Kill and Tell cs-1 Read online

  "I have a copy of his death certificate." Marc had gotten it for her. She didn't know how long it would normally have taken, but he had sweet-talked someone in the medical examiner's office into processing the paperwork. Her heartbeat did another sprint. He wouldn't have had to do any sweet-talking; all he had to do was ask, in that midnight voice, and if the clerk was a woman, he would have his paperwork.

  "Good. That'll minimize any hassle with payroll. Are you sure you feel like working?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Then I can definitely use you tonight. Come in at your regular time." That settled, Karen looked around for something else to do. When she went into the living room, the message light flashed insistently at her. She ignored it, went into the kitchen, and made a sandwich, then

  did something she rarely had time for: she sat down in front of the television and put up her feet. There was an interior decorating show on Discovery. Since her apartment was badly in need of decorating—unpacking would help—she watched the show while she ate her sandwich. She had run. Literally. Like the biggest coward on earth, she had sneaked out of the house while Marc was in the shower. Her feet still ached from running in high heels the nine or so blocks to the hotel. She had thrown her clothes in the suitcase, called the desk, and checked out, then prayed he wouldn't be waiting in the lobby for her. She couldn't face him; she had never been more embarrassed. Of course, there was a strong possibility he might not bother to come after her, that he would be relieved to get her off his hands, but she didn't want to take that chance.

  She got off the elevator on the mezzanine, then carried her bag down the final flight of stairs so she wouldn't run into him at the bank of elevators. She went out the side door of the hotel, into the big parking bay, and got into a taxi.

  She was lucky; he didn't know what airline she was flying. He also had to work. Still, when the loudspeaker at the airport requested that Karen Whitlaw please pick up one of the courtesy phones, she didn't, just in case he was actually in the airport instead of at work. She didn't breathe a sigh of relief until the plane backed away from the gate. Not that Marc would use his badge to get on board the plane for a face-to-face; after all, she wasn't a criminal, just a woman he had slept with the night before.

  It wasn't the sleeping part that embarrassed her. It was what they had done when they weren't asleep. She wasn't a prude, or frigid, or innocent—two of those were an impossibility in her profession, as far as she was concerned—but nothing like last night had ever before happened to her. She thought of herself as careful and responsible, two qualities that precluded sleeping around. Piper said she was picky and paranoid, which wasn't as flattering but had the same result. She had never, never , been as reckless, as thoughtless, as she had been last night. Whatever Marc had wanted to do to her, she had let him, and he had wanted to do a lot. Let him? She had actively participated, and climaxed more times than she could remember. She had been like a bitch in heat.

  She stared sightlessly at a demonstration of a painting technique that involved dabbing a ball of plastic wrap in paint, then blotting it on the wall. God, how stupid could she be? Maybe if she'd had more hands-on experience, so to speak, she would have seen him coming.

  She winced at the pun, her cheeks burning. The truth was, she had been humiliatingly easy for him. She had been seduced, and by a master. He hadn't made a single wrong move. The cheerful woman on television was single-handedly turning a blank wall into a masterpiece of designer painting. Karen scowled at her and clicked the television off. She was fairly certain she was never going to paint her walls with a wad of plastic wrap. How could she concentrate on decorating, anyway, when she had some serious brooding to do?

  There was no single point she could use to salvage any pride. She had been very willing, and she couldn't salve her conscience by pretending otherwise. On the other hand, there was no denying his skill. The degree of her willingness was testimony to that.

  She leaned her head back on the sofa, staring at the plain white ceiling. Marc's ceilings were high, with fancy crown molding, and yummy ceiling fans everywhere.

  She punched the cushion. Damn it, she did not want to think about him!

  How could she stop, though, when her insides still throbbed? If any of her friends at the hospital had bragged about having sex that many times in one night—with one man—Karen wouldn't have believed her. Well, now she knew there really were men who could get it up that often. She felt raw and swollen between her legs, proof of the excesses of the night in case she doubted her own memory. Looking back, she saw how he had led her, inevitably and without a pause, straight to his bed. Hindsight wasn't worth a damn, though. She hadn't felt even a tingle of warning at the time. Using means both swift and subtle, he had fostered a sense of intimacy between them and then capitalized on it. The man knew his stuff.

  The day before had been one long seduction. Her entire acquaintance with him had been a seduction. She had studied human sexuality, knew the signals, and still she had missed them; only in retrospect were they crystal clear.

  First had come the concern, the solicitousness for her well-being, the touches disguised as courtesy. She remembered his hand on her arm, sliding down her back, resting on her waist. He had won her trust, lulled her into accepting his constant touch without suspecting the sexuality behind it, and then aroused her to the point where she hadn't even thought about calling a halt to their lovemaking. And yesterday… oh, yesterday. She remembered the way he had put his hand on the back of her neck while she wept, a gesture so sexually possessive she didn't know how it had slipped under her radar, but at the time she had been aware only of being comforted. By then, she was so used to having his hands on her that it had felt… right.

  He had even managed, with perfect logic, to talk her into taking off part of her own clothing, and she had felt relaxed enough with him to do it. He couldn't have arranged for her to snag her panty hose, but he had been quick to take advantage of it. Just her panty hose, just her shoes… it had all felt so casual, so relaxed, and had set the stage for her to lose all her clothes.

  He had further softened her with wine, though she couldn't use even that to excuse herself. She hadn't been tipsy. He had seen to that, carefully feeding her, not giving her any grounds on which she could later excuse herself, or accuse him. She had been sober but wanned by the wine and his care, his touch. She remembered the brush of his bare feet against hers while they danced, and her toes curled, her nipples tightened.

  What could be more romantic than a hot sax and a slow dance on a balcony in New Orleans on a rainy summer night? She had been completely in his arms then, under his spell, so subtly aroused she had been almost at fever pitch and hadn't even realized it. She remembered the fleeting contact with his erection while they danced, and knew now it hadn't been accidental. He had teased her with it, letting her surreptitiously seek out another brief touch, making her feel everything was still casual while subtly intensifying her arousal.

  He had orchestrated every touch, gentling her, bringing her to the point where she not only would accept him sexually but was eager for the act. He hadn't put one step wrong; he hadn't grabbed her breasts or shoved his hand between her legs, moves that would have startled her into pulling away. She didn't know why having his hands on her bottom hadn't warned her, but all her alarms had been silent. Maybe she had already been past the point of no return. He had bypassed all the usual foreplay, except for those wonderful kisses; when he was ready, he had simply tossed her skirt up and taken her, except that the

  entire day had been foreplay and she had been more than ready for him, climaxing with embarrassing speed.

  The memory of it had her face hot, her breath rushing in and out of her lungs. Damn it! One night with him had turned her into a sex kitten, evidently. She wanted him. Still. Now. The man knew more about sex, and women, than should be legal. He had been so sure of himself, and of her, that he had put on a condom even before asking her to dance. She should be grateful for that,