The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  Lacy dri­ed off a glass and stac­ked it with the row of ot­her cle­an glas­ses be­ne­ath the co­un­ter. "We ha­ven't had many brawls in he­re la­tely. Not sin­ce Ca­leb to­ok over as bo­un­cer. Se­ems his re­pu­ta­ti­on as a hard-ass has got­ten aro­und and no­body wants to mess with him."

  "We did ha­ve a co­up­le of mac­ho idi­ots who de­ci­ded they co­uld best him." Jaz­zy smi­led as she re­cal­led tho­se in­ci­dents. It wo­uld ta­ke so­me re­al­ly to­ugh du­de to best Ca­leb, one with mar­ti­al arts skills as sub­t­le and ex­pert as his. And the­re we­ren't many li­ke that aro­und Che­ro­kee Co­un­ty-Jacob But­ler, de­fi­ni­tely, and pro­bably Dal­las Slo­an.

  "Yeah, well, it was way past ti­me that so­me­body put Jim­my Car­rut­hers and Ricky Lin­d­sey in the­ir pla­ce. I lo­ve the way Ca­leb han­d­led each of them." Lacy set­tled her ga­ze on Jaz­zy. "You got yo­ur­self a he­ap of man the­re, ho­ney. You don't want to do an­y­t­hing stu­pid and lo­se him, do you?"

  Jazzy un­der­s­to­od exactly what Lacy was trying to tell her. She wasn't just tal­king abo­ut Ca­leb's ex­per­ti­se as a bo­un­cer. "I don't ha­ve Ca­leb. Not the way you me­an. You can't lo­se what you've ne­ver had."

  "He's a man, ho­ney. A re­al man. He's not go­ing to co­me beg­ging, but he's put him­self out the­re ti­me and aga­in and you ke­ep sho­oting him down."

  Jazzy glan­ced ac­ross the ro­om to whe­re Ca­leb was all but car­rying a drun­ken cus­to­mer out the front do­or, the guy's fa­irly so­ber gir­l­f­ri­end at his si­de. Ca­leb ma­de it a po­int to not let an­yo­ne dri­ve drunk. If a cus­to­mer put up a fuss abo­ut Ca­leb cal­ling a fri­end or re­la­ti­ve to pick him or her up, he to­ok them ho­me him­self. And the few ti­mes a me­an drunk re­fu­sed Ca­leb's help, he simply cal­led the po­li­ce. Al­t­ho­ugh Ca­leb was a pri­va­te man who didn't sha­re an­y­t­hing per­so­nal and sta­yed out of ot­her pe­op­le's af­fa­irs, he was a res­pon­sib­le man who co­uldn't hi­de his ta­ke-char­ge, go­od-guy qu­ali­ti­es.

  "Maybe I sho­uld rec­tify that mis­ta­ke to­night," Jaz­zy sa­id alo­ud the mo­ment the tho­ught cros­sed her mind. "Oh, hell. You he­ard me say that, didn't you?"

  Lacy la­ug­hed. ‘'Thin­king out lo­ud will get you in­to tro­ub­le."

  "You don't think gi­ving things a try with Ca­leb wo­uld be a big mis­ta­ke, do you? Let's fa­ce it, I've ma­de so many mis­ta­kes al­re­ady that I-"

  "Your only big mis­ta­ke was lo­ving Jamie Up­ton," Lacy told her. "And be­li­eve me, Ca­leb McCord is not­hing li­ke Jamie. He's twi­ce the man-ma­ke that ten ti­mes the man-that Jamie co­uld ever be. You just got­ta get Jamie out of yo­ur system, on­ce and for all."

  "He's out." When, Lacy ga­ve her a spe­cu­la­ti­ve lo­ok, she told her, "I swe­ar I'm over Jamie. I just don't want to rush in­to an­y­t­hing whe­re I co­uld wind up get­ting hurt or hur­ting so­me­one el­se."

  "Life's a crap sho­ot." Lacy re­mo­ved her ap­ron, fol­ded it, and la­id it be­ne­ath the bar. "I'm he­ading out." She lif­ted the hin­ged co­un­ter­top, then pa­used and sa­id, ''Jamie is sna­ke eyes on the first shot. Ca­leb is de­fi­ni­tely a se­ven or an ele­ven on the first roll of the di­ce."

