Carnal Sin (16 page)

That sensation, of renewal and discovery, besieged her and she swayed, her knees suddenly weak. He held her steady.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "You're wrong."

"You don't know what I'm thinking," she said, pushing backward, but he didn't let go. She wasn't thinking at all, she only felt, and her senses were overwhelmed by their combined emotions.

He whispered in her ear as he kissed it. She shivered, wanting him to keep going, wanting him to stop. He said, "You're trying to find any excuse to deny these feelings we have for each other. I know you, Moira. You don't believe me, but I know you. Deny all you want, convince yourself that I would settle for only one night. But the way I feel for you isn't fleeting. It's not a whim. It's certainly not supernatural. It's my heart. It beats for you, Moira."

He dropped his arms, and she realized she'd been holding her breath. She really didn't like how Rafe saw her for who she was. It made her vulnerable. She turned around, was about to say something, but he kissed her lightly on the lips, his fingers barely touching her chin, and all words disappeared.

"I'm sure he's gone by now."

For a split second, Moira didn't know who Rafe was talking about. Then she shook her head to clear it and stepped away from him.

Breathe. Again. Better
.

She looked out the window. Grant Nelson's unmarked sedan was indeed gone. "You're right."

She turned back to Rafe, and he handed over her backpack so she could recheck her supplies--though she knew everything was there.

She felt momentarily light-headed. When the sensation went away she had a new, odd feeling that she didn't have time to analyze--and didn't know if she wanted to.

She cleared her throat and grabbed a water bottle off the counter, drained half of it in one long gulp, then handed the rest to Rafe.

A knock on the door had her sighing in relief.

"Duty calls," she said.

Rafe looked through the peephole. "It's Jackson."

"Twenty-nine minutes," she said as Rafe opened the door. "Right on time."

SIXTEEN

It was after eleven by the time Grant finished the report on Nadine Anson's death and started for home. He'd written most of it while sitting outside the Palomar. He didn't know why he thought those two from Santa Louisa would be up to something, but he didn't feel right leaving them on their own. He hoped they'd screw like rabbits and leave his case alone.

Grant didn't consciously make the detour toward Velocity. It wasn't out of his way, since he lived just the other side of the 405 in West L.A. He was so exhausted he was practically asleep on his feet, but he wanted to talk to Julie about Nadine. He wished he could have told her in person, but he'd been tied up on the scene, then wanted to make sure Moira O'Donnell and her boyfriend actually checked into the hotel as they said they would. He had a dozen questions and every time he thought he had an answer, another ten questions popped up.

He squirmed at the thought of the two of them in a solitary hotel room. He didn't particularly like Raphael Cooper. He was too quiet, for one thing, and watched everything with sharp eyes. Grant didn't like being scrutinized by anyone, particularly Cooper. And he was always standing just behind Moira, like a bodyguard ready to pounce on any man who wandered too close.

He squeezed his eyes shut and wondered where that thought had come from. Moira was certainly his type, all that thick wavy hair and athletic body and sarcastic mouth. But he didn't go after attached women. He shouldn't even be thinking about getting her naked beneath him, but it had been on his mind since he'd met her, though that didn't mean much. Grant usually assessed women as potential lovers. But when he'd seen Moira unconscious and vulnerable in the alley behind Velocity ... he'd wanted her.

The line outside Velocity was long, but as a regular and a cop Grant had access whenever he wanted and he used his privilege tonight.

He looked around for Julie but didn't see her. Sitting at the bar, as far from the dance floor as he could get, he rubbed his temples. A bitch of a migraine had solidified its position dead center after he watched Nadine Anson lose her mind, then her life. It made no sense, and he had been running through the scene over and over again trying to understand what happened to her. But all it did was make his migraine worse.

He should feel elated--she'd confessed right there with witnesses that she'd killed "them." Not specifically
who
, but Nadine's prints were all over George Erickson's house. It was enough that his chief would close the case and tell him to pick up one of the other fifty case files sitting on his desk.

But Grant didn't feel satisfied with closing the case with so many unanswered questions. This case--these
cases
--disturbed him. He was a good cop, but he cut corners like most. Knew what lines he could cross and which he couldn't. Had he cut a corner he shouldn't have? Had he let his friendship with the staff here at Velocity cloud his judgment?

"On the house," Ike said, sliding over Grant's off-duty beverage of choice, a bottle of Heineken. "You look like you need a couple shots of whiskey." He nodded toward the bandage on Grant's face. "I heard what happened."

"I had paperwork up the ass, otherwise I would have come in earlier."

Ike waved off his apology. "You want to get good and drunk, I'll get you a cab, no problem."

