Kill Me Twice

by Roxanne St Claire

  He lifted out Independence Day.

  “Nah.”

  He moved down the alphabet. “Lethal Weapon?” he asked.

  “Getting better.”

  On top of the DVD player, he noticed a blank disk. Unlike everything else, it wasn’t protected in a case nor was it filed neatly. “Not like our girl Jess to leave a DVD out to get dusty.”

  “No, it’s not,” she agreed, pressing the button to open the changer. “Let’s see what she was watching.”

  He slid the disk in. The screen lit up with high-gloss lips being licked by their own tongue and the words Climax Distribution Presents.

  “Oh my God.” Jazz coughed back an awkward laugh. “Is this porn?”

  Red letters filled the screen. Wet Kiss.

  Alex chuckled softly. “So the perfect twin has a seamier side.”

  She sliced him with steely glare. “I’m sure it’s research for a story. Or a joke.”

  “A joke?” On the screen, he saw a closeup of a woman’s breast, her nipples engorged, and pierced. “Yeah, this is a riot.”

  He reached toward the DVD player, but she grabbed his wrist. “Wait. I want to see what this is.”

  The camera pulled away, and the actress’s blond head dropped as she lifted one large breast to her own mouth. Her pink tongue extended to lick the swollen nipple.

  Alex gave Jazz a disbelieving look. “Have you ever seen hard-core porn?”

  “A little.” She shrugged, then flashed him a guilty smile. “Once. At a bachelorette party.”

  The woman on the TV screen slid her hands down her flat abdomen and spread her long, tanned legs. His lower half tightened and he realized he stood right in front of Jazz in nothing but thin drawstring pants. He blew out a disgusted breath at himself.

  “Go to bed if you can’t handle it, Romero.” She stepped back to lean against the armrest of the sofa, and tapped his shoulder impatiently with the remote. “You’re blocking my view.”

  On the TV, white-tipped fingernails caressed golden skin, dipping into the classic Brazilian wax job on a glistening female body part. Feeling the stirring of an involuntary hard-on, Alex closed his eyes.

  What would be more agonizing? Watching the movie, or watching Jazz experience the movie?

  “Oh, would you look at that?”

  He did. The white-tipped fingernail disappeared into the woman’s body as she whispered a sexy plea to the camera.

  “You wanted action,” he said with a shake of his head. “You should get plenty with this one.”

  She settled onto the sofa, draping her long, bare legs along the length of it. “Jessica was watching this for a reason. I want to know what it was.”

  “I’m sure her reasons were the same as everyone else who watches this stuff,” he said dryly. “Maybe Jessica wasn’t getting any from Mr. Heart of Gold.”

  She lifted her arms to tuck a pillow under her head. “Jessica Adams would not watch porn for stimulation. Believe me, she has to fend off men.”

  He watched her get comfortable on the sofa, the outline of her bare breasts clearly visible as she moved, a whisper of her underwear peeking out from the T-shirt. No way. He couldn’t do this.

  “You have yourself a nice little porn party, querida.” He tapped his forehead in a casual salute. “I’ve had enough stimulation for one day.”

  He left the door to his room open, the sounds of a whining sax and the murmurs of excruciatingly bad dialogue drifting into his room for the next forty-five minutes. Hard and sweaty, he lay with his hands locked under his head, staring at the ceiling and forcing himself to concentrate on the mystery of where Jessica Adams, anchorwoman superstar and closet porn watcher, could be.

  Had she come home tonight? To run the dishwasher? He replayed every detail over and over, blocking out the sounds from the next room.

  Until the gasps and moans of a female orgasm drowned out his thoughts. The music intensified to a driving beat that matched the frantic breathing, and his cock thickened uncomfortably.

  Although it went against all his training, he got up to close the door. As he glanced in the living room, he couldn’t resist a look at Jazz. She lay on her stomach, the pillow fallen to the floor, one arm hanging limply over the edge, the remote dropped from her fingertips.

