by Lisa Jackson
As he charged forward, flagging the bus, his clothes ripped away and his exposed body was shriveled, the flesh decaying.
She gasped and he turned, looking over his shoulder, smiling widely as his face became a skull and the mirror on the bus flashed numbers and letters that she couldn’t see.
He’d dead. Aaron’s dead. Your husband died in South America.
No, not Aaron. Mason. Mason is my husband. Or was he?
The skeleton face grinned in wicked glee before stepping in front of the bus.
She cringed. Shrank away from the image. Screamed in silent horror.
In a second the image faded and she was again in the cabin, lying naked with a man, feeling the heat of his body. He held her tight and kissed the crook of her neck. Instantly her blood turned to liquid fire and her fear was replaced by desire, hot, wanton, undeniable desire.
She looked into the eyes of the man holding her, this sexy stranger, who was caressing her, cradling her against him, pushing his hips against hers. His erection was thick and hard against her, rubbing against her abdomen, creating friction and a shameless need. Oh, to feel him inside her, to experience the ecstasy of his thrusts as he parted her legs and pushed deep inside.
But it was wrong. She didn’t know him. Couldn’t just foolishly make love to him. Yet she was quivering with want, perspiring with need. “MacGregor…I—I don’t—”
“Shhh.” His lips swept softly over hers and she moaned. “Don’t think about anything.” His voice was so low, so seductive, and his hands, oh Lord, his hands. Skimming her nipples, whispering across her abdomen, touching gently, exploring eagerly, probing into her flesh. She gasped as he caressed her, getting her ready, her body responding, juices flowing.
“This is wrong,” she managed to say, though it was a whisper, as her lips barely moved.
He kissed her then. Hard. Urgently.
She felt all of his muscles strain as he pulled her up against him, and she couldn’t help but wind her arms around his neck, kissing him back fervently. Eyes closed, she felt the hard wall of his chest, the delicious scratch of his hair against her flesh, the heat from his skin below.
Her own heart was pounding crazily, blood throbbing in her ears, her skin afire.
Don’t do this, a voice in her head warned. You don’t even know him.
But that was crazy. Of course she knew him. She understood him. It was as if they’d been searching for each other for years.
Do not do this, Jillian.
Oh, be quiet, she thought, and gave herself up to the sensations of his touch, the smell of his skin, the feel of his whiskers against her face, the salty taste of his lips upon hers, as he shifted, pulling her beneath him, pressing her body into the cushions with his, breathing hard and fast against her skin. His tongue flicked against her lips, pushing through to glide along her teeth.
With a groan she opened to him. His hands found her breasts, kneading the soft flesh, causing her nipples to pucker and her insides to melt. An ache, deep and primal, swirled deep between her legs, and she closed her mind to anything but making love to him.
What would it hurt, just this once?
She loved him, didn’t she? Hadn’t she known it from the minute she’d awoken in this very cabin? And his touch, oh Lord, what he was doing to her, what her mind was imagining. She wanted this, the fusion of their bodies, the blending of their souls.
Moist heat curled deep inside, and she caught her breath as he came to her, his hard body covered in sweat, a sheen to his skin in the firelight. One masculine hand cupped her buttocks, pulled her close, fingers digging into her skin.
She trembled.
Desire pumped through her body.
“Jillian,” he said, gazing longingly at her. “Jillian.”
She tried to answer.
Couldn’t.
Her breath and voice were lost in this weird mix of love and lust and fear. He was breathing faster now, harder…or was that eager, excited panting her own unchained breaths?
She swallowed hard and thought the sound might be coming from another source.
A chill ran down her spine as she realized it might be from something dark and hidden and observing.
Something rabid and excited.
Something, or someone, licking his tongue in anticipation.
Oh God…
“Jillian!”
What?
The voice…was it MacGregor’s? Or was it resonating from the dark corners of the room?
Her heart stilled.
From somewhere in the distance a dog barked.
Harley?
