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  The wind tore at her hair and she looked down into the dark, secretive eyes of this man who had become her lover, this man she barely knew, and her fingers clenched in his shoulder muscles.

  He drew in a quick sharp breath and then stiffened within her, the cords of his neck straining, his mouth drawn back as he released. Samantha spasmed, her entire body convulsing as she fell against him, lost to the night, lost to the world, lost to this man she knew better than to trust.

  God help me.

  Chapter Eighteen

  What have I done?

  As the first rays of light streamed through the tiny porthole over the bed, Ty Wheeler called himself every kind of fool.

  Samantha was lying tangled in the sheets, her dark red hair mussed, her eyes closed, her breathing regular. Sometime last night, he'd carried her to the berth. They'd made love long into the morning hours and he had short, lightning-swift images of her body, supple and lean, lying beneath him or straddling him. She'd been playful and sexy and coy as hell, a lover like no other. His skin sheened with perspiration at the thought of her, the taste of her, the pure, raw, animal she was.

  And after it all, they'd both fallen asleep exhausted.

  Ty had sworn to himself he wouldn't get involved, that he had to remain objective, and yet he'd thrown caution to the winds last night and ended up in bed with her. Now, as he heated water on a hot plate, he called himself the worst kind of idiot.

  She stirred, moving her lips and sighing in her sleep, and he craved her all over again.

  One green eye slitted open. "What're you staring at?" she asked, stretching lazily, pushing one fist over her head until she touched the wall.

  "You."

  "And I must look like hell." She propped up on one elbow, careful to keep the coverlet over her breasts. "What time is it?"

  "Seven."

  Groaning, she said, "And we're awake… why?"

  "Because we're in the middle of the lake and people on the shore, people who might see us are getting up. I'm making coffee."

  "Strong coffee, I hope." she qualified.

  "Guaranteed to put hair on your chest."

  "Just what I need," she muttered.

  He winked at her. "Believe me, your chest is just fine."

  "Yeah, well, about that… about last night… I think we should talk about it."

  "Women always do."

  "We have our reasons." She shook her head. "I mean we need to discuss the fact that we didn't exactly engage in safe sex, and I don't know much about you. For all I know you could have a wife and a dozen kids tucked away somewhere."

  "There are no children, no wife, and not even a fiancée in my life. I haven't been involved with a woman for over a year, and I'm clean. Believe it or not, I am usually a lot more careful myself."

  "Me too."

  "What about you?" he asked, and was surprised that it mattered, that he cared if she was in a relationship of any kind.

  "I did have a boyfriend until about half a year ago, but when I moved to New Orleans, things fell apart." She sighed and stared up at him with those incredible green eyes. "We went to Mexico together last month, but nothing came of it. He wanted to get back together, but it didn't happen."

  "You're sure?"

  "Very." She tilted her head to the side. "Now, was I dreaming, or did you say you made me coffee?"

  "That I did. It's instant. I can make it as strong as you want."

  "Good enough."

  "Then I think we'd better head back." The "galley" was little more than a hot plate in this single room. He pulled out a jar of Folgers crystals and added steaming water to two cups.

  "Ty ?"

  "Yeah?" Pausing, he looked over his shoulder. She was still holding the blankets around herself, her shoulders bare, looking sexy as hell.

  "I just want you to know that I don't usually…" She glanced around the tiny cabin before meeting his eyes again. "… I'm not a woman who sleeps with men I don't really know." She shoved her hair from her face with one hand. "I don't know what got into me last night."

  "You found me irresistible," he said, and flashed her that devastating, irreverent smile before measuring coffee into two paper cups.

  "Yeah, that's it," she said sarcastically but couldn't deny the truth therein. She'd acted completely out of character— or had she? There had always been a part of her that had wanted to walk close to the edge, take a step on the wild side, be more like her brother. Peter had never played by the rules. Never.

  And it had cost him.

  Once their mother had died and he no longer had a source of income, he'd disappeared, only surfacing occasionally, usually broke and full of wild tales about his life that Sam didn't believe. No one could con a person better than her brother.

