Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle

by Lisa Jackson

  She shivered and held tightly to him.

  “We will catch him. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Good.”

  He closed his eyes for a second, lost in the feel and smell of her. It would be so damned easy to kiss her. They both knew it, and when she looked up at him, the question was in her golden eyes. With their bodies pressed so close together, their hearts beating faster, it was all Montoya could do to slowly release her. He had to. But when they were at arm’s length, he felt bereft.

  She didn’t argue, nor try to nestle herself close against him, though he thought he noticed a glint of desire ripple through her gaze.

  Don’t go there, Montoya. Kissing her would be a stupid move. Stupid. She’s involved in all of this somehow . . . remember that. She was married to one victim and could be the next.

  His jaw tightened.

  More to break the tension than anything else, he pointed to a picture on the mantel. “That you?” he asked, indicating a black-and-white head shot that was nearly identical to Abby, but just a little off.

  “My mother.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah . . . I think it was taken around the time she was twenty-five, maybe thirty.”

  “You look a lot like her.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “It’s a compliment.”

  “Then, thanks.”

  She tried to hide a yawn. For the first time he noticed how tired she looked, how hard this was on her. “Look, why don’t you go to bed.”

  “Now?”

  “You look beat.”

  She glanced toward the door. “You’re leaving?”

  “Not on your life, lady. Not until you get a security system installed, a trained Doberman pinscher, and an attack cat.”

  “But you can’t just . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “All I need is a blanket and a pillow. I’ll camp out here.” He pointed to the couch. “Believe me, it’s a lot better than some of the stakeouts I’ve been on.”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “You can throw me out if you want to, but I’ll just park outside your door.” He stared at her long and hard. “I’m staying, Abby, whether you like it or not.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  The cop was there.

  Had come late.

  And stayed.

  From his hiding spot in the trees beyond the veranda of Abby’s house, he watched as the lights went out . . . all the lights, eventually even the bedroom lamp. He couldn’t see through the drawn shades, but he noticed a soft flickering glow and smelled the smoke of a wood fire. It swept through the damp autumn air and reminded him of sitting by camp-fires as a child; fires he’d built, fires he’d watched alone. That same loneliness, that feeling that he was “different,” “not quite right,” “extremely smart—off the charts in his pure, crystalline intelligence, but you know, a little odd”—his mother’s words, her way of explaining why he had no friends, why he was unlike his siblings—swept through him. He felt it again—that dark coldness of being alone. Segregated. Picked on.

  Eventually he’d found solace being separate.

  Then he’d met Faith.

  And he was no longer alone.

  Once more, he imagined her touch, her warmth, the feel of her lips grazing his skin . . .

  But before he could sink into the delight of his memories, his gaze trained on the house. His jaw slid to one side. Rage burned through his veins, and his lips curled in disgust.

  They were fucking.

  He was certain of it.

  Like a dog in heat, she was letting the cop screw her! Was even now probably writhing and wriggling beneath him, sweating, crying out, begging for more.

  Fury and pain tore through his soul.

  She was so much like her mother!

  His stomach twisted. All over he felt tiny, little legs brushing over his body. His skin was suddenly crawling. As if a million red ants were marching over him, stinging and biting, turning his flesh to fire, creating a black rage deep in his soul.

  She’d betrayed him.

  Memories assailed him.

  He remembered Faith’s laughter, that throaty, heart-stopping chuckle that was meant only for him. Yet he’d heard it emanating from her room. Late at night. When she should have been waiting for him.

  He’d tried the door handle.

  It had been frozen. Wouldn’t move.

  Locked.

  He’d been locked out.

  Why?

  He’d nearly called out, whispered through the panels. But then the other noises had reached him, the unmistakable sounds of rutting: the raw, guttural moans of animal pleasure, the crass, rhythmic creaking of the bedsprings, the swift intake of breath, and a muffled cry of satiated lust.

  He’d smelled the scent of sinful sex seeping under the door.

