Say You Love Me. Rita Herron
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The tragedies had taught him about what was most important. Material things could be replaced, but loved ones couldn’t. But he didn’t want his family getting the wrong idea about their relationship.
Besides, a madman might be after Britta. He’d protect her with his life but he refused to lead the killer back to his own family’s door.
His cell phone jangled and he pressed the phone to his ear to hear over the din of laughter and voices. “Detective Dubois.”
“Dubois, it’s Carson. Listen, there’s a bartender down here at the House of Love who recognizes our victim.”
A break they needed. “I’ll be right there.” He stood and gestured toward Britta. “We need to go.”
“Always working,” his mother hissed.
Stephanie punched his arm. “Stay safe, brother.”
Catherine hugged him. “Yeah, watch your back. You’re not invincible either, you know.”
He nodded, then slid his hand to Britta’s waist as they left the restaurant. It was out of the way to walk her home, but the House of Love was a divey bar with nasty floors, cheap strippers and raunchy patrons.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as they stepped into the cloying humidity.
“My partner found someone who recognizes our victim. I’ll take you home, then I’ll go talk to him.”
She lifted her hair off her neck to cool herself, drawing his gaze to a tiny scar beneath her right earlobe. “That’s right around the corner.”
“I know, but it’s not the kind of place I usually take a woman.”
Emotions flickered in her eyes…relief, surprise. Then she shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ve seen worse,” she said. “Besides I’m not the sweet, domestic type like your little sisters. This is about the case. It’s not personal.”
He shook his head, but his body hardened at the way her eyes darkened in the moonlight. “No, not personal at all.”
And he would keep reminding himself of that, even if she decided to turn her seductive powers on him.
After all, she wasn’t shy or the wholesome girl next door like his sisters. She didn’t seem to like the family scene, either. And she had refused his mother’s invitation to dinner as if a homey gathering would bore her.
Worse, she printed erotic confessions in a magazine. Watching a performer take money for stripping probably wouldn’t even faze her.
THE NIGHT FELT as if it would never end.
Britta entered the wall-to-wall packed House of Love, fighting the memories that rose from the depths of the forgotten to haunt her. Thick smoke, sweat, beer and the stench of tawdry sex filled the air; the hint of drunken lust added a layer of tension over the sea of anonymous faces.
Nausea filled her. She’d grown up in places just like this. Had watched her mother entertain night after night. Then seen her duck into the curtained-off areas to perform private lap dances….
“It’s not a bad way to make a living,” her mother had told her one night when she’d caught Britta staring through the curtain. “It’s just sex, nothing more.”
No emotions. Just the simple exchange of bodily fluids and money.
Disgust gnawed at Britta’s throat as she banished the images. She’d hated seeing her mother degrade herself. Hated even more the strange men’s grunts and groans at night, watching her mother delve into booze and drugs, knowing filthy hands touched her….
“Come on,” Jean-Paul mumbled, “I see the bartender over there.”
The strobe light blinked to the beat of the contemporary rock music, the center stage occupied with two busty half-naked women gyrating and dancing around poles. A slender black girl tossed off her spangled top and double-Ds swayed as she rode the pole, tassels of silver and bright yellow twirling as she bounced her breasts. Beside her a brunette with three-inch red nails—and red stilettos to match—tossed her gold top into the groping milieu of men. Catcalls erupted as her pasties followed. Playing to the audience’s excitement, she crawled across the stage on hands and knees, slithering her ass upward. The black girl shimmied, then began to slowly peel away her G-string, inch by inch, teasing the men thrusting dollar bills toward her.
Jean-Paul coaxed Britta through the crowd toward the opposite end of the bar, casting only a quick glance at the stage. “It’s a damn shame girls turn to that kind of lifestyle. Didn’t their mothers teach them any better?”
The censure in his voice raised her defenses. “Not every girl comes from a Cosby home like yours, Detective Dubois.”
He slanted a frown over his shoulder. “Not everyone who has problems turns to drugs, alcohol or hooking, either.”
The jab hit home and Britta clamped her mouth shut, humiliation heating her face. How could he possibly know what drove some people to make the choices they did? She’d never understood her mother, but she claimed she’d worked at the bars for Britta, so they could survive.
“You’re a bad girl, Britta. Just like your mama.”
The words echoed in her ear, reminding her of her roots and the vast difference between her and this cop. She wondered about his personal life, about the woman in the photo at his parents’ restaurant. His girlfriend? Lover? Wife? Where was she now?
He wasn’t wearing a ring. And his family would have mentioned if he was married. And the woman…she’d looked so sweet, delicate. Nothing like Britta.
Jean-Paul Dubois would not understand her childhood. Or what she had done later that had marked her for life.
He flicked his hand toward a man at the door. “That’s my partner, Carson Graves.”
She nodded, not bothering to try to speak above the noise. Jean-Paul shouldered his way through the mob, then up to the counter. A beefy man reached out and pinched her ass, and she flipped around and nearly swung at him. “Keep your hands off, buddy,” Britta snapped.
Jean-Paul gave the man a lethal look, then slipped his arm around her waist, keeping her pressed close to him as they sidled up to the counter. Heat emanated from his hands and broad chest, and they were so close his breath brushed her neck. His protective gesture was subtle yet comforting, but after his comment Britta refused to allow herself to enjoy the feel of his hard chest against her back. She could stand on her own. She always had and always would.
He introduced her to his partner, who seemed to assess her the way the drunks in the room had when she’d entered. He was shorter than Jean-Paul, but still close to six feet, and handsome with short dark brown hair. When he shook her hand, she noticed an odd tattoo.
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Berger. And that—” He indicated the three-ringed marking on his hand. “Was a gang tattoo,” he explained without seeming offended. “I came up through the trenches but I finally got my head on straight.”
She felt an immediate connection with him personally.
“Britta,” she said automatically.
“I heard you’ve had a rough day, Britta,” he said in a Southern drawl.
She shrugged. “Not as rough as the poor girl in that picture.”
He conceded with a nod. Jean-Paul cleared his throat, his voice gruff when he spoke. “You have information on our victim?”
Carson pivoted toward Jean-Paul. “Yeah, this bartender says he’s seen her. His name’s Moe Leery.”
Carson waved the thin, thirtysomething bartender over and Moe leaned across the bar and wiped the counter.
“What can you tell us about this woman?” Jean-Paul flashed the picture again.
The guy winced