The Last To Die

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by Beverly Barton


  Why did I fight so hard to re­sist him? Damn it, why didn’t I just gi­ve in to what I wan­ted? Be­ca­use you knew it wo­uld be mo­re than sex with Ca­leb and you we­re af­ra­id to lo­ve anot­her man. Fuc­king is one thing but lo­ving is anot­her.

  Jazzy bit in­to the san­d­wich. De­li­ci­o­us. God, she hadn't re­ali­zed how hungry she was. As she sa­vo­red every bi­te, she gro­aned with sa­tis­fac­ti­on.

  "If you re­act that way to eating a san­d­wich, I'm won­de­ring how you re­act to re­al ple­asu­re," Ca­leb sa­id.

  Jazzy gas­ped, then la­ug­hed and lic­ked her lips. "I bo­ught you we­re as­le­ep."

  I was un­til so­me­body star­ted mo­aning and gro­aning." You sho­uld ha­ve go­ne on ho­me," she told him. "You didn't ha­ve to stay."

  He yaw­ned and stret­c­hed, then lo­oked po­int blank at her. "Ye­ah, I did."

  ''Thanks. I'm glad you sta­yed. I re­al­ly don't want to be alo­ne."

  "We're go­ing to ma­ke su­re you're ne­ver alo­ne," Ca­leb sa­id.

  "We?"

  "Genny, Sally, Lu­die, and I. Whe­ne­ver I can't be with you, one of them will be."

  "Who de­ci­ded I ne­eded a full-ti­me bab­y­sit­ter?" Jaz­zy gob­bled up half the san­d­wich, then wi­ped her hands on the nap­kin be­si­de the te­acup.

  "It was a una­ni­mo­us de­ci­si­on. Even Jacob and Dal­las vo­ted in the af­fir­ma­ti­ve."

  Jazzy sto­od up and wal­ked aro­und the cof­fee tab­le that se­pa­ra­ted the so­fa from the cha­ir whe­re Ca­leb sat She sto­od over him for a mi­nu­te, then le­aned down and pla­ced her hands on his sho­ul­ders. "So do­es this me­an you're spen­ding the night?"

  Caleb re­mo­ved her hands from his sho­ul­ders, pus­hed her back, and sto­od. "Con­si­der me yo­ur per­so­nal bod­y­gu­ard."

  Standing so clo­se to him, she co­uld fe­el his he­at. And co­uld al­most he­ar the be­at of his he­art. Al­t­ho­ugh she was fi­ve-eight, she had to lo­ok up at him be­ca­use he was a go­od six in­c­hes tal­ler. She dra­ped her arms aro­und his neck and ga­zed in­to his whis­key-gol­den eyes.

  ''Just who are you, Ca­leb McCord, and whe­re ha­ve you be­en all my li­fe?"

  "Don't you know, swe­et­he­art? I'm yo­ur prin­ce char­ming, and I've be­en wa­iting for you to wa­ke up from an evil spell so I co­uld co­me ri­ding in on my whi­te hor­se and ta­ke you to li­ve hap­pily ever af­ter with me in my cas­t­le."

  Jazzy la­ug­hed. And God, it felt so go­od to la­ugh. She kis­sed him. Just a hap­py-to-be-ali­ve kiss. A pre­lu­de to so­met­hing mo­re. He didn't ta­ke ad­van­ta­ge, didn't press for an­y­t­hing el­se. In­si­de that ro­ugh and rug­ged ex­te­ri­or be­at the he­art of a true gen­t­le­man.

  "I can sle­ep on the so­fa," she told him. "Why don't you ta­ke the bed?"

  "No, way. No whi­te knight worth a damn wo­uld let a true prin­cess sle­ep on the so­fa."

  "Is that the way you see me… as a prin­cess?" Her he­art flut­te­red wildly, as if it had ne­ver he­ard a com­p­li­ment be­fo­re to­night.

  "Actually, Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot, you're not a prin­cess." He ca­res­sed her che­ek with the back of his hand as his ga­ze loc­ked with hers. "You're a qu­e­en."

