Under the Stars: Bright Lights Duet #2 Read online

  “You tried to take her place?” His voice is rich with understanding.

  “I never even knew when she was taken.” My voice breaks. The floodgates in my chest open as the storms of grief rain down. “They took turns with her. She was only thirteen. She was just a little girl, and when she came back…”

  I can’t say it.

  I exhale a violent sob.

  I can still see her limp body.

  I can still see the blood on her clothes.

  Before she was so happy and full of life.

  After, she was never the same again.

  He holds me as I weep, sliding his hand up and down my back, kissing my head, my temple, my cheek.

  “He was one of the men who raped her.” Mark’s voice is calm, resolute.

  My cheeks are wet with tears, but I push them aside. I use my sleeve to dry my face, resentment giving me strength.

  “The system is broken. For her to get justice… it would be impossible. It was so long ago and nothing was recorded. We have no physical evidence. It would be her word against his, a baron.”

  The muscle moves in his jaw, and he stares out to sea. His expression is stony, but when he turns back to me, his eyes soften.

  “So you ran from me.”

  Dropping my chin again, I nod. “You can’t be a part of this. I would never ask you to violate your oath or betray your honor that way.”

  He’s quiet, but he puts his arm around my waist, pulling me to him again. “You’re carrying my baby. You’re the mother of my child, and you need to be with me.”

  My eyes squeeze closed as a pulse of emotion echoes in my chest. I want to be with him, with everything in my body.

  But I made a promise, too.

  “What else?” he asks as if reading my mind.

  “I promised to help her find them all.”

  “How many are left?”

  Resting my cheek against him, I inhale his faint citrus mixed with sea breeze scent. “One.”

  Briefly, I allow myself to remember that one. I consider how Mark has changed and how he would react if he knew the whole story of the last one. Mark isn’t a weak young boy anymore. He would take the fight out of our hands if he knew it included me.

  He would do something dangerous…

  “You’re not going after anyone while you’re carrying our baby.” His words distract me from my dark thoughts.

  “No.” I shake my head, holding onto his shirt. “I told her at least four months.”

  His expression changes to warmth, pride, and he places both hands on my stomach, smoothing them over the rounded swell of our baby growing inside. I place my hands on top of his, and we hold them, the three of us together at last.

  “I dreamed of you carrying my child.” His gaze remains on our hands. “You were always so beautiful. Now you’re even more beautiful.”

  Fresh tears flood my eyes, and I can’t help a smile. It’s all so horrible and yet at the same time, it’s so perfect.

  “I’m more emotional now.”

  He catches my hands, holding them tightly in his. “You’re going to marry me. We’ll arrange everything here. We’ll have a ceremony on this beach, and when the baby comes, he’ll… she’ll…” Curious eyes rise to mine.

  A touch of nerves hits me.

  We’ve never talked about this. I don’t know what he wants.

  “It’s a girl,” I say, waiting… holding my breath.

  His eyes gleam and the smile brightens his face. “She.”

  He cups my cheeks and covers my mouth with his. It’s hungry and passionate and… happy.

  I reach up to hold him, and all of it is back, every emotion we’ve ever shared. Our lips chase, our tongues collide and curl together. Heat floods my panties, and desire rushes in like the waves. I want his shirt off. I want him inside me.

  “I want to make love to you,” he says, and I laugh. “What?” He grins.

  “It’s the only thing I can think about.”

  Joy bursts in my chest like a tiny plant pushing through the darkness of the soil. It won’t be kept down. It radiates from the center of my being, stretching toward him like the sun.

  “Look at me.” His hands hold my cheeks. “We’re going to figure this out. We’re going to get married, the baby will come, and we will make it work.” My fingers tighten on the soft fabric of his shirt as he speaks. “But before any of that, you have to know one thing: I love you, Lara. I love you more than any of this, with everything I have.”

