Possession (13 page)

Josie held up her hands. “Look, I never really got a close look, you know? He always came in when I was busy with other customers and snuck up the stairs.” She was absently rubbing her arm. “The same when he left.”

Akela tried to decipher whether or not she was telling the truth. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

She sighed. If the guy Claire had met here was the same ‘C’ from her diary—and Akela was sure he was—she wasn’t surprised that he would go to extra lengths not to be noticed.

“You know, you really should consider getting some security cameras put up in here,” Akela said. “A city like this isn’t safe for a girl, even a capable one like you.”

“Tell me about it. But right now I’m trying to
figure out how I’m going to cover my tax bill, much less afford security cameras.”

Point taken.

Akela pocketed her notepad, absently wondering what she was going to do with the information she had compiled, information that could easily be used to deflect suspicion from Claude, bitter Mimi Culpepper aside. But was it enough? Could Claude be cleared without the real killer being caught?

“Agent?”

“Please, call me Akela.”

“Was there anything else?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. I guess not.” She slid another of her business cards across the counter. “Should you remember anything about the man, or Miss Laraway, or anything at all…please call me. I’ll make sure the info can’t be traced back to you.”

Josie picked up the card and tucked it in her pocket as if merely having it out on the counter was proof of some sort of guilt. “I will.”

Akela knew she wouldn’t, but there was little she could do about that. Until, when and if she had any additional questions, their conversation would end there.

L
ATELY, NIGHTS WERE
Akela’s least favorite time. Everyone but her was asleep. She couldn’t follow up on clues. Essentially she felt like a prisoner of the darkness, her movements restricted, her options limited. And, of course, it didn’t help that even though Claude had physically released her days ago, emotionally she was still very much his hostage.

She lay across her big, empty bed, the light from the moon cutting a swatch of dim, blue light across her midsection. She really could use some sleep, but the peaceful escape eluded her like a thief in the night. Her mind clicked with everything that had happened that day—from Mimi Culpepper’s acidic bitterness, to Claude’s softly spoken erotic commands over the phone in the wee hours. Her brain refused to shut down.

She absently fingered the corner of the pillow next to her, feeling out of sorts. That restlessness
might have scared her had she not been in the middle of an investigation, even though she suspected that same agitation had very little to do with Claire Laraway’s murder, and everything to do with the man accused of murdering her.

Against her better judgment, she’d given herself over to the need to call him earlier, to make sure he was all right. He hadn’t picked up. The experience had left her even more worried. She wouldn’t put it past Chevalier to keep another arrest attempt from her. And although she was pretty sure Claude wasn’t in the county lockup, there was more she was concerned about than the risk of his arrest.

She wasn’t sure when exactly her desire for brief, no-strings-attached sex with the hot Cajun had morphed into something more, but she was positive that was what lay at the core of her restlessness. She knew a hunger for him that went beyond sex and beyond what he could do to her with a few whispered suggestive words. When she wasn’t with him, she yearned to be with him. There didn’t seem to be a single moment that went by that she wasn’t thinking about him and, oddly enough, most of the thoughts had absolutely no connection to the case. She wanted to know what the first sentence he’d ever written was. What his first pair of shoes were. Whether or not he’d gone
to his senior prom and whom he’d gone with. She wanted to see pictures of him missing his front teeth, and share memories of his upbringing. She knew his mother had died some years back and that the space on his birth certificate had read John Doe, but did he share an emotional closeness with the woman who had raised him or had they always been at loggerheads like her and her mother?

And, mostly, she was afraid that she’d never get the chance to have any of her questions answered, not only because he was facing murder charges, but because Jean-Claude Lafitte wasn’t a man made for marriage or long-term relationships. He was someone who lived fully in the here and now, who followed his urges and didn’t know the meaning of the word restraint.

Meanwhile she had spent almost the whole of her twenty-eight years reacting to events rather than making them happen.

