Killer Heat (11 page)

“Why would she feel guilty?” he asked.

She pretended she hadn't been admiring him. She knew better than to get caught up in that, didn't she? She was just too tired to fight her natural inclination. It'd been so long since she'd been with Jonah. She couldn't help wondering if he kissed the same, touched the same…

Clearing her throat, she told herself it didn't matter and answered his question. “She's the one who encouraged April to try an online dating service. That's how she met her own husband, so she was high on the idea and thought it might work for her sister.”

He made a clicking sound with his tongue. “That's too bad.”

It was worse than “too bad,” but no words were adequate and she understood that.

Suddenly, Jonah looked over and saw her studying him again. She'd been searching for subtle changes in his body. His thighs were slightly thicker. His hands had a few more nicks and scars—or maybe they had a lot more. Hard to tell in the dim glow of the instrument panel. His biceps seemed more pronounced beneath the soft cotton sleeves of his Cabo San Lucas T-shirt.

She thought maybe he'd ask her what she was looking at, but he didn't. Their eyes met and held, then his eyebrows jerked together as he returned his attention to the road. “Any chance you could get some sleep?” he asked.

Had he spoken merely to break a silence that had become too intense? She got that impression. There was no real expectation in the question. He knew how wound up she was, that it would be impossible to relax so soon.
“No. First I need to decide whether or not to contact the people Dean mentioned.”

“You were staying with Heather. You didn't tell her before you left?”

“She was already asleep when he called, and I wasn't sure waking her was a good idea. She has no family in this part of the country and her boyfriend is in jail. Where would she go in the middle of the night with a three-year-old?” Refusing to let her gaze linger on him, she frowned and watched the pavement rush beneath their tires. “I wrote her a note, telling her not to divulge any information to Butch Vaughn, Paris Vaughn or Dean Wheeler, should they call, and to contact me in the morning so I could explain why I had to leave, but…maybe I should've done more.”

“What about Adriana?” he asked.

She'd planned on calling Adriana, but by the time she'd finished her conversation with Jill, Jonah had arrived to take her to Prescott. “I definitely need to call her.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Some privacy. She feared Adriana would pump her for information about Jonah, and she didn't want him overhearing the whole thing. But it'd be after midnight by the time they got to Prescott. If she was going to warn Adriana, she'd better do it now. Adriana's name had been in that stack of messages she'd received from Heather, too. As soon as she'd hung up with Jonah, Francesca had flipped through the rest of them, but she hadn't yet tackled her voice mail. She'd started to, then heard that it was full and hung up. Twenty messages? Too many. She couldn't deal with her regular clients in the midst of all this. Besides, quite a few of those messages were probably from Adriana. She was nothing if not persistent.

The phone rang twice before Adriana picked up.

“Where the heck have you been?”

“Dealing with a case.”

“A man by the name of Dean Wheeler called here. You must've left your purse in Prescott because he was trying to return it to you. I've called and called, hoping to get you, but—”

“He got hold of me. I'm heading there now. But I wanted to let you know about something that's going on, something that has me worried.”

“What?” she asked, then fell silent as Francesca explained.

“This Butch guy came to your
house?
” she said when Francesca was done. “You were afraid he might try to break in when you woke me up last night, and you didn't say a word?”

They'd been too busy talking about Jonah. “I didn't want to scare you. I figured I could handle it myself. But now…I think you need to know that he might try to hurt me by hurting people I love. He has your address as well as your phone number. Tonight his brother-in-law, Dean, mentioned you and Josephine, even Heather and her son.”

“And you believe this man, this Butch, killed a woman?”

“I believe he may have killed a lot more than one.”

“My God, this is surreal. Like something out of a movie.”

“It's not. Take it seriously, Adriana.”

“How?”

“Lock your doors and windows. Tell your husband to watch for any suspicious activity. Keep a cell phone handy in case you need to call the police.”

“You're scaring the shit out of me,” she said.

“That's what I'm trying to do. Then you'll be cautious, watch out for strangers, look around whenever you leave the house.”

“What about you? So what if this guy has your purse? Maybe you should just let him keep it.”

“I'm hoping it'll help maintain contact. If he's focused on me, he won't be out killing anyone else. I hope.”

There was a brief silence, then Adriana asked, “Does Jonah know about this?”

“Yes.”

“He called here earlier, too. He wanted me to give you the message that he's trying to reach you.”

“Thanks for letting me know.” She wasn't sure why she didn't admit that he was sitting in the car next to her. Like everything else about the three of them, it was complicated.

