Cut Throat

“Doesn’t feel so little to me,” Cat murmured, and rocked upward.

Wilson gritted his teeth and stifled a groan, then gave back as good as he got. He drove into her without tact or finesse, and took her to a climax so hard and fast that she choked on a scream.

Cat felt as if every bone in her body had just crumbled to dust. She had never—never in her life—been satisfied so completely in such a hit-and-run fashion.

“Oh, man…oh, Wilson…that was…that was…”

“That was for you,” Wilson said. “That was sex.”

He cupped her face with both hands, lowered his head and brushed his lips across her mouth.

Cat inhaled softly.

He swept his lips down the side of her neck, then kissed the valley between her breasts before circling her nipple with the tip of his tongue.

Still reeling from the aftershocks of her climax, Cat was shaken by the sudden urgency she felt to have more.

“Wilson…I—”

“Shh,” he said, and then lifted his head and stared down into her eyes. “You wanted sex. I gave it to you. Now this time is for me. This is what it means to make love.”

Before she could answer, he covered her mouth again, stealing the breath from her body and the good sense from her soul. She would have panicked over what he’d just told her, but he left her no time to think—only feel.

He didn’t leave an inch of her skin untouched as he moved across her body with his hands and his lips. Twice Cat tried to take control of the situation by urging him to take her, and twice he refused with a soft whisper, then a sigh.

“Uh-uh,” he said, and slid his hands beneath her hips and lowered his head.

When he began circling her navel with his tongue, her heart rate accelerated. But when she felt the tip of his tongue sliding down her belly to the juncture of her thighs, she moaned. This was an intimacy involving trust—something she had never had with a sexual partner, something she had never allowed.

Even though she refused to admit there was more between them than a mutual appreciation for sex, she did know he wouldn’t hurt her.

Her muscles began to quiver as the pressure began to build.

“Oh…oh, God, Wilson…”

Wilson had intended this as a means of showing Cat the difference between lust and intimacy, but the urgency in her voice and the way her body was trembling was like a drug he couldn’t quit.

Suddenly he felt the muscles in her body winding up, tightening and tightening toward the inevitable climax. It was the sign he’d been waiting for. He rose up, then slid over and into her body.

The sensation was shattering, and it was only beginning. He took her slowly, burying himself deep, then pausing to savor the sensation. Then Cat moaned, and the sound pushed him over the edge. He rode the feeling as long as he could, and when the orgasm hit, he went with her, coming undone in her arms. When it was over, he lay spent and shaking, unable to move.

A short while later, he glanced over at the windows. Raindrops glittered on the outside of the glass, but it appeared that the storm was over.

Cat moved.

He thought he heard a soft sigh, but then she rolled off him and got out of bed.

“Do you want some coffee before you go?”

His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. He sat up and then swung his legs over the side of the bed, staring at her in disbelief.

“Before I go?”

Cat glanced at him, then looked away, well aware of how this sounded, but it was his own damn fault. He was pushing her into corners where she didn’t want to go.

Wilson stood, towering over her as he paused at the foot of the bed. Then he grabbed his clothes and started putting them on as quickly as he’d torn them off.

“Hell no, I don’t want any coffee, Catherine. I couldn’t possibly want anything more from you other than the fucking we just had.”

The word was rude, but no ruder than she’d been with him.

“Okay, then,” she said, and turned and walked into the bathroom.

When she came out, she paused in the middle of her bedroom, listening to the silence, and knew he was gone. But when she glanced toward the bed, her heart slammed against her chest with a hard, painful thud. She stared until her vision blurred and her throat was thick with tears. Taking a deep breath, she leaned over and picked up the money he’d thrown on her mattress.

A hundred dollars—in twenties.

She didn’t know what the going rate for a whore might be, but he’d made his point.

“Damn you,” she muttered, then drew a slow, shuddering breath, refusing to admit that he’d gotten to her.

Angry with herself, she threw the money into a drawer and then dragged her suitcase from under the bed and finished packing. Her steps were slow as she headed for her office to check her laptop. The blip was motionless, which was good, but according to the map on the screen, it was in the middle of nowhere.

