“Does the name Michael House mean anything to you?” He asked, holstering his weapon.
Ice chilled her blood, but she kept her face expressionless. “Should it?”
His smile dimmed. “Where were you tonight between eight and ten?”
Fuck. She knew where these questions were heading and she also knew the situation wasn’t going to end well for her. “Here.” Her hands fell to her sides.
“Alone?” The doubting question came from the shifter.
Cara gave a stiff nod.
“Did any neighbors see you? Delivery guy? Anyone?” Brooks asked. Brooks—that was his last name. She couldn’t remember his first name, and for some reason, that fact seemed important.
She should know the name of the man who was about to haul her off to jail. After wetting her lips in a quick, nervous move, she admitted, “I don’t think anyone can verify my story. I got home a little after five.” No one had been out when she’d pulled up into her drive. Just her luck. Usually, one of her neighbors would have been out doing some kind of yard work, but the one time she could have used their nosiness to her advantage, well, fate screwed her. Her lips twisted as she admitted, “And I didn’t order any dinner or anything. I just, ah, stayed here.”
Brooks’s stare raked her body, lingering for a moment too long on her br**sts. She was wearing an old black tank top and a pair of sweatpants. Hardly sexy. Not succubus material. But—
His pupils flared and she knew he liked what he saw.
Under other circumstances, she might have been inclined to play.
But she’d just sworn off sex, and while the detective had managed to stir her interest, he’d also pissed her off.
“If you can’t confirm that alibi, I’m afraid we might have a little problem on our hands,” Brooks murmured, and took another step toward her.
She could smell his cologne, a rich, masculine scent. Or maybe it wasn’t cologne. Maybe it was just the man. “I still don’t understand what’s happening here.” Though she had a very, very strong suspicion.
Not Michael…
“We found your purse. Your wallet. ID.” The words came from the shifter cop.
Shifters. She’d always been wary of them. Most supernaturals were. They were born to lie. To deceive. And some of them were just plain crazy.
She’d never met a cop shifter before. The shifters she’d encountered had been more of the run-from-cops kind.
So he’d found her missing purse. Big deal. “Well, good.” Not that she really cared. She’d already replaced the ID and gotten a new bag. She didn’t have credit cards, so she’d lost a bit of cash. “Where is it and I’ll—”
“We found it at a crime scene.”
Her mouth snapped closed. Michael. “Just…ah…what kind of crime scene?” Her hands were trembling, a weakness she didn’t want the men to discover. She balled her fingers into fists.
Brooks took two gliding steps toward her, closing the distance between them. Cara tilted her head back, gazing up at him.
“We found your bag at a murder scene, lady.” The warm smile was completely gone now. Only the hardened cop remained.
“Wanna explain that to me?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t explain it. “I—I—my purse was stolen two weeks ago—”
“And you reported the theft, right?” The shifter asked, voice doubtful.
Another negative shake of her head. The purse hadn’t mattered enough to report, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to go out and start attracting attention from cops.
Though it looked like she’d managed to capture their attention anyway.
“Why do you do it?” Brooks asked, leaning toward her. He drew a ragged breath, as if inhaling her scent, then muttered, “You’re so damn beautiful, I bet it’s like f**king child’s play for you to lure those men to you.”
It always had been easy. She’d been born as a lure. Since his words were a bitter truth, Cara stayed silent. Reeling the men to her, no that had never been a problem.
None of the men had ever cared enough to stay with her.
An eternity of pleasure, but a life lived alone. That was her lot in this world. The lot for all the succubi. She was just the only one not loving the deal.
“Do you get off on it?” Brooks asked, voice silky smooth. “Do you like the power? Like the control in bed?”
She swallowed. Sometimes, she wanted to lose control. To be taken.
His hand lifted, brushed across her cheek in a caress that lanced her flesh with its heat. “And at the end,” he said, pressing in even closer, so close that for a moment she thought he was going to kiss her, “when the pleasure is pounding through you, how does it feel to kill your lovers?”
What? “No, listen, I’ve never—”
He grabbed her hands, yanked them up, and held her tight. Not hurting her. Trapping her. “How do you do it? Drugs? An injection?”
She twisted her hands, trying to break free. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” A lie. Killing a lover was so easy.
But not her way.
“Right, princess.”
Her eyes narrowed at the mocking tone.
“You don’t have any idea why we’re here. You don’t know Michael House, and you have no idea how your ID came to be at our crime scene.”
“Wh-what—” She broke off, struggling to clear her throat. “What happened to Michael?” A murder scene, he’d said he found her bag at—
His lips tightened. “I thought you didn’t know him.”
“What happened?” She wrenched her hands away from him.
“Come down to the station, and I’ll be glad to tell you.”
She hurried back a few steps, and stumbled into the shifter. Damn it, how had he moved so fast? When had the jerk circled behind her? “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
One dark brow lifted. “Wanna bet on that?”
Not particularly.
The shifter’s hands landed heavily on her shoulders. She jumped at the contact. His touch was cold to her skin, where Brooks had felt burning hot.
Brooks held her gaze. “You can do this the easy way and come with us willingly—”
“Or you can fight,” the shifter growled in her ear, “and still wind up finding your ass downtown.”
Oh, she didn’t like him. Didn’t like either of them. Her skin began to prickle as rage and power swept through her.