by Lisa Jackson
Drinking coffee that had started to bother his stomach, he thought about the day to come and what he intended to do, starting with going over the evidence possibly linking the crimes, Wes Allen’s alibis, his motives and getting the search warrant to go through his house and barns. Those huge buildings that had stood empty for years. Maybe there was more to be found than the shrine/video room tucked in the basement.
From the living room, he heard a moan.
Carter shot to his feet and hurried to the couch where Jenna thrashed, her features pinched in distress. “No!” she said, though her eyes didn’t open. “No, please.”
“Jenna,” he whispered and noticed she was shaking. “Jenna. Wake up. It’s okay. I’m with you.”
“Don’t. Oh, don’t.”
“Jenna,” he said a little more loudly, his hands gently holding onto her trembling shoulders. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”
Her eyes flew open.
Startled, she nearly screamed.
“Shh. Hush, darlin’. You’re all right,” he said, placing his face close to hers so that, in the half light from the fire, she would recognize him.
“Oh. Oh.” She blinked and tears fell from her eyes. Her face was pale as death, and she was shivering as if cold to the bone.
“Everything’s fine.”
She sniffed and shook her head. He sat next to her on the couch, still holding her, and she burrowed her head into his shoulder. “It was Cassie again. He had her…that faceless bastard had her!”
“She’s okay. Asleep in the den.”
Jenna was inconsolable. Wrapped in a quilt, she walked to the den and peered inside where both her daughters were sleeping. Even the dog didn’t move. Pushing her hair from her eyes, she seemed to calm a bit. “What time is it?”
“Too early.”
“And?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary has happened since you dropped off.”
“Thank God.” She stretched, pulling the quilt up. It gaped open and her sweater slid up the flat wall of her abdomen. He felt his groin tighten. “I should get up.”
“You should sleep.”
“What about you?” she asked around a yawn, as she dropped her arms to her side.
“I’m fine.”
“A man of steel?”
He laughed. “Maybe that’s a little too strong. I’m probably more like a man of aluminum foil.”
She smiled, and the hint of teeth he saw against her lips was tantalizing, made his thoughts run in unwanted, dangerous directions. “Steel or tinfoil, I don’t really care,” she admitted and stepped up to him, “I’m just glad you’re here.” Her green eyes found his. “Thanks, Carter. I guess I needed you last night.” She said it as if it were a fact and he didn’t argue.
Instead, though he knew he was being the worst kind of fool possible, he slipped his hands beneath the quilt, drew her close to him, and kissed her. Softly at first, feeling her warm, pliant lips respond, and then, not thinking of the consequences, his arms around her tightened, his mouth pressed harder against hers.
Parting her lips, she sighed into his open mouth and he was undone.
Lust fired his blood.
He didn’t know how long it had been since he’d kissed a woman, but it was too damned long. And he’d been wanting this one ever since he’d pulled her over on the snowy highway. She wanted him, too. He felt it in the way she fit up against him, her breasts flattened against his chest, her arms circling his neck, holding him firmly to her, her legs parted as she stood on tiptoe. He pushed one leg between those legs, felt the zipper of her jeans rub against his thigh, heard a wanton groan escape her lips.
His hands splayed against her back, fingers rubbing her sweater, feeling the firm flesh beneath the soft angora, and he drowned in the scent and feel of her. His body screamed for release, muscles tight, mind weary, sex an easy and welcome antidote to all that was wrong in the world. She was so beautiful, so erotic, so damned sexy, and every nerve ending itched for the relief she could give.
Don’t do this, Carter. Use your head. She’s a victim, a woman you’re supposed to protect, a Hollywood princess who has been wanted by every man she’s ever met. Don’t do this.
But her body was rubbing against him and her mouth opened so easily to his. He felt her nipples through her sweater and bra, hard buttons that he ached to touch, to kiss, to pull on with his teeth.
