Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  She was standing now, her backbone stiff again, her temper snapping. “A bodyguard?” she repeated. “That’s rich. You know, it really ticks me off that this guy is winning, that he knows where I live, where I work and what I drive. I shouldn’t have to change my lifestyle because of some creep.”

  “You’re right, you shouldn’t have to, but you do,” Rick said evenly, holding her gaze, hoping to get through to her. “In my opinion, Ms. Leeds, this guy is dangerous. He’s escalating his threats, becoming bolder and since we don’t know who he is and what makes him tick, you have to be extremely careful and take extra precautions whether you like it or not. I’ll call the PD in Cambrai and make sure your street is patrolled frequently and we’ll take care of the neighborhood of your offices when you’re at work. We’ll try to nail this guy’s ass, but we can’t do it without your help, okay?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” she said.

  “And we’ll do the best we can.”

  “Thanks.” She stood, offered both him and Montoya her hand, then, swinging the strap of her purse over her shoulder, she walked out the door, unaware that Reuben was watching her hips sway beneath her skirt or the fact that she slightly favored one leg.

  He gave off a soft whistle. “If she decides she needs a bodyguard, you let me know cuz I would loooove to guard that sweet lady’s ass.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Bentz said dryly, and wondered at the connection of the caller to a dead girl in Houston. “Let’s find out everything we can on Annie Seger. Who she hung out with, where she lived, her family, boyfriend, the whole nine yards. Check out everyone associated with Dr. Sam.” He tapped a pencil eraser on the edge of the desk. “This case is getting weirder by the minute.”

  “Maybe it’s supposed to,” Reuben offered, scratching at his goatee as he stared thoughtfully at the path through the desks Samantha Leeds had taken.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve tuned in, haven’t you? Aren’t you interested?”

  “It’s part of the case.”

  “I know, I know,” Reuben said, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, “but I’m just willing to bet that ratings are up on Dr. Sam’s show, and that’s got to be good for business. So bring on the weird. In fact the weirder the better.”

  “You think it’s a setup?”

  “I think it could be.” He flashed his sly smile. “It’s just like those tell-all television programs where the host introduces a normal-looking couple, then brings out the chick the guy is cheating with and the two women get into it…it’s all set up ahead of time. It has to be, and the audience and viewers get into it. The next thing you know, another guy comes out—the husband’s brother or sister and it turns out the wife has been banging him…or her. Now the audience is in a frenzy.”

  Bentz leaned back in his chair, holding the pencil in two hands, rolling it in his fingers. “You figure Dr. Sam is in on it?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. She seems genuinely scared, but then she might be a trained actress; she’s on the radio for Christ’s sake. But this happened before and the same team worked with her, right? George Hannah and Eleanor Cavalier for starters? Maybe there are others. I’ll bet next week’s paycheck that someone at the station knows what’s going on and that there’s money involved.”

  “You always think money’s involved,” Bentz grumbled, though, he’d had similar thoughts himself. He’d met George Hannah, thought the guy was a pompous ass at best, a downright cheat at worst. The station manager, a sharp black lady, was known as a ball-breaker, and Montoya was right, they’d both worked with Dr. Sam in Houston—that much Bentz did know. He cracked his knuckles and thought. What bothered him most was that he had a gut feeling that somehow the guy who called in to Dr. Sam in the middle of the night was connected to the murders of the prostitutes. There wasn’t much to go on—just the hair from red wigs, so like Samantha Leeds’s, the photograph with the cut out eyes, like the blackened eyes on the hundred-dollar bills. Not much at all.

  “And I’m right,” Montoya was saying, “99 percent of the time in these types of crimes, money changes hands.”

  “Why then would John call after hours? What good would that do? No one heard him.”

  “It could be all part of the scam, let that leak out to the press that the stalker has been calling not only during the program but after, and if the doctor isn’t in on it, she’d be even more freaked out. The nutcase is making it personal.” That stuck in Bentz’s craw, but he couldn’t argue the logic. “Then prove it,” he said to Montoya, and the cocky young buck threw him a self-assured I’m-a-bad-ass smile.

