The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  They’d been outside for a walk with Oscar when the sky had opened up. Rain pelted them as they’d dashed back to the house and dripping, hurried into the kitchen. She’d nearly tripped over Oscar’s leash and Adam had caught her. They’d both tumbled to the floor, she on top of him and Adam had pulled her close, pressed his face into the cleft of her breasts visible through her soaked blouse, then begun to kiss her. She’d responded eagerly and this time as they’d come together, slick, wet bodies joining, she’d experienced each emotion, every tingling sensation—his hands on her buttocks, his tongue on her nipples, his erection hard against her abdomen before he’d finally slid between her legs and made love to her as if he’d never stop.

  Even now the memory was crystal clear. She hadn’t lost herself in the Kelly personality. In fact as the weeks passed, that personality seemed to be fading. Caitlyn knew that someday she would be completely whole. And Adam would be at her side. She turned to him and fought the tears burning the back of her eyes.

  “Hey,” she said as he approached.

  “Hey, back at you.” He saw the tears in her eyes. “You okay?”

  “You’re the shrink. You tell me.”

  “My professional opinion? You’re hopeless.”

  She socked him in the arm.

  “My personal opinion?”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “You are definitely okay.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Maybe beyond ‘okay.’ Even perfect.”

  She laughed. “God, Adam, enough, okay. Perfect?” She thought about what she’d been through, what they’d shared, how well he knew her. “You need to get out more.”

  “Good point. How about dinner?”

  “Mmm. Maybe.”

  “I’ll cook.”

  She laughed again. “Then I think I’ll pass.”

  He squeezed her. “You’re bad.”

  “From perfect to bad in ten seconds. That must be some kind of record.”

  “Come on, let’s go home. You can cook.”

  She rolled her eyes as Oscar ran around them, wrapping the leash around their legs. “No way. Let’s go out.”

  “Whatever you want.” He dropped a kiss on her lips and she felt warm inside. Safe. Complete. Which was silly.

  “I think I just changed my mind,” she said, knowing her eyes were glimmering with mischief. “Let’s stay in. All night.”

  “So it’s pizza and beer.”

  “To start with,” she said, unwrapping Oscar’s leash and trying not to trip. “After that, who knows? Maybe we could do some role playing.”

  A grin slid from one side of his mouth to the other. “That could be dangerous, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t think,” she said and kissed him again. Taking his hand, she pulled him to the car. “I know.”

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you liked THE NIGHT BEFORE. I’ve got to admit that I had a lot of fun writing the book and, man, was the research a blast! Two trips to Savannah. What fun. Savannah is truly a magnificent, intriguing city with its grand old houses, rumors of ghosts and rich history. I was in heaven while I was there, even when I was caught in a rainstorm that would rival any I’ve ever seen here in Oregon.

  So I’m really lucky. I think I get to go back to Savannah for research on my next thriller, THE MORNING AFTER. That’s right, THE MORNING AFTER is the companion book to THE NIGHT BEFORE, the sequel with some of the same characters peppering the pages.

  Let’s talk a little about THE MORNING AFTER. It stars Detective Pierce Reed and the frustrated reporter for the Savannah Sentinel, Nikki Gillette.

  Nikki’s been looking for her big break for years. Tired of being relegated to the local society teas, spelling bees and school budget meetings, the daughter of Judge Ron Gillette is searching for a way to propel herself into the big time.

  As far as Detective Reed is concerned, Nikki is a pain in the backside, always nosing around his investigations and this next one, a serial killer stalking the streets of Savannah is nothing for an amateur to be fooling with. This guy’s murders are bizarre and bone chilling. The killer has an agenda and it’s aimed straight at Reed. The last thing Detective Reed and the Savannah Police Department need is a nosy reporter poking around in their investigation.

  Things go from bad to worse as the clues start to unravel the mystery and with a new mind-numbing terror, Reed discovers the killer’s true motives. No one is safe. Least of all, Nikki Gillette.

