Kiss of Deceit

by Patricia A. Rasey

  “No—and I take it that means you don’t either.”

  “We have his voice on tape, but, no, it was anonymous.” She paused, looking him square in the eye. “If I believe even the slightest amount that you didn’t kill your wife, I won’t close this case until I’m positive you did.”

  His brown eyes softened. “Thank you.”

  “For what? I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “But you will.”

  LeAnne stared in awe at the man standing across from her. How could he put his trust into her? Her—someone he didn’t know, someone who had put him behind bars in the first place.

  And then, as if he had read her mind, he finished with, “Because you’re all I have,” and depressed the stop button on the recorder.

  He turned away from her, then motioned for the guards to take him back to his cell. LeAnne did not move until he had walked completely from her sight and she heard the last of the large doors slam in finality.

  “Damn him.” Her words echoed.

  Damn him for making her feel responsible for his entire future.

  * * *

  Adrenaline coursed through his arteries as he waited on the stoop for her to answer the door. His palms perspired. The first death had been a total accident. But, oh, he had felt alive for the first time in his life. Now it seemed a lifetime ago; as if he had waited an eternity. But this, this one had been planned, right down to arriving at her back door unannounced.

  He had meticulously handpicked this victim, tracked her, and knew her schedule almost better than he knew his own. She lived in a remote area, not a house for half a mile, and an obvious easy lay. Women always were. Too quick to spread their legs, and all too eager to screw over their old men. Being blessed with magnetic charm, he had made it his vocation to see them pay.

  The door swung open. Her wide-eyed look of surprise went to one of genuine delectation. She opened the door wider and beckoned him in. He was careful not to touch a thing.

  Never make it easy; let the clueless sheriff’s office run circles around themselves.

  “Frank’s not home,” she said, turning away and leading him into the darkened house. Dusk filtered through the windows.

  “I know,” he said, following like he was some obedient puppy. For that alone, he would kill her. He was the one in control— he was the one in power. And soon, he’d prove it to her, show her his superiority.

  She reached into the refrigerator and grasped a bottle of OJ. After gently shaking it, she twisted the cap off the Tropicana and took a large swallow.

  Her hair had been severely pulled back severely in a tight ponytail, the loose strands damp from her early-evening workout. Exactly how he knew she would be. He could smell her perspiration, easily imagine her writhing beneath his tightening clasp, cutting off her airway. His erection grew, straining against his white briefs beneath his jogging pants.

  He shifted his stance, his wind suit making a swishing noise caused from the sudden movement.

  Her gaze drifted down his body, as though she were appreciating some skirt-chaser and he was no better than a dog. Her eyes came back up to his. A tiny smile crept up her collagen-injected lips.

  His stomach knotted. His brow broke out with sweat.

  “Do you want some?” she asked, her tone suggestive. She had noticed his rock-hard erection, hadn’t missed the strain on his jogging pants. She thirsted for more than the Tropicana. Holding out the half-empty bottle of OJ, she said, “Juice,” her gaze wanton.

  “No,” he replied, his hands clasping and unclasping at his sides. “You never were much of a talker. But then again, that’s not why I like you.”

  “Like me?” Bile rose in his throat. How dare she suggest there was anything more than a good lay between them?

  She giggled, shoving the nearly empty bottle of juice into the refrigerator, then advanced on him like a pussy needing to be petted. She slid her arms around his neck, her fingers toying with the strands of hair lying at his collar.

  His muscles contracted. His biceps twitched.

  “What would you call it?” Her grin turned wicked. Satan would be proud. “Lust?” The word rolled off her tongue like the purring of a well-satisfied feline.

  He gripped her pony tail and yanked her startled face back to look him in the eye. “Why waste the time?”

  She shrugged out of his grasp, only because he allowed her to, her eyes wide and wary, then turned her back on him. “No need to be such a dick. All good things come to boys who wait.”

  Boys! The word echoed about his head like a litany.

  “I’ve waited.” Heat traveled up his spine as his ire itched through his soul like the lit end of a fuse crawling toward dynamite.

