Break the Night Page 6

  “I had to thank him for his newspaper article,” Lizzie said in an acid voice. “It’s not every day I’m made into the target of a killer.”

  “As you can see, this isn’t exactly a friendly relationship,” Damien murmured. “Someone broke into her apartment last night. The only thing missing was the bag lady mask.”

  Adamson started cursing. “Why the hell didn’t you call-?”

  “I did. You weren’t here,” Lizzie said. “For that matter, why didn’t you tell me about my name?”

  Adamson’s eyes narrowed. “What about your name?”

  “Apparently the original Jack the Ripper killed a woman named Elizabeth Stride.”

  “Coincidence,” Adamson said staunchly.

  “Don’t give her that,” Damien said. “She’s a smart lady. She won’t fall for it.”

  “All right. I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Don’t you think I should have been warned?” Her voice was tart.

  “He’s made no effort to get to you. He’s more interested in carving up prostitutes. We’ve been keeping an eye on you, just in case. As long as you keep making your masks, you’re safe.”

  Damien snorted in obvious disbelief. “You don’t believe that any more than I do. He’s biding his time.”

  “Then why the hell did you put her in the newspaper, Damien?” Adamson shot back.

  He didn’t have the grace to look the slightest bit guilty. “Because I was sick of watching women die, while the police sat around drinking coffee and doing nothing about it. That article got things moving.”

  “It could have gotten Lizzie killed. Did you consider that?” Adamson said shrewdly.

  “I considered it.” Damien’s voice was flat, dead. “I figured it was worth the risk.”

  “Who elected you God?”

  “Stop arguing,” Lizzie said sharply, ignoring her instinctive flinch at Damien’s cold words. “It’s too late now to change things.”

  “I don’t want you going back to the apartment, Ms. Stride,” Adamson said, contenting himself with a glare in Damien’s direction. “We’re going to go over the place with a fine-tooth comb—if the Ripper left even a molecule of evidence, we’ll find it. I can see about getting authorization to take you to a safe house, put a policewoman in your place as decoy . . .”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have any say in the matter.”

  “Wanna bet?” Damien broke in. “You can’t commandeer her apartment without a court order, and if you do, I’ll put it in my column just to make sure the Ripper doesn’t make any mistakes.”

  “I could have you arrested for obstructing justice.”

  “Try it. I’m not going to sit around and let you set up some other woman to get killed.”

  “So what are your suggestions? Since you seem to think you’re in charge of the investigation, I’m all ears,” Adamson said in a withering tone.

  “I’m sure as hell finding out more than you are,” Damien shot back. “Send Lizzie to a hotel, with a guard. Watch her place, but don’t put anyone inside. He must have run out of masks. He only took one, and he’s already used it. When he wants to kill again, he’ll have to go back for more.”

  “We might find a fingerprint.”

  “Even if you do, you know you’ve got a snowball’s chance in hell of finding out that this guy has a record,” Damien shot back. “This isn’t some career criminal. This is someone who looks and acts normal. A businessman. A lawyer. A cop. A reporter.”

  “If you think you look and act normal,” Lizzie observed from her seat in the corner, “then you suffer from delusions.”

  Damien turned to look at her, and she expected a glare. What she got was even worse. There was amusement in his usually bleak eyes, an involuntary curve to his mouth. Sometime in the past he’d smiled at her with just that dark amusement. She felt a treacherous warmth inside. Why couldn’t she remember? And what in God’s name would she do if he really smiled at her?

  “I won’t argue that,” he said. “My point is the Ripper isn’t some weird character skulking in alleyways. He looks normal. He,” he said, watching her out of those still, dark eyes, “or she.”

  It took a moment for her to understand his meaning. When she did, she was furious. “You know as well as I do that I was in my apartment all night long.”

  “I fell asleep.”

  “You think I’m the Ripper?”

  “No. But I don’t think anyone should be ruled out. Not even me,” he said wearily.

  She just stared at him for a moment, at his dark, haunted face. “Not even you,” she agreed, wondering exactly what it was that was haunting him. And why.

  Chapter Five

  “WHAT DO YOU mean, you can’t do anything about it?” Damien demanded. “What does she have to do, be gutted on the front steps of the police station?”

  “Keep your voice down!” Adamson snapped. “Do you want her to hear you? She’s spooked enough as it is.”

  Damien looked through the smoked windows to the hallway beyond Adamson’s office. Lizzie was sitting at one of the battered old desks, deep in conversation with one of Adamson’s sergeants, and he had the chance to observe her without her realizing it. She looked tired, shadows beneath her warm eyes, lines around her soft mouth. She looked tense, wary, as well she ought to be. But she didn’t look spooked.

  “You underestimate her,” Damien said. “She’s handling all this very well. That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be spooked. Sooner or later he’s going to come for her. And unless you’ve got twenty-four-hour surveillance . . .”