  Jazzy ma­na­ged a smi­le. Just ba­rely.

  Only mo­ments af­ter Lacy left, Ca­leb ca­me back in thro­ugh the front en­t­ran­ce. His long, slightly shaggy, brown ha­ir ap­pe­ared win­d­b­lown, ma­king Jaz­zy won­der if the pre­dic­ted sprin­g­ti­me thun­der­s­torm was al­re­ady bre­wing.

  "Is it ra­ining yet?" she as­ked.

  Caleb clo­sed and loc­ked the do­or. "Not yet, but I ca­ught a glim­p­se of so­me he­avy lig­h­t­ning back in the west. We just might get a gul­ly-was­her in a few ho­urs."

  "Why don't you he­ad on ho­me," Jaz­zy sug­ges­ted. "I can fi­nish loc­king up."

  "I'm in no hurry." He mo­ved with sle­ek, pan­t­her­li­ke gra­ce as he ca­me to­ward her. "Ha­ve you had sup­per?"

  "Supper?"

  "You know, the me­al eaten in the eve­nings."

  She sho­ok her he­ad. "I lost my ap­pe­ti­te be­fo­re I had a chan­ce to eat over at Jas­mi­ne's. But co­me to think of it, I am a bit hungry."

  "Unless you want to open up over at Jas­mi­ne's and fix us so­met­hing, we co­uld go up­s­ta­irs"-he glan­ced at the ce­iling, in­di­ca­ting her apar­t­ment abo­ve-"and I co­uld whip us up so­me ba­con and eggs. I'm not much of a co­ok, but I'm a whiz at ba­con and eggs."

  "I'm tem­p­ted. Es­pe­ci­al­ly if you add but­te­red to­ast to the me­nu. I ha­ven't had a man co­ok for me in a long ti­me. Not sin­ce I hi­red a ma­le chef at Jas­mi­ne's abo­ut three ye­ars ago. He was a wi­zard in the kit­c­hen, but he had sticky fin­gers. I ca­ught him ste­aling and fi­red him on the spot"

  Caleb eased clo­ser and clo­ser un­til he sto­od only a co­up­le of fe­et away. "If I co­ok for you, I'll ex­pect pay­ment for my work."

  Her eyes wi­de­ned as her mo­uth ga­ped open. Well, that was bla­tant eno­ugh. Had he just told her he ex­pec­ted sex as pay­ment for me­al pre­pa­ra­ti­on? "I be­li­eve I told you on­ce be­fo­re that I don't put out on a first da­te." 'This won't be a da­te," he sa­id. "Be­si­des, I ne­ver do any bar­te­ring or tra­ding when it co­mes to sex. The pay­ment I was re­fer­ring to is a da­te. A re­al da­te."

  A smi­le pla­yed at the cor­ners of her mo­uth. "Mm-hmm. You're be­ing aw­ful­ly ni­ce to me to­night. I'm sur­p­ri­sed, es­pe­ci­al­ly af­ter the way you ac­ted this mor­ning when you in­t­ro­du­ced me to yo­ur new fri­end, Re­ve Sor­rell. You ac­cu­sed me of sle­eping with Jamie last night."

  Caleb rub­bed his che­ek, the one Jaz­zy had so­undly slap­ped this mor­ning when he'd told her he didn't gi­ve a shit who she slept with. "And you most de­fi­ni­tely set me stra­ight."

  "Not that I owe you an ex­p­la­na­ti­on, but…" She pa­used, ho­ping mo­re talk abo­ut her much dis­cus­sed, much be­mo­aned re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Jamie didn't ru­in the ni­ce and easy con­ver­sa­ti­on she and Ca­leb we­re ha­ving. "Jamie ca­me by last night and of­fe­red me a pla­ce in his li­fe as his mis­t­ress, af­ter he mar­ri­ed La­ura Wil­lis."

  "Damned stu­pid son of a bitch!"

  "I re­fu­sed his of­fer. He as­ked to stay and talk for a whi­le. I ag­re­ed, as a go­od-bye ges­tu­re. He did not stay the night, and not­hing mo­re than a kiss hap­pe­ned bet­we­en us."

  "A kiss, huh?"