He shook his head. "Nah. Just this one for me. Early morning. I wanted to talk to Julie. Is she still here?"

"Yeah. Wendy let some of the girls off early, but Julie said she'd stay. I think she's waiting for you."

Grant shifted on the stool. His and Julie's on-again/ off-again relationship wasn't doing either of them any good, but he couldn't say goodbye. Sure, they weren't together anymore--they screwed around with others--but neither of them had claimed they wanted to keep their friendship strictly platonic. Grant didn't want a relationship with anyone. He already had one failed marriage and more failed relationships than he could count on his fingers and toes combined. What he and Julie had was an agreement, though he wasn't entirely comfortable with it. She deserved better. He hoped she found someone who treated her with the respect and love she deserved. Grant cared for her--but she was too good for him. Most women were. Fortunately for his libido, they didn't seem to know it.

"Tell her I'm here, okay?"

Ike gave him a thumbs-up and walked away. Thank God; Grant didn't want to talk anymore. The throbbing dance music, which he could usually push to the back of his mind, was punishing with its heavy bass. He tried to focus on the eye candy that filled the trendy club. Like that blonde at the bar being hit on by two guys. Early twenties, small but perky tits, a little chunky around the hips, but he didn't mind. She caught his eye and he winked. She smiled, enjoying putting on the show, touching one of the men flirting with her.

Slut
.

Another blonde walked by and hesitated beside him. He ignored her, though she was hotter than Ms. Perky-Tits. His thoughts disturbed him. He never thought of women as sluts. Some were too loose for his tastes, but they were few and far between. He didn't expect them to behave better than he did.

Sheriff Skye McPherson was a blonde. Quite a looker, too, better than most of the women in his division. But she was a cop. Physically, Grant would be happy to have her in his bed, but he didn't date anyone in law enforcement. Period. They were either man-haters or too damn competitive. He wanted someone who was strong and self-sufficient, but also soft and feminine. Gorgeous, but unpretentious; independent, but affectionate.

Someone like Moira O'Donnell. Someone exactly like Moira O'Donnell.

She'd been on his mind since Grant saw her in the morgue early in the afternoon. Gorgeous, check. Definitely not conceited or pretentious. Didn't flaunt her good looks like the sluts who frequented Velocity. In fact, Grant suspected that Moira wouldn't set foot in Velocity for fun. He imagined that she enjoyed beer by the pint and rowdy laughter and would know exactly how to please him. She was physically sculpted--he'd seen her muscles, her lean, hard, flat stomach, and pictured what it would be like to have her ride him all night long. No strings attached.

Self-sufficient and independent, check. But he saw her lean on that long-haired jerk who wouldn't leave her side. Raphael Cooper. What kind of name was
Raphael?
Or
Rafe?
A sissy name. And he let her just run the show. Overprotective. She could do so much better than that loser. He didn't even have a job. Grant had checked on him. He'd been in a fucking coma until two weeks ago. She probably felt sorry for him; that's why she was at his side. Maybe they weren't involved.

They're sharing a hotel room
.

Grant pushed that thought aside, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling hot and cold at the same time, trying not to picture Moira O'Donnell screwing the too quiet, pompous, overprotective asshole.

She needed someone like Grant.

He would show Moira O'Donnell who was on top, and she'd enjoy every minute.

"Grant?"

He blinked, then saw Julie standing next to him, concern on her face. Guilt coursed through his body; he'd been thinking about fucking another woman while waiting for the one he'd been screwing most every weekend for the last six months. He had a flash of Julie
and
Moira in his bed, and his cock tightened uncomfortably.

He flushed. Why was he here?

Nadine
.

"What's wrong?" Julie's voice cracked.

Wrong. "You heard about Nadine." He cleared his throat and focused. He was a cop first. "I'm so sorry, Julie."

Julie's green eyes brimmed with tears. "I was stunned. Still am. I don't think it's sunk in yet. What happened, Grant? The cop who talked to Wendy and me said she committed suicide? I don't believe it. I--"

"I was there. She was on drugs. I don't think she walked into the traffic on purpose; it was like she was hallucinating."

She touched his face. "You were hurt."

"It's fine."

Julie stared at him. He took her hand. Her skin was so soft. He squeezed. "I'm sorry."

"I want to go home--Wendy said I could, she called in a few people. I just--I don't want to be alone."

"Come to my place." He kissed her forehead. Her scent made him shiver; why hadn't he noticed how good she smelled before? He pulled her to him, hugged her tightly, breathed in her hair. Kissed her neck, held her.

"Please--my place. You still have some of your things there. And I have that massage oil you like so much." She touched his face. "Do you have a headache? You don't look so good."

"A migraine."

She kissed him. "You know I can get rid of it for you."