  Tears mis­ted her eyes. "Damn you, McCord. You're not re­al. You know that, don't you? You're too go­od to be true." 'Ye­ah, that's what all the la­di­es say."

  With te­ars glis­te­ning in her eyes, she la­ug­hed aga­in, and when Ca­leb put his arm aro­und her wa­ist and led her to her bed­ro­om, she knew he wo­uldn't co­me in and stay. He was simply wal­king her to her do­or. He wo­uld sle­ep on the so­fa. Li­ke the true prin­ce char­ming he was.

  * * *

  Chapter 19

  When Ca­leb pul­led his '57 Thun­der­bird, which he had per­so­nal­ly res­to­red a few ye­ars ago, on­to the as­p­halt dri­ve, he saw her put­ting her bag in the trunk of a dark blue clas­sic Mer­ce­des.

  No do­ubt when she'd fo­und her­self or­de­red not to le­ave town, she'd sent so­me­one from Chat­ta­no­oga with anot­her car. Odd how that at a dis­tan­ce she co­uld easily pass for Jaz­zy, es­pe­ci­al­ly if her ha­ir was shor­ter and a brig­h­ter red. At the sa­me ti­me, Re­ve Sor­rell re­sem­b­led Jaz­zy less from far away be­ca­use she was pro­bably a co­up­le of in­c­hes tal­ler-abo­ut fi­ve-ten, he'd say-and out we­ig­hed Jaz­zy by a go­od twenty po­unds. He par­ked the car and got out. She ig­no­red him com­p­le­tely as she he­aded back to­ward the ren­tal ca­bin.

  "Ms. Sor­rell," he cal­led to her.

  She pa­used, but didn't turn aro­und.

  He'd ma­de it he­re just in ti­me. Anot­her ten mi­nu­te and she'd ha­ve be­en on the hig­h­way he­aded back to Chat­ta­no­oga. Of co­ur­se, if he'd fo­und her go­ne, he wo­uld ha­ve fol­lo­wed her-down In­ter­s­ta­te 75, all the way ho­me, all the way back to that big fancy ho­use she ow­ned on Lo­oko­ut Mo­un­ta­in.

  "We ne­ed to talk," he told her.

  She glan­ced over her sho­ul­der and pin­ned him with a don't-bot­her-me gla­re. "What co­uld we pos­sibly ha­ve to talk abo­ut, Mr. McCord?"

  "Your sis­ter."

  "I'm an only child. I don't ha­ve a sis­ter." She wal­ked to­ward the ca­bin.

  "You we­re adop­ted," Ca­leb sa­id. "When you we­re an in­fant."

  Her body ten­sed for a mil­li­se­cond, ba­rely long eno­ugh for him even to no­ti­ce the pa­use in her qu­ick steps.

  "Spencer and Les­ley Sor­rell adop­ted a baby girl who had be­en thrown in a Dum­p­s­ter and left for de­ad in Se­vi­er­vil­le twen­ty-ni­ne ye­ars ago. The bir­t­h­day they ga­ve you is only a few days dif­fe­rent from Jas­mi­ne Tal­bot's bir­t­h­day. Do you re­al­ly be­li­eve it's not­hing mo­re than a co­in­ci­den­ce that you two lo­ok eno­ugh ali­ke to be twins?"

  "We are not twins!" Re­ve hal­ted and tur­ned to fa­ce him. "I don't know how you fo­und out such per­so­nal things abo­ut me, but I am not that Jaz­zy per­son's sis­ter. I co­uldn't be."

  "I think you are."

  ''Then you think wrong."

  "When Jamie Up­ton told you abo­ut Jaz­zy, you we­re cu­ri­o­us eno­ugh to hi­re a pri­va­te de­tec­ti­ve to check her out. And on­ce he pro­vi­ded you with in­for­ma­ti­on and pic­tu­res, you must ha­ve tho­ught the­re was a chan­ce you two we­re re­la­ted or you wo­uldn't ha­ve co­me to Che­ro­kee Po­in­te to see her, to check her out in per­son."

