PLAYING GAMES, page 3
Polero pulled back as he climaxed, filling Denise with his sterile fluids, the peace he came to associate with sex, blood, and death washing over him. His beast was sated, though the smell of her blood rushing over her chest, called to him, and Polero resumed his feeding. The spilled slick teased at their bodies, as he took her in slow, sensuous strokes.
“Soon. I will clean you and dress you. I will leave you where you will get immediate medical care. I wish I could leave you this memory, but I cannot.”
Denise moaned her protest, wanting to hold to this moment as they all did — until they weren’t in the arms of the beast and wrapped in the alluring cloak of darkness. Few women pursued the game that far.
“You have earned a page in my book, Denise. You will forget this night, but I never will.” The game was all that was left to tickle his morbid sense of humor after all the centuries of living with his beast. Polero began his reordering of her memory with a heavy heart. Of all the women over the years, few made the game as amusing as Denise had.
*
Denise groaned against the harsh light, shading her eyes and reaching for the light switch next to her bed. The switch wasn’t there. The wall was tile instead of wallpaper.
She slitted her eyes open and furrowed her brow at the sight of the IV stand over her. The scent of antiseptic was heavy in the air. It was a hospital, but what the hell was she doing here? Denise fought for a clear memory, but her head ached with the effort — almost as much as her body ached.
“Finally,” a voice growled at her.
Denise turned to it tenderly. “Adam?”
He nodded grimly. Her boss looked sleep-deprived. Dark circles shadowed his beautiful green eyes, and it looked like he hadn’t had a shave recently.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he continued.
She closed her eyes, trying desperately to remember what she did to end up here. Denise wasn’t a street cop. There was no reason that she should have been shot or beaten, though beaten didn’t sound far from the truth by the feel of it.
“You didn’t think to ask for backup? You didn’t call me?”
“Backup?” she repeated.
“Backup. Something you were ordered to take along if you were going to do something this monumentally— You met a possible suspect alone,” he hinted in irritation.
“What suspect? I would never—”
He held up her notebook, his eyes flashing in fury.
A pulse of sexual excitement coursed over her nerves. Denise pushed it away, disconcerted. “And?” she asked weakly.
“You tell me. It’s your handwriting, and we retrieved it from your car.”
“Adam, all I know is that my head hurts, my stomach is upset, every muscle and joint in my body aches, and you’re yelling at me.” And all I can picture is you alone with me somewhere private. What the hell is wrong with me? She’d always fantasized about Adam, but it never took over her mind like this. Maybe her walls were down.
“You don’t remember arranging to meet a Mr. Antonio Pablo Polero?” he demanded.
“Who the hell—”
“Six feet, two-ten, blonde, light blue eyes, slight accent — maybe Spanish — with a question mark,” he snapped, his body trembling.
“Sounds cute,” she quipped. “Sort of like you, except for the accent and your pretty green eyes. Where can I find this Adonis?”
Adam raised an eyebrow in surprise.
Denise ran a shaking hand over her forehead. Why did I say that? I am never going to live this one down.
Adam shook his head, suddenly uncertain. “Denise— What day is it?”
She glanced at the sunlight streaming around the window blinds. “Daylight,” she noted. “Saturday.”
He paled. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
Denise grimaced at the spike of pain thinking about it caused. “Punching out,” she groaned. “I think. No. I had tacos for dinner,” she continued hopefully.
“Friday?” he asked urgently.
“Of course, Friday,” she snapped. “Adam, what the hell is wrong with you?”
He sank into a chair next to the bed and extended his hand toward her, touching her cheek with a pained look. Adam turned his arm to offer his watch for her inspection. Denise looked at him in confusion.
“Read it,” he ordered quietly.
She squinted at the digital numbers. “Eleven-twenty,” she noted. “I don’t—”
“The date.”
“The— Have you lost your mind? I told you the date.”
“The date,” he insisted.
Denise shook her head, biting back a sick swirl. She locked her eyes on the watch again. “The fifth? Adam, please tell me your watch is fast,” she managed weakly. “Otherwise, I’ve been unconscious a long damn time.”
“You’ve been unconscious for thirteen hours, but you’ve lost four days.”
“Then I did even worse than the civilians,” she complained bitterly. Oh, I will never live this down.
“Not entirely.”
“What do you mean?”
Adam took her hand, squeezing it and offering her a rakish smile. “You came back with two descriptions and a name for the clear description. At least we have somewhere to start. That’s more than anyone else has given us.”
Denise nodded. “If it does us any good.”
He stroked her knuckles, an almost unconscious move. “What do you mean?”
“Just a feeling that someone is playing games with us.”
His smile disappeared. “What makes you say that?”
“I have no idea.” She blushed. “I just — know it.”
Adam nodded grimly. “That was why you were requested. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Yes, it was.”
Brenna Lyons, PLAYING GAMES
