Ooh.
He stomped up the stairs to use her bathroom, presumably to get rid of the condom. On the way out, he grabbed her chin. “And if I’m going to play your john tomorrow night, then you sure as hell better not wear any panties. Again.”
*
The bastard had walked out on her then. Just that one edict about her panties, then he was gone.
Dammit, who was the obsessed, addicted one here anyway? He’d teased her, and she’d done everything he told her to. She’d wanted to beg him to spend the night. The fact that he hadn’t kissed her really pissed her off.
Things were getting really bad. She was losing control. How the hell could she get it back?
An hour later, she’d calmed enough to ask Cameron his opinion on Witt’s assertion regarding Angela. Cameron had merely uttered an annoying comment. “Witt’s a cop. He’s been reading people a long time.”
Men. The bastards always stuck together.
She’d answered with, “I’m the psychic. I would know if Angela was using me.”
“Understanding psychic feelings takes perspective.”
Meaning she didn’t have any. Why? Because she liked Angela? She fell asleep pissed with both Cameron and Witt. She fell asleep dreaming that Witt had stayed, and made her come three more times.
Was she losing her power over him?
Oh God, she was a mess. Her relationship with Witt wasn’t about power. She wanted him to go away. Life really would be easier without him.
At least he’d said he’d be her standin john. But she would wear panties. He wouldn’t notice the difference, because they weren’t going to do anything once they got up to the room she’d have to rent.
When she woke in the morning, she didn’t feel any better. Now she sat with her hand on the phone receiver and Buzzard the cat in her lap. She’d showered, dried her hair, dressed, put on makeup, made her bed, and trembled with the thought of what she had to do.
The cat warmed her belly, but the heat didn’t reach her heart.
The thought of her next action was like a great hand that swooped down and cut the air off from her windpipe.
What she had to do. She had to call Bud Traynor.
She couldn’t ask. She couldn’t imply. She had to accuse. He’d laugh. He’d bait her. Then he’d tell her, to the extent he wanted her to know. That was his game this time. He’d tell her his plans—if she knew the right questions—then he’d sit back to watch her twitch like a fish on the end of his line.
But forewarned was forearmed.
She picked up the receiver with trembling hand and dialed.
“Hello, Max.”
He had to have been lying in wait for her. She had a blocked number. “Why did you want me to know about Angela Rocket and you?”
He chuckled. “Did I, Max?” She could almost see the reptilian smile on his lips.
“You wouldn’t have called if you didn’t.”
“And how was I supposed to know you were there, Max?”
He could have known that easily. But he couldn’t have known the precise time Angela would get up for the dance, or that Max would try to shut off the irritating vibration. He couldn’t have known Max would even remember that number.
Except that he was the devil in sub-human form.
He waited. She dangled. Then he agreed. “I could have been watching you, Max, the whole time you were there.”
Imaginary maggots crawled on her skin. He could have been watching. Hammerhead she knew for sure was. Maybe it was all Hammerhead and Traynor. She liked that better than the idea of Angela being in on anything.
“So you had me watched. Why?”
“Max, I’m trying to help you find poor Lance’s killer.”
He wouldn’t help her with anything unless it served his purpose. “First you implicated Baxter Newton. Now you’re trying to say it’s Angela Rocket and her pal Hammerhead.”
“Do you want me to tell you I’m the guilty party, Max?”
The answer came quick and from the gut. “Yes.”
“It was me, Max,” he whispered as if he were trying to seduce her. It reminded her obscenely of Witt’s tone last night.
Games. What were the lies, and what was the truth? “You introduced Lance to Angela.”
“Of course, I did, Max.” In making that phone call last night, he’d been telling her that very thing.
Next question? Right question? God, she had no idea. She went for Witt’s summation, even if she wasn’t sure he’d believed it. “You set him up to be killed.”
Again, that slimy chuckle. “What’s my motive, Max?”
“You wanted his wife.”
“Max, Max, Max, I wouldn’t have had to kill Lance to get Julia. I could have told her what he was doing with Angela.”