  "I ma­de a mis­ta­ke," Re­ve sa­id. "If you'll ex­cu­se me, I ne­ed to lock up be­fo­re I le­ave."

  "Why are you in such a hurry?"

  "I ha­ve be­en de­la­yed he­re for se­ve­ral days aga­inst my will by that bar­ba­ri­an she­riff of yo­urs be­ca­use I be­ar a va­gue re­sem­b­lan­ce to a wo­man who mur­de­red her lo­ver and be­ca­use I don't ha­ve an eye­wit­ness to my whe­re­abo­uts when the man was kil­led." Re­ve's cin­na­mon brown eyes flas­hed with an­ger. He'd se­en that sa­me ex­p­res­si­on on Jaz­zy's fa­ce co­un­t­less ti­mes and co­uldn't help but won­der if, be­ne­ath tho­se gre­en con­tacts Jaz­zy wo­re, her eyes we­re as fi­ery dark as Re­ve's.

  ''Jazzy didn't kill Jamie," Ca­leb sa­id. "She was with me part of the ti­me that mor­ning. She's be­en fra­med, and she ne­eds a re­al­ly go­od law­yer."

  "What she do­es or do­esn't ne­ed has ab­so­lu­tely not­hing to do with me."

  "Jazzy's blo­od type is AB ne­ga­ti­ve." He pa­used to al­low that bit of in­for­ma­ti­on to sink in, then sa­id, 'The sa­me as yo­urs."

  She shrug­ged, but he ca­ught a lo­ok of sur­p­ri­se she wasn't ab­le to dis­gu­ise. "So?"

  "So that's a very ra­re blo­od type."

  "It's just anot­her co­in­ci­den­ce." '’Jaz­zy's right han­ded and you're left han­ded. That's a tra­it many iden­ti­cal twin
s ha­ve."

  "Go away, Mr. McCord. Not­hing you say will per­su­ade me to stay and be­co­me bet­ter ac­qu­a­in­ted with that wo­man."

  "Is that why you think I'm he­re?"

  "Isn't it?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad. "No­pe. Stay. Go. I don't ca­re."

  "Then why are you he­re? What do you want?"

  "I want you to hi­re Qu­inn Cor­tez to de­fend Jaz­zy if the grand jury hands down an in­dic­t­ment."

  She lo­oked at him in­c­re­du­lo­usly. "The Qu­inn Cor­tez?"

  "Yeah, the Qu­inn Cor­tez."

  "And why wo­uld you think I'd pay Mr. Cor­tez's enor­mo­us re­ta­iner for a wo­man I don't even know?"

  "Because she's yo­ur sis­ter."

  "She is not-"

  "Do you want all yo­ur hig­h­fa­lu­tin fri­ends in Chat­ta­no­oga and all yo­ur bu­si­ness as­so­ci­ates to know that you we­re fo­und in a Dum­p­s­ter as an in­fant? Do you want them to know that yo­ur sis­ter owns a hon­ky-tonk, has a re­pu­ta­ti­on as a lo­ose wo­man, and is now on tri­al for kil­ling her ex-lo­ver? And do you want them to know that you hi­red a PI to check her out and, even af­ter le­ar­ning what sort of per­son she was, you still wan­ted to me­et her?"

  "Are you thre­ate­ning to blac­k­ma­il me?"

  "I don't think I men­ti­oned the word blac­k­ma­il. I'm just tel­ling you that if so­me­one do­esn't co­me up with the cash to pay Qu­inn Cor­tez, then-"

  "What do you want me to do-wri­te you out a check?"

  Caleb grin­ned. Fin­ding out how im­por­tant the Sor­rel­ls' so­ci­al stan­ding was to Re­ve-and her own ster­ling re­pu­ta­ti­on as well-had gi­ven him an ad­van­ta­ge. He owed his old buddy Joe for co­ming up with the dirt on Ms. Sor­rell so qu­ickly.