  She nod­ded. "He's out of my li­fe for go­od. I swe­ar. I know I've sa­id that be­fo­re, and I've me­ant it. I ha­ve not gi­ven in to Jamie's de­mands sin­ce he ca­me back to Che­ro­kee Co­unty in Janu­ary. Yes, I was tem­p­ted at first, but not an­y­mo­re. I don't lo­ve him. I don't want him."

  Caleb mo­ved so qu­ickly that she ba­rely had ti­me to catch her bre­ath be­fo­re he grab­bed her fa­ce bet­we­en his two lar­ge hands. "If you re­al­ly me­an that…"

  "I do," she told him with bre­at­h­less an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on. God, how she wan­ted Ca­leb to kiss her.

  "I don't li­ke the idea that you even let him kiss you." Ca­leb ran his thumb over her bot­tom lip, then pul­led her lip down, ope­ning her mo­uth.

  "Jealous?"

  "Got that right."

  He kis­sed her then. Kis­sed her li­ke she'd ne­ver be­en kis­sed. And she was cer­ta­inly no no­vi­ce. He held her fa­ce, cup­ped bet­we­en his strong hands, and to­ok her mo­uth with gen­t­le aut­ho­rity. No rus­hing. No ro­ug­h­ness. But a po­wer­ful ten­der­ness that to­ok her bre­ath away. As the tip of his ton­gue cir­c­led her lips, she swa­yed to­ward him, her body ye­ar­ning for a clo­ser con­nec­ti­on. When he del­ved his ton­gue in­si­de her mo­uth, pro­bing with ex­pert ease, she mo­aned de­ep in her thro­at. Her fe­mi­ni­ne co­re throb­bed and mo­is­te­ned. With not­hin
g mo­re than a kiss, he had aro­used her. And just when the kiss got even bet­ter, he lif­ted his lips from hers, ra­ised his he­ad, and slowly, pro­vo­ca­ti­vely slid his hands over eit­her si­de of her neck, ac­ross her sho­ul­ders, and down her arms. Then he re­le­ased her.

  She sto­od the­re, sta­ring at him, her pul­se po­un­ding fran­ti­cal­ly.

  "You do ha­ve ba­con and eggs in the frid­ge, don't you?" he as­ked.

  "What?" It to­ok her be­fud­dled bra­in a few se­conds to re­ali­ze what he was tal­king abo­ut-the me­al he'd of­fe­red to pre­pa­re for her. Go­od God, how co­uld he kiss her li­ke that, then stop so sud­denly and act as if not­hing had hap­pe­ned bet­we­en them?

  "Food," he rep­li­ed. "Sup­per. Re­mem­ber? I'm co­oking. We're eating. And in pay­ment for my ser­vi­ces, you'll go on an ho­nest-to-go­od­ness re­al da­te with me."

  "Yes. Yes, of co­ur­se. I-I've got ba­con and eggs in my ref­ri­ge­ra­tor."

  He grab­bed her hand. 'Then co­me on, wo­man, let's lock up and get out of he­re."

  A fe­eling of ex­ci­te­ment ra­ced thro­ugh Jaz­zy, a light, ca­ref­ree exu­be­ran­ce that she hadn't felt in a long, long ti­me. Wit­ho­ut tho­se he­avy emo­ti­onal cha­ins that bo­und her to Jamie, she might ac­tu­al­ly ha­ve a chan­ce at hap­pi­ness. To­night, she told her­self, is the be­gin­ning of the rest of yo­ur li­fe.

  Jamie was al­ways re­ady for an ad­ven­tu­re, so he was lo­oking for­ward to slip­ping away, just the two of them, in the dark of night, whi­le the go­od ci­ti­zens of Che­ro­kee Co­unty slept sa­fely in the­ir beds, only dre­aming of the kind of li­fe he enj­oyed. Whe­re­as Jamie didn't just dre­am abo­ut ex­ci­te­ment and dan­ger, he ex­pe­ri­en­ced it fir­s­t­hand. What man ali­ve didn't fan­ta­si­ze abo­ut ha­ving a va­ri­ety of fe­ma­les at his beck and call? Of scre­wing a dif­fe­rent wo­man every night?

