Page 116 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

She leaned over and kissed his nipple. His eyes flew open as if he was surprised that she could be flirty and aggressive so soon after. But then, he didn’t know her at all. Didn’t realize what kind of fire he was playing with. She stared straight into his eyes as the tip of her tongue rimmed his nipple and he sucked in his breath. “Tell me, Adam,” she suggested throatily. “Was it good for you?”

Twenty-Nine

Reed checked his watch. It was after one in the morning, and Caitlyn’s shrink had been inside her house for nearly three hours. Doing what?

Nothing good. He remembered his old man telling him that nothing good ever happened after midnight. Reed had been sixteen at the time and considered his father an idiot, but now, looking back, he decided the man was right. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and refused to drink one more swig of the coffee he’d picked up an hour ago at an all-night convenience store operated by a pimply-faced kid who looked pale and sick—like a heroin addict—under the flourescent lights. He’d nearly bought a pack of cigarettes from the kid, then thought better of it. Now, as he stared through the night, he would’ve killed for a smoke.

He’d relieved Morrisette hours ago and almost envied her the need to get back to her children, to her little family. Almost. He’d watched her juggle her duties as an ambitious cop along with her life as a single mother and wondered where she got the energy.

“Nicotine and caffeine,” she’d replied when he’d asked her about it. “My drugs of choice and all perfectly legal.”

Right now he could use a shot of both. He stifled a yawn and considered going home; nothing was happening here. The big news of the evening was that Lucille Vasquez had been tracked down at her sister’s home in Florida. She was tired, scared, and had been planning to leave for years, but she wasn’t running away from anything, she’d assured Reed when he’d returned her call and woken her up. In fact, she planned to return for the funeral. She’d just needed a break from all the bad omens, deaths, and hard work she’d put up with for most of her life.

“I’ll be fine,” she’d assured him, but when he’d asked about her daughter, remembering the call he’d gotten from Detective Montoya in New Orleans, she’d gotten quiet. “She and me, we weren’t that close no more,” Lucille had confided. “She told me she was comin’ home last Christmas, gonna straighten some things out between us, but she never showed up and I figured she’d changed her mind. This isn’t so strange. There was a time when she didn’t speak to me for eighteen months. No birthday card, no call on Mother’s Day, no Christmas present, no nothin’. But that’s the way she is.”

When he explained Detective Montoya’s concern for Marta, Lucille had sighed. “There just ain’t no tellin’ about that girl. Maybe about no child. I dunno. She’s been problems from the day she was born and I did my best to raise her, but what can you do? Kids these days, they do what they want.” She went on a defensive litany about her skills at motherhood, and eventually Reed had hung up, knowing not a whole lot more about Marta Vasquez than he had before. She was missing, had been headed toward Savannah and hadn’t shown up. Her mother wasn’t concerned; maybe he shouldn’t be either.

Something moved in the house. The front door opened. Backlit by the foyer lights, the shrink kissed the widow hard and then half jogged to his car. Reed watched and wondered what kind of fireworks they’d cooked up together. He wondered if he should follow Hunt, see what he was up to. Or stay here and watch the house.

One by one, the house lights were switched off. First downstairs and then up. Apparently Caitlyn Bandeaux had gone to bed. Alone. So if they were lovers, why hadn’t Hunt stayed over?

Reed checked his watch and waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. He yawned. Thirty minutes into the total darkness, he decided to give it a rest and go home. The department wasn’t paying him for this; only his curiosity and dogged

ness kept him awake and in the street. And he had a long day tomorrow. With one last glance at the darkened windows, he turned on the ignition and pulled away from the curb. As he passed by her house, he imagined he saw a movement of the curtains, but it was probably just his imagination. He drove straight home, walked into the house, and after stripping off his clothes turned on the timer on the bedroom TV and got into bed.

He was asleep within minutes, never knowing that Caitlyn Bandeaux had watched him from the window, waiting patiently; then, once she was certain he wouldn’t return, had quietly slipped into the night.

The creeps were lined up at the stage of Pussies In Booties. Sitting at the low bar that surrounded her dance area, some with platters of food in front of them, all swilling drinks, they smoked and joked and drooled as Sugar danced her way through the set. She kicked a leg up high, nearly losing a five-inch heel, then snuggled up to the pole situated in the middle of the stage, sliding against it as if it were a lover, moving up and down, showing off what she knew was a great ass.

Ross had the bass cranked up on the sound system, and a couple of guys in jeans, work shirts and suspenders were standing behind the first row of patrons and gyrating to the pulsing beat, moving so that she might notice them. Like she’d give them the time of day. Or night. Perverts every one of them.

She twirled beneath the lights, back to the pole, and recognized some of the regulars. Guys whom she considered her bread and butter, though she never encouraged them, never gave them so much as the hint of a smile. Their money might pay the bills, but she didn’t want to get into a situation where she would encounter someone who might want to get involved with her—or worse yet, become obsessed. She’d heard about dancers with their own private stalkers.

You drop dead.

The voice on the phone seemed to shimmy across the rafters of this old dive and echo through her brain. Maybe she had already picked one up . . . one of these sickos who stared at her and fantasized. How about the bald guy who always sat in the corner near the stage curtains? Or the man with the graying beard and mean eyes, who waited until she’d shed her skirt and blouse to put his money on the stage in front of her, all the while ogling her tits as she leaned over to retrieve the cash. One time she’d seen him crease the bills, licking the seam with his long, pointed tongue while his eyes held hers. He was a scary one. Then there was the flat-faced man who’d stood in the shadows one night and had pointed his finger at her, like a gun, taking aim right at her crotch.

She had to get out of this life and soon. Before it caught up with her.

She rolled her head around and ran her hands up her thighs.

The Montgomery money was her ticket to freedom and respectability. She swung around on the pole, letting her long hair billow behind her.

At that moment she saw him.

Deep in the shadows, from a corner table away from the bar, far from the stage. His gaze followed her every move. Lusting. Wanting. The man who she willingly let into her bed, though she’d tried vainly to close her heart to him.

He was respectable.

He had money.

A member of Savannah’s elite.

And yet he yearned for her; she saw it in his eyes and in the tightness near the corners of his mouth. He hated what she did for a living, but was tantalized by it. Teased and turned on. So she’d give him a special show, step out of her routine. Leaning up against the pole, making sure it was firmly against the split in her rump, she grabbed her breasts, teased her nipples, arched and licked her lips.

A roar of approval rippled through the crowd, but they didn’t know that she was dancing for only one man, that while she’d take the money left on the linoleum at her feet, even wiggle her tits and ass in front of their slobbering faces, she was mentally fucking the big man in the back, the man who wore admiration as easily as his uniform.

He was married, but that didn’t make her want him less. She flipped over, showing off her buttocks, pinching them tight as she licked the pole. She almost felt him tremble as he leaned against the back of his chair, a shot glass in one hand, the other discreetly hidden in his pocket.

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