  Wasn’t this how he’d started this day…watching her lost in slumber, while he nursed an uninvited hard-on? He grabbed a blanket from the closet and covered her, easing her deeper onto the sofa so she didn’t fall off. Exhaling softly, she turned toward him, but showed no signs of awakening.

  She slept with the same intensity she lived, as though her entire soul was invested in the process. Smiling, he repositioned the pillow under her head, admiring the narrow column of her neck, the sleek, toned muscles of her shoulder.

  At another time, in another place, he’d enjoy nothing more than discovering if she made love with the same power and passion she gave everything else. But not here, and not now.

  Taking the remote, he pointed it toward the TV—and froze at the face on the screen. He blinked at it, certain his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  Jazz?

  The camera zoomed in and she laughed, her head tipping back to reveal the long, lean neck he’d just been admiring. Then it cut to her body from the neck down, her breasts being thoroughly licked by some model-type actor.

  The camera cut back to her face, showing her shaking her head with her eyes closed. As it zoomed closer, his gaze locked on a small beauty mark under her left jaw.

  He looked at Jazz and leaned close enough to feel her steady, peaceful breaths. There was no beauty mark; not even a freckle marred her skin in that spot. Back on the TV, the camera had moved to the place where the couple joined, the apex of their fused sex organs filling the screen.

  So the good twin did more for the camera than promise film at eleven.

  He almost hated to wake Jazz up. Did she need to know that the sister she so obviously admired had a dirty little sideline? It would shatter a lifetime of illusions and ruin a classic case of hero worship.

  Then again, maybe that’s where Miss Jessica was all this time—making bad movies. Was it possible?

  “Querida,” he whispered into her ear. “Wake up. I’ve found Jessica.”

  Her eyes popped wide open immediately.

  The slow, rhythmic sound had become almost musical to her. Swoosh and thump, swoosh and thump, every few seconds. It was the only thing she could sense. Everything else was dark and still.

  But there was an odor, too. A salty, wet smell that tickled her nostrils.

  It had been dark for so long, she couldn’t remember the light. Couldn’t remember colors or tastes or…

  Jessica Adams.

  That was her name. The sound of it in her head sent a funny sensation through her body. A sense of accomplishment, of victory.

  She remembered her name.

  But why couldn’t she see? She blinked. Her eyes were open, weren’t they? She couldn’t tell. She lifted her hand to touch her eyelids, to see if she was really blinking or imagining it, but her arm didn’t move. Nothing moved. Not a single muscle. Oh, Lord, she was paralyzed!

  Had she been in an accident?

  Was she in a coma?

  Terrified, she opened her mouth to call for help. But her jaw didn’t budge. Her muscles contracted, her teeth separated slightly—but her mouth remained closed.

  She was paralyzed. Or worse…

  “Oh, you’re awake. We’ll have to do something about that.”

  It was a man’s voice. A familiar, friendly voice she trusted. Who was he?

  A sharp sting pinched the flesh of her upper thigh, then she felt heavy and tired and lost again. Who was she?

  She heard the swoosh and thump, but couldn’t remember her name.

  Chapter

  Six

  J azz jumped at the first chirp of her travel alarm. She’d never really slept again after Alex had awakened her on the sofa, her mind replaying vivid, repulsive images th
at she prayed would someday disappear from her memory.

  She closed her eyes and curled into the pillow, the metallic taste of sleeplessness filling her mouth. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would let her believe that those filmed images of Jessica having sex were real.

  Alex had reluctantly agreed the whole thing didn’t seem right on many levels. There was never a shot of Jessica’s face and body at the same time. And while that body was similar in type, it seemed unfamiliar. Plus, the scene had nothing to do with the rest of the movie—as uncomfortable as it had been to watch the whole damn thing with him to confirm that. Because of the DVD format, they were forced to watch the beginning of every scene until they got to the segment where Jessica appeared.

  Had her face been dropped in as a hoax? Was it some kind of sick joke? Was that man in the movie her lover? An actor?

