Say You Love Me

CHAPTER TWO

THE DEAD WOMAN’S eyes haunted Britta.

She tried to tamp her nerves as the publisher of Naked Desires, R. J. Justice, paced his office. He’d been cursing ever since she’d shown him the photo. Of course her insides were knotted. The last thing she wanted to do was talk to the cops.

In fact, she had held on to the picture all day hoping to convince herself the note and picture had been a joke, but finally her conscience had worn her down. She hadn’t been able to justify not showing R.J. the photograph.

Not even to save her own skin.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come down to that. This was an isolated incident. The police would investigate.

And she wouldn’t have to be involved or divulge her secrets.

“I know you’re shaken, Britta,” R.J. muttered.

“I’ll be fine. After all, this is probably a false alarm. We aren’t positive the woman is really dead. The photographer could have staged the scene to look like a murder. For shock value.”

“True. But he had to know we’d check it out before we printed it.”

Britta shrugged and rubbed at her temple, appalled that R.J. would consider showcasing such violence in their magazine. “Who knows what drives people. Maybe he’s a photographer and wants to impress us so he can land a job here.” Or maybe he meant for her to call the police because he wanted public recognition.

R.J. stopped pacing, his tall lanky frame silhouetted in the window, his laser eyes piercing her as if contemplating the possibility. Outside, gray clouds cast shadows across the office, making the room seem even smaller and more claustrophobic. Zydeco music pounded the air, the shouts of partiers from the street below echoed through the dirt-streaked window. Crowds of tourists still cheered and talked about the parade. Although it was early evening, tourists had already dipped into the happy-hour specials with tequila and pitchers of beer and were filing into the strip joints for their first peep show of the night.

“I have to meet with our legal team. Do you think you can handle the police?” R.J. asked.

Britta clenched her hands together. “Sure.”

For a moment, R.J. reached for her. Twice when they’d discussed her column, debating over which submissions to print and which ones were too graphic, R.J. had hinted at wanting a personal relationship with her. Hinted that he’d like to share his secret sexual fantasies with her.

She backed toward the door. R.J. was barely thirty, only a few years older than her and was well-dressed in his Armani suits. Attractive. Single. Sexy. Mysterious.

But dangerous.

The collection of gargoyles on his bookshelf made her uneasy. And he had dozens of nude sketchings on his walls—all macabre with scenes of violence—along with an S and M calendar and bronze sculptures of mutant creatures—part human, part animal.

Some men had dark sides. R.J. was one of them. She’d witnessed his charm and ability to seduce a woman. Then his volatile temper.

His fantasies teetered on the narcissistic side.

And she didn’t want to be any part of them.

THE HEAT FROM the New Orleans air simmered with sexuality and smelled of raw body sweat that only heightened R.J.’s lustful thoughts. The magic of Mardi Gras fed his addiction to the night life and celebration of man’s greatest pleasure—the physical coupling of man and woman.

He wanted Britta. He had wanted her for a long damn time.

But she wasn’t ready—yet.

In fact, if she knew the gritty cravings in his mind, she would run a million miles away.

She might even suspect that he’d sent that lurid photograph.

A soft laugh escaped him. But she couldn’t run forever. One day she’d see that the two of them were meant to be together. That he had built this magazine with her in mind. That each day as he walked the streets of the French Quarter, he imagined seducing her in his office, ripping off her clothes and taking her on his desk. Each night he fell asleep with fantasies of her on top of him, her legs spread wide on his bed, taking his aching length into her warm body. With her tied to the post, the black leather squeaking as she shifted, the whip in his hand, passionate cries floating from her lips. And then vice versa.

His cock swelled, throbbing like hell. He intended to unleash Britta’s darkest desires. And she had desires…even though she refused to admit them.

Her terror over the photo might be his ticket to win her trust. She needed comfort. Protection.

And he’d open his arms and watch her fall right into them.

DESPERATE TO ESCAPE R.J., Britta raced away, but her breath caught at the sight of the hulking man in her office. Neon lights twirled and blinked intermittently, painting a kaleidoscope of colors across his angular face as he stared out the window overlooking Bourbon Street. A mixture of blues, jazz and gospel music engulfed her, its pounding mirroring her beating heart.

