Avenging Angel

by Justine Dare

  "But doesn't Donna's case narrow it down? There was no police report."

  "Yes, it does. And it may be our break. She wasn't in the system very long and it may be easier to backtrack who would have known about her, and who her husband was."

  "Do you think it's somebody who lives close by?" As soon as she said it Alex's mind leapt to Mr. Pilson.

  "So far he's what we call geographically stable, one who stays in one place. Of course, so far that's been where his victims are, too."

  "You mean he might go farther?"

  "He might. We just don't know. This is a tangled one," she admitted. "And you should know, Mr. Pilson is a pretty solid suspect. His lifestyle shows some red flags, and we picked up some possible evidence from his garage. He hasn't been arrested, but if some tests we're running come back positive..."

  Regan shuddered. "I just can't believe that he could be the one." She broke off, and Alex put a soothing hand on her arm.

  "It's always hard to believe," Lynne said. "But be careful around him. And by the way, you should probably also know Donna Grant confessed to everything. That she made up the abuse stories, lied to her family, even told her son his father had tried to kill him. All to make sure he wouldn't get custody and hopefully not even visitation."

  Regan sighed. "I tried to tell her that was no guarantee, that even abusers sometimes get visita­tion. She wouldn't listen."

  "She hadn't been abused, hadn't lived with the daily hammering home that you're a loser who will keep on losing," Garrison said. "She was sure it would all come out just like she wanted, and she'd get to humiliate him as he had her."

  "And instead he's dead because of her. I hope she pays for that."

  "I think she will. They haven't sorted out what all they're going to charge her with yet, but she's looking at serious trouble."

  "Tell me something, Detective," Alex asked. "How is this, and the Wheeler killing, going to af­fect the killer?"

  Regan gave him a quick glance, then turned back to the detective, as if she hadn't thought of this as­pect of it.

  "I can't say for sure. It may just roll off his back." "Or?" Alex prodded.

  "It may set him off. This is his personal quest. He may not like it being usurped by someone for their own ends."

  "And he might not like being used?" Regan asked.

  She nodded. "We think he's the visionary type of serial killer. For whatever reason, he's chosen this as his mission. He has to go through his ritual, to fulfill his vision in a very specific, particular way. Anything that interferes with that disrupts his vi­sion and makes the killing for nothing. He doesn't get what he needs out of it."

  "Just what we need," Alex said with a grimace. "A serial killer who's now even more crazed."

  "That may be," the woman with the tired eyes said, "exactly what we've got."

  CHAPTER 15

  As she leaned back in her office chair, watching the light change as the afternoon ended and evening began, Regan began to relax. She had just returned from the hospital, after receiving the wonderful news that Mindy had come out of the coma. They still didn't know how much permanent damage had been done, but they were optimistic, and so was Rachel's House.

  A sound from the kitchen drew her attention. Since all the residents were either at work or coun­seling just now, it had to be Mitch or Alex. Alex had been working on the sagging screen on the back kitchen door, so that must be what she'd heard.

  But, she told herself, she should check anyway. She got to her feet and headed for the kitchen. It was Alex, screwdriver in hand. Which reminded her. "You haven't found any more little packages, have you?"

  He finished tightening the screw he'd been working on. "No."

  "Good," she said. "Then I feel like I did the right thing."

  "By doing nothing?"

  "You think I should have called the police or something?"

  "I didn't say that. I know it would have been ugly. They probably would have wanted to search the house for more, and that would have been rough on everybody."

  She relaxed, wondering why she'd worried. He might not have understood what went on at Rachel's House when he'd arrived, but he'd learned fast.

  "It's going to be a nice night," he said.

  "Yes."

  "Night like this, I like to go down and watch the sunset over the ocean. I know the perfect place." She smiled. "I haven't done that in years." "Do it tonight. With me."

  It sounded like an impulsive invitation, one he hadn't thought about, so she hesitated.

  "You work too hard. And it's been quiet. Every­thing will be fine if you leave for a while. Maybe we can even get through the evening without any disaster calls."

  If it had been an impulse, he didn't appear to re­gret it. Or want to back out.

  "Give me an hour to clean up and get back here. We'll pick up some dinner and go watch the sun say good-bye."

  She told herself she only agreed because she liked the way he said it, but as they drove west al­most exactly an hour later, she knew it was much more.

  She was surprised when he headed past the pub­lic beach parking lot and pulled off the road next to one of the few undeveloped tracts of land left along the coast, on a bluff overlooking the Pacific.

  "It belongs to Court Corporation," he explained. "I've got a key to the gate, and they don't mind."

  "Oh."

  It felt isolated, but she told herself she was being silly. When he drove through the gate and out to a clearing on the bluff with a spectacular view up and down the coast, she knew he hadn't lied about this being the perfect place.

  He turned the truck around and parked it head­ing back the way they'd come. He grabbed the bag of Chinese food they'd picked up and got out. He came around to her side and pulled her door open, then led the way to the back of the truck.