  I hope you pick up a copy of THE MORNING AFTER which is now in bookstores. Some of the other characters you met here and in my previous books will appear. I’ve enclosed an excerpt for THE MORNING AFTER in the next few pages so check it out!

  For some computer fun, log on to my website @ www.lisajackson.com for more information about THE NIGHT BFORE, THE MORNING AFTER and my other releases. I have contests running and also go to www.themysterymansion.com for some cool games and contests. Those of you who’ve read THE NIGHT BEFORE will have an edge when entering the contests as they are about the book. While you’re browsing the site, you’ll notice that www.themysterymansion.com home page is the computer replica of Oak Hill, the mansion in THE NIGHT BEFORE. Inside those decrepit doors are the lairs of some of my villains. So enter if you dare, sign my guest book, try to win a contest, and tell me what you think of the book.

  Once again, I hope you enjoyed THE NIGHT BEFORE.

  Keep reading!

  Lisa Jackson

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Lisa Jackson’s next thriller THE MORNING AFTER

  Prologue

  Oh, God it was cold . . . so cold . . .

  Bobbi Jo shivered.

  And the silence. Deafening. She was . . . where?

  Bobbi Jo’s eyes flew open.

  It was dark. Airless.

  Panic chiseled through her bones. This was wrong, all wrong. She tried to sit up but couldn’t move. Her forehead bumped against something hard and there were sides pressing her onto the bed . . . no, not a bed, something softer and spongier and squishy. Fear scorched her brain as the horrendous smell assailed her. She was squeezed into some kind of box.

  A coffin?

  God, no! That was impossible? This was all some kind of weird, macabre dream. That was it. That had to be it. But her blood was pumping frantically through her body. She tried to kick upward, to push, to climb out of this horrible confining space with its slick lining and . . . and . . . Jesus Christ, she was lying on something. Or someone!

  A body? She was wedged into a coffin with a dead person?

  “No!” she cried, screaming and clawing at the top of the coffin. Wildly, she tore at the smooth satin lining, her fingernails breaking, her skin ripping. The stench was overwhelming, the air so cold and thin . . . “Help me! Oh, God! Help me! Someone please!” she shrieked so loudly it echoed back at her ears. This had to be some kind of bizarre nightmare. And yet the pain in her fingertips, the blood flowing under her nails convinced her that she was living her own worst fear.

  Horror strangled her and she thought she might pass out. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she kicked, and scratched, willing someone, anyone to help her out of this tomb of death.

  But the darkness remained. The squishy body beneath her didn’t move and above her own screams she thought she heard the thud of dirt and stones being piled on top of this hideous coffin. “No! No!” she pounded, pleading and crying. “Let me out! Please, please!”

  Who would do this to her?

  Why . . . oh, God, why . . . who had she wronged so horribly? There were many, she realized as panic squeezed through her and her mind spun crazily to thoughts of the men in her life and to one in particular. Pierce Reed. Detective with the Savannah Police Department.

  No . . . Reed wouldn’t do this to her, didn’t really know how deeply their lives were entwined, but some monster had trapped her here.

  She began to shiver and weep.

  “Let me out! Let me out,” she screamed, sobbing, her skin crawling with the
thought of the decomposing human that was her bed.

  She gasped, drawing in a ragged, burning breath of what was left of the air. Her lungs were on fire from lack of oxygen and she felt suddenly weak. She made one last vain attempt to claw her way out of her prison.

  Above the macabre silence she thought she heard the throaty cackle of heinous, demonic laughter.

  Oh, God, help me.

  Whoever had done this to her was enjoying it.

  Please turn the page for an exciting

  sneak peek of Lisa Jackson’s

  newest romantic suspense thriller

  DEEP FREEZE

  now available!

  Prologue

  Last Winter

  Unmoving, she waited.

  As if she sensed he was near.

  He could feel it—that throb of desire between them as he looked across a dimly illuminated expanse to the bed where she lay in semidarkness. Jenna Hughes. The woman of his dreams. The single female he’d lived his life for. So close. And in his bed. Finally in his bed.

