Was it a phenomenon left over from her childhood? Some strange illness that plagued her? Or was it just Gaby, as extraordinarily different as she was appealing?
Storming toward him, the knife squeezed in her grip and her pale eyes glittering, Gaby curled her lip. “Now that you blundered in, there’s no way for us to know who he is, is there?”
“That’s close enough,” Luther warned her. With Gaby, he was never entirely certain of her intent, of just how far she’d carry her anger in a physical response.
Disregarding his command, she crowded right up to him, nose to nose, hot breath mingling. “Is it?”
Jesus, he’d missed her ballsy bravado and brash disregard for common civility. He wanted to crush her closer, wanted to tell her . . . what?
What was it about her that drew him? Yes, she was different, but it was more than that. He wanted her—in a lot of ways inappropriate to his position as a police detective—to satisfy his suspicions about her involvement in a past case involving the sick slaughter of human beings.
He prayed that Gaby had no part in that. He had no real evidence against her. But he had those gut feelings, almost as staggering as his freakishly strong desire for her.
If he believed in such things, he’d think she’d put a spell on him, one meant to keep him awake at nights, and weary during the day, plagued by the memory of her and the confusion she wrought.
But while he couldn’t label Gaby, he knew she wasn’t a witch. She was too soft to the touch, too vulnerable despite her harsh attitudes, and much, much too alone.
In their current position, the barrel of his gun pressed into her bony sternum. That bothered him, whether she paid any notice or not. Grinding his molars together, Luther rasped, “Put. The knife. Away.”
Blue eyes sparking, Gaby scrutinized him. “Ah, what’s the matter, cop? You afraid of me now?”
Her sneer deliberately provoked—but she did reach around behind herself and sheath the lethal blade with an alarmingly practiced ease. As she did so, her small breasts pushed against the skimpy tank top.
The hidden dangers of the moment had tightened her nipples.
Despite what he knew to be right, to be sane, the sight of her femaleness, so incongruous with her balls-to-the-wall attitude, drew his attention and sent a fire to sear through his veins.
Anger and lust—it could prove a deadly combination, especially with a woman like Gaby.
A woman like no other.
Scraps of moonlight danced among the purple highlights in her hair. A light sheen of sweat touched her pale, smooth skin.
Her impossibly stubborn chin lifted.
And she smiled. “I won’t gut you, Luther.”
“Good to know.”
Slim brows burrowed down, giving her otherwise plain features a hint of threat. “Not,” she murmured low, “without reason.”
Since seeing her, Luther rode the edge of fury, and now that the knife didn’t pose a threat, he grabbed both her wrists and slammed her up against the brick wall. The gun he still held pressed into her tender flesh, but he couldn’t temper himself, couldn’t rein in his rage or take the time to holster the weapon, couldn’t reason with her or . . . anything.
Chest to chest, thick anger undulating between them, he sought words that would somehow convey all he felt—the resentment and relief, the concern and . . .
Fuck.
So much more.
Ignorant of his mental struggle, Gaby looked at his mouth. “How’d you find me, anyway?” She licked her lips, slow and sweet. “I’ve been quiet. I’ve been good.”
Luther couldn’t dredge up a single word.
At his lack of response, her gaze crawled up to his, challenging him and scorching him at the same time. “You know, Luther, I figured on never seeing you again.”
That notion didn’t seem to distress her at all. Luther wondered if his teeth would turn to dust, given how he ground them together.
Eyes narrowed, Gabrielle tipped her head. “But here you are.” She sucked in a substantial breath, which pressed her body into his. Drawling the words, she said, “Big. Tall. Strong Luther. That golden orange glow around you shows great self-control.”
God, she sounded the same, just as confusing and infuriating, as if nothing had happened, as if people hadn’t died and monsters hadn’t existed.
Her voice softened. “You’re holding back, Luther. But what? Anger?” Her attention returned to his mouth. “Or something else?”
Hoarse with an aberrant yearning, determined to maintain control of the situation, Luther pointed out, “You’ve been knocking around johns.” And thank God she had, because her abuse of the flesh-peddling clientele had enabled him to locate her again.
Quiet satisfaction chased away the last remnants of her odd transformation, showing him the Gaby he’d grown to know so well—or at least, as well as anyone could know an enigma like her.
“Only when they deserved it, Luther.” She relaxed her shoulder blades against the wall, tilted out her hips to press into his groin. Uncaring of how he held her wrists so tightly, nonchalant to any threat he might pose, she said again, “Only when they deserved it.”
God almighty, would he ever figure out her many quirks and idiosyncrasies? Now that he had found her, would she find a way to slip away from him again?
Would she forever unbalance him with a desire so foreign to his nature that he couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t decipher it or even name it?
“Why, Gaby?” He hadn’t meant to growl, to show his loss of discipline, but, damn it, there were so many unknowns with her. A million of them.
Hopefully she caught all that the simple question encompassed.
All that he wanted from her.
Stupid, stupid bitch! Heart pounding in a mad relay, he ran farther, down an alley, across an empty lot.
Looking back one last time—and seeing no one—Oren Paige squeezed through a broken fence post to enter a closed-off garbage area for a local convenient mart.
A rusty, protruding nail gouged the tender flesh of his arm. Flinching, he examined the wound. “Oh God, no.” Tears sprang to his eyes. “Blood!”
Oren stared at the gaping wound. It hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought back tears.
A girl would cry.
He would not.
Bottom lip trembling, a soft white hand over the injury, he turned to lean his back against one rotted plank of wood. Bone-deep fear urged him to run; his straining lungs demanded that he catch his breath, get a handle on his astronomical fright.
Slowly, his free hand tightened into a fist and his temper began to boil, chasing away the pain. He had to suppress his fury or he’d be shouting in a temper tantrum that would draw the pathetic hordes looming in the night in this godforsaken area.
This was all her fault.
Why had the girl chased him? What did she want? No way had she seen through the disguise.
No one ever did.
He hadn’t done anything to her to warrant that absurd pursuit. He’d only wanted to lure a whore, and nobody cared about whores.
They were nasty. Foul. Useless to a better society.
Just as his mother had been.
Nobody missed whores. Nobody wanted them around.
He sure as hell didn’t.
He performed a service by ridding the community of their sort, giving them only what they deserved—and allowing his aunt and uncle to partake of the pleasure.
Oren smiled. The bitch he had now . . . well, she wouldn’t last much longer. Aunt Dory had yet to learn how to meter her rage, and Uncle Myer couldn’t pace himself. All night long, Oren had listened to the stupid bitch scream.