Shadowed Paradise

by Blair Bancroft

  “Do it.” Jordan Lovell’s smile faded. His eyes were implacable, the blue-gray turned to flint.

  “I can’t,” Jody breathed, a glimmer of reason beginning to form. “Not in front of the boy. I just can’t. Maybe if you put him in the bathroom . . .”

  “You really do think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Jordan inquired with a touch of the sophisticated superiority for which he was so well-known. “Bathrooms only lock from the inside.” The suggestion did, however, have its appeal. The boy was definitely hampering his style, and he was beginning to suspect the girl would rather take her chances with the knife than undress in front of the child. Funny girl, but what the hell . . . his arm was almost numb from keeping the kid standing upright.

  Jordan surveyed the room, spotted an old-fashioned long metal key sticking out of the closet door. Keeping his eyes pinned on the girl, he dragged Jamie across the room. With his back against the wall and Jamie squeezed tightly against his chest, he moved the hand holding the knife enough to jiggle open the closet door. “Little bastard,” he ground out, throwing the boy as far into the large walk-in closet as his overtaxed arms would allow. Good riddance. The kid had known. There in the kitchen, the little fucker had known. Jordan Lovell slammed the door and turned the key.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  With the click of the lock, Jordan’s fever came back in waves. Goddamn kid nearly ruined it all. Took his mind off what was important. Set a goal, then go for it, that’s what Mom always said. And now he had his goals—all of them—laid out like ducks in a row. The first one was so sweet and rounded. Innocent. Virginal? Yeah, that too. Had he ever had an untouched woman? He didn’t think so. Icing . . . icing on that sweet little stack of hotcakes. Hot buns. Hot all over.

  When Mom was alive, he hadn’t dared to have thoughts like this. But now . . . no more brakes. If he wanted to fuck a sweet young thing . . . if he wanted to kill her . . . there was no one to stop him.

  Not yet.

  Jody. There she stood on the far side of the bed, white-faced but glaring. Stubborn little cracker wanted to run, but if she did, the kid would die. Jordan wiped the anticipatory smile from his face, bared his teeth and brandished the knife. See if that froze her sneakers to the floor, the little bitch. He edged away from the wall, moved to the end of the bed where he had an unobstructed view of the girl from the dark brown sweep of her hair to the lamentably scuffed toes of her sneakers. She was trying not to show her fear, but the T-shirt heaved as her chest moved to the rhythm of fast, short breaths. He could hear the rasp in her throat. The soulfully satisfying sound of terror.

  Jordan glanced at his watch. Time was running out. Pretty soon the ducks would begin to move . . . just like one of those arcade games where you could shoot and shoot and shoot and the damn yellow tails never keeled over. The story of his life. He never won the prize.

  But not this time. This time he was going to win. Knock off all the little ducks. Accomplish every goal. Every. Last. One.

  “Strip,” he barked. “All the way to the skin.”

  The little cunt had the nerve to glower at him. “I strip, and Jamie stays in the closet?”

  “Of course,” he agreed smoothly. “I have no interest in children.” He moved toward her until he was little more than a yard away. He held the knife at eye level, so she could anticipate its deadly power.

  He was lying, Jody realized, as she began to comprehend the full horror of it. He couldn’t kill her and let Jamie go. Jamie was a witness.

  Claire might come home early. Or Brad. If she could delay long enough . . .

  Jody shut her eyes, trying to recall some of the stripper moves she’d seen when she’d sneaked a peek at forbidden web sites. If only she had a shirt with buttons, she could make a thing of undoing them one by . . .

  “Move!” Hard, urgent. His eyes glittered. So did the knife.

  Jody stooped down, slowly pulled at the tie on her left sneaker. Her fingers paused, then pulled the laces out of the first few holes, one at a time. With maddening deliberation she slid her foot out of the battered old sneaker. She wiggled her toes. From under long, thick lashes, she glanced up at Jordan, a half smile flittering across her face, as if to ask How was that? Did I do it right?

  The knife jabbed down, pierced the toe of the sneaker, flung it across the room. A loud crash, the sound of tinkling glass as the large mirror over Claire’s dresser splintered into a hundred pieces. “No more games, bitch,” Jordan growled. “Get on with it!” Humiliating, that’s what it was—that he who’d had Diane Lake should come to this. No matter how fresh this little morsel, she was just a Florida cracker. How dare she play with him?