  “Oh, Mark…” The swell of joy in my chest explodes into a burst of flowers. Butterflies take flight, and it’s like spring has come.

  “I love you,” I answer quickly. “I love you so much.”

  Strong arms surround me, and we’re lost in another passionate kiss. What’s coming is too much for me to think about, but I’m holding onto the happiest ever after I never dreamed I could possibly have.

  1

  “The murderer shall hang by the neck until dead…” -Napoleonic Code

  Six years after Under the Lights.

  Mark

  She’s gone.

  After only four weeks together, I roll over this morning to find her side of the bed cold and empty.

  No warning.

  No reason.

  All she left behind is the shortest “Dear John” note in history.

  Dear Mark,

  I love you more than I can ever say, but I can’t pull you any further into this. I can’t ruin your life. I’m so sorry.

  Please don’t try to find me.

  Love,

  Lara

  Don’t try to find me, my ass.

  I’m out of bed, tearing through the large house, going from room to room searching for any clues to where they went. All I get is the same sickening déjà vu from the last time she ran.

  The room we’ve been sharing is clean except for my things. Molly’s room is pristine, like no one has ever been in it. Not even a trace of her little dog. Racing downstairs, the living room looks like the showroom of a furniture store. The kitchen could be featured in fucking Pottery Barn.

  Whipping out my phone, I call her number. It rings once, and her voicemail picks up. My voice is strained as I leave a message, unconvinced she’ll even hear it. I know how call-blocking works.

  “Don’t do this, Lara. Call me back.”

  Dropping onto a barstool, I put my face in my hands.

  “Lara.” The force of anger and frustration coursing through my body changes my voice to a growl.

  When I ran into her on the White Pass-Yukon Route, the first time I’d seen her in five years, she left behind a dead body and me with my dick in my hands trying to figure out what happened.

  I finally found her here, in a villa in Nice owned by Freddie Lovel, the rich guy who used to visit her after her Pussycat Angels performances.

  For three weeks, we’ve been the only people living in this elaborate home.

  Returning to our bedroom, I stand in the open doorway of the balcony. Overhead is an awning covered in wisteria, and in front of me is a panoramic view of the Mediterranean Sea.

  My jaw tightens as memories of the nights we sat out here listening to the ocean, drinking wine, making love, and making plans for our wedding, for our daughter, flood my mind.

  We planned to name her Jillian after my mother, who died when I was only ten. She’d been the only good thing in my life when I was a boy, and when I lost her, it felt like everything unraveled.

  I’d wanted to give that name a fresh beginning, welcome its grace back into our home, and Lara had agreed.

  She’d sat there and fucking agreed to everything.

  Now she leaves me flat, like I’m some kind of one-night stand.

  Anger burns in my chest as I storm into the bedroom and start stuffing my things into my bag. I’m out the door and headed to the train station in less than ten minutes.

  Destination, Paris, the seventh arrondissement.

  When I arrive at the white building w
ith black shutters and antique metal accents, he’s coming out the front door.

  “Excusez-moi.” With a nod, he attempts to pass me at the front steps.

  “Excuse me.” I put my hand on his shoulder and hold up my badge. “Detective Mark Fitzhugh. I need to speak with you about Lara or Larissa Hale.”

  He steps back, assessing me with slate-gray eyes. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

  “May we step inside?”

  “Of course.” We enter his elegant townhome in the most expensive neighborhood in Paris.

  I spent the six-hour train ride from Nice researching this man and his millions. His father is an exporter who works with several businesses in New Orleans, from food to coffee to liquor. The Lovels own several houses, ranging from Paris to the villa in Nice to a condo in New Orleans.

  “May I offer you a drink?” Freddie looks like he hasn’t worked a day in his life.

  He’s dressed in faded dark gray trousers with brown shoes, a crisp white long-sleeved shirt with a black blazer, and a scarf tied at his neck.

  “No thanks.” I take out my phone as if I’m reading notes. “How long did Lara Hale live here with you?”