His heart was pounding crazily, his blood thundering through his brain, his erection at full mast. His lungs were so tight, he was breathing shallowly, his mind running in reckless circles. He imagined what it would feel like to make love to her, to feel her warm, moist body sheathing his, to look down upon her beneath him, black hair splayed around her face, her breasts full, her nipples dark and hard with want, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin as he pushed into her and began to move. All night…it would take all night and more.
But he couldn’t. Not here. Not like this.
He lifted his head and was nearly lost again when he stared into the slumberous, erotic eyes of Jenna Hughes. “I can’t,” he said, though his body was screaming that he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
“I know.”
“The kids,” he lifted a hand in the direction of the den.
“I know.”
She was tugging on him, walking backward, leading him through the living room and down two steps to a guest room. Empty. Cold. Dark.
“We shouldn’t,” she said, but threw her arms around his neck again and kissed him feverishly.
His willpower fled and he shut the door behind her and twisted the dead bolt without lifting his head. He peeled off her sweater, his hands anxious for the weight of her breasts against his palms. She was gasping as the sweater hit the floor and he yanked a bra strap over her shoulder to expose her breast. Her fingers were fumbling with the hem of his shirt and he pulled it off, then lifted her onto his hips and took her breast in his mouth, anxiously. Hungrily. She moaned and held on with one arm, letting her head loll backwards as he suckled.
This is a mistake, his mind hammered at him, but he ignored it. You’ll mess everything up. If you do her, Carter, your career, your life, everything that you’ve worked for will be gone.
He pulled off her bra as her fingers fumbled for his fly. He stripped her of her jeans and panties, and kicked his own away, then pulled her onto him, watched her gasp as he placed her over his erection. Sweet. Hot. Wet. He began to move, his tired muscles suddenly energized.
She held onto his shoulders, clung to him, their bodies straining. He held her around the waist with one arm, while the other tangled in her hair.
“Jenna,” he whispered hoarsely, listening to the tempo of her breathing, watching her breasts rise and fall as she rode him, used him, let loose. Only when he felt her shudder, when he heard her moan, did he plunge deeper, harder, aware of the strain of the cords in his neck, hearing her breathing increase again, her sweet, short gasps as she caught his rhythm and moved with him. Faster, faster, faster, until he couldn’t hold back a second longer and he threw back his head and released.
Both bodies jerked and she grasped him tighter. She let out a soft cry against his throat, burying her face into his neck as wave after wave ran through her body. “Oh, God,” she finally said, her hair as damp as his own, her face flushed as he carried her to the daybed pushed against the wall and fell onto it with her. Wedged upon the small mattress, too many pillows surrounding them, he held her close and kissed her crown.
She glanced up at him and smiled naughtily. “Well, well, well, Carter…forget that man of tinfoil. You really are a man of steel.”
“Ya think?”
“Mmm.” She kissed his cheek, then nibbled at his earlobe. “I don’t think, Sheriff, I know.”
He laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, and it felt good to let go, if just for a few minutes. Soon, they would have to face the world again, but for a few more minutes…He turned his face to hers and began kissing her again. This time, he silentl
y vowed as he felt her respond to him, he’d take it slow. Real slow.
“Slut!” He watched the vulgar display on his screen, compliments of a hidden camera he’d wired into her house, the electronics hidden deep in the insulation of the attic or wired alongside the ducts in the ceiling and floor vents. Everything she did, he witnessed as long as the equipment worked. As soon as he’d learned that she was moving into the old McReedy place, he’d set about wiring it for his special purposes, but some of the tiny cameras had failed and often he’d been forced to stand outside and stare down at her compound from his blind in the trees. Which he enjoyed. Especially with the snow caressing his skin.
But tonight, with the snow so heavy, he was forced inside to watch via monitor and as he did, he felt nausea attack. He was hot, itching from the inside out. Furious, he kicked a paint can and sent it reeling, red color splashing upon the walls. He barely noticed.
