If Looks Could Kill

by Beverly Barton

“Of course. Everybody in Cherokee County knows you, Mr. MacKinnon.”

  He shrugged. So much for finding anonymity in this place. “You have me at a disadvantage, madam. You know me, but I don’t know you.”

  “Lacy Fallon.” The middle-aged bleached blonde offered him a kind smile. “I’ve been bartending here ever since Jazzy opened up this place.”

  Farlan nodded, then glanced around the room. “Guess it’s a bit early for most folks.”

  “Yeah, this place doesn’t usually start hopping on a Saturday night until after nine.”

  “Well, that suits me fine. I just came in for a beer. I’m too old for much of anything else.”

  “You don’t look too old to me,” a feminine voice behind him said.

  The bartender frowned and turned up her nose as if she’d smelled something rotten. Farlan glanced over his shoulder. The girl standing only a few feet away was a pretty little thing and probably not a day over twenty. She wore too much makeup and not enough clothes.

  “We don’t want your kind in here,” Lacy Fallon said, loud and clear. “Jazzy’s done sent you packing once. If you’ll leave now, I won’t call the police.”

  Farlan glanced back and forth from the young woman to the bartender and realization dawned. The unwanted customer was a prostitute. He hadn’t realized there were any in Cherokee Pointe. But then again, he hadn’t been in the market for a hooker. Not since . . .

  “I’ll leave quietly,” the girl said, then cozied up to Farlan and whispered, “Want to give me a ride? Or if you’d prefer, I could ride you.”

  Farlan didn’t flinch, but his gut tightened. He inspected the girl thoroughly, from head to toe. For a split second his old eyes played a trick on him, and he saw the ghost of a pretty young woman from his past.

  He paid for his drink, then said, “Why don’t I give you a lift home, young lady? You shouldn’t be in a place like this. You should be out on a Saturday night date with some nice young man.”

  Glowering at Farlan, the bartender harrumphed. Hell, let her think whatever she wanted to. He had no intention of taking this girl up on her offer, but he did want to spend a little time with her. And he didn’t owe Lacy Fallon or anyone else an explanation.

  The young woman curled her arm around his as they walked out of Jazzy’s Joint. “I don’t have a place of my own, so you’ll have to rent us a room somewhere. Or if you’d rather, we can just do it in your car. I give great blow jobs.”

  Without replying to her offer, Farlan led her out of the bar and down the street to his Bentley. He unlocked the car and helped her in on the passenger’s side; then he slid behind the wheel and turned to her. “I don’t want sex from you. But I am willing to pay you for an hour or two of your time tonight.”

  She stared at him, her expression one of doubt. “How much? And what do you want me to do?”

  “Would a hundred dollars be sufficient for . . . say, two hours of your time?”

  She grinned. “Yeah, I’d say a hundred is just fine, depending on what I have to do to earn the money.”

  “Take a ride with me. Talk to me. Tell me about your hopes and dreams.”

  She looked at him as if she thought he was crazy. “That’s it. That’s all you want from me?” she asked.

  “Yes, that’s all.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m perfectly serious. You see, I’m a lonely old man with only a few truly happy memories. Some of those mem ories are about another pretty young woman who had so many hopes and dreams for her future.”

  She shrugged. “Sure, if talk is all you want. I can talk all night for fifty bucks an hour. And if you change your mind about the blow job or—”

  “I won’t change my mind. I know what I want.”

  She’d told him she was eighteen. He’d asked to see her driver’s license. Sure enough, she was legal. Just barely. Despite his penchant for tasty young things, he couldn’t risk screwing around with jail bait. He’d learned his lesson ten years ago when a certain fifteen-year-old gal’s daddy had come after him with a shotgun. If Farlan hadn’t had the law in his hip pocket back then—both the sheriff and the chief of police—things might have gotten nasty. But once Farlan paid her father fifty thousand not to press charges, the whole ugly mess simply went away. Not one word had ever been printed in the local paper, thanks to the fact that MacKinnon Media had a monopoly on the press in Cherokee County. Max couldn’t help shivering just a bit whenever he thought about the whole situation and how close he’d come to ruining his life. He owed Farlan a debt he could never fully repay.

