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  Shel’s stare lingered on her a minute longer before she again turned toward the nightstand. She slowly opened the drawer, removed the sturdy box and set it on the bed. She swished her hand around the drawer, locating the key. Before shoving it into the lock, she looked at Addison who only nodded. The lock made a low click and she drew the cover back on its hinges. Addison stepped closer to the bed and they stood there, staring at the Glock.

  “It looks different than Richard’s gun,” Addison finally quietly remarked.

  Shel figured any gun would look different when you weren’t the target. She thought about the collection of weapons on display in Fortier’s glorified closet and wondered if he’d employed one of those in his twisted roulette game. Shel picked up the gun and the cartridge, making a show of keeping them separate to allay any fears Addison may have.

  “It’s not loaded until the magazine is in here.” Shel indicated the butt of the Glock, keeping it pointed in the direction of the window regardless of the fact that it wasn’t loaded.

  Addison hesitantly stepped in closer, held out her hand. “May I?”

  With an odd sense of reluctance, Shel handed her the unloaded gun. Addison’s palm drooped with the unexpected heft of the weapon and she tightly grasped it, her eyes widening, actually marveling at it in its nonthreatening state.

  “It’s heavier than I thought it would be.” She tapped the trigger with her finger in an experimental move then firmly squeezed it. It clicked twice prompting a small gasp. She did this a few more times as if she were acclimating herself to the sound, also now not a threat. Then she held her hand out for the clip. They remained locked in each other’s gaze for several long seconds. At last Shel shook her head.

  “You asked me to trust you.” Addison dipped her chin demurely, softly asked, “Don’t you trust me?”

  The question was far more loaded than the gun would ever be. Shel did trust her, but it was new, fragile trust. Giving advances on such credit wasn’t in Shel’s repertoire. Her common sense chanted these facts in the back of her head by habit, but given her immense attraction to Addison it sounded distant and annoying, like a buzzing gnat.

  She found herself stepping close behind Addison, enveloping her outer arms, wrapping a hand over Addison’s until together they clutched the gun. Her other hand methodically shoved the magazine into the butt of the gun until it clicked. Resting her chin on Addison’s shoulder, she uttered her whispered tutorial.

  “Lead with your strongest arm and cup your other hand like this.” She made a demonstration, aiming toward the window. “Elbows down, find your target. Pull the slide back then squeeze the trigger.”

  “Is the safety on?” Addison’s studious look was reflected in the bedroom window.

  “No.” Shel made a low, nervous chuckle. “So don’t pull the trigger or you’ll take out that window and anything behind that hedge out there.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” she whispered.

  “That’s all.”

  With her chest pressed to Addison’s back, Shel wondered if she could possibly feel her pounding heart. She felt flushed, in part because of their closeness, in part because Addison still gripped a loaded gun. At once, Addison wriggled her fingers away, leaving Shel holding the gun. She turned around in Shel’s arms and buried her face against her chest. Immense relief washed through Shel; had she been the world’s best con, the woman could have easily turned the gun around on her.

  Shel relaxed her grip, ejected the clip, and reset the safety, letting both pieces fall onto the bed. She folded her arms around Addison. Hot tears dampened the collar of her shirt and then Addison began kissing a path up her neck. She reached Shel’s ear, whispered, “I want to make love to you.”

  Shel’s stomach bottomed out at the sweetly uttered words, but her surreal joy was quickly replaced with a practical notion. Addison had lived years of her life bargaining with her ex for her and Harper’s safety. Perhaps she was still doing that out of habit.

  Contrary to every desire her body screamed with, she found herself taking a backward step.

  “No. You don’t have to do that, Addison.” She attempted to loosen the woman’s desperate embrace, but Addison held tight. “I’m going to help you because someone should. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Owe you anything?” Addison leaned back slightly, her eyes tearful and earnest. “I’m falling in love with you.”

