Lover Beware

partially opened to deny him, once again—too afraid to go there—too afraid of getting hurt, of hurting him, but his mouth moved across her lips, silencing her protests.
    He groaned as the heat of his body magnified against her own. She moved her hands over him slowly, fingertips exploring the back of his neck, the moist skin behind his ear, the abrasiveness of his unshaven cheek.
    Anna’s hands slid around his neck, pulling him harder into the kiss, flirting her tongue with his, skin shivering as she felt his fingertips trail under her T-shirt and up her back, closing around her rib cage, which felt vulnerable beneath the strength of his hands. He kissed her cheek, her chin, her throat, and nuzzled the tender skin over her collarbone. Her fingers twisted in his hair and clutched at his shirt—she gasped as he brushed her nipple with his thumb.
    The phone rang.
    Anna groaned.
    Jerry groaned. He held her fiercely and said in her ear, “For God’s sake, don’t answer it. Not now.”
    It rang again, and again, refusing to be denied.
    With a silent curse, Jerry turned away, leaving Anna standing alone while the phone shrieked its insistence. She fought to steady her voice as she answered, “Travelli.”
    Silence, then, “It’s Jeff. Have I caught you at a bad time?”
    Anna heard the hotel door slam, and she sank onto the bed, her lips curling in a tight smile. “No, as a matter of fact.” She sighed. “Your timing is perfect.”
     
    ONE WEEK AND no sign of Gonzales, despite the NOPD’s investigation. Since no further killings transpired, Killroy felt certain that Gonzales was the serial killer and had hauled butt out of New Orleans the first time his photo was splashed across the newspapers and television screens. Anna didn’t buy it, still. No way did she believe Angel Gonzales was the French Quarter serial killer—not after the visions she had picked up at the Bobbie Cox crime scene—but she had talked herself blue in the face to Killroy, Costos, and Donovan, and none of them were ready to back off their suspicions regarding Gonzales, especially since life, and business in the French Quarter, had resumed its normal raucousness.
    She paced her hotel room, phone to her ear. “You’ve totally tied my hands, Jeff. I’m useless here. Why don’t you pull me in? Put me on a case where I might actually accomplish something.”
    “I can’t do that, Anna. Not if you’re certain about the images you picked up on the Cox case. Simply bedazzle them with your brilliance as you have in the past.”
    Anna flopped on the bed, fell to her back, and stared at the ceiling. “I want out, Jeff. I want a normal life again. I want to work cases just like any other regular agent.”
    Silence.
    “I’m tired of keeping men at arm’s length,” she said, her voice weary. “Tired that I may do or say something to give the division, or myself, away.”
    “Costos is wearing you down, I take it.”
    “Negative.”
    “Anna, you must realize that there is no going back. You are what you are.”
    “A freak.”
    “This gift was there even before you joined the FBI. We simply helped you hone it, control it, and better understand it. You can walk away from the division, but the gift won’t go away. It’s what you are, Anna.”
    “Special Agent Anna Travelli is what I am, Jeff. But it’s not who I am…and it never will be.”
     
    A TROPICAL STORM moved in two days later. The rain fell in bursts that ran along the street, swirling with dust and litter. It did little to hamper the heat. If anything, the occasional downpour exacerbated the unbearable humidity that clung to their skin and clothes. The turbulence also brought out the wickedness in men whose main source of entertainment was the back-alley whores. Fewer witnesses. Fewer squads and cruisers. Rain to wash evidence into oblivion.
    Anna stood at the window and looked down the street, at the boozed-up browsers from the Quarter gyrating to jazz bands like Rockin’ Dopsie, Jr. and the Zydeco Twisters, Counting Crows, and Ladysmith Black Mambazo, none of whom could care less if lightning were to streak from the sky and incinerate the cymbals on their washtub drums. Anything to make a buck. Anything to survive one more day in the Vieux Carré.
    Scarlett Brown and Jenny Decker smirked as Detective Armstrong completed the task of wiring them, not an easy chore since their clothes consisted of crotch-length spandex skirts and halter tops. Their expressions were