Depth Perception (10 page)

"That cheek is going to swell if you don't ice it."

"I'm fine. I just . . .want to go home."

He was nearly a foot taller than she was and found himself tilting his head in an effort to get a better look at her face. She wasn't making it easy, so he reached out and gently put his fingers beneath her chin. "Let me have a look."

Closing her eyes briefly, she allowed him to lift her chin and tilt her head toward the light. The flesh was just beginning to color. An abrasion the size of a quarter stood out in stark red against her pale complexion. Nick growled low in his throat. "You ought to press charges against that jackass."

“I threw the first punch."

"It doesn't matter. You're a woman. He outweighs you by eighty pounds."

She eased from his grip, then stepped back. "I don't think that matters when your last name is Ratcliffe."

Nick couldn't argue with that. The Ratcliffes were Bellerose's wealthiest residents. Elliott Ratcliffe had made millions on the televangelist circuit. He had three sons, Hunter, Travis, and Ward. From what Nick had gathered, this woman was Ward Ratcliffe's widow, and evidently the family made no bones about blaming her for his death.

"Besides, the cops hate me in this town," she said.

"You, too, huh?" He smiled.

She didn't smile back. "Look, thanks for helping me out. I'm sure it didn't earn you any points. But I've got to go."

"Not everyone in this town gives a damn about points."

She just shook her head, and started for the door.

Nick knew he should let her go. Judging from what he'd seen and heard, Nat Jennings was not a woman he wanted to know. But something he'd seen in the depths of her eyes wouldn't let him allow her to walk away. Not when she was trembling and bruised and trying her damnedest to look unaffected.

"Wait," he heard himself say. "I'll make an ice pack."

She stopped and glanced at him over her shoulder, her expression perplexed. "You don't have to be nice to me."

"No one ever accused me of being nice,
chere.
"

For an instant he thought she might smile, but she only continued to stare at him with those sad, haunted eyes. She had the kind of eyes that told a man things. The kind of eyes that wouldn't lie even if she wanted them to. Right now those eyes were telling him she desperately needed someone to be kind to her. Nick didn't think he was the man for the job; he wasn't even sure he remembered how. But it didn't look like anyone else was going to step forward, so he motioned toward the kitchen.

"Come on." Taking her arm, he guided her past the bar and pushed through the double doors, keenly aware of the eyes following their retreat.

The kitchen was a galley-style room with a single greasy window, a porcelain stove circa 1950, a refrigerator with a crease marring its facade, and a stainless steel sink that leaked like a sieve. There was no place to sit, very little room to turn around, but the lighting was good.

Nick cleared a small section of the scuffed Formica counter, wiped it down with his towel, and patted it. "Up you go."

"This really isn't necessary."

"Sure it is."

"It's just a bruise."

"On a very pretty face."

She looked away, but not before he saw that he'd embarrassed her, and for some inexplicable reason that charmed the hell out of him.

When she made no move to heft herself onto the counter, he put his hands beneath her armpits and lifted her. She was amazingly light and not for the first time he realized how slightly she was built, how soft she was, how good she smelled.

Then she was at eye level, and beneath the bright light he got his first good look at her up close and personal. Her gaze met his, and for an instant he felt it like the whisper touch of skin against skin. She had large, fragile eyes that made him think of high-grade turquoise. A deep bluish green that was as bright as the Gulf of Mexico on a sunny day. Within the depths of her gaze, he saw the remnants of a dozen emotions, each tempered by the resolve not to let a single one escape her control.

Realizing he was staring, Nick shook himself and stepped back, taken aback by his reaction to her. He wanted to believe his heart rate was up because it had been six long years since he'd been this close to a woman. But the hard tug he felt low in his gut was more complex than simple attraction and it went deeper than lust.

He walked to the freezer and proceeded to put crushed ice into a plastic bag. "So what are you doing at The Blue Gator all by yourself on a Friday night,
chere
?"

"I was looking for you, actually."

"Must be my lucky night,” he said dryly.

