by Lisa Jackson
Thud.
Seven.
Bam!
As the final number hit the floor, the door burst open.
Abby stumbled into the room, where flowers withered in a vase. The mirror over the fireplace was shattered. Blood smeared the glass. Her mother was at the window…but not alone…a man in a white coat and a shiny stethoscope had his back to Abby. His hands were on her mother’s shoulders, pushing her backward, toward the window. Faith’s dress was torn, one shoe kicked off.
Help me, she silently pleaded, looking over the man’s shoulders. Abby Hannah, help me!
Stunned, Abby found her feet, but her legs were leaden, refused to work. “Mama!” she cried, stretching out her arms, trying desperately to reach her mother.
The doctor pushed vigorously against Faith’s shoulders. Shrieking, she fell backward, her body hitting the window with enough force to crack the long glass pane. It splintered slowly, but relentlessly. Try as she might, Abby couldn’t stop her mother from falling.
The doctor shrank away, disappearing into the shadowy corners of the room as Abby propelled herself forward. The last frisson of glass shattered. Hot, moist air rushed into the room.
Faith, bleeding, clawed onto Abby’s hand, linking fingers, pulling her close. “I forgive you,” she whispered.
Together they pirouetted into the dark, dank Louisiana night.
Screaming, Abby sat bolt upright in the bed. She was sweating, her heart pounding, the dream so real that she couldn’t breathe. “Oh, God,” she whispered, pushing her hair from her face. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw her bedroom door stood open. She screamed again as she saw the silhouette of a man in her doorway. Oh, God! Her eyes rounded in horror as he moved closer. She shrank back, terrified, the dream still lingering.
“Abby?” he said and in an instant she recognized his voice, realized that Detective Montoya was with her. He snapped on the bedside lamp. He held a gun in his hand. He was dressed in low-slung jeans and nothing else. Seeing that she was alone, he set his weapon on the nightstand. “Are you all right?”
“You keep asking that,” she said, trying to calm her racing heart, trying not to stare at Montoya’s physique. She’d left him fully clothed on the couch after tossing him an extra pillow and sleeping bag.
“I, um, I, oh, Jesus.” She leaned against the headboard and shoved her hair from her eyes with both hands. “I…I had that dream again.” Shaking her head, she wondered if she would ever be free of that long-ago, painful night and the nightmares that stalked her. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
He offered her a bit of a smile, the tiniest flash of white teeth. “It’s okay.”
She tried not to notice his strong pectoral muscles visible through black, swirling chest hair. And she attempted to ignore the fact that his abdomen was flat, just a hint of muscles visible beneath his taut skin. Drawing a long breath, she didn’t protest when he sat on the bed next to her, nor did she argue as one strong arm slipped around her. She didn’t even put up a fight when he drew her close enough that she could smell the male scent of him and hear his heart thudding in tandem with her own.
“Better now?” he asked.
“Yeah. I think so.” She exhaled. “I hope so…”
His arms around her tightened, almost possessively, pulling her even closer. “Did you hear something? See something?”
“No…just a dream. The same one I’ve had for a long time. It changes a little each time, but…” She shuddered. “But it’s always about the night she died.”
“A long time for a recurring nightmare,” he observed.
“That’s why, on the advice of my most recent psychologist, I visited the hospital the other day.”
“So it didn’t work?”
“Not yet, I guess.” She frowned as pieces of the dream teased at her. “But I think there’s something important there, in my mother’s room.” She looked up into his dark, concerned eyes. “I know this sounds crazy, but it’s like if I go there, I’ll be able to put this all to rest,” she said with a twinge of dread. “I have to go back.”
“Why?” Swinging his legs onto the bed, he propped his back against the pillows, still holding her close.
“Because her room was locked when I was there last.” Abby leaned her head into the crook of his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his chest, and fleetingly wondered about the wisdom of lying on the bed with him. “Here’s the deal: No other room in that whole damned place was locked. Well…aside from a basement door. The exterior doors were bolted, the windows shut, but the interior doors were open. Except for Room 307. Mom’s room.” She looked up at him and saw the furrows drawing deep between his eyebrows. “Don’t you find that odd?”
