Power to the Max (25 page)

“Now, where were we this morning?” he mused, as if he’d read her mind. “Ah yes, you were about to orgasm, but then you told me you’d rather wait so it would be even more explosive.”

Explosive was right. He circled her clitoris just a little faster and rubbed just a little harder than he had in bed. She started to see stars. “I ... didn’t ... tell you to wait.” She panted between each word.

“Did, too. Begged me to make this the most fucking fantastic orgasm.”

She let him dream on, because just then, he shifted, bent, put his legs between hers, and thrust up high and hard.

She almost screamed, almost came, but only a tiny little noise slipped out of her throat. “Ooh.”

“Christ, that’s what I’ve been waiting for.” He pumped, sharp, hard, on the edge.

“Ooh, ooh.” She gave him two in quick succession as a reward. For some weird reason, Witt loved that noise she made. It always sent him into orbit. Like now.

He had her flush up against the door, his body covering her, his finger miraculously working her clitoris, and his cock pile-driving into her. In her last moment of sanity, she reached over and flipped off the hall light so no one could see them silhouetted through the curtain. In the dark, he ground into her. Tears leaked from her eyes. So good, so good. His breath pounded at her ear. His heat warmed her inside and out. His scent enveloped her, the usual butterscotch candy coupled with his musky aftershave, and now the tang of hot relentless male.

Holding her still with the heel of his hand just above her mound, he covered her left hand with his on the door, spread her fingers and laced his through them. It was more intimate and terrifying that the feel of his body driving her relentlessly towards orgasm.

And it was the thing that sent her over the edge. The crush of his fingers around hers set off a spiral of sensation, circling down to her clitoris, then exploding out like a celestial nova.

“Witt, oh God, Witt.” She was dimly aware of her own voice shouting his name over and over as he forced her to ride out the orgasm. She couldn’t feel her fingers or her toes, only the unmerciful outpouring of sensation from her very center.

He spurted inside her, and her body spasmed around the hot throb. She came again, or maybe she’d never stopped.

They leaned against the door, Max’s face smashed against the curtain. Hot and sweaty and delicious, he covered her until she could breathe again, until his own erratic gasps became smooth breath.

She waited for him to ask. He didn’t.

Well, she wasn’t going to ask.

“So, was it fucking fantastic?” Damn. How had that slipped out of her mouth?

Laughter rumbled in the dark hall. “It was okay.”

Jeez. He was playing her own game against her. She elbowed him back, turning when she had enough room and pushing his chest. “Zip up your pants.”

Smiling, he did as he was told. Max straightened her skirt. “You took advantage of me. Don’t do that again.”

Damn him, he chuckled. “Yes, ma’am. I mean no, ma’am, I won’t take advantage.” His task done, he caught her chin in his big grip. “It wasn’t fucking. And it was fantastic.”

Ooh.

He stomped up the stairs to use her bathroom, presumably to get rid of the condom. On the way out, he grabbed her chin. “And if I’m going to play your john tomorrow night, then you sure as hell better not wear any panties. Again.”

* * * * *

The bastard had walked out on her then. Just that one edict about her panties, then he was gone.

Dammit, who was the obsessed, addicted one here anyway? He’d teased her, and she’d done everything he told her to. She’d wanted to beg him to spend the night. The fact that he hadn’t kissed her really pissed her off.

Things were getting really bad. She was losing control. How the hell could she get it back?

An hour later, she’d calmed enough to ask Cameron his opinion on Witt’s assertion regarding Angela. Cameron had merely uttered an annoying comment. “Witt’s a cop. He’s been reading people a long time.”

Men. The bastards always stuck together.

She’d answered with, “I’m the psychic. I would know if Angela was using me.”

“Understanding psychic feelings takes perspective.”

Meaning she didn’t have any. Why? Because she liked Angela? She fell asleep pissed with both Cameron and Witt. She fell asleep dreaming that Witt had stayed, and made her come three more times.

Was she losing her power over him?

Oh God, she was a mess. Her relationship with Witt wasn’t about power. She wanted him to go away. Life really would be easier without him.

At least he’d said he’d be her stand-in john. But she would wear panties. He wouldn’t notice the difference, because they weren’t going to do anything once they got up to the room she’d have to rent.

When she woke in the morning, she didn’t feel any better. Now she sat with her hand on the phone receiver and Buzzard the cat in her lap. She’d showered, dried her hair, dressed, put on makeup, made her bed, and trembled with the thought of what she had to do.

The cat warmed her belly, but the heat didn’t reach her heart.

The thought of her next action was like a great hand that swooped down and cut the air off from her windpipe.

What she had to do. She had to call Bud Traynor.

She couldn’t ask. She couldn’t imply. She had to accuse. He’d laugh. He’d bait her. Then he’d tell her, to the extent he wanted her to know. That was his game this time. He’d tell her his plans—if she knew the right questions—then he’d sit back to watch her twitch like a fish on the end of his line.

But forewarned was forearmed.

She picked up the receiver with trembling hand and dialed.

“Hello, Max.”

He had to have been lying in wait for her. She had a blocked number. “Why did you want me to know about Angela Rocket and you?”

