New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(73)

The monster opened the door.

“There’s my bad girls.”

His smile beamed indulgence, affection, but Melinda saw the hot glint in his eyes.

“Time for your next lesson, Darlie.”

“She needs a little more time. Please? She’ll do better if she has a little more time to absorb the first lesson.”

“Oh, I think she absorbed just fine. Didn’t you, Darlie?”

“Take me. I need to learn a lesson.”

He spared Melinda a glance. “It’s too late for you. Past your prime. Now this one—”

“I’ll be anything you want,” Melinda said as he stepped forward. “Anything. Let you do whatever you want. You can hurt me. I’ve been bad. I deserve it.”

“You’re not what I want.” He struck out, a brutally casual backhand that rapped her head against the wall. “Keep it up,” he warned Melinda, “and she’ll pay.”

“How about conversation? The woman you’re with? She doesn’t seem like she has a lot to say. It’s obvious she doesn’t have your intellect. We’re not going anywhere,” Melinda added, gripping Darlie’s hand hard under the blankets. “Wouldn’t you like to talk for a while? The day I came to see you, you wanted to talk and I didn’t let you. I’m sorry. I’d like to make up for that now.”

He angled his head. “Isn’t that interesting.”

“I can’t give you what she does, but I can offer something else. Something you must have missed, something you can’t get from her—or the woman.”

“And just what would we talk about.”

“Anything you like.” Her heart beat like a drum in her throat, and the beat was hope. “A man like you enjoys the stimulation of conversation, debate, discussion. I know you’ve traveled a great deal. You could tell me about the places you’ve been. Or we could talk about art, music, literature.”

“Interesting,” he said again, and she could see she’d intrigued him, amused him.

“You have a captive audience.”

He gave a bark of a laugh. “Aren’t you the sassy one?”

When he walked out, Melinda let out a breath. “Hold on,” she murmured to Darlie. “And be very quiet.”

He came back in with a chair, set it down, dropped into it. “So,” he said with a grin, “read any good books lately?”

15

She thought of herself as Sylvia. It was the name she used when she and Isaac were alone, the name she’d like to use when the game was done and they were living the high life. Sylvia was classy, elegant, and Isaac liked class.

The cop bitch called her Stella, but Stella was long ago. Another game, but that one had left her more dry than high. Richard Troy. Now that was a name from the past. How had that bitch of a cop known about Stella and Rich?

Rich’s flapping mouth, that’s how. It was the only way she could angle it. He must be doing time somewhere, the f**king ass**le, and worked some sort of deal for flipping on her.

But how had he known to flip?

Didn’t matter. Not as long as Rich was jerking off in a cage somewhere.

She’d given the son of a bitch her best, too. More than her best. For Christ’s sake, she’d carried that sniveling brat of a kid in her belly for nine months. For Rich.

Train it, he’d said. Train it and sell it. Plenty of men like young meat, and plenty of them paid top dollar.

But he hadn’t been the one carting that weight around. He hadn’t been the one strung out for months, because drugs were off the menu.

He hadn’t wanted the kid coming out f**ked up—damaged goods didn’t rate top dollar—so who’d paid that price?

Maybe it had been useful for a while, even though it cried half the goddamn day and night. Still, marks went even softer when you added a baby to the mix.

They’d made a good living running baby scams the first couple years. But then what had she gotten out of it? A whiny brat, that’s what.

Then a bloody lip when she’d found out Rich had been skimming the take and called him on it. But she’d played it right, hadn’t she? Going along, playing the game with the bastard and the brat until she’d pocketed a cool fifty large and walked.

Run maybe, because Rich would’ve beat the shit out of her if he’d caught her. Instead, he’d been stuck with the kid, and she had the take. Lived pretty damn well off it until it had run out.

She’d loved the cocksucker once.

Not like Isaac. Everything was different with Isaac. He treated her good—like Rich had in the beginning, and a couple others along the way. He appreciated her. He’d even sent her flowers. Imagine thinking of that when he was in prison.

And he told her she was beautiful, and sexy, and smart. He made plans with her.

Maybe they didn’t tear up the sheets as often as she wanted, but he had a lot on his mind right now. And what did she care if he banged the kid she’d found for him? The kid deserved it for being stupid.

And it put him in a really good mood. After he’d finished with the brat, they’d drink his fancy wine, she’d take a couple pops, and they’d talk and talk.

Big plans, big money, and they’d pay the cop back for screwing with him in the first place. Bitch would never have gotten the drop on her if she hadn’t been lucky.