Too tired and too hurt to think about it anymore tonight, she shut the laptop and took it back to her room. Within minutes, she was in bed, with the alarm set for six o’clock. She closed her eyes, trying desperately to sleep, but it was useless. She couldn’t forget the hurt she’d seen on Wilson’s face or the fact that she was the one who’d put it there. Then she rolled over on her side, thumped her pillow angrily and, with a skill she’d honed over years of disappointment and despair, blanked everything from her mind and went to sleep.

Two

Still reeling from Cat’s rejection, Wilson went straight from her apartment to the office. By daybreak, he had a good lead on Paulie Beach, one of his bonds who’d failed to appear, and was packing to go get him. As always, he wore a bulletproof vest under his shirt and his badge on a chain around his neck. There was a can of mace in one pocket of his coat, a Taser in the other, a pair of handcuffs clipped onto the back of his belt and his handgun in a shoulder holster.

Beach had been arrested for B & E—breaking and entering—his third strike for the same offense. That should have been a warning to Wilson, when he’d agreed to bond him out, that Paulie wasn’t the type of man who learned from his mistakes.

Wilson grabbed the file he had on Beach and was walking out of the office as his secretary, LaQueen Baldwin, was coming in.

LaQueen was six feet and two-hundred pounds of Jamaican beauty, and had an opinion about everything, including Wilson’s single state. She had worked for him for four years, was the best secretary he’d ever had and reminded him of that fact on a daily basis.

Even though he never talked about his personal business, she knew all about his fascination with Cat Dupree. She knew when they’d been iced in together during Christmas and when he’d taken off to West Texas in the middle of the night to help Cat after she had discovered her best friend Marsha Benton’s body. She knew when Wilson followed Cat Dupree to Mexico to aid her in catching Marsha’s killer, and, after one look at his face this morning, she knew Wilson McKay was not in a good mood, and she promptly attributed it to Cat.

“Good morning to you,” she said briskly, as he held the door back for her to enter.

“Yeah, it’s a doozy,” he muttered, as he pointed to her desk. “I left you a note.”

LaQueen glanced toward her desk, then back at Wilson.

“Yes. I see that. However…since you are still here, and since I have arrived at this marvelous establishment to devote the next eight hours of my life to it and to you, you may tell me in person just where it is you might be going.”

Wilson caught the tone of her voice and realized he’d pushed one of LaQueen’s buttons, which figured. During the past twenty-four hours, he hadn’t gotten much of anything right with women.

“Paulie Beach was a no-show at court a couple of days ago, and the phone numbers I had on him are disconnects. His mother’s going to lose her house unless I can find the bastard. She cried for ten minutes before finally admitting she might know where he’d gone. I’m going to go get him.”

LaQueen’s lips parted into a smile. She nodded approvingly as she patted him on the arm.

“Ummm…that is good! You go find that sorry excuse for a son and lock him up. His momma hurt enough when she gave birth to him. She don’t deserve to lose her home over the pain he’s causing her now.”

Wilson grinned in spite of himself. LaQueen did have a way with words.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “Sorry if I was abrupt.”

LaQueen arched an eyebrow. “So. Is that what they are calling it these days?”

Wilson’s smile slipped. “Calling what?”

“You called it abrupt. I call it a bad night with a woman.”

Wilson snorted lightly. “Am I that transparent?”

LaQueen frowned. His pride was damaged. She didn’t intend to make it worse.

“If you might be going past a deli on your way back to the office, I would appreciate a bite of something sweet.”

Wilson grinned in spite of himself. “A sweet for a sweet lady…hmm, yes, I think I can do that.”

LaQueen nodded, then gave him a royal wave as she sailed past him toward her desk.

“Be off with you then. You’re letting in the cold air.”

Wilson’s grin widened as he pushed the door shut, then headed for his SUV. She was maddening, but she really was the best damned secretary he’d ever had.

