Kill Me Twice

by Roxanne St Claire

  Alex waited for her to recoil, but she just nudged the letter away and pivoted to face him.

  “That’s a relief,” she announced. Her breasts were inches from his chest. She looked right up into his eyes and practically dared him to back away.

  He didn’t move. “A relief?”

  “It’s not exactly the fan mail you want, but not really vicious. This wouldn’t set Jessica into a fear frenzy. She’d be on her guard, sure, but a television personality is a prime target for losers who sit at home and jerk off to the local news.” She placed one finger on his chest, pushed him back, and walked away. “We’ve had worse than this, both of us. That’s why she didn’t tell me.”

  The phone rang again, and he grabbed her arm to keep her from answering. “Let’s see who it is. It might give us a clue to where she is.”

  “Are you crazy?” She tugged from his grip. “It could be Jess.”

  “Then you can pick up.” He knew an audio recorder was built into the cordless phone; he’d heard it ring earlier. And now he knew whose voice he’d heard while he waited in the dark, who had demanded Jessica to pick up.

  After a digital tone, there was a second of staticky silence. Jazz glared at him, but he just shook his head. “Wait. Listen.”

  “Hi, um, it’s me.” He knew immediately that it wasn’t Jessica; the feminine voice was tinged with too much timidity to be a newscaster. “Sorry about tonight. Listen, I did get some more. And I think these will have what you’re looking for. At the, um, end, you know? I’ll wait for you to call me so we can meet again.”

  Another beep ended the connection.

  Jazz seized the phone and peered at the digital readout. “It was a pay phone. I can probably find it, though.”

  “Why did she say ‘sorry about tonight’?” he mused.

  She shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t have the information Jessica needed when they met.”

  “Or maybe they didn’t meet. Maybe Jessica was tied up….” He waited until she looked at him expectantly. “By her stalker.”

  She waved toward the letters like she was swiping cobwebs away. “Trust me, that bullshit is not going to keep Jessica in hiding. I can’t believe the station would hire protection for something as inconsequential as that.”

  “Inconsequential or not, I’m not going anywhere until we find her.”

  “Fine. She’ll show up or call any minute. Until she does, don’t forget, I’m not your principal. I don’t need protection.”

  “Too bad. You’re getting it.”

  Denise Rutledge hung up the pay phone and watched a Hialeah patrolman circle the perimeter of the secluded park, cruising for kids who’d climb the fence and swim in the public pool. When his headlights were safely aimed in the opposite direction, she pulled her backpack a little tighter and walked to her car, cursing herself for trusting that newslady. And for starting her stupid message with “sorry.”

  Why did she always take the blame? Out of habit, probably. She had nothing to be sorry for. She’d been right across from the racetrack, like they’d planned. Waiting, like a fool. Getting totally blown off by Jessica Adams.

  The newscaster had been all sweetness and honey the first few times they’d met, all sympathetic to the cause and shit. But she’d gotten all she’d wanted from Denise; or else she’d have made their meeting tonight.

  All that bullshit about following her around with a camera to get an “insider’s” view. Puhlease.

  Sliding into the ancient Plymouth Reliant, Denise grabbed a Marlboro and cupped her hands to light it. She’d been an idiot to think that newslady was going to help her, to help any of them.

  Visibility will help your cause. You have rights.

  What a crock of shit. She’d have said anything to get her hands on that stuff, and Denise, like a complete moron, had handed it over without getting a fucking dime. Now the bitch probably had everything she needed to take down half the residents of Cocoplum, and win some kind of news Oscar in the process.

  And all Denise got was stood up. The priss probably thought she’d get cooties just being so close to someone who did what Denise did for a living.

  She should have taken money the first time they met—then she’d at least have something. Her ass was grass if Howie Carpenter ever found out what she’d lifted from that warehouse. She’d always been so damn careful never to break a law. Nothing she’d done so far was illegal…except stealing company property.

