Born To Die

by Lisa Jackson

  BORN TO DIE

  He walked to a file drawer and pulled it open. Inside were slim folders, information gathered over time on each of the pretenders. He opened the first one, and his gut twisted as he glared at the picture tucked within his notes.

  Dr. Kacey Lambert.

  She was special.

  Until the mistake.

  When he’d gotten too bloodthirsty, too hungry, too eager to destroy the one person who could ruin everything.

  And the job had been botched.

  Kacey had lived.

  This time, there wouldn’t be a mistake; this time he’d take care of her himself.

  A slow-burning fury ran through his veins as he studied her picture. He’d watched her. Followed her. Learned her routine.

  But she would have to wait.

  There were others he had to deal with first.

  He flipped open a few more files and sorted them. None of them knew each other; none of them realized that he was watching them, collecting all the ones that were in close proximity to Kacey.

  He wondered if any of them were aware of each other.

  If so, they hadn’t guessed the one thing they had in common.

  Each was born to die before her time.

  And it was his mission to make it happen....

  Books by Lisa Jackson

  Stand-Alones

  SEE HOW SHE DIES

  FINAL SCREAM

  RUNNING SCARED

  WHISPERS

  TWICE KISSED

  UNSPOKEN

  DEEP FREEZE

  FATAL BURN

  MOST LIKELY TO DIE

  WICKED GAME

  WICKED LIES

  WITHOUT MERCY

  Anthony Paterno / Cahill Family novels

  IF SHE ONLY KNEW

  ALMOST DEAD

  Rick Bentz/ Reuben Montoya novels

  HOT BLOODED

  COLD BLOODED

  SHIVER

  ABSOLUTE FEAR

  LOST SOULS

  MALICE

  DEVIOUS

  Pierce Reed / Nikki Gillette novels

  THE NIGHT BEFORE

  THE MORNING AFTER

  Selena Alvarez / Regan Pescoli novels

  LEFT TO DIE

  CHOSEN TO DIE

  BORN TO DIE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  LISA JACKSON

  BORN TO DIE

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  BORN TO DIE

  Books by Lisa Jackson

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  Epilogue

  Copyright Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always there are many people who helped me while I wrote this book. It’s a case of the usual suspects, for the most part, and they’re great: Nancy Bush, Alex Craft, Matthew Crose, Niki Crose, Michael Crose, Kelly Foster, Marilyn Katcher, Ken Melum, Robin Rue, John Scognamiglio, Larry Sparks, and more. Of course, there may be some errors in the book, and they are all mine.

  PROLOGUE

  Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose.

  Tonight, Shelly Bonaventure thought, she’d come out the loser. Make that a loser with a capital L, the kind kids made with their thumb and forefinger held up to their foreheads.

  She unlocked the door of her apartment, threw her purse onto the entryway table, and felt a sudden searing pain scream through her guts.

  Gasping, she doubled over, her insides on fire.

  Suddenly.

  Out of the blue.

  “Oooh,” she moaned as the pain subsided enough that she could stumble to the couch. “What the hell?”

  Still queasy, the pain in her abdomen slightly lessened, she took in several deep breaths. Was the pain bad enough to call 9-1-1, or should she head to the ER herself?

  “Don’t be silly,” she whispered, but an uneasy feeling that something was very, very wrong stuck with her. “Pull yourself together,” she said and kicked off her high heels. Either she’d drunk too much, eaten the wrong thing, or her period was coming a few days early.

  No way. Not with pain like that.

  She closed her eyes for a second, beads of perspiration collecting on her upper lip. She would take some Pepto if she had it and, if not, just suffer through until morning. As she swiped at the sweat, she glanced around for her cat. “Lana?” she said and heard no response. Odd. The cat usually trotted out of whatever hiding spot she’d claimed when she heard the front door’s lock spring open.

  Huh.

  “Lana? Come on, kitty. . . .” Again she listened; again she heard nothing. Oh, well, maybe the calico was just playing games with her and would spring out from a darkened hallway to scare the liver out of Shelly. It had happened before.

  Yet . . .

  Slowly she made her way to the bathroom, nearly tripping on the rug she’d bought.... Oh, God, had it really been seven years ago? “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” she singsonged to the cat. “Momma’s home.”

  Clunk!

  The sound came from the patio.

  Startled, Shelly whipped around.

  Was there a shadow on the patio?

  Heart in her throat, she stepped forward and peered through the sliding door where she saw that the shadow was only that of a palm frond catching in the wind and dancing in front of the porch light.

  “Idiot! Stop being paranoid.”

  So what was the noise ... ?

  The cat? Where?

  Her nerves still stretched a bit, Shelly convinced herself it was nothing. Probably the old guy in the unit above hers, Bob . . . whatever. He was always dropping something.

  Another wave of nausea swept through her, and she clenched her teeth until the pain subsided. God, what was wrong with her?