She was suddenly outside in snowdrifts that reached her knees. She thought she saw the dog loping easily through the snow, as if following a broken path. She tried to call to him, to run after him, but her legs were leaden and he was moving so fast, a blur of white and black, his tail streaking behind. His ears were cocked forward as he leaped over a final snowbank and disappeared into a frigid thicket of pine and spruce.
No!
She felt the danger.
Tried to call out.
A rifle cracked.
The dog yelped in pain. “Harley!” she gasped, but again, her voice failed her, and Zane MacGregor, who had just been with her, was gone. She was freezing. She looked to the fire, where the dog, teeth bared, eyes glowing red from the reflection of the coals in the fire, lay, his coat matted in blood.
“Jillian!”
Someone was yanking on her hand. The demon in the corner? The monster who was watching her make love to MacGregor? The psychopath who had shot the dog?
Terror ripped through her.
She tried to scream.
Where the hell was MacGregor?
“Jillian! For the love of God, wake up!”
Her eyes flew open and she swept air into her lungs. In a second she realized she’d been dreaming and the images of the cabin withered away. She was still in the hospital, lying beneath wrinkled sheets, her heart pounding in fear. Outside a dog was barking, not crying in pain, and here, in the room, standing next to the bed, his big hand clasped over hers, his face a mask of concern, was Zane MacGregor.
The man to whom she’d just made mental love.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Are you all right?” Zane asked, and she shook the cobwebs, as well as the fantasies, from her mind. She thought about her dream and how she’d imagined making love to him, and she felt herself blush.
It had to be the drugs. Whatever they were pumping into her body in terms of antibiotics and painkillers and sleeping medication had obviously caused her to lose contact with all reality.
“I’m fine…well, kind of.” Scooting herself up in the bed, she tried not to think about the blue-gray of his eyes or the way she imagined his hands would feel on her body. For the love of God, they hadn’t even really kissed, unless you counted that chaste little brush of his lips across her cheek, and here she was dreaming about stripping him of his clothes and making love to him in front of the fire.
But the dream had changed, turned into a nightmare.
“Harley,” she said. “Is he all right?”
“Recovering. I stopped by there a few minutes ago. There’s still a chance he could lose a leg, but he’ll survive.”
“Thank God. I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“I shouldn’t have let him out.”
“And what? Let him pee all over the house? It’s okay, Jillian. You’re both alive. That’s all that matters.” For the first time, she noticed that his hand was still holding hers, his big, calloused fingers wrapped around hers.
As if he, too, recognized that he was touching her, he slowly released her hand and took a step back.
“You look like hell,” she said softly.
“That’s what a night in the Pinewood County Jail can do.”
“Did you break out?”
He almost laughed. She saw it in his weary gaze. “Nah. They had to let me go. Lack of evidence.
And it really pissed them off, just like I pissed off the guard who’s at your door. He didn’t want me to come inside, but I sweet-talked one of the nurses, who told him to back off.”
“And he did?”
“A little.”
She glanced past MacGregor to the door, where a short cop was glowering but not entering the room. He took one step over the threshold, and Jillian shook her head, glaring back at the man and letting him know in silent but no uncertain terms that he was to keep his distance.
“I need to get out of here,” she said softly to MacGregor.
One side of his mouth lifted. “Cabin fever?”
“Hospital fever, but yeah.”
“And do what? Go home?” he asked, his eyes narrowing just a fraction.
She shook her head. “I’ve got unfinished business.” She found the controls for the bed and pushed the button to raise the head of the bed until she was in a sitting position.
“What’re you planning?”
“I’m going to find Aaron, if he’s alive.”
“You still think he is?”
“I don’t know what to think. Maybe it’s an elaborate scam to lure me over here; I don’t know. I wanted to believe that I was a mistake, that this maniac killer you’ve got running around this part of the country hit the wrong car. But I’ve had to rethink that since the attack that put me here. This guy, whoever he is, wants me dead.”
