Jan Coffey Suspense Box Set: Three Complete Novel Box Set: Trust Me Once, Twice Burned, Fourth Victim

by Jan Coffey

  Max put a quick end to his master’s thoughts when he decided it was time to get close enough to lick her face. Mick grabbed the dog by the tail and dragged him back before the beast could lay a tongue on her.

  Mick crouched before her. The dressing on her head was dirty and needed to be changed. Her hands were tucked under her chin. Her breathing was deep. Her lips were slightly parted, and Mick’s mind filled with other ideas that had nothing to do with the child he’d known and everything to do with the woman before him now.

  When he reached under her knees and back and lifted her against his chest, Léa’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Mick. You’re back.”

  “Shush, go back to sleep.” He stood up, carrying her easily.

  “What are you doing?” Léa’s arms flew around his neck, and she held on tightly.

  “Taking you to bed.” Seeing her hazel eyes grow round, he smiled mischievously. “Not my bed. Your bed.”

  The relief in her expression told him that she had a few doubts about where their relationship was going, and his ego, he realized, was a little bruised.

  “I really can walk.”

  “Heather told me you worked too hard today. Hit that switch for me, will you?”

  She reached with one hand and flipped the wall switch, immersing them in darkness.

  “Where’s Heather?”

  “Already sleep.”

  “This is totally unnecessary,” she said much more quietly. “I am perfectly…”

  Her arms tightened around his neck, and she hid her face in his neck as Mick started up the stairs.

  “You are not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “No. I am afraid of you dropping me.”

  “You think I’d do something like that?” Mick shifted her weight in his arms, and her arms tightened even more.

  “You are the devil, Mick Conklin,” she whispered in his ear.

  “And you are strangling me.”

  “Good! And that’s not all I’m going to do to you.”

  “Promises. Promises.”

  No light showed under Heather’s bedroom door. “Do you want to use the bathroom first?”

  “I can manage that by myself, thank you. Put me down.”

  “Not yet.” He walked into the dark of the guest bedroom. “Wanna turn that light on?”

  “I won’t. Put me down first.”

  “Okay.” He took her to one of the beds. “At least, reach over and pull those covers back.”

  “I will not, Mick. Put me down.”

  “You sound like a broken record.” He lowered her on the quilt. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Léa’s arms were still wrapped tightly around his neck. The moonlight from the window cast a soft glow. Mick saw her eyes study his face and then focus on his lips. And then she was kissing him. Deeply. Her mouth was soft and willing and gave as sweetly and passionately as it took. Mick’s control was about to snap when she pulled back.

  “Not too bad, at all,” she said, releasing him and sinking back on the pillow. “Good night, Mick.”

  “And you say I’m the devil?” His eyes lingered on her smiling face and then trailed over the gentle rise and fall of her breasts beneath the coveralls, and even lower to her bare legs and feet. He looked back into her eyes. “You’re playing with fire.”

  “Am I?”

  He nodded once. “A very hot fire, in fact.”

  “How hot?”

  “Do you know what I want to do to you right now?”

  She shook her head.

  “I want to unsnap your coveralls and peel them off your body. I want to push your T-shirt over your head and slide your underwear down your legs. I want to taste every inch of your skin from your lips all the way down to your toes.” Mick watched her lips part slightly, heard the breath catch in her throat. “I want to unzip my pants and have you sit on my lap and take me deep inside your body. I want to feel your heat close around me as you ride me to…”

  He paused for an endless moment. Their breathing was the only sound.

  Then, suddenly, with a half smile he pushed himself to his feet. “I’m going to take a cold shower now. Good night, Léa.”

  Chapter 17

  They were all here.

  Jason Shanahan stared at the pictures. Marilyn on all fours with her ass in the air. Marilyn leaning against the wall with him behind her. Marilyn bent over a chair and Brian holding her hips, ready to drive into her again.

  He remembered that like it was yesterday and began to grow hard. The look on her face in every picture was priceless.