  "I'll call Cor­tez," Ca­leb sa­id, "sin­ce I know him and he owes me a fa­vor." When Re­ve ope­ned her mo­uth to say so­met­hing, Ca­leb sho­ok his he­ad. "Long story. No ti­me for it now. An­y­way, when I call Cor­tez, I want you to get on the pho­ne, tell him who you are and that you'll be glad to pick up the tab for Jaz­zy. Then gi­ve him a cre­dit card num­ber or wha­te­ver the hell he re­qu­ires."

  "I co­uld say no."

  "Yeah, you co­uld." Ca­leb's grin bro­ade­ned in­to a wi­de smi­le. "But you won't"

  "She must me­an a gre­at de­al to you for you to re­sort to strong-ar­ming me in­to pa­ying you hush mo­ney."

  "Don't lo­ok at it that way," he told her. 'Just think of it as hel­ping yo­ur sis­ter."

  "I told you that she is not my sis­ter."

  "Okay, ha­ve it yo­ur way. Jaz­zy is not yo­ur sis­ter. But you two are de­fi­ni­tely flip si­des to the sa­me co­in. You pre­tend to be su­gar, whi­le Jaz­zy is de­fi­ni­tely spi­ce. You co­me ac­ross as be­ing cold, cal­cu­la­ting, snob­bish, and une­mo­ti­onal. Jaz­zy's the exact op­po­si­te." Ca­leb wal­ked over, gras­ped her arm, and sa­id, "After we go in­si­de and call Cor­tez and you put him on re­ta­iner, you can le­ave Che­ro­kee Co­unty and ne­ver lo­ok back."

  "And you won't tell an­yo­ne-"

  He ma­de a zip­ping-my-mo­uth ges­tu­re.

  "Very well. Co­me in­si­de and let's con­tact Mr. Cor­tez. The so­oner we get this do­ne, the so­oner I can le­ave and put this en­ti­re nig­h­t­ma­re be­hind me."

  "Yeah, su­re." Ca­leb lo­ose­ned his hold on her arm and fol­lo­wed her in­to the ca­bin. May­be she tho­ught that on­ce she went back to Chat­ta­no­oga she co­uld for­get all abo­ut Jaz­zy, but he'd bet his old age pen­si­on-if he had one- that so­oner or la­ter Re­ve Sor­rell's cu­ri­osity wo­uld bring her back to Che­ro­kee Co­unty.

  Jim Up­ton lay in the qu­e­en-si­ze, pi­ne sle­igh bed, his bre­at­hing calm, his body re­la­xed. For the past ho­ur, he had be­en ab­le to for­get that to­day was the day of Jamie's fu­ne­ral, that this af­ter­no­on he wo­uld bury all his and Re­ba's ho­pes for the fu­tu­re. It was wrong of him to be he­re with Erin, to ha­ve ma­de lo­ve to her with mo­re pas­si­on than he'd felt in qu­ite so­me ti­me, when he was in mo­ur­ning for his gran­d­son. His wi­fe was at ho­me ma­king pre­pa­ra­ti­ons for the af­ter-fu­ne­ral re­cep­ti­on at the­ir ho­me. Not only wo­uld three-fo­urths of Che­ro­kee Co­unty's po­pu­la­ti­on wan­der in and out of the­ir ho­use la­ter to­day, but fri­ends and bu­si­ness as­so­ci­ates-as well as the go­ver­nor and both U.S. se­na­tors-wo­uld co­me by to pay the­ir res­pects.

  Erin ca­res­sed him, her slen­der fin­gers twi­ning aro­und the thick whi­te ha­ir on his chest "It's all right, you know," she told him. "You mustn't fe­el gu­ilty abo­ut our ma­king lo­ve. The de­ath of so­me­one ne­ar and de­ar to us ma­kes us ne­ed to re­af­firm that we're ali­ve." She prop­ped her­self up be­si­de him, then le­aned over and kis­sed his mo­uth in that swe­et, ten­der way of hers.

  "I can't le­ave her, you know," Jim sa­id.

  "Are you tal­king abo­ut Miss Re­ba?" Sig­hing, Erin lay back down alon­g­si­de him and snug­gled clo­se. "You've told me be­fo­re that you won't di­vor­ce her, so why bring that up now?"