She was with another man.
Kissing.
Touching.
Fucking like a bitch in heat.
His pulse pounded, throbbed through his brain, and he felt betrayal of the worst kind as he viewed her getting off on another man. Pathetic. Couldn’t she have waited? Didn’t she know that only he could satisfy her? His shrine to her was nearly complete, and this was how she repaid him, by acting like a common tramp, spreading her legs eagerly for the sheriff.
Shane Carter, a man who had vowed to uphold the law, and there he was, stripping off her clothes, running his tongue and teeth over her skin, nipping at her breast. Pushing his cock deep inside her. And she let him.
His Jenna.
She let him!
Rage burned through him and he plotted out all kinds of satisfying revenge, but he could not abandon his plan. Not now. Precision was the key.
He watched them fornicate and his rage grew hot as the night. He glanced over at the stage where most of the women were already positioned. How long had he worked for this? For years. Long before anyone would guess, and then the news about her move, he’d heard it long before she’d actually arrived in Falls Crossing. From the moment he’d heard a whisper of a rumor about her moving to this part of Oregon, he’d prepared, used the windfall of insurance money to buy this place and prepare it. He’d been lucky in that respect; the stars had aligned. Because it was fate. They were meant to be together. There were no coincidences. His life was meant to be entwined with hers, and everything he did was for Jenna.
Always for Jenna.
From the first time he’d met her face-to-face, he’d known. He’d prepared.
Taking a deep breath, he glanced at his stage. His shrine to her and her work.
Everything was set.
All the characters dressed and in position, painted faces near-perfect replicas of Jenna—Marnie Sylvane, Faye Tyler, Paris Knowlton, and Zoey Trammel, all ready except for the last two. They were waiting for Katrina Petrova and Anne Parks. Jenna Hughes’s most famous starring roles. He’d considered creating Rebecca Lange, but as White Out had never been finished, he’d discarded the idea.
He relaxed. He was still in control. He would just have to make a minor adjustment, push things up a bit. But he was ready. Clicking off the monitor, he walked to his bathroom and began to dress. First the contacts, to tint the color of his eyes, then the hairpiece to add a new hairline and change his natural color, and finally a tight bodysuit to alter his physique and lifts in his shoes to add two inches. He was careful how he shaved.
When he was finished, he took a good, hard look in the mirror.
Even his mother wouldn’t recognize him.
He smiled at that, then remembered caps. Slipped them on.
No, his mother would never recognize him.
Which was just as well.
His purpose in mind, he reached for his jacket.
It was time to hunt.
CHAPTER 41
She awoke to the smell of coffee and the feeling that something had shifted in her life. She moved, felt a tenderness between her legs, and smiled. She and Shane Carter had made love for hours and now…she glanced at the clock and groaned. It was barely seven, and he was already up, the first hint of morning light filtering through the closed blinds.
Rubbing a hand over her face, she thought about the events leading up to Carter’s arrival and some of her fear returned. Wes Allen. The police think Wes Allen has been terrorizing you. She still couldn’t believe it. Although she wouldn’t discount Wes for some of the things, she couldn’t see him as a murderer, and if her case was connected to the missing women, then whoever was behind it was a cruel killer.
Though no other bodies had been found, Mavis Gette’s decomposing corpse led everyone to fear that Sonja Hatchell, Roxie Olmstead, and now even Lynnetta Swaggert had met the same horrid end.
Carter was on the telephone. She heard the soft, steady sound of his voice and, after throwing on her wrinkled clothes, she peeked into the den, saw that her girls were still sleeping soundly, then padded barefoot into the kitchen.
He took one look at her and, bless him, he seemed to blush. “Morning, gorgeous,” he said, setting down his cup. Before she could respond, he folded her into his arms, kissed her as if he never intended to stop, then lifted his head and with their noses nearly touching, winked at her.