  She had told him to pre­tend they'd ne­ver met. To act as if he was a hit­c­h­hi­ker she'd pic­ked up on the ro­ad. Wo­uldn't it be fun, she'd sa­id, to act out one of her fan­ta­si­es? Hell, yes, it wo­uld be fun. He wasn't qu­ite su­re what she had in mind, but he was ga­me.

  Jamie crept qu­i­etly down the back sta­irs, ho­ping he didn't awa­ken an­yo­ne. He su­re as hell didn't want his fu­tu­re in-laws or his gran­d­fat­her cat­c­hing him sne­aking off this way. And wo­uldn't they be sur­p­ri­sed if they knew who he was go­ing to me­et? He had be­en mo­re than a lit­tle sur­p­ri­sed him­self when she'd ma­de the sug­ges­ti­on. It just went to show that you ne­ver knew a per­son, ne­ver re­al­ly had any idea what they wo­uld and wo­uldn't do. He lo­ved the idea that the­re was a wildly wic­ked si­de to her. Wil­der than he'd ever sus­pec­ted. And ho­pe­ful­ly very, very wic­ked.

  He pun­c­hed in the se­cu­rity co­de at the back do­or and rus­hed out­si­de, ma­king su­re to de­ad­bolt the lock. He'd be ho­me be­fo­re an­yo­ne-even the­ir ho­use­ke­eper Do­ra- wo­ke, and he co­uld re­ac­ti­va­te the se­cu­rity system then.

  The early mor­ning bre­eze pe­net­ra­ted his sport co­at as he ma­de his way aro­und the ho­use and down the long dri­ve­way.

  "I'll pick you up at the ga­te," she'd told him. "Re­mem­ber, you're a hit­c­h­hi­ker. Play yo­ur part well and I'll re­ward you."

  The tho­ught of that re­ward had his he­art ra­cing and his li­bi­do he­ading in­to over­d­ri­ve. What nasty lit­tle ga­mes did she ha­ve in mind? His sex har­de­ned when a very in­te­res­ting idea en­te­red his he­ad. If she didn't ta­ke the­ir pla­yac­ting to whe­re he wan­ted it to go, then he wo­uld ta­ke over and show her just what re­al se­xu­al ex­p­lo­ra­ti­on was all abo­ut-the pa­in and the ec­s­tasy.

  As he ne­ared the front ga­te, he spot­ted a car. Not the ve­hic­le she usu­al­ly dro­ve. He smi­led to him­self. Hell, she'd even ren­ted a car as part of the­ir ga­me. And not just any car. A snazzy lit­tle sports car. From whe­re he sto­od, he co­uldn't qu­ite ma­ke out the co­lor and the mo­del. As so­on as he ma­de his way thro­ugh the wal­k­way to the si­de of the mas­si­ve ga­tes, he all but ran to­ward the car. He grab­bed the han­d­le on the pas­sen­ger si­de and fo­und the do­or un­loc­ked. Af­ter swin­ging the do­or open, he pe­ered in­si­de and to­ok a long, ap­pre­ci­ati­ve lo­ok at the dri­ver.

  "What's with the wig?" he as­ked her, but sud­denly re­ali­zed who she re­sem­b­led with the wig on.

  She ca­res­sed the strands of the short, red ha­ir that fra­med her fa­ce. "Don't you li­ke it? I tho­ught it might be mo­re fun for you if we pre­ten­ded I was Jaz­zy Tal­bot."

  He chuc­k­led softly as he got in and clo­sed the do­or. "It just might be fun at that."

  "So are you re­ady for our ad­ven­tu­re?" she as­ked.

  "Yes, ma'am, I'm re­ady, wil­ling, and ab­le." He pat­ted his crotch.

  "Hi the­re." She lo­we­red her na­tu­ral vo­ice to a sultry, baby-doll whis­per. "Can I gi­ve you a lift so­mew­he­re? I'm tra­ve­ling all alo­ne and su­re wo­uld li­ke so­me com­pany. Mas­cu­li­ne com­pany… if you know what I me­an."

  "Yes, ma'am, I know exactly what you me­an. And I'd lo­ve a ri­de. Just ta­ke me whe­re­ver you're go­ing."

  "Buckle yo­ur se­at belt, han­d­so­me, and hold on tight."

  The mi­nu­te Jamie buc­k­led the sa­fety belt, she sped off in a flash. With her fo­ot pres­sing har­der and har­der on the gas pe­tal, the car zo­omed up the mo­un­ta­in ro­ad.

