Текст книги "The Last Victim"

Автор книги: Karen Robards

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

He looked at her without speaking for the space of maybe a couple of heartbeats. “I’m gonna say this one more time, Doc, and you can believe me or not: I’ve done a lot of bad things. But I didn’t do that.”

The stupid thing was, for a moment there she trembled on the brink of maybe, kinda, sorta, halfway believing him. Then her thoughts snapped back over a combined police/FBI investigation, a trial and conviction, a textbook list of markers, a forensic file as thick as a dictionary. What was she going to believe, the preponderance of all those things, or a man who even before he died she had concluded was a psychopath, albeit a handsome, charismatic one?

The answer was clear.

“Nice try, but no cigar,” she said, and as his eyes darkened she turned to once again head to the bedroom.

“Doc.” His voice stopped her before she’d taken much more than a single step. She pivoted to face him.

“What?” she responded tartly. She was on guard now, armored against any type of persuasion he might try to use: Hopelessly Naïve R-Not-Us.

“Could you at least turn on the TV?” As she stared at him, he gave her a wry smile. “I don’t sleep anymore, you know.”

Why not? It was a small thing. Walking back to the coffee table, she picked up the remote and turned the TV on for him, volume down low.

“ESPN,” he requested.

She found the channel.

“Thanks,” he said, as without a word she put the remote on the coffee table, and clicking off the light as she passed the switch, went to the bedroom.

“Hey, Doc,” he called after her.

She stopped. “What now?” she growled, without even turning around.

“Like I said, way too softhearted.”

Charlie stiffened. Then, to the sound of his low laughter behind her, she stalked into the bedroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Alone in the bedroom, Charlie could still hear the TV. It was infuriating to realize that she found the barely audible sounds of whatever game was on comforting. It was even more infuriating to realize that she found the knowledge that Garland was right there in the next room comforting.

You know your life has serious problems when having a serial killer ghost nearby makes you feel safe.

Charlie reflected sourly on the sorry state of her life as she tucked the canister of sea salt safely away in her suitcase.

Then, dropping her robe, shivering a little because the shortie nightgown and matching panties she wore beneath were thin nylon and lace and left a lot of skin available to be chilled by the air-conditioning, she scrambled into bed, clicked off the bedside lamp, and yanked the covers practically all the way over her head.

Within minutes she was asleep.

Sometime after that, Holly came to her.

Not Holly’s ghost, because Holly’s ghost had crossed over and didn’t appear to her anymore. This was a dream, and with the small part of her brain that was still cognizant enough to recognize such things, Charlie knew it was a dream, even as she found herself caught up in it. It featured Holly as she had looked on the day her family had died, the day she had been kidnapped, Holly of the sweet smile and beach-girl tan and long blond hair.

“I love dancing, don’t you?” Holly called over her shoulder to Charlie. Charlie realized that they were both dancing, each swaying around on a dance floor in a man’s arms—close enough so that she could see Holly, hear Holly. And she realized that it was her present-day, thirty-two-year-old self interacting with seventeen-year-old Holly, and it didn’t seem weird to either of them.

In the dream, Charlie answered, “Yes.” She saw that they were on the Sanderling’s dance floor, saw the glittering night sky and flaming tiki torches and other couples crowding close around them, and knew that it was a replay of the evening she had just spent, only with Holly added to the mix. That was fine, there was nothing wrong with that, and Charlie smiled as she watched Holly being happy, Holly enjoying herself, Holly young and carefree and alive—until she noticed what Holly was wearing. It was the poufy pink prom dress that Charlie had only ever seen on Holly’s ghost. Something struck her as being important about that, and she frowned, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. Watching Holly, struggling to clear away the foggy-mindedness of the dream for long enough to make the connection, Charlie remembered Bayley Evans. The girl had gone to a dance less than a week before she had been kidnapped. Had Holly gone to a dance in the days before she was kidnapped? Charlie didn’t know. If so, Charlie hadn’t been invited along, although as she had been a newcomer to the school and not a member of the popular crowd, like Holly was, that wouldn’t be surprising.

