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“I realize you need to get back to your patients. They need your help.” Chris pulled out his wallet.
She was caught off guard by the remark, as if he knew something she didn’t. “Not all patients are psychotics or paranoid. Some merely need someone to talk to. I’ll get that.” As she reached for the check, she caught a glimpse of the man inside, one who refused to tolerate any decision being questioned.
Chris placed his hand on top of hers as he leaned in. “Never challenge me. Do you understand? Never question a decision or my wishes. You can ask me anything and I’ll be as honest as I can, but never believe you’re in a position of power. Are we clear?”
Taken aback, goosebumps popped along every inch of naked skin. “Crystal.”
“Good.” He dropped three twenties and held out his hand. “Let’s go.”
He said nothing as he drove her back to her office and never looked in her direction. She was uncomfortable, but not because of his words. Her panties were wet from desire.
Chris pulled into a space and pushed the gear into park. His breathing was heavy, his lips pinched.
“Thank you for lunch,” she said and clutched her purse. She waited for another minute before sighing and placing her hand on the door handle.
“Destiny.” Twisting, he cupped her face, tugging in his direction, and crushed his mouth over hers.
The kiss wasn’t sweet but depicting a desperate need, a burning hunger bursting from deep within.
She was frozen, unable to breathe as the intimate moment continued. Conflicted, she longed to relax and enjoy the powerful taste, but visions tumbled into the forefront of her mind. Shadowed forms rushed forward, their arms outstretched. Fear gripped her hard and she fought the bile rushing up from the pit of her stomach.
He gripped the back of her head, intertwining his fingers in her hair and pulling backward. Breaking the kiss, he licked across the seam of her mouth and down to her chin, nipping her flesh before moving to her neck.
Destiny gripped his arm when he bit down, a slice of pain coursing through her system. Gasping, her body began to shake and she closed her eyes, ridding the ugly images. She was suddenly free of him.
“Until we meet again,” he said in a commanding tone.
She gulped air and rushed to get out of his car. When he’d pulled away, she held her purse to her chest. Indeed, they would meet again and she knew she’d succumb to his every desire.
* * *
"Gorgeous heap of shit,” Grant said as he laughed.
Montana shrugged and climbed out of the car. Michael Cavanaugh lived in an area of town called Jackson Ward. He wasn’t necessarily surprised the man lived frugally, given his divorce, but the choice of neighborhoods was disconcerting. The rundown neighborhood was well known for drug dealers and crack heads. Two murders had occurred recently and likely from a drug deal gone bad. “Could be worse.”
“Yeah, the guy could be homeless.”
“Let’s see if our boy is home.”
“Records indicate he drives a fairly new Mazda. Doesn’t look like any of these skagmobiles here.”
“You have such a gift with words.”
Grant grinned. “I try.”
Montana looked up and down the street. There was little activity at two-thirty in the afternoon. Only at night did the area liven up. Sirens and loud music were the norm. He unfastened his gun holster and felt for the warrant. They’d been damn lucky to get one considering there was no evidence Michael had anything to do with the murders. “Remember what I said, we’re just talking to him.”
“He’s not here.”
“Maybe not. Come on.” They trudged up the rickety set of stairs leading to the building’s entrance. The once late nineteen twenties brownstone was now a painted over wreck, complete with graffiti in various neon colors. He opened the outer door and was hit by the sickening stench of too many people living in cramped quarters, along with a hint of marijuana. He heard a baby crying from one of the upper floors and at least two loud television sets. “What floor?”
“Third. 3-B.”
He nodded as they took the stairs two at a time. Glancing up at the stairwell, he could sense eyes were on them. They were dead giveaways for cops. When they reached Michael’s apartment, he flanked one side, Grant the other. While he had no indication that the man was violent, his gut told him to be cautious. He issued three hard knocks. “Michael Johnson?”
Wham!
The loud thud came from an upper floor. An indication they’d indeed been made.