“Oh, darlin’, I’m finding a lot of things odd,” he admitted, and as their gazes held, she felt a shift in the atmosphere. She suddenly knew he was going to kiss her. Before she could think twice, he shifted, the bed groaned expectantly, and he drew her so close that she felt his breath mingle with her own.
This is wrong, she thought, but tilted her head up.
“Damn it,” he muttered, and a second later, his mouth crashed down on hers. Warm lips molded over hers, one hand tangled in her hair, the other reached low and splayed over the curve of her spine, and she did nothing to stop him, to allay the onslaught to her senses.
Instead she closed her eyes and felt the wonder of his mouth, the gentle scratch of his goatee against her skin, the heat of his body against hers.
How long had it been since she’d kissed a man? Made love to him? She closed her mind to that train of thought and lost herself in the moment, feeling the urgent pressure of his lips against hers, the weight of his body as he rolled over her.
His tongue slid easily past her teeth, the tip touching the ridges along the roof of her mouth as he tasted her, touched her. She kissed him back, her own tongue exploring this man of whom she knew so little, this cop who at once charmed and irritated her half to death.
Don’t trust this. It’s nothing. Just two lonely people caught together in the middle of a long dark night. This isn’t what you want, Abby, this is a nonrelationship and easy sex. It’s not you.
And yet she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t.
Think, Abby. About tomorrow and the next day and the next.
She ignored the rational, sane side of her nature. Not tonight. She wasn’t going to follow the rules tonight. This loving was long overdue and she needed—oh, God, how she needed—some release. She kissed him as if she’d never kissed a man before, as if she couldn’t get enough of him.
Nor could she.
Theirs was not a thoughtful joining, not a loving, tender exploration but a fierce coupling driven by need. His lips claimed hers, and she kissed him back with a hunger that tore through her soul. Her arms wound around his neck, and as his hands bunched her nightgown over her hips, fingertips skimming, palms caressing, she had trouble drawing a breath, difficulty thinking.
She could only feel, and she gave herself willingly into the exciting, nerve-tingling sensations.
Calloused, practiced hands surrounded her breasts, thumbs skating over her nipples. His mouth was hard against her own, his kiss urgent. Demanding. She didn’t think of right or wrong, of what doubts the morning light would bring.
She just wanted him.
Now.
Her body screamed for release while her mind begged to forget, for just a few hours, the horror of her nightmares, the pain of the past, the uncertainty of the future.
Tonight was theirs and she gave herself up to it, kissing him, running her fingers down the corded strength of his sinewy muscles, feeling the blood running through her veins heat with a deep, dusky wanting.
His mouth moved across her cheek and down her throat. Soft beard, smooth lips, and wet tongue brushed her skin. Deep within she ached, desire licking through her veins, causing a need so deep she was lost in it.
She let out a low moan as his hands scaled her ribs, fingertips teasi
ng and touching, her nipples growing so tight they ached. He was stretched out over her, his legs pressed to hers, his erection hard and thick.
He kissed the circle of bones at her throat, laving the hollow, creating a heat that pounded through her brain, elevated her pulse, as he slid lower, arms surrounding her, hot breath whispering over skin he’d made wet with his tongue.
Love me, oh, please! she thought as his mouth found one breast and he teased and toyed, his tongue, lips, and teeth playing with her, tempting her, scraping her skin, causing her spine to arch and her fingers to sweep across the back of his head, holding him tight and forcing him to suckle long and deep.
“Oooh,” she whispered, wanting more, desire pounding deep inside—a real, living thing that demanded freedom. She ran her hands over the muscles of his shoulders and down the sinewy strength of his arms. He was strong and hard. Had, no doubt, loved many women, fought many men, perhaps even killed.
He tasted her, tongue flicking over her breast, one hand pulling her hips to his, his fingers hot against her spine, the tips brushing the cleft of her buttocks.
