His gaze swept her as he stepped off the escalator outside security, and her heart sank to the toes of her sensible pumps. The glare he shot made her tremble. Was he pissed? Had she ruined everything?
Two confused, blank-eyed children clung to his big hands.
His estranged wife met them, ready to take his kids from him.
He neither kissed nor touched the pretty, plump blonde. Her sole purpose was to pick up the children after they’d returned from a visit with his parents.
His hands now empty and his bag slung over his shoulder, he walked several steps behind them. His wife chattered at the children and ignored him. Clusters of travelers engulfed them until they disappeared in the throng surrounding the baggage carousel.
She lingered in the waiting area another ten minutes, then rose, dragging her leather purse up her arm to her shoulder, and headed for the front doors, a lump in her throat. Once outside, she stood at the curb for the next long-term bus. He was at the other end of the island, the way they’d arranged. His wife had unknowingly played into the scheme, telling him she’d pick up the kids but he’d have to take a taxi.
She wondered why he and his wife still played this silly game.
The night had cooled. Her silk blouse was thin, but the heat from rumbling buses swept beneath her skirt and set her on fire. She could feel the hot lick of his gaze as if twenty feet didn’t separate them, his anger and desire a potent combination.
Need, hunger, dread, and excitement formed a squirming package in her stomach. Butterflies. Spontaneous combustion.
He sat in the back of the bus, she in the front. They neither spoke nor looked at each other. The ride to long-term was the longest ten minutes she’d ever known. Finally they turned down her aisle. She couldn’t believe she was doing this, couldn’t imagine stopping it now. Wouldn’t stop it even if her life depended on it.
She exited from the front of the shuttle, he from the rear, the overnight bag now in his hand. Pulling out her keys, she pressed the remote alarm.
The bus pulled away. Her heart hammered.
His bag was on the ground beside them and his hands were up her skirt before she had the car door open.
He dragged her into the back seat. She spread her legs over him, straddling his thighs. The roof of the car scuffed her hair. Tugging on his zipper, she took him in her hand. He sucked in a breath; in the past, he’d always initiated. There wasn’t time to fish the condoms out of her purse. When she slid down onto him, he groaned, but he didn’t take his eyes off her face.
She’d never been so wet, so vocal, or come so willingly in her life.
Three power-thrusts later, he came.
She screamed.
* * * * *
She screamed out her orgasm. Tears gummed her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. Hands circled her throat. From the floor of the car, the rumpled bit of green notepaper, the one she’d thrown away, taunted her, and the empty condom wrapper shouted her shame. How had it come to this?
In that moment, before fear gripped her, before instinct took over, when her guilt was strongest, she welcomed Death. Welcomed it as the life was choked from her, welcomed it until her eyeballs ached and colors exploded behind her lids. Until blood from her bitten tongue leaked down her raw, bruised throat. And then her body fought for survival.
She tore at the fingers, shrieked, twisted, kicked, scratched, and punched. And still she couldn’t drag in a breath. Terror fisted around her heart and squeezed. Fear of death. Fear of life. Fear like she’d never known. Not even the night someone put a bullet in Cameron’s head.
Max Starr woke clawing at her throat, Cameron’s name breaking the thrall of the dream. Blood drummed in her ears. Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest.
But she could breathe. Oh God, she could breathe, sweet, clean air smelling of early morning, green leaves, and hope. She was here, in her bedroom, where she belonged. Safe.
“Are you all right?” Cameron’s voice, not spoken but inside her head, comforting, familiar, the way a dead husband’s voice should be, the only way a crazy, grieving widow should hear her husband’s ghost. But she’d have given anything to feel his arms around her right now. For real, not just in the erotic dreams he brought her.
Sometimes fantasies weren’t enough.
Like now, when her throat still ached. She lightly caressed the flesh, her fingers cool, her skin tender with residual effects of the nightmare.
“It was a dream,” she murmured for both their benefits. Maybe her worst nightmare--except for that night two years ago when Cameron was killed--but still just a dream. After a deep inhale, then a long sigh, the tension dribbled out her fingertips and the soles of her feet.