Akela closed her eyes and swallowed hard. As difficult as it was to face, that’s who she was. Her cautiousness and natural care made her a damn good FBI agent.

It also made her a scared and lonely woman.

She felt a light touch on her arm. Goose bumps swept along her skin and she went still, fear coalescing in her stomach.

“Shh,
chere,
no reason to be afraid.”

Claude.

She lay quietly, wondering if the touch and his words were a figment of her imagination or if, indeed, he had somehow managed to gain access to the well-protected house and approach her bed without her hearing him.

The top sheet lifted from her body and a moment later she felt weight on the mattress next to her, then Claude’s warm, naked body curved against hers.

Akela stifled a moan, the combination of her chaotic thoughts and yearnings coming together to make her acutely aware of the man who had snuck into her bed and her heart when she wasn’t looking.

“I was hoping to catch you before you came home, but I didn’t. So when I saw through the window that you’d come into your room…I hope you don’t mind my gaining entrance from the back and coming up here. I couldn’t help myself.”

She reached behind her back, finding his hand on her hip and giving it a squeeze by way of an answer.

“A man couldn’t hope for a warmer welcome,” he murmured against her ear.

She arched her back, putting her gown-covered bottom in direct contact with his obvious arousal. All her worries evaporated, leaving nothing but sheer want in their wake.

“I’m glad you came,” she whispered.

He snaked his hand up to her chin and turned her face toward him. “I’m glad you’re glad.”

He kissed her lingeringly, his mouth warm, his lips insistent.

Akela shifted to roll over and he held her still.

“Non,
ma catin
. I want you to stay like this.”

She thought she might cry out with the need to hold him, to feel him in her arms—until his hand ran over her alert breasts, down her midsection, then straight to the crux of her desire for him. She lifted her leg so that it curved over his, giving him better access. Slowly he raised the hem of her nightgown, until it brushed the top of her thighs, revealing her to him. He grabbed her swollen flesh almost roughly, as if he’d been longing to touch her as much as she’d been longing to be touched. Then his finger was inside the leg of her panties and he was stroking her hot slickness.

Akela threw her head back and moaned, shooting sensations traveling across her skin, making her shiver all over.

“I want you so badly I don’t think I can wait,” he whispered, kissing the side of her throat.

“Who’s asking you to wait?”

Then just like that he was stripping her panties
from her, sheathing himself in a condom, then lifting her leg to gain access to her from behind.

Akela nearly climaxed at the first stroke of his hardness against her exposed flesh. But rather than immediately entering her, as she so wanted him to, he slid his erection back and forth, over her clit then down again, creating a hot, wet friction that left her panting.

“Please,” she whispered.

He snaked his other hand under her and held her still when she might have bore back on him. Pulling her nightgown up farther, he found her breast and gave an almost painful squeeze, forcing the air from her lungs in a surprised whoosh.

Then he entered her in one long, hard stroke that left her little more than a puddle of quivering, convulsing flesh.

Akela had never come so quickly and the reality left her feeling exquisitely, blessedly alive. At the same time as she pressed against him, she realized he’d gone very, very still, as if fending off his own climax. She shuddered against him, reveling in the feel of his fingers against her breast, his arousal between her legs. Every part of her seemed to pulse and vibrate as she drew herself down his length slowly, then slid back again, starting a rhythm he had yet to follow as he clutched her hip in his other hand.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he groaned in her ear.

He rolled her so she was on her stomach, then pulled her hips so that she was up on her knees. Akela scrambled to keep her balance with her hands, bracing herself for him when he thrust into her long and hard from behind.

She dropped her chin to her chest and moaned, incredible, molten pleasure lapping like waves over her body. His fingers clutched her hips almost harshly, holding her still, holding her fast as he withdrew from her, stroking her swollen flesh with his thick length. Just when she might cry out for a deeper meeting, he surged into her again, his skin slapping against hers as he thrust again, and again.