''I guess that depends on how you feel about what I told you earlier today."

Remembering. he felt a stir of anger. "If it has anything to do with my son. I'll take a pass." He wrapped the bag in a clean towel and walked over to her. "Tilt your head back."

When she didn't acquiesce, he put his fingertips beneath her chin and angled her head toward him. She winced when he set the bag of ice against her cheek. "Hurt?"

"What do you think?"

"You know,
chere
, for such a little thing, you have one hell of a right jab. You been taking lessons from Mike Tyson, or what?"

Her mouth twitched, and Nick felt the knot of tension at the base of his neck begin to loosen. It was the first time he'd seen her smile, and the simple beauty of it touched a place inside him that hadn't been touched for what seemed like an eternity. Her lips were full and looked very soft. He wanted to touch them with his fingertips. Maybe lean forward and set his mouth against hers . . .

"I hope he doesn't press charges," she said.

"Bellerose is a small Southern town. He'll be a laughing stock if he does."

"That's a double standard."

"Life is full of double standards. On the rare occasion when one works in your favor, take advantage of it."

"I'll try to remember that next time I get the urge to slug someone."

He thought about the things he'd heard between her and Ratcliffe, the things he'd heard from others in the crowd, the things she'd said to him earlier in the day, and for the life of him he couldn't reconcile any of them with the woman sitting on the counter looking like she didn't have a friend in the world.

"So why does Ratcliffe hate you so much?" he asked.

She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, the sadness was back. "I'm his brother's widow."

"Being a widow is hardly your fault." He was still holding the ice to her cheek. His other hand was beneath her jaw, and he could feel her tightening up.

"Ward . . . was killed three years ago. Murdered. Along with . . .  my son."

He could feel her trembling now. Minute tremors he wouldn't have been aware of had he not been touching her. Her breathing had quickened ever so slightly. He could tell she was trying very hard to control her reaction. But Nick knew enough about people to see how profoundly the subject had upset her.

"Hunt thinks I did it," she finished.

''Why does he think that?"

"Because I was there. The night it happened."

''That doesn't make you guilty."

"It made me a suspect."

"Officially? Or in the eyes of the Ratcliffes?"

"I was arrested, so I guess that would make it official."

Surprise rippled through him. Simultaneously, a voice in the back of his head reminded him that he didn't want to know this woman. That she could very well be guilty of what she'd been accused of. But Nick knew firsthand that Lady Justice didn't always get it right. "So there was evidence against you? What?"

"My prints were on the knife  . . ." She looked everywhere but into his eyes. "I can't talk about this."

Nick didn't press her. The last thing be wanted to contend with on top of that pretty face and curvy body was tears. She was too close. Too sad. Far too soft. And he'd always had a weakness for troubled, vulnerable women . . .

When her gaze finally met his, her expression was fierce. "I didn't do it."

"But the Ratcliffes already tried and convicted you," he said.

"They need someone to blame."

"And the rest of the town?"

"I think you already know the answer to that."

Nick knew narrow-mindedness wasn't reserved for small towns. But he'd lived in Bellerose long enough to know people liked to label other people. He knew a label had been put on him. A label that didn't fit any better than the ones he'd heard thrown at this woman tonight.

''This town isn't exactly Mayberry for you," he said. "Why did you come back?"

Her gaze met his. "Because the bastard who murdered my husband and son got away with it. Because he's still in this town."

Not wanting the subject of his own son to arise again, Nick raised his hand. "I've heard enough."

"I don't think you have."

He removed the ice from her face, set it on the counter and stepped back. "You can take the ice pack with you."

"Mr. Bastille, please listen to me."

Turning away from her, he started toward the door. He wasn't sure where he was going. Away from her. Away from those sad, haunting eyes. A body he wanted to touch. And words he didn't want to hear.

"You said you'd listen to me if I found a witness," she called out.

