by Lisa Jackson
T. John took a long swallow from his can. “You sure she shouldn’t be back in a hospital—”
“She’ll be fine,” Brig cut in. “Losing Chase was tough, but Ma believes in all things spiritual, seems to think she’ll see him in an afterlife or two. Besides, she’s got Buddy to take care of.”
“He was lucky. We all were,” Cassidy said, smiling at Brig.
“Thank God.” He rubbed his chin. “Ma also wants to be close to Rex since Dena finally left him.”
Cassidy ran her fingers through her hair. “My mother was convinced that he was involved with Angie.”
“Jesus,” T. John whispered.
“Lots of people thought so,” Brig agreed.
“He swears he never touched her, and Sunny backed him up,” Cassidy said, staring at the hills in the distance. Her emotions were still jumbled. It was strange to think of her parents divorced and yet she’d known their marriage had never been rock-solid. She only hoped they would be happier now that the ghost of Angie had been laid to rest. “I don’t think Dad ever touched Angie, not inappropriately—at least not that I remember. Dad loved her, yes, but his one true love was Lucretia. He just mixed Angie up with her, but not so far as to…” She couldn’t even say it. Incest. So ugly. Surely if it had happened, she would have known. But then she hadn’t guessed about Angie and Derrick—though Rex had. The confirmation of their affair had nearly destroyed him. Thankfully he had Sunny to see him through. At the thought of her half brother and Angie together, Cassidy’s stomach turned and she took a quick swallow of tea. Now that she was pregnant, her stomach was often anxious to rid itself of its contents. She noticed that both men were still looking at her, expecting her to say more. “Dad, he was just like every other male in town—half in love with Angie.”
“Not every male,” Brig reminded her, his grin nearly wicked.
“Okay, not every male, but the majority. Anyway, Mom’s a lot happier in Palm Springs—away from the scandal and away from all the gossip. No one down there really knows what happened.”
Brig winked at his wife. “I think she was afraid that Ma might curse her.”
“Oh, you!” Cassidy made a face, but laughed.
The detective’s grin stretched to cover the lower half of his face. “I don’t really blame Dena. Sunny’s different and…well…that gift of hers—”
“Could come in handy for the next sheriff if he learned to work with her rather than against her,” Brig said.
“Humph.” T. John downed the rest of his beer and crushed the can in his fist. “I’ll think on it.”
“Do that.”
“Take care.” With a wave, he was off, and Brig stared at the videocassette and checks. As the cruiser pulled out of the drive, he winked at his wife, proud that she finally bore his name—Mrs. Brig McKenzie.
She touched her abdomen; they’d already decided on names if their baby was a boy. Chase William McKenzie—sometimes known as Buddy. If they had a girl, she’d probably still bear the nickname of Buddy. It was the least they could do, as Buddy had saved Brig’s life.
So much pain, but now, so much happiness. She stared into her husband’s devilish gaze and couldn’t let grief pull her down. She felt the corners of her lips twitch upward.
“You know, I have a great idea,” Brig said, pulling her gently against him.
“Oh?” Cassidy looked at him with those gold eyes that had touched his soul so many years ago. “Something dangerous?”
“Of course.”
“Does it involve disrobing?”
“Definitely.” He pulled on her hand and led her down to the basin of Lost Dog Creek, where Buddy had nearly drowned so many years ago. Now, in late autumn, the creek was barely a trickle. Brig kicked some dry leaves and sticks onto the muddy bank, then knelt down. With a wicked glint in his eye, he set the checks and videocassette on his makeshift pyre, adding a couple of squirts of lighter fluid.
“What’re you doing?”
“Getting rid of garbage.” He flicked his lighter and a flame shot skyward, then he watched as the lighter fluid ignited. Small flames crackled and hissed, devouring the checks. Paper and wood went up in smoke, and the videotape melted from the heat. The smell was ugly, but the fire died a quick death as he kicked dirt over the ashes.