  Max lay in bed, naked as the day he was born, and let her remove his soiled condom. When she got up, he swatted her smooth, round backside. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him, then disappeared into the bathroom. With the heat of passion fading, he felt a sudden chill, so he dragged the sheet and blanket up to his waist.

  He had needed this evening’s entertainment, needed it the way he needed air to breathe. Sex with his wife—which he got about once a month, if he was lucky—had never been great, not in years. Not after she got a little older and more demanding. He liked ’em young. So sue him. If all men would admit the truth, most of them would prefer a sixteen- year-old to a thirty-year-old.

  Hell, he wasn’t a damn pedophile. Little girls didn’t turn him on. They had to be mature enough to have tits and a furry pussy before he was interested. Somebody between fourteen and twenty. He’d enjoyed his share of the younger ones in the past, until he’d picked the wrong gal. Ever since then, he’d made sure they were either legal age or in an illegal profession. Lately most of his pickups were the later. Young prostitutes.

  When she came out of the bathroom, she started putting on her clothes. Max patted the bed and motioned to her.

  “If you want more, it’ll cost you,” she told him.

  “That’s fine by me.” Max whipped back the covers and slid to the side of the bed. “I’ll be good to go pretty soon, sugar. I took my Viagra today.”

  She let her jeans drop back on the floor and came toward him, her slender hips swaying and her small, perky breasts begging for his mouth.

  Wade Truman threw back his head and groaned deep in his throat as he came. Shudders of release racked his body. A minute later, as the aftershocks rippled through him, his partner came. God, she was loud, he thought, as he listened to her scream in his ear. Sweaty and exhausted, he rolled off her and onto the bed. While he lay there, gazing up at the ceiling, she cuddled up against him. If he didn’t have plans for her later, he’d get up now, wash off, put on his clothes and leave. He’d bought her dinner; they’d talked and laughed and danced. He’d been charming and attentive, giving her what most women wanted, ladies and sluts alike. At thirty- five, he had yet to meet a woman he really wanted that he couldn’t talk into his bed.

  Don’t lie to yourself. There was one. That fiery redhead who told you flat out no. And for the life of him he didn’t understand why, not when she’d probably spread her legs for half the men in Cherokee County.

  Looking back, he figured he’d just approached her at the wrong time, one of the times Jamie Upton had been in town. Everybody knew that Jazzy Talbot had been hog wild crazy about the bastard. And now that Jamie was dead, she’d latched on to the new heir apparent to the Upton fortune, Caleb McCord. Lucky son of a bitch. What he’d give to be in that guy’s shoes. Wade chuckled to himself, thinking what he’d give to be in Caleb’s bed, on top of Jazzy, buried to the hilt inside her.

  He was an idiot! A damn fool. Hell, even his ex-wife had reminded him of Jazzy. Not as buxom. Not as tall and leggy. Not as wild. But a pretty redheaded lady who had made him a good wife. Too bad she’d been as boring as hell and completely dull in bed. Three years of having to beg her for sex and then pretend to be grateful afterward had been three years too many. He’d been footloose and fancy free for the past two years, so he’d been making up for lost time by screwing around every chance he got. Because of his political aspirations, he sta
yed away from married women. And he did his best to keep his affairs discreet. He didn’t make promises and tried not to break any hearts, despite being a strictly love ’em and leave ’em type.

  Things would have been different with Jazzy.

  Shit, man, get over it. Get over her. Even if she wanted him—which she didn’t—he could never marry her. No way in hell could he ever run for political office again if he had a wife like Jazzy. He kept reminding himself that the world was full of pretty women. Pretty redheads who didn’t say no. Just because he’d had a thing for Jazzy as long as he could remember didn’t mean he had to spend the rest of his life mooning over her.

  “Wade, honey . . .” She nuzzled his neck, then kissed his jaw. “You’re awfully quiet. What are you thinking about?”

  He groaned inwardly. What was it with women—all women—always wanting to know what a man was thinking? If he told her that he’d been thinking about another woman, she’d not only be hurt, but she’d get pissed.

  “I’m thinking about you,” he lied. “About all the things I’d like to do to you.”

  She giggled.