She squirmed in delicious agony.
More!
Give me more!
Her fingertips slid down his flat abdomen, along the arrow of dark hair that delved beneath the waistband of those faded, sexy jeans.
She opened the top button and slid her fingertips past the worn denim. His stomach muscles contracted. Giving her more access to the warmth emanating between his legs.
“Careful,” he whispered, sucking in his breath. “Dangerous territory.”
“It’s all dangerous territory,” she replied and tugged. The buttons of his Levi’s opened in a quick series of pops and she felt the smooth hardness of his erection, her fingers light as she brushed against it.
His entire body stiffened as he swore and slammed his eyes shut. Strong fingers shackled her wrist. “Abby,” he said, his voice rough. “Maybe…we should think this through.” He was breathing hard, his body straining, sweat slick and gleaming on his muscles.
“Why?”
“Because once we cross a certain line, there’s no going back.”
“You think I don’t know this?”
“I’m in the middle of a murder investigation and—”
“Is that what you’re in the middle of?” she asked, teasing, her breath hot as it blew across his bare chest. He let out a soft moan. “And here I thought you were in my bed, in the middle of making love to me. I wasn’t wrong, was I?” She ran the fingers of her free hand up his sternum to touch one of his flat nipples. “I didn’t get mixed signals.” She kissed his abdomen, her lips wet.
“I’m trying to be noble here,” he ground out.
“Duly noted.”
“Abby—”
“What?” she breathed over his skin again, and the fingers around her wrist tightened for a second, then relaxed.
“Christ,” he whispered. “If this is what you want, darlin’, then it’s what you’re gonna get.” He drew her up to him, held her face between his hands, then kissed her as if he’d never stop. His mouth was hungry and hard, his lips eager. The barriers down.
With her help, he kicked off his jeans. He didn’t utter up a single sound of protest as she touched his hips, trailed her fingers along his rock-hard thighs, or cupped his buttocks.
His breathing audible, he moved slowly downward, kissing her intimately between her breasts, along her abdomen, and rimming her navel so exquisitely that she clutched the bedsheets in her curling fingers. His deft tongue and lips explored, while his hands kneaded as she writhed, sweating, panting, feeling. Hot, wanton sensations rippled through her and she wanted more…oh, dear God, so much more.
She parted her legs willingly for him, felt his ultimate caress as his tongue and lips tasted her, lapping, tickling, causing her to moan in sheer, incredible, torturous pleasure.
The first spasm hit her hard, jolting through her body, causing her toes to curl and her fingers to knot in the bedsheets. Again she rocketed, her body jerking. And again. Still he teased her, his hands kneading her buttocks, his fingers finding hidden spots, pleasuring her time and time again.
Her mind spun, and when she was finally breathless, she stopped him, pulled him up to her, and kissed him. “Your turn,” she whispered into his ear, and he moaned as she lowered herself slowly.
She ran her tongue and teeth along his legs, feeling him squirm as his fingers twisted in her hair. She touched and kissed him delicately sensing him hold back until he trembled.
“Abby,” he finally whispered and pulled her to him, kissing her hard and rolling her onto her back. Then, with the lamplight giving off a soft golden glow, he slid her legs over his shoulders and, staring into her eyes, thrust. Hard. Deep. So far that she gasped.
Slowly he retracted only to plunge in again.
Quivering, she grabbed his arms and began to move with him, holding tight as he slid in and out of her, faster and faster. She burned inside and her breath came in quick short bursts. Faster and faster and faster they moved, until nothing in the universe mattered but that one spot where they were joined, the single area of intense friction that pounded and pulsed and sent shock waves to her brain.
His eyes closed just as she convulsed. A scream caught in the back of her throat. Still he came to her, pushing, pulling, hard and fast until she caught his fevered tempo again, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her head tossed back, her hair damp with sweat. Hotter. Faster. Wilder. Until her entire body bucked.