Julie was inventive in bed, and would do anything he asked. He nodded. "Let's go."

"Let me get my purse."

"I'll come with you."

"You don't--"

"I want to."

He wasn't letting her out of his sight.

In the employee room, he locked the door. "Julie, come here." He unzipped his pants.

What are you doing? Not here--

"Grant--"

"Please. It'll make us both feel better."

A cloud crossed Julie's face, but he pushed her doubt aside.

"You know I make you feel better."

She nodded. "We have to be fast." Her bottom lip quivered.

"Then kneel."

She obeyed him and took his cock in her mouth. He held her there, not thinking about Julie, not thinking about anything but the rush of blood through his veins, the throbbing, his need. He orgasmed hard and fast, but didn't feel the wave of satisfaction he always enjoyed. His entire body was on edge, uncomfortable.

Julie pushed herself away. He hadn't realized he was still holding on to the back of her head. "Grant," she panted. "I couldn't breathe!"

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Let's go."

"Are you okay? Grant, you're--"

"It's been a long fucking day and I just want to screw you in bed, okay?"

She looked like she was going to cry. He felt like slapping her.

Grant frowned. He'd never hit a woman in his life. What was he thinking? He rubbed his temples.

Julie rushed over to him. "I'll take care of you, Grant. You'll be okay. I won't let anything hurt you. Let's go."

He didn't remember how they got to her place, but the next thing he remembered was Julie, naked beneath him, crying.

"You're familiar with how the succubus operates, correct?" Jackson asked after Rafe closed the hotel door. "And her male counterpart, the incubus?"

"Generally. They're demons who have sex with humans. But most alleged succubus attacks were human in nature," Rafe said. "People who claimed they were attacked by such a demon in order to cover up affairs, for example. From everything I've heard, they don't generally kill their victims. Sometimes drive them insane, but not steal their souls."

"True. But covens like Wendy's use the demons for their own gain, summoning them for an exchange--a soul for something of value."

"They don't need a succubus for that," Moira said.

"No, but Wendy's coven is a sex coven, and they have a devotion to a specific demon. The things of value can be anything, but are usually information from the supernatural world--new and improved spells, the location of powerful occult objects. Sometimes they seek something more immediate and tangible, like a house or money. The demons can't just conjure up such things, but they can make certain things happen that benefit the witch."

"Like if someone wants a new house, their aunt may die and leave it to them?" Rafe asked.

"Exactly. I've been researching Wendy Donovan ever since you left this afternoon. She owns fifty percent of Velocity and several other clubs that belonged to Kent Galion. But there is no record of her buying into it. Galion is carrying a small loan, but her share is worth at least twenty times the loan."

"He just gave it to her?" Moira grabbed a water bottle off the top of the dresser. It wasn't until she opened it that she noticed the
Enjoy me for five dollars
label.

"I was skeptical," Jackson continued, "but then I called a friend in public records and he confirmed the corporate records and lien amounts. She owns her house outright. It's worth at least two million dollars--the Hollywood Hills is a coveted area."

"She bought it?"

"No. Three years ago, she was engaged to a popular rock star, Kyle Dane. He bought the house, but had her put on the deed with right of survivorship when she moved in. When he died, his insurance paid off the mortgage. It's hers, free and clear." Jackson sat at the table in the corner, his gaze sweeping the room and pausing on the salt traps and strategically placed crucifixes.

Rafe sat across from Jackson. "How did he die?"

"Heart attack, after a concert. He'd been ill for weeks and his doctors advised him against touring--this was all in the major papers, I did a Google search."

"So it was no big surprise when he dropped dead," Rafe said.

"Except," Moira interjected, "he was engaged to a witch who summons demons." She didn't dare sit for fear her exhaustion would overpower her. Instead, she leaned against the dresser.

"Where does Lust come in?" Rafe asked.

"I wish I knew," Jackson said. "But since succubi are sex demons and Lust by definition feeds on the human sex drive, they must be connected."

They had to be, but Moira didn't know how. "Do you have a picture of the chalice you mentioned on the phone?"

He unfolded a computer printout. "I got this from a friend of mine in London. This is what I think Wendy has."

It was a detailed drawing of a squat, bowl-like chalice with a glass ball nestled in the shallow curve. The base was wider than the cup and curved upward.

"Such a chalice is often used in sex magic. If there's no demon involved, the glass ball isn't necessary. The witches will collect bodily fluids--blood, semen, saliva--in the bowl and offer it up. They are essentially asking for favors, more like a prayer than an order. But with this specific chalice, the blood of the victims is dripped into the base. The glass is essential to open the doorway to Hell. When the demon is first summoned, it's brought through the chalice--"