The Last To Die

by Beverly Barton

  '' Oh, so you're pis­sed be­ca­use I in­ter­rup­ted be­fo­re you bro­ught the guy to his kne­es all by yo­ur­self, not be­ca­use I ne­arly cho­ked him to de­ath."

  Fuming, sparks flas­hing in her eyes, Jaz­zy slid off the desk and mar­c­hed to­ward Ca­leb. This was the Jaz­zy he'd first met, all fi­re and spunk, ta­king na­mes and kic­king ass. This was the wo­man he was crazy abo­ut, the wo­man1 he wan­ted. She was as fe­mi­ni­ne as a wo­man co­uld get, all ro­und cur­ves and be­a­uti­ful fa­ce, but the­re was a to­ug­h­ness in Jaz­zy that over­lay the sof­t­ness be­ne­ath, the vul­ne­ra­bi­lity she tri­ed to hi­de.

  Caleb wa­ited for her, let her co­me to him. When she was a co­up­le of fe­et away, she stop­ped and plan­ted her hands on her hips. Now she was go­ing to let him ha­ve it with both bar­rels.

  "Where we­re you to­night?" she as­ked.

  "What?" That was not what he'd be­en ex­pec­ting her to say.

  "When you cal­led to tell me you'd be co­ming in la­te, you didn't men­ti­on why. Whe­re we­re you? Or sho­uld I ask you who you we­re you with?"

  Had he he­ard her right? She wasn't fu­ri­o­us with him be­ca­use he'd co­me to her res­cue a few mi­nu­tes ago. No, she was angry be­ca­use she tho­ught… she tho­ught what? That he'd be­en with anot­her wo­man? Was it pos­sib­le she was je­alo­us? If so, that had to me­an she ca­red.

  "I had so­me per­so­nal bu­si­ness to ta­ke ca­re of. And be­fo­re you ask, no, I was not with anot­her wo­man."

  She drop­ped her hands from her hips, huf­fed, and tur­ned her back on him. "Why sho­uld I ca­re if you we­re with so­me wo­man? It's no­ne of my bu­si­ness."

  "You co­uld ma­ke it yo­ur bu­si­ness." He wal­ked up be­hind her.

  Knowing he was clo­se-a ha­ir­b­re­adth away-she stif­fe­ned in­s­tantly, but didn't turn aro­und. "I co­uld ha­ve han­d­led that lo­ud-mo­ut­hed drunk, you know. I hi­red you as a bo­un­cer to pro­tect the cus­to­mers, not pro­tect me. I can ta­ke ca­re of myself. I've be­en do­ing it for a long ti­me. I don't ne­ed you or an­yo­ne el­se to fight my bat­tles for me."

  He clam­ped his hands down on her ten­se sho­ul­ders and pul­led her back so that her body pres­sed aga­inst his, her back to his chest. Le­aning over and put­ting his che­ek aga­inst hers, he eased his mo­uth clo­se to her ear. "You don't ha­ve to be alo­ne an­y­mo­re. You don't ha­ve to fight yo­ur bat­tles by yo­ur­self. I want to be yo­ur fri­end… yo­ur pro­tec­tor… yo­ur lo­ver."

  She didn't melt in­to him all at on­ce. Not his Jaz­zy. She had strug­gled a li­fe­ti­me le­ar­ning not to gi­ve in, not to say yes wit­ho­ut put­ting up a fight. And that was all right with him. She co­uld fight as much as she li­ked. Hell, she'd be­en fig­h­ting her at­trac­ti­on to him for three months now, hadn't she? He fi­gu­red she was on the ver­ge of gi­ving in. To­night.