  “You missed your calling,” he said aloud. “You should have been a porn star.”

  A screechy voice erupted from the police scanner before subsiding into static. Jason had been a little surprised to see it when he came in, and he had turned it on. He reached over now and switched it off.

  He gathered up the photos from the table and stuffed them in an envelope. Focusing his attention back on the steel box that contained several dozen similar envelopes, he held up the other one that had his name on it. He dumped it on the table and spread the photos out.

  “You slut. You did take more,” he muttered. He didn’t realize she’d even taken these. They were taken on a different day than the pictures she’d sent Brian.

  He liked these, actually. His muscle definition looked better in these photographs than in the other set. He paused, looking at a particularly good shot of Marilyn going down on him against the sliding door.

  They’d screwed a few times, and it had been nothing special. She’d come after him at the health club, and he’d thought she was discreet. What a laugh! After she’d taken the pictures and joked about having posters made from them, it was only natural that he’d get a little pissed off. That had been the second, or maybe third time they’d met at her cottage. But Marilyn had given him the roll of film like it was no problem.

  But she wasn’t quite done with the shit.

  A week later, Marilyn had mailed some pictures to Brian.

  There had been hell to pay. Jason scowled at the memory of how pissed Brian had been. He’d been mad enough to kill the bitch…and him. That night, Brian had kicked him out onto the street.

  Marilyn was the first woman Jason had screwed around with since hitching up with Brian Hughes. She wasn’t the first time, though. There was that muscular college kid over in New Hope and that biker he’d met in the club in Philadelphia. That guy had been fun for six months. But none of it meant shit, and he figured Brian never had to know about any of it. They had a good thing going between them. Jason was younger than Brian, but the old queen was still good in bed, money was never a problem, and he really cared for Jason. Brian was definitely a good thing.

  Until Marilyn almost succeeded in ruining everything.

  It was the answer to Jason’s prayers when the slut was murdered.

  And there she was, smiling like a prom queen as she bent over the kitchen table with his prick up her ass.

  Knowing his lover’s forgiving nature, Jason had crawled back to him on his hands and knees once the bitch was gone, and Brian had taken him back.

  After that, life had gradually gotten back to normal until this week, when this shithead decided to open up that can of worms again.

  Jason picked up a crumpled brown paper bag off the floor and stuffed the two envelopes of pictures into it.

  It had started just like the last time. A couple of pictures in the mail, addressed to Brian. No letters. No request for some outrageous amount of money. Nothing to hint at who was behind it. Jason cringed even now, thinking about how Brian had almost gone through the ceiling again. But the pictures were some of the same ones that had been sent last time. Marilyn and him and yadda yadda yadda. But she was already dead.

  Jason couldn’t understand it at first. It was bad enough that somebody was messing with their minds, but he realized something new was firing up the pot. Brian was afraid this time. Afraid that the police would find the pictur
es. Afraid that someone might think the two men had motive enough to knock off the bitch.

  His argument that Ted was going to fry for the murder wasn’t good enough. Jason had to get to the bottom of it. He had to find out who had the freaking pictures.

  A little digging and it had been as easy as putting two and two together. Or maybe Jason Shanahan just had that good old Irish luck working OT for him. Whatever it was, once he knew who it was, it was easy to see that Marilyn would trust the loser to keep this stuff hidden for her.

  He closed the paper bag. He had what he came for. It was getting late. He looked at the other packages of photos in the steel box. It was just too much of a temptation. He thumbed through the envelopes, reading the names.

  He pulled one out. Then another. It was like a Who’s Who of Stonybrook. And then it dawned on him.

  There was some serious blackmail stuff here. The third envelope was even better than the first two.

  “You cradle robber!” he muttered.

  Going through the next two sets of pictures, Jason realized his jeans were feeling pretty tight in the crotch. The next set left him whistling sharply.

  “Damn, there’s a fortune to be made here.” He let out a coarse laugh. “Done right, that is.”