  Holding on to the back of the couch, she let out her breath, then glanced around the living area. Had she lived in this one-bedroom apartment for nearly a decade, watching as the years tumbled past, the lines in her face becoming more pronounced and the roles she’d hoped to land slipping through her fingers?

  Ever since her divorce from Donovan . . .

  She wasn’t going to dwell on that piece of ancient history . Not tonight. A positive attitude, that was what she needed. And maybe something to calm her stomach. She’d just had a little too much to drink at Lizards, the bar named more for its clientele than any real reptile, which was less than two blocks down the street. Cutting loose, telling herself she was going to embrace the big three-five, which was bearing down on her, she’d overindulged.

  But just a bit.

  Right?

  How could she help i
t when the guy she’d met at the bar had heard about her birthday, then had bought her several mai tais and had seemed really interested? Really interested. He was handsome and sexy and spoke in a voice so low, it caused her spine to tingle a bit. He’d almost seemed familiar, and when he’d touched the back of her hand, she’d experienced a definite tingle of anticipation. His gray eyes were intense, striated a deep midnight blue, his lips blade thin, the slight shading of his jaw only emphasizing how male he was. And then that smile, crooked and most definitely sexy as he’d talked to her. Yeah, he definitely had the bad boy routine down pat. She’d even mentioned to him that he had a killer smile, and he’d found that comment amusing. He’d said he’d never heard it described that way and chuckled deep in his throat.

  She’d had fantasies of what he would look like without his shirt, how it would feel to have his lips press hot and urgent against hers, how she would tumble, oh, so easily into bed with him as his strong arms caught her.

  Yeah, but you left him in the bar, didn’t you?

  To come back here. Alone.

  Of course she’d walked away. She didn’t know him from Adam. And getting out when she did was probably a good idea, really, considering the fact that she was feeling ill and had a five o’clock wake-up call that she wasn’t about to miss.

  Her agent had weaseled an audition for a role on a new drama to be aired on Fox in the fall. The casting call was being held early tomorrow, and she intended to look her best. Better than her best. Because if she didn’t land this role, it was over . . . well, at least until she wangled her way onto Dancing with the Stars or some other reality vehicle that would help jump-start her flagging career.

  If she could just shake this lousy feeling. Good Lord, was she actually perspiring? That wasn’t good, not good at all.

  After all, this television series could be her last shot, considering Hollywood’s attitude about age.

  How depressing was that?

  Shelly Bonaventure had to make it, she had to. She couldn’t very well go back to that Podunk town in Montana with her tail between her legs. Hadn’t she been prom queen of Sycamore High, voted “most likely to be famous” her senior year? Hadn’t she taken off, shaking the dust of that small town from her shoes as quickly as possible? And hadn’t, in the beginning, her star shined brightly, rising with promise and a few plum roles? A recurring role in a soap opera before she was twenty! Hadn’t she worked with the Toms—Cruise and Hanks—and Gwyneth and Meryl and . . . and even Brad Friggin’ Pitt? Okay, so they were small parts, but still, they were legit! And she’d been a double for Julia Roberts! Then there was the vampire series What’s Blood Got to Do With It on cable. She’d paid her dues, by God. But, she realized, those flashes of fame had been a while back, and lately she’d been relegated to corpses on CSI, a few commercials, and voice-overs for low-budget animated films.

  If she didn’t land the part of Estelle in this new series, she could kiss her B-listed career good-bye and open her arms to a reality show for has-beens. She shuddered at the thought.

  Hollywood, she thought miserably, the land of worn-out casting couches and broken dreams.

  She winced against another jab of pain that nearly buckled her knees. “Sweet Jesus,” she whispered, then half crawled, half stumbled, to her small galley kitchen, where she dragged open her refrigerator door, saw the sparse contents inside, and felt depressed all over again. After retrieving the half-full bottle of Pepto, she unscrewed the cap and took a swallow of the pink ooze. Quivering, she replaced the top, put the remainder of the bottle back on the shelf, then sat on the floor, her legs extended, as she took in long, deep breaths.

  God, she felt bad.

  Maybe she should call her doctor, at least leave a message with his answering service. Slowly, she pulled herself to her feet and wondered, again, where was Lana?

  Well, certainly not on the counter, where three days’ worth of coffee cups, dirty glasses, and Lean Cuisine trays littered the chipped tile.

  Her stomach still aching, she made her way to the bathroom, told herself she couldn’t let this town beat her down.

  Hadn’t she suffered through bulimia?

  Hadn’t she done whatever it took?

  And even if she wasn’t classically beautiful, she’d been told her face had “character” and “intelligence.” Her auburn hair was still vibrant; the skin around her green eyes and full lips without too many telltale lines.