Paulie Beach was a user. He used people and drugs and situations to slide through life with as little effort as possible. For the second time in his life of crime, his mother had put her home up as collateral to bond him out of jail. Only this time, he’d skipped out on his court date, knowing full well that he would be on his way to prison again if he showed. It bothered him some that his mother was in a bind, but so was he. He couldn’t afford to go back to lockup. He’d left too many enemies behind.

Wilson pulled around behind the Western Trails Motel and parked. According to Paulie’s mother, who’d finally decided her son wasn’t worth losing her home for, he’d called her from here the night before last. Wilson didn’t know if he was still in residence, but he was going to find out soon enough.

He got out and headed for the office. The woman behind the counter glanced up as he walked in, then stood a little straighter when she got a better look.

“Need a room?” she asked, and fingered a loose bleached-yellow curl.

He flashed his badge. “I’m looking for Paulie Beach. Is he still in room 216?”

Her smile turned into a frown. “We’re not supposed to give out—”

Wilson leaned across the counter. “Lady, the man I’m after is willing for his mother to lose her home rather than show his ass in court. I’m not in a very good mood, so don’t start making excuses for your clientele. You and I both know most of them rent by the hour, so if you want me to notify some friends in vice that you’re running a little something on the side, just say the word.”

Her expression shifted to one of defiance, but she didn’t mince words.

“Yeah, he’s still in there, but if you bust somethin’ up when you take him down, you’re payin’ for it.”

“And by the same token, if you call and warn Paulie I’m coming up, I’ll come after you for aiding and abetting a fugitive.”

She blanched, then held up her hands and stepped back as Wilson left the office.

He quickly moved into the shadows of a stairwell, glancing up to the second-level balcony and the long row of motel-room doors. The cold air, mixed with the warmth of his exhaled breath, was marked by small, cloud-like vapors. Despite the chill, he could smell something rotting from a nearby garbage bin and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

As he started up the stairs, he saw the corner of a maid’s cart and knew she was already on her rounds, cleaning rooms. He didn’t think Paulie was armed, but he couldn’t take a chance on getting an innocent person hurt. Once he reached the second level, he hurried down to the open doorway where the maid was cleaning and flashed his badge.

“Stay inside,” he said quickly.

The woman’s fear was evident as he closed the door between them, then hurried down to 216.

The curtains were pulled, and there was a thin layer of frost on the windows. He stood to the side of the door and listened, but heard nothing, no one moving around. Too cold to linger, Wilson knew there was only one way to rouse Beach and only one way out of the room.

Wilson made a fist and pounded on the door, but got no response. He pounded again, this time louder and longer.

“Get lost!” someone shouted from another room.

“Paulie! It’s Wilson McKay. Get your ass out here now.”

There was a long moment of silence; then Wilson heard footsteps hit the floor. He put his hands on his hips and stared at the curtains, knowing that Paulie would look out. When he saw the curtains move, he yelled again.

“Open the door, Paulie. You jumped bond on me. I’ve come to take you in.”

Paulie Beach’s expression was a mixture of surprise and anger as he stared at Wilson in disbelief.

“Like hell,” he yelled, as he let the curtains fall back in place.

It was all Wilson needed to see. Impatient and cold and ticked at the world in general, he kicked the door with a vicious blow. It flew inward, revealing Paulie in the act of pulling on his pants.

“Son of a bitch!” Paulie yelped, and bolted for the bathroom.

Wilson caught him by the back of the pants. “Shut your mouth,” he said, as he grabbed the man by the arm and shoved him facedown on the bed.

He snapped on handcuffs and dragged him back up on his feet while Paulie cursed and argued.

Wilson wasn’t in the mood to listen.

“Just shut up, Beach! You’re one sorry bastard, you know that? What the hell were you thinking…pulling a no-show in court and putting your mother in danger of losing her house?”

“Piss off,” Beach muttered.

Wilson grabbed Paulie’s shirt, coat and shoes, and dragged him out the door.

“Hey! It’s cold out here. Give me my shoes, damn it. You can’t take me—”

“Yes, I can,” Wilson said.

The little maid was peeking out past the door when Wilson dragged Paulie Beach out of the room and onto the landing.