  "Tailgate makes a decent table," he said, and proceeded to lower it and set out the meal. She couldn't help smiling; he was preparing like it was a Fourth of July fireworks show. He even pulled out a cushion that looked like it had escaped from a worn-out chaise longue, and put it crossways across the end of the tailgate so they both had a place to sit. She wanted more than anything for this evening to pass unmarred by the kind of interrup­tions that had ruined their last two times out.

  "Something wrong?" he asked, and she realized she'd been lost in her musings.

  "I was just wondering if I dare turn the cell phone off."

  He grinned, and her heart did that little flip-flop he always seemed to cause. "The reception's lousy up here."

  "Good," she said, grinning back at him.

  He swallowed suddenly, and she wondered if he was feeling the same sort of nervousness as she was. She was glad of the distraction of eating, and surprised to realize she was starved. And more sur­prised to feel a sense of peace stealing over her. Eat­ing in the outdoors, in this private place with the incredible view, wiped away the tension she'd been carrying for so long.

  The display as the sun went down was nearly as good as the Fourth of July, Regan decided, as in­credible shades of orange, pink, blue, and purple streaked the sky with color. A quiet, warming sort of joy began to build in her. She didn't know the source, but suspected it might just have something to do with the man who had thought to do this, the man who looked at her now and said softly, "Better than anything Hollywood can come up with."

  She returned his gaze, and said just as softly, "Yes, it is. Thank you."

  "I didn't have much to do with it."

  "You knew I needed this."

  He shrugged, but with a smile. "I knew it has brought me peace, coming up here. I thought it might work for you."

  "It did."

  It happened later, in the moonless dark, as they picked up the debris from their meal. Simple enough, both of them reaching for the same little white box, colliding, excusing...

  There was a split second when she was looking into his eyes, when she saw the hunger burst free. And then he pulled her to him, and before she coul
d take another breath his mouth was on hers.

  As kisses went, at least in her experience, it was shattering. The memory of the brotherly kiss he'd given her that day vanished, burned away by the passionate heat of this one. His hunger fired hers and she was clinging to him, kissing him back with a fierceness that astonished her. With each passing second the heat built, grew, until she could barely breathe.

  His hands slid down her back to her hips, then to the curve of her backside, pulling her harder against him. His tongue swept over her lips, and she met it with her own without hesitation. She couldn't get enough, couldn't taste enough, and somewhere in the back of her pleasure-fogged mind all her long-held cautions and reservations were seared to ash.

  When he broke the kiss she whimpered. She heard him whisper her name, hoarsely, with a quiver of harsh need in his voice. An echoing need cramped inside her, and this time it was she who took his mouth, urgently, needily. And it was her hands that roved this time, first tangling in his hair, savoring the soft, heavy, silken feel of it, then slip­ping down his back to his waist, where she paused, the heat gathering before she boldly cupped his buttocks as he had hers.

  She heard his hissed intake of breath, realized he was rock hard against her belly. She wanted to ex­plore that hardness, wanted to touch it, stroke it as she had the rest of him, wanted to see his reaction, wanted to hear him groan aloud, wanted to feel him respond to her hands, her touch.

  She wanted it all, she wanted it now, in a way she'd never wanted before in her life.

  She felt his hand move once more, up her side until he was brushing the side of her breast. She moved, not pushing him away as she usually did with any man in the past, but shifting her body to give him access, aching to feel his hands on her in the same way she had ached to put hers on him. When his hand cupped her, lifting the soft flesh of her breast, she nearly gasped. When his thumb found and rubbed her nipple, she cried out at the spearing bolt of sensation that shot through her.

  At last, with a groan that rang with reluctance, he pulled away. Regan stared at him, hating that he'd done it, while at the same time savoring the wild, hungry look of him, panting for breath, his face stark with urgency and need.

  "I—" He stopped, swallowed heavily, then tried again. "I didn't bring you up here for this."

  "I never thought you did," she said, feeling her heart still hammering in her chest. "But now that you have ..."

  He groaned again. "Don't look at me like that."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it makes me think about how private it is up here, and I'm already hanging on by a thread."

  "Privacy is good," she whispered. And she couldn't deny that the thought of making love, out here in the open yet without the fear of being seen, was incredibly arousing.

  But nothing was as arousing as the look on Alex's face, the gleam in his eyes, the tension evident in the cords of his neck. He wanted her, pure and simple, and it had been so long since any man had looked at her that way, it made her a little delirious.

  She reached out to cup his face, as if she could save that look in her hands, as she wanted to save this entire, perfect evening. The back of a work­man's pickup truck might seem like a tacky place to some, but to Regan, it was Alex's truck, Alex was with her, and that was all she needed.

  "Do you have any idea," he asked hoarsely, "what you're doing to me?"

  "I think I might," she answered, "if it's the same as what you're doing to me."

  She leaned up to kiss him again, wanting the feel of his mouth more than she could remember want­ing anything. When he stopped her, she frowned.

  "Regan, wait, are you sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "But you ... don't know much about me—"

  "I know enough."

  "I don't want you to be sorry."

  "I won't be."

  And then she did kiss him, slowly, tentatively, liking the way it made him suck in his breath. Still he seemed to hesitate, seemed to fight the need.