Frowning in her dream, she glanced back at Holly, only to discover that her friend was being whirled off the floor. Beautiful even in that garish dress, Holly was throwing her head back to laugh up at her partner as he danced her away into the darkness. Frantic suddenly, Charlie tried to call her back, tried to see the face of the man Holly was dancing with, tried to do something to stop what she knew was going to happen next—but there was nothing she could do.

“Holly!” she cried, craning her neck in an attempt to keep the other girl in sight. Her heart pounded, her pulse raced, every muscle in her body strained to go after her friend—but she just couldn’t break away. Helpless, consumed with the need to see into the darkness where Holly had disappeared, she struggled to free herself from the arms holding her even as she cried out again: “Holly!”

But it was so dark beyond the dance floor that she could no longer see Holly.

As she struggled more violently to break free, knowing even as she did it that she was caught up in the terrible futility that was part and parcel of the dream state, the arm around her waist suddenly hardened and tightened, and she was whirled around then caught up abruptly against her partner. The man she was dancing with was an abstract dream figure no more. He was solid and there as he pulled her hard against him. She could feel the unyielding strength of his body, the steely muscularity of the arm around her waist, the warmth and size of his hand gripping hers, with a vividness that had been missing before.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you now. It was only a bad dream.”

Even through her terror for Holly and desperation to stop what she knew she couldn’t stop and the mind-clouding effect of the dream, Charlie would have recognized that distinctive voice in her ear anywhere in the universe. She looked up sharply, and met Garland’s sky blue eyes. His tawny head was bent over hers. His beautifully cut mouth was hard with concern. His broad shoulders blocked much of her view. It was Garland she was dancing with now, Garland whose hand held hers, Garland whose arm was tight around her waist, Garland whose rock-solid body she was pressed against.

And she realized that, in her dream, she was foolishly, ridiculously, but undeniably glad to see him.

Something of what she was feeling must have shown in her eyes, because his expression changed. His eyes narrowed on her face. Some of the tautness around his cheekbones relaxed.

“Now, ain’t this a kick in the head,” he drawled, and gave her what she could only describe as a wolfish smile.

Whatever he meant by that, at the moment she had bigger fish to fry than him.

“My friend—Holly,” she told him in despair, neck twisting as she tried one more time to look into the darkness beyond the dance floor to where Holly had disappeared. “I need to go after her. I need to stop her.”

“You were having a nightmare.” Despite her attempts to get away, Garland held her fast. “I’ve got you safe now. Whatever you saw before wasn’t real.”

Charlie searched the darkness at the edge of the dance floor for a moment longer. It was impenetrable, dredged up from what seemed to be a thousand mental images of the darkest night ever. As she stared into the unnaturally stygian depths she realized that Garland was right: Holly as she had just seen her had been no more than a memory invading her sleep. Holly didn’t need her; Charlie could let her go. As she accepted the truth of that, she almost imperceptibly felt herself start to relax. Idiotic to think of Garland as someone she could depend on, but for now, just for now, she apparently did. Her body softened, and in the process molded itself instinctively to Garland’s wide-shouldered, lean-hipped frame. The instant reaction of her nipples to contact with his hard chest sent a flutter of pleasure scooting along her nerve endings. The pressure of his lower body against hers made her blood begin to heat. Then she realized that she could actually feel him, feel the solid wall of his chest against her breasts with every breath she drew, feel the brush of his jeans against her bare legs with every movement of his powerful thighs, feel the unmistakable maleness of him pressing hard against her abdomen. Feel him just as surely and acutely as if he were a living, breathing man.

Holding her in his arms.

Her body responded with a throbbing awareness that made her catch her breath.

Then the rest of what Garland had said registered.

She looked sharply back up at him. “Are you saying that this is real?”

He smiled at her, not wolfish any longer, but a slow, intimate smile that dazzled her a little. God, he’s handsome.

“What do you think?”

“It can’t be.”

The square angle of his jaw was right above her eye level. He was clean-shaven, his skin firm and tan. His head was bent over hers. Her eyes wandered the flat planes of his cheeks, the high curves of his cheekbones, the thick, dark brown eyebrows, the elegantly carved nose. His glinted down at her, impossible to read. But there was something in their depths that told her he was every bit as aware of her as she was of him.