Who was he? The man who’d sent her the picture?

As if he sensed her presence without even facing her, he murmured her name. “Miss Berger?”

He knew she’d been watching him. “Yes?”

He slowly turned toward her, his intimidating stance personified by his huge masculine body. “Detective Jean-Paul Dubois.”

She inhaled sharply as recognition dawned. His picture had been plastered all over the paper. That reporter Mazie Burgess had written a half-dozen hero-worshipping pieces on him. Apparently, Jean-Paul Dubois had risked his life to save hundreds after the latest hurricane disaster.

He was also a hard-ass when it came to the law.

Fear tightened her chest as she scrutinized him for signs that he wouldn’t pry too deeply into her life. That he’d accept what she gave him and ask for nothing else.

But the steely expression in his eyes told her not to count on it. His masculine body screamed Cajun and his raw sexuality hit her in the pit of her stomach. He was rugged, much bigger than he’d looked in the newspaper, probably at least six-four. Tough. Not afraid to fight. His hands were broad, scarred, as if he’d wrestled alligators in the swamp and survived.

If he’d grown up in the bayou, then he probably had.

His razor-sharp eyes looked almost black in the dim light. A five o’clock shadow already grazed his angular jaw and his masculine scent triggered wicked fantasies of her own. Naked, he would look like an ancient Roman god.

“You phoned?” he asked in a deep baritone.

She nodded, searching for her voice and professional manner.

He glanced at the current magazine cover on her bulletin board, a half-nude couple donning elaborate Mardi Gras masks with black and red feather boas as their only clothing. She silently reminded herself she didn’t have to be ashamed of her job or her affiliation with the magazine, either. Besides, it was a cover. “Yes, Detective. Please sit down.”

His gaze slid over her, then lingered a moment too long on her breasts and a disapproving flicker followed. She cleared her throat, irritated at herself for letting it bother her. What did she care if the man found her sexually lacking? She’d never indulge her fantasies or pursue a relationship with a cop.

Recovering quickly, she claimed her office chair and waited until he settled into the wingback opposite her. “I don’t know if this is important or not. It may be a prank, someone wanting to shock me. We…get some of those.” God, she didn’t want to do this. What if he asked too many questions?

Questions she didn’t want to answer.

She’d lied all her life about who she was, what she was, where she’d come from. Sometimes she barely remembered the truth herself.

“I imagine you do.” A suspicious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You like reading people’s secret fantasies?”

How could she answer that without sounding perverted herself? “There’s nothing wrong with sexual fantasies, Detective Dubois.”

“Ever include your own?”

Her chest tightened at the smoldering insinuation in his husky voice. The music outside intensified its beat, drawing her into its seductive lair. The odd love chant of New Orleans rippled through the paper-thin walls from the bar next door. “If ever I cease to love, may cows lay eggs and fish grow legs. If ever I cease to love…”

“No.” She wouldn’t openly reveal her private thoughts. Or her fears. And good heavens, she wished they’d stop that song. She didn’t believe in love.

“This isn’t about me,” she said, struggling to redirect the conversation. “I phoned the police because I received something disturbing in the mail today.”

His jaw tightened. “Yes, of course.”

She handed him the envelope and their hands brushed, sending a shiver up her spine. She drew her hand back quickly. She couldn’t allow this man to charm her. He was a pro.

He might extract information from her without her even realizing it.

Information she would take with her to her grave.

JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS SIGHED in disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? Granted he was a sucker for a woman in trouble but usually he handled his reaction better. But something about the challenge, the wariness, the spark of sexual attraction between him and Britta Berger had him on edge.

Not a good idea. He needed to get back to the crime scene. This visit was probably a waste of time.

Still she was intriguing. Her camisole top, coupled with that long whimsical skirt and sandals gave her a live-and-let-live look, yet he sensed she wore a disguise. She wasn’t laissez-faire at all but as uptight as a wild animal in a cage.

