Chapter Eight

 

Jessica's heart pounded with each step as she and Adam gathered up her artwork, carried the paintings down the stairs, and loaded them into trunk of Adam's rental car. They made several trips, and she was terrified with each step that the police would arrive and catch them. Then what would they say? Adam would be arrested because of her. She didn't think she'd be able to take that.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked as they took the last paintings from the bedroom, leaving only the one from last week's murder scene. She picked it up, turned out the light, and followed him out of the room.

"Absolutely. Until we find out how this guy knew who I was, we aren't taking any chances with the police."

She had to agree, but that didn't mean she liked it. She placed the painting she'd promised to give the police against the wall by the front door and followed Adam down the stairs to the car. Once they had all the paintings locked in the trunk, he climbed behind the wheel. "Are you sure we have everything that ties you to any of the murders?"

She nodded and fought a shiver.

"Okay. I'm going to drive the car to the next street over and park there. Go inside and lock the door, and don't open it for anyone until I get back."

"All right." She hugged herself. Why was she suddenly afraid to be alone when, until today, she'd always been alone?

"I'll only be a few minutes," he said, his eyes softening.

"Promise?" She couldn't believe how much she'd come to depend on him. But she did. She didn't want to face this by herself. Not anymore.

"Promise." He gave her one of his breath-stealing smiles.

She climbed the staircase and stood in the doorway as he drove away, then went inside and locked the door. For the first time, she felt the emptiness of her apartment. She busied herself making a pot of tea in the kitchen and waited for Adam to come back. Before long, there was a knock on the door. Anxiety gave her a good squeeze as she hurried toward it. She peered through the peephole. McCloskey and Kent stood there, pivoting from foot to foot, obviously eager to get inside. Should she let them in? Wait for Adam?

They knocked again. Louder this time.

She took a deep breath and swung open the door. "Detectives."

"We have a warrant to search the premises," McCloskey said, all business.

She made a show of reading the paper, then gave a quick nod and stepped back. Adam had just reached the bottom of the stairs, so she left the door open as he quickly climbed up and entered behind them.

"I have the painting you requested," she said, pointing toward the large ink artwork leaning against the wall, hoping to distract them from noticing Adam had walked in behind them. It didn't, but they were too interested in her work to care.

"And you weren't at this murder site either?" Kent asked.

"She dreams them, remember?" McCloskey said in a mocking tone.

"I'm glad you're here, fellas," Adam said, walking toward the kitchen counter. He used a towel to pick up the praline bag. "This is the bag of pralines you found on the porch earlier today," he said to Kent.

Kent didn't say anything, just gave him that hard cop stare.

"Well, we think perhaps the killer dropped it off."

"Yeah, why is that?" McCloskey said, biting the bait.

"Because there is a necklace in the bottom of the bag."

"And you think just because there's a necklace in the bag that the killer put it there?"

Adam shrugged. "Could be."

McCloskey took hold of the bag with the towel, peered inside, and gave it a good shake. "How do you know the girl who put the bag together didn't just drop it in there? The simplest explanation is usually the answer."

"You mean instead of it being from a serial killer who might be targeting his next victim?"

"Exactly," McCloskey said.

"Maybe you can humor me and see if you can get any prints off the bag."

He smirked. "Yeah, right. I wonder how many people touched that bag."

"Were any of the victims missing jewelry?" Adam asked.

McCloskey dropped the smirk and his eyes narrowed. "I'll put this in the car with the painting. You start in the bedroom," he said to Kent.

"Come on," Adam said to Jessica, and led her into the kitchen. "Let's stay out of their way."

That was fine by her. She had no desire to watch these cops paw through her stuff. In fact, what she really wanted to do was hide out at the coffee shop down the street, but she didn't want to leave them alone in her house either. Suck it up, she told herself. How long could it take to search a two-bedroom apartment?

Apparently, much longer than she'd thought.

Adam opened a bottle of wine, poured them both a glass, and led her out onto the terrace. "I'm sorry about this."

"Don't be. It's not your fault."

"I know you wanted to leave."

"I still might." She sighed. "But you're right, it won't do any good. In fact, it would probably just make things worse."

"How do you think he always finds you?"

"I don't know."

"Perhaps through your work?"