That he could feel her, too.

Her heart was beating too fast still, but not because of Holly now.

“There you go, then,” he replied, and swung her around in a movement of the dance. Refusing to be distracted by an action she guessed was deliberately designed to do exactly that, she narrowed her eyes at him with quick suspicion.

“I’m dreaming this, right?”

He sighed. His hand gripped hers more firmly. She could feel the thickness of his palm, the slight roughness of his fingertips. She could feel the texture of his soft cotton T-shirt and the tensile flexing of his shoulder beneath it. She could feel how big and muscular he was, how absolutely, unmistakably male, and whether it was a dream or not her pulse went all tremulous and her stomach began to quiver.

Real. This feels real. He feels real.

“Jesus, Doc, relax for once. Go with the flow. Just dance with me,” he said, which wasn’t really an answer at all. But she didn’t argue, because she didn’t feel like arguing anymore, and because she discovered that she liked being in his arms, in a major way, and because this had to be a dream, which meant she could relax and enjoy it because none of it mattered. Now that she thought about it she knew for sure it was a dream, as they were still on the dance floor at the Sanderling, dancing politely while the band played. The same couples as before were dancing all around them, and the same spectators crowded the edge—and while Garland was wearing his jeans and boots and T-shirt, she was out on the dance floor, in the midst of everything, in her flimsy shortie nightgown and bare feet, which wasn’t even remotely possible.

I can feel the texture of the floor beneath my feet. I can smell … What can I smell? Slow-roasting meat, and the citronella from the torches, and plants and flowers and a hint of perfume from the woman in the black dress who just danced by. I can smell Garland. He smells like the sea.

His hips cradled hers. His thighs moved against her thighs. She could feel the roughness of his jeans against her bare legs. She could feel the pressure of his hand splayed possessively across the small of her back.

The music was that same torchy love song that had played before, with its slow, throbbing beat.

We’ve got tonight.…

Dancing with him, swaying to the music, the tough leather of his boots sliding alongside her bare feet, she felt her body start to pulse with that same slow, torchy rhythm.

Earlier, when she’d been dancing, first with Tony and then, for that brief, infuriating moment, with Garland, her body hadn’t quickened and started to go all warm and liquid inside. It hadn’t softened, and it hadn’t wanted.

But this time, in Garland’s arms, in her dream, it did.

“Where’s Tony?” she asked, because if this was some kind of semi-skewed re-creation of her evening, Tony should be in it, too, along with Crane and Kaminsky, although she hadn’t seen them yet, either.

A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck Tony,” Garland replied coolly, which made Charlie smile because it sounded so exactly like something Garland would say that her dream suddenly felt way real again.

Only it wasn’t, because it couldn’t be.

But it felt real enough when, without warning, his thigh moved between hers, rough and solid, pressing against her, sliding hard against her silky panties. The effect was electrifying. Her body instantly tightened. It instantly burned.

“What …” Her eyes shot to his face in instinctive protest, but then she was distracted by the realization that there was now a ceiling above them as they danced. Dark and metallic, it glittered with a thousand brilliantly colored stars thrown by a disco ball that hung spinning high above her head. Charlie gaped at it, gaped at the crowd, which as quick as a blink had turned rougher and younger, and at the packed tables crammed in around the dance floor. The smell had changed, too: it was now popcorn and beer. Cool smooth wood lay beneath her feet. The couples dancing near them looked like bikers and their babes. The bar stretching along the far wall was packed with revelers. The vibe was low-class and raucous, the decibel level off the charts. The music was hotter, wilder, with a different, pulsing rhythm. The song—she knew that song. What was it?

Adele’s wailing “Rolling in the Deep.”

“… just happened?” she finished, because the transformation was so mind-boggling she forgot that she had been meaning to conclude with a starchy “… do you think you’re doing?”

Holding her close, swaying with her to the pounding music, moving that long, powerful thigh between her legs to devastating effect, Garland smiled into her eyes. She could feel every muscular inch of him. The combination was enough to send a fresh infusion of heat rushing through her veins.