  And he was ready. Oh God, he was ready. Sweat began to bead on his upper lip and forehead. His cock was stiffening, his nerve endings dancing.

  The lamps were turned low, a few night-lights giving the large room an intimate atmosphere of shadows and fuzzy, muted corners. Soft music, the romantic score from the movie Beneath the Shadows, whispered through the cold, cavernous room. His breath fogged as he stared at her in the sexy black teddy he’d bought for her. So nice that she’d decided to wear it for this special tryst. Their first.

  Good girl.

  The silk and lace had fit perfectly, sculpting her body. Just as he’d known it would.

  He caught a glimpse of her breasts through the sheer fabric. Dark nipples looked nearly wet as they peeked through the lace. Had she moistened them for him? In eager expectation?

  Beautiful.

  He smiled inwardly, knowing that she was as eager as he was.

  How long had he anticipated this moment? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. The time was now. The pills and vodka he’d swallowed had kicked in and he was working on the perfect buzz—just enough chemicals to make this moment even better.

  “I’m here,” he told her quietly, expecting her to turn her head, arch one of those delicate black eyebrows, and cast him a come-hither look. Or perhaps she would rise on one elbow and slowly crook a finger toward him, silently drawing him closer, her silvery-green gaze holding his.

  But she didn’t move. Not one strand of ebony-colored hair shifted. She just lay on the bed and stared upward.

  That was wrong.

  He froze.

  She should look his way. That was what he wanted.

  “Jenna?” he called quietly.

  Nothing. Not so much as a flicker of a glance in his direction.

  What was the matter with her? Dressed like a damned harlot, she acted as if she didn’t care that he was near, that this night was special to her. To him. To them.

  Not again!

  His back teeth ground together in frustration at her cool disinterest. Was it a game? Was she teasing him? Just what the hell was going on here?

  “Jenna, look at me,” he commanded in a near-whisper.

  But as he edged closer, he realized that she wasn’t as perfect as he’d thought. No . . . her makeup wasn’t quite right. Her lipstick was too pale, her eyeshadow barely visible. He’d wanted her to look more like a whore. That was the plan. Hadn’t he told her to play the part of a prostitute? Isn’t she dressed as a prostitute? Isn’t this part of your fantasy?

  Damn, he couldn’t think straight. His mind wasn’t as clear as he’d hoped. Probably the drugs . . . or was it something else? Something vital? Jenna wasn’t responding the way he’d hoped.

  She knew what he liked.

  But then, she’d always been defiant. Always aloof. Icily so. That was part of his attraction to her.

  “Come on, baby,” he whispered, deciding to give her another chance, though he was having trouble focusing. Maybe he was a little too high and he wasn’t seeing those little nuances of lust that she was known for. That was it. His mind was a little too cloudy, his thoughts not quite joined, his lust overtaking reason. He was quivering inside, and his lungs felt constricted. His erection was rock-hard, straining against his fly, but the images in his mind were a little blurry.

  He licked his lips. No more waiting.

  He placed a knee on the bed beside her, and the mattress creaked loudly.

  Still she refused to look at him.

  “Jenna!” he said more sharply than he’d intended, his temper catching fire, his tongue a little thick.

  Take it easy. She’s here, isn’t she?

  “Jenna, look at me!”

  Not so much as a flinch.

  Stubborn, thankless woman! After all he’d done for her! All the years he’d thought of no one but her! Rage burned through his blood, and his hands began to shake.

  Calm down! You can still have her. In your bed. She hasn’t moved away, has she?

  “Jenna, I’m here,” he said.

  She ignored him.

  Fury blazed white-hot, but he tried to fight his anger. This was her game, that was all. She knew that the more she pretended disinterest, the more he would want her, the higher the erotic stakes. And that was all the better.

  Wasn’t it?

  He didn’t know. Couldn’t really remember.

  Sweat beaded his brow though it was cold in here, the temperature hovering only a few degrees above freezing. And yet he was hot inside, a fire raging through his blood.