And those dynamite full lips conjured up images of sultry kisses. Plus her fiery short, red hair triggered fantasies of wild, tawdry sex.

But her brown eyes skated over him as if he were the scum of the earth. He reminded himself he was here on business. He didn’t care what she thought about him. A woman was dead, for God’s sake, and he was the lead investigator.

“He left a note with the photo,” she said in a strained voice. For a brief second, tension ruled her slender face, then she inhaled sharply, making her top stretch across her breasts and offering a glimpse of her tantalizing cleavage.

Shit.

He dropped his gaze to the desk while she slid a manila envelope toward him. “Who delivered it?”

“I have no idea. It was on my desk with the other mail when I arrived at work.”

“You lock your door when you leave your office at night?”

“Yes.”

“Who else has access to your office?”

“Just R.J., the head of the magazine.” She ran a hand through her hair. “And Ralphie, the young college kid we hired to sort mail.”

“I’ll need to talk to both of them.”

Britta frowned. “Trust me, Detective, Ralphie had nothing to do with this. He’s just a kid.”

“He has male chromosomes, Miss Berger. Trust me, I know what young men are like.”

Her face paled and he ground his teeth, hating to frighten her, but she shouldn’t trust anyone. Especially with all the crazies in town. “How about your boss?”

A nervous look flickered in her eyes. “R.J. is hard-working, innovative and knows how to make money. We have a business relationship, that’s all.”

Jean-Paul arched an eyebrow, wondering why she’d offered that tidbit, then removed the contents from the envelope. Damn it to hell and back.

The picture was of his crime scene.

The auburn-haired woman was tied to the bed, her face contorted in agony, her chest pierced with the lancet. The torn red teddy, the mask of the part crocodile, part human head on the wall, the CD player, the obscene makeup—the details were identical to the murder scene he’d just processed.

Even more alarming, the victim faintly resembled Britta Berger. Not as good-looking or striking, but her hair color and complexion were similar.

“Did anyone touch the photo besides you?”

“Just my boss. I showed it to him to ask his advice.”

“You weren’t going to call the police?”

“I wasn’t sure it was real, that…the woman was really dead.”

He contemplated her answer, then nodded. “You have no idea who sent this?”

“No.”

“Have you ever received anything like this before?”

“No. Most of the photographs are sent directly to our photography department. Our legal department handles any contacts with submissions.”

He made a disgusted sound but she continued.

“Our magazine doesn’t support murder or violence, Detective Dubois, just healthy sexual fantasies.”

His gaze met hers, emotions flaring in her exotic brown eyes, but also defiance.

“Still, some of those fantasies border on the sadistic side,” he argued. “They come from perverts, sickos, deranged individuals.”

“Everyone has their own tastes,” she admitted quietly.

And his lay toward sweet, simple, quiet, more domestic family-type women like Lucinda. Not with spooky redheads with fire in their eyes. Ones who looked as untamed as a hot July New Orleans night. This one, he imagined, had seen the seedy side of life and not cowered from it. A vixen in disguise.

One who had secrets.

“Did you know this woman?”

“No, I’ve never seen her before.” She bit down on her lip. “Why, Detective? Is it real?”

He met her gaze head-on. “Yes. I just came from the crime scene. I’m afraid this woman was murdered.”

A faint gasp escaped her. “Oh God, no.” A heartbeat of silence stretched between them, taut, filled with unanswered questions. “Who was she?” she finally asked.

“We’re still working on identifying her.” He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “I’d like for you to keep this confidential. No press. No publication of this picture. Don’t tell anyone else that you received it. Understood?”

Britta nodded. “Of course. We’ll help any way we can.”

Her mouth twitched slightly as if she wanted to say more, but she clamped her teeth over her lower lip instead.

He shifted and tapped the envelope with one finger. “Has this man written you before?”

“You mean for the column?”

“Yes.”

She massaged two fingers to her temple. “I…don’t know. But I’ll review our prior issues and see if I find anything that appears connected.”

“I’d also like to take copies of the magazine with me. And don’t forget the letters you didn’t print.”