  Shel forcibly stepped away from her to take several deep breaths. In a near-panic, she turned a half-circle, rubbed her neck. She damned herself for everything, from being conned into the job in the first place, to her new job as protector. She cursed Fortier and cursed the money she now knew she’d never see. He must have known she’d fall for Addison. It was like sending a wild animal after fresh meat, all the while Fortier standing at the ready with his gilded net. She wondered if there was even a single thing about this case she hadn’t gotten wrong—a single way in which she hadn’t been taken for a sucker.

  Shel took two steps toward the bed and hurriedly collected the gun and clip and put it back in its case. The case went into the drawer. She turned the light off and silently stood in the darkness, facing the bed. A heavy dose of anger and sadness congested her chest, leaving scarce room for the breath that labored to fill her lungs.

  “Please.” Addison’s plea was concurrently desperate and sexy. She took a step closer, and rested a gentle hand on Shel’s shoulder. “Please.”

  Shel whirled around with every intention of rebuffing the woman’s touch and ill-timed, indecent proposal. In the dim moonlight she glared at Addison. In a whiplash move, her lips were on Addison’s, kissing her deeply. Long-building passion ripped through her with a ferociousness she didn’t recognize in herself. Her hands ravished Addison’s face, neck, shoulders, and breasts. Shel clumsily clawed at the thin sundress material to access smooth skin. Two swift steps had Addison’s backside against the wall. With the new leverage, Shel kissed her again, deeply, roughly.

  Clutching Addison’s bare thigh, Shel made a low moan as her hand moved upward to discover Addison’s simple cotton panties. After days of voracious mental foreplay, Shel had no prerequisites to offer before shoving her hand past the already damp fabric, proof enough Addison wanted her. Eager fingertips plunged into lovely warmth.

  She heard Addison gasp, felt her shudder. It occurred to Shel that she was being too rough, too fast. She selfishly cast gentle patience aside, finding it impossible to believe she could inflict pain anywhere as great as what she, herself, had already experienced. Foreign feelings of love and protection warred with lust and need. She gripped Addison harder, her movement growing more frenetic, plunging herself deeper and faster, over and again.

  Lost to the sensation, Addison could barely remain on her feet. Her head lolled back against the wall and she cried out. Her body shuddered and wilted against Shel.

  In a whiplash turn of emotions, Shel’s harsh edges softened and she held Addison close, kissed her. When their lips parted, she steered Addison toward the bed and their depleted bodies collapsed onto the tops of blankets. Moving gently this time around, Shel tugged Addison’s damp dress over her head and tossed it onto the floor. She then proceeded to investigate every curve of her lover’s tight body, touching smooth skin, tasting a slow, erotic path across her belly then lower.

  The rigid seam of Shel’s jeans felt painful against her own heat and want. She hurriedly stood and peeled them off, then did the same with her shirt, flinging the inside-out garment onto the floor next to Addison’s dress. Slatted moonlight trickled in through wooden blinds, causing her pause to appreciate Addison’s beautiful body. She coaxed Addison to the edge of the bed then knelt before her on the bedside rug. She intended to love her slowly, thoroughly. She parted Addison’s legs and ran her hands along smooth inner thighs until Addison whimpered with need.

  “I want to be yours,” Addison quietly declared. “Say it.”

  Shel was taken aback by the whispered demand. She didn’t
believe in it; she didn’t agree with it. Nobody owned anybody—not her ex, not her former boss, not Fortier—nobody.

  “Say that I’m yours,” Addison repeated.

  Angry at—or at very least puzzled by—her odd insistence, Shel instead roughly pulled at the wet panties, easily removing them. She took Addison into her mouth, tasting her deeply, drawing back only to teasingly flick her tongue. She felt Addison’s muscles tense as Shel plunged her tongue deeply inside again, scooped firm buttocks toward her in slow, rhythmic waves, finding the spot that triggered the greatest response. Addison cried out for the second time in only minutes. Her lovely body quivered and went slack.

  Eager to hold her, Shel rose up and nudged Addison’s exhausted body to the bed’s center. She straddled Addison’s legs and looked down at her beauty. Her own head was full of sounds—their ragged breath, the whir of the ceiling fan, muted outdoor night sounds—and she knew her internal prattling had been defeated for the time being. It was lovely and freeing.