  Caleb swung her aro­und and right in­to his arms. With her eyes wi­de in sur­p­ri­se and her mo­uth ope­ned to pro­test, he grab­bed the back of her he­ad and pul­led her fa­ce up and aga­inst his. Then he kis­sed her. Hard and de­man­ding at first. Not al­lo­wing her a chan­ce to pro­test. And the mo­ment he felt her we­aken, he sof­te­ned his at­tack. When she be­gan re­tur­ning his kiss, her mo­uth as hungry and pas­si­ona­te as his, Ca­leb gro­aned, this pre­lu­de to re­al sa­tis­fac­ti­on aro­using him un­be­arably.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  Holding her he­ad in pla­ce, Ca­leb ra­va­ged her mo­urn whi­le his ot­her hand slid down to cup her hip and press her in­ti­ma­tely aga­inst his erec­ti­on. For months now she'd be­en fig­h­ting her de­si­re to be with him, to kiss him and to­uch him and lo­se her­self in him. In­s­tin­c­ti­vely she knew he wasn't li­ke any ot­her man she'd ever known. Not­hing li­ke Jamie.

  Forget Jamie, she told her­self. Put him, his de­ath, yo­ur ar­rest, and ever­y­t­hing el­se out of yo­ur mind. Enj­oy this night, sa­vor every mo­ment of be­ing with Ca­leb.

  Jazzy wrap­ped her arms aro­und his wa­ist and rub­bed her­self se­duc­ti­vely aga­inst him, lo­ving the le­an, mus­cu­lar fe­el of him. Her pussy clen­c­hed and un­c­len­c­hed a* tin­g­les of se­xu­al lon­ging ra­di­ated thro­ugh her body-Ca­leb tur­ned her aro­und and, con­ti­nu­ing the kiss, wal­ked her bac­k­ward un­til her butt col­li­ded with the wall be­si­de the do­or. His lips lif­ted from hers, then skim­med her che­ek, her chin, and down her thro­at, whi­le his hands ex­p­lo­red the out­li­ne of her body. She tug­ged on his shirt un­til she ma­na­ged to pull the ed­ges up and over his je­ans. Whi­le he mol­ded his hands to her but­tocks and lif­ted her up and in­to him, eno­ugh so that her mo­und pres­sed firmly aga­inst his sex, she slid her hands up and un­der his shirt. His skin was hot, his belly was­h­bo­ard flat, his tiny ma­le nip­ples tight and hard.

  He lic­ked a path from her neck to the vee cre­ated by her but­ton-up cot­ton blo­use, then un­did the first two but­tons and kis­sed the swell of her bre­asts abo­ve her bra. She ran her hands aro­und eit­her si­de of his wa­ist and craw­led her fin­ger­tips up his bro­ad back. The fe­el of him was li­ke so­me strong nar­co­tic, drug­ging her in­to a stu­por, ma­king her want mo­re and mo­re in or­der to sa­tisfy the in­sa­ti­ab­le cra­ving.

  He lif­ted his he­ad and lo­oked at her. Her ga­ze met his for a mil­li­se­cond. They smi­led at each ot­her, then she un­but­to­ned his shirt and spre­ad it apart. When she lo­we­red her he­ad and spre­ad kis­ses from col­lar­bo­ne to col­lar­bo­ne, he re­ac­hed over be­si­de them and slam­med the do­or shut. Only then did she re­ali­ze that the do­or had be­en open and an­yo­ne co­uld ha­ve wal­ked by and se­en them ma­king out.

  Hell, she didn't ca­re. Not­hing mat­te­red ex­cept Ca­leb. To­uc­hing him, kis­sing him, be­ing with him. In every way.

  With trem­b­ling fin­gers, she yan­ked at his shirt un­til she ma­na­ged to pull it off him. Af­ter tos­sing it on the flo­or, she star­ted wor­king on un­buc­k­ling his belt, which she did in no ti­me flat. When she un­zip­ped his je­ans, he grab­bed her hands and la­id them flat on his na­ked chest.

  "You're get­ting ahe­ad of me." He fi­nis­hed un­do­ing her blo­use, then re­mo­ved it and tos­sed it on the flo­or atop his shirt.

