Blood in the Water (Dixie Mafia Series Book 2) Page 8

  “He’s a murderer, Jane. What about the greater good?” A muscle worked in Georgia’s jaw.

  “That kind of defense has been used to justify all sorts of terrible things. Besides, it isn’t in my job description—prosecutors pursue justice and the greater good—defense attorneys don’t.” She expelled a breath. “This isn’t even about Oscar Valentine. He deserves the death penalty, but as a citizen, he has rights—and violating those creates a dangerous precedent. And that’s how you end up on a slippery slope.”

  In the legal sense, a “slippery slope” referred to a dangerous course of action, one which would lead to an erosion of rights or protections down the line. In other words, it described her plan to a T.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing.”

  Georgia pursed her lips but didn’t pursue the line of questioning. “We both know it’s only a matter of time before he’ll kill. Valentine told you he wouldn’t, but he can’t help himself. He won’t quit until he’s incarcerated or executed.”

  “I think this is a problem for the State of Texas, not us. So let’s talk about anything else.”

  A long moment passed.

  “Are you lookin’ forward to workin’ with tall, blond, and deadly?” Georgia’s grin was impish.

  Ugh. “Except him.”

  Her grin was unholy. “But he’s gonna be your bodyguard, keep you safe from harm. That’s kinda romantic.”

  It sounded ludicrous, but it was her new normal—one murderer was protecting her from another.

  “Yes, he’s going to protect me, but without any movie romance.”

  “Did you stay the night at his place?”

  “Yes, but I slept in the guest room and then we came to an arrangement this morning.”

  “An arrangement? Sounds juicy.”

  “It isn’t.” Jane rubbed the necklace.

  “And you’re going on vacation with him.”

  “No, I’m taking time off and running away from a serial killer.”

  “Right, with a hunk by your side. I’m relieved there’s at least one bright spot in this crap storm. Promise me, if you get the opportunity, you’ll go for it. And when something happens, because it will, I want the whole story.”

  “I haven’t gone for it, and I won’t. He’s a criminal and a client, Georgia.”

  Even as she said the words, Jane felt like a fraud. After all, she’d bargained away a date or two with Byron in exchange for his protection. Adding that sin to the rights violations she was perpetrating and her morals were going to hell in a handbasket.

  “Yeah, I got it, but you left out the other stuff.”

  “Which stuff?”

  “The part about him being wealthy, panty-droppin’ handsome, and heroic, since he’s watchin’ your back. He’ll save you from the bad guy and then color with your daughter afterwards.”

  “After this is over, both of us could use a legal integrity refresher. I’m going to enroll us both in a workshop next semester.” Assuming she still had a legal license at the end of this fiasco.

  “Whatever, just remember I need lots of sordid details.”

  “We’re getting off topic. Since I won’t be here, I need you to cover the office while I’m gone, so you’ll be in charge.”

  “I’m on it. Is there anything else I can do?”

  Jane clasped her hand once more. “I want you to be careful. Maybe buy a can of mace? Or a knife?”

  Georgia sobered. “You think Valentine would come after Brady and me?”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past him. Until this is resolved, I want you to cut your hours. And take some precautions—no late nights, don’t go out by yourself, and always be aware of your surroundings. I’m going to call in a favor at a security firm in town and have them drive past your house, okay?”

  “Okay.” Georgia wrapped her arms around herself. “You have favors from a security firm?”

  “The owner’s daughter got caught shoplifting a few years back. I got the case dismissed and kept it quiet, so he owes me one. When you become a lawyer, you’ll start collecting them too.” Now Jane was grateful she’d extended the professional courtesy, even though it felt a bit like a cover-up at the time. “If Valentine comes after you, they’ll take care of it.”

  Georgia swallowed. “Suddenly, this is feelin’ a bit too real.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  ***

  “Mansfield?” Jane called.

  Half an hour after they’d left the office, Byron and Jane stood in her apartment. She’d gathered info on Valentine, and now she had to put together a travel suitcase.

  “Do you have a roommate? A male roommate?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Her long-haired orange tabby prowled into the room. She thought he resembled a miniature tiger. Jane bent over and scratched his ears.

  “Oh, fuck me, you’ve got a cat.” At her disgruntled look, he explained. “I never figured you for a cat person.”

  “What do you mean?”

  In her book, there were cat people and wrong people. Everyone should be a cat person. Cats were vastly superior to dogs—they purred, were fastidious, and didn’t have an incessant, whining need for attention.

  “Never mind. Why’d you name it Mansfield?”

  “I named him Mansfield, after the first woman lawyer in the United States, Arabella Mansfield. There was some confusion in the first few weeks, and I found out she was actually a he.”

  “So Arabella became Mansfield. Gotcha.”

  “Mansfield’s coming with us, end of story.”

  “We can’t take a pet on a road trip.” The feline wound around and around his legs. “You’d better not leave any hair on the suit, furball.”

  Yet another betrayal—Georgia, Brady, and now the cat loved the mobster.

  “He can’t be left by himself.” As she spoke, she packed up cat food and bowls, along with some toys.