  He pulled away from her and slid out of bed. After his feet hit the floor, he grabbed his tan slacks off the back of the nearby chair where he’d neatly hung them and then pulled them on. “I’m going to get myself a glass of wine. Do you want one?”

  She crinkled her nose. “I don’t much care for wine. Do you happen to have a beer?”

  “Sure, I’ll bring you back a beer.”

  Wade grinned. His date tonight was no more the type you’d bring home to Mama than Jazzy was, but she sure made a man’s blood boil. And his dick get hard and stay that way.

  She’d pulled a fast one on him. That’s what she’d done. Jacob Butler finished off his second piece of apple dapple cake and washed it down with his third cup of coffee. If he’d had any idea that Reve Sorrell would be here tonight, he’d have declined Genny’s invitation to supper. When Genny had called earlier in the day, she’d mentioned that Jazzy and Caleb would be joining them this evening, but she hadn’t mentioned Jazzy’s guest. Ms. Sorrell, the might-be twin sister from Chattanooga. The rich bitch who looked down her nose at other folks, him in particular. The first time they met, she’d called him a big country hick Cochise wannabe. In one sentence shed insulted his body, his place of residence and his ethnic heritage. And the worst part of her caustic remark had been that she’d felt totally justified in verbally abusing the Cherokee County sheriff.

  For the past hour he’d done his best not to even look at her, but Genny had made that damn near impossible. She’d sat them across the table from each other and then proceeded to draw them both into every conversation. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Genny was trying to match him up with this dang-fool woman. But Genny wouldn’t do that knowing how much he disliked Ms. Sorrell.

  He wasn’t sure who’d been the most surprised when she’d opened the back door when he first arrived and had all but run right into him. Instinctively, he’d reached out and grabbed her shoulders to prevent them from colliding. For just a second, she’d stood there staring up at him, her mouth hanging open and her eyes as big as half dollars. Then she’d jerked away from him as if he were the boogie man himself. They’d glared at each other, neither of them backing down, and that was when he’d taken a really good look at her. She sure as shoot looked like Jazzy. Definitely enough to be her twin. But she was taller than Jazzy, maybe by a couple of inches, which meant she was probably at least five-ten. And although she wasn’t built too bad—if you could actually tell her exact proportions under her loose-fitting slacks and baggy sweater—she was rounder and fuller than Jazzy. Not fat, but definitely not slim. She was every bit as pretty as Jazzy, maybe prettier because she didn’t cover up her flawless complexion with a layer of makeup.

  “Would you care for another piece of cake, Reve?” Genny asked.

  “It was delicious, but no, thank you,” she replied. “Besides, I doubt there’s any cake left.” She glanced directly at Jacob when she spoke.

  Dallas and Caleb both chuckled. Jacob shot them both scurrilous glares, damning them with only a look.

  “I guess you’re watching your weight anyway, aren’t you, Ms. Sorrell?” Jacob ran his gaze over her. “Why is it that you plump girls are the ones always dieting and the skinny ones eat whatever they want?”

  Reve gasped. When Jacob noted the hurt look on her face, he halfway wished the words back. Usually he didn’t intentionally hurt anybody’s feelings, and certainly never a lady’s, but damn it, this particular lady made him want to instantly go for the jugular.

  A hushed silence fell over the room. Genny gave Jacob a condemning look, then said loudly, “Well, if everyone’s finished, why don’t we go into the living room and visit for a while. We can all have a glass of Ludie’s muscadine wine to celebrate Jazzy and Caleb’s engagement.”

  Caleb and Jazzy scooted back their chairs and stood.

  “It won’t be official until she’s wearing my ring.” Caleb put his arm around Jazzy’s shoulders. “But I’m all for some of that wine before we head into town.” He glanced down at Reve and smiled. “Have you ever tasted muscadine wine, Reve?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid that’s one experience I’ve missed.”

  “You men go on,” Jazzy said. “Reve and I will help Genny clean up in here.”

  “Why don’t we all go on into the living room now.” Dallas slipped his arm around his wife’s waist. “I’ll help Genny clean up in here later.”

