Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to his talented ministrations. They didn’t even have birth control, yet seconds later she was the one urging him on. She supposed it was the common grief that bound them that dulled her conscience, that stopped her from acting with any thought for the future. But suddenly she didn’t care about “later,” only here and now, renouncing those hours when she was most alone.
Then she was straddling his hips. His hands gripped her thighs, helping and encouraging her until the waves of pleasure grew so intense she shuddered and cried out, and he moaned as he reached the same release.
Breathless, she slumped onto his bare chest, and he smoothed the hair from her forehead, muttering something in French: C’était le meilleur.
Before she could ask him what it meant, she woke up, sweating and panting and sated—but alone in her hotel room.
She stared at the ceiling, wondering what’d just happened. How could she be in her own bed? She was still tingling from Romain’s touch, could still smell the woodsmoke in his house….
Confused but relieved, she sat up. They hadn’t really made love. They couldn’t have. She’d never left the hotel. And yet it was too real to be a dream. She could describe Romain’s body in explicit detail, although he’d been wearing long pants and long sleeves during both of their prior encounters.
And then Jasmine realized it wasn’t her dream she’d just experienced. It was his.
“What are you doing here?”
Forty-year-old Casey Lynn Konitz owned The Breakfast Joint, where the locals, mostly older fishermen, came to have their coffee and la grue—what Anglo-Americans called grits. She also owned one of the town’s only computers with Internet access.
“I need to go online,” Romain responded, their voices adding to the babble of both French and English that surrounded them.
“You don’t look so good this morning, T-Bone,” she said.
He’d spent a restless night. He’d made love to Jasmine Stratford again and again in his dreams, each time more aggressively than the last. But dreams weren’t enough to satisfy the very real hunger he’d felt since seeing her in those silky pajamas. He was frustrated and edgy and worried that the woman who’d come into his life yesterday would irrevocably disturb the delicate equilibrium he’d established since prison.
“Soyez gentil,” he said, grinning.
“I am being nice. You’re still handsome as the devil, that’s fuh shore. But you’re fatigué, non?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Really. Let me use your computer.”
“What for?”
Romain knew she didn’t mind sharing it with him. Like most everyone around here, she was just nosy. Gossip was Portsville’s main source of entertainment, especially through the winter months. “I need to do some shopping.”
Her eyebrows went up. “For Christmas presents?”
“Maybe.” Actually, he hadn’t bought one thing and probably wouldn’t. His parents were expecting him for dinner at their place in Mamou, but they’d be happy with the shrimp he’d caught in his trawling nets a few days ago, before the season ended. It’d fill their freezer and provide enough for their traditional New Year’s dinner of boulettes des chevrettes: ground fresh shrimp mixed with peppers, garlic, onions and spices, formed into patties and deep-fried. But he wasn’t excited about going home, because his older sister and her husband would be there. Susan had gone to Harvard, married an attorney and relocated in Boston. She’d done well, and Romain was proud of her, but she refused to forgive him for not fighting to stay out of prison after he shot Moreau.
“Or maybe you’re looking for a woman,” Casey teased. “Are you signing up for one of those online dating services, T-Bone?”
“Nah,” he said. “I’ve decided on a mail-order bride.”
She laughed. “Why would a man like you need to pay for a woman?”
“Because then I can order her just the way I want—meek and submissive, always willing to scratch my back and cook me dinner.” He stretched, getting as much mileage out of needling Casey as possible.
“Right.” She slugged him in the arm. “You’d be bored within a month. You need a woman with some fight in her.”
“Mais, someone like that would be too hard for me to handle,” he said, grinning. “I’m a mama’s boy, remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what you are.”
The bell sounded over the door, announcing the arrival of another patron.
Distracted by it, Casey waved him toward the back room, where the computer was, and grabbed a menu for the newcomer. “I’ll bring you some biscuits and gravy. You want anything else today?” she called over her shoulder.
“That’s it.” He was too eager to get online to worry about changing the menu.
Jasmine Stratford pretended to need his help to find her long-lost sister, but she probably didn’t even have a sister. More likely she was a criminal rights attorney, bent on advancing her political agenda by convincing everyone he’d killed the wrong person. Or a journalist chasing her next “big” story. Or maybe a writer with a contract for a new book—When Fathers Turn into Killers. Regardless, Black had to be involved. Black was the only one, besides Huff, who could’ve described the peculiarities of the writing on that bathroom wall.
But that still brought him back to the necklace. Neither Huff nor Black knew it’d gone missing. It’d disappeared almost a week before Adele was taken. Even Romain hadn’t connected the two incidents.
Maybe after he’d had the chance to dig a little, he’d be able to explain how Jasmine knew so damn much, he thought. But what he found only added to his confusion. Google cited a whole list of articles that featured Jasmine’s name, all of which proved her to be exactly what she claimed.
…Sacramento victims rights activist Jasmine Stratford developed the psychological profile that eventually led to Bellamy’s arrest…
…Jasmine Stratford, from the nonprofit victims’ charity The Last Stand, spoke with officials earlier today…
…Mrs. Purdue insists her daughter would not have been found had it not been for the assistance of local victims’ advocate Jasmine Stratford, who lost her own sister in a kidnapping incident fourteen years ago…