“Then you should let the police handle it.”
She stared at him. Hard. “Would you?” When he didn’t answer, she half-smiled. “Okay, I know the answer to that. And the police will probably want me to go somewhere safe and hide.”
“Probably.”
She shook her head. “How would you feel if someone tried to kill you twice? If they jumped you, stripped you and tied you to a damned tree?” She felt her blood burning through her veins again, anger and adrenalin spurring her on. “I know how to shoot a gun. I’ve had courses in self-defense. I’m no wimp—”
“And right now you’re feeling angry and self-righteous and foolish,” he said. “But you’re right, I’d feel the same way. But even with all your qualifications, this guy’s got something over you, something that you just can’t fight.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s nuts, Jillian. A bonafide, dyed-in-the-wool psychopath. You can’t begin to fathom the depths of depravity in his black soul, so leave the investigating to the cops. Let them do their job.”
“Because they’ve done it so well? How many women are dead now? Four? Five?”
“Four dead, two in the hospital, counting you.”
“Six victims.” She began working on the IV, peeling off the tape. “And you know what? I have a feeling this guy’s not done. So I’m not going to be a sitting duck here at the hospital, okay? I’m not pinning my hopes on Nurse Claire and the rent-a-cop out in the hallway being my first line of defense. Everyone knows I’m here; I saw it on a news broadcast. And I’m willing to bet that the reason I haven’t gotten any calls from reporters is that the hospital is blocking them, and the police are checking them out. I think the smarter move is to just leave. Let the police say that I’m still here; I’m cool with that. But I can’t just lie here and wait, hoping the guards will protect me.”
“I could stay—”
“And you’re going to tell me that you’re not after this guy? That you don’t intend to track down the guy who set you up?”
MacGregor frowned. “I won’t lie to you, Jillian. That bastard is going to pay. But ’til he’s caught, you need to be safe.”
Jillian winced as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, her taped ankle visible beneath the hem of her short, unflattering hospital gown. She thought about telling him the truth about Aaron, about how the louse had stolen money from clients, people who had trusted him, and left her to deal with the victims of his fraud. Whether he’d really died in Suriname or faked his death, he’d set her up for a major, horrible and scandalizing fall. Between the police, the press and the victims of a pyramid scheme that she’d known nothing about, she was left to deal with the fallout and try to pick up the pieces of her life. It had taken her years to regain her reputation, and she couldn’t deny that remarrying and changing her name had held more than a little appeal, a fact that Mason had accused her of more often than once. If Aaron Caruso dared to be alive, she damned well wanted to see him.
Face to face.
But, of course, she hadn’t confided in Zane MacGregor, at least not yet. It just wasn’t an easy thing to admit that she’d been played for the ultimate schmuck—a fool in love.
She couldn’t count the number of times she’d thought of what he’d done to her and looked in the mirror only to say, “Idiot,” as she’d washed her face or brushed her teeth or combed her hair. It had taken years to bury all that anger and pain. However, upon learning that Aaron might be alive today, the old wounds had reopened, as if the scars had been slit, then burned with acid.
MacGregor said, “You can’t leave, Jillian. It’s unsafe.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, feigning a smile she didn’t feel. “Besides, I’ve got you to protect me.”
“You’re out of your mind.” But he grinned, and it was a killer smile, the kind that melted her to the center of her heart.
“Not yet. But I will be totally nuts if I stay here a second longer, so don’t argue with me, MacGregor, okay? It’s just not gonna work.”
On her way to the office, Pescoli stopped at the Safeway store for a cup of coffee and while she was inside she picked up a copy of the local paper and, from a revolving rack, some colorful gift bags and a couple of gift cards to stores, restaurants, even airlines. She plucked one for Bianca’s favorite department store, another for an electronics superstore for Jeremy. She also picked up a couple of fast-food cards and one for gas for Jeremy. In a shopping mood, she found foil-wrapped candy in holiday bags and a couple of novels in the book section. Within twenty minutes some of her Christmas shopping was accomplished. Not too inspired, but the kids would be okay with it. And it was the best she could do.