  "Are you in a hurry?" he as­ked te­asingly.

  "You ha­ve no idea how eager I am to ma­ke it to my des­ti­na­ti­on as so­on as pos­sib­le."

  "Can't wa­it for anot­her kind of ri­de, huh?" He re­ac­hed ac­ross the con­so­le and ran his hand up the in­si­de of her leg, from knee to crotch.

  "You're the one who sho­uld be eager. I pro­mi­se you that it'll be the ri­de of yo­ur li­fe."

  Tiffany Re­id knew she was an idi­ot for get­ting in­vol­ved with Dil­lon Car­son. The guy was ye­ars ol­der than she and he had a re­pu­ta­ti­on as a lady-kil­ler. But he­aven help her, she fo­und him dow­n­right ir­re­sis­tib­le. It wasn't that he was drop-de­ad gor­ge­o­us, but he was in­te­res­ting and ex­ci­ting and was gre­at in the sack. He'd wa­ited aro­und at Jaz­zy's Jo­int to­night un­til she got off work over at Jas­mi­ne's. Then, sin­ce he'd had a lit­tle too much to drink, she per­su­aded him to let her dri­ve. She li­ved just out­si­de of town, abo­ut two mi­les on the ot­her si­de of the Up­ton Farm. When her step­mot­her di­ed a co­up­le of ye­ars ago, she had in­he­ri­ted the old ho­me pla­ce. It wasn't much and ne­eded a lot of work. But on the plus si­de, the rent was free.

  Just as she tur­ned off the ma­in ro­ad on­to the mo­un­ta­in ro­ad, a car ca­me up qu­ickly be­hind them. In her re­ar­vi­ew mir­ror, she co­uld see it was a small sports car of so­me sort and it ap­pe­ared the dri­ver's si­de of the ho­od was smas­hed in. Sin­ce not many pe­op­le we­re out on the mo­un­ta­in ro­ad this la­te at night, she won­de­red who was in the car. Des­pi­te the fact Tif­fany was do­ing the spe­ed li­mit, the sports car's dri­ver ap­pa­rently was in a hurry. Only a co­up­le of se­conds la­ter, the ve­hic­le zo­omed aro­und them at bre­ak­neck spe­ed and qu­ickly di­sap­pe­ared up the nar­row, win­ding ro­ad.

  "Did you see who was dri­ving that car?" Dil­lon as­ked.

  "No, why? Did you re­cog­ni­ze him?"

  "Wasn't a him. It was a her. And even tho­ugh I just ca­ught a glim­p­se, I think it might ha­ve be­en yo­ur boss lady, Jaz­zy Tal­bot."

  "No way. What wo­uld she be do­ing way out he­re? Be­si­des, she dri­ves a red Je­ep."

  "I'm not one hun­d­red per­cent su­re it was her, but the lady dri­ving had short red ha­ir and was we­aring a Pa­ir of big gold ho­op ear­rings li­ke Jaz­zy we­ars a lot."


  "Aren't you the ob­ser­vant one, pa­ying at­ten­ti­on to what kind of jewelry Jaz­zy we­ars."

  "Hey, a guy wo­uld ha­ve to be de­ad not to no­ti­ce a hot ta­ma­le li­ke Jaz­zy." Dil­lon un­did the se­at belt she'd ma­de him buc­k­le, slid ac­ross the se­at, and cud­dled up to her. "But the­re's no ne­ed to be je­alo­us. You're the wo­man I'm with to­night. You'll ha­ve my un­di­vi­ded at­ten­ti­on every mi­nu­te we're to­get­her."

  "Is that a pro­mi­se?" 'Just ta­ke me ho­me with you and let me show you."

  Yeah, she was most de­fi­ni­tely an idi­ot for da­ting Dil­lon. He was a lot of fun, but for a girl who'd li­ke to set­tle down, get mar­ri­ed, and ha­ve a co­up­le of kids, he was the wrong man. But most of the mar­rying kind who li­ved in Che­ro­kee Co­unty we­re so bo­ring. And that's one thing Dil­lon wasn't. She sup­po­sed that was the re­ason she kept co­ming back for mo­re of his go­od lo­ving.