“Oh, God…Montoya…” she cried as he stiffened, his breath sliding through his teeth in a hiss, his head drawing back as if pulled by a string.
And then he collapsed, pouring himself into her, his arms surrounding her, his head falling against the hollow of her shoulder. “That’s what I was waiting to hear,” he said, his voice raw.
“What…?”
“My name and God’s…at the precise moment of rapture.”
Silent laughter caught in her throat. “How can you joke right now?” Her heart was still pounding out of control, her pulse in the stratosphere, the synapses in her brain still firing as afterglow tugged at her.
“Who’s joking?”
“Bastard,” she muttered and swatted at him with the back of her hand.
“From God to bastard in one fell swoop.” He nuzzled her neck and she sighed in contentment, refusing to think of the morning and what recriminations the dawn would carry on its shoulders.
For tonight she would enjoy this fleeting feeling of love.
Let the morning bring what it would.
The Reverend Billy Ray Furlough was up late, in his study, his private sanctuary away from the world. Separated from the main house by a grove of tended willow, magnolia, pine, and oak, as well as an elaborate wrought-iron fence, his study was actually a suite of rooms complete with three car-garage, private entrance, lap pool, and interior full-sized basketball court. A little ostentatious, perhaps, but necessary, he felt, for him to spread the word of God.
Reverend Furlough never felt closer to the Lord than when he was sweating profusely and making that perfect basketball shot just to the right of the free throw line. It was his signature shot, had been since he’d been the leading scorer for the Hornets in college. He loved the game and for years the game had loved him. He’d played with a vengeance, with an angry fire that he had carried with him into his personal life.
It had been on the basketball court where he’d first seen the light.
One second he’d been leaping skyward and was completely airborne, his fingers extended for a rebound, the next he’d been on the ground, in a jumble of players, involved in a freak accident that had broken his ankle and knocked him unconscious for over ten minutes. In that precious dark span of time he’d lived a lifetime, seen Christ’s face, and when he’d awakened, had sworn that if he was allowed to heal—and play the next season—he would dedicate his life to God and His Son.
And so it was.
He
’d healed, worked hard through hours of excruciating pain and physical therapy, and had received cards and notes from people he’d never met saying he was in their thoughts, swearing that they were praying for his full recovery. They had told him their private thoughts, offered good wishes, and to a one had asked the Lord for his complete recovery so that the Hornets, next season, could beat their arch rivals into oblivion.
And so it was.
He’d healed miraculously and sworn to all that it was not only through talent and hard work, but because of his promise to God. He’d vowed to take the team to the play-offs for God, with God, and in His Holy name.
And so it was.
The Hornets had crushed their opponents and won the title of their small league. Billy Ray Furlough had played the best game of his life, stealing the ball, passing for assists, and putting forty-three of the eighty-five points on the board, including the final shot, at the buzzer, though the Hornets, at that point, hadn’t needed the extra three points for a win. With Billy Ray’s intensity, his fervor, his rage, they’d already slammed their opponents to the ground.
The crowd had gone wild. Immediately after the game Billy Ray, the MVP, a towel slapped around his neck, his hair wet, and his face alight with the glow of a champion, had been interviewed by a local news station. Still breathing hard, he’d stared straight into the camera’s eye and dedicated the win, the trophy, and the title to God.
He’d received hundreds of congratulatory letters and phone calls. He’d been interviewed by Christian and lay stations for weeks.
But no pro contract had been offered.
No phone call asking if he was interested in a particular club in the NBA.
Nothing.
His college, was, after all, a small one; the Hornets’ league not nearly as tough or as competitive as those of major universities. As for his injury, a bevy of doctors had declared him fit, tough, and stronger than ever. He still could play with fire and fury despite the two screws and plate in his ankle.
Only a handful of his closest friends had known of the pain he suffered after each game. His right foot, ankle, and calf felt as if they had been roasting in the fires of hell. He’d found relief not only from prayer, but from Vicodin and Percocet and whatever other prescription would help ease the raging, burning sensation that had made him grit his teeth.
