Lethal Confessions (32 page)

Beckett jerked up her tee shirt, the rough heat of his calloused palms almost scorching her naked skin. He deepened the kiss and their tongues played a fiery dance as he quickly found the clasp of her bra, unhooking it to free her aching breasts. As they spilled out, he grasped one in each hand, gently squeezing. When his thumbs circled her rigid nipples, she gave a little whimper and slid her lips from his mouth to trail kisses down the stubble of his cheek and neck.

Beckett made a low, groaning sound, grinding his pelvis into the mound of her sex. It felt like heaven, sending a deep throb between her thighs. She could feel her flesh there turning soft and wet.

“Jesus, Amélie, are you sure you—”

“No,” she gasped. “I’m not one damn bit sure. But I’ve got my gun, Beckett, and I swear I’ll shoot you if you stop.” As she slipped her hand inside the waistband of his shorts, she pressed herself against his rock-hard thigh and moaned.

“There’s not going to be any stopping. Not this time.” His tongue invaded her mouth again, tasting her with a heat that clouded her brain.

Lost in a haze of lust, Amy was barely conscious of Beckett sliding her shirt over her head and tossing it and her bra to the floor. She was far too preoccupied with the feel of the hair-roughened skin of his thighs and the hard, smooth curve of his butt as she inched down his loose shorts. Without breaking the kiss, Beckett stepped out of the shorts while he unsnapped her jeans and pushed them down over her hips.

“Mon Dieu, mercy,” she murmured, kicking off her flats and shucking her jeans and panties.

He shoved down his jock underwear and now they were both naked, except for the long towel that still hung around Beckett’s neck. Amy grasped an end in each hand and swarmed up his body as he drew her to him, her sex driving up against an erection as long and thick and stone-hard as she’d imagined it would be. He pivoted, holding her securely, and pinned her to the foyer wall. The cool, silken texture of the wallpaper on her heated back added another layer of sensation to her overflowing senses.

Beckett left her lips, angling his head down and tonguing one of her beaded nipples, then drawing it into his mouth. Amy fought back a whimper as she locked her legs around his waist. He suckled the sensitized tip of her breast and fire flashed through her. She wanted him inside her so badly that, unthinking, she dug her nails hard into his shoulders.

But he barely flinched. With one last, hard suck, he raised his eyes to hers. She swallowed, both unnerved and excited by what she saw on his face. Clearly, she was about to fall prey to the big, bad wolf. She parted her lips, not sure what she wanted to say, but then he slowly pushed one and then two fingers into her slick, swollen passage, instantly driving all coherent thought from her brain. Nerve endings tingled and burned with a sweet ache, and she arched her back against the wall.

Oh, God!
She was so ready.

“
Calice
, Beckett, I hope you have a condom handy,” she breathed into his ear.

He eased her to the floor and raced up the stairs, two at a time. Amy thought about following, but wasn’t sure her legs were steady enough. It didn’t matter, because Beckett bounded back down in a blink, sheathed himself, and lifted her as she wrapped her legs around him again.

She looked deep into his passion-filled eyes—eyes that held nothing back—and her heart squeezed with an emotion too frightening to voice.

Don’t think about it.

She buried her face in his neck, letting him cradle her securely in his arms. “Now, Beckett,” she whispered.

He didn’t need the invitation. He was already pushing into her, filling her as she shifted her hips to take him deep. Nothing mattered any more, nothing except her need for him, her need for release from this torture. This glorious, insane torture.

He gripped her bottom tight as he plunged into her, again and again, driving arcs of blinding pleasure deep into her body. Amy gave herself up to a coiling tension that was almost unbearable. She pressed her spine against the wall, interspersing her whimpers with a string of soft French curses. Beckett choked out a laugh at her language.

But suddenly, his restraint vanished. She sensed it in his breathing and felt it everywhere their bodies touched—in his driving, pounding loss of control. At that moment, he needed her as much as she needed him. But before she could even fully process the thought, shudders began rippling from deep within, pulsing around his cock. “
Oui, tabarnak
,” she groaned.