  It’s not really pertinent to my investigation, but fuck it. I want to know.

  “I’m sorry, you seem to be mistaken. Miss Hale never lived with me. She stayed with my sister Annemarie.”

  The fist in my chest unclenches slightly. He wasn’t her lover. “Is your sister’s house nearby?”

  “She has a three bedroom apartment on the rue Bonaparte.”

  I have no idea where that is. “That’s close to here?”

  “It’s about three blocks away.”

  The anger returns. “So she stayed with you overnight?”

  His eyes narrow, and a small smile curls his lips. “I didn’t have that kind of relationship with Lara. She came to Paris hoping for a better life. I merely offered her a place to stay.”

  “With your sister.”

  “I confess, I had hoped eventually it would be with me, but c’est la vie. It never happened.”

  For a moment, we quietly assess each other. Until he cocks his head. “Do we know one another? You seem familiar…”

  “We’ve never met.” It’s true—we’ve never been formally introduced.

  “So what’s this about? Is Lara in trouble?”

  Not so fast. “How long has she lived in your villa in Nice?”

  His eyebrows jump. “She moved there shortly after arriving in Paris. She stayed here barely a month when her sister began having… issues.”

  “What type of issues?”

  A small table holding several crystal bottles of different shades of liquor sits in front of a large, arched window. He walks to it, and for a moment seems lost in thought.

  “Paris can be difficult. It’s like New Orleans… but about ten times bigger and ten times less forgiving. Add the language barrier, and some might feel overwhelmed.”

  “What happened to Molly?”

  He faces me. “She had trouble sleeping. Night terrors, I think you call it. Screaming in the night, dreaming of someone chasing her, hurting her. We tried getting her a little dog—”

  “Did she ever say any names?” I realize I’m leaning forward, anxious for anything.

  “I was never there when it happened. Annemarie told me later.” He exhales deeply, studying his fingers. “But they were both miserable here. My sister said she would find Lara crying all the time. I finally suggested they might be happier in Nice.”

  “You sent them to your villa?”

  “If you’re going to mourn, you should at least have beautiful scenery.”

  I rock back on my heels, my feelings toward this man conflicted. He seems to genuinely care about them, and I should be thankful.

  “So you have no idea where they might be now?”

  “I wish I did. I still believe Lara could have a fantastic career as a singer if only…” Turning his arm, he checks the heavy silver watch. “I do need to get to my lunch date, so if that’s all?”

  Reaching into my breast pocket, I take out my business card. “If you hear from either one, please let me know.”

  He studies it a moment. “I’ll let them know you’re looking for them, Mr. Fitzhugh.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  His smile grows wider. “My loyalty is to the ladies. Not you.”

  “And if they committed a crime?”

  Gray eyes move up and down my less-fashionable attire. “You’re not a French policeman.”

  “I don’t want to arrest them. I want to help them.”

  “Then they will be pleased to hear you’re looking for them.”

  My room in the Hotel Saint Germaine is small and functional, and once I’m inside, I sit on the bed and book the next flight leaving Paris. I’m no closer to knowing where they went than I was this morning, but I do know they’re both struggling with some emotional turmoil.

  Frustration twists in my chest as I wait for my laptop to boot. Why would she do this? Why wouldn’t she let me in? What about my baby girl?

  Again I take out my phone, but this time I send a text.

  “Lara.” My jaw is clenched. “Where are you?”

  Tossing the device on the bed, I rub my temples. This morning, I didn’t even stop to consider how her leaving affected me. I hopped on a train for the city and spent the ride learning all I could about the man who brought her here… only to discover he’s not an asshole and is actually more interested in her singing career. Unexpected.

  In New Orleans, Molly was just a kid who wanted me to teach her to draw. Five years later, on the train to Canada, I didn’t even recognize her. She was the femme fatale, and Esterhaus fell right into her hands. She pretended to be an innocent doll, when in reality, she was a cold-blooded killer with an agenda.