Physical, reality-based sensation returned--sheets tangled around her legs, her back stuck to the cotton. She pushed the bedclothes aside to let cool air from the open window blow across her naked body. In the elm outside her window, the stray black cat gave a pathetic mewl. She shouldn’t have fed it yesterday, but knew she’d do the same thing today. Her racing heart eased into a steady, normal beat.
“That was a vision, Max, not a dream.” Cameron’s voice again, always with her, inside her.
It had been his name that woke her. It wasn’t part of the dream, vision, whatever it was; his name was something she’d interjected into a reality that didn’t belong to her. Even now she sensed remnants of another’s strong emotions inextricably linked with her own.
In the dark corner across the room, dear departed Cameron’s eyes flashed. Despite the two years since his death, those glittering points of light, all she ever really saw of him, still gave her a little jolt, part excitement, part fright. The red tip of his spectral cigarette glowed. He’d loved them when he was alive. They’d been the death of him in the end, not by cancer, but by gunshot at the corner 7-Eleven where he’d gone to buy his last pack.
If you enjoyed this excerpt, look for all the Max Starr mysteries:
Dead to the Max, Book 1
Evil to the Max, Book 2
Desperate to the Max, Book 3
Power to the Max, Book 4
Vengeance to the Max, Book 5
The Max Starr series is also available in print.
She’s Gotta Be Mine Excerpt
Jasmine Haynes also writes as Jennifer Skully, funny, sexy, poignant contemporary romances. Here’s an introduction to Jennifer Skully’s Cottonmouth series!
She’s Gotta Be Mine
Cottonmouth Book 1
Copyright 2011 Jennifer Skully
Cover design by Rae Monet Inc
Dumped? For her husband’s high school sweetheart he hasn’t seen in twenty years? Roberta Jones Spivey isn’t going to lay down for that, no way. Instead, she decides to reinvent herself. The new Bobbie Jones—new haircut, new name, new attitude—will follow her soon-to-be ex to the small Northern California town of Cottonmouth. And there she’ll show him—and his sweetheart—what a big mistake he made.
What better way to show him what he’s missing in the brand new Bobbie Jones than taking up with the town’s local bad boy—who’s also reputed to be a serial killer. Nick Angel is devilishly handsome and sexy as all get-out. In a word, perfect.
It’s all going exactly according to plan...until a real murder rocks the little town of Cottonmouth. Of course, Nick didn’t do it...did he?
~Previously published in 2005 as Sex and the Serial Killer~
Excerpt
A mixture of red dye and sweat trickled down her forehead, hovered on her eyebrows, poised to drizzle into her eyes. Soon to be blinded by runaway hair products, Roberta Jones Spivey could force nothing more than a mousy squeak from her throat. She was about to go deaf, too, from the hairdryer blasting her eardrums, and still, she couldn’t open her mouth wide enough to shriek. Any moment now, her hair would spontaneously combust. They’d smell the smoke first, then the aroma of singed hair, but by the time any of the umpteen stylists scurrying about The Head Hunter’s main salon came to her rescue, she’d be
bald. If not charred to a briquette.
Help me before my demise becomes a fifteen-second slot on a tabloid show. Now was not the time for a panic attack.
Drip, drip, drip, from her eyebrows to her eyelashes. In a last ditch effort to save herself, she squeezed her eyes shut. Burning tears leaked out to mingle with the caustic fluids. She clamped onto the chair’s arms, a death grip, terrified that if she touched the stuff, she’d end up rubbing her flesh off, too.
Someone. Please. Notice me.
The bowl of the dryer was suddenly jerked up, cool air from the overhead fans wafting across her scalp.
“Bobbie, honey, why didn’t you tell me the color was running?” Mimi was the only person who’d ever called her Bobbie.
Roberta dragged in a breath of air to explain, then collapsed in a spasm of coughing as the stench of chemicals, dyes, perm solution, and her own terrified sweat swooped down her throat.
Mimi’s shoes clicked-clacked away, then back again. “Here, drink this.”
