Say You Love Me. Rita Herron
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How ironic to finally have found her here in the city. So close to where he had first met her. So close to where everything had gone wrong.
What was she doing now? Studying the photograph he’d sent her? Staring in horror at the woman’s vile, bloodless eyes? Wondering why he had sent her the message?
Adrenaline churned through his blood, heating his body.
He had to see her. Touch her. Watch the realization dawn in her eyes….
No. Not yet.
He’d waited years for this moment. Had searched in every face and town he’d visited. Had combed the edges of the bayou—hunting, hoping, yearning, praying she had survived.
So he could kill her.
Laughter bubbled in his chest. And now the moment was so near, his vengeance almost within reach. Yet he had to draw it out. Earn his redemption. Save the other sinners. Make them pay.
And make Adrianna watch them suffer.
With each one, she would feel him breathing down her neck. Coming closer. Know the pain of having death upon her conscience.
Just as he lived with his father’s death upon his.
God made the world in seven days and nights. Seven days and nights he had been tortured after she took his father’s life.
Seven more days until Mardi Gras.
Each day until then, a celebration.
Each day until then, a time to torture.
And on the seventh day, when Mardi Gras reached its grand finale, he would find salvation. He couldn’t wait to see the shock in her eyes when she realized that she had never escaped at all. That she had to pay for her sins.
And that she had to die because he loved her.
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