If Looks Could Kill (15 page)

“And then again, there are those men who are completely unaffected,” she murmured. “Excuse me, I'd like to change.”

She brushed past him, hurrying up to the small house on the beach that belonged to a friend of Michelle's.

Michelle came in to collect the bathing suits used in the shoot and help her change. Michelle, dressed in a casual, brilliantly colored sarong, was shaking her head in amusement. “My, my.”

“My, my, what?”

“That boy, he'd have been fine on the poster, as well. He's a sexy man.”

“He's an FBI agent. They aren't allowed to be sexy.”

Michelle arched a brow. “He must be mighty fond of you,
chérie.
”

“He's mighty mad at me, is what. I'm twenty-six, but apparently I didn't ask the proper permission to leave town.”

Michelle made a
tsk
ing sound, shaking her head, smiling in an annoyingly knowing manner. “People only worry when they care. There are only angry when they care deeply.”

“Well, of course, I suppose…he cares about me. In his way. We were stepsiblings at one time.”

“Stepbrothers do not naturally care about stepsisters. Especially when…Well, your mama died and the relationship ended, yes?”

“My mother was murdered, and I look like my mother, and no one was able to help her. I think he has a strange sense of feeling responsible that nothing bad should happen to me.”

“You do look just like you mother,
chérie.
Just like.”

“Exactly. It's all psychological. He has this idea set in his head that something might happen to me, too.”

“Looks
can
kill, sweetie. You be glad that big strong boy is looking after you. Now, if it were me…”

Madison tied the cotton halter dress she was wearing and looked at Michelle. “If it were you?”

Michelle winked. “I'd sleep with him.”

“I should sleep with a man just because he's concerned about me?”

“No, no, you should sleep with him because he has good arms, a nice chest…and a good butt, too, I think. Nice skin, rugged, masculine, very good face. Take that from an artist.”

Madison couldn't help laughing. “The goods measure up?”

“You're a young woman. You want to sleep with a wrinkly old man?”

“No, I don't want to sleep with a wrinkly old man—until I'm a wrinkly old woman. Honestly, Michelle, women aren't supposed to sleep with men just because they have good bodies. There's supposed to be a magic, a desire….” Michelle was staring at her with arched brows. Madison let out a long sigh. “I just never thought of making love with a guy simply because I'd inspected him and he had the proper body!” She was only lying a little.

“Then you are the only woman alive who has not looked at a hot body and wondered at the fantasy of a stranger. Ah, but you want love. Foolish girl. You want to fall in love. Well, let me warn you. Women,
mais oui,
we want to fall in love. We want romance. Men want to have sex. Good sex. Women emote, and men are moved by primal instinct.” She waved her dark, elegant fingers in the air expressively. “Men—they think with their anatomy. They look at what a woman's body has to offer. Love is good. But if you want to fall in love…well, love is hard. Sex is easy. Maybe too easy for some people, but right now, for you?” She quirked a brow, smiling. “Be daring,
chérie.
You may look like a Barbie doll,
oui?
But you are real, and must live and breathe and make love, eh?” Again, she smiled. “This may be the age of electronics, but there is nothing like a flesh-and-blood man. Especially for a Barbie doll.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“Good things. That you are reserved. You spend your time with family, with little Carrie Anne. I'm trying to tell you to take a chance. Be daring.”

“Sometimes,” Madison said slowly, “chances aren't good. Other people can get hurt.”

“And
you
can get hurt. It's part of the way it goes. Pain can be the greatest teacher. It can be good. That way, we know when there is pleasure and happiness, as well.
Non, ma chérie?
” Smiling like the Cheshire cat, Michelle waited for her reply.

“Michelle, he's the wrong hunk for me. He thinks I'm a witch.”

“Witches can be good. Earthy. Nurturing. And very sexy.”

“Michelle, you're hopeless. And you don't understand. Kyle and I have…a past.”

“No,
chérie,
you don't understand. The past is gone, the future lies ahead, and the present is to be lived.”

Smiling, Michelle left, closing the door behind her.

Madison walked to the window and looked out. Michelle was talking to Kyle, her laughter melodic.

“Flirt!” Madison murmured, shaking her head as she watched her friend.

It was nearly eight o'clock, and the brilliant array of colors—oranges, crimsons, mauves, pinks, blues and golds—that streaked the sky with sunset was fading to gray.

Kyle, she saw, was watching the sky, as well. Listening to Michelle, but watching the sky. Sometimes, when she was young, they had sat together in silence in the late afternoons, watching as the sun went down. She knew that he loved the colors of sunset as much as she did. How had he stayed away from home so long?

She shook her head and swept up her purse, impatient with her moment of nostalgia. “Why can't they make that man go to work from nine to five? Who the hell gave him permission to come down here in the middle of a case?” she muttered irritably to herself.

Madison walked out of the house, telling herself that she was cool, collected and ready to meet the others.

“I think we're almost ready. George is getting the last of our equipment,” Hector told her cheerfully. She stood with him while they waited, watching as Kyle talked to Michelle, a few steps away, until he excused himself to take a call on his cellular phone.

George finished packing the equipment, and he, Michelle and Jaime joined Madison and Hector. George told a joke, but Madison discovered that she wasn't listening. She felt an uneasy sensation slipping over her, as if she were being watched.

She looked around. Beach behind her, the house before her, foliage, now rustling in the night sea breeze, scattered across the area between homes in the exclusive private neighborhood. She could see no one, nothing suspicious, and she couldn't even get a feel for an area from which someone might be watching her.

