She didn’t want him to.
She shoved her fingers through his short, spiky hair and kissed him back for all she was worth. She poured all her long lonely months without Cameron into that sweet, yet all-consuming kiss.
He slid his hands down her back, slowly, to her butt and pulled her close. He was hard and delicious against her belly. His taste burst in her mouth. His tongue stroked, mimicking the ways he could use it elsewhere on her body. He retreated to nip her lip, then soothed the spot with a warm, wet caress.
“Ask me,” he whispered.
Their lips so close they brushed, she tingled, then murmured, “Ask you what?”
“Invite me inside.”
Her lungs hurt as she dragged in a breath. She wanted to. She wanted to so bad.
He rocked her slightly, his erection at her belly, her nipples hard and tight against his chest. Her fingers spasmed in his hair.
“I can’t,” she whispered, then threw her arms around his neck and crushed herself against him. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t smile. She couldn’t beg. She didn’t actually think she could cry. Her body ached with everything she wanted and couldn’t have. She felt his arms go round her back and his big hands stroke her soothingly.
“One day, you won’t be so afraid, Max.”
“I’m not afraid,” she mumbled against his neck.
She was. Terrified, even. Worse, she couldn’t figure out why anymore.
Chapter Thirteen
It was after two in the morning. Max lay in her twin bed, Buzzard the Cat snuggled in the crook between ear and chin. Her mind and body still buzzed like she was pumped full of drugs. Her thoughts jumped from one image or sound to another.
Witt’s big hand resting on the steering wheel. Those killer boots. His musk aftershave. That incredible, devastating kiss. Her crippling fear at that last moment. His sweet goodnight. The crunch of the gravel on the drive as he walked away.
And more, from earlier in the night. Bethany’s darkened dining room. The script. The things she’d said to those men. The words they whispered to her, the begging voices. Bethany had so loved the neediness that sneaked through each harsh utterance. She’d thrived on it, blossomed beneath its overwhelming brilliance.
Then Achilles had called her a bitch.
Max sat straight up in bed. The cat slipped down the pillow, came to rest on the mattress beside her, curled close once more, and started to purr.
“What’s the matter, my love?” Cameron’s voice filled the otherwise quiet room. She always imagined that she could hear him through her ears instead of her mind, as if that made talking to a ghost somehow more palatable. Not quite so ... crazy.
She took a deep breath. “I know where I heard Achilles’ last words.”
“Where?” The sound smoothed out, lengthened, soothing her with its softness.
“A dream I had during that first case.” It had been more a “vision” of a past event in a murder victim’s life. A terrible event. A defining moment.
“Wendy Gregory’s case.”
She called it a case. She didn’t know what else to call it. She’d been driven to find Wendy’s killer herself, though, of course, Witt had accused her of hindering his investigation, even suspected her of having something to do with the murder. Witt was long past suspecting her.
Witt now wanted something else. She shoved the thought aside.
The words in that dream had stuck. So had the dream voice. So had the man himself.
Bud Traynor. Wendy Gregory’s horrific father. Through the dream, the vision, Max had seen the worst of the terrible things he’d done to his daughter, and she’d vowed to make him pay. She hadn’t fulfilled that vow, but somehow she’d known she’d get another chance. Maybe this was it.
Achilles’ words had echoed the ones Bud Traynor uttered in that vision.
Max didn’t believe in coincidence. Everything under the sun, moon, and stars was connected. Everything had a purpose and a reason. She just had to figure out that reason.
“You’re obsessed with the man, Max. He’s the bogeyman hiding in your every vision.”
“He’s been in the last two visions. Maybe he’s the connection between all these murders.”
Cameron was silent longer than necessary. “His voice?”
She wondered if he was humoring her or needling her. Still, she told him the truth. “I can’t say for sure. In fact, until I remembered where I’d heard those words, I don’t think I’d have associated him with this Achilles character at all.” Except for the crawling sensation at the nape of her neck. Then Bethany had taken over, and she’d lost the feeling.
“Bethany took over. Such a convenient excuse, sweetheart.”
“You don’t think I felt that way about her precious Achilles?”
“I think you’ve been into denial of your own feelings since the day your mother died when you were eight years old and left you an orphan.”