She eyed the cigarettes, considered buying a pack and keeping up the habit just until the Star-Crossed Killer case was solved, then decided she might be ninety and in the lung cancer ward before that happened.
She could get through raising teenagers without nicotine. Or so she tried to convince herself.
At the checkout, she swiped her credit card to pay for her purchases and was denied. “What the hell?” she muttered, tried again, but the card didn’t work.
By now two other people were behind her in the “under fifteen items” line. A third swipe of the card was no good. The checker, a girl of about nineteen with hair streaked purple and wearing a Santa hat held onto her head with a bobby pin, asked, “Do you want to call the credit card company?”
“No…wait.” Pescoli, irritated and embarrassed, fished through her wallet, while the guy behind her, unshaven and wearing thick glasses, tried not to look pissy. He failed. She found her debit card and swiped it, wiping out a good portion of the money she’d set aside for the rest of the month.
A minute later the transaction was finished and she was over two hundred dollars poorer, but she did have a few paltry presents. “It’s going to be a spiritual Christmas this year,” she muttered under her breath as she climbed into her rig, fired up the engine and pulled out of the lot. It was still early, traffic sparse, and she was almost to the crest of Boxer Bluff and past the jail when the phone rang.
She picked up as she wheeled into the parking lot, which, in the past few hours, had been plowed. “Pescoli,” she said, without checking caller ID.
“Hey, Regan.” Lucky’s voice was low and gravelly, a combination of too many smokes and not enough sleep, if she guessed right. “Jeremy just called.”
Pescoli yanked on the emergency brake. “Oh? And what did he have to say for himself?”
“He told me the story about how he and his friends had a few beers and go
t picked up, the whole nine yards.” He yawned, and Pescoli imagined him standing in his boxers and a T-shirt that was tight over the shoulders—Lucky Pescoli’s answer to pajamas. His hair would be rumpled, his jaw covered by a thick beard, his hazel eyes heavy with sleep.
The image used to turn her on.
No more.
“Did he also tell you that I let him sit all night in juvie?”
“Oh yeah.”
“So why did he call you?”
There was a pause, then he got right down to it. “Jeremy wants to come and live with me and Michelle.”
“You’re kidding.”
“That’s what he says.”
“And you believe him?” She was seeing red, her hand clenching the damned cell phone in a death grip. “He won’t even stay with you for a weekend, Lucky! And now he wants to make a permanent arrangement?” What was all that talk about Lucky not being his real father just a few days ago?
“So he says.”
“’Cuz he’s ticked off. That’ll change.” Another beat and she felt her own heart stutter. “Wait a second. You want this?” The world seemed off-kilter, tipping on its axis.
“Michelle and I have been talking.”
“Leave your wife out of this. She’s not the kids’ mother.”
“But I’m their dad. Bianca’s my daughter and I’ve been the most significant male influence in Jeremy’s life.”
“Well, that explains his sudden bout of insanity!” she said, suddenly hot.
“Face it, Regan, you’re always working.”
“And you’re on the road when you are working.”
“Michelle can be there for them when I can’t.”
“Michelle’s a kid herself! For the love of God, Lucky, you can’t be serious!” She noticed movement in her rearview mirror, and her insides curdled a bit when she recognized Cort Brewster’s pickup as the undersheriff parked in his designated spot.
“Maybe it’s time for a change, Regan,” Lucky said so calmly she wanted to reach right through the airwaves and shake some sense into him. “I’m married, more stable than you. Jeremy knows about the men—”
“Men?” she repeated, dumbstruck. Yes, she’d had a couple of boyfriends, none of whom had ever lived, or even shown up, at the house. No, she wasn’t a virgin, but there had been more years than she’d like to remember when abstinence was her lifestyle. She’d lived the life of a nun.