Killer Heat (17 page)

“You're right. She got it the old-fashioned way. And I enjoyed every minute of it, okay? Too bad she's married. Maybe we could go at it again, since a good lay is all that's ever mattered to me.”

Francesca winced even though she knew he didn't mean it.
Couldn't
mean it. He was being purposely nasty. All the tension they'd felt since running into each other again was bubbling to the surface, slamming one jagged emotion into another. “What if Adriana and I had both gotten pregnant?” she asked again.

“Then I would've walked out on you the way I walked out on her,” he said, his eyes glittering with reckless abandon. “Convinced you to give away my own flesh and blood. Never looked back. How can you expect anything more from a guy like me?”

“I don't know how I couldn't see it,” she whispered.

She didn't need to spell it out. She could tell he knew she meant that he'd managed to deceive her, that she'd once thought so much more highly of him than he deserved.

“I guess you never looked close enough.”

That muscle twitched in his cheek again, but she ignored it. Instead, she fought the tears clogging her throat. “At least I see you more clearly now.”

“Good. Then you'll know to keep your distance. Dealing with me isn't for the emotionally fragile.”

“Emotionally fragile?” She barked a laugh. “You couldn't hurt me if you tried. Not anymore.”

“Oh, yeah? You think I can't sense the chemistry between us? It's not gone, Francesca. Whether you admit it or not, it's far from gone.”

“What chemistry? You mean sexual attraction? So
what if it's still there? It's all physical. You think I can't enjoy a free ride and walk away when it's over just as easily as you can?”

He twisted in his seat to confront her more directly. “Is that what you want from me? A free ride? For old times' sake?”

It seemed that the color had drained from his face but in the failing light she couldn't be certain, and the edge to his voice challenged her to prove her words. “What's wrong with a cheap thrill? That's what you gave my best friend, isn't it? That's what you offer every girl you meet. Why should I be any different? Apparently, it was
my
mistake to expect more when we were together.”

His gaze raked over her chest before moving lower and suddenly she wanted his hands every place his eyes touched. The tightly leashed aggression simmering inside him didn't frighten her. If they came together now, if they made love only to quench the desire clawing at her belly, she could have what she wanted without being forced to acknowledge that what she felt might be more than lust.

“Get in the back,” he snapped.

To show him how much she resented him and the effect he had on her, she narrowed her eyes. “Make me.”

His muscles contracted but he didn't reach for her. Dropping his head against the seat, he filled his lungs with the same air she was breathing—air that smelled of both of them, air they'd warmed with their angry words and the heat of their aroused bodies.

“What's the matter?” she asked when he made no move. “Don't tell me Casanova's lost his touch.”

He swallowed but didn't open his eyes. “Sorry, I'm not interested.”

Francesca wasn't sure why he'd changed his mind suddenly. Sexual tension radiated from him, proving the exact opposite of his words. So why was he holding back? What did
he
have to lose?

Afraid he really would deny her, she took his hand and placed it on her breast. “What's the matter? Sex no fun unless you're cheating on someone? Why not pretend you've got a wife at home? That should get you hot.”

The fingers that had started to cup her breast stiffened, and deep furrows formed between his eyebrows. She'd stung him with that barb; she could tell. But she refused to regret it. She wanted him too badly—but she didn't want to love him.

“If you expect to be treated like a whore, you're going to have to find someone else,” he said, and got out of the van.

 

Jonah strode down the dirt road, away from the salvage yard, as quickly as possible. He wasn't sure what had just happened but whatever it was, it'd felt as if Francesca had carved out his heart and served it up on a platter. He couldn't catch his breath, slow his racing pulse or feel anything except the overwhelming desire that had prompted him to make a difficult situation even worse.

What if Adriana and I had both gotten pregnant?

Did Francesca really believe he could've turned his back on her? He'd felt nothing more than mild friendship for Adriana, yet giving up their baby, giving up Summer, had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He thought of it, went through all the reasons it had to be the way it was, almost every day. But he could never have agreed to the adoption if that'd been his and Francesca's child.

But there was no point in trying to convince her otherwise. She would never understand that he'd honestly loved her. To her, his actions proved otherwise.

