The Fifth Victim

by Beverly Barton

  “You know I want to take you to bed and you’re still inviting me to stay?”

  “Yes, I want you to stay. You need me.” She turned and walked away from him. When he followed her, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “You won’t be taking me to bed. Not tonight.”

  Coming as a total surprise, the innuendo in her comment sucker-punched him. She hadn’t said not ever, no way, no how. She’d said not tonight.

  “I’ll settle for coffee, pie, and talk. For tonight.”

  Jazzy’s Joint had a wild side, but it wasn’t showing that boisterous, rowdy side tonight. Since it was a weeknight in midwinter, only a couple of the usual crowd were at the bar, and a few more were scattered at various tables throughout the establishment. Jazzy had learned it didn’t pay to hire a live band during the winter months, except on weekends. But the loyal patrons kept the old jukebox she’d found several years ago at an antique fair in Knoxville blasting out the oldies. The drone of half a dozen drinkers talking and two guys shooting pool did little to interfere with the loud music. Fats Domino’s rendition of “Blueberry Hill” pumped out a steady beat.

  When she’d bought this building and turned the downstairs into a bar, she had wanted a place with a little atmosphere. Something more than just loud music, liquor flowing like water, and a smoke-clouded interior. Although the place possessed those three qualities in abundance, the decor combined sleek modern with a hint of country. The bar, tables, and chairs had a clean-cut line, with chrome neatly edging the light wood and glass. The refinished hardwood flooring was beginning to show some wear and tear. A pair of large chrome light fixtures hung over a couple of pool tables placed at the back of the room. Cherokee Indian artifacts—including ceremonial pipes, handmade pottery and baskets, and carved masks—graced the walls, as did Native American pictures. Three fascinating paintings hung along the entrance wall, one being a portrait of Auste-naco, a Cherokee chief in the eighteenth century; another being Robert Lindneux’s rendering of Sequoyah, who had created the Cherokee alphabet; and the third a portrait of George Lowery, a prominent Cherokee leader of mixed blood who had been a delegate to the 1827 Constitutional Convention.

  With Cherokee Pointe situated so close to the Smoky Mountains, and the Cherokee lands held by the natives who had escaped the Trail of Tears, anything Native American appealed to the tourists. In order to make sure that nothing she did was offensive to Genny and Jacob, who were both a quarter Cherokee, Jazzy had asked Genny to help her decorate the place.

  Jazzy entered from the back of the bar. Her office at Jasmine’s had a door that opened up to the storeroom of Jazzy’s Joint, making it easy for her to go back and forth and keep a check on both of her establishments. She nodded to her bartender, Lacy Fallon, a middle-aged brunette with a smoker’s gravelly voice and deep lines in her face. Lacy motioned for Jazzy to approach.

  As Jazzy eased up on a bar stool, she asked, “What’s up, Lacy?”

  “Bert didn’t show up tonight,” Lacy said.

  “Did he bother to call?”

  Lacy shook her head. “This is the fourth time since Christmas that he’s missed work without calling or without a halfway decent excuse when he does show up. I’d say it’s time you found yourself a new bouncer.”

  Jazzy let out an exasperated huff. “This hasn’t been a good day for my employees. First Misty is a no-show over at Jasmine’s and now Bert. I’ll give Misty another chance since she doesn’t make a habit of laying out, although today makes twice for her this month. But Bert’s paycheck will be waiting for him when he does show up.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have any problems tonight.”

  Jazzy glanced around at the slim crowd. “Looks pretty tame to me. But any decent honky-tonk needs a good bouncer. I’ll call the Cherokee Pointe Herald tomorrow and put an ad in the paper.” As Jazzy continued scanning the evening’s clientele, her gaze stopped at the pool table where Dillon Carson, the guy who ran the little theater, and a stranger were engrossed in their game.

  Dillon was a regular. He liked Crown Royal and Coke. And he enjoyed a game of pool almost as much as he loved picking up any willing woman who’d walk out of the place with him. It really hadn’t been a secret—at least not to her or the Jazzy’s Joint regulars—that Dillon had been screwing Cindy Todd. But Cindy had been only one of many. Dillon wasn’t choosy, as long as the woman was under fifty and willing.