  What really made her mad was Alex’s assumption that Jessica had some underground dark side to her. And that Jazz had wrongly placed her sister on a pedestal. Jessica had her faults—plenty of them. But they didn’t include making dirty movies.

  Unless she’d done it…for fun? With a boyfriend? And he made a video they liked to watch alone together.

  Was that possible?

  Jazz flipped off the comforter, heading to the shower to wash the sleepless night out of her. As she waited for the water temperature to rise, her gaze flitted over Jessica’s things: aloe and cucumber body wash, a fluffy lavender loofa, shampoo and conditioner, a pale purple razor. All lined up in military precision on a sparkling marble shelf. Her own toiletries were a jumble in the opposite corner, lids off, of course.

  Pain pulled at her heart. She missed her twin. Everything in this high-end doll house made her long for her sister, to hear her confident voice, to see that radiant smile. She ached to soak up all the stability and security that Jessica effortlessly oozed. To once again fall into the human safety net that had ensnared and protected Jazz so many, many times in thirty years.

  She stepped into the hot spray and dropped her head back to let the steam and water sluice over her. She was the safety net this time, and the responsibility suddenly felt heavier than she could bear.

  A short time later she stood in Jessica’s closet, clad in underwear. She’d applied some makeup and did her best to style her hair as Jessica would, and now had to choose another convincing outfit. The yellow suit had been fine yesterday, but today she wanted something a little less conspicuous.

  Hmm…she thought she’d hung that unworn sheath with the other daytime dresses. She could visualize the tag dangling from the sleeve when she’d hung it back up. Neiman Marcus. Café au lait. Size six.

  She slid clothes from one side to the other, dug in the back of the closet, searched the floor, and opened the hamper. The dress was gone. Could Jessica have taken it last night? Was it possible she stopped in for a change of clothes?

  Yeah, right. And dropped her phone on the floor and forgot to leave a note. Instead, she just left her home sex movies on the DVD for them to watch.

  The dishwasher, though—starting the dishwasher was as good as Jessica’s signature on a note.

  Wasn’t it?

  A tap at her bedroom door pulled her from the depths of doubt.

  “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Alex called through the closed door. “Up and at ’em.”

  No sultry Spanish wake-up call today. “I’ll be right there.”

  She picked a silk blouse and a conservative skirt, along with shoes designed by a sadist, then opened the door to find him not one foot away, waiting. A solid wall of shoulders and chest and that long, glossy hair that smelled clean and woodsy.

  “Security is waiting for us,” he told her. “We’re going down to see the videotapes of the hall camera.”

  She slid by him in the narrow hallway. “What did you tell them? About me?”

  “I informed them that Miss Jessica Adams has retained the services of a personal protection specialist because of an overzealous fan. And that she has requested to see the security tapes to be sure no one is lurking near her apartment when she is gone.”

  Reasonable enough. She glanced at the living room, noticing that he’d straightened up, thrown her empty water bottle away, and folded the blanket. Slipping her handbag over her shoulder, she asked, “How did they react to your request to see the tapes?”

  He handed her a small cup of espresso. When had he gone out for this? “Indignant. The Del Mar Towers has impeccable security measures, according to management.”

  “Maybe they do,” she countered, tossing back the potent liquid as she’d seen him do, then cringing as it burned her throat. “And maybe the only person who got by them last night was the owner of 3701.”

  He punched the alarm pad, then unbolted the door. “I really want to change this code but I can’t find the alarm handbook.”

  “Don’t change it yet,” Jazz said. “Then Jessica won’t know it.”

  “So when she comes to visit—which conveniently only happens when you’re not here—she can’t get in?” Skepticism was all over his face. “Only someone lazy would use their social security number for an alarm code, by the way.”

  “Jessica’s not lazy,” she said defensively. “Those genes were stored up for the younger twin.”

  “You’re selling yourself short,” he said, stepping into the hallway before indicating for her to join him. “So you’re the younger one, huh?”

  “Yep, by twenty-six minutes.”

  “That’s a long time between twin births, isn’t it?”