Blood surged through her veins, making her lightheaded. She gasped, crying out his name—Beckett, Beckett, Beckett. His body straightened and tensed, and with one final thrust he groaned out his own release.

Panting, Amy slumped against his shoulder, shattered and lost in his arms.

Luke eased Robitaille to the floor, not completely dazed but still almost flattened, as if he’d survived a gale force storm that had blown down the house around him.

Tropical Storm Amélie.

She’d ordered him not to talk, so he stayed silent, his arms stiff against the foyer wall as he loomed over her. Beneath him, gorgeous and exhausted, she slumped against the wall, her dark hair damp and tousled, her face glowing. He’d never seen her look as beautiful.

But if he said a single word, he figured the moment would shatter and she’d throw her clothes back on and bolt for the door. Detective Robitaille was all about self-control, and she’d just sent hers down the sewer. He had to give her the space she needed to get it back.

Seconds seemed like hours as Luke waited for her to speak, to move, to break the silence that made him feel like a volcanic eruption was imminent.

“Sex,” she finally said, exhaling a growly little sigh.

“Amazing sex,” he said.

She pushed by him and retrieved her panties. “A crazy impulse born of physical deprivation.”

Shit.
“What a romantic,” he said, watching in frustration as she covered her smoking hot breasts with a decidedly unsexy beige bra.

She snorted. “We’re alike, Beckett. We get a bad enough itch, we scratch it. But we don’t get all starry-eyed and stupid about it.”

Suddenly uncomfortable standing there naked, he yanked on his shorts, not bothering with the tight underwear he used for workouts. “Maybe there’s a little more to it than that.”

Robitaille wriggled into her jeans. “Come on. You’re thirty-six, right? Never married, but never without company for very long, according to what I’ve gathered. I don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to make a deduction.”

Now
that
pissed him off. Those were
her
insecurities speaking, not his.

“You don’t really know me.” He took two steps toward her but she backed away as she pulled her tee shirt over her head. “But we should change that.”

“Sure, and you probably want to start by having me check out your bedroom, right? I’m sure that’s where all your women start the house tour.”

What a hardhead. She’d practically assaulted him, and yet now she was snarling like a trapped wild animal.

“All my women, huh?” Luke said, not even trying to disguise his irritation. He sat down on the stairs and leaned back on his elbows. “Well, I suppose we could try something different. Like talking. I hear it can be good after sex. You could stick around for a nightcap and a little conversation.”

“No thanks,” she said in a tight voice as she went for the door. Then she looked back at him, and his heart softened. She looked lost and kind of scared.

“Beckett, I’m sorry. This was my mistake. It won’t happen again.”

Luke jumped up and took two long strides, reaching out for her. “Your only mistake is not giving us a chance.”

She dodged him. “Goodnight, Beckett,” she said, and was gone.

Monday, August 2

10:50 p.m.

Heath Harrison clutched the champagne bottle under his arm as he got out of his car. He’d stopped at a twenty-four hour supermarket and picked up a chilled bottle of Veuve Cliquot. It was Megan’s favorite. He couldn’t wait to blow her away with his news.

Halfway to the door, he stopped. The porch light cast its yellow glow over the front step, but he couldn’t see a single light on inside the house. He fumbled with his keys, opening the front door of their townhouse with one hand. Stepping into the dark foyer, he wondered why Megan had turned off all the lights. He knew she must be home—her Corolla was parked in the driveway.

Megan?” He flipped on the foyer lights.

No answer. He carefully set the champagne bottle down on the ceramic floor, took two steps and glanced into the living room.

Empty.

The dark silence suddenly sent the deaths those two women rocketing into his brain. He’d never met them, but he knew their husbands, and the shocking pair of murders had hit both him and Megan hard.

He raced upstairs. “Megan!”

A groan from the master bedroom. Heath rushed up the remaining steps and frantically flicked on the light switch beside the door. “Megan!”

“Heath?”

When he heard her groggy voice he realized he hadn’t taken a breath for what seemed like minutes. His legs threatened to buckle under him, and he had to inhale deeply to try to settle his racing heart.

Megan covered her eyes with her forearm. “Jesus, I was asleep. Turn off that fucking light.”