Alarm shot through her eyes. “There must be hundreds.”

“Bring them to the station. My partner and I will help sort through them.”

Wariness pulled at her features but she agreed.

“You also mentioned a note?” He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

She handed him the sheet of charcoal-gray paper, and he read the message silently.

I know your secrets.

And you know mine.

His gaze rose again to meet hers. “What does he mean by that? He knows your secrets?”

She remained so still that he didn’t think she was going to answer. But fear momentarily settled in her eyes. “I assume he’s referring to the magazine,” she said in a low voice. “My column is called Secret Confessions.”

Liar. “It sounds more personal.” He closed the distance between them. “I think you know more than you’re telling. You may even know the killer. At least, he knows you.”

She lifted her chin a notch. “A lot of people who write into the magazine think they know me.”

“You’re hiding something, Miss Berger.” He leaned across the desk, so close his face was only a breath away. So close he inhaled the hypnotic scent of her perfume.

So close he felt the tension vibrate in her lean muscles.

“But secrets have a way of coming out. And before this investigation is over, I will find out exactly what you’re keeping from me.”

CHAPTER THREE

“IWILL FIND OUTexactly what you’re keeping from me.”

Detective Dubois’s warning echoed in Britta’s head as she searched her memory for any confession letters that might have hinted at violence or murder.

What if the killer had written to her in advance and she had ignored the warning or completely missed it? Maybe she could have saved this woman if she’d paid more attention….

Disturbed by the thought, she bagged the last two months’ submissions to carry to the police station the next day. For now, she had to take a walk. Clear her head.

The stench of beer, alcohol, smoke, sweat, urine and garbage permeated Bourbon Street. The raucous laughter and horny, groping drunken strangers were a dreaded experience.

But living on the streets had taught her how to deal with them. The thought of holing up in her apartment above the office with back copies of the magazine—alone with her own demons—was something she couldn’t face yet.

She’d walk to the Market, lose herself in the local musicians and artists, grab a bite of supper. Her stomach growled, reminding her she’d missed lunch. The possibility of a nice crisp crab salad or bowl of seafood gumbo made her mouth water.

She checked over her shoulder for the hundredth time to make certain no one was following her as she wound through the chaotic crowd. A man wearing a patch over his right eye whispered an invitation for her to join him in the pub next door, but she rushed past, aware the man tracked her as she disappeared into the throng. Next door, another club offered half-priced drinks along with pole-dancing, featuring the mammoth-breasted Moaning Mona. Two dregs wearing ratty T-shirts that read “I fuck like a Mack Truck,” grunted an invitation for drinks and a threesome. And a group of bikers boasting tattoos of snakes and tribal symbols huddled around an outdoor table, guzzling beer and making catcalls to the girls flashing their boobs for free drinks and beads.

She plunged through the tawdry mob, south toward Jackson Square and the French Market where the less seedy side congregated in the outdoor cafés, finer restaurants, the open market and shops that comprised the Vieux Carre. Although street musicians and artisans normally flocked to the area, now an open-air festival had been set up with artisans showcasing their creations, demonstrating techniques, offering sketches for the tourists and squabbling over prices for their treasures.

A clown created balloon animals for the children in one corner, a mime entertained in another and a long-haired hippie rasped out music on a washboard for pocket change. Down the street, the famous jazz music of Louis Armstrong flowed from a restaurant while blues tunes paying homage to Fats Domino wailed into the steamy sultry air. Patio gardens and flowerboxes from the delicately carved balconies added color and a sweet fragrance. This was the N’Awlins she loved.

She seated herself at her favorite outdoor café, ordered a glass of pinot grigio and a crab salad, then studied the crowd as she sipped the wine.

But the hair on the back of her neck bristled. Someone was watching her.

She scanned the streets again. Oblivious to her unease, the air buzzed with activity and excitement, celebrating life and the renewal of the city. A mime plucked a coin from behind a little girl’s ear, while puppeteers drew the small kids in droves. Families littered the streets, carrying tired children with painted faces, cotton candy and tacky souvenirs, tugging at heart-strings she tried to ignore.