  “And I’ve been late ever since.” She punched the elevator button. “Where are the security offices?”

  “Near the lobby.” With the gentlest touch on her arm, he held her back when the car arrived. “I’m first, remember.”

  “Have you called Lucy?” she asked when the doors closed behind her.

  He regarded her for a moment. “You didn’t sleep well.” He feathered the delicate skin under her eye with his fingertip.

  Her skin burned under his touch and the intensity of his midnight-black gaze. “I didn’t sleep at all,” she admitted. “Which is not good for my disposition.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  She gave him a tight smile. “Thanks for the coffee. You didn’t answer my question. Did you call your girlfriend?”

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he said as the elevator doors opened and he walked out.

  “You’re not sleeping with your boss?”

  That earned a sharp, heartfelt laugh. “I’d sooner have sex with a black widow spider and die when it was over. Same general experience.”

  Before she could pursue that, they arrived at the security offices and Alex swept in with a quiet air of confidence and authority. The security manager spoke Spanish to him, and she noticed that Alex answered in English for her benefit.

  Even in the mixed languages, Jazz could tell they had a problem.

  “You mean there’s no video?” Alex demanded after the other man had spewed a breathless explanation in rapid-fire Spanish.

  “We don’t know what happened.” It clearly pained the manager to admit the security at Del Mar Towers was subpar. He shook his head and pointed to a blank monitor, part of a bank of video screens that lined one wall of the office. “The thirty-seventh floor camera was not working yesterday.”

  “Let me see what you’ve got,” Alex said, barely hiding the disdain from his voice. “Take it back to the last recorded image.”

  A young man at the control panel punched a few buttons, keeping a cautious eye on Alex. “There is video up to yesterday afternoon,” he said, pointing to one of the screens that showed a still image of the hallway. The digital print read 3:40 P.M. and yesterday’s date.

  They’d been inside the apartment then, Jazz recalled. Tracing e-mails, making phone calls, and doing background checks on names she didn’t recognize in Jessica’s address books. Looking for someone with the initials DR who might have had a meeting scheduled with Jessica.


  And at that same time, out in the hall, a man walked off the elevator wearing a baseball cap pulled very low, and a jean jacket.

  A jean jacket? It had to have been eighty degrees yesterday. Sunglasses and a slight build completed a totally unremarkable, forgettable man. He’d managed to keep his face from the camera, walking toward Jessica’s neighbor’s door, rapping only once, then backing out of the camera’s range.

  Then the picture went blank. It had stayed that way until someone on the night shift noticed.

  “No one was watching the video feed from the thirty-seventh floor for almost twelve hours?” Irritation was thick in Alex’s question.

  The more senior of the two men shrugged and said something in Spanish.

  Alex closed his eyes, his jaw tight. “The seven o’clock shift never showed,” he explained to Jazz. “The security cameras back here weren’t watched all evening.”

  “What about the guard at the desk? Doesn’t he watch monitors?”

  “He only sees the outside entrances on those monitors, and they are not on videotape,” the man at the panel explained. “The feeds from each floor are only shown back here and taped in case we missed something.”

  “Let me see that video again,” Jazz requested.

  The two men stepped out of the room, arguing in Spanish as Jazz and Alex watched the replay. She leaned over the control board to study the visitor’s body language. This guy was good. He must have known where the camera was, because he deliberately kept his head turned at an angle so the camera couldn’t quite capture his face. He was not a big man, maybe five foot nine. No hair visible under the cap or over the collar of the jean jacket. Big glasses, no special designer frames. The ball-cap was plain navy blue.

  Behind her, Alex placed his hands on either side of her and leaned over her shoulder, his body a breath away from hers. “He slipped out of the camera’s view, slithered back down the hall and disabled the camera,” he said softly.

  “We don’t know that,” Jazz replied. “He could have been let into 3702 after the camera went out.”

  He put his mouth against her ear. “You’re fooling yourself, Jazz. This guy dodged the camera, then disabled it so he could break into the apartment while you were out at night.”