  Didn’t she feel it—the intimate bond that tethered them together?

  He knelt beside her and with a trembling finger traced the outline of her cheek. It was warm to his touch.

  Then he understood. This was all part of her fantasy. She wanted him to think of her not as Jenna Hughes, but as one of the roles she’d played on the big screen. Wasn’t she dressed as Paris Knowlton, a New Orleans prostitute in Beneath the Shadows? Hadn’t he wanted Jenna to act like Paris tonight? Isn’t that exactly what she was doing? Suddenly he felt better, the warmth running through his veins due to lust and drugs rather than rage.

  “Paris,” he cooed, touching her dark hair lovingly. It shimmered a blue-black in the shadowy lights. “I’ve been searching for you.”

  Still no response.

  Jesus, what did she want? He was playing his part . . . or was he?

  “Jenna?”

  Not so much as a glance his way. Anger sparked. It tore through him, his blood suddenly thundering in his ears. “Oh, I get it,” he snarled, his fingers roughly grazing her neck. “You’re really into this, aren’t you? You like acting like a whore.”

  He heard a gasp.

  Finally!

  His fingers surrounded her throat. It was warm to his touch. Pliant. He tried to feel her pulse as his hands pressed against her skin.

  A groan.

  Pain or desire?

  “That’s it, isn’t it? You like it when I’m rough, don’t you?”

  “Oh God, no!” Her voice seemed to come from a distance, echoing in his head, bouncing off the walls. “Don’t!”

  His grip tightened, sinking into her nearly hot flesh.

  “Stop! Please! What are you doing?”

  He was so hard he was trembling, but he couldn’t take his hands from her neck, couldn’t unzip his fly. He shook her then and her head wobbled wildly, beautiful green eyes fixed straight at him.

  A terrified scream ripped through the room.

  Jenna’s head fell backward.

  Her neck wobbled in his hands.

  Another horrified, panicked shriek ricocheted off the rafters, the sound echoing through his brain.

  “Bitch!” He slapped her hard.

  Smack! Her face twisted hard to one side.

  “Oh God!” There was crying now. Sobbing. “No, no, no!”

  Her makeup began to run, her perfect features distorting from the blow. Her hai
r came loose, the thick black wig falling onto the rumpled mattress, her bald pate visible in the dusky room.

  A gasp.

  Her head twisted to one side.

  That was better.

  He raised his hand again.

  “Don’t . . . oh God, please don’t!” she pled from immobile lips. “What’re you doing?” She was wailing violently, nearly incoherently, panic stretching her vocal cords. But her shoulders remained stiff. Inflexible. Her face without any passion.

  Something was wrong here, very wrong . . .

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . please stop.”

  The sound of fear, the gulping, gasping sobs, reverberated through the room, yet no tears fell from Jenna’s eyes, nor did they blink. Her lips didn’t tremble. Her shoulders didn’t shake. Her body didn’t convulse . . .

  He blinked. Cleared his head. His erection softened as he realized where he was and realized what he was doing.

  Hell!

  He stared down at Jenna Hughes, and as if his hands were burned, dropped her onto the mussed silk sheets.

  Crack!

  Her head hit the bed frame.

  A shriek of pure terror ripped through the room.

  Jenna’s neck snapped.

  Her bald head fell away from her body.

  “Oh God, noooooooooo!”

  Eyes wide, the head rolled off the mattress.

  With a dull thud, her skull landed on the concrete floor of this, his sanctuary.

  The screams became hysterical, violent, horrible sobs that tore through the chamber, bouncing off the walls and climbing up his spine.

  “Oh God! Please, don’t!” Her voice seemed to echo to the rooftop. So she could feel. And yet she wasn’t looking at him. Something was wrong here . . . very wrong.

  On the floor, Jenna’s features compressed and flattened in the ooze that had once been her face.

  His mind cleared.

  He realized that his near-perfect creation, his waxen mask of Jenna Hughes’s gorgeous face, was destroyed.

  Because he hadn’t been able to wait.

  Because he’d taken too many pills.