to her ankles, and from then on he made sure the only thing she uttered was a moan.

Romain’s injuries hurt, but not nearly as much as he’d expected. He made love to Jasmine twice before he even remembered he’d been in a fight.

“I’ve finally made up my mind.” Her shyness gone, she lay next to him covered only in a fine sheet of sweat, one arm over her face.

He rolled onto his side so he could admire the view. She was even more beautiful than he’d imagined. But very different from Pam—smaller, darker-skinned, 134

bigger-breasted, with stunning, almond-shaped eyes that’d been so unguarded they’d held him mesmerized as he moved on top of her.

He hated that Pam had already entered his thoughts, but he supposed it was inevitable. “About what?”

Smiling, she lifted her arm to peer at him. “I don’t think we should make love.”

“Okay,” he said. “I won’t touch you.” But he ran a finger from her collarbone to her belly button, and she didn’t stop him. “We’re out of condoms, anyway.”

“Then my timing’s good.”

Personally, he wished they had one more. “You ready for breakfast?”

“Definitely.”

“Do you like pain perdu?”

“What is it?”

“French toast.”

“As long as it comes with coffee,” she said and yawned as she stretched.

He resisted the urge to cup her breast again. “I can arrange that. Would you like cream?”

“And sugar.”

He got up to put on his boxers, jeans and a sweatshirt. It was a crisp morning.

Now that they were no longer sharing body heat, he was beginning to feel the cold.

He needed to start the stove. “Would you like a pair of sweats until I can get a fire going?”

“That’d be great.”

He tossed her the clothes, then told himself to get busy. But he couldn’t help lingering to watch her dress.

“What?” she asked, smiling.

His clothes almost swallowed her. They would’ve fit Pam a lot better. She’d been nearly six feet tall, only three inches shorter than he was. But he actually preferred the look of Jasmine in his sweats—which made him regret letting her wear them.

“I just wanted to…” the past intruded, destroying the euphoria of a moment before and overwhelming him with guilt “…thank you,” he finished.

“For what?” she asked in surprise.

Now cold and empty inside, he forced a smile. “For this morning.” She eyed him, suddenly leery. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I should. That was the best fuck I’ve had in years.” Her expression changed, grew shuttered. He’d taken what she’d given him, what amounted to the most incredible two hours of his life since Pam died, and thrown it in the dirt. He supposed that, subconsciously, he’d been trying to remind 135

himself that she wasn’t Pam, that she would never be Pam. And he hated her for being able to satisfy him in a way only Pam could satisfy him before.

But he instantly cursed himself for lashing out. He knew it had everything to do with him and nothing to do with her, one of those things the psychologist had told him he did to ruin his own happiness. Except this time he’d ruined someone else’s, too.