  Jason put all of the photos back into the steel box and closed it. He never heard the footsteps behind him as he straightened with the box in his hands. He only heard the rush of air just before his head crumpled like a plastic ball from the impact.

  ~~~~

  Léa used a hand towel to wipe the steam off the mirror and stared at the blood oozing from the ugly stitches on her forehead.

  The thought that maybe she shouldn’t have taken a shower was quickly dismissed. She hadn’t been able to stand the grime caked in her hair anymore. She combed the wet hair away from the cut and wrapped a towel tightly above her breasts.

  A glance at the clock on the wall told her that it was only quarter to six. Léa sneaked out of the bathroom and tiptoed quietly along the hall and down the stairs. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing in her duffel bag that wasn’t stained with blood or covered with filth from working on the house, so she’d started her load of laundry before jumping in the shower.

  Max was lying by the back door when she walked into the kitchen. He raised a head sleepily and gave her a couple of wags of his tail as she moved to the closed door of the laundry room. Reaching for the knob, Léa heard the quiet rumble of the dryer and stopped.

  “I hope everything in there could go in the dryer.”

  Every inch of Léa’s body tingled with excitement at the low growl of Mick’s voice behind her. She saw him leaning against the kitchen doorway. He looked as if he’d just climbed out of bed and pulled on some shorts. He was wearing no shirt, and she noticed with a definite jump in her pulse that he hadn’t quite gotten around to buttoning the top of the shorts.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I used your washer. I had nothing left that was clean.” She clutched the doorknob tightly as the words that he’d whispered to her last night came back. Unconsciously, her hand went to the edge of the towel, just above her breast. He’d said something about “peeling,” she recalled.

  “Your clothes won’t be dry yet. I just put them in.”

  “I didn’t mean to wake you up.” His arms and chest had the powerful look of an athlete who’d grown into a working man. His stomach wasn’t flat like a teenager. It too was muscled, but with the solid, rippled thickening that comes with manhood.

  “This is the time I normally get up. I thought I’d get a caffeine jumpstart this morning before getting in the shower.” He crossed the kitchen and started to make coffee.

  “Caffeine? You didn’t sleep well?”

  “Not really. I was a bit distracted. How about you?”

  “I passed out,” she lied.

  The look he gave her made Léa blush to the roots of her hair. She also became acutely aware of how little the towel she was wearing covered.

  She pushed open the door to the laundry room. “Some of these things must be dry already.”

  “They won’t be.” He put the coffee pot on the stove. “While you’re waiting, though, let me see those stitches.”

  Léa was torn between locking herself in the laundry room or physically attacking Mick right here in the middle of the kitchen.

  He pulled a chair away from the table and gestured toward it. “Come and sit. That cut doesn’t look too good from here.”

  She sat down. The smooth wood of the chair’s seat was quite cool on her legs, and she double-checked the tuck of the towel. Mick reappeared with his first-aid kit. He stood in front of her, and she flinched when he pressed a gauze against the stitches.

  “Don’t be such a baby. I’m only cleaning it up.”

  “I’ve heard that before. By the way, the stitches don’t come out, yet.”

  “Oops,” he deadpanned. “You should have told me before.”

  Léa gave him a swat on the side of his leg, but immediately she knew that she shouldn’t have, as his skin was too warm to the touch, and her gaze was drawn uncontrollably to the unbuttoned waistband and the curls of hair that disappeared there.

  She closed her eyes and willed the stirring between her legs to go away.

  His hands were sure as he worked around her wound. “So what do you have on the agenda today?”

  This was what she needed. Safe ground. “First thing this morning, I have to return that load of equipment to the rental place.”

  “Done with everything?”

  “For now. I was a little too ambitious in my planning. Next time, I’ll rent one thing at a time.”

  “Let me return them for you.”

  The tuck of the towel had gotten loose. She shifted on the seat and readjusted it. “I can really handle—”