  I scroll through my emails with Freddie’s words about night terrors lingering in my thoughts. Why do they keep running? Who is left?

  I’ll head back to Juneau and search from my office. Hopefully I can get to Lara before they go further down this rabbit hole.

  Before someone else dies.

  2

  “Heads inside a dream.” –Lorde

  Three months later…

  Lara

  Mark’s soft lips cover mine.

  My fingers curl in his light brown hair, and I inhale deeply, relaxing in his strong arms. He’s never been timid with his kisses. He’s never been timid with his love-making. Warm breath whispers on my neck, and the tiny hairs on my body rise as his lips trace my ribs, moving lower to my waist.

  A soft moan comes from my throat as he loops his fingers around my panties and tugs them aside. He’s always been forceful, and I love it. An aching pulse rises from the center of my body up through my arms and down to the arches of my feet as his lips close over my clit, giving it a gentle pull before circling it with his tongue.

  “Mark!” I gasp, my orgasm rising fast.

  Circling, pulling, stroking—my eyes squeeze shut, my back rises off the bed. My fists clench in the soft sheets as the irresistible tightness grows stronger in my belly.

  “Oh, God!” I cry out as the crash of orgasm breaks through me, leaving me shuddering in its wake.

  He’s up fast, kissing his way up my body. He stops at my left breast, giving the nipple a gentle pull before kissing a trail across to the other. Every touch sends another spark of pleasure to my tingling core.

  Until finally our mouths meet, and I’m lost in his deep kiss, tongues entwining, tasting, pulling. So long I’ve waited for this, but it’s my turn to take the lead.

  Like a playful kitten, I rise up and push him into the pillows, kissing his smiling lips, then his eyes. I taste salty tears, and my own eyes heat. He’s never been sentimental, but being separated has been overwhelmingly cruel.

  I close my eyes and slide my face down to his bare chest. His heart beats as fast as mine, and a flutter of happiness fills me. I trace my finger over the line
s of his stomach and the few coarse hairs scattered there, pressing my lips to his hot skin.

  I feel his erection against my stomach, and slide my hand down to grip it, tugging gently. I move slowly, letting the tension build, but he’s impatient.

  With a low growl he says my name and flips me under him again, searching for my mouth and pushing it open, pushing my thighs apart as he reaches between us to line his tip at my entrance.

  With a sharp thrust, he fills me to the hilt.

  “Mark!” My head tips back, and I gasp at the sensation.

  Peppermint is on my tongue. He holds my hair back and kisses my neck, thrusting rapidly, sending me higher with every invasion. My second orgasm is building, and his mouth is on my throat, my cheek, my temple.

  Another sizzle of desire pulses through me, and I wrap my legs around his waist, sending him even deeper.

  “Lara,” he groans, driving faster until he holds, pulsing and filling me.

  An excited sigh slips from my throat. His arms circle my waist, and he holds me in the secure embrace I love. My hands grip his shoulders as the waves of bliss flow over me, over both of us.

  “I love you,” I whisper, and my eyes flutter open.

  The room is pitch black and cold.

  Silence presses against my inner ears so hard they ache.

  My heart beats fast and my body is hot from the fading orgasm, but it’s only a dream. I’m alone here, lying on my stomach in the soft bed piled high with pillows and duvets. My arms are stretched out, searching to hold him, but no one is there.

  I close my eyes and try to get back into the dream. It was so real. I can still feel him, still hear his voice. I press my face into the pillow, searching for his scent, but I only smell fresh detergent on a cool pillow.

  In that instant, an ache twists deep in my stomach. My knees rise and my pillow muffles the low moan I can’t hold inside as I begin to weep. I’m throbbing, the physical frustration as painful as my emptiness. I wrap my arms around my legs and hold them, fighting for control. I have to hold on.