She banished them quickly. She was not a family kind of girl.

Instead her past mocked her. And the whisper of danger echoed in her ear….

I know your secrets. And you know mine.

No. It was impossible. She’d never told anyone about her childhood. Especially about that night.

And her mother…. Surely she wouldn’t have confessed to anyone. That is, if she’d survived herself.

Then again, her mother had done other unspeakable things.

The washboard player took a break and an earthy-looking saxophone player claimed his spot, adding his own jazz flavor to old favorites. She glanced behind him, toward the edge of the street, and noticed a tall, bald man holding a camera. Her fork clattered to the table. Was he photographing her?

She craned her neck to see more clearly and he lowered the camera. Shadows from the silvery Spanish moss shrouded his face as if he’d been cocooned in a giant spiderweb. Then he lifted his right hand and waved. Her breath caught in her chest.

A series of flashes flickered like fireflies against the growing darkness. Once. Twice. A dozen times. She blinked and threw her hand over her forehead, spots dancing before her eyes.

He was watching her. Taking pictures….

For what reason?

Panic and anger mushroomed inside her and she stepped forward to go confront him, but the waiter appeared with her check and blocked her path.

“Chere? You pay before you leave us? Qui?”

She sighed, removed her wallet and paid. But when she glanced across the street, the man had completely disappeared, lost in the darkness and the sins waging the city.

HOWARD KEITH STOOD nursing a Jax, a locally brewed beer, across the street, shielded by the exuberance of the Mardi Gras festivities. Britta Berger had actually noticed him.

Of course he was at a distance and she couldn’t see his face.

Howard’s right hand went to his prosthetic eyeball and he blinked, feeling it slip out of place. He popped it out, dusted it off, then slipped it back inside his eye pocket, blinking to create enough moisture to force the fake eye to settle.

Of course, he tried not to handle the ocular prosthetic in public, at least not in front of women. They tended to balk at the empty eye socket.

Although even with his eye in place, they were put off by his appearance. They never knew quite where to look, where to focus, so they averted their gazes and studied his feet, his stomach, his hands, anything but his face. And within seconds they rushed away, dismissing him as if he was a freak.

He would show them. Prove them wrong.

His fingers tightened on the camera. Even his interest in photography had garnered laughter and disbelief. How could he truly be an artist when he had no peripheral vision? No depth perception?

The camera compensated. Its powerful lens enabled him to capture the planes and angles, the light and shadows, the depth he wanted, and record it in vivid detail. And New Orleans certainly provided enough colorful characters, scenery and entertainment to feed his camera-frenzied mind.

Then he could do with it as he wished. Create masterpieces with his sketches, mold the faces into sculptures if he chose. Give the subjects life forever. Paint the eyes.

The eyes were the windows to the soul.

Did Britta Berger have any idea that he had seen into hers? That he had been watching her for months? That he knew her schedule. The food she chose for breakfast. The way she liked her coffee. The fact that she enjoyed a glass of wine on her patio at night before she retired. That she brushed her short red hair at least a hundred times before she crawled beneath the sheets.

That she slept without underwear.

That he’d seen her naked in the shower, her own hands stroking over sensitive private places that he ached to touch.

Yet, the seductress that he saw thrived on privacy. She was an enigma. He’d discovered that in his research. In her own way, she was hiding from life itself.

The vulnerability in her eyes had drawn him. She wanted someone to reach out and make the pain of her past dissipate. But she was afraid. After all, underneath her physical beauty lay lies, weaknesses, false promises. Evil.

Yes, a bad girl lurked inside Britta Berger and he would show the world her true self, just as he would with his other subjects. If it hurt them, then so be it.

His own pain had brought him to this point. He used it. Thrived upon it. It had inspired the theme for his work, which would hopefully gain him acclaim.

Then the beautifuls would be erased, their ugliness exposed forever.

IRRITATION KNOTTED Jean-Paul Dubois’s shoulders as he drummed his knuckles on R.J. Justice’s desk. Dammit. Time was critical. He had a murder to investigate and the magazine owner had kept him waiting for half an hour.