  “I will.”

  Morons.

  The police were morons.

  Didn’t they get it? Didn’t they see a connection? Couldn’t they put two and fucking-two together?

  Outside the cabin bullfrogs croaked. The steamy bayou night floated in through the open windows and the cracks in the walls. He slapped at a mosquito as he read the article on his most recent killing, buried deep in the paper, about as far from front-page news as it could get.

  No word had leaked to the press about the murders being linked, yet he’d been careful to leave all the clues…fuck it, he thought, clipping out the pathetic article with his knife, making sure he cut straight, leaving some margins, as moonlight sliced through the rising mist, filtering into the tiny room to add an opalescence to the light of his single lantern. He was hot. Uncomfortable. Restless. He’d have to do something more to get their attention. And it was time. He glanced through the window, saw the shadow of a bat as it flew by, and felt his heart rate accelerate.

  His breathing was shallow as he switched on his radio and heard the familiar strains of “Hard Day’s Night” playing over the static, and then her voice. Low. Sultry. Sexy as hell.

  “Hello, New Orleans, and welcome. This is Doctor Sam at WSLJ, and it’s time again for Midnight Confessions, a program that’s as good for the heart as it is for the soul. Tonight we’ll be talking about high school. Remember? For some of you it’s going on right now, for others it’s been a while, maybe longer than you want to admit.

  “Nonetheless, we’ve all experienced going to high school either private or public, run by the church or the state. And we all felt peer pressure and the urge to rebel, experienced the sweet pangs of first love and the sting of rejection.

  “Remember your first day of school? How nervous you felt? How about the first time you saw your high-school sweetheart? Your first crush? Your first kiss…and maybe a whole lot more. Tell me about it, New Orleans…Confess…”

  Blood thundered through his brain. High school? The cunt wanted to talk about high school? And first love?

  Sweat broke out over his forehead and slithered down his spine. He walked to the cupboard and as he pinned his trophy—the minuscule scrap of newsprint—inside the door, he conjured up Dr. Sam’s face.

  Perfect white skin, hair a deep, dark red, full lips that covered a razor-sharp tongue and eyes the color of jade. And just as cold. God, she was a turn-on. And a bitch. He listened to her voice, luring the innocent to call in, to confess, to ask her for advice.

  “Who’s on the line?”

  “This here’s Randy.”

  You and me both, he thought, his erection pressing hard against the fly of his jeans.

  “What’s going on, Randy?”

  “Well, uh, high school was a big deal for me. I was a football player, down in Tallahassee and, um, I met my wife there. She was the homecomin’ queen and man, she was purty. I never seen a woman so purty as Vera Jean.”

  Oh, yeah, yeah, so who cares?

  “And what did you do about it?”

  “I married her, that’s what I did. Thirty-five years now. We got us four children and two grandchildren with another on the way.”

  “So high school was a good experience for you?”

  “Yes’m. It sure was. But fer my kids, it was a differnt story. The oldest he got involved with drugs, the second, well, she did all r
ight I guess, but the third. She got herself in a family way as a junior and the boy was a no’count. Wouldn’t marry her.”

  “How’s your daughter today?” Dr. Sam asked, as if she cared, as if she could offer some advice.

  His lip curled. He had two hours, then he’d call. Give a warning…yeah, tell her it was about to come down. And then he’d hunt.

  Another woman would do tonight, he thought as he listened to her voice and wanted to jerk off. If only he could be with her. He touched himself briefly, the tips of his fingers brushing against his fly, but no…not this way…not until the time was right. There were things he had to do. Wrongs he had to right. Women…all those women who reminded him of Annie, lying, whoring cunts and the one man he had to deal with, a man who had betrayed Annie. Judas! You, too, will pay. Rage seared through his blood and screamed through his head as he heard Dr. Sam’s voice.

  Blood pounded in his ears as the low, dulcet tones of her voice reached out to him, from the city, across the swamp.