  Blowing out a long puff, she flicked the butt out the window. That phony bitch had held Denise’s hand, looked her in the eyes and acted like, well, like they were connected somehow. And Denise, like a blubbering fool, had told her about Grady and how she couldn’t get custody of him until she had insurance.

  Denise threw the backpack behind her, where it crunched an empty Big Mac container. Damn, she shouldn’t have eaten that crap while she was waiting for Adams. All that salt would show tomorrow.

  Tonight she’d have to take a laxative and a water pill. She shook her head at the shit she was willing to do just to look good and keep her lousy job. But it was the only way to get back to Minnesota before her boy was all grown up and didn’t give a rip about having a mother. The thought made the greasy food roll in her stomach.

  She glanced back toward the Hialeah Park Racetrack one more time, but there was no sign of the woman who’d promised to meet her there.

  Jessica Adams didn’t understand what it was like to scrape and crawl and beg for basic human rights. And she sure as hell didn’t understand what it felt like to have your son ripped from your arms.

  Well she’d just lost herself a fan. And her exclusive little story.

  Chapter

  Three

  T he bed dipped with the weight of a body and Jazz curled toward the warmth, lost in the quiet blackness of sleep. She heard her name whispered, felt her cheek feathered with a fingertip’s touch.

  She nuzzled into the hand, unwilling to climb out of the depth of her dream. Touch me. She tried to say the words, but all she managed was a soft moan from her throat.

  Fingers tunneled into the hair at the back of her neck, sending a spray of delicious sparks over her skin. Beautiful, heavy sleep mixed with the first easy wave of arousal and she arched into the pleasure, wanting to drown in sleep and sex. She wanted both. She needed both. Deep, fierce, intense sex, and endless, dreamless sleep.

  “Ahora no, querida. Despiértate.”

  That powerful hand slid over her shoulder, down her arm. She rose to meet it, to brush her breast against his fingertips. Lost in the dream, she laid her hand over his, guiding him to her aching nipple. Pleasure shot through her, sending heat between her legs. She lifted her hips at the sound of sweet, soft laughter.

  “Despiértate, querida.” The exotic sound intensified the warmth low inside her, pulling at her.

  What did that mean? Desperate? Of course, she was. She stretched again, another plea rumbling in her throat. Breath warmed her face and she turned toward it, to kiss the mouth that spoke such sweet, sexy words. A silky strand of hair tickled her cheek and the strong hand closed over her breast. She could see his hand in her dream. Narrow, long, tanned fingers poised to tweak her swollen nipple.

  She opened her mouth for a kiss.

  “Jazz, you’re going to be late.”

  She was always late. She sucked in a breath of frustration, the fog dissipating just as the hand abandoned her breast.

  “God, I hate you, Lucy,” he whispered.

  Lucy? No. Wake me in Spanish, Alex.

  Alex?

  Awareness punched her awake and she jerked, her limbs tingling from a double shot of indignity and lust. She blinked at the size and closeness of him in the shadows. The bodyguard in black.

  She yanked the silk comforter over the sheer nightgown she’d taken from Jessica’s drawer. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to wake you up.” He picked up a travel clock next to her bed. “This thing finally gave up after ten minutes of beeping. I waited,
but you were comatose.”

  Had she dreamed he touched her? Or…had he? The idea shot more liquid through her veins.

  “Did you just speak Spanish?”

  “Sí, señorita.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Despiértate. Wake up.”

  “What else?” Had he touched her? And, good Lord, could she have enjoyed it any more?

  He leaned over her and a lock of his long hair brushed her cheek, feeling just as sensuous and erotic as it had in her dream. “Estás tan rica que te quiero comer,” he whispered.

  A toe-curling shiver cascaded over her body. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re going to be late for the mayor.”

  Somehow, she doubted that was a literal translation. “No word from Jessica?”

  He shook his head, the teasing glimmer in his dark eyes suddenly gone. “I tried her cell phone again. Still getting voice mail.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five thirty. You promised to be at the studio by six.”