Water had never tasted so good. All Roberta had wanted was a new look. Okay, so she needed a new life, too. Instead, she’d almost died, and her heart was still pounding like the Pony Express. She handed the empty paper cup back to Mimi, who crumpled it, executed a perfect free throw into the trash can, then tugged at a few squishy locks on Roberta’s head, and pronounced, “You’re cooked.”
Roberta was cooked all right. Roasted, basted, filleted, flambéed. And limp as a wet noodle to boot. Residual quivers made her knees wobble as she tried to stand up.
Mimi put a hand beneath her elbow. “Bobbie, honey, you okay?
“I’m fine.” Well, except that Warren had walked out on her three weeks, six days, and seven hours ago. On April eighteenth. Three days after tax day. Two days after he’d left for his little mission up north. In Cottonmouth, California. He’d dumped her with nothing more than a phone call telling her he wasn’t coming back. Ever.
Roberta blew out a breath. “Yeah, Mimi, I’m just fine.”
“Good, for a minute there under the dryer you looked a little panicky.” Mimi patted her arm and led her to the rinse bowl.
“I didn’t want to bother you while you were busy.” Her, panic? Just because her husband of fifteen years had left her for his long-lost, recently-located-through-the-Internet high school sweetheart? The love of his life. The teenage bimbo who’d broken his heart, then disappeared off the face of the earth—or at least left the San Francisco Bay Area for parts unknown. Cookie. What kind of name was that anyway? It made her think of some hairy blue monster on a morning kids’ show. Warren was bound to see he’d made a mistake.
Okay, so she’d made a mistake, too, by actually helping him search the Net. And mailing the hundreds of letters—because he was nervous about calling all those women looking for the right one. And letting him drive to Cottonmouth all alone that fateful weekend. She’d only wanted to help him solve his problem. Because his problem was her problem.
Mimi pushed her head back into the bowl and began rinsing with warm water. Roberta closed her eyes. The water turned off, the soothing scent of citrus conditioner replaced the stinging dye in her nostrils, and gentle fingers massaged her scalp.
“Bobbie, honey, you’re tense. Is work getting to you?”
“No, it’s fine.” Except for those dreaded whispers of “restatement” trickling out of the audit committee, and her boss Mr. Winkleman’s finger pointing firmly in her direction, as Director of Accounting. But she wasn’t worried; she knew every balance, every detail, inside and out. Her numbers were solid.
She gave herself up to the finger pads working her scalp and the little knots at the base of her skull. Her breathing relaxed, the whir of her mind’s gears slowed. Ahh.
“So, where’s your husband taking you for your birthday?”
Roberta’s eyes flew open, and all that lovely mellowness fled through the soles of her low-heeled pumps.
“He’s picked out this new restaurant he heard about on Nob Hill.” The lie just sort of slipped out. Roberta believed in little white lies to keep everyone comfortable. Except that there wasn’t anything comfortable about turning forty. Or about being dumped. What was next? Menopause. Old age. Death. “It’s very exclusive, very dressy, and very San Francisco, he says.”
She wouldn’t have had a thing to wear because she’d lost ten pounds since Warren left. But if Warren was taking her out for her birthday, then she wouldn’t have lost the ten pounds because he wouldn’t have left, and then she would have had something to wear. Her temples throbbed. Everything was so confusing.
“You’ve really got yourself a prince there.”
Yeah, a prince. She just hadn’t realized that princes needed Prozac. Or that a good psychiatrist cost upwards of two hundred dollars an hour—excuse me, fifty minutes—just to say, “Mrs. Spivey, you must realize that antidepressants will have a negative impact on your husband’s sex drive.”
He had no sex drive. That’s why he’d gone to a doctor to begin with.
Tears suddenly pricked the corners of her eyes. “Yes, Warren’s a wonderful man.”
At least she’d thought so. But he’d gone off the drugs for the Cookie Monster, for God’s sake. And the woman was married. Another dumpee in the making. Maybe Roberta should call Mr. Cookie Monster to commiserate.