  “Ever hear of the financial crisis in the state of California?” Adamson asked him. “Don’t you think I’d do it if I could? I asked, but there’s no way. There just aren’t the funds to pay for it. Too many women are in danger from this guy. We don’t have the manpower to protect one lone female, even if she is connected to the case by those masks. After all, our guy’s smart. He’s not likely to break in again. He’ll probably buy the next mask. We’ll keep an eye on her, I promise. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Not good enough,” Damien said, moving away from the wall in sudden fury.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Your job for you.” He yanked open the door, and Lizzie looked up at him, her expression unguarded for a moment. It hit him like a fist in his gut. A complication that he simply didn’t have time for. Feelings. Emotions. For her. For Lizzie.

  “What are you going to do?” Adamson’s voice followed him out of the office, repeating his question.

  Damien ignored him, taking Lizzie’s arm and pulling her to her feet. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “I haven’t finished—”

  “We’re getting out of here.”

  She came with him. He hadn’t expected her to put up more than a token protest, and she didn’t even bother with that. She walked beside him, out of the police station, no questions asked. She was a tall woman, but she still came up only to his shoulder. A strong woman, and yet he felt her vulnerability quite clearly. A beautiful woman, in a fierce, quiet way, and he wanted to stop in the middle of the corridor and pull her into his arms, thread his hands through her thick red hair and taste her mouth. He didn’t.

  But he kept his hand on her arm, possessively, steering her out of the building and down the front steps in the light drizzle.

  “Where are we going?” she finally asked, as if their destination were no more than a vague concern to her.

  “To a motel.”

  “Forget it,” she snapped, yanking her arm away from him. “Just because I’m attracted to you doesn’t mean I’ve lost my mind completely. I’m not going to a motel—”

  “The police won’t protect you,” he told her, almost loath to interrupt her wh
en her conversation was so artlessly fascinating. Attracted to him, was she? Shit, as if things weren’t hard enough. “Adamson can’t get authorization, and you’d be a sitting duck in your apartment. I figure you’d prefer meeting the Ripper to living in my squalor, so I’m taking you to a motel where you can be anonymous and safe.”

  “Oh,” she said, and there was a blush of color on her tanned cheeks. “I misunderstood.”

  “Not that I have any objections to ending up in bed,” he continued, beginning to enjoy himself. “It’ll probably be pretty boring there, and sex is at least more interesting than the shopping channel.”

  “Go to hell, Damien,” she muttered.

  “So when did you decide you were attracted to me?”

  “Go to hell, Damien,” she repeated, starting to charge ahead of him, but he caught her arm. The light pressure of his hand stopped her short, and she turned and looked into his eyes. For once he made no effort to shield his expression.

  “Trust me, Lizzie,” he said. “I’ve already been there.”

  How could she have said such a thing? Lizzie berated herself as she settled into his ancient car. Lack of sleep must have addled her brains, that, and a very reasonable fear. How could she have told a man like J. R. Damien that she was attracted to him? Particularly when it made no sense to her.

  It was all part of that odd half dream, half memory. It felt as if she’d known him, longed for him, in another life, if such a thing were even possible.

  Just not in this one.

  If he mentioned it again, she would deny it, flatly. For the time being she was probably safe. He was concentrating on his driving, concentrating on the cigarette he was smoking, and he barely seemed aware of her existence. She told herself she could lean back, relax, and she knew she was only fooling herself. There was no way she could relax as long as she was in his presence.

  They drove along the freeway, leaving Venice behind in the murky daylight. Lizzie half expected the sun to start shining once they left the ocean, but the rain kept coming down in a steady drizzle. She leaned back in the seat, in the silence, and shut her eyes, exhaustion overtaking her, settling into the warm darkness, letting sleep pull around her like a soft blanket. For now, for just this moment she was safe. No one would hurt her, not with her reluctant bodyguard watching over her. She could let go.

  She had no idea how much time had passed when she jerked awake, staring up at him in confusion, when he put his hands on her.

  “We’re here,” he said in a flat voice. “I’ve already checked us in. You’ve been dead to the world.”

  She shivered. “Unpleasant way to put it. Where are we?”

  “A small motel just outside of San Bernardino. The Ripper hasn’t touched anyone outside of Venice. We should be perfectly safe.”

  “We?”

  “I’m staying with you. Don’t get all starchy again, angel,” he added. “My only designs on your body are to keep it in one piece. Come on.”

  It wasn’t quite the Bates Motel but it wasn’t much better. The outside needed a good coat of paint, the roof looked like it leaked, and Lizzie thought she saw a rat slinking away, but that was probably her justifiably gloomy expectations. While it was undoubtedly seedy at least it was clean inside, the floor vacuumed, the smell of disinfectant and lemon polish in the air. The walls were a dull shade of orangey pine, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. “There’s only one bed,” she said, eyeing it pointedly.

  “You can count, too,” he observed. “It was all they had. Don’t worry, we can take turns. I don’t usually sleep much.”

  “How long are we going to be here?” She pulled her gaze away from the bed, back to him as he pulled off his coat, the sight of his tall, lean body was even more distracting than the bed.

  “Until I can think of something better to do.” He tossed the coat across a chair, even though there was a perfectly good coat rack behind the door. “With any luck, they found some evidence in your apartment.”

  “You believe in luck?” she asked.