There were gates and a security guard outside the small compound of private homes. It was so unlikely that anyone could be watching them.

And still, goose bumps covered her arms.

Kyle finished his call, clicked his phone shut and returned to them.

“Well, then, where shall we go?” Jaime asked.

Everyone chimed in with a suggestion. Except for Madison.

She didn't care where they went, as long as they left. Except that even once they started driving, she still had that uncomfortable feeling of being watched.

 

Kaila was tired, bone-weary, in body, in spirit. Dan's flowers had been great—but a poor substitute for him. She'd gotten the flowers…

And then a phone call. He had to be out of town for a few days. He was so sorry. He would make it up to her. He loved her.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Anna had stayed home sick; it had been hour after hour of the kids squabbling, spilling, spitting up. She'd reminded herself all day that kids did those things, that she loved her kids, that she'd wanted kids.

She just hadn't planned on raising them alone.

But at eight, they were all in bed at last. She walked into her bedroom, stripping as she went. She was usually careful. Kyle had warned her sternly to be careful, and she loved Kyle, knew that he loved her and was concerned about her safety. But she was tired. And so she forgot to draw the drapes and blinds throughout the house.

She left her jeans, T-shirt underwear and bra in a pool on her bedroom floor—she just hadn't been able to bear the scent of spit-up on herself one minute longer. She drew the water for her shower, then wrapped her hair on top of her head and covered it with a shower cap while she waited for the water to grow warm. She stepped beneath the spray, felt the tension-relieving jets of the water, then turned the tap to make her shower even warmer. God, it felt good. If she wasn't afraid of falling asleep and drowning, she would have taken a bubble bath. As it was, just standing under the hot water was great, feeling it beat down all around her.

But then…

She thought she heard something. Like the glass doors that connected the master bedroom to the pool and patio sliding open.

Despite the heat of the water, she froze.

And waited, listening…

 

It had been a very long day for Jassy, dramatic in many ways, exciting, frightening.

She was sometimes amazed herself at her ability to sympathize with the victims of violent crime, yet still turn to the sleuthing of pathology with such energy and passion. An interviewer had once asked her if she felt guilty, cutting into the bodies of those who had met with violent ends. She had assured the young reporter that although she often felt sorry that she had to cut into a victim, she didn't feel guilty in the least. The dead could no longer speak; they couldn't seek justice for the violence done against them. With her work, she could seek the justice that the dead could not.

With the discovery of the torso, they were now able to analyze the stomach contents of the deceased. Now, with some good investigative footwork, the police could find out where Holly Tyler had eaten her last meal. From there, they could begin to comb the area hotels and motels, and through luck or some heavenly intervention maybe find the place where Holly had been killed, find witnesses to her arrival there, witnesses who had seen the killer.

She was on a satisfied high when she finally got home that night.

She glanced at her watch, delighted to realize that any minute, the new man in her life would be arriving. She felt a giddy excitement, a feeling unlike anything she had felt since high school, for God's sake! This was so wonderful, so exciting, such a sheer high.

And he loved her, too.

Fifteen minutes.

She slammed her door shut, already crawling out of the clothing she'd been wearing at the morgue all day. Fifteen minutes wasn't a lot of time.

She dropped her shoes and lab coat in the living room, then struggled out of her skirt and panty hose as she moved down the hallway. By the time she reached her bedroom, she was nearly ripping off the buttons on her white tailored blouse and feeling for the back catch on her bra. Her trail of clothing behind her, she jumped into the shower before turning on the water, then squealed with surprise as an icy spray met her face. Muttering, she warmed the water.

Well, the cold had certainly given her a jolt of energy!

She reached for her solid off-the-shelf deodorant soap, then remembered the scented stuff she'd gotten for Christmas. Dripping, she jumped out of the shower, dug under the sink and found her perfumed gel. It was great. She lathered heavily with it—twice in all the intimate places.

Now…what to wear when she got out?

Nothing, she decided. Nothing except her gold dangle earrings, her sapphire pendant and her anklet. That would do it.

But even as she decided on not choosing a wardrobe, she shivered, certain that she had heard a distant clicking sound. She pondered over it briefly.

Oh, shit! Had she locked the front door?

 

Killer watched the woman he loved.

Of course, his name wasn't really Killer, and he loved all women. Still, she was special.

He called himself Killer because he liked it. Because it was a hardy, swaggering, masculine name.

And, of course, because he was a killer. Talented, clever. And they were all such fools.

He watched her…fascinated.

Watched her move with quick, lithe grace. Watched the clothing fall from her perfect form. She had beautiful breasts, high, firm, perfect. Her hair shimmered over her naked shoulders. She turned around, and he trembled, thinking about touching her. She had a great ass. And she was different. He already knew she was different. For one thing, she knew him. Knew him well, not casually. This wasn't a well-orchestrated but casual pickup, like the others. This time, it could work. She could love him, too. Really love him. She might be the rich scent and sweet softness without…the thorns.

And he might not have to…

Kill her.

She moved again. Soon she would be out of his sight. This was so good, watching her, seeing her, without her knowing that he saw, watched. That he dreamed of tasting her. She didn't know how good a lover he was going to be. Maybe, sometime, he would have to hurt her. Just so that she understood that she wasn't to try to hurt him. And so that she could know just how great her pleasure could be after pain.