Dahlia felt right in his arms. Each time. Every time. Sometimes when he sat away from her, he felt the ice-cold blood running in his veins and knew he had mastered his emotions. Maybe too much. And then she’d look at him. One smoldering look and he’d heat up, feel everything. Every emotion a human being was meant to feel.
He slid his hands back up her body, cupped her head while he kissed her, again and again. Long, slow kisses and fierce, hot ones. She pulled away first, lifting her mouth inches from his. “Do you kiss me like that because of the energy? Or because you want to kiss me like that?”
“I have to kiss you. I need to kiss you. I’ll never get enough of kissing you. If the energy needs us to find ways to use it up, I consider it an added bonus in our relationship.” His fingers slipped into her hair. It was always so impossibly shiny. He loved the sight and scent of it, the feel of it. “I’m very much like you, Dahlia, I rarely do anything I don’t want to do.”
She stepped away from him reluctantly. “Well, you kept the house from burning down. Lily will be happy if she’s the one who rented it for us. I want to look at the rest of the photographs. Maybe I’ll see something else familiar.”
He handed them to her.
“Nicolas? Thank you for saying what you did about Bernadette. I don’t know why I jumped to the wrong conclusion like that. I think I’m more upset over Max than I want to admit. Why wouldn’t Jesse and Max tell me they knew Dr. Whitney? Why didn’t they say he performed the same experiment on them?”
“You didn’t exchange much information with them,” he pointed out carefully. “You’re all taught to keep secrets. That’s the name of this game, Dahlia. Maxwell and Calhoun are agents for the NCIS and before that SEALS. They aren’t going to talk out of turn. You can’t blame them for that.“
Her black eyes met his. For the first time he thought she looked like the mysterious witch some called her. There was something haunted and magical in her gaze. “Yes, I can.” The way she said it had him believing in voodoo and witchcraft. A slow, Cajun drawl, every bit as soft and sexy as Gator’s but with a soft hiss of a promise of revenge. It actually sent a chill down his spine.
Dahlia dropped her gaze to the pictures she held in her hand. She didn’t want to think about betrayal. She’d start another fire for certain and that would lead to kissing Nicolas, and he drove every sane thought from her head. She was recovering the data tonight so she couldn’t afford to get distracted. She forced herself to look at the photos. Several were of the Quarter. Obviously the photographer planned to show he’d been vacationing. Many were at the French market where Milly and Bernadette often bought produce. There was even a picture of the narrow alley and the small yarn shop where the women purchased their knitting supplies.
Dahlia sat on the end of the bed and spread out the pictures. There was one taken of a storefront and the reflection of the photographer was clearly in the window. She picked it up and studied it carefully. “I’ve seen this man.”
“How could you know? The camera hides his face.” But Nicolas was watching her. Dahlia was methodical and very controlled when she wanted to be. She was being very thorough, meticulously studying the photograph. If she said she’d seen the man before, he was certain she had.
“This is the man I saw at Rutgers just outside Dr. Ellington’s office. And then I saw him again when I was scouting the Lombard building. This is definitely the same man. I know it’s him. It’s the way he holds his head, just a little tilted to the side and down, but he’s watching everything. He was stalking Bernadette.” She pointed to the shadowy outline of a woman reflected in the glass. “That is Bernadette. She’s wearing her sunhat.” A sad smile flitted across her face. “She always called it a bonnet. She made them because she loved to sew, to create things.” Dahlia forced herself to stop rambling. Her throat felt raw.