  “I really ought to be going.” Jacob had no intention of spending the rest of the evening with Reve Sorrell. He didn’t care if she did turn out to be Jazzy’s twin, there was no way the two of them would ever be friends.

  Jacob got up, but before he could make his getaway, Genny grabbed his arm. “Don’t be silly. You never leave this early when you’re not on duty.”

  “Maybe I’ve got a late date,” Jacob told her.

  “Do you?” she asked.

  Why he glanced over at Reve about that time, he didn’t know, but when he did he caught her glaring at him. He wanted to lie and say yes, that he had a hot late date. But he’d never lied to Genny and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start now.

  “Nope. No late date. But I’ve got a ton of paperwork I need to catch up on.”

  The others meandered out of the kitchen, while Jacob remained there with Genny, who kept a tight hold on him. The minute they were alone, she said in a low, quiet voice, “I want you to stop being hateful to Reve.”

  “Damn, Genny, the woman gets on my last nerve.”

  “Shush. Don’t talk so loud. I think you’ve insulted her enough for one evening.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, I guess I shouldn’t have said what I did about her being plump, but whenever I’m around that woman, I want to strangle her. She’s such a snooty bitch.”

  “She is not what she seems.”

  “And just what does that mean?”

  “She is afraid to trust others, so she has built this strong protective shield around herself. But deep inside she is a lonely woman who longs for true friends and longs to be loved for herself alone.”

  “Why tell me all this?” Jacob’s gut tightened painfully. Not a good sign.

  “Because she is in danger. Both she and Jazzy.”

  “What sort of danger?”

  “I’m not sure. But I believe there is someone out there who would harm them in order to keep a terrible secret from being revealed.” Genny released her tenacious hold on Jacob’s arm. “I gave Jazzy a reading today and although I sensed that it is a good thing that she and Reve are sisters, they’re both in grave danger. And I sense the danger is greatest for Jazzy, at least at the present.”

  “As the sheriff and as Jazzy’s friend, I’ll do whatever—”

  “I know that, and I pray we can keep her from harm. But Jazzy has Caleb. He would die to protect her.”

  Jacob didn’t like the way this conversation was g
oing.

  Genny trapped him with her dark, pensive gaze. “Reve has no one. She needs you, Jacob.”

  No way in hell. He wasn’t taking on the job of being Reve Sorrell’s private protector. “Let her hire a bodyguard. God knows she’s got enough money to hire an army to protect her.”

  “She doesn’t need an army. She just needs one good man.”

  “Well, I’m here to tell you, honey, I’m not that man.”

  “Yes, you are.” Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, then stepped back and stared at him, a knowing look in her black eyes. “So there’s no need to fight Fate.”

  Feeling as if a noose had just tightened around his wind- pipe, Jacob rubbed his throat. Genny was seldom wrong in her predictions, and he usually paid heed to them. But not this time. Even if Genny believed he was destined to be the one man who could take care of Reve Sorrell, he had every intention of fighting Fate, tooth and nail.

  Jeremy Timmons’s eyes bulged from his head, wide open and glazed by death. The guy had been an easy kill because he’d been stoned out of his mind.

  He could still sense the feeling he’d experienced when his hands tightened around Timmons’s throat. The man had been a toad, a worthless piece of trash, and the world was better off without him. Killing the vermin had given him no pleasure, but he’d had to do it. Dead men tell no tales. With Timmons dead, there was no way anyone could connect him to Becky Olmstead.

  God knew he’d tried his best to stay away from her, but she had tempted him beyond all reason. He had suspected, once the obsession took him over, that it wasn’t really Becky Olmstead in that young, nubile body. It wasn’t Becky’s thoughts and feelings ruling her actions. No, it was Dinah. She’d come back immediately, giving him no time for any peace of mind. He’d had to make sure she was really Dinah, hadn’t he? And now that he knew, he would seek her out again and send her back to hell where she belonged.

  Perhaps later tonight. The sooner the better.

  But for now he needed to search Timmons’s body and his house to make sure he didn’t keep any kind of records about the clientele his whores serviced. And he had to be very careful that he left behind no clues that would link him with Timmons’s murder. He’d been careful to wear gloves. No fingerprints. Later he’d burn the gloves, as well as every article of clothing he was wearing.