  She gave a frustrated moan. “Five thirty is inhuman. I hate waking up.”

  His smile was shameless. “I could tell.”

  Despite the heat that rushed through her, she pulled the comforter higher and forced her eyes to adjust to the predawn darkness. “I don’t know where the studio is,” she said, seizing on any change of subject. “Do you?”

  “I grew up here. I know every street in Miami.”

  So he was probably Cuban. That explained the Spanish. Estás tan rica que te quiero comer. She could feel the mysterious words warm against her ear. “Are we very far?”

  “About ten minutes or so.” He strode across the room to the walk-in closet. For a large man, every move was as graceful and loose-limbed as a panther. “You have time to take a shower and dress.”

  Dress? Her heart tumbled a little. She was supposed to have tried on Jessica’s anchor wardrobe last night. They’d planned that she and Jess would share a bottle of wine, pick clothes, go through a list of who’s who at the station and practice for this charade. It was going to be fun, a little wild and crazy, but not…dangerous.

  It certainly hadn’t involved a whispering Latin lover. Or a predawn network satellite feed. Where the hell was her sister?

  “Shit,” she mumbled.

  “Does that mean you don’t like it?” He held out a yellow tailored suit, as bright as the sun.

  She curled her lip. “It’s so Jessica.”

  He lifted his other arm, offering her a royal blue number with an Oriental collar and embroidered frog buttons. “More like you?”

  Oh, please. She shook her head.

  He went back into the closet and returned with a straight, short-sleeved khaki sheath. A tag dangled from the side and he flipped it over for her to see. “Here you go. Never been worn.” He threw it on the bed.

  Indignation prickled at her. “Thank you very much, but I don’t need a personal valet to pick my clothes.”

  He started to the door and threw a look over his shoulder. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be moaning in your sleep.”

  Damn him. “I’m awake now, so you can leave.”

  When the door closed, she picked up the dress and looked at the Neiman Marcus tag. Café au lait. Size six.

  Nah. If she was going to be Jessica, she had to really look the part. She went directly to the closet and snatched the yellow suit.

  Jazz wanted to resent the presence of a bodyguard at her side as she sailed through the reception area of WMFL, but part of her was eternally grateful. Not only did he know his way around Miami, driving a badass Cadillac Escalade with a nifty GPS system in the dash, he also magically produced a printed layout of the station and the newsroom, with proper names in each office and a list of key individuals who worked there. A “service of his company.”

  It was as much a godsend as the heavy-duty espresso in a plastic shot glass he bought her at a sandwich shop. By the time she stepped into the cavernous two-story newsroom, she was as awake as she’d ever been at this contemptible hour, and had memorized nearly every name in the Channel Five newsroom. She also knew where the offices were, and which one she should call home.

  It was no surprise that Jessica had one of the few glassed-in offices that surrounded the giant pit of workstations where the writers, reporters, and producers toiled away. An anchor at a TV station this size would be the Queen Bee. Jess’s office was in the back corner, right next to someone by the name of Jonathan Walden. Could that be “Jon Boy”—the person who’d replaced Jessica last night?

  She’d skimmed the list for Ollie, the man who’d called last night, and found an Assignment Manager named Oliver Jergen. That meant he ran the assignment desk, the main artery of the newsroom. In this ultramodern facility, the “desk” was a centrally located circle of gleaming wood and technology, currently managed by a tall, lanky man in his thirties, with shaggy blond hair and Hollywood stubble.

  As Jazz approached, he looked up and his hazel eyes widened in surprise.

  “Jessie!” he exclaimed. “I can’t believe you would ever put that on again after the lemon drop comment.”

  She recognized his voice as the man she’d talked to last night. “Always want to keep you guessing,” she said with her very best Jessica smile.