  Taking off the­ir sho­es, they to­re at each ot­her's clot­hing, all the whi­le lo­oking and to­uc­hing and pa­using long eno­ugh to grab qu­ick, wild kis­ses. When Ca­leb wo­re only his bri­efs and she her pan­ti­es, he ca­res­sed her bre­asts, lif­ting them, flic­king his thumbs over, her sen­si­ti­ve nip­ples. Se­xu­al ex­ci­te­ment cla­wed at her in­si­des, zin­ging along every ner­ve. When he lo­we­red his he­ad and suc­ked one bre­ast and then the ot­her, she whim­pe­red with ple­asu­re. He lif­ted her hips un­til she was ab­le to wrap her legs aro­und him. Then he car­ri­ed" her to­ward the desk whi­le she kis­sed, nip­ped, and lic­ked his sho­ul­der. Af­ter pla­cing her on the ed­ge of the desk, he pul­led her pan­ti­es down her hips, over her legs, and off. She gas­ped when he slip­ped his hand bet­we­en her thighs and sho­ved them apart. His fin­gers dan­ced thro­ugh her pu­bic ha­ir and on­to her fe­mi­ni­ne lips. When he in­ser­ted two fin­gers in­si­de her, she lif­ted her hips to ac­com­mo­da­te him.

  "You're drip­ping wet, swe­et­he­art."

  He mas­sa­ged her re­pe­atedly un­til she be­gan un­du­la­ting aga­inst his hand. His bri­efs di­sap­pe­ared with one swift yank. She threw her arms aro­und his neck as she spre­ad her legs far­t­her apart and wel­co­med him in­to her body. He ac­cep­ted the in­vi­ta­ti­on wit­ho­ut he­si­ta­ti­on, gras­ping her butt to po­si­ti­on her be­fo­re ram­ming in­to her full for­ce. Clin­ging to him, wrap­ping her legs aro­und: his hips, she mat­c­hed him thrust for thrust, as hungry for him as he was her.
r />   So go­od, she tho­ught. So go­od. Wil­der, hot­ter, bet­ter than any sex she'd ever had be­fo­re-be­ca­use she wan­ted him mo­re than she'd ever wan­ted an­yo­ne.

  As the­ir pas­si­on bu­ilt, they went at each ot­her sa­va­gely, des­pe­ra­te ne­ed con­t­rol­ling the­ir ac­ti­ons. He mur­mu­red cru­de, grap­hic phra­ses as he scre­wed her. The mo­re he tal­ked to her, the mo­re ex­ci­ted she got. She wan­ted this in­c­re­dib­le lo­ving to go on and on, but knew she was on the ver­ge of an or­gasm that co­uldn't be. stop­ped, co­uldn't even be slo­wed down. He was so big and hard and every lun­ge hit all the right spots, brin­ging her clo­ser and clo­ser to ful­fil­lment. And when it was so go­od she didn't think she co­uld stand it, it got bet­ter. Her cli­max hit her li­ke a ti­dal wa­ve. She gas­ped, then bit down on his sho­ul­der to ke­ep from scre­aming with ple­asu­re. Her re­le­ase trig­ge­red his. He ham­me­red in­to her un­til he ca­me. Whi­le he trem­b­led, he kept mo­ving in­si­de her un­til he squ­e­ezed every oun­ce of ple­asu­re from his cli­max.

  They clung to each ot­her, the­ir he­arts be­ating lo­udly, the­ir bre­at­hing fast. He clas­ped her neck ten­derly and ca­res­sed her che­ek with his thumb whi­le he lo­oked in­to her eyes.

  "It was even bet­ter than I tho­ught it wo­uld be," he told her.

  "Yeah, it was, wasn't it?"

  While he held her clo­se, she wrap­ped her arms aro­und him and la­id her he­ad on his sho­ul­der. They sta­yed li­ke that for qu­ite a whi­le. Na­ked. The­ir bo­di­es damp with swe­at and smel­ling strongly of sex.

  Finally he sa­id, " Let's get dres­sed. Then I'll walk you ho­me."

  "Will you stay the night?" she as­ked.

  "I'll stay as long as you'll let me stay."

  Everything was red. Bright red. Li­ke a wa­tery crim­son ve­il co­lo­ring the who­le world. Then sud­denly black clo­uds swir­led aro­und the scar­let li­qu­id.

  Genny had be­en in the kit­c­hen, pre­pa­ring her­self a cup of bed­ti­me her­bal tea when the vi­si­on hit her. At the very first in­k­ling of what was to co­me, she sat down At the tab­le and bra­ced her­self. She had no con­t­rol over her vi­si­ons. They ca­me to her awa­ke and as­le­ep. Day and night. She hadn't cal­led for Dal­las be­ca­use she knew that both he and her dog Drudwyn wo­uld sen­se her ne­ed for them and they wo­uld co­me to her.