  And he couldn’t have Dr. Sam—not tonight. The timing wasn’t right. And he had something else planned for her, a surprise. For Annie’s birthday. If all went according to plan, Dr. Sam would find his special present tomorrow night He only wished he could see her face when she got his gift, but he couldn’t risk it. He’d have to wait. Until just the right moment.

  But soon…Oh, God, it had to be soon…Lust, anger, revenge and need, his need was so great. His cock throbbed. He’d have to substitute again…find another whore to quiet the rage that tore through his soul, to sate the need coursing through his veins, to sacrifice.

  He knew he was a sinner, but he couldn’t help himself…His blood was on fire.

  He reached into his pocket and drew out his special rosary. The sharp beads glittered in the light from the lantern, winking at him, promising him they would do his bidding.

  Then he fell on his knees and began to pray.

  As Dr. Sam spoke to him through the little radio, he fingered the sharp beads and whispered, “Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit…”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sam nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw the man on her porch. Then she realized it was Ty. She hadn’t expected to see anyone, but smiled to herself. There was something right about him reclining on the front-porch swing, jean-clad legs outstretched, a bottle of beer cradled between his hands, his face cast in shadow where the weak light of the single bulb on the porch didn’t quite reach. He seemed at home there. Calm. Rocking gently to the music of the wind chimes and cicadas. And yet there was a restless quality to him, a darkness she didn’t understand, a danger that lured her as much as it frightened her.

  “Don’t make more of it than it is,” she muttered to herself, but her heartbeat kicked up a notch as she pressed the electronic opener and nosed the Mustang into the garage.

  So what does he want, she wondered as she switched off the ignition and tossed her keys into her purse. Why is he here? What does he expect?

  No, Sam, what do you expect?

  Her throat went dry and for the briefest of seconds she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. To touch him. To…Don’t go there. You don’t know him well enough. There’s something he’s not telling you, something he’s hiding, something dark. It’s the middle of the night, for crying out loud. Why is he waiting for you alone? This is no good.No good! But a drip of anticipation ran through her blood.

  Silently arguing with herself, she slid out of the car, walked through the breezeway and into house, where Charon greeted her by crying and rubbing against her legs. “I missed you, too,” she said to the black cat as she tossed her purse onto the counter and quickly disengaged the security alarm. Carrying the cat, she walked to the front door and slid the bolt.

  Ty was still on the swing, eyes in shadow. He glanced up at her, and she felt a tingle—like the cold breath of winter—against the back of her neck. “You’re beginning to make a habit of this,” she said, as Charon, sensing freedom, scrambled from her arms and dashed across the porch.

  “Is that bad?” he drawled.

  “Could be.”

  The swing creaked as he pushed himself to his feet. Intense hazel eyes caught in the pale light. “Maybe I find you irresistible.”

  “And maybe that’s a line out of a bad movie.”

  “Is it?” One dark, nearly sinful eyebrow raised. He finished his beer in one swallow as the wind chimes tinkled softly.

  “I think you can do better,” she said.

  “Maybe you give me too much credit.”

  “I’m sure I do.”

  “That could be a mistake.”

  “Probably.”

  Leaving his empty bottle on the rail he walked to the door where Sam stood, arms folded over her chest, one shoulder propped against the jamb. The faint odor of musk tickled her nostrils. Night-darkened eyes regarded her slowly and she felt a nervous sheen of perspiration on her skin. He leaned closer, placed his bent arm over the top of hers on the doorframe. His nose was nearly touching hers, his breath warm against her face. “You know, I just thought I’d make sure you got home safely. Most women would want to thank me.”

  “I’m not most women,” she reminded him, but her heartbeat skyrocketed.

  “No, Sam, you’re not.” He was close enough that she could feel his heat. Her heart pounded wildly, and she read the dangerous promises in his eyes. His gaze fell to the open collar of her blouse, as if he could see her pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat. “That’s probably why I’m here.”

  “A knight in shining armor—is that what you’d have me believe.”

