The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the crowd. She’s flirty and sassy enough to keep the men interested. On the skinny side, smelling of cigarettes, she nonetheless has teeth that always show a brilliant white behind lips always glossed to a fine peach shine. And her blouse is always buttoned low enough to allow the regulars a glimpse of the tops of her breasts. She wears low-cut jeans with a silvery belt that dangles low and offers just a hint of skin and the tease of a tattoo peeking above her waistband. Turquoise and pink swirls rise up her backbone, widening visibly before dipping suggestively below the denim and giving a man a hard-on just thinking about what naughty splay of colors might be caressing her buttocks.
I hear the men speculate.
“I think it’s a butterfly,” one bearded young man once said.
“No way. It’s like some kind of Chinese symbol,” his compatriot argued.
Another said, “I’ve got it on good account that it’s humming birds, a whole flock of ’em, some peering out from between her butt cheeks.”
This caused some raucous laughter but none of the simpletons had the faintest idea of the intricacies that really lay beneath her clothes, that sexy, wild series of waves that undulate around her hips as she slowly undresses.
Few have had the privilege of actually seeing her lying naked, butt up, hips tilted, suggesting she wants to rut like a mare in heat, those pink-tinged waves offering a warm, wet sea for me to thrust into.
I look at her and she catches the glance.
Doesn’t say a word.
But she knows.
I take a long pull from my drink and suck in ice cubes, cracking them between my teeth, as I turn my attention back to the television screen, where now the sheriff, hanging up his phone, begins striding away from the crime scene.
That’s not right.
Another mistake. You made another mistake!
I won’t think of it, but I can feel my nerves tighten as I see the detectives rushing to their vehicles. I zero in on Regan Pescoli, that bitch of a woman. Beautiful and rough. Tough as nails.
Or so she thinks.
I feel my eyes narrow upon her as the fantasy unwinds in my mind…. Get ready, I think, but her time has not yet come.
I have others…one not yet discovered.
Or am I wrong?
Is that possible?
Why are the cops hurrying away from the scene, running to their vehicles, lights on their SUVs flashing red and blue as they peel out of the lot of the old lodge.
Where the hell are they going?
My heart nearly stops.
I crack an ice cube so loudly, Dell slides a glance my way.
“Jesus, you got jaws of steel or what?”
I laugh. “’Course I do,” I say, trying to appear calm, attempting to hide my agitation, as on the screen the posse drives away and deep inside fear threatens to consume me. I couldn’t have erred again. Couldn’t have.
“See what I mean? A real asshole,” Dell says, looking upward at the television. “Grayson’s useless.”
Of course he is.
I calm.
Tamp down my momentary fear.
As Burl Ives’s voice starts to sing “A Holly, Jolly Christmas” from hidden speakers, my gaze meets Nadine’s and we share a secretive smile.
The kind exchanged by secret lovers.
Holly, jolly, my ass.
Chapter Nineteen
Jillian had never been so cold in her life.
Teeth chattering, mind numb with fear, she struggled to free herself, to slip through the bonds. Her mind was sluggish and dull, but she forced herself to think, to find a way to extricate herself from the rope that held her fast to the tree.
The sick smell of ether still clung to her nostrils and she coughed and spat as her mind began to clear. Vaguely she recalled being attacked as she tried to save the dog, of having a rag held over her nose and mouth as she flailed wildly, fighting for a breath of air, feeling her good leg wobble and battling the darkness that encroached upon her vision and dragged her under.
Then her thoughts were scattered and vague. She remembered nothing clearly and the memories she did have were dull, mainly sensations. She sensed she was being dragged, that whoever had attacked her was laboring, having trouble breathing, and obviously hadn’t planned on having to carry her. But other than that, she remembered little.
Shivering, she forced her eyes open. Daylight was fading, shadows lengthening, and she was just so cold, her skin covered in goosebumps, her flesh feeling as if it were ice.
Help me!
The thought stuck in her mind and she forced the words over her lips. “Help, oh please help!” she screamed, but her voice was raw and tight, the sound no louder than a whisper. She blinked and tried to look into the forest, into the encroaching darkness.
This, she was certain, was how the others had died, though she remembered little of the details. That information hadn’t been big news in Seattle.
Oh God, Seattle.
Home.
The townhouse with its narrow stairs, small decks and warm, soft calico cat. Her throat tightened and tears formed in her eyes. And she thought of Zane MacGregor, the man who had saved her from freezing to death in her car, all his efforts wasted. Her throat thickened as she remembered him. Dear Lord, how had she mistrusted him? Why hadn’t she gone with her instincts and gotten closer to him? Touched him? Kissed him? Now she would never get the chance. Now, aside from that chaste brush of his lips against her cheek, she’d never know his touch.
Fool! She nearly sobbed as the tears tracked from her eyes only to freeze against her skin.
Oh for God’s sake, Jillian, what’re ya doin’ sniveling and giving up? For the love of God, don’t feel sorry for yourself. Do something! Save yourself, honey. Show what you’re made of! Grandpa Jim’s voice echoed through her brain, though he’d been dead for years and she doubted, rationally, that his spirit was wandering through the snow-shrouded forests of these hills.
“Help!” she yelled with more force, and looked down at the ropes surrounding her. She’d been tied at the waist first, secured against the cedar tree, her wrists lashed in front of her. Then her shoulders and legs had been bound so tightly that the rough fibers of the rope cut deep into her skin, making every movement even more painful.
Her ribs still ached and her damned ankle throbbed.
You won’t have to worry about that much longer, though, if your body goes numb.
Great.
Her mind was clearing, the ether wearing off, the urge to spit and cough lessening.
Come on, Jillian. Somehow you have to untie the ropes. Work on your wrists. Get your hands free.
But her fingers were unresponsive, unable to grab the ends of the knots. Nor could she reach them with her mouth, as her shoulders were so tightly lashed. She thought about the person who’d brought her here, a strong, determined individual hell-bent on destroying her.
Why?
And why harm the dog?
Jillian’s stomach roiled when she thought how Harley, poor innocent pup, had given up his life for her. Why the hell would someone hurt MacGregor’s dog? Fury spurted through her blood, and if she ever got the chance, she’d beat the living tar out of the person who had done this.
Perverted, twisted sicko!
Angrier now, her head clearer, Jillian shook her body, trying to force the shoulder