Her silly heart fluttered out of control and her lips tingled where they’d touched his. Breathlessly, she placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart. “My goodness, Sheriff. You really know how to say ‘Good morning’ to a girl, don’t you?”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“That’s the way I’d like to wake up every day,” she admitted, and he chuckled, one thick eyebrow lifting as if he, too, were mentally picturing what had transpired between them the night before.
She felt a flush rise on the back of her neck as she, too, saw their entwined, panting bodies, the sinewy strands of his muscles straining, the way his hair fell over his eyes as he let out a last, violent gasp and clutched her as if he’d never let go. Ridiculously, she wondered what it would be like to live with Sheriff Shane Carter with his gruff, hard-to-crack demeanor, long hours, the danger that often came with his job. But the nights, Lord, the nights would be spectacular.
Dear God, what kind of fantasy was she conjuring up?
“Coffee?” he asked, eyeing her as if reading her thoughts, and she reined in her too-fertile imagination, swiftly closing her mind to such silly fantasies.
“Mmm. Sounds like heaven.”
As he lifted the pot from its holder and poured a stream of coffee into a mug, she glanced down at the way his slacks hugged his tight rear end, remembered how her fingers had dug into those taut muscles as he’d made love to her. Her throat went dry and she glanced at the slope of his back, the way his shoulders stretched his jacket, and thought of the taut skin and muscle beneath the insulated fabric. They’d had one night together, she reminded herself. That was it. A few hours of sexual release, nothing more. Don’t do this to yourself, Jenna. You and Carter are trapped in an excruciatingly tense situation; you reached for each other last night. End of story.
He handed her a cup, caught her eye, and as if he guessed what she was thinking, sensed the turn of her thoughts, he turned the conversation to the here and now. All business. “I’ve got to go in to the office, but I’ll call you later.”
“Do that,” she said.
“And I’ll let you know if we arrest Wes.”
Shuddering, she took a sip of her coffee. “I can’t imagine.”
“I’ve talked to Larry Sparks. Someone’s following Wes Allen until we can get a search warrant for his house. You and the girls should be safe here with Turnquist. I’ll have patrols drive by and if anything bothers you, anything feels wrong, call me on my cell.”
“I will,” she said. “Promise.”
He checked his watch. “Okay, I’ve got to run. I’ll stop and talk to Turnquist on my way out.”
She set down her cup and tugged on his hand, dragging h
im back to the guest room. Once there, she put her hands in the pockets of his jacket, pulled him close, and tilted her face up to kiss him again.
“Jenna,” he protested.
“What, no kiss good-bye?”
“Maybe one.” With a groan, he placed his arms around her and slanted his mouth over hers. She kissed him back, feeling a thrill race through her blood, desire bloom lightning-quick, her legs wanting to fold as she drew him to the floor.
“I really have to go,” he said, and slowly released her.
“Spoilsport.” As she withdrew her left hand, her fingertips brushed against the corner of something—cardboard?—in his pocket. Snapshots fluttered to the floor, and she felt his body freeze. He reached down and swept the photographs into his palm, but not before she saw the images of a woman—a beautiful, sexy, voluptuous woman, dressed scantily in a gold thong and holding her hands over her breasts as she visually made love to the camera. Another picture showed her on rumpled sheets, and this time she was completely nude, her hair mussed, her skin flushed as if from recent lovemaking.
Jenna took a step back. Her heart crumbled into a billion painful pieces. What in the world had she been thinking, with all her stupid fantasies about this man she barely knew? Dear God, what an idiot she was! Her gaze found Shane’s, and a spurt of hot fury surged through her bloodstream.
“Oops,” she said.
“I can explain.”
“You don’t have to.”
“They’re pictures of my wife. My deceased wife.”
“You carry snapshots of your naked wife around with you, in your pockets?” she snapped. “I hope to God that you’re in counseling, Carter, because that’s pretty damned weird. Maybe borderline obsessive.”