Maybe she should sue Warren’s psychiatrist for putting the idea of finding closure with his high school sweetheart into his mind in the first place. Instead, she’d dyed her brown hair red.
“Maybe I need a new haircut, too.”
Easing her to a sitting position, Mimi wrapped a white towel around Roberta’s head and squeezed the water from her hair.
“Something bouncy and short?”
Her head enshrouded in terrycloth, Roberta nodded.
“Thank God, Bobbie. I’ve been telling you your hair is naturally curly, the length and weight just pulls it all out.”
Mimi tugged Roberta to her feet and guided her to a chair. The towel came off. What she’d thought would be red was merely a darker brown. Richer maybe, but still brown.
“Don’t pout. It’ll look red when it dries. Now, how short shall we go?” Mimi fluffed the drying strands.
Roberta pointed to her shoulders.
Mimi grimaced in the mirror. “That’ll drag your face down. As we get older, we need to make sure our faces don’t drag.”
Who was this we? Mimi was a pert, perpetual twenty-nine-year-old with lively black hair, wood-nymph brown eyes, and unlined skin. Without opening her mouth, Roberta skimmed the bottom of her ears with shaky fingers.
Mimi beamed. “Perfect.”
Then she started snipping, clipping, drying, and poofing. Roberta squeezed her eyes shut amidst the cacophony of voices, laughter, running water, and blow dryers.
“You can open them now.”
A scintilla of the hysteria she’d felt under the dryer tingled along Roberta’s nerve endings. Then she looked in the mirror.
“Oh my.”
Behind her, Mimi bounced with expectation. “Whad’ya think?”
Roberta didn’t recognize the face framed in silky red hair just brushing the tips of her ears, hugging her nape, gently curling across her forehead. Her hazel eyes looked greener, lush, like new spring grass. Her lips looked fuller. And the tired lines pulling at her mouth seemed to have vanished.
“It makes you look like you’ve lost weight. I think you need to buy a new outfit to celebrate.”
The woman in the mirror needed a whole new wardrobe. Business suits and tailored blouses just wouldn’t go with that face. That face needed vibrant colors and short skirts. Four-inch spike heels.
The hand in the mirror touched the full lips. Lipstick. Something overstated. “Maybe I need some new makeup, too, Mimi.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” Mimi disappeared from the mirror, click-clacking across the linoleum.
Yes, she needed new makeup. Because fixing your whole life couldn’t be accomplished simply by changin
g your hairstyle.
No, that new hair needed new makeup, new clothes, new shoes. And a new name. Like Bobbie. Bobbie Jones. Without the Spivey, which had always made her think of the word spineless. Spineless Spivey. Warren? Or herself?
And Director of Accounting would never do for Bobbie Jones. Bobbie needed something...exciting. A job where she’d meet new people every day. Doing something she’d shine at. Where she couldn’t help but be noticed.
Where there were no Mr. Winklemans pointing their fingers and saying, She did it. Fire her.
God, could she really do it? Could she really quit, try on another career like a new outfit?
What on earth was standing in her way? There was no Warren. And there was money in the bank to tide her over until she found just the right job.
Could she? Would she? She stared at the familiar yet changed woman in the mirror. That woman could do anything she set her mind to. That woman would find a new goal in life.
Roberta sat straighter, squared her shoulders, put a hand to the brand new curls that overflowed the top of her head. Bobbie Jones wouldn’t have to worry about negative impacts on a man’s sex drive. Bobbie Jones would have her pick.
Roberta Jones Spivey could stick with a job she hated and grovel at the feet of the Winklemans of the world. Roberta Jones Spivey could have panic attacks under a hair dryer because she’d decided to change the color of her hair. Bobbie Jones had better things to do. Important things to do. One all-important thing.
Bobbie Jones was going to Cottonmouth to show Warren what he’d thrown away when he drove off into the sunset to find the Cookie Monster.
Oh yeah, and one more really important thing. Bobbie would have sex for the first time in...much too long.
The Other Man (West Coast Hotwifing) Page 20