Power to the Max (24 page)

Softly he said, “Yeah, you are,” then added after a telling pause, “and maybe you should be.”

God. He agreed with her. Would wonders never cease. “Do you know if he has an alibi?”

His lips curved in a slight smile. “Guess where he was.”

“The benefit with Julia La Russa and Baxter Newton.”

He shot her with his finger. “Bingo. You’ve done your homework,” he added, obviously assuming she’d read about Baxter’s relationship to the deceased in the paper rather than met him in person.

“You don’t even sound surprised he knows them.”

“Nothing surprises me if you’re somehow involved.”

She ignored that, not sure whether she’d been insulted or complimented. “The cops must have their eye on him or they wouldn’t have mentioned his alibi to you.” After all, Witt had nothing to do with the case. His info, she assumed, came over drinks at the local cop hangout. Though keeping on her butt the way he did, she hadn’t a clue when he found the time to hang and drink.

“Actually came in the form of prominent citizens who gave Julie La Russa her alibi.”

Max spread her hands. “Don’t you see? They’re all giving each other alibis, Baxter, Julia, Bud...” With Bud Traynor pulling the strings, God knew who else might somehow be involved.

He raised a skeptical brow. “Conspiracy theory?”

“Well, they each have a motive that’s a helluva lot better than Angela’s non-existent one.”

“Traynor’s being simply that he’s evil?”

Since Witt didn’t look like he was planning to leave any time soon, Max leaned back against the door. Her feet finally giving in to the stress of high heels, she kicked off her shoes. Witt watched that, too. Her nipples tightened beneath the schoolgirl blouse.

Why didn’t they do something besides talk?

Dipping her head to avoid his eyes and praying he didn’t notice her telltale nipple hard-on, she pleaded her case. “Hasn’t he had a motive in every case so far? Hasn’t he been involved somehow?”

“Not
involved
, Max. In every case, he was proven not to be the guilty party. And motive? Don’t think even you could articulate his in each case.”

Much to Max’s chagrin, Witt was right. She still believed Traynor somehow had a manipulative hand in everything. If that was obsession, then yes, she was obsessed.

Witt stroked his chin. “Tell me. How do you know the name Baxter Newton and why aren’t you surprised Traynor knows the dead man’s wife?” Neither his facial muscles nor the look in his eye gave away a single emotion.

So he hadn’t made any assumptions about her newspaper reading habits. She should have known that was coming. “Traynor did the introductions.”

His cheek muscles rippled as if he’d tensed his jaw. “And how did that happen?”

“He came here, then drove me to Julia’s house. He gave me a reason to go back again if I needed to.”

“A reason?” Frost slipped into his voice.

She might as well tell it all. “He said I worked for him, his personal assistant. He offered my services to Julia La Russa.” Max made sure to add the last so Witt wouldn’t question her emotions concerning the dead man’s wife.

“Do you like having your services offered about?” God, he sounded like he was talking about sex, about the things Angela did, and the implication bothered her.

“Not usually.” She folded her arms across her chest, certainly not protective—okay, she needed a bit of emotional distance. “What’s wrong? Why do you have that tone in your voice?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Oh that. “I haven’t actually had an opportunity to talk to you,” she said, a pointed reminder of last night’s lack of talk before he whomped on her, then his little mind-body game at daybreak, followed by his abrupt departure. She hadn’t had time to even think about telling him.

“Don’t keep things from me.” His tone firm, almost dire, gave her images of dreadful consequences.

“I haven’t.”

He raised a brow.

“Okay. I won’t from now on.” With that over and a sigh of relief, she went back to the original topic. “I’m almost there with Angela. I need a little more time to get her to trust me.”

He laughed derisively. “She’s a hooker. Trust doesn’t exist in her vocabulary.”

“It will if I...” She remembered then she hadn’t wanted to broach the subject until she had him at a safe distance and in daylight.

His eyes narrowed. “If you what, Max?”

He wouldn’t leave now until she told him. She swallowed, then jumped in. “She wants me to do a trick tomorrow night.”

“Fuck.” Bad sign. He rarely used that particular expletive in front of her.

She went for a joking tone to ease the tension. “Actually, yes, that’s what she wants me to do. With a man of my choice.”

Without raising his head, he fastened his gaze on her. “And you want me to be the john.”

She stared. “How’d you know?”

“I may let you walk all over me with your damn high heels, but I’m not stupid.”

Gee, now he was using full sentences, uncharacteristic for a man who preferred the fast-spoken word. And usually an indication that he was getting a tad pissed, perhaps even more pissed than when he found out she hadn’t told him about seeing Traynor. Boy, the evening got better all the time. She attempted a salvage operation. “It’s a perfect idea. We can fake it.”

He rose, closed the distance between them, towered over her. She wished now she hadn’t taken off the shoes. “She’s not gonna trust you any more after you do it than she does right now.”

“Maybe—”

“You don’t get it, Max.”

“Get what?” She sounded squeaky with him that close.

“If she was really a hooker and if the big guy was really her pimp, they wouldn’t be letting you hang around. They’d think you were a cop. They’d be outta there like that.” He snapped his fingers next to her ear.