“He’s checking out,” he told her, and then pulled Paulie down the metal stairs, taking satisfaction in the fact that the little bastard wasn’t wearing any shoes.

He dropped Paulie off at the jail, spent a few minutes listening to the jailer talk about his first Christmas as a father and tried not to hate the man’s guts. It wasn’t the jailer’s fault that Wilson’s personal life was one big mess.

Then, as if fate wasn’t through messing with him, he met Art Ball coming in as he was on the way out. All it did was remind him of the female bounty hunter who kept tearing a hole in his heart. Still, he managed to be cordial without making an ass of himself and asking about her. It wasn’t Art’s fault that Cat was a loner.

Once inside his truck, he jacked the heater up to high, taking comfort in the flow of warm air on his feet, and headed out of the parking lot.

Remembering his promise to LaQueen, he picked up a sack of doughnuts from a deli counter as he filled up with gas, then headed back to the office.

While Wilson was plying his secretary with doughnuts and coffee, Cat was pulling out of a drive-through ATM. She had three-hundred dollars cash in her pocket, a suitcase with several changes of clothes and a pair of tennis shoes, besides the boots she was wearing. There was a to-go cup of coffee in the cup holder on her dash and a small sack of fresh hot pretzels on the seat beside her. Every now and then she took a bite, savoring the crunch of salt between her teeth, as well as the warm, chewy bread.

The rain from last night had passed over, leaving gray but clear skies. The grass in the center median of the interstate was brown and soggy, and there were still a few puddles in the road indentations.

Her cell phone was in the seat beside her, but she’d turned it off. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. The only person who knew what she was doing was Art, and only because she’d had to come clean with him to keep from getting fired. He hadn’t been happy with her news, but he understood how Cat’s mind worked. He had the number to her cell phone, and her promise that she would call him at least every other day, so he would know she was all right.

Once again, Cat was the predator, after her prey.

Solomon Tutuola was not the same man who’d driven Mark Presley into Mexico. The burns on his face and neck had been serious and, though they were finally healing, they would leave scars. Most of the hair on the left side of his head was gone and, from the consensus of the last two doctors he’d seen, it wasn’t going to grow back. There was a large portion of flesh underneath his chin and on the right side of his neck that had burned deep enough that the tattoos he’d had since his eighteenth birthday were gone. The healing flesh was red and tender, and the web-work of scarring was visible there, as well. The last two doctors he’d seen had recommended he be sent to Tulsa, Oklahoma, to their burn center. It was one of the finest in the country, and Solomon was in serious need of some rehabilitation. However, Solomon had his own reason for ignoring their advice, and he’d found it in Mark Presley’s big duffle bag.

It was money.

One-hundred-dollar bills banded in five-thousand-dollar stacks—hundreds and hundreds of them. More money than he’d ever seen in his life. He’d given the bound bills a quick count, then quit counting after he’d gone past a million dollars.

Originally, when Presley had contacted him for a ride into Mexico, he’d had no idea why Presley was on the run, nor had it mattered. His focus had been on the money he was going to get for the job. But if he’d known Presley had been carrying this, he would have killed him outright, taken the money and saved himself a world of pain. He would also never have met up with that damned long-legged woman who’d been after Presley. She’d been like a bulldog. Every time they thought they’d lost her, she would reappear. He had no idea what her thing was with Presley, or what had happened to any of them after the explosion. For all he knew, the man who’d been shooting at him had burned up in the explosion, along with Presley and the woman. He certainly hoped so. He couldn’t remember seeing any other vehicles when he’d come to and taken himself to the doctor, but it didn’t mean one hadn’t been there. He’d been so far gone that he could have driven past his own mother and not known it.

Then he’d found the money in Presley’s luggage, and he’d begun to look at his misery and pain in a different light. There was enough here for him to retire, which was exactly what he intended to do.

For the last couple of days he’d been heading west, with no particular location in mind. It wasn’t until yesterday evening that he’d realized he wasn’t far from Agua Caliente, a tiny little village in the middle of nowhere. He’d been there before, years earlier, and had hooked up with a woman named Paloma Garcia. He didn’t know if she was still there, but he was going to find out. He needed a place to rest up, and her hospitality would be just what the doctor ordered.