Forget starchy. This was its opposite.

“Don’t know. But this is more my kind of place.”

“How did we get here?” Foolish question. How did anyone get anywhere in a dream?

“Beats me.” The music was so loud that he had to speak right in her ear. “Whatever you do, don’t let go of me, Doc. Wouldn’t want to lose you.” She felt his warm breath against her skin, and then what she thought were his lips, nuzzling the outer curve of her ear. A delicious little shiver ran along her nerve endings. She didn’t pull away.

“Do you think that’s possible?” The thought was faintly worrisome. He lifted his head to look down at her. Charlie frowned at him.

“Who knows? This is one screwy dream. I vote we don’t test it.” His voice took on a husky note. “Put your arms around my neck, Doc. Both of ’em.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Garland lifted the hand he was holding and guided it around his neck. Charlie didn’t resist. Instead her arms encircled his neck while he wrapped his arms around her waist. He was holding her so tightly now that it was hard to know where she ended and he began.

Because of his height and her lack of shoes, hanging on to his neck pulled her up onto her toes. She was practically glued against the warm, taut wall of his chest while his body moved suggestively against hers. The pleasurable throb inside her intensified until it was something way hotter and more liquid.

This is sexual foreplay to music, she thought. This baddest of bad guys was heating her up. Turning her on.

He was doing it deliberately, too, she was sure, and she—face facts—was reveling in it.

“I don’t know how to dance like this.” She sounded faintly breathless to her own ears. Sad to realize that she had never given herself the opportunity to learn. From the time she was seventeen, her life had been all about accomplishing one goal. She hadn’t played, she hadn’t partied, and unless a social occasion she was attending had called for it, she hadn’t danced. And even when she had, those had been country club dances. Nothing like what was going on around her now.

“Just hang on and trust me. You trust me, don’t you, Doc?”

“No.” She shook her head, and he laughed.

She was plastered so close against him that she was able to feel every bulge and sinew and belt buckle and zipper, moving with him like he was her lover, like he was her man. She had never in her life danced the way they were dancing now, swaying and sliding and turning and writhing in a sensuous give and take that made her feel like someone she didn’t even know.

“Why am I dreaming about dancing like this with you?” Tinged with vexation, the words popped out of her mouth, because it had just occurred to her that if she was going to get blown away by sexy dream fantasies, the man they should be focused on was Tony, or one of her ex-boyfriends, or some great new guy she was just now imagining—or, basically, anybody but him.

“ ’Cause you like me.” Garland lifted his head from where it had been nuzzling into her hair and met her gaze. His eyes were intense, with a dark, smoldering gleam. “Come on, Doc, admit it. You know you do.”

Charlie couldn’t say anything. To deny it would be a lie. To admit it—she wasn’t going to admit it. Not even in her dream. Not to him. Not to anyone. Not with her heart beating a mile a minute and her pulse racing and her breathing coming way too fast. When he saw she wasn’t going to answer, he didn’t press her. Instead his head dipped, and his lips found her throat. Hot and damp, his mouth slid down the side of her neck. Charlie shivered. She went weak at the knees. His mouth found the tender curve between her neck and shoulder, and she could feel his tongue caressing her there. She sucked in air. Her body suddenly felt boneless. His arms tightened, pulling her closer still, and her breasts swelled against his chest and her nipples tightened and yearned. His leg between hers was part of the dance, she knew that now, but the friction of it moving against that most sensitive part of her made her body quake.

She liked the quaking. She liked his lips on her skin. She liked the way he was making her feel. And yes, although she wasn’t about to admit it out loud, she liked him.

Actually, like was too pale and puny a word. But it was as far as she was willing to go, even in her dream.