It was over. Finally. His heart ached for Chase, for the years lost in Alaska, but now he was home. With Cassidy. Where he belonged. Forever. A horrid weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Standing, he slipped his arms possessively around her waist. “Now, wife,” he said, savoring the word as the fire smoldered to ashes, “what do you say to initiating our bedroom?”
“It’s hardly a room.” She turned to look at the framed structure and the opening where French doors would eventually open to a veranda overlooking the creek.
“Do you care?”
Laughing deep in her throat, she asked, “What do you think?”
He stared at her so hard a pink flush stole up her neck. Then he scooped her off the ground and carried her to their house—the home where they would raise their family and live proudly, heads raised over the ugly rumors of their past. Their love had sustained them; their lives would be blessed. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Finally, their lives would be complete.
Brig’s lips brushed over hers, and desire sparked to life. “What I think, lady,” he whispered against her ear as he dragged her to the floor, “is that I’m the luckiest man on earth.”
“Mmmm. Does that make me the luckiest woman?”
He grinned wickedly. “Damned straight.”
Dear Reader,
When my publisher asked me to rewrite Intimacies, I was delighted, but a little worried. Why? I loved the book in its original form, and I especially loved the characters. The two heroes in the book, Brig and Chase McKenzie, were both very real, complicated, and sexy men. The heroine, Cassidy Buchanan, was a woman I could relate to.
Because I loved this story so much, I wasn’t certain it needed rewriting. It was strong as it was. However, once I had sunk my teeth into the project, injecting more suspense into the pages, creating new scenes, adding a deeper understanding of the characters, giving the story a new perspective, I had a blast.
I was raised in a small town in Oregon, so it was a natural to return to Prosperity, a timber town nestled in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Though I didn’t know anyone like the Buchanans or the McKenzies, I did own a horse and I did run him on the flats of an abandoned, drained pond at an old logging camp, and I did swim him in the river against my parents’ warnings.
So, rewriting Final Scream was nostalgic for me on two levels. I think the book turned out well.
I hope you enjoyed reading Final Scream as much as I did writing it. Let me know what you think of this new, updated version and especially how you feel about the McKenzie boys! Visit me at www.lisajackson.com.
And now that you’ve finished Final Scream, I’d like to tell you about my next thriller from Zebra books. Fatal Burn will be on the stands in March 2006, and it’s the follow-up book to Deep Freeze, my March 2005 release.
Fatal Burn is a whirlwind! It starts with the kidnapping of Dani Settler, a clever tomboy of a girl. Dani is at the heart of a deadly scheme. Her abductor is using her as bait, to flush out her biological mother.
Shannon Flannery gave up her baby thirteen years earlier and now she learns that her child is in dire jeopardy. The baby’s adoptive father, Travis Settler, has tracked Shannon down, demanded answers, and let her know that he’ll do anything to get his daughter back. He’s suspicious, worried, and sexy as hell.
The man behind the abduction, a cruel killer, has his own agenda, one that involves Shannon, her brothers, and a secret so dark it’s been buried for years.
What the kidnapper doesn’t count on is the tenacity, brains, and slyness of Dani Settler. She’s not about to sit around meekly while some creep decides her fate.
Fatal Burn is an exciting, roller-coaster of a story with c
haracters that have stayed with me for months after writing the book. I think you’ll like them. Visit www.lisajackson.com for more information about the book. While you’re at my website, e-mail me and let me know what you think of Final Scream, enter contests, play games, and read excerpts from my other books.
Keep Reading!
Lisa Jackson
* * *
Here is an exciting peek at
Lisa Jackson’s
next new thriller
FATAL BURN
coming in March 2006!
He stood before the fire, feeling its heat, listening to the crackle of flames as they devoured the tinder-dry kindling. With all the shades drawn, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, the crisp white cotton falling off his shoulders as moss ignited, hissing. Sparking.
Above the mantel was a mirror and he watched himself undress, looked at his perfectly honed body, muscles moving easily, flexing and sliding beneath the taut skin of an athlete.