"Maybe. And maybe you're right. Maybe he can see me as clearly as I see him. And trust me, that is not comforting in any way."

"I can only imagine." He took her hand across the table and held it for a long moment.

"All right, we're done," Kent said, popping his head out onto the terrace.

"Great," Adam said, and walked the detectives to the door. He closed it behind them and watched through the peephole until they got into their car and drove away. "We're all clear."

She relaxed at his words.

He stepped into the living room and started unbuttoning his shirt. Jessica's eyes widened as he took it off and flung it onto the couch. "Okay, where do you want me?"

"Excuse me?" she sputtered.

"For my painting. You said you were going to paint me. In color. Remember?"

Her cheeks burned. Yes, she remembered. How could she forget?

He undid his belt slowly. "How about right here in front of the fireplace?"

"All right." She walked forward, tilting her head as she thought about how she wanted him.

"Should I just stand here, leaning against the fireplace?" He dropped his pants and stepped out of them.

She caught her breath.

"Should I turn this way, so you can only see my backside?" He turned toward the fireplace, stepped out of his underwear, and put his hands up on the mantel, displaying his back and his very fine ass in full detail. "Well?" he asked, looking at her over his shoulder when she didn't respond.

"What?"

"You're not saying anything."

"Sorry, I was a little distracted. What were you asking?"

"Just a little, huh?"

He turned around to face her, and there was nothing little about him. She sucked in a deep breath. Lord have mercy.

"If I remember right, you were also going to be nude while painting me," he said, approaching her. He rested his hands on her shoulders and, with a flick of his fingers, slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders. It pooled on the floor.

"I'm not sure how much painting I'm going to be able to get done in my bra and panties," she admitted, realizing painting was the last thing on her mind.

"Why not? A deal is a deal."

And then his lips fell over hers and he kissed her, and she lost all sense of time and space.

"You can do this," he whispered against her mouth. "Shut out the nightmares and bring in the color. Paint something beautiful. Focus on something beautiful."

Her heart lifted at the thought, and she began to feel real hope. Could she have a life with meaning? A life where she didn't live in fear, where she wasn't afraid to sleep?

The warmth of his kiss stole over her. And for just a second, she actually believed it was possible. She pulled back, gave him a saucy smile, then crossed the room to her kitchen, where she picked up a chair and brought it back to him. "Straddle this."

"Only if you promise to straddle me after."

She gave his lips a quick peck. "Work first, play later."

"What fun is that?"

"Sit," she commanded.

"Oh, I love it when you talk bossy to me." He turned the chair backward and straddled it, facing her.

"Perfect. Now place your arm on top of the chair and rest your chin on it."

He did what she asked, and inspiration hit her like a freight train. She grabbed her canvas pad and a pencil and started to sketch, so deep in her concentration that she wasn't aware how much time had passed until he stood, breaking the spell.

She looked up at him.

"Break time."

"What?"

"I've been sitting here for an hour. I need wine. And you do, too."

"I do?"

"Yes." He stared at her canvas pad. "Nice. But I still don't see any color."

"True."

She walked over to her worktable, pulled out her acrylics, and started to mix the colors. She kept looking up at him, then mixing more, adding this shade and that, darkening until she had a palette of five or six different flesh tones. Then she sat down at the table and started to apply color to canvas. At first, it felt uncomfortable and frustrating, as she couldn't seem to get the colors the way she wanted them, the lines and shadows deep enough. "Here." He handed her a glass of Cabernet. "Break time goes for you, too."

She wanted to protest, to tell him she couldn't just stop in the middle of a project, but then she felt his warm hands on her shoulders, kneading away the soreness in her muscles, and she melted. She took a sip of the wine, let the sweet liquid caress her tongue, and felt warmth steal over her. Yes, she could get used to this.

"You don't have to get it all done tonight," he said, his hot breath fanning her cheek.

She leaned back against him and felt his skin. He was still nude, and she might as well be. Her blood pressure spiked. She looked down at her painting, at all the skin and a shadow of what was hiding behind the slats at the back of the chair.

His fingers slipped down her arms, and suddenly she didn't want to be sitting anymore. Didn't want to be painting, didn't want to do anything other than lie in his arms and make love to him. She took him by the hand and led him down the hall to her bedroom, where she pulled him down with her onto her bed.