Glad she'd given Adriana some notice, Francesca felt the tension begin to seep from her body. “I've got to go. I'll check in tomorrow.”

“Francesca?”

She hesitated. “What?”

“If things between you and Jonah are heating up again, I hope…well, I hope you won't let the past stand in the way of…of a reconciliation. If that's what you want. If that's what you
really
want.”

“It's not what I want,” she said. She had no intention of asking for a second helping of the kind of hurt he'd dished out a decade before. For all she knew, he'd lied about having a girlfriend.

“If you're sure.”

“I'm sure.”

“Maybe he's changed, Fran.”

“And maybe he hasn't.”

A scowl tugged at the corners of Jonah's mouth as
he shot her a glance. He could tell they were talking about him.

“Right,” Adriana said. “Okay. Well, be careful.”

Was it Francesca's imagination or did her friend sound relieved? “I will.”

Francesca pressed the end-call button and glanced up to find Jonah watching her.

“I was never really attracted to her,” he said. “I—”

Wincing, she held up a hand. “Don't. Really. That only makes it worse.”

His knuckles showed white on the steering wheel.
“How?”

“Because it means you tore my heart out and stomped on it for nothing!” Oh, God, she was going to be sick. What was wrong with her? She'd come to terms with this years ago, hadn't she?

If so, her mind had forgotten to notify her body. She felt exactly as she'd felt when she first learned the truth, as if there wasn't so much as a day separating that moment from this one.

“Stop the car,” she said.

“Here? What for?” He was obviously confused, but she didn't have time to explain. Neither did she want to. It was bad enough that
she
understood the effect he had on her.

“Just pull over, please!”

He must've heard the panic in her voice because he slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a stop only seconds before she stumbled into the tall weeds along the shoulder and lost what was left of her dinner.

J
onah wanted to believe it was the lack of sleep and the stress that were taking a toll on Francesca. When she got back in the car, she muttered something about eating a hamburger that must not have agreed with her. But she wasn't sick because of what she'd had for dinner. It was his fault she'd been ill. Only after she'd called Adriana and he'd tried to tell her, once again, why he'd done what he'd done had the color drained from her face.

That he had no one to blame for her pain except himself was rather ironic. If anyone else had hurt her, he would've kicked some ass. Hell, he
was
kicking ass. He'd been kicking his own for a decade. But all the self-recrimination in the world wouldn't dull the sharp edge of regret.

“You okay?” he asked once they were on the road again. She'd pushed her seat back and closed her eyes, but he knew she wasn't asleep. He wished he could take her hand and simply hold it. But he didn't dare. He didn't deserve the pleasure it would bring him.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Better. I—I'll call Josephine in the morning. She goes to bed early. No need to wake her. Butch won't be going anywhere tonight. The police are watching his place, aren't they?”

She was as tough as any woman he'd ever met, and yet she suddenly seemed so fragile. How could he have hurt her the way he had? He couldn't blame it all on the alcohol. He'd known what he was doing. He'd acted consciously—to destroy what he wanted most. “That's what they said.”

“She'll be okay for tonight,” Francesca repeated. “Everyone will be okay for tonight.”

She was trying so hard to convince herself that Jonah muttered a few words in agreement. But when he was with Francesca and he had to face what he'd done and what he'd lost because of it, he felt as if the world would never be right again.

 

“What's wrong, honey?”

Her husband's question came out of the dark, and it made Adriana aware that she'd been tossing and turning. “Nothing, why?”

“You've been restless ever since you went to bed. Is everything okay?”

“Of course.” She fought to put some lift in her voice. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“You tell me.”

“There's nothing to tell.” Grimacing, she hugged her pillow closer. That wasn't a lie, was it? Nothing had happened.

“Would you like me to rub your shoulders?” he asked. “Help you relax?”

She felt too guilty to accept. Stan was a wonderful man—a talented pediatrician, a generous husband, a fabulous father. She loved him. So why did she feel the acidic burn of jealousy whenever Jonah was in Francesca's life? Even now, after so many years? And what did that make her? A disloyal wife as well as a disloyal friend?

“No, thanks,” she said. “You've got to be tired.”

“I'm never too tired to touch you.”

Knowing he couldn't see her, she smiled with a trace of bitterness. How would he feel if he knew that, tonight, she'd pretend he was Jonah? “Thanks, but I'm not in the mood for a massage.”

“So…you won't tell me what's going on?”