He glanced at his eyes. Blue. Icy. Described by one woman as “bedroom eyes,” by another as “cold eyes,” by yet another unsuspecting woman as “eyes that had seen too much.”
They’d all been right, he thought and flashed a smile.
A “killer smile,” he’d heard.
Bingo.
The women had no idea how close to the truth they’d all been. He was handsome and he knew it. Not good-looking enough to turn heads on the street, but so interesting that women, once they noticed him, had trouble looking away.
There had been a time when he’d been so flattered that he’d rarely turn in the other direction, a time when he’d picked and chosen and rarely been denied.
He unbuckled his leather belt, let it fall to the hardwood floor. His slacks slid easily off his butt, down his legs, and pooled at his feet. He hadn’t bothered with boxers or jockeys. Who cared? It was all about outward appearances.
Always.
His smile fell away as he walked closer to the mantel, feeling the heat already radiating from the old bricks. Pictures in frames stood at attention upon the smooth fir. Images he’d caught when his subject didn’t realize he or she was on camera. People who knew him. Or of him. People who had to pay.
His eyes fixated on one photograph, slightly larger than the others, and he stared into her gorgeous face. He traced a finger along her hairline, his guts churning as he noticed her hazel eyes, slightly freckled nose, thick waves of unruly reddish curls. Her skin was pale, her eyes alive, her smile tenuous, as if she’d sensed him hiding in the shadowy trees, his lens poised at her heart-shaped face.
The dog, some kind of scraggly mutt, had appeared from the other side of the woods, lifted his nose in the air as he’d reached her, trembled, growled, and nearly given him away. Shannon had given the cur a short command and peered into the woods.
By that time, he’d been slipping away. Silently moving through the dark woods, putting distance between them, heading upwind. He’d gotten his snapshots. He’d needed nothing more.
Then.
Because the timing hadn’t been right.
But now…
The fire glowed bright, seemed to pulse with life as it grew, giving the bare room a warm, rosy glow. He stared again at his image. So perfect in the mirror.
He turned, facing away from the reflection.
Looking over his shoulder, he gritted those perfect white teeth, gnashing them together as he saw the mirror’s cruel image of his back, the skin scarred and shiny, looking as if it had melted from his body.
He remembered the fire.
The agony of his flesh being burned from his bones.
He’d never forget.
Not for as long as he drew a breath on this godforsaken planet.
And those who had done this to him would pay.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the picture of Shannon again. Beautiful and wary, as if she knew her life was about to change forever.
Lookout, he thought, smiling evilly. I’m coming, Shannon, oh, yes, I’m coming. And this time I’ll have more than a camera with me.
“Move over, Stephanie Plum! Jane Kelly has arrived!”
—Lisa Jackson
Romance is thin on the ground in Lake Chinook. But the bodies are just beginning to pile up…
Jane Kelly is through with following men anywhere. Last time she did, she left Southern California for the dubious charms of Lake Chinook, Oregon, where she’s traded in bartending for the much more glamorous trade of process serving. (Well, she can tell herself it’s glamorous, anyway.) And the boyfriend, of course, is long gone.
So she’s thirty, she’s single, she’s living in a town where fishing is more important than fashion, and one of her closest friends is an “information specialist”—which is a fancy way of saying private detective. Odder still, she’s been helping him out, which makes the criminology courses she took a few years back with her ex at least worth the tuition. She’s not making any lifetime commitments, but when Portland divorce attorney Marta Cornell calls with a P.I. job, the money involved sounds like the answer to her dwindling bank account—until she learns Tess Bradbury wants her to investigate the disappearance of Bobby Reynolds.
Four years ago, without warning, Bobby murdered his young family and promptly vanished. No one disputed that he’d slaughtered his own flesh and blood except Tim Murphy, his best friend—and Jane’s ex—the one guy she’s never quite gotten over. The murders had driven a wedge between him and Jane, and finally drove him right out of town. Now he’s on his way back, to attend a Lake Chinook Historical Society benefit that Cotton Reynolds, Bobby’s father, is hosting.