  “I have to go there this morning, anyway.” He reached for a tube of ointment in the first aid kit. “Trust me, it won’t be out of my way.”

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Léa bit her lip to hide a smile, then winced again at the cold sting of the ointment on the cut.

  “I have to do more than just return the stuff. I’m sure I owe them money. The equipment was supposed to go back yesterday afternoon.”

  “All the more reason for me to go. You had an unexpected injury yesterday. Let me handle it. I send tons of business Doug’s way every year, and he and I have learned to speak the same language.”

  When she started shaking her head, Mick took her chin and raised it until she was looking into his eyes.

  “You have way too much on your plate this week. So, if you can’t accept my help as a friend, then how about as the guy you’re driving insane?”

  “It’s the towel, isn’t it?”

  “It’s what’s under the towel.” He let go of her chin.

  “You can return the equipment,” she croaked, forcing herself to look anywhere but at that waist button…or any points south of it.

  “What else do you have to do?”

  “I have to call Sarah Rand.” Léa tried to focus on his hands as they stripped the wrapping off a sterile gauze pad. “And I have to ride over to Doylestown to get some things out of the hotel room I rent there.” She decided not to tell him about her ten o’clock rendezvous at the bench on Main Street at the entrance to the park. She had a strong feeling he wouldn’t approve of her going to meet some lunatic letter writer by herself.

  His leg brushed against hers as he applied the non-stick pad to her stitches. Léa couldn’t stop her gaze from fixing on the front of his shorts; the heavy ridge extending down one leg was too prominent against the khaki. She swallowed hard.

  “A…a lot of…what…”

  “Is something distracting you?” There was mischief in his voice, flustering her even more.

  “No! Nothing!” She stared at his hands and the roll of gauze he was now holding. “Everything else depends on the outcome of my convers
ation with Sarah Rand.”

  “I think it’d be safest if I wrap this the same way they did it in the hospital. You shouldn’t leave that exposed until you see a doctor.”

  “Right. Exposed is not good.”

  “Well, that depends.” Mick moved behind her and started wrapping the gauze around her head. “Lean back.”

  Her head rested against his warm, firm stomach. She felt a matching warmth spreading fluidly through her.

  “Is it okay if I make an appointment for you with Heather’s doctor for some time tomorrow? And don’t worry, he’s not a pediatrician.”

  “Yeah, sure. Getting too low on my forehead.” She touched her brow. “I want to be able to see.”

  “But I thought the mummy look was in, this year.” Mick unwrapped the gauze a little and rewrapped it. Léa touched her head as he did it, checking the tightness.

  “Would you let me drive you to your hotel in Doylestown?”

  “I can drive okay. Mick…your work…”

  “We can go during my lunchtime.”

  “Kind of a long lunch.” The towel started to loosen again. Léa reached up to fix it, but Mick’s hands took hold of hers, stopping her.

  “Leave it.”

  Léa shivered as she felt his warm breath on her bare shoulder. His mouth kissed and tasted the skin on her neck.

  “I’m going crazy like this. I want you.” His whisper sounded hoarse in her ear. He raised her hands slowly, looping them behind his neck. She closed her eyes and felt herself lulled by the seductive pulse of his voice.

  “Open your eyes. Léa. Look at how beautiful you are.”

  She opened her eyes and saw the loosening tuck of the towel. The white curves of her breasts were rising and falling as if trying to escape the confines of the cloth. He bit on her earlobe, and she dug her fingers into his short hair. The tuck gave way, and she saw the towel slip down and pool around her waist.

  His hands slid under her breasts, lifting them as his thumbs caressed the tingling nipples. Léa turned her head and found his hungry mouth. They attacked each other in a frenzy of need—tasting, taking, giving. Her breath caught in her throat when his hand moved down over her belly and cupped her mound. She rose up from the chair and as their mouths kept up the relentless duel, his fingers teased her wet folds. Léa slipped her hand inside Mick’s shorts and wrapped her fingers around his pulsating penis.