If only it could be that simple, that straightforward. But it wasn't. And because she didn't think he had feelings, she didn't mind stomping all over them every chance she got.

He deserved her revenge. But that didn't mean he'd let her prove he was the man she thought he was and not the man he'd fought to become. Regardless of the temptation she provided, he'd keep his hands to himself, make sure she was safe and then move on without affecting the world she'd built….

Finally coming to a stop, he rubbed his face. Where was he going? He had a job to do. But if he'd stayed in that van ten more seconds, he would've taken Francesca in the back and greedily accepted whatever she'd been willing to give him—even knowing she'd hate him that much more when it was over.

“That's pretty damned pathetic, Young.”

Maybe he should take her home. He couldn't work with her around. The fight to overcome his feelings was too constant, too demanding, too tiring.

But he couldn't leave her unprotected, either. Whoever had cut her telephone line could come back. And maybe the bastard wouldn't just hang around the pool next time.

The image of April Bonner's rotting body arose in his mind. The fear that Francesca might be next kept him right where he didn't want to be—in limbo. He couldn't act on his feelings
or
escape them. He had to solve this case, make sure she survived it. Only then could he leave her and try, once again, to forget.

Heart still knocking against his ribs, he headed back to the van. They were here for a reason. He couldn't lose sight of that. But when he opened the door to climb in, she was gone.

W
hat had come over her? Francesca didn't know. But she'd had to get out of the van in case Jonah returned before she could compose herself. Maybe Butch hadn't gone inside for the night yet, but at the moment, Jonah seemed like the bigger threat. Somehow, the warmth of his hand, which had settled so briefly on her breast, lingered, still felt hot enough to burn through her shirt. It didn't make sense. She'd been with other men, men she'd cared about at the time, but there'd been no one like Jonah. How could they continue to work together with such powerful undercurrents tugging at them constantly?

Maybe she'd be better off on her own. With Dean roaming around, showing up at odd places unexpectedly, Jonah would argue with her about that, but she couldn't expect him to protect her forever. Their relationship was too strained. It had to move in one direction or the other, and she knew what would happen if it went in the direction she wanted. They'd be right back where they'd been before he'd gotten her best friend pregnant.

But she wasn't the only one who had something at stake this time. What about the women who'd been mur
dered in Dead Mule Canyon? April? Their families, who were praying for justice?

And what about any future victims Butch or Dean might take?

Francesca had to put her personal life aside, keep herself together until they could solve this case.

At least she could avoid Jonah for the moment.

In this part of the desert, the flat ground hosted more cacti than trees. To compensate for the lack of cover, she moved as quietly as possible. Where had Butch gone? Before the whole drama with Jonah, she'd seen Butch driving his truck. Although that truck was no longer visible, she doubted he'd gone into the house. She guessed he was still around, perhaps in his office. A light glowed through the window. She thought he might be doing paperwork or making calls or whatever else he did in there.

Fortunately, the sinking sun created enough shadows to provide a degree of safety. Any later, and she wouldn't be able to see without a flashlight. So this wasn't a bad time to take a look around, especially since the dog, Demon, seemed to be inside the house or office. She couldn't go onto the property without compromising the admissibility of any evidence she might find, but there was no law against peeking over a fence.

As she took out her camera, hoping to get a couple of shots before the light grew too dim, she spotted Paris at the kitchen window. Butch's wife appeared to be doing dishes, but every once in a while she gazed out at the yard as if transfixed. Was she anxious for her husband to come in? Did she wonder where her brother was? Did any one ever bother to check on Dean's whereabouts? Where had the old folks gone and when would they be back?

Keeping close to the fence, Francesca circled the yard, eyeing the cars that hadn't yet been completely stripped and smashed. Very few were Priuses. And, as night set in, it became harder and harder to determine each car's color. Terrance had said that Bianca drove a charcoal Prius. But surely, if Butch or Dean had brought her car here, they would've dismantled it immediately and hurried it through the destruction process. It'd been a year since Bianca had died. What were the chances that even a small remnant of her vehicle remained?

Suddenly a series of floodlights, spaced at regular intervals, snapped on in the yard. Unsure whether they were on a timer or Butch had seen her and thrown a switch, Francesca crept away from the fence and crouched behind some desert scrub, which was the best cover she could find.