  As the dar­k­ness en­ve­lo­ped most of the red, Genny saw the starry sky over­he­ad. So­me­one was lo­oking up at the night sky. But who? As if vi­ewing a cam­cor­der re­cor­ding an event, she wat­c­hed whi­le tall, eerie black tre­es ca­me in­to vi­ew. Wo­ods. Who­ever this per­son was, they we­re in the wo­ods. And pro­bably so­mew­he­re ne­arby in the­se very mo­un­ta­ins. Then a ca­bin ca­me in­to vi­ew. A dri­ve­way. An old truck. Ever­y­t­hing was dark-black and red and va­ri­o­us sha­des of gray. So­me­one lay in the bed of the truck. A man. He was red.

  Oh, God! Genny gas­ped and be­gan trem­b­ling. The man was de­ad, his eyes sta­ring sig­h­t­less up at the night sky. His thro­at had be­en slit. He was na­ked. Genny scre­amed when she saw that the man's ge­ni­tals had be­en re­mo­ved.

  "Genny? Genny?" She he­ard Dal­las's vo­ice as if he was far away and not right be­si­de her as she knew he was. "Damn it, Genny, snap out of it."

  Although she felt strong arms hol­ding her, she co­uldn't stop scre­aming. But she didn't know if she was ac­tu­al­ly scre­aming or if the so­und was only in­si­de her he­ad.

  He's de­ad, she told her­self. You can't help him. Don't stay he­re. Le­ave this pla­ce. Le­ave now be­fo­re the evil sucks you in.

  "Come on, Genny, don't do this. Get out of the­re now, whi­le you still can." Dal­las sho­ok her. "I know you t can do it."

  The wo­man was the­re, too. Not in the truck. Be­si­de it. Keys in her hand. She was go­ing to dri­ve the truck away, dis­po­se of it and the body of the man she had just kil­led.

  "Genny!"

  I can't co­me back right now, she tri­ed to tell Dal­las te­le­pat­hi­cal­ly. Al­t­ho­ugh they we­re still wor­king on stren­g­t­he­ning the­ir te­le­pat­hic link to each ot­her and hadn't qu­ite per­fec­ted it, al­re­ady he was ab­le to con­nect with her ne­arly half the ti­me. I see the wo­man. She's kil­led aga­in.

  "Be ca­re­ful," Dal­las told her, and she wasn't su­re whet­her he'd spo­ken the words or simply tho­ught them.

  The wo­man was no mo­re than a sha­dow. Not tall. Not short. Just a dark sil­ho­u­et­te. Genny tri­ed to fo­cus on the fi­gu­re as she ope­ned the truck do­or, hop­ped up in­si­de, and sat be­hind the ste­ering whe­el. Genny co­uldn't see her fa­ce, only the out­li­ne of he­ad and sho­ul­ders. Who are you? Who are you?

  Blackness ho­ve­red all aro­und the wo­man, shro­uding her in evil. No, the evil wasn't sur­ro­un­ding her, Genny re­ali­zed, it was co­ming from her. So much an­ger and ha­te. And an in­sa­ti­ab­le thirst for re­ven­ge. But this kill hadn't be­en for re­ven­ge; it had be­en out of ne­ces­sity.

  Genny shud­de­red. She wo­uld kill aga­in. And so­on.

  Suddenly and very cle­arly, Genny saw the back of the wo­man's he­ad. She gas­ped. Short red ha­ir. Jaz­zy's co­lor and style. Wit­ho­ut a do­ubt this was the sa­me wo­man who had bru­tal­ly mur­de­red Jamie. And for wha­te­ver war­ped re­ason she was still trying to pass her­self off as Jaz­zy.

  Genny fo­ught her way out of the dar­k­ness and back in­to the light. She ope­ned her eyes bri­efly and saw Dal­las's fa­ce as he knelt be­si­de the kit­c­hen cha­ir in which she sat. He cup­ped her fa­ce with his big hands.

  "Are you all right?" he as­ked.