  His chuckle was low and sexy. “Never.”

  “So your intentions aren’t chivalrous?”

  He snorted. “Who says I have intentions?”

  It was her turn to cock a disbelieving eyebrow. “Peddle that to someone who believes it. What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up here?”

  “I would have checked with someone.”

  “Who?” she asked, and noticed his smile grow slowly from one side of his beard-shadowed jaw to the other. “Whoever I had to.”

  Was it the night with its full moon and hot breeze, or was it something else, something more primal, something within, that made her wonder how it would feel to have his skin rub against hers, how she would respond to the feel of his hands on her body? Or was it because she needed to escape the craziness that had become her life, the fear and tension that had become her companions in the last few weeks. Or…was it more basic? Was it simply that she’d been without a man for a long time, and she craved a man’s touch? Or that something deep within her, something she didn’t want to examine too closely, was attracted to secretive men with an edge?

  “The least you could do is invite me in,” he suggested, his voice low.

  “I’m considering it.” She was aware that he was the barest of inches from her, too damned close. “If you behave.”

  “Sorry, darlin’, but that’s a promise I just can’t make,” he drawled, and deep inside she quivered. What would it be like to make love to this man, to lie in his arms, to wake up with morning dancing in his eyes and desire running through his veins? Her throat caught.

  “I think I owe you a glass of wine. It only seems fair to open the bottle and share it with you since you brought it over.”

  “I’m all for fairness.”

  She stepped out of the doorway, and he followed her to the kitchen, where she found the unopened bottle of Riesling in the refrigerator.

  “Need help?” he asked, as she kicked off her shoes and snagged the corkscrew from a drawer.

  “Not me, I was a Girl Scout.”

  “Where they taught you to uncork a bottle of wine.”

  “And I’ve got the merit badge to prove it.”

  “I think you’re mixed up. Boy Scouts get merit badges. Girls get brownie points.”

  “A lot you know,” she grumbled. She pulled hard. The cork and corkscrew released
from the bottle with a soft pop. She twirled the corkscrew in her hand, blew across the end and tucked it into her belt as if it were a six-gun.

  “Very funny.”

  “I thought so,” she said over her shoulder as she stretchedto reach the wineglasses in a tall cupboard. One glass, just have one glass, she told herself as she poured, all the while aware of Ty standing behind her, one shoulder propped against the door to the breezeway. “Here.” She handed him one of the stemmed glasses and took the other for herself.

  “What should we toast to?” he asked, one dark brow lifting.

  “Better days,” she suggested.

  “And nights.”

  Her breath caught in her throat. “And nights.” She touched the rim of her glass to his. She sipped her wine and watched as he took a swallow from his glass, noticed the way his Adam’s apple worked over the open collar of his shirt, remembered all too vividly the sinewy muscles of his arms and chest.

  What was she thinking? Why was her mind running to thoughts of hot kisses and hotter caresses? She didn’t know this man. Couldn’t trust him. Shouldn’t be thinking about making love to him, for God’s sake. And yet as she finished her wine, she knew that he cared enough to wait up for her, he cared enough to show up at the station and drive her home safely, he cared enough to risk his own life.

  If he’d wanted to harm her, he’d already had plenty of opportunities.

  “This is all getting to you,” he said as if reading her mind.

  “I suppose.”

  “It would get to anyone.” Hazel eyes held hers, and she noticed the striations of green and brown in their depths. “Come on,” he said, removing the corkscrew from her belt. “Let’s forget this for a while.” Linking his fingers through hers, he grabbed the neck of the bottle with the hand holding his glass and propelled her through the living room.

  “Hey, wait…where are we going?” she asked.

  “You’ll see. Hold this.” He handed her the bottle and glasses, unlocked the French doors and led her outside to the backyard.

  Moonlight spangled the dark water of the lake and cast a silver glow on the grass, shrubs, trees and the masts of Ty’s sailboat. Of course. His car hadn’t been parked in the driveway and Sam had thought he’d walked to the house. Instead, he’d used the boat.