  Even now the sounds rang in his ears, a harsh, painful noise that pierced his eardrums. He remembered the vile odor of their excitement.

  His teeth gnashed together so hard his jaw ached and his face twisted as if tortured.

  So now the daughter was fornicating with the cop.

  Bile rose in his throat.

  He imagined her gold hair wet with sweat, her body so slick it appeared to have been oiled as she arched up to meet him, her breasts pointing toward the ceiling, full and aroused, dark nipples taut. Oh, how she would welcome the cop’s hungry mouth, his long wet tongue, his sharp teeth. His beard would scratch her skin raw.

  His heart was pounding with fury. And with lust as he mentally witnessed their coupling image. Oh, the things she did to him, the dirty, lurid sexual acts she would perform!

  Tears filled his eyes as he thought of her beauty, of her tainted purity. He reached into his pocket and with gloved fingers touched the gun.

  Her gun.

  This weapon was his savior. And hers.

  His right fist clenched around the cold steel of the revolver.

  Your time is coming, he thought angrily. And soon. Oh, yes, very soon.

  Closing his eyes, he conjured up her face. Beautiful. Innocent. Seductive. Playful. So much like Faith’s as to be her twin.

  And like her mother, this one had betrayed him as well.

  In his heart he believed she was an angel.

  But in his gut he knew she was a whore.

  CHAPTER 21

  The hospital was dark, the corridors murky, the stairs seeming to run upward forever. Abby hurried, carrying the box, wanting to surprise her mother. She had so much to tell her, so much to confide. She’d asked Trey to the dance . . . oh, my God . . . and wonder of wonders he’d said “yes!” Up, up, up, she climbed. But the package she was toting was bulky and awkward. It felt heavy in her hands, and as she struggled up the steep staircase, her euphoria seeped away, and the darkness of the old hospital seemed cloying. Her breathing was labored, her legs so tired, and unseen hands seemed to pluck at the bright ribbon on the gift.

  Finally she reached the landing, where the stained-glass Madonna was glowing, hands folded, halo bright and shimmering. Abby paused to catch her breath, then started up the final flight to the third floor, only to trip, her feet flying out from under her, the package shooting from her arms. Desperately she tried to catch not only the box, but herself as well. She caught onto the railing, but couldn’t grab hold of the gift. Twisting her neck, she watched in horror as the gold box, its fuchsia ribbon streaming behind, tumbled and bounced down the stairway, disappearing into the darkness at the base of the stairs. Into oblivion.

  She started after it, but her mother’s muffled voice stopped her. “Abby? Abby Hannah?” It sounded as if Mom were very far away, calling to Abby from one end of a long tunnel. “Abby?”

  “I’m coming, Mom,” she said and knew that Zoey would bring the package. Hadn’t they fought in the car about who would have the privilege of giving it to their mother? Let Zoey do it. Who cared? But as Abby stared down the stairwell into the inky blackness, she wondered
where Zoey was. And where was their father? How long did it take to park a car?

  “Abby!” Faith’s voice was sharp. Frightened.

  Abby spun around, heading up the final flight. From the corner of her eye she saw that the Madonna’s image had changed. Not a lot. Not enough that most people would notice but Abby did. Instead of looking tranquil and serene, the Holy Mother’s round eyes had thinned a bit, her angelic smile twisted a little wryly, as if she and Abby were sharing a private joke.

  Frightened, Abby stumbled up the stairs. As she scrambled to the third floor, she heard the sobs. Broken, horrible sobs.

  “Mom?” Surely it wasn’t her mother crying! But all the other doors on the third floor were open, the rooms dark and yawning as if hiding unseen beasts who lay waiting in their dark depths.

  The door to 307 was firmly shut.

  She reached for the handle and pulled.

  Nothing.

  “No. Oh, no, please, don’t—” her mother pleaded on the other side.

  “Mom!” Abby pounded on the panels with her fist. Bam! Bam! Bam!

  One by one her mother’s room numbers fell onto the floor.

  Three.

  Clunk.

  Zero.

  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 teasing 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.