God, that slow, sexy smile again. She quivered like a jelly fish. “Gratis this time, Max. Her name was Tiffany.”
Witt paused, the name lay between them without his verbal acknowledgment of her accuracy. He wasn’t ready. Max didn’t think she was herself. She let it pass.
“Tiffany Lloyd. She worked as a hairdresser in a salon five blocks from here. Coroner put the time of death between one and five a.m. Saturday night.”
“He couldn’t get it closer than that?”
“The longer the interval between death and discovery of the body, the harder to pinpoint the exact time.”
Max spoke in a hushed tone. “Cause of death?”
“Love it when you talk dirty, Max.” Witt used an equally quiet tone, his an octave deeper. She felt it vibrate inside, down low, insistent.
She shivered. Cameron had loved dirty talk, too. “Cop humor, Detective?”
He shrugged. “Helps keep us from going crazy. Cause of death, massive internal hemorrhaging due to blunt trauma.”
Max knew that, still a chill ran through her body, rooting her to the ground. “Her chest was black and blue.”
“Pretty much everything was.”
He tugged on her arm, drawing her closer, and she had the oddest feeling he might put his arms around her. For comfort.
It was the last thing she needed. From him, at least.
There was a whoop and a holler from a drunken cowboy staggering across the Round Up’s front walk. Max took back possession of her wrist. Witt’s grip fell away easily. So did the smile that had been in his eyes, his voice, and on his lips. A smile despite the fact that they’d been talking about murder.
“I have to find the drunk in my vision. He knows something.”
“And just how are we,” he asked with special emphasis, “going to find him?”
“He had an unusual tattoo of a snake.”
“So we’ll canvas the neighborhood looking for a snake?”
“No, we’ll start at the bus station. He had a locker key.”
Witt regarded her with one blond eyebrow raised.
“It had a number stenciled in white.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and said nothing.
“Number 452.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” The lazy stance turned rigid. With his hands on his hips, he shoved his face down to hers.
Max smiled, quite pleased with herself. Accountants never forget a number. “Recognize it?”
“The flight Wendy Gregory waited for the night she died.”
“Which means their murders are connected.”
He shook his head. “They can’t be. Coincidence.”
“You don’t look like a man who believes in coincidence.” In fact, he’d said something like that to her a few days ago.
“Ever since I met you, Max, I don’t know what I believe.”
“Do you believe I’m psychic?” His answer was important.
He stared at her a long moment, his gaze unreadable. When he spoke, his words were careful and rife with meaning. “I’d rather believe you’re psychic than think you’re a killer.”
Thank God. “This from a man who wanted to arrest me last week for a woman’s murder?”
“What I had in mind had nothing to do with jail.”
Chapter Three
The night was the deepest blue, so dark it was almost black, and felt like velvet against her skin. Stars sparked like fireflies in the sky. The scent of masculine aftershave and damp foliage drifted on the air currents. She licked her lips, tasting the margarita she’d had with dinner.
His breath warmed the skin where her shirt had ridden up. His hands spanned her waist as he held her on the truck, the metal hot against her backside as if it still retained the heat of the day. She buried her fingers in his thick hair, held him close as his tongue delved into her belly button.
With the flat of his hand against her chest, he pushed her back onto the hood of his black and red Ram Sport truck. She held her breath as he unzipped her slacks, then traced down to the panty line, first with his finger, then his tongue. Cupping her butt cheeks, he lifted her with one large hand as he tugged her slacks and panties down. He ran his big hands along the outside of her thighs, then pulled her legs over his shoulders.
With barely a pause, he took her with his mouth. His tongue played her like a master flutist. Then he entered her with two fingers, stroking her inside to match the rhythm of his tongue on her clitoris. Her hips rocked against his mouth. She raised them, begging for more pressure. He gave it to her, sucking her clit hard into his mouth and pushing his fingers deep inside. Oh God. Oh God. Fireworks exploded behind her closed eyelids. She arched her back and moaned as she came.