by Lisa Jackson
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 tournament 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, i
ncluding 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.
It had been easy to find an adoring doctor, an alumnus of the college, to write him the necessary prescriptions . . . and he’d never abused the drugs, just used them to help control the raging pain and seething anger that accompanied it.
With no professional contract in the United States, he had briefly considered playing ball in Europe but knew he’d face the same problems overseas that he would have in the States. Then there were all the cards and notes he’d received and saved from the people who had reached out to him, the people who believed in him, the people who had asked for signed pictures of him, or wanted his old jerseys and basketball shoes. Adoring fans. Loving fans. People who believed in him.
He’d taken the lack of a professional contract as a sign from God to “play on Jesus’s team.” No fool, Billy Ray had realized that he could be a part of that team for the rest of his life, perhaps make as much money as in the NBA, but for substantially longer.
He could still be a star.
And so it was.
The same rage and dedication that had fueled him on the basketball court had helped him create a parish of thousands. No one knew where that rage came from, the lies his entire life had been founded upon. No one knew how betrayed he’d been when he’d discovered that his parents—two hardworking, loving people—had lied to him from the get-go.
They’d never told him he’d been adopted; never once mentioned that he wasn’t of their own loins. He’d found out by a simple class in genetics when he took biology at fourteen. Blue-eyed people did not give birth to brown-eyed children . . . that was a simple biological fact, so either his mother had committed the sin of adultery or he’d been adopted.
Easy enough to find out, and find out he did.
Now he tapped his pen on the desk and scowled at the perfidy. How many times had he tried to forgive those poor simple people, and how many times had he come up short?
“Give me strength,” he whispered as he sat in the study, darkness surrounding this part of what the negative press had dubbed his “compound.” Let them say what they would. Who cared? Billy Ray believed that there was no bad press. As long as reporters were writing about him, people were hearing his name and that was what mattered.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He was tired and should turn in. He had an expansive bedroom here in the study—a king-size bed, huge flat-screen television, even a gas fire that could be flipped on with a remote. He spent most of his nights here rather than in the huge antebellum-looking house his wife had spent years building.
He dutifully stayed in the main house each Saturday night, slept in their marriage bed and made love to her as if he still cared. The next morning they always ate breakfast in that monster of a dining hall, dressed for church service, then left in separate cars, she with the children, he alone to drive to the church.
There had been a time when they’d been passionate. He’d even been so moved as to once have had sex with her on that huge table, but that had been a few years back. Before she’d grown cold. Before she’d been so wrapped up in the children’s lives that she had no time for Billy Ray. Before she’d relegated sex to once a week and had lain there, barely moving, a statue who, because of her wedding vows, let him rut over her.
He hated it.
Sex with one’s wife should not feel dirty.
He had considered taking up with a younger, more vibrant, more alive woman than Aldora. He’d even flirted with the new church secretary, a recently divorced mother of two who wore high heels, tight skirts, and had a tendency to show a smile and wink at him when she talked.
So far, he hadn’t stepped over that line.
Yet.
Had no plans to.
But . . . a man had to feel loved, not only by God, but by a woman as well. These days Aldora just wasn’t holding up her end of the marriage bargain.
He felt a simmering anger as he unbuttoned his golf shirt and stared down at the words he’d scrawled on a yellow legal pad. He’d been working on his sermon all week, ever since hearing about Luke Gierman and Courtney LaBelle’s murders. Their horrendous deaths presented an opportunity to bring more people to the Lord.
He’d already managed to get a lot of press over the killings; now he wanted more. Which was no problem. Asa Pomeroy and Gina Jefferson’s murders had provided more grisly fodder.
Billy Ray had a feeling that this Sunday his church would be filled to overflowing. Fear brought out the piety in people. It was interesting, he thought, how his words of the Lord’s wrath, of punishment for evil deeds, of fire and brimstone, were such a magnet for his followers. He’d found that the more harshly he spoke, the more he shook his hands toward the heavens, the more his voice boomed in fury, the more the veins in his neck throbbed with his convictions, the more the parishioners tithed. He even had a half-hour radio program on WNAB at nights and there was talk of television.
They all wanted a show.
Passion.
Wrath.
Power.
And above all else, a deep-seeded love of the Lord.
Billy Ray had them all.
So this had to be a great sermon, about the wrath and love of an all-powerful God, about the compassion of Jesus and about . . . He looked up. Had he heard something? A footstep? He waited, his ears straining, and there was no other sound. Nothing but the wind outside, rustling through the dry leaves of autumn. He hadn’t heard anything. He was just tired, his body reacting to a week of strain, of being “on” for the cameras, of showing his own sympathizing nature for the families of the victims, his own rage at the murdering maniac let loose on the streets of his city. Yes, yes, that was it. Picking up his pen, he began writing in swift sure strokes, his sermon spewing forth faster and faster. He would edit the text on the computer in the morning, clean up any mistakes. By writing his thoughts on paper, he let loose some of his anger, the pen nearly ripping through the top page as he scrawled on and on and . . .
Creak.
Again he looked up.
This time he was nearly certain he’d heard the squeak of floorboards. He leaned back and listened. “Anyone there?” he called, feeling a fool. His bodyguard and personal trainer had left hours ago and he’d heard the gates close behind Kyle’s Chevy Blazer, seen the wink of the SUV’s taillights through the open window.
Again there was nothing but silence.
He was just agitated tonight.
Perhaps he needed to pray. Dropping his pen onto the desk, he took in a deep breath. Then swiping his face with his hands, he leaned back in his chair, squeezed his ey
es shut, and asked the Lord for inspiration, for clarity, for God’s will to be spread through his sermon. For that’s how it happened, the reverend believed. He was inspired by God, touched by Him as if the Father actually reached down from glorious heaven and placed His fingertips onto Billy Ray’s crown. In that moment, God’s thoughts entered Billy Ray’s brain, sizzled through synapses down his nerves to his fingers, where the words—right from the Lord’s mouth!—flowed onto the pages of this legal pad.
“Lord help me,” he said aloud. “Let me see the light, let me feel Your presence, let me be Your mouthpiece . . .”
Again the noise.
Billy Ray opened his eyes.
He gasped and leapt to his feet.
There, standing before him, holding a Taser pointed right at the preacher’s heart, was Satan.
Before Billy Ray could utter a word, Lucifer pulled the trigger.
Sister Maria sensed something in her sleep.
She rolled over.
A gloved hand clamped over her mouth.
Panic shot through her and she was instantly awake. Her room was pitch dark; it was long before morning prayers. She couldn’t see her attacker, but he was strong.
Determined.
Angry.
She felt his fury, smelled his sweat.
A sickeningly sweet smell filled her nostrils.
Ether!
She recognized it from her days at the hospital.
No! she thought. No, no, no!
Sister Maria struggled. Tried to scream. Fought with all the strength in her body, but as she writhed and flung her useless arms upward, she breathed rapidly. Deeply.
The thick chemical wound its way into her lungs, dulling her mind, weakening her limbs, causing her eyelids to droop. She gasped, struggling for breath, but more of the noxious sleep-inducer was dragged into her airways.
Her movements turned sluggish.
She knew what was happening but was unable to fight the inevitable.
In the end, she gave up, her body going limp, the blackness oozing through her brain.
