Say You Love Me

“True. But he had to know we’d check it out before we printed it.”

Britta shrugged and rubbed at her temple, appalled that R.J. would consider showcasing such violence in their magazine. “Who knows what drives people. Maybe he’s a photographer and wants to impress us so he can land a job here.” Or maybe he meant for her to call the police because he wanted public recognition.

R.J. stopped pacing, his tall lanky frame silhouetted in the window, his laser eyes piercing her as if contemplating the possibility. Outside, gray clouds cast shadows across the office, making the room seem even smaller and more claustrophobic. Zydeco music pounded the air, the shouts of partiers from the street below echoed through the dirt-streaked window. Crowds of tourists still cheered and talked about the parade. Although it was early evening, tourists had already dipped into the happy-hour specials with tequila and pitchers of beer and were filing into the strip joints for their first peep show of the night.

“I have to meet with our legal team. Do you think you can handle the police?” R.J. asked.

Britta clenched her hands together. “Sure.”

For a moment, R.J. reached for her. Twice when they’d discussed her column, debating over which submissions to print and which ones were too graphic, R.J. had hinted at wanting a personal relationship with her. Hinted that he’d like to share his secret sexual fantasies with her.

She backed toward the door. R.J. was barely thirty, only a few years older than her and was well-dressed in his Armani suits. Attractive. Single. Sexy. Mysterious.

But dangerous.

The collection of gargoyles on his bookshelf made her uneasy. And he had dozens of nude sketchings on his walls—all macabre with scenes of violence—along with an S and M calendar and bronze sculptures of mutant creatures—part human, part animal.

Some men had dark sides. R.J. was one of them. She’d witnessed his charm and ability to seduce a woman. Then his volatile temper.

His fantasies teetered on the narcissistic side.

And she didn’t want to be any part of them.

THE HEAT FROM the New Orleans air simmered with sexuality and smelled of raw body sweat that only heightened R.J.’s lustful thoughts. The magic of Mardi Gras fed his addiction to the night life and celebration of man’s greatest pleasure—the physical coupling of man and woman.

He wanted Britta. He had wanted her for a long damn time.

But she wasn’t ready—yet.

In fact, if she knew the gritty cravings in his mind, she would run a million miles away.

She might even suspect that he’d sent that lurid photograph.

A soft laugh escaped him. But she couldn’t run forever. One day she’d see that the two of them were meant to be together. That he had built this magazine with her in mind. That each day as he walked the streets of the French Quarter, he imagined seducing her in his office, ripping off her clothes and taking her on his desk. Each night he fell asleep with fantasies of her on top of him, her legs spread wide on his bed, taking his aching length into her warm body. With her tied to the post, the black leather squeaking as she shifted, the whip in his hand, passionate cries floating from her lips. And then vice versa.

His cock swelled, throbbing like hell. He intended to unleash Britta’s darkest desires. And she had desires…even though she refused to admit them.

Her terror over the photo might be his ticket to win her trust. She needed comfort. Protection.

And he’d open his arms and watch her fall right into them.

DESPERATE TO ESCAPE R.J., Britta raced away, but her breath caught at the sight of the hulking man in her office. Neon lights twirled and blinked intermittently, painting a kaleidoscope of colors across his angular face as he stared out the window overlooking Bourbon Street. A mixture of blues, jazz and gospel music engulfed her, its pounding mirroring her beating heart.

Who was he? The man who’d sent her the picture?

As if he sensed her presence without even facing her, he murmured her name. “Miss Berger?”

He knew she’d been watching him. “Yes?”

He slowly turned toward her, his intimidating stance personified by his huge masculine body. “Detective Jean-Paul Dubois.”

She inhaled sharply as recognition dawned. His picture had been plastered all over the paper. That reporter Mazie Burgess had written a half-dozen hero-worshipping pieces on him. Apparently, Jean-Paul Dubois had risked his life to save hundreds after the latest hurricane disaster.

He was also a hard-ass when it came to the law.

Fear tightened her chest as she scrutinized him for signs that he wouldn’t pry too deeply into her life. That he’d accept what she gave him and ask for nothing else.

But the steely expression in his eyes told her not to count on it. His masculine body screamed Cajun and his raw sexuality hit her in the pit of her stomach. He was rugged, much bigger than he’d looked in the newspaper, probably at least six-four. Tough. Not afraid to fight. His hands were broad, scarred, as if he’d wrestled alligators in the swamp and survived.

If he’d grown up in the bayou, then he probably had.

His razor-sharp eyes looked almost black in the dim light. A five o’clock shadow already grazed his angular jaw and his masculine scent triggered wicked fantasies of her own. Naked, he would look like an ancient Roman god.

“You phoned?” he asked in a deep baritone.

She nodded, searching for her voice and professional manner.

He glanced at the current magazine cover on her bulletin board, a half-nude couple donning elaborate Mardi Gras masks with black and red feather boas as their only clothing. She silently reminded herself she didn’t have to be ashamed of her job or her affiliation with the magazine, either. Besides, it was a cover. “Yes, Detective. Please sit down.”

His gaze slid over her, then lingered a moment too long on her breasts and a disapproving flicker followed. She cleared her throat, irritated at herself for letting it bother her. What did she care if the man found her sexually lacking? She’d never indulge her fantasies or pursue a relationship with a cop.

Recovering quickly, she claimed her office chair and waited until he settled into the wingback opposite her. “I don’t know if this is important or not. It may be a prank, someone wanting to shock me. We…get some of those.” God, she didn’t want to do this. What if he asked too many questions?

Questions she didn’t want to answer.

She’d lied all her life about who she was, what she was, where she’d come from. Sometimes she barely remembered the truth herself.

“I imagine you do.” A suspicious smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You like reading people’s secret fantasies?”

How could she answer that without sounding perverted herself? “There’s nothing wrong with sexual fantasies, Detective Dubois.”

“Ever include your own?”

Her chest tightened at the smoldering insinuation in his husky voice. The music outside intensified its beat, drawing her into its seductive lair. The odd love chant of New Orleans rippled through the paper-thin walls from the bar next door. “If ever I cease to love, may cows lay eggs and fish grow legs. If ever I cease to love…”

“No.” She wouldn’t openly reveal her private thoughts. Or her fears. And good heavens, she wished they’d stop that song. She didn’t believe in love.

“This isn’t about me,” she said, struggling to redirect the conversation. “I phoned the police because I received something disturbing in the mail today.”

His jaw tightened. “Yes, of course.”

She handed him the envelope and their hands brushed, sending a shiver up her spine. She drew her hand back quickly. She couldn’t allow this man to charm her. He was a pro.

He might extract information from her without her even realizing it.

Information she would take with her to her grave.

JEAN-PAUL DUBOIS SIGHED in disgust. What the hell was wrong with him? Granted he was a sucker for a woman in trouble but usually he handled his reaction better. But something about the challenge, the wariness, the spark of sexual attraction between him and Britta Berger had him on edge.