Bound by Moonlight (4 page)

When the band eased into the bluesy ballad “That’s How Strong My Love Is,” Charlotte sighed—until she felt a vibration stir between their bodies.

“Is that you or me?” he murmured.

“Me. Dammit.”

He stopped so she could retrieve her cell phone from her tiny handbag.

“Caissie.”

As she listened, Max felt tension gather in her long, strong body.

“I take it our evening is over,” he commented as she closed her phone.

“I’m sorry, baby.”

His knuckles brushed her cheek. “It’s all right.” Damn, this wasn’t how he’d wanted their night to end.

“Babineau is picking me up over by Café du Monde. Don’t wait up. This looks to be an all-nighter.”

“I’ll wait.”

Max walked her through the crowd, his pride in who she was and where she was going evident in his strut. His woman. His warrior mate.

His arm cinched possessively about her waist when he saw her partner, Alain Babineau, leaning against his car. Babineau, who was cover-model good-looking, and had shared a romantic moment with Charlotte in the past. A moment she refused to discuss.

The hairs at Max’s nape rose as Babineau sent Cee Cee an appreciative whistle.

“Woo wee. If I’d known the crime scene was gonna be formal, I’da worn my other jacket.”

“Stuff it, Babs.”

The detective’s gaze met Max’s in shared hostility. “Savoie. Sorry for the interruption.” He didn’t look sorry. “I’ll see she gets back to you in one piece.”

“She doesn’t need your help for that.”

Pleased by his growly confidence, Cee Cee turned into Max’s arms. “I’ll be careful. I wouldn’t want anyone but you to wrinkle my dress.”

Max kissed her, a hard, tongue-to-tonsils kiss. As he claimed her mouth, he fixed Babineau with a cold, unblinking warning.
Mine.

With a final nip at her bottom lip, Max shrugged out of his suit coat and slipped it about her shoulders. His scent and heat wrapped her up like an embrace.

“Thanks for the dance, Detective.”

“Thanks for letting me show you off, Savoie.”

He stepped back and let her go, watching her slide her arms into his coat sleeves as she demanded an update from her partner. Then she climbed into the car, consumed by her job.

But as Babineau pulled away she turned to raise two fingers to Max, sending a kiss his way.

T
HE GIRL HAD
been left behind a Dumpster, like garbage.

Anger simmering at the casual contempt of that gesture, Cee Cee asked, “Same as before?”

Joey Boucher straightened from his crouch after taking one more picture. “Same ole, same ole. Our boy is a creature of nasty habits.” The young officer turned, then stared at Cee Cee, amazement slackening his homely face. “No one told me we were supposed to
dress up. How come no one told me we were supposed to wear our good clothes?”

“Shut up, Boucher, or I’ll stick the toe of these very nice shoes someplace very unpleasant. Now, talk murder to me.”

Wisely, he got right to business. “Looks to be the same pattern. Underage hooker. He snatches her up, hangs on to her for a month, does all those sick-bastard things to her in some hidey-hole, then dumps her here and kills her.”

“Why kill her here?” Cee Cee mused aloud. “Why not just dump the body? That’s safer, easier to transport.”

Boucher shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”

“He knows. There’s a reason.”

“If he’s sticking to pattern,” Babineau said, “he’ll already have his next plaything picked up.”

“Out with the old, in with the new.” Cee Cee cursed softly as she angled to get a look at the body. Even prepared, it gave her an ugly jolt. Violent death was never pretty.

Just a baby, probably fifteen, sixteen, blonde, petite, probably attractive . . . before the life she led got a hold of tender flesh and perverted it on that hard, hard road. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. Someone’s friend. Used, abused, and discarded as if she were nothing, as if less than human. The image of another girl was there before Cee Cee could push it away, blonde, laughing, full of the joy of living.

She shoved to her feet. “Any witnesses?”

Boucher shook his head. “The plant is shut down. No one around. No watchman. An alarm system to
keep folks out of the building, but nothing to secure the perimeter.”

“How long has she been here?”

“At least twenty-four. Dovion’s on his way. He’ll give us a TOD window.”

She glanced around, sizing up the area. Industrial, bustling during the day, but a ghost town at night with production cut back because of the economy.

