Carnal Sin

by Allison Brennan

  Perhaps Julie was wrong. Perhaps it was the memories that made her think she wasn’t alone. Or the spirits that had flooded through him on their way to the astral plane. Moira would sense if something was supernaturally wrong with him. Her perceptions were extraordinary. All he had was memories, and there had to be a logical explanation. He would find it. He had to, for both him and Moira, and for their future.

  He thought back to Rod Fielding’s observation about the amygdala, the primitive core of the brain. The part that housed basic emotions. The foundation on which the Seven Deadly Sins fed. The memory center of the brain … primitive memories. Nothing was more primitive than fear.

  Rafe prayed for answers that did not come, except for a deep—primitive—need to protect Moira at all costs. Moira’s life was Rafe’s responsibility. He knew it with as strong a certainty as he knew that he loved her. It was his sacred duty. Even if he had to die. Even if he had to kill.

  Moira whimpered once in her sleep and Rafe whispered in her ear, “I’m here, sweetness. Don’t be afraid, I’m right here with you.”

  Dawn broke over the Los Padres Mountains before Rafe slept again.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  LOVE ME TO DEATH

  by Allison Brennan

  Published by Ballantine Books

  One Month Ago

  This was Roger Morton’s big chance. By taking the best practices of his criminal past blended with what he’d since learned in prison, he was going to create an amazing new life.

  Staying off the main path, he cut through Rock Creek Park behind the Omni Shoreham hotel. The trails were officially closed at night, but the D.C. cops couldn’t be everywhere at once. He wasn’t worried about the few stragglers he encountered. Walking in pairs and small groups, thinning out as the hour passed nine, they were scurrying across the park after burning the midnight oil at work, or taking a shortcut on their way to a high-priced bar to play the eternal mating game.

  He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, wishing he had a warmer coat. It had been cold all day, a depressing gray haze clouding everything in sight. He couldn’t wait to grab his money and get out of this miserable town. He had a place already lined up in South America. Even after six years in prison, Roger had contacts. Once he had the money in hand, he’d be sitting pretty.

  Six long years behind bars. His attorney had said he was lucky to get away with just that after the attempted murder of a federal agent and felony rape. Six years in the federal pen was lucky? He’d spilled his guts, gave the cops everything they wanted, admitted to practically everything—well, he had left out the crucial detail that he’d killed one of their own people. That fact he’d most certainly kept to himself, thanks very much. Anyway, the Feds didn’t have anything implicating him—no gun, no witnesses, nothing. It had been easy enough to lay blame for that escapade on someone else

  Six years of his life gone. For cooperating.

  Everything had changed while he was in the pen, and he was damned if he was going to sit around and be a car mechanic making chump change. Not when he knew how to make real money. The kind of serious dough that would set him up in his previous lifestyle, the kind that bought freedom. In prison, his life had been on hold—now he had the chance to start over.

  Adam had spouted off that Roger was the dumb one. Well, Adam was dead—how smart did that make him?

  Roger cautiously approached the meeting spot. He wasn’t an idiot; when there was this kind of money involved, he knew not to bring the merchandise without cash up front—or to tangle with someone who hadn’t been vetted.

  First show me what you got, buddy.

  And damn, that pimp had been nasty. Roger had enjoyed the digital files of young women getting screwed every which way. Some were actual actresses, others desperate for a quick buck to pay for their next fix. Some of the recordings—or the best, in his opinion—were those where the chicks didn’t even know they were being filmed. Amateur whores. Roger saw the marketing potential for that campaign, practically salivating over the dollars he’d rake in. Straight porn wasn’t illegal, but the money was in edgier areas—hidden cameras, underage teens, fantasy rape that wasn’t necessarily consensual.

  Roger had recently rented a small storage unit to recreate the operation he’d run with Adam. Only now, with Adam six feet under, Roger wouldn’t have to split profits so many ways or take orders. He’d run the website, handle the back-end, and the pimp provided the pornographic content. A fifty-fifty split. Roger was confident the cash would stream in fast and he’d learned from Adam how to manage the credit cards of their customers and funnel money to offshore accounts. Best of all, without Adam around, Roger wouldn’t have to worry anymore about the snuff films that had brought the Feds down on them. If Adam hadn’t gotten his ya-ya’s off strangling the women he screwed, they’d never have been busted. Rape was a crime, but murder was a whole other story.

  All Roger needed was some up-front cash to set up the offshore operation. It didn’t matter that he was on parole, he’d skip out and never again step on American soil. That took more money than he could make working fifty-hour weeks at some suburban car dealership changing oil.