  She found her skirt. Wrinkled beyond repair. Too bad. Mentally chastising herself, she scrambled into her clothes. She couldn't even blame her actions on the wine. Yes, she'd been tired, and strung tight, relieved to find him on her porch, but to just throw all her good judgment, brains and morals out the window wasn't like her. They'd never discussed past lovers, safe sex, the emotional ties that being sexually involved with someone brings. If one of her listeners were to call in and admit that they'd fallen into bed with a near stranger on a dare, by playing some silly kids' game not unlike spin the bottle, Dr. Sam would have read that caller the riot act.

  She'd just stood and zipped her skirt when Ty turned, two cups of steaming coffee in his hands. "Here you go, Sunshine," he said, handing her a cup. "Now, I think I'd better go topside and we'd better shove off. Oh—one more thing." He touched the rim of his cup to hers, as if toasting. "Here's to Truth or Dare." Laughter danced in his eyes, and she felt a tug on her heart.

  He took a sip and started for the stairs. "Maybe next time we can play Post Office."

  "Or Spin the Bottle."

  "Or Doctor."

  "You know them all," she accused as she followed him to the deck, where the wind had kicked up and only a few rays of sunlight had pierced the thick cover of clouds. Ty worked quickly, pulling up anchor, unfurling the sails and guiding the sloop across the gray water. The ride was rougher this morning, coffee sloshed as Sam tried to drink it and maintain balance. She recognized the shoreline of Cambrai as they approached, smiled as she picked out her house with its sun-bleached dock, stately live oaks and vibrant bougainvillea trailing across the roofline over the verandah. "So tell me about your book," she said, as he slowed and lowered the sails. "What did you tell Melanie it was? The Horse Whisperer meets—"

  "—Silence Of The Lambs. It was a joke. Actually I'm writing about some cases I dealt with as a cop."

  "You were a police officer?" she asked, surprised.

  "In one of my former lifetimes."

  "So your book is actually true crime?"

  He hesitated. "More like fiction based on fact." Easing the craft into shallower water, he frowned, and she sensed there was something he wasn't telling her, something secret.

  "So, how's it coming?"

  "Okay, I guess. I've come across a couple of obstacles, but I'm working through them."

  Vague. "Where were you a cop?" she asked.

  "Texas."

  "A Ranger?"

  "Detective. Grab that line, would you?" He motioned to a coil of rope, and he set out the bumpers so that the sloop wouldn't scrape against the wood of the dock, then tied up. "I'll walk you inside."

  "You don't have to. I'm fine. This is my house, and it's broad daylight."

  "I'd just feel better about it," he said, and was already striding toward the back porch, not listening to any arguments she could come up with. The French doors were unlocked, just as they'd left them, the alarm system not activated. Samantha hadn't thought about it the night before, had been too caught up in Ty and hadn't really expected to be gone for any length of time.

  She'd been wrong, she realized too late.

  Charon was hiding beneath a dining-room chair, and there was something odd about the house…
something that didn't feel right.

  Samantha's scalp prickled. "Maybe I'm just tired, but I think… I mean I feel that someone's been in here." She caught a glimpse of herself in the beveled glass mirror over the sideboard, saw her disheveled image, realized she'd only had a few hours' sleep. "Maybe I'm imagining things."

  Ty caught her glance in the glass. His eyes were dark; his beard-shadowed jaw suddenly rock-hard. "Let's check."

  Telling herself she was overreacting, she checked the first floor and found nothing wrong, not one thing out of place, and yet the house had a different smell, the atmosphere seemed off. They climbed the stairs together, the floorboards creaking, the fans whirring as she stepped into her bedroom.

  She sensed something wasn't quite right… that there was something amiss, but no one was in the bedroom, nor her bath. They checked every room and closet, but the house was empty. Still.

  "I guess I'm imagining things," she said, unconvinced as they walked downstairs again and Charon slid from beneath the dining-room table.

  "You'll be okay?" Ty asked.

  "Yes. Of course." This was her house, damn it, and she wasn't going to feel unsafe in her own home.

  "Keep your doors locked, your alarm on."

