"Why would they want him identified?"
"Because they wanted someone to know he was dead. Who and why?"
"We keep saying they ."
"I don't think one person could have managed both murders so cleanly, with no witnesses." So what were they dealing with? she wondered. An army of assassins? People she wouldn't recognize, who could walk up to her door at any time, perhaps wearing a police officer's uniform, and kill her when she opened the door? Would she ever feel free to cross a street again without wondering if one of the cars waiting at the traffic light was going to make an early start and run her down?
Now she was being paranoid, but where did it end?
She stirred, realizing they had been silent for some time and were almost in New Orleans. "If you don't mind, take me to a nice, quiet motel that's within walking distance of a supermarket. I'm paying for everything with cash, so if I check in under an assumed name, I should be safe enough." His jaw tightened. "I'm taking you to my house," he said evenly.
His house. Her stomach clenched in a rush of mingled desire and terror. "I can't stay with you. If they find me, you'll be in danger, too."
"And if they find you, you'll be a hell of a lot safer with me than you would alone in some motel room." It was blind instinct that had sent her back to New Orleans, a panicked need to be near Marc, but now that she was here, she knew she couldn't live with herself if anything happened to him because of her. "I can't take that chance. Once they trace me to New Orleans, wouldn't your house be the first place they would look?"
"Why would they? Contrary to what you seem to think, no one except the two of us knows we spent the last night you were here screwing all night long like a couple of minks." He said it so smoothly, the rich, dark tones of his voice shaping the words almost into a caress. If he meant to shock her, he succeeded. If he meant to forcibly remind her of the intimacy they had shared, he succeeded in that, too. She felt her face get hot as a blush spread from her breasts upward. She tried to ignore both her blush and his comment, doggedly sticking to her guns. "You're the one who investigated Dad's murder. Of course, they would watch you—"
"I would almost welcome them," he said, very gently. "I'm armed, and I'm pissed." Yes, he was—royally pissed. Again. Or still. She stared blindly out the window. He exited off I-10 and worked his way over to Canal Street, then down Chartres, then left on St. Louis. He hit the garage door opening, and Karen managed not to duck as he drove under the yawning door with inches to spare.
"How long are you going to pretend it didn't happen?" he asked, getting out and opening her door, then collecting her suitcase from the trunk.
She bit her lip as she preceded him up the stairs.
She felt herded, as if she had no choice but to go in the direction he had chosen. "I'm not pretending. I know very well what I did. You have a right to be angry, and I apologize. I acted like a fool, running away the way I did. I'm not used to—well, anyway, I'm sorry."
"You're not used to sleeping with a man," he finished, unlocking the door and stepping aside for her to enter. He followed, locking the door behind him and setting her suitcase down with a thud. "Now, tell me why you ran."
Uneasily, she moved away from him, embarrassed all over again. "The main reason was lack of nerve. I didn't know—I couldn't figure out why you'd done it."
For once, he looked totally flabbergasted. "What?" he asked blankly. To give herself something to do, she began unwrapping the enormous bandages covering her hands, concentrating on making a neat roll of the gauze as she unwound it. "The least upsetting reason I could come up with was that you were just horny, and I was handy."
"You were right about the horny part." He reached for her hands and took over the job. "But I didn't use
you as a substitute for my fist. I wanted you . If that was the least upsetting reason, I'm not sure I want to hear the other one."
"Other two."
"God. All right, what was the next one?"
"That you felt sorry for me."
His hands stilled at their task. Slowly, his head came up, disbelief written on his face. "You thought I kept a hard-on all night because I felt sorry for you?"
"You had been so kind," she tried to explain, feeling helplessly inadequate for the task. "I couldn't have managed without your help. But then I broke down at the funeral, and I thought you felt you couldn't leave me alone at the hotel—"
"Karen." He shook his head a little, as if trying to clear it. "That's carrying sympathy a little far, don't you think? My bed isn't a charity ward."
She bit her lip again and fell silent. He bared one of her hands, turning up her raw palm so he could inspect it. He got that grim look on his face again but took her other hand without comment and began the unwrapping process on it. "Okay, what's the third reason you thought of?" This one was the tough one, but she owed him a full explanation. It was an effort to keep her voice even.
"That first day—I knew you didn't like me. I wasn't imagining that, was I?" Despite her best try, she couldn't keep the pain from showing.
He kept his black head bent over her hand. "No," he finally said. "You didn't imagine it." Karen swallowed, feeling her insides shred. "I didn't think so," she whispered, then said in a stronger voice, "So, anyway, the most likely reason I could think of was that you'd done it for… oh, not revenge, but as a sort of put-down."
"Use you, then kick you out?" He still wasn't looking at her, but she saw the muscle in the side of his jaw clench.