  She didn’t really know much about the former actor turned amateur director and producer. He’d told her one night, after he’d had several drinks, that he had tried Hollywood and Broadway when he was in his twenties. After his going-nowhere career had hit the skids when he was in his early thirties, he’d taken a job directing a little theater somewhere out in Texas. He’d been moving from job to job ever since. She figured winding up in Cherokee Pointe had to be pretty damn close to the bottom of the barrel for a director or actor.

  “Dillon’s sure not crying in his beer over Cindy, is he?” Clicking her tongue, Lacy shook her head. “I’ll tell you right now that knowing somebody out there is grabbing women and then killing them as if they were gutting a hog has got me double-checking my locks at night.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. When Misty didn’t show up for work today and didn’t call, I started wondering if I should contact the police.”

  “Did you?”

  “I called the Sheriff’s Department and talked to Bobby Joe. He had no idea why she’d lay out, so he’s going to stop by her place this evening to make sure she’s all right.”

  “She’s probably okay, just overslept or something. Misty’s quite a night owl, what with her carousing, so she could have still been asleep at noon. Or she could have gotten sick and just didn’t think about letting you know.”

  “That’s what I figured. I told Bobby Joe to give me a call later.”

  Boisterous laughter from the back of the room gained everyone’s attention. Jazzy and Lacy turned their heads in time to see a chuckling Dillon slap his opponent on the back, then pull out his wallet and hand over several bills.

  “This guy must be really good,” Lacy said. “I’ve never seen Dillon lose a game since he’s been coming in here.”

  “At least he’s not a sore loser.”

  While Dillon picked up a nearly empty glass of whiskey and Coke and headed toward the bar, Jazzy studied the man who racked the balls and hung up the cues. She’d never seen him before anywhere in Cherokee Pointe; and she didn’t miss many travelers, since she owned a bar, a restaurant, and was part-owner in a cabin rental outfit. He’s probably new in town, she thought as she surveyed him from the top of his shaggy brown hair that touched the collar of his black shirt to the tips of his scuffed, black leather boots.

  He was tall—about six-two would be her guess—with a lean, muscular build that would attract any female with red blood in her veins, and a swagger that proclaimed his self-confidence without being cocky. He was dressed all in black. Inexpensive attire. Jeans. Black flannel shirt with a white T-shirt visible at the neckline. But she’d lay odds those boots had cost him a pretty penny.

  She watched him as he walked across the room to a table near the back. He had an easy, in-no-hurry stride, like a self-assured big cat, knowing he was king of the jungle. He dropped into a chair where a black leather jacket hung, then picked up the bottle of beer, finished off its warm contents, and set the bottle down. He turned halfway around and glanced over his shoulder, obviously searching for the bartender.

  When Lacy started to come out from behind the bar, Jazzy said, “I’ll see what he wants.”

  She sauntered over to his table, taking her time, allowing him several minutes to watch her, to study her as she had studied him. When she reached his table, he smiled.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked.

  “Another of the same.” He glanced at the beer bottle. “And how about some conversation?”

  “While I go get your beer, be thinking of an interesting topic.”

  His smile wid
ened, and for a split second it held her mesmerized. He wasn’t movie-star good-looking, not a pretty-boy the way Jamie was, but he was stunningly attractive in a totally masculine way. His eyes were a rich whiskey brown with golden highlights. And his dark brown hair displayed the same honeyed tones.

  “Hurry back,” he said, his voice a deep rumble.

  Jazzy returned to the bar and asked Lacy for a Budweiser.

  “Looks sort of dangerous to me,” Lacy said.

  “Maybe.” Jazzy grasped the beer bottle. “But when has danger ever scared me off?”

  Lacy chuckled.

  After Jazzy handed the stranger his beer, she sat in the chair across from him. “You’re new in town.”

  “Been here a few days.” He lifted the cold beer to his lips and took a hefty swig, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Motel out on three twenty-one.”

  “You should rent one of my cabins,” she told him. “We’ve got winter rates.”

  “You own some cabins?”

  She nodded. “And this bar and the restaurant next door.”

  He whistled softly. “Rich lady.”

  Jazzy laughed. “Far from rich. Just a hardworking girl who knows how to manage her money.”

  “Then you must be Jazzy. Or is it Jasmine?” He took a couple more sips from the bottle.

  “Jasmine Talbot,” she replied. “But my friends call me Jazzy.”

  “May I call you Jazzy?”

  “Do you think we’re going to be friends?”

  His smile disappeared. “I’m not the type who makes a good friend. So how about we just remain good acquaintances…Jasmine.”