  "Okay, I will," she promised as they walked outside. The day was clearer, the clouds beginning to thin, heat intensifying and shimmering across the water.

  "I'll call you later," he promised.

  "I'll be fine."

  "Yeah, but maybe I won't."

  She laughed, and he pulled her into his arms. Nose to nose, he said, "Just be smart, Sam." Then he kissed her. Hard enough that she felt the scrape of his whiskers along with the warmth of his lips. Memories of the night before kaleidoscoped through her mind, and as his tongue traced her lips she sighed, then felt him shift away. "Call me anytime."

  Then he was gone, lithely hopping off the verandah and jogging across the sun-dappled backyard to the dock where the Bright Angel was tugging at her moorings. He pushed off, set sail, and, as she stood beneath the overhang of the roof, watched the sailboat disappear around the point.

  Charon followed her up the stairs and waited as she showered, then followed her into the closet as she pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. She was buckling her belt and about to step into an old pair of tennis shoes when she looked through the door to her antique dresser and saw that the second drawer wasn't quite pushed in all the way, was just slightly open, barely enough to notice.

  Telling herself she was imagining things, that she'd probably just not slammed it all the way shut, she crossed the room and straightened it, then, thinking twice opened the drawer that held her slips, bras, camisoles and… teddies, except that her red teddy was missing. She only had two, hadn't worn either in months… but the red one was definitely missing.

  She knew she hadn't taken it to Mexico and hadn't worn it since… no, the last time she'd put it on was Valentine's Day, as a joke, as she'd been all alone, just because it was red. So where was it? She searched all the drawers and scanned her closet again, but the teddy was definitely missing.

  She bit her lip, told herself not to panic, and tried to convince herself that she'd just misplaced it.

  But deep inside she knew that someone had taken it.

  Heart thudding, she checked the rest of the house. Her jewelry hadn't been touched. Her television, stereo, computer, silver and liquor were undisturbed. The only thing missing was the lacy scrap of red underwear and her blood ran cold as she considered who would want such a personal item. No doubt it had been "John."

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jeremy Leeds, Ph.D, was a prick. Bentz was sure of it as he sat in the tiny alcove that was the professor's office at Tulane. But Leeds wasn't just a normal in-your-face kind of prick, but a self-righteous, sanctimonious, self-serving egomaniac, the sort that smiled condescendingly as he firmly but complacently put you in your place.

  Bentz shouldn't have been surprised. Weren't all shrinks certifiable in one way or another?

  It was just damned hard to imagine Samantha Leeds being married to the guy. That thought soured Bentz's stomach. It was something the detective didn't want to think about too much as he eyed the crowded niche Jeremy Leeds claimed as office space. Filled floor to ceiling with shelves of books on relationships, sexuality, complexes and the like, the stuffy little room boasted one dusty window and a withering Christmas cactus that should have been thrown out a decade or so ago. Basically the office was what Bentz had expected. But the man wasn't.

  Tall and lanky, with longish hair and hawk-sharp eyes, Dr. Leeds didn't look the part of the rumpled, eccentric college professor that Hollywood always conjured up. His steely gray hair curled a bit, but was obviously cut and styled professionally, his beard neat and fashionable, his jacket smooth black leather, his wire-rimmed glasses trendy, as they sat on the end of a straight, aquiline nose. No ratty herringbone jacket with suede patches on the elbows for this professor, and there wasn't the hint of a pipe rack nor the lingering scent of pipe tobacco, though a glass humidor showcased hand-rolled cigars that were certainly Professor Leeds's only visible vice.

  "Like one?" Leeds asked as he noticed the detective's gaze upon the glass.

  "No thanks."

  "They're Cuban, but don't tell anyone. Hand-rolled. This part of the conversation is off the record, right?"

  "Only this part."

  Leeds extracted a long cigar from the humidor and inhaled deeply as he slid it under his nostrils. All for effect. But the scent of aged tobacco wafted through the warm room.

  Bentz wasn't interested in the professor's theatrics. He just wanted to get through this interview, for that's what it was, though the spark in Jeremy Leeds's eyes led him to believe that the doctor was enjoying the meeting, happy for the chance to match wits with a slob from the police force, playing a game.