“Who called it in?”

“Sanitation. Spotted her from his truck. I’ve taken his statement. He didn’t see anything but the body. That was more than enough,” the young detective muttered with empathy.

Yeah, it was. The sight would haunt the man forever. It was always more than just the dead who were victimized.

Babineau observed the body up close, his handsome features expressionless. A trick of the trade, not to get involved. “Multiple stab wounds to the neck and chest. No signs of struggle, at least here. Ligature marks on wrists and ankles. Evidence of torture, sexual trauma, starvation.” His façade broke for an instant. “Poor kid. Hell of a way to go.” He started to reach for the lids of her open eyes, but caught himself. He stood and met Cee Cee’s steady gaze. “You
know
he’s already got the next one.”

“So let’s go find out who’s missing.”

Babineau gave her attire a slow assessment. “Darlin’, you’re not exactly dressed for Pussy Patrol.” He shot a quelling glance at Boucher, who’d snickered. “I’ll do a sweep of the streets while you wait on Dovion’s initial. This is number three. Maybe if the working
girls get scared enough, they’ll be more forthcoming. We’re due for a break.”

Cee Cee wasn’t that optimistic. The pros didn’t give up info on their usual customers. It was bad for business.

But then, so was murder.

M
AX HEARD HER
come in just before midnight.

When Babineau’s car came through the security gates, it took him a minute to smooth down his bristling tension as Charlotte’s words stabbed through his memory.

Alain Babineau and I were lovers.

That was before him, and her partner was married now. Charlotte was his. But Max didn’t want to share her even with the past.

It was hard to pretend to be civilized when instinct demanded he tear out Babineau’s throat.

The car paused briefly at the mansion’s front steps. The front door opened and closed, and Max relaxed.

He waited a minute. Two. Then ten. She didn’t come upstairs.

He padded downstairs to the silent first floor of the sprawling house, reaching out for her with his senses.

She sat in the dark parlor, on the sofa where she’d once lounged naked after they’d made love. She sat with her feet drawn up on the cushions, arms about her knees, swallowed up in his coat as she stared out into the night. He could taste her sadness and her tears.

Why hadn’t she come to him for comfort?

He stood in the shadowed hall, just looking at her.
She took his breath every time. Strong, sexy, and exotic with her curvy lines, dark, daring eyes, and sleek tawny skin, she was his every desire. He’d ached for her for years, knowing he could never have her. Twelve long celibate years. She was worth every minute of the wait as they’d pursued each other for very different purposes. She’d wanted to put him inside a jail. He’d wanted to put himself inside her.

She seemed quite content with his winning that round.

She still wore the dress and those shoes that made his tongue want to roll out. She was the best-looking woman he’d ever seen, whether in skinny jeans and a snug-to-the-edge-of-indecent tank top or one of his silk shirts. She was lush and blatant in her sexuality, with a
Don’t get too close, I bite
attitude that made the animal inside him roar to life.

Tonight she’d tamed her short, spiky dark hair into a sleek curve, and toned down the bold colors that usually lined her eyes and lips to make them soft and sensual. Her sophisticated sheath was every bit as elegant as any worn by the Crescent City’s elite. Alternating swirls of filmy fabric iced with bands of midnight-blue satin skimmed her body, hinting at her perfection. The sheer hem fluttered about her knees, covering gorgeous legs she normally left bare. And then those shoes. He swallowed the growl that thickened in his throat.

Knowing that she’d gone to such lengths to provide him with the image of success and quality she thought he wanted to be seen with humbled him. He didn’t care how she chose to wrap the package. She was the gift he treasured.

Charlotte turned suddenly and saw him there. The creamy glow of the pearls about her neck quieted his lusty emotions into something deeper, something almost frighteningly intense.

“Everything all right?” he asked softly.

She nodded as if the quick squaring of her shoulders could erase the shimmer of dampness on her cheeks. “Just wanted some time alone to think through a new case.”

A not-so-subtle suggestion that he get lost. But she’d have to be a lot more direct to get rid him.

“Bad?”