  “No. Only bad luck.”

  He was standing too close to her. He was almost intimidatingly tall, but it wasn’t his height that she found overwhelming. It was his intensity, his driven, fierce nature. He frightened her and she had no idea why. She knew she was in no physical danger from him—in fact, she felt safer with him than she had in a long time.

  He still unnerved her.

  “So tell me,” he said in a low voice, “when exactly did you decide you were attracted to me?”

  “It was a joke,” she said, knowing there was no way in hell he was going to believe her. He was too close, and his dark eyes could see too much.

  A faint smile curved his mouth. “Very funny,” he said. “We’ve already discussed the fact that you have lousy taste in men. You’ve been without a relationship for two years—I’m hardly the man to change your mind.”

  She was silent, cursing him for picking up on her stupid statement. She was tempted to scream at him for prying into her private affairs, or to assure him that she had no interest either in him or in changing her mind about men. If anything he was proof positive that men were nothing but a complication and an annoyance. He didn’t even make the pretense of being charming. Though that was one thing going for him—there’d be no risk of an ultimate disillusionment. She already knew he was a bastard.

  She went for the easier goal. “Who have you been talking to about me?” she demanded. “My life is none of your business.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” he said, moving away from her and dropping into a shabby modern chair. It creaked ominously beneath his weight, then held. “And delving into your darkest secrets is easy. People love to talk to reporters. It gives them their fifteen minutes of fame. All I had to do was find the right people, ask the right questions, and your life was an open book.”

  “Not a very interesting one,” she replied tightly.

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He leaned back in the rickety chair, stretching his endless legs out in front of him. He was wearing the clothes he’d slept in—baggy, faded jeans, an old khaki shirt, running shoes that had seen far better days. The dark growth on his angular chin was moving past stubble and closer to bona fide beard, and his face was shadowed with exhaustion. “Are you hungry?” He abruptly changed the subject.

  “No,” she said, watching him with unwilling fascination. He looked just about ready to collapse.

  “You’ll have to eat sooner or later. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during the last few months, it’s that you have to make yourself eat. Otherwise you’ll never keep going.”

  “You don’t look as if you’ve eaten much,” she said.

  “Enough,” he said. “I’ll go out for coffee in a couple of minutes. In the meantime . . .” He stopped, and Lizzie waited patiently for him to continue.

  It took her a minute to realize he wasn’t going to say anything more. He’d fallen sound asleep in the middle of his sentence.

  She crossed the room and knelt beside him, staring up at him in quiet fascination. She wanted to take his long, elegant hand in hers, tug him awake and draw him over to the relative comfort of the bed. But she knew it would be a major mistake. Either he would stay awake, that burning intensity driving him still, or he would take her into the bed with him. And that would be disastrous.

  The room was cool and damp, and there were no extra covers in the closet or the drawer. She pulled the chenille bedspread off and draped it carefully around him. He didn’t move. She touched his forehead gently, her fingers brushing the long, thick hair that tumbled in his face. He didn’t move.

  She leaned over and did a remarkably stupid thing. She brushed her lips across his mouth, so lightly that she could barely do more than feel his breath against her, and then she drew back, horrified at herself. And still he
slept, unmoving.

  It must be her own lack of sleep, she told herself, heading for the bed, kicking her shoes off as she went, that was making her do such crazy things. That, or the stress of the past few weeks, knowing of her unholy connection to a madman. It must be two years of celibacy, suddenly sending her hormones awry. There had to be some logical explanation for the insanity that had overtaken her the minute she walked into J. R. Damien’s presence. Insanity, and a strong sense of destiny.

  But at the moment she couldn’t think of a single explanation that made sense. All she knew was that she wanted him to wake up, to put his hands and his mouth on her, and make her forget about masks, and murders, and endless rain. She wanted him to wipe everything out of her conscious mind except him.

  She turned off the light beside the double bed, plunging the room into murky twilight. Outside, the rain was falling, but inside, they had to be safe. They were hours from the outskirts of Venice, and it was the afternoon. For now, the Ripper had to be at rest.

  And so would they.

  DAMIEN DREAMED. It began pleasantly enough, and that was a rarity for him. Gentle hands touching him. Soft lips feathering against his own, and if he’d had even a fraction more energy, he would have kissed her back. Lizzie, he thought, knowing her taste. But he couldn’t move, trapped in the mists of sleep, unable to do anything more than feel.

  She moved away, and he was conscious of a deep, completely sexual regret. She’d knelt at his side before. He wanted her to pull the blanket away, to reach for his belt and unfasten it. He wanted her to put her mouth on him, to take away the torment and despair that had haunted him, leaving him with only the pulse-pounding need that could shatter into completion so easily.

  But she moved away, leaving him hard, aching, unable even to open his eyes, to reach out and grab her. The rustling of the covers, the creaking of the bed, only increased his need, and he knew he could wake up if he wanted to. Could cross over to the bed and take her, whether she was willing or not. If she wasn’t ready, he could make her so. He could lose himself in her body. Between her long, gorgeous legs, he could find a brief moment of forgetfulness.