Today was Paloma Garcia’s birthday. She had been born in her little house thirty-two years ago today. It was no surprise to anyone in Agua Caliente that she was no better off now than her parents had been when they were alive. No one there was.

She had no means of income other than the colorful serapes she wove and sold to her uncle, who periodically took them to Mazatlan during tourist season for resale.

She woke with no sense of anticipation as to what this day would bring other than that she was officially a year older and still unmarried. The man she’d been seeing had left town over a month ago for the border. She had no idea whether he’d made it into the United States or not. All she knew was that he was gone and she was, once again, alone. Her reputation in the little town had been colored by her careless lifestyle with too many men, and while she refused to consider herself a puta, most of the residents looked upon her as one.

She wet a cloth to wash the sleep from her face, then gave herself a sponge bath, bathing from the metal washbasin on a small table beneath her bedroom window. She dressed with no special care, choosing an old but comfortable red dress with colorful embroidery around the neck and sleeves. Her long black hair was her best feature. She enjoyed the heavy weight of it between her fingers as she made a braid, then tossed it over her shoulder. Her movements were slow and thoughtful as she walked through the tiny adobe house to the kitchen. With no electricity and no utilities, her cooking was done over a small fire that she built on the floor in the corner of the room. As she put some coffee on to boil, she laid a couple of tortillas she’d made yesterday onto a flat stone by the fire to reheat, then filled them with some leftover beans. She dipped the bean tortilla into a mole sauce between bites, and ate while considering what she would do today.

Her uncle had just picked up a dozen of her serapes last week, so there was no urgent rush to begin another. As she ate, she peered through a crack in the wooden shutters she had yet to open, judging the time by the height of the sun in the sky, and decided it was just after eight in the morning.

Today was not only her birthday but market day. Maybe she would treat herself to something special—maybe a melon—or maybe not. She didn’t feel much like celebrating.

As she was finishing her meal, a knock sounded on her door. Frowning, she took a last sip of coffee before getting up to answer it. The second knock hit the door even as she was opening it.

When she saw the man standing on her doorstep, her eyes widened in disbelief.

He smiled.

She gasped, then fainted.

Solomon was pissed. This was not the reception he’d imagined from Paloma. He picked her up, kicked the door shut behind him, then carried her to her bed. As he carried her through the three tiny rooms, he realized nothing had changed.

A small chalk statue of the Virgin Mary still sat in a dirty alcove someone had long ago chipped out of the thick adobe walls. The walls themselves were patched in a dozen places and badly in need of whitewash. There were two chairs and a tiny wooden table in the kitchen, two chairs and a wooden bench in the front room and, in her bedroom, a single bed and some pegs in the walls where her clothes were hanging.

She owned one pair of shoes, which she was wearing. When Solomon laid her down on her bed, both shoes fell off. His nose curled in distaste as he saw how dirty the bottoms of her feet were. It seemed as if the years had not been kind to Paloma. The woman he’d known would never have let herself go in this way.

There was a wet cloth wadded up in the bottom of a metal basin. He picked it up and then laid it across her forehead.

Within moments, she began to rouse.

“What…? Who…?” She sat up, then gasped.

“Don’t go all wacky on me again, woman. I’ve come too far and I’m too hungry to play nursemaid again. Besides…I’m the one in need of help here.”

Paloma’s heart was hammering so hard she could barely hear herself think. She recognized the voice and the face—at least part of it. They belonged to a man she’d hoped never to see again, yet here he was, looking more than ever like the demon he was.

“Solomon…is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he snapped.

“What has happened to you?”

He didn’t like being reminded that his face looked like something from a horror movie.

“I had a little accident,” he said, then cupped himself suggestively and added, “but it didn’t affect what matters most. It’s been a long time since I’ve had me some ass. Do me first, then I want something to eat.”

Paloma swallowed nervously. The last thing she wanted was to put her mouth anywhere on this man’s body, but denying him wasn’t wise. Not if she wanted to keep herself in one piece.