  The hand with the knife swung forward, the blade whistling within an inch of her throat. Jody’s heart flip-flopped. The second sneaker came off with haste. She took a steadying breath, grasped the hem of her T-shirt, inched it up. Surely slow was acceptable for this part. For herself, it was a necessity. Even if he cut her, she couldn’t ignore a lifetime of modesty. Jody withdrew one arm from the T-shirt, then the other, pausing for effect between each. Finally, with shaking hands and churning stomach, she pulled the tee over her head, dropped it to the floor.

  Jordan’s smile reappeared. Better, much better. The girl’s bra was surprisingly lacy and roundly filled. His already considerable arousal grew harder yet.

  Jody unbuckled her belt, pulled it slowly through the loops. She wanted to keep her eyes on the floor, anywhere but on him, but she sensed he would tolerate her snail’s pace striptease only if she could keep eye contact, keep him interested, keep him from losing his temper. She stared into the pools of flint and unzipped her jeans. She wriggled, stretched, pretended the jeans were a great deal tighter than they actually were. Frantically, she tried to remember what panties she’d put on that morning. Surely not the bikini ones?

  Jordan was breathing hard. Sweet fucking hell, but the girl was built. He wheezed as the jeans pooled around her ankles. He didn’t even notice when she took her time stepping out of them. His eyes fixed on the scrap of stretch lace no man could consider anything but a come-on. Like the bra, the panties revealed more than they concealed. The wisp of virginal white lace was like a red flag to a bull. If she was as cherry as she seemed, who the hell did she think she was dressing like that for?

  “Don’t!” His voice shot out like a bullet as Jody tried to cover herself with her hands. His own breath wheezed harshly, lungs struggling for air. Maybe, like Diane, he’d have her first. Just to give him the strength to go on. And then the pièce de resistance.

  After.

  “Keep going,” Jordan snapped. The little bitch was frozen there, one hand vainly trying to cover both mounds of flesh, the other splayed above her crotch. Foolish child. He was superman. He had X-ray vision. Nothing could stop him, certainly not some little Florida cunt’s work-roughened hands. He stepped forward, hoisted a bra strap on the tip of the knife, slipped it off one shoulder. Her eyes went wide, her lips quivered. Good. Very good. He liked that.

  His free hand clamped down on the arm Jody was using, vainly, to cover her breasts. For a moment they struggled in a travesty of an arm wrestling contest, and then Jody’s arm was down, pinned to her side. The knife gleamed, icy steel burned as the center of her bra split open, the long strip of lace cast away with a flick of the blade. The tip of the knife slid down, skimming a trail over her skin like a deadly snake. The narrow band of elastic at her hips snapped as easily as a thread. The bikini didn’t cling. It fell away, leaving her naked, exposed to madness.

  Once again, Jody tried to cover herself. She shut her eyes, recognizing the absurdity even as she did it. Daddy! Mom! Oh, God, Brad, Slade! Somebody!

  And then, sudden silence. His hands no longer touched her. The harsh agonized breathing stopped. The room went absolutely still. Jody opened a slit in one eye. He was simply standing there, looking at her, his face gone from red to ghostly white. His hands lay full length at his sides, the knife tip pointing straight at the floor. A trap?
Was he tempting her to run? Had he flipped out? Frozen up? Or was he simply enjoying the view?

  She’d never get a better chance. Jody put every ounce of her considerable wiry strength into the spring that took her to the middle of the bed. She bounced once, rolled, and was off, running hard for the door. If she could get to a phone, dial 911, she would somehow find a way to keep him off Jamie until help arrived. The yank on her flying hair brought her up short, the agony, the horror of its meaning, tearing a scream from her throat.

  “Bitch!” he screamed. “Goddamn bitch. All I wanted to do was look.” At that moment, raging, he actually believed it. He pinned her to his chest, drew her back against the hardness of him. Bet the little cunt wasn’t so innocent she didn’t know what was poking into her back. She was a farmer’s daughter, wasn’t she? Couldn’t be that dumb, could she?”