“I've just been thinking about the baby I had. You know, before the boys,” she replied, which was true. She'd been brooding about her first child almost as much as Jonah and Francesca and all the rest of it. What would her life have been like if she'd had the chance to raise her daughter with her father? Jonah was all she'd ever wanted.

Stan rolled toward her and slipped his arm around her waist. “Are you wishing you'd kept her, honey? After all this time?”

The ceiling fan circled above them, providing some relief from the heat. Closing her eyes, Adriana concentrated on the brush of the air against her cheeks. “Maybe. I can't help wondering what she's like. Does she resemble me or Jonah? Does she have a good home? Is she happy? What if I'd decided to keep her?”

“You have to assume she's happy, Adriana. And why not? You know she went to a good family. Don't second-guess yourself. The questions you're asking will only eat at you, and the emotions they create could turn into guilt and destroy the peace and happiness we have within our own family.”

When she didn't respond, he curled more closely around her. “What do you say?”

“I know you're right.”

“Of course I'm right. I'm a doctor,” he teased. “Leave the past where it is.”

“I'm trying,” she whispered. But what he didn't understand, what she wanted to tell him but couldn't for fear she'd reveal too much, was that she hadn't dug up the past. The past had come calling all on its own.

 

The shower was running. Francesca could hear the pipes whine. That meant Jonah had to be back. What time was it?

Squinting to see through sleep-blurred eyes, she checked the old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. Nearly four. She'd been asleep for five hours.

It felt as if it'd only been five minutes.

A red light flashed on the desk, distracting her. Shoving herself onto her elbows, she realized it was Jonah's phone. There was a message waiting for him. Maybe more than one. Was Finch trying to get hold of him? What had they decided in her absence? Although she'd originally planned to join Jonah and the county investigators last evening, she hadn't made it to the sheriff's station. After being sick, she'd fallen asleep in the car and, once they reached Prescott, Jonah had insisted on bringing her to his motel room so she could continue sleeping while he met with Finch and Hunsacker.

The water went off and, as much as she tried not to, she imagined Jonah stepping out of the shower, completely naked with rivulets of water running off him. The intimate image sent a tingle through her, which dissolved the sleepiness of a moment before.

He opened the door slightly, probably to vent the steam, and she felt the hot, wet air roll out like an ocean wave. It chased away the chill of the air conditioner, which was set lower than she set her own. She supposed the coolness was one of the reasons she'd slept so soundly. She'd burrowed beneath the duvet, something
she couldn't do very often in Arizona, at least in the summertime, and hadn't even heard Jonah come in. Until the racket of the shower had eventually coaxed her into wakefulness, she hadn't turned over since climbing into his extra bed.

The sound of his movements drew her eyes to the door, and memories when they'd been together ten years ago began to spill out of the vault in the back of her mind.

“There you are,” Jonah breathed.

They were at her parents' house in Phoenix, had just been swimming. She'd gone in to change out of her suit and get ready for dinner when he surprised her by slipping into the bathroom.

She'd seen him in the mirror. “What are you doing here?” She'd felt so secure from accidental intrusions she hadn't even bothered to lock the door. Because of his wheelchair, her father couldn't use this particular bathroom. They'd had two specially designed and installed to accommodate him on the first floor—in the master suite and in the guest bathroom. Her mother hadn't been swimming. She'd merely sat by the pool, so she didn't need to change. And her brother no longer lived at home.

Jonah shut the door quietly behind him. “Looking for you.”

She'd just untied the strings to her bikini top, but she held them in place as she turned to face him. “We made love last night.”

His eyes swept over her, appreciative, hungry. “So? Do I only get one ticket a day? You've been driving me crazy in that suit.”

Laughing, she jerked her head toward the door. “Get out of here. My parents are home.”

“Your mother's making dinner. Your father's on the phone. We're safe.”

“For how long? They'll be calling for us soon. They're too excited about getting to know you.”

“They can wait five minutes.”

She rolled her eyes. “
You
can wait another hour or two until we get home.”

Flaunting a devilish grin, he moved closer. “And what if I can't?”

“Jonah!” She'd spoken with a hint of exasperation, as if she might refuse him, but they both knew she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. She couldn't get enough of him. After watching his long lean body cut smoothly through the water, hearing the timbre of his voice as he talked and laughed with her parents and feeling the subtle pull of his attention—an attention that never wavered from her, even when her parents thought he was fully involved in the conversation—she felt the warm, melting sensation that let her know her body was ready for him.