“Butch?” The screen door slammed as Paris came outside. Francesca could see Mrs. Vaughn far more easily in the glaring light of those floods than when she'd been framed in that window with most of the light coming from behind her. She seemed upset. Why?

She wore a simple cotton shirt, baggy shorts and flip-flops, and her feet tapped the wooden steps of the porch as she descended into the yard. “Butch? Where are you?”

Butch poked his head out of his office. “Here.”

Paris hurried over and went inside without closing the door. As it hung halfway open, the light from inside cast a distorted triangle on the ground.

Francesca crept as close as the fence would allow. Judging by the expression on Paris's face, something had changed. Francesca wanted to know what it was. Paris had started with, “I just got a call from…” but then she'd
stepped inside and the volume of her voice had dropped too low for Francesca to hear.

The gate Francesca had used when she'd let herself onto the property the first time stood open only fifteen feet away. Wide enough for the flatbed trucks that transported clunker cars to the salvage yard, it provided easy access. If she slipped through it and sidled up to the building, she'd be able to hear everything….

But was it worth the risk of getting caught?

Considering the fact that Dean and his parents were both gone, and Demon wasn't in the yard, that risk didn't seem too high. Maybe Butch or Paris would say something that would give them a lead, some way to solve the terrible murders before another one occurred.

Hoping to see Jonah, to let him know what she was about to do, she glanced toward the van.

It was a mere speck on the horizon, and there was no sign of Jonah. But if she waited any longer, it would be too late. In order to hear what Paris was saying, she had to move, and she had to move now.

Seconds later, she stood inside the yard amid the car parts and scrap metal and the mannequin that'd caused such a fuss. When she rounded a heap of car frames, she could see the outline of that “body” beneath the tarp, but she chose to ignore it as well as the embarrassment her mistake had brought her. Instead of walking farther in that direction, she circled Butch's office, coming the other way.

No matter how slowly she walked, the rocky soil crunched beneath her feet, but she wasn't too concerned about drawing attention. Not right now. The closer she got to Butch's office, the more obvious it became that he and his wife were deeply immersed in an argument.

“I don't want her calling here anymore.” That was Paris.

“You said whoever it was hung up,” Butch responded.

“They did.”

“Then how do you know it was her?” He sounded as if he was trying to come across as unconcerned, but Francesca wasn't buying it. She wondered if Paris was.

“Because she always hangs up when I answer.”

“It doesn't make sense for Kelly to call the house, Paris. If she wanted to talk to me, she'd call my cell or the business line. And I'm telling you I haven't heard from her since I broke it off.”

“She's not satisfied calling your cell. She wants to involve me. She's hoping it'll upset me, break us up. She thinks if we get divorced she'll have you all to herself.”

“Come on. She knows we'll never split up. I told her that from the beginning.”

“That doesn't mean she's willing to accept it!”

“She has a husband and children of her own.”

“A husband she doesn't love. Matt's leaving her. You know that. She's only using her children to get as much financial support from him as possible. If it wasn't for the money, she'd walk out on them in a heartbeat, especially if she thought she could have you.”

“You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Are you
sure
you broke it off, Butch?”

“That's what I told you, isn't it?”

“Then where did
these
come from?”

That question resulted in the loudest silence Francesca had ever heard.

“Where'd you get those?” Butch asked at length.

“After that call, I went out and searched your truck. They were in the jockey box.”

Francesca wished she could see Butch's face, his body language. In an attempt to do just that, she edged closer to the window but he and Paris were standing next to the desk, out of sight.

“That's bullshit,” Butch snapped. “I'd never be stupid enough to put another woman's panties in such an obvious place.”

“Then how did they get there?” she asked, her voice rising.

“I have no clue. But I didn't put them there.”

“Do you recognize them?”

“No.”

“You expect me to believe that? You collect them! You use them to relive your time with the women who owned them. You probably get off just touching them!”

He sidestepped the panties issue. “I haven't been with Kelly!”

“Then who?”

“No one!”

Paris came into view. Head down, the panties balled in her right fist, she looked completely dejected. “I can't take any more, Butch. After everything that's happened, after the nightmare we've been through, a nightmare that'll never end, you still can't be faithful?”