  Still hot with need, Shel’s eyes gazed down and locked with Addison’s gaze. She took her lover’s hand to her lips and kissed it.

  “You are mine.” Shel’s delayed agreement emerged with surprising grit in her tone. Empowered by sound, she emphasized it again: “Mine.”

  She kissed Addison’s hand then moved it low, looking for confirmation in her lover’s eyes. She pressed the gentle, willing hand between her legs, an innocent action that resembled something almost adolescent that filled her with contrasting feelings of wrong and right.

  “Please, yes,” Addison whispered.

  The electricity of her mere touch caused Shel to writhe against cupped fingertips only moments before exploding. Her eyes clenched shut and her stomach tightened as the sensation rolled over her in waves. She felt need, lust, and love on multiple levels. It was a powerful trifecta.

  Catching her breath, she collapsed onto the bed and pulled Addison firmly against her. When the fan had cooled their bodies, and when at last she felt physically able to, Shel reached down for a blanket and drew it over their damp, heaving bodies.

  While Addison was falling asleep, Shel slowly retreated back into her uneasy mind where voices were already returning to work. She was strengthened against their powerful doubt, fortified by the woman in her arms and her new role as vigilant protector and lover.

  Streaks of night illuminated her lover’s thin shoulders as they rose and fell with sound sleep. She was safe, Shel would make sure.

  “Mine,” she whispered once more, confirming her decision aloud. She drew the blanket more tightly around Addison, turned further into her, held her as though her life depended upon it. Maybe it did.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A pounding on the front door had Shel up too early. She glanced at the bedside clock and saw that it was nearly seven. Quietly as she could, she slipped out of bed and dressed on her way to the door. Milford was on the front step. Shel unlocked the door.

  “What are you doing?” Shel whispered.

  “You got company?” Milford looked past Shel’s shoulder, noted the still partially set table and candles that had burned out long ago. She rolled her eyes.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Swell.” Milford again rolled her eyes, motioned for her to come outside. Shel stepped onto the top step, arms still folded in front of her. She could smell sex on herself and wondered if the cop also could. “Harlow Farris, the doctor?”

  “What about him?”

  “Died during Katrina.”

  Shel’s arms limply dropped to her sides. “You’re kidding me.”

  “I wouldn’t do such a thing,” Milford said. “He remained in his powerless hospital for days, tending his patients.”

  “He drowned?”

  “Nope. Heart attack—he was an elderly gentleman. And he was a mental health doctor, so Fortier got that part right.”

  “Still…” Shel searched her head for the possibilities. “Did he have a son by chance? A brother or cousin—anyone else who practices medicine?”

  “You think I didn’t check for that? I’m telling you the only Harlow Farris in New Orleans is six feet under in Lake Lawn, Metarie.”

  Shel cringed, afraid to ask, but did anyway. “And the lawyer?”

  “His license is on file.” Milford pulled a folded paper out of her jacket and flipped it out straight for Shel’s review. “This him?”

  Shel squinted in the early morning light, took the paper, played trombone with it, trying to get a closer look. She finally shook her head. “I can’t tell. It’s pixilated.”

  “Picture’s a few years old, so that’s not helpful.” Milford’s voice dropped. “Given the circumstances and that most of what she’s told you has panned out, I think we better get a move on some kind of plan.”

  “What do you recommend?” Shel also spoke quietly, although there wasn’t a soul around. “There are some details that I believe you’ll agree won’t make it an easy case.”

  “Details like what?” Milford’s eyes looked tired. “Good Lord, girl. I can’t imagine there’s more to this twisted tale.”

  “I’ll tell you about it later, promise.” They both went quiet. Shel looked contemplative before asking, “There a gun range around here?”

  Milford’s chin dipped. She blinked.

  “That’s what’s on your mind at this precise moment?” The cop eyed her suspiciously, already putting together her own clues about Shel’s inquiry. “How smart an idea is it to arm a woman who is not altogether mentally stable?”