Akela was half-afraid she might spontaneously combust. She bore backward and worked her hips forward, stroking him as he stroked her. They found an even rhythm that made her soar higher with each meeting, back and forth, in and out….

Then he slid his hand down over her hip and between her legs, catching her clit between his finger and thumb and squeezing, shattering her into a thousand tiny sparkling pieces, his deep, low groan indicating he’d followed right after her.

She collapsed to the mattress with him still inside her and he lay against her, his breathing heavy in her
ear, his fingers still idly caressing her so she felt as if she had no power over her shuddering body.

“I keep waiting for my interest in you to wane,” he said quietly, moving her hair from the back of her neck with his nose, then nipping the sensitive skin. “Instead my want for you only grows.”

Akela understood all too well what he was saying. Casual sex was supposed to be, by its very nature, meaningless. But she found nothing superficial about how she felt when she made love to him. When he touched her. When he stroked her inside and out, setting her soul on fire.

He gently rolled off of her, drawing her against the length of his body and smoothing her hair.

And it was there, in the strength and warmth of his arms, that Akela finally found the peace she’d been seeking for what seemed like her entire life.

A
KELA WAS AWARE
of warmth spreading along her skin. In the cotton web of her dream, she surged toward it, opening herself to the addictive heat. Her eyelids fluttered open only to discover that it wasn’t a dream at all, but delicious reality. The early-morning sun shone through her bedroom window, bathing her in light, while Claude was running his tongue along the tight bud of her breast, as if seeking sustenance only she could provide.

“Good morning,” he said.

And a very good morning it was, too. Akela felt as if she’d been reborn somehow, her body both drained and sated, although Claude’s skillful attentions were igniting desire in her all over again.

“Hello yourself,” she murmured, entwining her fingers in his thick, tousled hair, the strands coarse against her skin.

He dipped his head lower, lapping the skin of her stomach, making her draw in a quick breath.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re insatiable?” She pressed her head back into the pillows and closed her eyes, overly aware of the smile on her face. She blindly reached to cover his mouth. “No, don’t answer that.”

He chuckled quietly and she removed her hand. He took advantage of his new freedom by burying his nose in the wedge of curls between her legs, burrowing until he nipped at her core with his lips.

Akela gasped, her back coming up off the bed at the shock of sensation.

Long, shuddering moments later, she stared at Claude through the fringe of her lashes, wondering how many times he’d brought her to climax throughout the night. She’d lost count at somewhere around the fifth time, merely going with the flow.

She scooted down on the linens, reaching for the proof of his arousal. He caught her hand.

“It’s getting late.”

She turned her head to look at the clock. It was after seven.

She nearly jackknifed up off the bed. Her glorious awakening had made her oblivious to where she was and what time it was.

Claude held her still. “It’s not that late.”

He got up from the bed in all his nude glory, stepping to the connecting bathroom.

Akela smiled and stretched out, identifying muscles she hadn’t been aware she had. She heard the sound of the shower, knowing she should be getting up herself, should be picking up the pillows and covers that had fallen from the bed during the night, but she couldn’t do anything more than lie there, basking in the aftermath of their lovemaking session.

She heard a door click open and she propped herself up on her elbows. Only it wasn’t the bathroom door that had opened, but rather the door to the hall. And it wasn’t Claude she was looking at, but her four-year-old daughter, Daisy.

Akela immediately covered herself with the top sheet.

“Mommy, Mommy!”

“Daisy, honey! What are you doing up so early?”

She couldn’t remember the last time her daughter had burst into her room like that. Surely it had been well before they’d moved back to New Orleans.

The four-year-old was all smiles and tangled blond hair in her pink nightgown and slippers. “Grandma, I mean Grandmother said that you might like to have breakfast with us.”

Then the bathroom door did open and Claude stepped out, only a towel wrapped around his hips, rubbing another towel against his damp hair, both mother and daughter gaping at him.

“Did somebody say breakfast?” he asked.