He stopped. For an interminable moment he stood there, facing the doors that would take him back to the bar and away from words he knew would only rip open a wound that had barely begun to heal. Slowly he turned and strode toward her, stopping halfway there. "Let me give you some advice,
chere
," he ground out. "Don't fuck with me about my son."

She slid from the counter and started toward him. Her eyes were fierce and direct. Not the eyes of a liar, he thought, and that scared him. To consider the possibility that his son had been murdered was simply unthinkable . . .

"I have a witness," she said.

"I don't believe you."

"Let me prove it to you." She stopped a foot away from him. her eyes clear and beseeching.

"Are you trying to tell me someone saw  . . . what happened to Brandon?"

''That's exactly what I'm telling you."

''Why the hell didn't they come forward? Why didn't they talk to the police?"

"I can't answer that."

He choked our a sound of incredulity and frustration. "Can't or won't?"

"Look, you said you would listen to me if I came up with a witness."

He stared hard at her, trying to read her, trying even harder to understand what she could possibly hope to accomplish by lying. "What the hell do you want from me?"

"Come to my house. Tomorrow morning."

"I'll meet with you on one condition."

''What condition?"

"I want to talk to this witness one on one. No games. No fucking around. You got that?"

“I got it."

For several interminable seconds they stared at each other. Then, as if realizing her business was finished here, she brushed by him and started toward the door.

He watched her walk away, aware that his heart was pounding, that her words had upset him despite his efforts not to let them. And like a fool, he was already looking forward to seeing her again.

#   #   #

He watches her from the shadows beneath the stand of live oaks at the edge of the bayou. He is as silent and deadly as the alligators that slither along the murky river bottom and mud flats. He is patient, but the bloodlust torments him. A hunger that drives him to commit unspeakable acts. Acts he has been able to conceal through cunning and brilliance and a conscience that has ceased to exist since long before he made his first kill.

He can't believe the bitch is back. He can't believe she's asking questions and opening old wounds just when they'd started to heal. What can she possibly hope to accomplish after all this time?

The answer eludes him. But he knows Nat Jennings is a threat. A threat that must be dealt with swiftly and permanently and without raising suspicion. He has worked too hard to risk having his secret uncovered now.

The parking lot is nearly empty as she crosses to her car. He watches her, taking in the long strides. liking the way she moves. Stupid, crazy bitch. He could have the knife buried in her throat before she even hears his approach. Before she can scream. She would be helpless against the knife. And his troubles would be over forever.

He imagines the dark spray of blood. The warmth of it on his hands. The copper smell in his nostrils. The terror on her face. Her energy pouring into him. The thought of killing her arouses him. His senses heighten to a fever pitch. The rush of blood to his groin is intense. His sex grows heavy and full and the hunger becomes an unbearable pain.

Come to me . . .

The night throbs with the symphony of the bayou. The rhythmic chirp of crickets and frogs, the lap of dark water against ancient cypress trunks, the quick slide of a reptilian body over mud. Music as primal as death.

His heart is pounding, a mix of hunger and rage and dark anticipation he feels all the way to his bowels. Sweating, he slaps at the mosquitoes. Feeling the stickiness of blood on his fingers, he brings them to his mouth and suckles, enjoying the salty tang. The beady rush of energy.

He watches her climb into the car, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He imagines her blood in his mouth. The thought excites him. And even though the night is muggy and hot, he begins to shake.

He wants to believe it is anticipation making his muscles quiver and twitch. But deep inside he feels the fear encroaching. stealing his enjoyment, his power, and he hates her for it. Fear is the one emotion he cannot allow, the one thing he will not tolerate. Fear equals weakness, and be has sworn that he will never be weak or helpless or humiliated again. He has power now. And the power is the only thing that will save him.

He watches the taillights of her car fade into the night, and the hunger is alive inside him. Removing the pocketknife from its sheath, he opens the blade and sets it against the underside of his forearm where no one will notice a cut. Just one, he promises himself. He slices the flesh and watches the black spread of blood. The pain arouses him. His mouth waters as the metallic smell fills his nostrils. He sets his mouth against the wound and begins to lap.