  Earlier Bentz had phoned the university, asked about Dr. Leeds's office hours, then upon receiving the information had shown up here, unannounced. The professor had been on the phone, deep in some kind of heated conversation, but had glanced up when Bentz had filled the open doorway. Leeds, startled a bit, had ended the call quickly with "… yes, yes, I know. I said I'd get back to you, and I will." He'd hung up, hadn't bothered to hide his irritation, then with a dismissive wave at the telephone, had asked, "Is there something I can do for you?"

  "Only if you're Jeremy Leeds."

  Bushy eyebrows had shot up.

  "Professor Jeremy Leeds," Bentz had qualified.

  "I prefer Doctor."

  I'll just bet you do, Bentz had thought as he'd introduced himself and flipped his ID under the man's prominent nose.

  Leeds had reached for his glasses, eyed the badge and sighed through his nose. The corners of his mouth had pinched. "Officer Bentz."

  "I prefer Detective."

  The professor's eyes had sparked. "Fine. Detective." He'd leaned back in his padded chair. "I suppose this is about my ex-wife. I heard that she was having trouble again."

  "Again?" Bentz asked as Jeremy Leeds indicated a small love seat wedged between a corner and the desk. Bentz had clicked on his pocket recorder and was taking notes.

  "Surely you know about Houston." Leeds didn't elaborate, except to say, "That was a helluva fiasco, but then Samantha asks for it." Glancing out the half-opened window, he'd knotted his mouth in irritation. "That sounds harsh, I know, but I don't put much stock in radio psychology. It's glitz, you know. Nothing serious. Just a medium for a lot of people to sound off. Gives the profession a bad name. Words like 'psychobabble' and 'airwave shrinks' and all. It's degrading and… oh, well." He threw up his hands as if in exasperation. "Excuse me for ranting. A personal pet peeve, I suppose." He turned his attention to Bentz and managed to smooth the lines from his brow with an easy, if false, smile. "What is it you wanted? Specifically."

  "Specifically, you're right. I'm here about Samantha Leeds. You were married to her about ten years ago?"

  "Briefly. She was one of my student
s and we… well, we got involved." His smile faded and his eyebrows drew together pensively. Tenting his hands beneath his chin, he admitted, "It wasn't one of my stellar moments, you know. I was married to my first wife, separated, of course, and… well, you've met Samantha. She's beautiful. Quick-witted and, when she wants to be, charming. As things were falling apart with Louise, my wife, I turned my attention to Sam, and then, even though my first marriage was dead and I was talking to an attorney about filing for divorce, word got out, it was something of a scandal and we eloped."

  "After the divorce was final I take it?"

  "Of course." He looked peeved. "I'm not a bigamist, just… well, I have two weaknesses. One is tobacco from La Havana—Havana." He was still holding one of his cigars as he motioned toward the humidor. "The other is beautiful women."

  "Was Louise one of your students, too?"

  Leeds's jaw tightened. "No… we'd met in grad school."

  "And you've married again, after the divorce from Samantha."

  Splaying his hands, Leeds said, "What can I say? I'm an incurable romantic. I believe in the institution."

  Enough with this crap. Bentz needed to get down to business. "When Samantha was your student did she ever do a paper dealing with prostitution?"

  "Not specifically prostitution," Leeds corrected. "It was about the psychology of the streets—what makes people turn to selling their bodies or drugs, that kind of thing." His eyebrows elevated. "And it was an excellent paper. As I said, Samantha's incredibly bright." He rubbed his chin, then folded his glasses and set them on the desk. "It's too bad it didn't work out."

  "What?" Bentz had a guess but he wanted it clarified.

  "The marriage."

  "Why didn't it?"

  Again the catty smile. "I could say we grew in different directions."

  "But I wouldn't buy it."

  "She followed her career."

  "And you found someone else?"

  A trace of irritation marred Jeremy Leeds's otherwise complacent expression. "Man is not by nature a solitary creature, Detective. I'm sure you know that."