“You don't really want me to leave, do you?” He ran his lips up her neck and teased the strings of her top out of her hands.

“I'm not sure.”

“Let me help you decide.” His mouth found her breast as his hand slipped confidently and possessively inside her bathing suit bottom.

For another moment, Francesca tried to hang on to her sanity. “What if my parents—”

“They won't guess a thing. We'll be very, very quiet.”

Only a second later, he made a liar of himself when he groaned, but she smothered that groan with a kiss that said everything about “take me now” and nothing
about “I'm not interested.” Then there was no deciding. As soon as they could get rid of their wet suits, he had her up against the wall with her legs wrapped tightly around his hips.

Francesca remembered how he'd dropped his head back as he made love to her, how his muscles had bunched, how she'd begun to quiver in response. He'd carried her so high that day, given her such complete satisfaction—

The light snapped off as the door slid open, jerking Francesca into the present. Jonah had told her he loved her in that bathroom at her parents' house. He'd said it just as they'd finished making love, while the goose bumps still stood out on her skin. She'd gotten the impression that loving her scared the hell out of him, and that admitting it was difficult, but he'd acted like it was too true to deny. That was how he'd said it, anyway.

But his love had been a lie. She needed to remember that. Maybe he could carry her to heights of pleasure she'd never experienced with anyone else. But she'd never suffered the same depth of pain with another man, either. When it came to Jonah, the pendulum swung far too wide.

Trying to ignore the way her body ached for him, she rolled over to face the wall as he came into the room. He rummaged through his luggage, then went back into the bathroom, presumably to dress.

Before he could come out again, she found herself imagining another night, the first night they'd ever made love. They'd been dating for several weeks, playing it safe. Then one night he made her a fancy dinner. He bought wine and flowers and attempted to prepare lasagna, but they became so engrossed in conversation out on his deck, so preoccupied with each other, that everything
burned. They ended up ordering Chinese takeout, which they'd eaten outside so they could let the house air. After that, she'd tried to say good-night and leave, but he'd kissed her at the door and she'd lost all desire to hold back. They'd made love in the living room, the kitchen and, finally, his bedroom. From that night on, they'd been together almost constantly. It wasn't until he'd told her he loved her that he started drinking too much and acting strange. It hadn't gone on long enough that she was seriously worried about it, but…

The bed across from her creaked as he settled into it. She could smell his scent in the room—subtle but unmistakable. Now it grew stronger, making her even more aware of him.

How could she remember only a basic sketch of the other men she'd dated, even Roland, yet recall every detail of Jonah's body? The soft hair on his muscular chest. The breadth of his shoulders. The width of his hips. The firmness of his buttocks as she gripped them while he moved on top of her. The way his lips brushed hers when he was in a teasing mood, when he was in a tender mood, when he was in a sexually aggressive mood…

There must be something wrong with me,
she thought.

Because she still wanted him. Even after everything he'd done.

 

Morning came far too soon. Jonah could hear Francesca in the bathroom, getting ready. He knew she'd already showered; the water had gone on earlier. He'd been dozing ever since. But it was nearly eight-thirty, definitely time to get out of bed. Finch and Hunsacker were expecting them by nine. They needed to get a wire
on Francesca before she headed over to the salvage yard. Jonah would be listening in with both county investigators a few blocks away; two other cops would park a van out front and pretend to be with the electric company.

Sitting up, he yawned and tried to rub the sleep from his face. He really had to get onto a decent schedule. Grabbing snatches of sleep wasn't enough.

Fortunately, there was coffee. Francesca had a pot brewing; he could smell it.

“Thanks for making coffee,” he called out to let her know he was up.

“If I pour you a cup, can you wait a few minutes for the bathroom?”

Dropping back onto the bed, he stared up at the ceiling. “Sure, no problem.”

“One cream, two sugars?”

She remembered. “Yeah.”

“Just a sec.”

Soon after that she came out dressed in a pair of linen shorts, matching sandals and a burnt-orange top with fabric flowers clustered around the neck. “How do I look?” she said, handing him a cup of coffee. “Calm, cool and collected? Or can you tell I'm scared?”

As he accepted the cup, he tried to convince himself that she was no prettier than any other woman. But that was a lie he couldn't sell. “You look fine. Perfectly composed.” He took a sip and sent her a grin. “How do
I
look? Ready to kick some ass?”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Your hair's a mess and you're not wearing a shirt or shoes.”

“I'm talking about the determination on my face.”