  At first, when he felt her go still, he thought it was a show of good sense, respect for the knife he held to her throat. And then he heard it. The crunch of tires on the driveway.

  Fuck! Time had run out. He wasn’t going to have a taste of her. Only the joy of killing her. The knife was too easy; there was no satisfaction in it. He had to do it himself, flesh to flesh. Feel fingers sinking in, squeezing out the life. See the eyes bulge, turn up. Hear the rasping efforts to breathe, slowly growing quieter, fading into nothing.

  Jordan tightened his grip on her body, drove the knife into the sheath on his belt. He knew all the moves now, the rhythm of it. The hard, fast attack, destroying the ability to struggle before it began. Then the slow, deadly squeeze. Now, now was the time.

  He flexed the long fingers of his powerful, well-manicured hands. And, in one swift movement, fastened them hard around Jody’s throat. Cutting off air, will, light . . . life.

  He tightened the vise.

  Claire could never say why she left work early, but for all her life she would ascribe it to divine intervention. Her nerves started to twitch about the time Jody was scheduled to pick up Jamie. A natural reaction, she’d thought. Jamie’s moving day—they were about to become a real family. And today she would see Jamie for the first time since the wedding, have time to hug him, reassure him.

  But warm thoughts of home and family faded into disquiet, an increasing edginess, a flare of hideous imagination. With such evil hanging over them, how could she help seeing stalkers and killers behind every tree, peeking into windows, doing an end run . . .

  Doing what no one expected. Sneaking up on Jamie and Jody.

  Absurd. And yet . . .

  Claire picked up the phone. Brad was at the far end of the complex working with the architect on the custom modifications for the reclusive author’s home, which would have a spectacular two-way water view at a bend in the river. “I’m closing up early,” she told Brad. “Jamie and Jody are moving his things today, and I’m anxious to see him. Okay, boss?”

  She heard him chuckle. As if anything he said could have stopped her. “Be sure Pat goes with you,” Brad cautioned. “I’m going to be tied up here for another hour or so.”

  “Yes, sir,” Claire quipped. Swiftly she locked up and headed for home, Deputy Farrell trailing after her in his patrol car.

  They were three miles into the nine-mile journey to Palm Court when Claire heard the unmistakable sound of crunching metal and shattering glass. A glance in her rear view mirror revealed the wreck of a car and a van in the intersection she and Pat Farrell had just passed. It was far worse than a fender bender. Claire pulled to the side of the road.

  The deputy switched on his flashing blue lights, pulled beside her as he began a U-turn. “I gotta go, Claire, I’m sorry. I’ll call Brad and tell him. Keep your eyes open. Be careful.” And he was off with siren wailing, already on the phone calling for emergency medical service.

  Playing it safe, Claire picked up her cell phone and called Brad herself. “I’m fine,” she assured him, “but the accident looks bad. Pat had to handle it. No need to worry. There’ll be three of us at the house. Nobody’s going to take on a mob like that. So do what you have to do, we’ll be fine.”

  She could tell Brad wasn’t happy, but the architect’s time was valuable, the modifications they were making vital to an important contract. At this point money might not be at the top of their worries, but it was far from the least. For the sake of Amber Run she could manage on her own for an hour or two.

  Of course she could.

  As Claire pulled into the driveway at Palm Court, her heart soared. Absorbed as she was in her hunk of a husband, she’d missed Jamie. Four whole days. She could hardly wait to see him. Tumbling out of the car, she jogged through the kitchen door, then stopped dead. Something about the atmosphere in the old house struck her in the face. Almost as if a scream still echoed through the silence. As if evil leaped at her out of the stillness.

  The house shouldn’t have been so quiet. Not with Jamie in it. Never with Jamie in it. But he and Jody were here. Jody’s pickup was in the driveway.

  Silly! They were up on the third floor, that was all. Why Brad had sided with Jamie about having the tower room when he could have had a much larger, more elegant bedroom on the first floor, Claire couldn’t have said. Male bonding, she supposed. But the tower room it was, and it was a long way up. It was unlikely she could hear them from way up there.