  The trees were denser as he circled the meeting spot near a footbridge crossing a muddy stream. Roger made double sure it wasn’t a setup—though he couldn’t imagine how. He wasn’t the one carrying the money, he was the partner with the know-how, the brains. Sure he was risking prosecution, but the potential rewards were well worth it. Besides, using his old contacts, Roger had tracked these guys down. It’s not like they’d been looking for him. He’d kept a low profile since getting out five months ago.

  He’d rather be dead than go back.

  He spotted his new partner approaching the rendezvous point. The man was wearing jeans, a dark Windbreaker, and a Yankees baseball cap—just like he’d said. Roger glanced around, saw no one else, and approached.

  “Hey,” he said, sizing up the man he had yet to meet.

  “Morton?”

  He gave a single nod. “Have my advance?”

  “We got an agreement?” The man’s voice was raspy, as if he’d been a two-pack-a-day smoker for years.

  Roger was waiting for entrapment clues—such as having him explicitly say that he was using the money to set up an illegal porn website—but the guy didn’t go into details. An agreement could mean anything in court. Sure, he was in the park after dark—a misdemeanor, and he could technically be thrown back in prison for even the smallest slipup—but they still couldn’t get him on anything big.

  Roger said, “Yes, we have a deal.”

  Tensing as the man reached into his pocket, Roger’s hand moved to the gun in his waistband, but he didn’t need to use it. His new partner handed him an envelope.

  Roger frowned as he held the paper. “It’s a little thin for twenty g’s.”

  “Open it.”

  The flap was unsealed, and Roger removed a folded piece of paper. It was blank, with a faded photo between the folds: a beautiful teenage girl with long black hair and large, sultry brown eyes.

  His instincts had him reacting almost before he recognized the dead girl, but not fast enough. He dropped the photo and paper and reached for his gun, but the man kicked his wrist before he touched the grip, and in the faint light from the trail Roger saw the man’s face dead-on for the first time.

  Another ghost from his past.

  “I wish I could be the one to put the bullet in your head,” the man said before shoving Roger down face-first.

  He tried to rise, but the traitor kicked him between the legs three times with steel-toed boots. Excruciating pain froze him. Worse than when he was raped in prison. But then he’d had his revenge. Panic and self-preservation rose with the pain as he tried to stand, only to be knocked down again.

  “Mr. Morton.” The quiet, cultured voice didn’t belong to his attacker. Roger hadn’t heard another man approach, and the idea that two—or more—men stood over him made him s
hake even as he tried to get up one last time.

  A boot in his balls had him seeing nothing. He almost didn’t hear the slide of the nine millimeter.

  “I wish this hurt you more, but in this case expediency is more important than my personal satisfaction at seeing you suffer. This is for Monique.”

  Roger Morton was dead before even registering the sound of the gunshot.

  Present Day

  Brad Monahan thought he had a get-out-of-jail-free card, but Lucy Kincaid would set him straight.

  She glanced at the clock on her computer and frowned. It was already nearly six and she’d promised her brother Patrick she wouldn’t be late after canceling their dinner plans twice last week.

  “Come on, come on,” she muttered as she split the large screen into six open chat windows she could monitor simultaneously. “You’ve been here every day this week at five, why are you late tonight?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy saw Women and Children First! director Frances Buckley approach. She’d retired from the FBI nine years ago after putting in twenty-five years, and though she was nearly sixty, she looked and acted ten years younger. After Lucy started volunteering for WCF, Fran quickly became her mentor. She’d written a glowing recommendation letter for Lucy’s application into the FBI and had helped her prepare for both the written and verbal tests. And for the last three months, Fran had helped Lucy cope with the anxiety of waiting to hear whether she made it to the final interview.

  Lucy didn’t allow herself to think that she could be rejected. She knew the process could take months, but not knowing either way was frustrating. For the last six years, all she’d wanted was to be an FBI agent. Everything she’d done—her double major in psychology and computer science, her internships with the police department and the D.C. Medical Examiners Office, her volunteer work at high schools and here at WCF—were all calculated to help her get into the FBI. She hoped the hiring panel could see that what she’d learned would make her a strong addition to the Bureau.

  Fran put a hand on the back of Lucy’s chair. “Tick-tock. It’s six, Lucy.”

  “Five more minutes. Monahan isn’t online yet.”

  “Life happens. You can’t sit here all night waiting for him. You have a life, too. Don’t you have dinner plans with your brother tonight?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Lucy, Monahan will be here tomorrow.”

  “I have some time—twenty minutes and I’ll make it to Clyde’s by seven.”

  “If you sprint to the metro.”

  “I’m a fast runner.” Lucy smiled at Fran, deliberately flashing her dimple.

  The older woman shook her head, but returned the smile. “I’ll pull the plug if you’re still here at 6:15.”