  “Milford—what the fuck?” She sprang to her defense. “You just said yourself that you believe. I thought we’d pretty much established—”

  “Calm down, hotshot.” Milford looked aggravated. “Just how mentally stable do you think people are who endure those types of abuses, huh? You don’t have to go to war to get PTSD. I hear the homegrown brand is some of the worst.”

  Shel took a breath, nodded.

  “Despite your good intentions, how wise do you think it would be to haul her to a public gun range with cameras tucked in every crack and crevice? She even got ID?”

  “I was thinking someplace quieter.” Shel’s brow furrowed. She thought about Fortier’s fascination with guns, his collection, and his sick game of Russian Roulette with Addison. Milford was probably right about Addison being post-traumatic. If there was a way to make her less afraid of weapons while at the same time giving her some basic gun safety and knowledge, maybe she could help abolish some of that aftershock. Or maybe she was just trying to justify teaching Addison to use a gun to shoot Fortier’s ass if he came around, which he probably would.

  Milford sighed. “I’m starting to recognize that look by now. I can almost hear your hamster wheel creaking from here.”

  “Let’s just say it’s for the sake of basic gun safety.”

  “Well, let’s hope she doesn’t get her targets confused.”

  “Never mind. I’ll handle it myself.” Shel’s visible frustration faded when she noticed how troubled Milford appeared. “You okay, Milford?”

  “I am not sleeping for diddly-squat, not that you care.” She started down the front house steps, stopped and turned to face her again. “Also, this nonsense is seriously cutting into my love life. Thank fortune it’s not damaging yours any. I can smell you from here.”

  Shel felt her cheeks warm, but otherwise ignored the very accurate implication. “Can I get a hold of you later?”

  Milford waved her off as she turned to go. “I’ll come by.”

  Shel watched her leave before stepping back inside. She followed the noise, and more importantly the smell, into the kitchen. Addison had started a fresh pot of coffee and was quietly putting the previous night’s dishes into the old dishwasher. Wearing last night’s wrinkled dress, she was caught off guard and smiled shyly when she noticed Shel in the doorway.

  “Good morning.” Shel walked straight into Addison’s arms and stayed there for a while. “I’m sorry I woke you so early.�
��

  Addison’s ever-present paranoia now seemed to fill the room as strongly as the aroma of the coffee. “Was that your cop friend?”

  “Yeah,” Shel said, equally troubled, though for very different reasons. “She seems to be as afraid of you as you are her, no offense.”

  “I’m sure.” Addison’s mood was obviously rapidly making a turn toward depression. “So, you told her about me?”

  “Some, but don’t worry.” When Addison didn’t reply after several seconds, Shel defended her decision to share any information with the cop. “Look—she’s a law-abiding woman who has no interest in seeing assholes knock women around, and she’s not easily swayed by wealth or power. You have to trust me that she’s on our side. She’s a friend.”

  “It seems like she doesn’t much care for me.”

  “It’s not that…” Shel’s words trailed off. It was obvious that Milford was leery of Addison and there was certainly no reason to lie about that, too. Plus, it was good to allow Addison to trust her instincts, something she likely hadn’t done in a long time. “She’s incredibly socially awkward, but a good person nonetheless.”

  “I’m trying to trust you. I really am.”

  “You should trust me.” Shel stepped toward Addison, kissed her, whispered, “I am taking very good care where you and Harper are concerned.”

  Addison nodded. Shel kissed her again.

  Shortly, Addison broke away and poured two steaming cups of coffee. She handed one to Shel.

  “Have you a plan for us?” Addison took a sip of coffee, avoiding making direct eye contact when she added, “I’ve been thinking about what you said about living life on the up and up. If it can be done, I’d like very much for that to happen.”

  Shel was warmed by her confidence and afraid of it at the same time. She could not fail her. As her mind again began to unwind a chattering list of bad possibilities, Shel absently said, “I mean worst- case scenario, we all end up in jail.”

  “If you knew Richard, you’d know that is not the worst-case scenario.”