There was something in his voice. It was deeper, harsh, and his features intense as he strained forward.
“You mean you want to know specifically?” Uh-oh.
“Yeah.”
“I can’t say that stuff out loud.”
“Didn’t you just say it to him?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then say it for me.”
“Are you serious?” She knew he was.
“You pick up men you don’t know in bars, you talk sex to murder suspects on the phone, but you won’t even hold my hand, let alone kiss me or tell me what you said to some freaking stranger?”
She focused on only one thing he said. “I don’t pick up men in bars.” Not anymore. At least not for a month. Her cheeks flamed, damn near ready to explode with spontaneous combustion.
“I don’t care about your past, Max. I care about your present and your future. Our future.”
She ran scared, sputtering, “Well, well—” Why did he keep on taking her crap and coming back for more? The question burned in her mind. “Why do you even bother?” For that matter, why did Cameron bother with her? “I’m a pain in the ass, and we both know it.”
“Gotta thing for pains in the butt.”
“You’re a masochist.”
“Maybe. But you creep into a man’s heart, and there’s no getting you out.”
She shivered. Having a hold on his heart was the last thing she could handle. “That’s a line, if I ever heard one.”
He didn’t even wince. Which showed how used to her crap he was. Maybe that was Cameron’s excuse, too. Witt reached across the space between them and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of the gesture tore at her heart. “You might be psychic, Max, but I gotta read people for a living.”
“So you’ve read me like an open book?”
“Yeah. You don’t even have a clue how special you are. Makes a man willing to do anything just to show you.”
Now that was scary. Especially after Horace’s prediction that Witt would have to kill for her. Shivers raced up and down her spine. She still didn’t understand why he wanted any kind of relationship with her, and maybe she never would, but she sure didn’t need a guy willing to do anything. That was too awesome a responsibility.
He waved a hand, then pushed his leg down and sat straight ahead in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel as he stared her down. “Don’t say a word. I don’t want to hear it right now.” By not answering, she’d hurt him. Again. She knew, though he didn’t show it by even a flicker of an eyelash as he went on. “Just ask me the favor you were going to ask. And don’t give me that innocent look because I know one’s coming. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
Too many full sentences and pronouns. The guy was pissed. Just not so pissed he wasn’t willing to listen.
It was also a very good thing he’d dropped the previous topic before she dug herself an even bigger hole. “Do you think he might be smart enough to keep calling in order to throw the police off his track? Just in case?”
“It’s a long shot, Max, but yeah, he might be.”
She took a deep breath and shot out the favor she wanted. “Then I think you ought to ask the police to set me up to take the calls that would have been sent to her so I can lure him out.”
Chapter Twelve
That conversation ended right there. Witt had climbed out of the truck, slammed his door, walked around to her side, and escorted her to the Miata. Then he’d backed the truck up to let her maneuver out, and followed her home.
Half an later, the argument continued on her porch.
“You will not set yourself up as bait.”
“It’s a flawless idea. You already told them I was your girlfriend. You could say we decided to do this because your mother won’t feel safe until the killer is caught. It’s the perfect excuse, Witt.”
“No.” He was an immovable rock. They stood on her small deck. The motion sensor had turned on the light, reflecting off his skin with an angry halogen glow.
“You are not going to become a phone sex operator to find out who killed Bethany Spring. And I am not getting involved with another of your harebrained schemes. You are an accountant, Max, not a cop.”
Uh-oh. More full sentences and no contractions anywhere. Not a good sign. She could argue. She could demand. She could even stomp on his toe. Or she could appeal to his conscience. “I know his voice. You could get a list of all her regulars, but you’d never figure out which one it was. You need me.”
“Forgetting it’s not my case and not my jurisdiction?”
“No. Which is why I need to do this. Those ‘on-duties’ will never figure it out without my help.”
He was silent. She could almost see the little wheels click-clacking in his head. She let his thought processes go on for maybe fifteen seconds, then hit him with the homer. “Her killer might go free if you don’t help me do this.”