  His gaze shifted to her right and he raised his eyebrows in question. “And you are?…”

  “This is Alex Romero.” She made a concerted effort to keep her voice at the lower, slower inflection that Jessica had learned from an overpriced voice coach. She’d taught Jazz for free.

  “Are you with the mayor’s PR staff?”

  Right. As if he looked like a flack from City Hall. “It seems the PTB have decided I need a bodyguard,” Jazz explained.

  The man’s eyebrows lifted in another surprised expression. The two men shook hands and exchanged names, confirming her guess that he was Oliver Jergen.

  Oliver pointed a finger to the second floor, toward an entrance to far more private offices. “Just so happens that those same Powers That Be decided to come in early to watch your network interview. Mr. Parrish was so pleasantly surprised that you nailed the assignment that he decided to come in and give you moral support.”

  Just what she needed—the station owner watching her performance. “Then I’ll have to be flawless.”

  Ollie rolled his eyes. “He sure seems to find plenty of excuses to stay in Miami. Don’t they need him up in New York?”

  She shrugged, hoping it was a rhetorical question. “I better go over the interview I’ve prepared.”

  “Yvonne’ll be here to do you at six thirty,” he said, raking her with a look that could be teasing or insulting, depending on the nature of their friendship. “Looks like you could use her magic concealer.”

  Without thinking, she touched under her eyes. It was three A.M. West Coast time, and she hadn’t bothered with makeup; she knew a professional would be here for her.

  “Nice of you to notice,” she said with the light sarcasm she’d heard from her sister a million times, and continued to her office. Her shadow, naturally, was right behind her.

  “You can wait out here,” she said to Alex at the office door. “I can’t escape.”

  He shook his head and opened the glass door, holding it for her. “You have to go through the computer files and tell me what you find.”

  “First I have to interview the mayor of Miami on network TV,” she answered in a hushed whisper as they entered. “Give me some space, will you?”

  “Nervous?” he asked as he closed the door behind them.

  “Just preoccupied, and I don’t need you breathing down my neck.” Like you did in my bed this morning.

  He took a chair across from her desk, adjusting it so that he could observe the newsroom through the glass walls. “Boot up your computer as fast as you can,” he instructed. “See if you can find her calendar and address book. I want both printed out.”

  She switched on Jessica’s computer
and it whirred to life. Her sister’s desk was as immaculate as her home. A neat stack of file folders on one side, an antique glass container holding some pens, a notebook open to a blank page, paper clips, tape, a few business cards, a stack of unopened mail, and two framed pictures.

  While Alex perused the business cards, Jazz studied the pictures.

  One showed their parents twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Hawaii. Jazz had that picture, too, somewhere. Looking at it made her heart twist a little. Jessica was so good about keeping in touch with them, sending little packages and gifts, and e-mailing Dad since he retired from the university. Jazz hadn’t been home to Chicago in four years.

  The other snapshot was of Jessica and Jazz together, waving their diplomas from Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism.

  Jazz grabbed the frame with a little gasp. Who here knew that Jessica had an identical twin? Although they looked very different in the picture—Jazz’s hair flying well past her shoulders and Jessica’s in a neat little bob—it made her uneasy.

  “What is it?” Alex asked, immediately alert.

  “A picture of the two of us.” She pulled open the bottom file drawer and slid it in the back. Turning to the computer, her prayers were answered when there was no password to contend with.

  “The address book,” he reminded her.

  “Give me a second.” She clicked away, finally finding a version of Outlook and an intracompany address book.

  “I want the personal stuff, contacts and sources,” he said, leaning over to watch the screen. “And see if she keeps another calendar here.”

  Damn, he was demanding. He reminded her of her ex-boyfriend, the way he barked orders at her. Elliott Sandusky had elevated control to an art form—but the resemblance ended there. Elliott was blue eyed, blond haired, uptight, and lily white. And suddenly that seemed incredibly…unsexy—even though Elliott had been a perfectly satisfying lover. A pain in the ass boss and a suffocating boyfriend, but he generally got the job done in bed.