  Jazzy." Genny's vo­ice so­un­ded we­ak, even to her own ears. The­se vi­si­ons dra­ined her of her strength, of­ten we­ake­ning her for ho­urs.

  ''What abo­ut Jaz­zy?"

  ''Call her." Drudwyn whim­pe­red as he nuz­zled Genny's knee with his no­se. She lif­ted her hand, which felt as if it we­ig­hed a ton, and ma­na­ged to stro­ke his furry he­ad.

  ''I'm all right, boy'', she told him. She and Drudwyn had be­en com­mu­ni­ca­ting wit­ho­ut words sin­ce the mi­xed-bre­ed ani­mal had be­en a puppy, si­red by one of the mo­un­ta­in's few red wol­ves.

  "You want me to call her now?" Dal­las as­ked. "At this ti­me of night? It's ne­arly mid­night."

  "She… she ne­eds an ali­bi."

  "Damn!" Dal­las pul­led Genny in­to his arms and pres­sed her he­ad down on his sho­ul­der. "What did you see?"

  "She's kil­led aga­in… the wo­man who mur­de­red Jamie."

  Their bo­di­es mo­ved in per­fect rhythm, a ma­ting dan­ce as old as ti­me. A man and a wo­man in the thro­es of a pas­si­on so po­wer­ful that they we­re ob­li­vi­o­us to ever­y­t­hing el­se. The she­ets tan­g­led abo­ut the­ir arms and legs as they tos­sed and tur­ned, ro­ta­ting po­si­ti­ons aga­in and aga­in. They had ma­de lo­ve twi­ce al­re­ady, on­ce dow­n­s­ta­irs in her of­fi­ce and on­ce he­re in this bed, which they had ne­arly des­t­ro­yed. The bed­s­p­re­ad hung hap­ha­zardly half-on, half-off the bed, and the han­d­ma­de qu­ilt lay crum­p­led on the flo­or. One pil­low hung pre­ca­ri­o­usly on the ed­ge at the fo­ot of the bed and the ot­her res­ted ver­ti­cal­ly alon­g­si­de the he­ad of the bed.

  They had ex­p­lo­red each ot­her's bo­di­es tho­ro­ug­h­ly-To­uc­hing. Tas­ting. Ple­asu­ring. Enj­oying. He had known it wo­uld be go­od with Jaz­zy. The best sex he'd ever had.! Be­ca­use for them it was mo­re than just two bo­di­es ex­pe­ri­en­cing physi­cal gra­ti­fi­ca­ti­on. So­met­hing in­si­de him-"1 so­met­hing pri­me­val-had re­cog­ni­zed her as his ma­te the first ti­me he la­id eyes on her.

  His ot­her lo­vers didn't mat­ter; ne­it­her did hers. Not even Jamie, and she had lo­ved Jamie. The­re was a rig­h­t­n
ess to them that ca­me on­ce in a li­fe­ti­me. That's what mat­te­red-that so­ul-de­ep con­nec­ti­on. It co­uld be li­ke this only with Jaz­zy. And he had to be­li­eve that she felt the sa­me. Ot­her­wi­se no­ne of this ma­de sen­se.

  Caleb flip­ped her over on her back and to­ok the do­mi­nant po­si­ti­on. He lif­ted him­self off her just eno­ugh so that he co­uld lo­ok at her-that be­a­uti­ful, flaw­less fa­ce; that silky smo­oth skin; tho­se lar­ge, lus­ci­o­us bre­asts. His sex, bu­ri­ed in­si­de her, throb­bed. She lif­ted her hands to ca­ress his chest. The mo­ment she to­uc­hed him, he pul­led back, then thrust in­to her de­ep and hard. Gas­ping, she grab­bed his sho­ul­ders and res­pon­ded to his fran­tic, po­un­ding lun­ges. He ca­me first this ti­me, the sen­sa­ti­on ma­king his ears ring and he­ad ex­p­lo­de as he jet­ted in­to her. Whi­le he cli­ma­xed, she mo­ved wildly be­ne­ath him. Wit­hin half a mi­nu­te she had an or­gasm that went on and on and on, the af­te­ref­fects lin­ge­ring. Just as he slid off her and on­to his si­de, the te­lep­ho­ne rang.