Every alarm bell in Jane’s head is clanging, but before she can say “Not on your life,” Marta has convinced her to accept Tess’s assignment—an interview with Tess’s ex-husband, Cotton, who she believes has been in contact with Bobby. It looks like Jane’s going to be following men around again—this time with a tape recorder and a camera.
To top it off, an only vaguely remembered aunt has left her a homely pug named Binky, and her mother is once again threatening to head north and settle in Oregon. With a brand-new job she’s learning as she goes along and the man who broke her heart into a million pathetic little pieces back in town, Jane’s life just went from stress-free to completely stressed-out. And that’s before she finds the dead body in the lake…
* * *
The following is
an exciting sneak peek at
Candy Apple Red
by Nancy Bush
coming in October 2005!
If I’d known they were about to find a body at the bottom of Lake Chinook, I never would have gotten myself into the whole mess. The lake’s deep in places, and the Lake Corporation only drains it every couple of years to check the sewer lines running along its muddy bottom. The thought of the little fishy things trolling the waters, chewing off teensy nibbles of human flesh, would have been enough for me to say, “Hasta la vista, baby,” and I would have exerted great haste in making tracks.
But I didn’t know. And I also didn’t know my whole life was about to change. The day I spoke with uber-bitch/lawyer Marta Cornell I was blissfully ignorant of the events in store for me, which was just as well. Don’t ever tell yourself you’re happy with the way things are because that’s when everything changes in seconds flat. And not necessarily for the better.
“Jane!” Marta boomed over the phone. The woman was over six feet tall with a voice to match. She could deafen with one word. I yanked the phone from my ear and hoped I still possessed my hearing. “I have a client who has an unusual request and I think you’re just the person to help.”
“What unusual request?” I asked.
“It’s about Cotton Reynolds.”
My heart leapt. Christ, I thought a bit shakily. I’d just been thinking about my ex-boyfriend, Tim Murphy, who knew Cotton well. Had thoughts of Murphy actually triggered the past? “What about him?” I asked, trying to hold my voice steady.
“My client wants so
me follow-up on…Bobby Reynolds.” Marta had hesitated, unlike her to the extreme. “She wants you to interview Cotton.”
I stared at my office door and, instead of its scarred, paneled wood, saw the white-haired man who happened to be one of the wealthiest in the state of Oregon. Cotton Reynolds lived on the only island in Lake Chinook, less than a mile from my bungalow. By boat, I could be there in ten minutes, if I wanted to. By car, it would be trickier. The island was private and Cotton’s was the only house on its three acres. If I dropped in to say hello, I wouldn’t get past the huge, wrought-iron gate nor the island’s guard dogs, two ill-tempered Dobermans.
But interviewing Cotton wasn’t what was on my mind. Following up on Bobby Reynolds was. Murphy’s close, high school friend. His best buddy.
I almost hung up right then. I probably should have. A shiver slid coldly down my spine; someone walking on my grave.
Bobby Reynolds had murdered his family and left their bodies lined up in a row—wife Laura; Aaron, eight; Jenny, three; and infant Kit—somewhere in the Tillamook State Forest, just off the Oregon coast. Bobby Reynolds was a “family annihilator:” a man apparently overwhelmed with the responsibility of his family so he chose to send them to a “better place.” He shot them each once in the back of the head, then drove away. He dumped his Dodge Caravan on a turnout off Highway 101, which meanders along the West Coast throughout Washington, Oregon, and into California, then disappeared without a trace, though he’d been rumored to have been seen as far north as the Canadian border and as far south as Puerto Vallarta. To date, after four years, he was still very much a fugitive. The murders—disputed by Murphy, who simply could not believe his friend capable of cold-blooded homicide—had driven Murphy away from Lake Chinook, the tragedy, and me.