She was so tight against him by this time that every movement he made felt erotic. His hands on her lower back slid down the silky stuff of her nightgown to cup her butt. In real life, if a guy had grabbed her like that while they were dancing, she would have decked him. If real Garland had tried it, he would have been thrown in the hole for days. And if ghost Garland had ever so much as thought about it, she would have gone after him with her sage incense. But in her dream, feeling Garland’s big hands on her butt sent excitement rocketing through her. She was practically riding his thigh now, arms locked around his neck as he turned with her and dipped her this way and that. The hot throbbing inside her intensified and concentrated on that one burning point of contact until she thought she might melt right there in his arms. Tiny scalding thrills raced along her nerve endings. Holding her close, he rocked into her as they danced, letting her feel him, leaving her in no doubt that he was aroused, turning her on to her back teeth.

“You’re dancing like a pro now.” Garland pressed his lips to the delicate hollow below her ear. Charlie went all shivery inside. It was a good thing he was bearing most of her weight, because she was pretty sure that at this point her legs were so rubbery she couldn’t stand.

“Do you always make out with your partners on the dance floor?” she asked tartly, in pure self-defense. The hot crawl of his mouth along the underside of her jaw was thrilling her clear down to her toes. But the telling thing was, despite the bite of her words she didn’t try to pull away.

“Nah.” He was still kissing her neck. She could feel his quick smile against her skin. “Only with the real babes.”

At his teasing, she had to smile a little, too, although her heart was going a mile a minute and her body had all but turned to putty in his hands. He was doing it on purpose, she thought with the minuscule part of her mind that was still on watchdog duty, charming her even while he made her want him times about a thousand.

Which was exactly what a charismatic psychopath would do.

And she let herself go with it, because she liked it so much—and anyway, none of it was real.

For the first time in a long while, she was with a man who made her feel like a woman.

Probably you ought to try waking up about now.

That cool prickle of clarity came from another, more forceful stirring of the practical part of her mind, the watchdog part, the guardian. Charlie heard it. But she wasn’t going to allow herself to listen to it, or think about all the reasons why feeling sexy in Garland’s arms was wrong—or, worse, plain dumb. She wasn’t going to think at all. She was just going to go with the flow, as he had suggested, and exist in the moment. Indulge herself a little. Let herself imagine that he was something other than what he was, and take pleasure at being in his arms. Take pleasure at the stirrings of her body, the rising sexual tension, the delicious heat. Closing her eyes, Charlie surrendered, allowing her head to rest on his wide shoulder, giving herself up to the music and him, immersing her senses in the sheer sensual delight of his mouth exploring her neck and his hands cupping her butt and everything else that was going on between them. Take pleasure in moving with him and against him, of feeling his hard masculinity against her softer, feminine self. He was a good dancer, no surprise there, such a great-looking guy would have had every opportunity to practice with a wide variety of partners. His body radiated heat, and because an unexpectedly cool breath of air feathered across her bare skin just then, she snuggled voluptuously into him. At the same time she tightened her grip on his neck and moved her head so that he could have better access to the hollow of her throat, which was where his lips were headed. She felt his breathing change, dig down a little deeper, come a little faster, as she arched into him.

Listening to the uneven cadence of his breathing, she felt almost dizzy, almost as if she’d had too much to drink and had a buzz going, although she hadn’t consumed any alcohol at all. At the same time, her body pulsed and throbbed. He was taking her higher and higher.…

You want to be careful here.

As that cautionary thought flitted through her mind, his thigh slid out from between her legs. Charlie felt instantly bereft. She made an importunate sound. Gripping her bottom, he pulled her closer still in a single rough movement that brought them pelvis to pelvis, leaving her in no doubt that whatever had distracted him hadn’t distracted him completely. As they’d danced, his big hands had by degrees worked their way up beneath the short hem of her nightgown to cup her bottom through her silky panties. Now his hands stilled and tightened, so she could feel every bit of their heat and strength as well as their broad-palmed, long-fingered shape through the fragile layer of cloth.

I love the way his hands feel on my butt.

They weren’t dancing any longer. She could no longer hear the music over the drumming of her pulse in her ears.

His mouth left her skin—reluctantly, she thought. As another whisper of surprisingly cool air touched the dampness he had left behind, she felt him straighten to his full height. Her arms still circled his neck, so she had, perforce, to stretch upward with him, until she was on her tiptoes. She wanted in the worst way to go back to what they had been doing. She made that come-hither sound again. Her head fell back so that her neck was fully exposed, inviting the return of his mouth.