  She glanced over her shoulder, then crooked her finger at him.

  As if she were the one in control! For now, he would allow her that and followed her silently, stealthily.

  Once in her bedroom, her smile grew. Her stance became cocky. She had the vagina, so, therefore, she thought she could manipulate him.

  But he didn’t move. All good things come to boys who wait. He stood stationary, watching her every lithe movement.

  She laughed, her grin malevolent. “Can’t wait to play?”

  She slowly pulled her black tee over her head as putting on a show. Just like all the rest. Hooking her thumbs in the band of her bicycle shorts, she slid them down her slender hips. A gray sports bra and matching thong hugged her well-toned body and accented her mile- high legs.

  Blood coursed through his body, ending with a dull thud in his nearly painful erection.

  He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a red bandanna, ripping it in two. Her eyes rounded slightly, then softened when his intentions dawned on her.

  The sleaze must die.

  “You are bad.” She giggled, then hopped on the bed and offered him her wrists.

  He walked over to her, yanked one wrist and tied it to the spindled bed post, causing her to squeal like a stuck pig. Ignoring her discomfort, he leaned over her and secured the other.

  Obviously forgetting the slight pain, she squirmed seductively like a kitten wanting attention. A lump lodged in his throat. She would rot in Hell before the night ended.

  “Don’t make me wait, Sid.” He hadn’t given her his real name, nor would he ever use the same one twice. “I want to feel you inside me.”

  He grasped the thong, playing her game, and slid it slowly down her long legs, allowing his fingers to gently brush across her hot, inner thighs. She moaned.

  His gut knotted. His jaw clenched.

  Bitch—a two-timing whore.

  He suddenly felt sorry for Frank. Hell, he was doing the sorry excuse for a man a favor.

  Climbing on the bed between her spread knees, he jerked his pants down past his hips. He withdrew a condom from his pocket, hastily tore it from the package, and with shaking fingers, put it on. Not wasting another moment, he thrust angrily into her, his hips pumping furiously as hers rose greedily to meet him.

  “Yes,” she screamed, it echoing about from ear to ear.

  Yes! Yes! Yes!

  Damn, he hated her—wanted to destroy her.

  His skin crawled. His fingers itched.

  His hands encircled her throat and squeezed. The languid movement of her hips became more like a bucking bronco as she squirmed and tried to throw him off.

  Her violent thrashing only fueled his actions. The incubus within his loins unfurled. His breathing quickened; his lips twitched.

  Her eyes ballooned as she pulled desperately on the binds that held her. Her mouth gaped and her attempts at air became futile.

  He quickly withdrew his hands, not yet wanting to kill her, and listened to her gasps. Her eyes filled with horror.

  “What…” she croaked on a dry throat. “What…the hell…are you doing?”

  Without an explanation, he again wrapped his fingers tightly around her throat, his thumbs overlapping her larynx. Her body lashed about like a fish out of water
.

  Her arms tightened. She yanked desperately on the restraints. Tears ran from the corners of her eyes, soaking strands of her hair and pooling in her ears.

  Once again he released her. She gasped for oxygen. Her reddened face blanched white.

  “Please, God…please…don’t hurt me,” she begged, she cried.

  He chuckled menacingly, the sounds of her pleas only fueling his licentiousness.

  “Dear God,” she mumbled.

  “He won’t help you now,” he hissed, before wrapping his hands once more around her throat. And he had an hour to prove it to her before anyone noticed his absence.

  Chapter 4

  LeAnne fumbled in the dark with her keys, cursing herself for not changing the burned-out bug bulb on her porch. A mosquito buzzed by her ear, as if to prove her point, causing LeAnne to swat at empty air. The streetlight did little to illuminate her porch since the house partially shielded the door from full view of the street.

  Finally getting the key into the hole, she opened her front door, stepped from the shadows, and tiptoed in, not sure if Chad had fallen asleep. She had noted his black Lexus in the driveway, figuring he planned to continue their interrupted night. But with the house completely dark, she supposed he had gotten tired of waiting and fallen asleep.

