The Dying Game. Beverly BartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
coach, Paul Dryer, and smiled. Like she, Paul was divorced, no children and at thirty-nine, he was ready to settle down. Sonya, too, was ready for a long-term commitment, even remarriage one of these days. She wanted kids, too, and it wasn’t as if being thirty-five meant she had to rush into motherhood. Women past forty were giving birth to first babies every day, weren’t they?
“The jazz band is fantastic,” Paul said as he turned his vintage Mustang into Sonya’s driveway. “They sounded downright professional at tonight’s concert.”
“I’ve got a bunch of really talented kids in that band. I expect each of my seniors to win scholarships.”
“They all love you, you know. They want you to be proud of them.”
When Paul killed the engine, he turned to Sonya, a hopeful look in his soulful hazel eyes. As she gazed at him there in the semidarkness, with light from the nearby streetlight casting shadows across his smooth-shaven face, she thought what a nice face he had. Not handsome. Not really good-looking at all. Nothing to remind her of Tom Harding, who’d been far too handsome. No, Paul was nothing like her ex-husband.
Paul was a giant-size teddy bear, with thinning brown hair, hound-dog cheeks, and a pair of big, broad shoulders she could always lean on. He was, without a doubt, one of the good guys. Like her dad. Like her brothers, Charlie and Brady.
“Want to come in for some decaf coffee or herbal tea?” Sonya knew that Paul understood she was inviting him in for more than drinks and conversation. They had been dating since the beginning of the school year, but they hadn’t taken their relationship into the bedroom, not once in six months. Her choice. She appreciated the fact that he had been patient and understanding, but how long could she expect him to wait?
“Are you sure?” Paul asked.
Smiling, she nodded. “I’m sure.”
Grinning like an idiot, albeit a sweet idiot, Paul jumped out of the car, raced around the hood and opened the passenger door. Before she knew what was happening, he yanked her out and onto her feet, then planted a wet, sloppy kiss on her mouth.
Laughing, she pulled away and looked up at the big galoot. “If you don’t want coffee or tea, I have beer. Your favorite brand.”
“Let’s save the beer for later.” He winked at her, then draped his arm around her shoulders and rushed her toward the porch.
“Slow down. I can’t keep up with you. Your legs are much longer than mine.”
Chuckling, Paul stopped, swept her up into his arms and carried her straight to her front door.
This felt so right. Being with Paul. Loving Paul. Planning a future with Paul.
He supposed he could wait a little longer, a few more days, even a few more weeks. But time was running out. Less than two months and the game would end. The points were adding up, the last kill worth twenty points.
A redhead. Damn, what luck!
Thirty women. All former beauty queens. All still attractive. Blondes, brunettes, and redheads.
He sighed as memories of his most recent kill replayed in his mind, like a technicolor movie. Red blood. Creamy, soft skin. Rich, royal blue carpet.
What an utterly delicious game. A brilliant plan from the very beginning. A part of him would hate to see it end. But no game was meant to be played indefinitely. Sooner or later someone had to win. And someone had to lose.
He had no intention of losing.
You can’t rest on your laurels. Being overconfident can result in defeat. We can’t have that, can we?
Time to choose another victim. If he could find another redhead…A blonde would do. Fifteen points would be enough. For now.
Turning around in the oxblood leather swivel chair at his Jacobean desk, he faced the computer screen and typed in the password that would open a very secret file.
With a sense of anticipation, he watched as the file opened and the list of twenty names, addresses, and personal information appeared on the nineteen-inch screen. Ten names in all. It had taken endless hours of research to find ten perfect candidates. Such a pity that there wouldn’t be time to kill all of them.
Pick and choose. Pick and choose.
Which pretty flower shall I pick today?
There was only one redhead on the list.
Save her for later, just in case you need twenty points closer to the end of the game.
Five brunettes and four blondes.
A blonde this time. Definitely a blonde.
Shelly Hall. Ashley Gray. Sonya Todd. Heather Johnson.
Tapping his index finger against his chin, an amused tilt to his lips, he studied the profiles of each of the four blondes. Then he lifted his finger to the screen and counted off, eeney-meeny-miney-mo.
Griffin’s plane landed shortly before eleven that evening. As instructed, Sanders had brought the limo and was waiting for them. Griff relied on Sanders in a way he relied on no other human being. He trusted Damar Sanders with his life. He could say that of no other man. Not even his old UT teammate, Jim Norton, or his former playboy friend, Judd Walker. A stint in the belly of hell could unite two men in a way nothing else could.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Sanders spoke respectfully to Barbara Jean Hughes as Griff stopped her wheelchair at the right rear door.
“Hello.” Barbara Jean openly stared at Sanders, not an uncommon reaction upon first meeting the extraordinary man.
“I’m Sanders, ma’am,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sanders.”
“This, of course, is Ms. Hughes,” Griff said.
“Please, call me Barbara Jean,” she told Sanders.
He simply nodded.
“I’ll lift you up and into the car,” Griff said. “And don’t be alarmed. One of my agents, Angie Sterling, is inside the limo. Angie will be one of your private bodyguards while you’re our guest.”
Barbara Jean’s eyes widened in surprise. She gulped softly, then nodded. “Thank you. I—I appreciate everything. I really do. It’s just I never imagined I’d ever be in this position and need a bodyguard. I may be a paraplegic, but I’m not helpless. I have great upper body strength, you know. I manage to live alone and can get in and out of my wheelchair without assistance. I hold down a job and can take a taxi wherever I need to go.”
“We hope you won’t need a bodyguard for very long and can return home soon,” Griff said. “But while you do, we’ll keep you so busy that you just might forget you have a guardian angel keeping watch over you.”
Sanders opened the door. Griff lifted Barbara Jean into his arms and placed her inside the limousine. Griff closed the door; then Sanders folded the wheelchair and put it in the trunk.
“Are we ready to go?” Sanders asked.
Griff nodded. “Yes, and when we get inside, lift the privacy window. I have some phone calls to make and I’d rather Ms. Hughes not be bothered.”
Thirty minutes later, they arrived at what many called the Powell Compound. Actually, the estate, with part of the acreage on Douglas Lake, had a name: Griffin’s Rest.
Two massive stone arches flanked the locked gates, which Sanders opened electronically from within the limo. Bronze griffins, the mythological beast with the head, forepart, and wings of an eagle and the body, hind legs, and tail of a lion, had been imbedded into the stonework of both arches. The winding paved road from the highway to the house passed through a thickly wooded area before opening up to a lakefront vista. Griffin’s home itself was not enormous, merely ten-thousand square feet and two stories high, but there were other buildings on the property,