  "Regan, wait," he breathed, barely audible.

  She weighed her innate wariness against the look she'd seen in his eyes. The fire won. She moved closer, her body seeking his heat. Her breasts brushed his chest, and she liked the feel of it so much she did it again, rubbing sinuously against him.

  Alex groaned, low and harsh. And then, like a man whose final restraint had snapped, his arms came around her and slammed her tight against him. His mouth took hers, and she felt every bit of the hunger she'd seen in his face.

  She couldn't be still. She'd never before felt this crazed need to move, to stroke, to touch, to feel his hands and mouth on her. And when his hands cupped her breasts once more, less gently this time, she squirmed to keep her body close yet give him room. Her nipples ached for his touch, and when he rubbed them she cried out against his mouth at the fire that burst loose.

  Suddenly he moved, grasping her waist and lift­ing her to sit once more on the tailgate. She only knew he'd unbuttoned her blouse by the brush of balmy summer night air over her skin. He trailed a path of tiny nibbling kisses down from her throat to the swell of her breasts. When his hand slipped behind her to the clasp of her bra she moved to help him, wanting to be free of the binding lace. When she felt it give, she hastily pulled an arm free of strap and sleeve. She nearly lost her balance, and instinctively threw a hand back to catch herself. She heard Alex groan again, and only then realized how her position arched her back, as if she were of­fering her breasts up to him.

  As it always was with Alex, the woman who once would have shyly retreated instead arched more, begging without words, asking for the touch she craved.

  Alex muttered her name, his voice thick and deep. And then he took her offering, first one nipple, then the other. Fingers, then lips, and then the wet heat of his mouth, drawing deeply, pulling, until her flesh tightened into achingly tight, sensitive peaks. She let her head loll back as she focused on the feel of his hands and mouth at her breasts. And suddenly that wasn't enough, she wanted him naked, on top of her, in her. She wanted to be naked under him, on top of him, however he wanted it.

  She reached for his shoulders, opening her legs to let him take a step forward between them. The moment she felt the swell of flesh behind his zipper pressed against her intimately, her hips moved. She couldn't help herself, she wanted, had to have more. And this time, when the urge struck her, she followed it, running her hands down his body until she was cupping him, stroking his rigid length.

  "You do that once more," he said against her ear, in a voice barely recognizable as his, "and there's no turning back."

  She hesitated, just long enough for him to know it was a certain, deliberate choice. And then she touched him again, slowly, as if memorizing every inch.

  With an oath that sounded wrenched from him, Alex left her. She nearly cried out until she realized he had only gone to the cab of the truck. In mo­ments he was back, a small foil packet in his hand.

  "Boy Scout?" she asked, not really caring if he was always prepared, as long as he was prepared now.

  "A friend of mine's idea of a hint." "Remind me to thank him." Regan reached for him again.

  It was awkward, uncomfortable, clumsy. It was also the most erotic, incredible thing that had ever happened to her. She didn't know or care how he got her out of her jeans, or himself out of his. She was only vaguely aware that he had pulled the longue cushion over, lifted her onto it, and himself after her.

  He kissed her, long and deep, his tongue probing as his fingers probed between her legs, stroking through already damp curls until he reached the knot of nerve endings that made her cry out. When she felt the weight of him come down on her hips, only some still-functioning level of her pleasure-dazed mind was aware it was her making that pleading sound.

  Her body, as if it had forgotten this act, resisted at first. But her response to him eased the rest of the way, and Regan gasped with shocked pleasure as Alex slid into her, thick and deep. She felt him shudder, heard a low, guttural
sound break from him even as she moaned at the pleasure of that stretched, full sensation. She was barely aware that her fingers were digging into his back, barely aware of the strangeness of looking up and seeing the night sky over his shoulder.

  He shifted his body, and the movement opened her to him farther. Before she had a chance to savor the new deliciousness, he was moving, driving into her with long, hard plunges that made her gasp and Alex groan each time he buried himself in her.

  This, it seemed, her body had not forgotten. Or if it had, Alex was teaching it all over again, until the tension coiling within her became unbearable. His hands were everywhere, stroking, caressing, his mouth too, kissing, tasting, tracing the curve of her ear and the line of her neck. And always that pounding, that steady, deep hammering of his body into hers.

  It caught her unaware, welling up so fast it swamped her. "Alex!"

  Her body convulsed around his, and as she felt the pulses in her own inner flesh, she heard him call out her name. Then he drove deep one last time, shuddered against her, grinding his hips against hers as if he wanted to climb inside her.

  And then nothing broke the quiet of the night but their own quickened breathing and the distant sound of traffic on the road out of sight below the cliff.

  Alex knew he'd made a horrible mistake. He knew it, but he didn't care. Not now, not with Regan still lying soft and sated in his arms. Not after the way she'd come unraveled at his touch, not after the way her body had coaxed his to a climax more powerful than anything he'd ever felt before.

  Later, he would have to deal with it. Later, he would think about how much more complicated this made things, how much more difficult it was going to be to tell her the truth, as he would even­tually have to.

  Later. Much later.

  Before long he remembered an old saying that you might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, and reached for her again.