  LeAnne laid her jangling keys and purse on the breakfast counter before locking up her 10mm semi-automatic in her secretary. Making her silent way to the bedroom, she stripped off her clothes, tossing them in the wicker basket just inside her room’s opened doorway. She closed the bathroom door before turning on the light, not wanting to disturb Chad.

  The vanity mirror hung directly across from the light switch; the glare of the bulbs momentarily blinded her. Once her eyes adjusted, LeAnne could not help but look at herself. Her normally pale skin sported a warm glow from the tanning rays of the sun, her unnaturally green eyes seemed to gleam back at her. The sun had lightly streaked her blond hair, making it appear as though it had several shades of color.

  Although she ran four miles every morning and lifted weights at the office gym regularly, her white brassiere and matching panties did little to flatter her. Her breasts were far too small to be considered attractive, and her waist was about as curvaceous as a twelve-year-old boy’s. Her hips had yet to flare, having had no children of her own to influence their shape. In short, she wasn’t much to look at. And before meeting Marcus Gallego, she had barely noticed. Looks had never been her focal point.

  Shaking off the notion that Snake would ever find her attractive when he had had someone as beautiful as Jillian, LeAnne shed her bra and slipped into a pair of plaid flannel boxer shorts and a plain white tee. She should feel damn lucky to have Chad.

  LeAnne shut off the light, opened the door, and soundlessly stole to her side of the bed. Her side. As if Chad Baker had already taken residence in her home and had his own side to her bed. She better get used to the idea with the wedding not more than a little over a month away. After much deliberation, she and Chad decided to sell his home and keep hers, its being more centrally located.

  Snuggling beneath the white satin sheets, LeAnne punched her pillow a few times then turned to her side, giving her back to Chad. The movement brought him over, his arm slipping over hers and his mouth nuzzling her nape. His soft musk encompassed her like a butterfly’s cocoon. LeAnne grasped his arm and snuggled more fully into his heat.

  “You’re home,” he mumbled, his warm breath tickling the hairs on the base of her neck.

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” she whispered.

  “Did Gallego confess?” he asked, his voice not yet husky from the effects of a deep sleep.

  Her gut knotted. Chad was bound to be upset that she would even consider the idea of helping Gallego. “No.”

  “Anything I…we,” he corrected, “can use?”

  LeAnne rolled onto her back and glanced at him through the shadows.

  “He wants me to help him prove his innocence.” Why she told Chad as much, she did not know. Nonetheless she wanted his approval and no secrets to ever lie between them.

  His eyes narrowed to dark slits; his muscles tightened. “Christ,

  LeAnne. With all the evidence mounted against the SOB, you want to help set him free?”

  She furrowed her brow. “I didn’t tell you, yet, that I would.”

  He let out an aggravated humph, as though he already knew she had no other choice. After all, in this job, she sought the truth as well as justice. “Are you?”

  LeAnne snuggled against him, knowing he would not take the news well. “I told him I’d look into it.”

  Chad jerked away his arm and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Jesus, you never learn, do you?”

  Using her hands as the pillow, she turned to her side and glanced at him through the dark. She could see his withdrawal; certainly not the way she hoped the night would turn out. But then, again, the entire evening had not gone her way.

  “For some reason, I don’t know, I believe him.”

  His gaze flitted back to hers. “And what facts do you base that on, Detective?”

  She shrugged, not giving him an explanation. Chad had a way of holding grudges and could stay mad at her for days. With only a short time before they were married, she certainly didn’t want him angry. She ran her hand down his muscled chest.

  “Don’t go off half-cocked, Chad. I didn’t say I was going to get him off,” she said, thinking about her choice of words. Definitely double- edged, and the possibility of the second meaning left her holding her breath.

  “Then what are you saying?”

  Shaking off the wanton images, she replied, “I told him I’d review the facts. That’s it.”

  “Did you tell him to get a lawyer? That he’s going to need one?”

  “It was the first thing I told him.”

  “Then why the hell is he still needing your help? You know as well as I, that should be his lawyer’s job—not yours!”