Disappointment tugged at him. He did as she asked and sat down on the end of the bed. “I didn’t think you’d go to bed this early. Didn’t you listen to the game?”

She sighed and sat up. “I started to, but I had a beer—okay, two beers. And then I got really sleepy.”

He couldn’t help a grimace. She hardly ever went to his games, and now she couldn’t manage to stay awake at home, either. Not even when he was pitching. “You missed a great one. A four-hit shutout. I went eight innings before they brought in the closer.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Great.”

“But that’s not the best part,” he said. “Come downstairs. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

She frowned but let him help her up. Heath gazed at her full, round breasts pushing against the thin fabric of her sleeveless top and then drew her to him, smoothing a hand down over her curvy ass. She was so small—his chin rested on the top of her head. His cock stiffened as he inhaled the scent of her hair.

God, he wanted her tonight. The win and the promotion had totally jacked him up. He just
had
to fuck her tonight or the top of his head would blow off.

“Take it easy, Romeo,” she said, pushing him away. She shuffled out the door.

Disappointed, he followed her. Halfway down the flight of stairs, he could tell by her little stutter-step that she’d spotted the Veuve on the foyer floor.

She turned to him as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “What’s this all about? Champagne for a four-hitter?”

“Not exactly.” He drew her to him again, and this time she didn’t push him away. “As soon as the game ended, the general manager came down to the clubhouse and told me to pack up my gear. I’m catching the first flight to Springfield in the morning.”

“Oh, my God! Double A! They promoted you!” Megan squealed, standing on her tip-toes to kiss him on the lips. Then she drew back and held him at arms’ length. “But you’ve been having such a rough season, at least until the past couple of starts. Why would they promote you so soon?”

Heath gritted his teeth. Trust Megan to question good fortune. “Because they know I’m better than my record shows. Those guys know their business, and they know I’m the right guy to bump up to the next level.”

Her brief elation seemed to have vanished. “I guess I’m going to be stuck here alone for a while, then. Until they’re sure you’re going to make it up there.”

He shook his head. “No way. I want you with me, babe. Call the rental agent tomorrow. We’ll sub-let this place and look for a new one in Springfield. The team will be on the road after tomorrow, but you can fly up on the weekend.”

She smiled as she picked up the champagne and handed it to him. “Already chilled. Sweet.” She stroked her fingers over his cheek, then gave him a lingering kiss. “Maybe we’re finally going somewhere.”

Heath held her close. “This is only the beginning, babe. It’s all going to be good from now on.”

Tuesday, August 3

11:30 a.m.

The coffee at Kenton Memorial Hospital sucked, but Amy forced the bitter brew down, anyway. The caffeine kept her going after another miserable, sleepless night.

Her first interview had provided nothing of value. The pharmacy technician barely knew Kozak because they usually worked different shifts. As she waited for the second tech to arrive, her mind drifted back to Beckett.

For most of the night, she’d chased her mental tail around in a circle, repeating a steady mantra—what she did with Beckett was wrong. It was fucking unbelievably wrong. But she couldn’t make that conclusion stick, no matter what. Because the truth was that sex with him had felt totally right. Not just in the middle of it, or during the volcanic conclusion that had left her searching for the pieces of her misplaced sanity. No, it had felt right even as she lied to him by saying it was just an itch they both needed to scratch. A momentary physical diversion. A mistake.

Bullshit
.

Except for the mistake part.

Running away from Beckett had reminded her of those accounts of out-of-body experiences. She felt like she was floating up in the air, watching a grim-faced Amy Robitaille charge out to her car and peel down his driveway. Like she was a spectator at a performance where she knew every line in the script. None of it seemed real.

She knew when sex was just sex, because that was all it had ever been for her. Absolutely no emotional attachment, except maybe for Gabe Labrash. But that hardly counted, given her youth and screwed-up state of mind.

With Beckett it had been different. Scary different. For once, she’d lost control of herself and her emotions. He’d
made
her lose control, and he hadn’t even had to work at it. Luke Beckett was hands down the most dangerous man she’d ever met.