“What the hell are you wearing, Doc?” he asked with a touch of wry humor: not what she had expected at all. She was still all but lost in sensation, but his tone cut through the haze of desire that had been fogging her brain. Her eyes blinked open. He was looming over her, tall and blond and gorgeous, typical Garland. Before she could answer his question, his hands left her butt and slid up farther beneath her nightgown to grip her hipbones. She felt the imprint of his hands like a brand as they closed over her bare skin. He pushed her a little away from him, just far enough that cool air could circulate between them, even while he maintained his grip on her. She lost her hold on his neck; her hands slid down over his shoulders to rest flat-palmed against his chest. It felt warm and sleek and unyielding beneath his shirt, and she pressed her hands into the firm muscles there with instinctive, sensuous pleasure. As she looked up at him she saw that his eyes were gliding down her body.

Charlie looked down at herself, too.

Her nightgown was a lustrous pale blue, silky and insubstantial, with lavish trimmings of cream-colored lace. Wide lace straps hugged her shoulders, traced the deep V neckline, and edged the hem that ordinarily ended just at the very tops of her thighs, although Garland’s hands underneath rucked the delicate garment up almost to her naval. The matching bikini panties, dainty in silk and lace, showed beneath, leaving the lower part of her toned midriff and her long, tanned legs bare. The material clung to her breasts, revealing their fullness and shape. Her aroused nipples were embarrassingly visible against the thin cloth. Only the thing was, realizing that Garland was seeing them that way, was seeing her that way, didn’t embarrass her at all, Charlie discovered.

Just like being next to naked with him and having his hands up under her nightgown holding her by her hips didn’t embarrass her at all.

Truth was, she liked it.

“I got to tell you, you keep surprising me.” Garland’s voice was slightly thick. When she looked up to meet his eyes, she saw that they were hot. Her heart revved until it was beating a mile a minute. Her blood heated to boiling as it rushed through her veins. “Back there on the Ridge, I sure didn’t have you pegged as the type to go for sexy nighties.”

“I like pretty things.” She sounded maybe a tad defensive, because lingerie was the one area in which she could indulge her feminine side and she did. Her delicates were an antidote to the nearly androgynous professional look her work life demanded.

His eyes slid over her a second time, and by the time they met hers again there was a carnal gleam in them that made her want to start pulling her nightgown over her head and shimmying out of her panties. His lids had a sudden heaviness to them. A smile curved his mouth slightly.

“Yeah, me too.”

By the way he said it she knew he meant pretty things like her, and her bones turned to water and her blood to steam.

Swaying close, she smiled into his eyes.

It was the smell penetrating the dreamy haze that had prompted her smile, and had her hands sliding sensuously over his chest, that did it. The smell was what stopped her cold. The air that wafted around them was fresher and cooler than it should be, Charlie realized at last. Instead of popcorn and beer, it smelled briny and fishy, like the sea. The surface beneath her feet was firm but gritty. Sand. A beach. Deserted, as far as she could tell. A sharp glance to her right found the ocean. Black waves tipped with silver rolled toward shore, surging to within inches of her toes. Overhead, the moon was as big as a saucer and silver, too, surrounded by giant tinsel stars that seemed close enough to touch.

Her mouth dropped open at the impossibility of it. She cast Garland a startled look. “Where are we?”

Then she remembered: this was a dream.

The negative shake of his head indicated that he had no clue.

“Romantic, though.” The smallest touch of humor was in his voice, but there was an underlying rasp to it that told her all she needed to know. Looking up into his hard, handsome face, she saw the hot flare of passion in his eyes. And she saw he was teasing her a little, too.

“Why do you say it like that?” Her breathing was uneven. Her body pulsed with sexual need. It was ridiculous to feel shy of him suddenly, but she did. To cover up, she went with her suspicious side.

“It’s your dream, Doc,” he drawled, and pulled her close. “I figure that means it works out however you want it to.”

Then he bent his head and kissed her mouth.