“I have a sex addiction, Paris. That isn't an easy thing to overcome.”

“I've suggested counseling, but you won't agree to it.”

“It won't do any good! Besides, I don't want anyone messing with my mind.”

“So what do
you
suggest?”

“For what?”

“To stop this!” She held up the panties. “You have to quit cheating on me!”

“I have!” Butch insisted. “Come on. I'll take you over to the Martins' right now, have Kelly tell you herself that it's been over a month since we were together.”

Paris's shoulders slumped. “If you're willing to do that, there's someone else. Yet again.”

“No…”

She whipped around and disappeared from Francesca's view, but Francesca could hear her. “What about that woman who was found dead in Skull Valley? These didn't belong to her, did they?”

“No.”

“That P.I. was here for a reason, Butch. And it wasn't to ask about Julia.”

Who was Julia? Francesca wondered.

“That P.I. is chasing the wrong man. She's nothing but a stupid bitch.”

At the mention of her, Francesca couldn't help taking a few steps back.

“Bitch?” Paris echoed. “Maybe. But stupid? I don't think so.” She approached the door, which sent Francesca scrambling farther into a pathway between two piles of metal. But Paris didn't come out. Butch must've stopped her; he was still talking.

“Your brother probably stuck those panties in my truck. He knows we've been fighting, and he knows something like this could be the last straw. He's trying to get rid of me.”

“That's laughable,” she said. “Where would Dean get a pair of women's panties? With all the medication he's on, I doubt he can even get it up.”

“Maybe he's not quite as sexually inactive as you think.”

“Maybe
you
aren't, either.”

The door hit the outside wall as Paris stormed out. But, once again, Butch stopped her.

“Come on, baby, don't leave like this. I have a problem. I've admitted that to you. But I'm working on it.”

“You're working on it? You won't even get help.”

“I have to do it my own way.”

“And what is your way, Butch? You're still filling out profiles on dating sites, still meeting other women. That's your way?”

“It was a minor slipup. What I'm fighting has a strong hold on me. But I can break it.”

“The last woman you slept with is
dead.
Tell me that was a coincidence.”

“You know it was. Why would I kill anyone?”

“You have a temper. You don't need me to tell you that.”

“Look, I had sex with her, okay? But it didn't mean anything. You're the only one who matters to me. I've already told you that.”

Francesca peered around a stack of bumpers in time to see Paris shake her head. “You don't get it. You have no idea what's at stake here. What you've done,” she said, and started off again.

“Francesca Moretti, the police, they have nothing on me,” he called after her.

“That doesn't mean they'll stop trying to get something.”

“They're wasting their time.”

“Tell that to the people who are watching our house right now.”

He jogged after her, but she kept going. “What are you talking about?”

Pivoting to face him, she said, “We're under sur
veillance, Butch. My parents called after I hung up with Kelly or whoever that was. They said the van I spotted when I was with them earlier is back, less than a quarter of a mile away.”

He glanced around. “Where?”

“There.” She pointed in the direction of the van, even though it was too dark to see. “It has two people inside, watching our place, waiting for you to make a mistake. And having them there is driving me crazy.”

“That's it.” Grabbing a piece of lead pipe from a pile of rubbish, Butch hurried through the gate.

“Butch? Wait! What are you going to do?”

He didn't answer.

Francesca would've hurried out right after him. Now that he knew about the van, he'd start looking for its missing occupants. Anyone would. She needed to get off the property. But Paris stood by the open gate, crying as she gazed after her husband.

 

As soon as he saw Butch coming out of the salvage yard, Jonah dropped to the ground. He preferred to avoid a confrontation, if possible. All he wanted to do was find Francesca and get the hell out of there, but that was much more difficult than he'd expected. Although he'd circled the property three times, he hadn't yet found her. And he was beginning to suspect the reason. If she wasn't on the outside of the fence, and she wasn't back at the van, she had to be
in
the salvage yard.

But where, exactly? And why? Didn't she realize she was risking the whole investigation by trespassing?

As Butch disappeared into the darkness, Jonah got to his feet. But then he noticed a car approaching the house and had to drop down again so he wouldn't be seen. Butch's in-laws were returning; he'd watched that
same vehicle leave earlier with Butch's father-in-law at the wheel.