  But somehow she couldn’t call out—her lips were frozen shut. She was going to have egg on her face when she found them, but she was going up the back stairs oh-so-quietly. And she was going armed. There were fireplaces in every room except the kitchen. Moving as silently as she could, Claire inched her way into the nearest downstairs bedroom and grabbed a heavy metal poker. She hefted it in both hands, staring at the long black shaft of iron in horror. With that little prong at the end, it was a very deadly weapon indeed. Could she actually bring herself to use it?

  Of course she could. There wasn’t anything a mother wouldn’t do in defense of her child. They would laugh about this later, she and Brad and Jamie. Mommy stalking through her own house, clutching a poker.

  No. Something was very wrong. She could feel it.

  Claire tiptoed to the foot of the back stairs, started up, praying the wood wouldn’t creak. By the time she inched past the maid’s room, she could hear the heavy breathing. The panting exquisite agony of sex. Jody. Oh, God, he was here. Raping her!

  Which meant—Claire leaned hard against the wall for support—which meant he was probably oblivious to all else.

  She slid along the wall, forced herself to peek around the edge of the door. The monster’s hands were around Jody’s throat. His face, unrecognizable, was set in a triumphant rictus, the mask of evil caught in the moment of orgasm.

  Jody’s body dangled from his hands.

  The angle was bad, with Jody’s limp form between Claire and her goal. Nonetheless . . . Claire’s first blow broke his hold on Jody, who tumbled to the floor. Before he could recover, Claire swung the poker again, but, shockingly, in the midst of the blow she recognized him. Before, she had seen only a killer, an evil, mindless thing. Now she saw Jordan Lovell. Ginny’s friend. Phil’s friend. The organizer of her wedding.

  Jordan Lovell?

  Claire’s hesitation gave him time to duck. Her second swing still managed to knock him flat. Jordan crumpled into a heap between Jody and the door to the walk-in closet. Claire gulped for air, watching him closely for any sign of movement. There was none.

  Jamie.

  Jamie! Oh, God, where was he? Already dead? “Jamie, Jamie!” Claire’s scream echoed from one end Palm Court to the other.

  “Mom!” Jamie pounded on the closet door. “In here, mom!”

  Claire’s legs buckled as she turned the key. She sank to her knees as her son tumbled into her arms. Their tears mingled. The poker, forgotten, lay on the bed where Claire tossed it when she heard Jamie’s shout.

  A hand fastened around Claire’s ankle. Tight.

  “Inside!” Claire shoved Jamie back through the closet door, snatched the big ol
d-fashioned key out of the lock and tossed it after him. “Lock it,” she commanded, “and don’t come out!”

  Jordan, swimming up out of darkness, reached reflexively for the first thing that caught his eye, grabbed and held on. He shut his eyes, tried to focus. He was lying on his side sprawled on the floor. His head felt like it was caught in the maw of a giant bell, pulsing painfully to each swing of the clapper. He could hear words, sense movement. Jody?

  He pried his eyes open; the room shimmered into focus. Something hard, uncomfortable, was digging into his side. Incredibly—women were such fools!—he was lying on the knife, which was still in its sheath. When he looked up, he discovered he was holding not Jody, but Claire.

  Claire, sweet Claire, on her knees with her back to him as she slammed the closet door. Jordan forced his head around to look behind him, sucked in his breath as pain struck him hard. Jody was lying where she’d fallen when he was attacked. Dead? He thought so. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter now. He had bigger game in sight.

  When Jordan turned back to Claire, she had collapsed sideways onto one hip, her ankle still in his hand. For a long, silent moment they stared at each other. “Why?” she whispered. “How could you?” Even as she said it, Claire knew how foolish she sounded. There was only one explanation for what he had done. He was mad. And the why of that might never be known.

  The eyes regarding her from the familiar face of a friend were oddly sane. Sad perhaps. Regretful? The fire, the overwhelming desire, the need, were gone. Assuaged by Jody’s sacrifice? Oh, God, don’t let it be so, Claire begged. Jody was too young to die. We all are.

  “It just happened,” he said. “I didn’t plan it. Not at first. The Realtor in Manatee Bay—the first one—the bitch was asking for it. I went a long time after that, no problem, but then Mom got real nasty. I think she knew, or guessed. One night I just lost it. I was sick of hearing her nag, so I did her too. After that, I tried to be good, let that be the end of it, but it was . . . exciting. A real turn-on. I found . . . I liked it.”