  Fran meant she would literally cut the power. She’d done it before. Lucy crossed her heart with her right index finger and blew Fran a kiss before she turned back to the fast-moving chat rooms.

  WCF had a secure bank of computers, as secure and untraceable as any in the FBI, where they investigated illegal sexual exploitation of women and children. When they collected enough evidence to identify the victim or the perpetrator, Fran turned the files over to the FBI for further investigation.

  But tonight, Lucy was involved in a more personal project. Brad Monahan. He’d raped two women, including her friend Sara Tyson, and had been sentenced to three-to-five years in state prison. But less than two years after his conviction, he’d been paroled, and now walked the streets free while his two known victims still faced the emotional devastation he’d caused.

  Lucy had sat through the two-day trial. Watched both Sara and Maggie torn apart on the stand. Knew what they’d gone through. The remorse Monahan showed to the jury was an act: Lucy would prove it now. The terms of his parole were clear: he had to stay clean for three years because alcohol was a contributing factor in the sexual assaults. He liked the club scene, and it was just a matter of time before he started drinking again. And when he did? D.C. Police Officer Cody Lorenzo would be there to cuff him and haul him back in.

  Justice would be fully served. All three-to-five years.

  After Brad Monahan’s release two weeks ago, Lucy had created a profile that fit his preferences: a college-age blonde who liked running and rock music, and enjoyed clubs that played live music. Her screen name was “AKA Tanya” and she’d been chatting him up since he’d been released from prison two weeks ago.

  Talking to him online made her physically ill, but it was for a greater good. She’d done her part, played both coy and sexy, never suggesting they meet, but always giving him the opportunity. He asked once, early on in their online chatting, about “hooking up” somewhere, but she’d declined. Always give them an out. Always give them a chance to say no. The second time he asked she declined, but hinted that she was interested, just busy. Another out, another chance to say no.

  This was an important rule when dealing with child predators; Brad Monahan wasn’t a child predator, but Lucy played by the same rules. Never suggest a meet. Always decline the first offer.

  At 6:10, Lucy’s computer softly beeped. “AKA Tanya” received a private message from BDM87. Brad David Monahan.

  BDM87: You still there?

  AKA Tanya: yep. studying. sorta … lol.

  BDM87: You free tonight?

  Lucy’s pulse quickened, but she kept her breathing even as she typed.

  AKA Tanya: i have a big test.

  BDM87: Tomorrow night??

  AKA Tanya: better … where?

  BDM87: You pick.

  Even though Monahan was on parole and Lucy wasn’t a cop—so this wasn’t technically entrapment—the conversation was moving into the gray area. Lucy had to get Monahan to pick the place.

  AKA Tanya: i dunno—someplace fun good music good drinks

  BDM87: Firehouse Grill? You know it?

  Lucy rolled her eyes. She didn’t hang at bars, but everyone under the age of thirty knew of the Fairfax-area bar that catered to the college crowd. Lots of drinking, too loud music, and crowded. Not a place for quiet conversation; definitely a place to hook up. It was perfect for men like Monahan, and perfect for this operation.

  AKA Tanya: i’ll be there … nine? eight?

  BDM87: Eight.

  AKA Tanya:

  Lucy smiled as she typed the online happy face.

  Fran called from the doorway, “Ten, nine, eight—”

  “I got him!” she called out as she typed a message to Monahan that she was logging out to study.

  Then she shut down each of the chat rooms after sending her personal email the transcripts that had been copied while she was logged in. She then quickly sent Cody a message.

  Monahan will be waiting for “AKA Tanya” at the Firehouse Grill, eight tomorrow. His choice.

  “You got Monahan?” Fran looked over Lucy’s shoulder. “Good.”

  “Yep, I accepted his third invite to hook up, changed the day so Cody has twenty-four hours, but he picked the time and place.” She spontaneously gave Fran a hug. “Finally, I feel like I’ve accomplished something!”

  “It’s been awhile since we had a victory, but don’t count your chickens before—”

  “They squeak. Right.” But nothing was going to diminish her good mood. Now she had something to celebrate with Patrick. She glanced at her watch. She was definitely going to have to run. “I wish I could be there when Cody arrests him.”

  “Lucy, you know the rules.” Fran forbade any of them from getting involved in the field, even on the periphery.

  “I know, I know.” Lucy shut down her monitor and grabbed her raincoat and scarf. “I’ll be satisfied with Cody’s report.” Not as satisfied as seeing Brad Monahan’s expression when he realized his date was a setup, but it would have to be enough.

  Carnal Sin is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, i
s entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2010 by Allison Brennan

  Excerpt from Love Me to Death copyright © 2010 by Allison Brennan

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Love Me to Death by Allison Brennan. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-51921-4

  www.ballantinebooks.com

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