  With a glance in the mirror over the sink, she cringed as she wedged herself into the tiny bathroom. Despite the pep talk to herself, the years were beginning to show, if only a little. She used a ton of products to keep her complexion flawless, and she wasn’t into Botox. Yet. Though she wasn’t ruling it out. Then again, she wouldn’t rule anything out that might force Father Time back a step or two.

  But he was a persistent son of a bitch, she thought and pushed the flesh on the sides of her jaw backward in an attempt to see if she really needed to be “tightened up.”

  Not yet, thank God. She didn’t have the money for any kind of “work.” And she wasn’t ready to write some kind of trumped-up tell-all book, which her agent had mentioned. She wasn’t even thirty-five yet, for God’s sake, at least not for a few more days; she wasn’t ready to spill her guts just yet. And truth to tell, she didn’t have that much to write about; her life had been pretty dull compared to a lot of her peers.

  Noticing the whites of her eyes were a little bloodshot, she removed her contacts, then found the bottle of Visine she kept in the medicine cabinet. After unscrewing the bottle cap, she tilted her head back, blinked in the drops, and resealed the bottle. She closed the mirrored front of the cabinet and caught a glimpse of a shadow behind her.

  What?

  Her heart clutched and she jerked around. The room was empty; the door behind her open to the living room and the sliding door to her patio.

  Her flesh prickled.

  “Lana? Is that you?” she called as she stepped into the living area again, the edges of the room blurry from her myopia and the drops that hadn’t quite settled. “Kitty?” Where was the damned cat, a calico she’d named after her favorite movie icon? “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she sang again but decided the cat, who often played a game of hide-and-seek, was lurking in the shadows somewhere, ready to pounce. More than once Lana had leapt from behind the framed pictures set upon the bookcase, scattering the photos, breaking the glass, and, plumping up to twice her size, had startled Shelly. Scaring her was the cat’s favorite pastime. “Here, kitty, kitty . . .”

  True to her independent temperament, Lana didn’t appear.

  Shelly stood barefoot in the living room. There was something about the apartment, a stillness that suggested no one, not even the cat, was inside.

  Which didn’t make sense.

  Shelly had left Lana sleeping on the back of the couch when she’d gone out earlier. She was certain of it and remembered the cat desultorily flicking her tail as she lay curled in the soft cushions.

  So why did it feel as if the rooms were empty, devoid of life? She heard dry leaves skittering across the patio, bits of brown and rust dancing eerily.

  For the love of God, what was wrong with her? It was just the wind, nothing more than dead leaves, for crying out loud. Still, the hairs on the back of her arm lifted.

  “Get over yourself.”

  Another sharp cramp to her midsection. “Ooh.” She doubled over, the pain intense. This time she didn’t wait. She crab-walked to her purse and fumbled for her cell phone.

  The damned thing wasn’t in its usual pocket. “Come on, come on!” This was no time for the phone to be missing. Fingers shaking, she fished through the interior of the purse, then as the pain increased, dumped the contents onto the tile floor. Keys, eyeglass case, wallet, receipts, coins, pack of cigarettes, tampon holder, and her tiny canister of pepper spray went skittering across the tile.

  No phone.

  What?

  She’d had her cell at the bar.
She remembered turning it to vibrate, and . . . hadn’t she shoved it back into her purse? Or had she left it at Lizards, on the top of the sleek counter that was fashioned to look like snakeskin?

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, sweat breaking out on her forehead, her pulse jumping. She didn’t have a landline; there was no way to call for help except for—

  Sccrrraape!

  The dry, rasping sound seemed to echo through her head.

  What the hell was that?

  The cat?

  “Lana?” she said nervously, then noticed the sliding door was open, just the tiniest of cracks.

  Hadn’t it been shut?

  Absolutely. She remembered sliding it closed, though, of course it didn’t latch, because that stupid building super, Merlin, hadn’t gotten around to fixing it.

  Oh, Jesus! Her scalp prickled and her heart began to knock, though she told herself she was being paranoid. No one was in the apartment, lurking inside, lying in wait for her.

  You’ve been auditioning for too many victims in those cheap horror flicks.

  Still ...

  Ears straining, heart thudding, she glanced toward her bedroom door, open just a crack. She had taken two steps in the direction of the open door when, from the corner of her eye, she saw movement, a dark figure at the edge of the slider, on the other side of the glass.

  An intruder! Oh, no!

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  Then stopped when she recognized the guy from the bar. In his hand was her cell phone. Palm over her pounding heart, she declared, “You scared me half to death!” as she pushed the door open. “How’d you get my—?”

  But she knew before he said, “You left it on the bar.”

  “So, how did you find me?”

  Again the slow, crooked grin. “Your address is in the contact information. Under home.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  He really was a heart-stopper with that square jaw, dark hair, and eyes that showed a bit of the devil in their blue depths.

  “Most people come to the front door and knock.” She couldn’t help but be a little irritated. Besides, she felt like hell.