He chuckled. “Did I, Max?” She could almost see the reptilian smile on his lips.

“You wouldn’t have called if you didn’t.”

“And how was I supposed to know you were there, Max?”

He could have known that easily. But he couldn’t have known the precise time Angela would get up for the dance, or that Max would try to shut off the irritating vibration. He couldn’t have known Max would even remember that number.

Except that he was the devil in sub-human form.

He waited. She dangled. Then he agreed. “I could have been watching you, Max, the whole time you were there.”

Imaginary maggots crawled on her skin. He could have been watching. Hammerhead she knew for sure was. Maybe it was all Hammerhead and Traynor. She liked that better than the idea of Angela being in on anything.

“So you had me watched. Why?”

“Max, I’m trying to help you find poor Lance’s killer.”

He wouldn’t help her with anything unless it served his purpose. “First you implicated Baxter Newton. Now you’re trying to say it’s Angela Rocket and her pal Hammerhead.”

“Do you want me to tell you I’m the guilty party, Max?”

The answer came quick and from the gut. “Yes.”

“It was me, Max,” he whispered as if he were trying to seduce her. It reminded her obscenely of Witt’s tone last night.

Games. What were the lies, and what was the truth? “You introduced Lance to Angela.”

“Of course, I did, Max.” In making that phone call last night, he’d been telling her that very thing.

Next question? Right question? God, she had no idea. She went for Witt’s summation, even if she wasn’t sure he’d believed it. “You set him up to be killed.”

Again, that slimy chuckle. “What’s my motive, Max?”

“You wanted his wife.”

“Max, Max, Max, I wouldn’t have had to kill Lance to get Julia. I could have told her what he was doing with Angela.”

“She already knew.” The words were out of her mouth before she even thought about the confidence she’d betrayed. Too late, they were said. She went on with the rest. “She wouldn’t have left him over a woman whose name she didn’t even know.”

His voice dropped, as if suddenly he wasn’t alone. Or as if he wanted an atmosphere of intimacy. “But what if he was planning to leave her for that”—he paused a fraction of a second—“nameless woman, Max?”

She hadn’t gotten that from the vision. Lance wanted to own Angela, not marry her. But wasn’t marriage the ultimate stamp of ownership and power?

Hating the words, the very idea, Cameron’s agonized howl echoed through the room at her thought. Max wanted to cover her ears, but resisted.

“Max?”

She swallowed. “Then you wouldn’t have had to kill Lance.”

“Exactly. So where are you, Max? Any further ahead in your little investigation?”

She hated him for taunting her, considered hanging up. In the end she didn’t, despite the sick coil in her stomach.

“But I will offer you something for your pain.”

She waited. He let her.

Then he gave it to her. “I also introduced Angela to Baxter.”

“If I give you a license plate number, can you give me an address?”

“Illegal, Max.”

Desperate measures. She had no choice. “But can you do it?”

She held the phone tightly to her ear, waiting for Witt’s answer.

“What’s the number?”

She read it off to him, not sure how the hell she’d remembered Baxter’s plate number when she’d only seen his car twice and hadn’t had a reason to ponder it.

Sometimes the psychic thing wasn’t about big visions. Sometimes it was the small things, like license plates or cell phone numbers, things she shouldn’t have remembered or known, but did. Or maybe it was her accountant’s sense for alphanumerics.

“Call you back,” and Witt was gone without asking if she was at home, in her car, at work.

Psychic.

Max was utterly frustrated. He hadn’t said he’d help her tonight with Angela. Then again, he hadn’t said he wouldn’t.

He did call her back with the address, and one hour later, she cruised the quiet tree-lined Atherton street where Baxter Newton lived. Thirty years ago, Atherton had been merely another
San Francisco
Peninsula
suburb and the houses had belonged to regular families raising regular kids who went to regular schools. Today, the houses were worth millions, the family cars were BMWs, Mercedes, and fully equipped SUVs, and education was both private and expensive.

Most properties were gated and surrounded by walls weeping with ivy. Not so, Baxter Newton’s. His house was modest, especially when compared to the home his daughter lived in. A single level ranch style, it had a short circular drive, freshly painted wood siding, and a porch swing that didn’t fit the BMW roadster image. No lawn to speak of, just multi-colored stones surrounding pots of various evergreens. A rock garden.

Ladybird would love that, too. No plastic shrubbery to wash, no Astro-turf to replace when it faded, no silk flowers to dust. Ladybird treasured a well-maintained yard, even if none of it was real. Baxter’s would send her to heaven, in a manner of speaking.

Max parked at the end of the front walk. Baxter’s Z4 was not in evidence. The house was quiet, the street devoid of traffic, and the neighborhood idyllic. Though Baxter might have gone to Julia’s, Max banged with the big brass doorknocker anyway.

Almost immediately, footsteps sounded on the inside. Baxter himself answered. The interior lay in darkness, curtains pulled, few lights turned on. Minus the bow tie, Baxter still sported the suspenders over a wrinkled broadcloth shirt. His hair askew, his eyes wide behind the round spectacles, he simply stared.