“I told them I was a writer.”

He cut that idea off with a chop of his hand. “They’re playing with you. The question is why.”

“That’s what I have to find out.”

Seemingly impossible, he closed in on her. His aftershave fogged her brain, and the heat of his body weakened her knees. She thought of power, control and need, and she wanted him. Her fingers itched to touch. Her lips ached to taste. Everywhere. Jesus, the white zin had gone to her head. Or maybe it was Angela’s little pep talk about power.

Or maybe it was that near orgasm this morning. It whet her appetite for more.

Like last night when she’d had him beneath her, right where she’d wanted him. And he couldn’t resist.

She smelled it on him. His power over her. Hers over him. If she touched him, he’d explode like dynamite. He was on the edge. They both were. All she had to do was strike a match, put her hand on his chest, her lips to his throat, one tiny little come-on, and she could get him to do anything for her. It was only a matter of time.

“She’s setting you up, Max,” he whispered straight into the middle of her thoughts. A little zing shot to her center as if the words were hot and sexy. “You want a conspiracy theory? Here it is.” He put his hand under her chin to tilt her head back as far as it would go. His eyes were hot blue flames, his body rigid against hers. “Bud Traynor got your Angela to kill Lance, and now they’re going to try to make you take the fall for it.”

Max gaped. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Well, not the
most
ridiculous thing.

He flattened his hand around her throat. “Did you think about it?”

“Huh?” She knew her face reflected a dumfounded look.

“The orgasm I promised you.” He stroked the side of her neck with his fingers.

Dammit, how did he change to hot and bothered in less than a second? Men were like that. They got angry, said what they needed to say, then got over it with a snap of their fingers. Things didn’t fester for them.

Witt flexed against her, hard in the pants and blazing in his touch. Okay, some things did fester, like an orgasm they’d thought about all day. Max shivered beneath the soft caress at her throat. “No, I didn’t think about any orgasms. I forgot the whole thing after you left.”

The side of his mouth quirked. “Liar.”

She shifted from one foot to the other, her nipples giving his chest a tantalizing brush. “Actually, I finished myself off rather than bothering to wait around for you to do it.”

He leaned down, breathed her in, first one side of her throat, then the other, like an animal scenting prey. “Nope. You waited. And now you’re so damn hot, you’d come with one thrust.”

That was really going too far. He was obsessed, she wasn’t. She was in control, not him. “I’m not having sex with you tonight.”

He lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Compared to him, it was almost true. “Wrap your legs around me.”

“No.”

Leaning her against the door, one big hand holding her butt, he pulled her thigh to his waist. “Jesus, you’re not wearing panties.”

“I was playing a role.”

Switching hands, he did the same with her other leg. “You make me crazy.”

He did the same to her. She locked her feet behind him. No panties, just the thigh-highs. She was combustible.

“I’m not liking this.” She put her head to his shoulder so he wouldn’t see her bite her lip to hold back the moan.

“That’s because you love it. Reach into my back pocket.”

“What for?”

“The condom.”

“Do you always carry condoms? What if you whipped your badge out of your pocket and the condom fell out with it?”

He laughed, a great rumble against her chest, the sensation shuddering up her arms, to her toes, and straight to her clitoris. “Sure don’t keep my badge in my back pocket with the condoms. And yeah, since I was planning all day to break into your house and drill the hell out of you, made sure I had the requisite devices. Now get it out.”

“God, you’re impatient.”

He hefted her higher, his slacks grazing her, sending ripples of pleasure out from the sensitive spot. “Can you reach it?”

She squirmed, a little more than absolutely necessary, but with her legs wrapped around him, she couldn’t make it. “You should have had me do that before you picked me up. And you’re going to need to send those pants out for cleaning after this is over.”

He laughed harder, letting her slip down until her feet touched the floor again. “You are the most unromantic woman I have ever met. Don’t make me laugh. Drilling you is serious business.” He pulled out the condom, holding it up for her.

“Drilling isn’t a romantic term.” She swiped a hand down his front. Yep, she’d messed him up. That’s what he got for turning her on. “And you can put that thing on yourself.”

Blue eyes sparkling, he ripped the package open. “Only if you undo my pants and take out my cock.”

“This is definitely not romantic.” But unzipping him was oh so hot.

He hardened even as she brushed him with the back of her hand, then reached into his briefs to pull him out. He filled her hand, warmed her flesh, sent an answering pulse to her nipples and her clitoris. He bent his blond head, working the condom on himself, then looked at her, the mirth still playing at his mouth and in his eyes.

“Put on your high heels.”

She smirked. “What for?”

“Do it.”

“Fine.” She huffed and bent for her shoes, slipping her feet into the impossibly tall heels. Ooh. She liked the feel of them, liked the way they made her legs feel stretched and taut.

“Turn around.”

“You are not doing me from behind.” She turned, put her hands along the outside edges of the door’s curtained window and spread her legs.

“That’s it, baby.” Instead of entering her, he stroked her from the front, gathering her moisture and caressing her clit.

Oh, oh. That was nice. So nice. Under her skirt, his knees slightly bent, he rubbed himself in the crease of her butt just as he had that morning.