  “I’m not so sure he can afford one and you know what the court will provide.”

  “Christ, LeAnne, that’s not my problem.” He turned to face her. “Or yours, for that matter. Marcus Gallego murdered his wife with his bare hands. Let him pay the consequences.”

  He rankled her ire; the slow burn crept from her toes and heated her ears. “Aren’t you convicting him without a trial, Counselor? The man has a right to a jury of his peers.”

  “And he’ll get one.”

  He gave her his back. The cold shoulder. Even from the elevated temperatures of the warm July night, she could feel his icy demeanor.

  “We can talk about this in the morning. Besides,” she said, her tone deepening as she ran her hand down his smooth back then placed a gentle kiss upon his shoulder, “that’s not why you came over tonight, is it?”

  “I’m tired, LeAnne. Go to sleep.”

  The potshot hurt. She knew it for what it was. He was upset that she would even think about trying to prove Gallego’s innocence. In a sense, they would be working against one another, each trying to reach the opposite end of the spectrum. LeAnne suddenly regretted expounding her news. He would probably stew for days.

  She glanced at the amber glowing clock. Eleven-fifteen. Tomorrow morning would come bright and early, and she was not about to get much shut-eye.

  Damn Snake Gallego for getting beneath her skin and ruining her otherwise perfect life—damn him for being so appealing.

  An hour later, the phone rang. As she fumbled for the offensive noise-maker, it jangled again, causing Chad to stir. LeAnne picked up the receiver and mumbled, “Hello.”

  “LeAnne,” Joe said, not needing to announce himself. “We have another homicide.”

  LeAnne jerked upright as though someone had rammed a rod straight up her spine.

  Chad grumbled a groggy, “What is it?”

  “Seems it’s a possible copycat of the Jillian Gallego case,” the sheriff continued. “The husband of the victim called it in about
a half hour ago. Two deputies were dispatched to the scene and called in with their findings. You better get out there. County Road P, before you get to Route 6. Doc Holliday’s house. Seems he was pulling the second shift in the emergency room. Found her when he got home.”

  “You call Bob Reese?” she asked. The Sheriff’s Chief Deputy had helped her with Jillian Gallego’s case. LeAnne wanted him to be along on this one as well.

  “As soon as I hang up with you.”

  “Tell him about the possible copycat to the Gallego case. I want him there ASAP.”

  * * *

  After retrieving her stocked detective’s sedan, LeAnne drove out to Frank Holliday’s home. Frank had been given the nickname “Doc” because of rumors of some distant family ties to the old gambler of the same name. His house sat alone on a slight incline, not another residence for about a half mile. LeAnne noted the outside temperature to be eighty-two degrees. July weather rarely cooled in the evenings. She wrote the outside temperature and the time of her arrival in her notebook, then noted the exact location and type of house as well, before making her way up the brick steps. Deputy Allen Wymer stood at the door keeping track of all who entered.

  “She’s in the bedroom at the top of the stairs, Detective,” he said in a tone that hinted of sarcasm. It wasn’t lost on LeAnne that Deputy Wymer believed women were incapable of doing a man’s job, especially since it was her job he wanted.

  LeAnne nodded in acknowledgment, then entered the building. The inside temperature of the home dropped nearly fifteen degrees from the outside. The preservation of the body would fare better in the cooler temperatures, though seventy degrees was not much cooler. Two men from the coroner’s office stood on the landing, looking somewhat impatient and annoyed as she greeted them before entering the room.

  Deputy Tom Jenson, obviously pulling a double, since his normal was the seven-to-three day shift, stood cautiously beside the bed, hands in his pockets.

  LeAnne took out her thirty-five millimeter and began snapping pictures of the scene—close-ups of the victim, the walls, the surrounding furniture. The deceased’s face lay to the side, her mussed hair shrouding her from view, her arms posed crucifixion style as her wrists were still tethered to the bed posts by two halves of a red bandanna. Her legs also appeared posed, unlike the Gallego case, her ankles approximately three feet apart.