  “Fine, he can stay with Ten because he likes cats for some weird reason.”

  As Beauregard’s lawyer, she was familiar with all his staff members. Ten was quiet and unassuming, although she’d only spoken with him a couple of times. Jane didn’t like placing her feline with a virtual stranger, but it was a better option than leaving him alone for days on end.

  “Aren’t you gonna give me the tour?”

  “No, and don’t touch anything while you’re here.” Jane hated having strange people in her space.

  “Fine, be difficult. Where are we goin’, by the way?”

  “True Love, Texas. According to my records, Valentine grew up there.” It was a tiny town a couple of hours away. Jane was hoping there’d be evidence still left, something to connect Valentine to other murders. She’d searched online for records, but apparently they hadn’t gone digital yet.

  “True Love? Oh, this gets better and better.”

  “Why? You know it?” She’d heard the name before but had to look it up on a map. Apparently, a lot of couples went there for romantic weekends. They had a chapel, a bed and breakfast, and according to the town’s website, it was the place for lovers in Texas.

  “I’ll fill you in later.”

  “Fine with me.” She had more pressing matters. Jane walked into the bedroom and gathered up some clothing to wear.

  Byron strolled in behind her, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from ordering him out. She reminded herself they’d struck a bargain and Byron was here to help her.

  His penetrating gaze missed nothing. “You don’t believe in knickknacks, do you? I don’t see any pictures or personal items.”

  “Not my style.”

  She liked clean lines and minimal clutter. Everything in her apartment was functional, not sentimental. It was standard-issue—two bedrooms with white walls and gray carpeting. The furnishings were a basic black walnut. Jane hardly spent any time at home between hotel rooms on business trips and working late hours at the office.

  It must seem strange to Byron because his
home had been in his family for generations. It was littered with family portraits and heirlooms. Last night, she’d been stupefied by all the wicker baskets in the guest room. The ones in the bathroom had been filled with toiletries and a large one at the end of the bed held spare blankets. A medium-sized one next to the bed was stuffed full of worn copies of Southern Living. Why would anyone want a room filled with extraneous items to dust?

  He chuckled. “Well, this place is very you.”

  “Do you have children?” Since he was poking his nose into her business, she returned the favor.

  He blinked at the topic change. “No, why do you ask?”

  “You were very good with Brady so you’ve obviously spent time with children.”

  He shrugged. “I ain’t what you’d call father material, but I have younger brothers and a sister.”

  “And you took care of them?”

  “I did after my mother died and my father…left.”

  “You mean after your father was put in jail for murdering her.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Yeah.” He turned away. “Let’s talk about somethin’ else.”

  Jane closed her eyes. “I’m sorry if I was rude—please tell me if I say something impolite. I’ve always been different, and I don’t obey a lot of social rules.”

  “I will, but I think you should’ve said ‘unique,’ not different.”

  He startled a smile out of her. No one had ever referred to her as unique. People pointed out every social faux pas she made, and Jane could never quite get the hang of fitting in, no matter what she did.

  “Besides, I like your honesty, even if it’s a mite rough.”

  “You do?” She was too stunned to speak for a second.

  “Yeah, so don’t worry about it. Give it to me with both barrels, I can handle it.” He pantomimed a pair of pistols with his hands.

  “I will.”

  And then he ruined the moment by sitting on her bed like he owned it.

  “Here I am, in your bed—at long last.”

  Ugh. The man was exasperating.

  And then she realized he was staring at her, watching her. All of a sudden, the air crackled, roiled with a nameless tension.

  There was something blistering in his eyes, something burning, and alive. The picture he made, laid out on her bed, was disturbing and enticing at the same time. She wondered what it would be like to lay down next to him, feel the heat of him against her skin.

  Flustered by his untoward behavior and her own reaction to it, she backed up a step.

  “On it, not in it.”

  “So technical.”

  “You’re rumpling my bedspread.”

  “Wanna rumple it even more?” His smile was lazy.

  It took her a moment to figure it out.

  “No!”

  “Don’t be so standoffish. You’ve got a real comfy bed. Come on over here and take a load off.”

  “No.” She fisted her hands. “I’ve got to get this done, so we can be on our way. If you’d quit distracting me, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Funny, I could say the same thing to you.”

  Jane gritted her teeth. “You get on my nerves.”

  “Well, damn, I literally asked for that. I might get on your nerves, but you don’t find me borin’, do ya?”

  She thought about it for a moment. Byron was many things—irritating, infuriating, presumptuous, and entirely wicked. He bothered her in a way no other man ever had, but she didn’t find him tedious or dull.

  What does it mean? And, more importantly, why do I care?

  “No, which is odd.”

  His smile widened. “I imagine you find most people tiresome.”

  “Yes, and I find them exhausting—managing all those social rituals and feelings. It’s a lot of effort for a few moments of fleeting pleasure.”

  “Pleasure? My favorite topic, now we’re gettin’ to it.” He laid down on the bed and placed his chin in one hand. She resented the proprietary way he acted, as though he was staking some sort of claim. “Tell me everything.”