“They’re all bad,” she shot back, as if he didn’t understand exactly what she went through every time she leaned over the shell of a life not lived to the fullest. He could feel her anger and frustration welling up inside her like a scream pushing to get out.

“Tell me.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Savoie.” Prickly, provoking, insultingly so. “Not everything in the criminal universe revolves around your place in my life. I can’t do my job with you whining for my attention every second. I probably should have just gone home.”

Gone home? This was her home.
Their
home.

She was deliberately jabbing his buttons, goading him to argue so she could push him away. That’s when he realized how scared she was that he’d see beyond her bluster to the pain she was trying to hide.

Silly female. She knew him better than that.

“Just forget I’m here, then.”

With that cool drawl, he crossed to where she huddled behind her thorny hedge of wariness. Objection
and resentment glittered in her glare as he sat on the couch.

She exhaled. “Whatever.” With that terse statement, she turned to stare at the window—at his reflection. “Suit yourself.”

“I usually do.” Then a bit stiffer. “I never whine.”

An aggravated sigh. “Yes, you do.”

“When?”

He sounded so offended, she couldn’t restrain a faint smile. “When you want sex.”

“Well, I’m not whining now. And I’ve wanted to hump you like a horny dog since you drew my attention to those shoes several hours ago.”

Her lips quivered, then firmed. “Stop it, Max.”

“Stop what?”

“Making me laugh. You’re so damned irritating.”

She rubbed her fingertips along his jaw, the gesture tender if distracted. “You can’t help me with this, Max. My worries, my job, my problem.”

“I won’t get in your way, Detective.”

She regarded him suspiciously, not reassured by his bland face. “Just sit here with me.”

“I can do that.”

Cee Cee closed her eyes, trying to focus on the case without raising the tearing memories. Usually it was enough to remind herself this was why she did the job—because it
was
personal. But this girl’s suffering duplicated her own too chillingly. When would she get beyond that ancient history?

Max’s thumb soothingly rode the ridge of her toes, his heat warming her flesh. His other hand cupped her heel and lifted her foot into his lap, where he began
to undo the strap about her ankle. Then he eased off her shoe and started to massage her foot with both hands. She eyed him cautiously, but he appeared totally absorbed. The stern set of her features softened as the moment became less about her. She nudged his hip with the toe of her other shoe.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“Too late to apologize. You’ve already wounded me beyond my ability to recover.”

“It’s not like
you’re
never disagreeable.”

“If I snapped at
you,
Detective, you’d be missing a limb.”

She could hear the smirk in his tone, so she pushed him. “You promised there’d be toe sucking.”

“So I did. I live to serve.”

He pulled her other foot into his lap and removed her shoe in a delicate striptease while she kneaded his shirt with her bared toes. She could feel his heart pound beneath them.

When he lifted his head, his eyes glowed, golden.

He lifted her foot to his face, rubbing his cheek against its high arch. His eyes closed and her breath caught as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive curve, then shivered at the slow stroke of his tongue. His hands were rubbing her calf. With her knees bent, her dress pooled down the length of her long, toned legs, inviting his touch to follow.

He nipped at the ball of her foot, then at the fleshy pad of her big toe. Cee Cee was simmering by the time he drew that slender toe into his mouth.

Then he reared back abruptly. “You have blood on your feet, Detective.”

“Oh, geez. I’m sorry. It must be from the crime scene. I should have showered when I came in.”

He didn’t release her, sniffing her instead. “Was your crime scene in the bayou?”

Cee Cee’s thoughts sharpened. “No. Why?”

“I can smell it on you.” He sampled the blood again, rolling it on his tongue. “Female. She was drugged.”

Cee Cee stared at him. “You can tell all that? What else?”

“Only that. Not much here to go on.”

“Get your shoes, baby. There’s someplace we need to go.”

After he left the room, she pulled out her cell. “Dev, have you started on that Jane Doe that just came in? Good. Don’t touch a thing.”

T
HEY COULD HEAR
the drama of “Masquerade” from
Phantom of the Opera
wafting down the sterile corridors long before Cee Cee pushed open the doors to the medical examiner’s domain. Devlin Dovion was a Broadway fanatic, a Jerry Garcia look-alike, and the best damn body man she’d ever met over a Y incision.