  He flip­ped over on his si­de and lo­oked in­to her eyes. 'That mor­ning… be­fo­re I fo­und out abo­ut Jamie be­ing mur­de­red, I ca­me he­re to talk to you."

  "You ca­me he­re? Why ha­ven't you sa­id-"

  "You we­ren't he­re."

  "No, I wasn't."

  Where we­re you? Who we­re you with? Did you spend the night in anot­her man's arms? "I ca­me he­re to tell you that I had de­ci­ded to ask Re­ba for a di­vor­ce. I wan­ted us to ha­ve a few ye­ars-ho­we­ver many I've got left-to­get­her. As man and wi­fe."

  "Oh, Jim. I-I don't know what to say."

  "That's chan­ged now. You see that, don't you? How co­uld I ask her for a di­vor­ce now that we've lost Jamie? He was all-"J­im clen­c­hed his te­eth. "I don't want to lo­se you, but I'll un­der­s­tand if you don't want to con­ti­nue our af­fa­ir."

  Erin wrap­ped her arms aro­und him and la­id her he­ad on his chest. "I'm not go­ing an­y­w­he­re. I lo­ve you. I want wha­te­ver you can gi­ve me."

  He ca­res­sed her na­ked back. Soft, pa­le skin, dot­ted he­re and the­re with small, dark mo­les. He knew every inch of her. Had kis­sed tho­se lit­tle mo­les, had me­mo­ri­zed the­ir lo­ca­ti­ons. "Whe­re we­re you?" 'The mor­ning you ca­me by he­re and I was go­ne?" She re­ac­hed down and gras­ped his hand.

  "If the­re's so­me­one el­se-"

  "Don't."

  "You're still yo­ung and-"

  "I went to Knox­vil­le. I spent the night with a fri­end. And be­fo­re you ask, the fri­end is fe­ma­le. She's a doc­tor."

  Jim ten­sed, fe­ar zip­ping thro­ugh him li­ke a fast-ac­ting drug. "Are you ill?"

  "No, my he­ath is fi­ne. This fri­end is a gyne­co­lo­gist. I had cal­led and as­ked her to put to­get­her so­me in­for­ma­ti­on for me abo­ut in vit­ro fer­ti­li­za­ti­on. Abo­ut using a do­nor egg and a hus­band or lo­ver's sperm."

  "I don't un­der­s­tand." Jim ro­se in­to a sit­ting po­si­ti­on.

  Erin ca­me up be­si­de him, lo­oked him in the eye, and sa­id, "I'm too old to gi­ve you a child, as much as I wish I co­uld. I knew how di­sap­po­in­ted you we­re with Jamie, how much you wis­hed the­re had be­en ot­her gran­d­c­hil­d­ren. I tho­ught that if-"

  "My sperm, a do­nor egg, and you'd carry the child in yo­ur body." Jim re­ac­hed down and la­id his hand over her flat belly. "You lo­ve me that much?" Te­ars mis­ted his eyes.

  "Now I ha­ve mo­re re­ason than ever to want to gi­ve you-"

  He cup­ped her fa­ce with his hands and kis­sed her. "You don't know what yo­ur of­fe­ring to try so­met­hing li­ke that me­ans to me. But you're not the only one too old to ha­ve a child. I'm se­ven­ty-fi­ve. Even if I'm not sho­oting blanks the­se days, do you kn
ow how old I'd be when our child is ten? Eig­h­ty-fi­ve. Eig­ht-fi­ve fuc­king ye­ars old. It wo­uldn't be fa­ir to the child."

  "Yeah, I know." Te­ars tric­k­led down Erin's che­eks. "What ten-ye­ar-old wo­uld want a six­ty-ye­ar-old mot­her?" Jim hug­ged her to him, lo­ving her mo­re than he'd lo­ved an­y­t­hing or an­yo­ne, at this mo­ment lo­ving her even mo­re than he'd lo­ved Mel­va Mae Nel­son all tho­se ye­ars ago. He kis­sed her fo­re­he­ad and as­ked in a whis­per, "Will you co­me to Jamie's fu­ne­ral?"

 

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