  “This subject matter’s inappropriate.” Jane could feel a blush staining her cheeks. Again.

  She wished he didn’t bother her so much. She excelled at being cool and unflappable, except around him.

  “Don’t give a damn about bein’ proper. Gotta say I’m glad I was wrong about you.”

  “Wrong about what?”

  “Given our embrace last night and your reference to pleasure, you like bein’ touched more than you let on.”

  “You’re confusing being a prude with being selective.”

  “Ah, so you don’t just let anyone in.”

  Somehow she couldn’t quite break his gaze. The man is magnetic.

  “No, I don’t.”

  He stood, stalking toward her. “Makes a man want an invitation.”

  With Valentine, she felt only fear, with Byron—exhilaration. Yet, they were both dangerous men.

  I’m in over my head.

  “Go on, I’m listenin’.”

  “It depends on who’s doing the touching and if they’ve been invited to do so.”

  “Sounds like you ain’t selective enough, if he’s only givin’ you a couple seconds of pleasure. You should try a man who knows what he’s doin’ in the bedroom.”

  “Which would involve a lot of pointless dating. I don’t like casual, social touching—all those handshakes and hugs. I like it on my terms—when and if I want it.”

  “And here’s where I point out, you’ve already asked for it, darlin’. You demanded to be wrapped up in my arms.”

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “As though I asked you for something….”

  His nostrils flared. “Indecent?”

  “Yes.” Jane cleared her throat. “I had an emotional crisis, and you comforted me, nothing more.” And yet, if she closed her eyes, she could still feel his arms around her.

  “Yes, but I consider it to be a startin’ place. And I wanna point out, you’re the one who propositioned me.”

  “I most certainly did not.”

  “But you did—ask me, that is, and I’d be happy to see to any other desires too.”

  Jane bit the inside of her cheek as her temper flared. “I see. And you’re the right man for the job?”

  He had a gleam in his eye. “Nobody’s ever considered me Mr. Right, but I’m fun—all pleasure, no exhaustin’ social rituals necessary. And you got strong emotions when it comes to me, which is a very good sign.”

  She tried to follow his twisted logic. “Yes, the emotions are strong, but not in a good way. I can’t decide how I feel about you.”

  For some unfathomable reason, he looked even more pleased.

  “Give it some time, darlin’.”

  Time for what? To wear her down?

  Would she give in, if only to get some peace?

  Trembling with a nameless emotion, Jane turned her back on him and pulled a few suits out of the closet. She placed them into a garment bag and tried to focus on the task.

  Byron watched every move she made, which only made her more self-conscious.

  “I wanna take you out on the town, so bring somethin’ suitable. Tonight, as a matter of fact—just you and me. We’ll get some dinner and talk, sex is off the table for the moment.”

  “We’re tracking down a murderer, not going on a couple’s getaway.”

  “Yes, I know, but I take my wooin’ seriously. I’ve been workin’ on you for months. We can stop a murderer and still have time for dinner and drinks—trust me.” Byron snickered. “Although I’m usually committin’ crimes, not solvin’ them.”

  Ignoring him, Jane continued packing, but the next thing she knew, Byron was pawing through her chest of drawers.

  “I told you not to touch my things.”

  “I remember.”

  Yet he didn’t stop.

  He hooted as he pulled out a lacy black confection she’d tucked a
way in the top drawer—a misguided gift from an old college beau. She’d gone through an “intellectual curiosity” sexual phase and had done some experimenting in high school and college.

  “Put. It. Down.” Jane made a mental note to go through her wardrobe. It was time to donate some items, though she doubted the Salvation Army wanted her cast-off lingerie.

  “You can bring this too.”

  “Another man bought it for me and I refused to wear it.”

  “Never mind.” He tossed it over his shoulder and it landed on the floor. “And when we get better acquainted you’re gonna tell me about your love life.”

  No way. No how.

  “Sit down and let me finish, so we can be on our way.” Her voice sounded shrill. Jane was a second away from ordering him outside so she could finish packing in peace.

  He turned. “So you want me on the bed now?”

  “Yes,” she grated out.

  He obligingly laid down once more, and she did her very best to focus.

  “What the hell?”

  That was short-lived.

  She tugged on her necklace. “What now?”

  “The red flashin’ thing in your light fixture.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Look at the light fixture above your bed.”

  She glanced up at the ceiling, and sure enough, a tiny red light flashed.

  “Yes, and…?” She’s seen it before and figured it was part of the lighting unit.

  “Your light ain’t supposed to do that.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Fuck no.” Byron stood on the bed, pulled out his pocket knife.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Gettin’ to the bottom of it.” He unscrewed it and pulled off the globe, before handing it to her. Then he extracted a small black object, the size of a quarter, next to the light bulb— it was attached to the wiring through a line of twisty cable.

  Again, her stomach rumbled with anxiety.

  “What is it?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, a camera.” He eyeballed the object. “Looks like it’s been wired into your electricity, and I bet it’s been connected to your Wi-Fi, projectin’ the video feed to him. I don’t see any microphones, though.”