  There was something about the way he said her name that sent sensual shivers through her. A soft, caressing tone that a man would use in bed, after the loving.

  “Works for me,” she said. “So, my good acquaintance, what’s your name?”

  “Caleb McCord.”

  It suited him. It was a strong name. Her gut instincts told her that Caleb was a good man, albeit perhaps a dangerous one. And there was no doubt in her mind that he was one strong, tough son of a gun. Without realizing it, he exuded a warning not to mess with him.

  “Where are you from, Caleb?”

  “Memphis.”

  “Mm—hmm. What are you doing in Cherokee Pointe?”

  “Visiting.”

  “Then you have friends or relatives in Cherokee County?”

  He shook his head. “Just visiting the area.”

  “Planning on staying long?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re not much of a conversationalist, are you?”

  “My talents lie elsewhere.”

  A fire ignited deep inside Jazzy and quickly spread through her body. A picture of the two of them naked and wrapped in each other’s arms flashed through her mind. She’d never felt such a strong attraction to a man—not since she’d been sixteen and had fallen hard for Jamie Upton. But in retrospect she figured she’d fallen more for who Jamie was than the boy himself. This man was different. She sized him up to be a drifter, no ties, no roots—and little or no money. So what was it about him that excited her?

  “You’re blunt-spoken, too, I see.” Jazzy stared directly into his eyes and saw a reflection of her own desire.

  “I’ve found that being totally honest and up front from the very beginning is the best policy.” He took another swig from the beer bottle. “If anything happens between us, it won’t be anything more than body heat. You scratch my itch, I’ll scratch yours. No emotional entanglements.”

  “If anything happens between us, a purely physical relationship suits me just fine.”

  Jazzy scooted back her chair and stood. Caleb stared up at her.

  “Leaving me already?” he asked.

  She grinned. “I’m here almost every night about this time. If you show up again, I’ll take it as a sign you’re interested. If not…” She shrugged.

  “I’m interested. Tonight. Right now.”

  “Put on the brakes. We just met. I don’t even kiss on a first date.”

  “Was this our first date?”

  “Could be our only date.”

  Before she succumbed to Caleb’s lethal magnetism, Jazzy turned and walked away. When she got halfway to the bar, she took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Just as she headed toward the back storage room, planning to escape into her office, the front door of Jazzy’s Joint opened, letting in a swish of frigid night air. She paused a moment, glanced back, and then groaned. Jamie Upton marched into the bar; and when his gaze connected with hers, he smiled as he came toward her. Same old sexy, overconfident swagger. Damn his black soul to hell!

  “Jazzy, honey, don’t run off,” Jamie called to her.

  Putting a stoic expression on her face and squaring her shoulders for battle, she turned to face him.

  His smile widened as he scanned her from head to toe, his gaze lingering at her breasts. “You sure do look good tonight. Good enough to eat.”

  Jazzy glanced around the room. Every eye in the place focused on her. Except Caleb McCord. He glared at Jamie, studying him as if he were a specimen under a microscope.

  The three-inch heels on her calf-length boots clip-clipped sharply on the wooden floor as she made a beeline to Jamie.

  “What do you want?” She kept her voice low, not wanting to share any more of her private life with her customers than she already had.

  Jamie reached for her, but she sidestepped him. He laughed. “You know what I want. I want you. Same as always.”

  “It’s not going to be the same as always,” she told him. “Not ever again.”

  “Ah, honey, why do you want to act this way when you know that sooner or later you’re going to surrender and give us both what we want.”

  “I want you to leave.” She pointed to the door. “Get out of here. Go away and stay away.”

  “I’ll leave if you’ll go with me.” He cast his gaze toward the ceiling. “Invite me upstairs. Come on, Jazzy, baby, you know you want to.”

  This time when he reached for her, he outmaneuvered her so that she wasn’t able to avoid his clutches. He grabbed her and hauled her up against him. She smelled liquor on his breath. Jamie was always at his most conniving and his most charming when he’d had a few drinks.

  “Let go of me,” she demanded. “Leave me alone.”

  “No way, baby. I’m staying right here and keeping you close until you come to your senses.”

  “If you don’t let go of me, I’ll—”

  “You’ll do what?”

  Jamie tried to kiss her. She struggled against him. Why had Bert chosen tonight, of all nights, not to show up? If ever she needed somebody to toss Jamie out of Jazzy’s Joint on his ass, it was tonight.

  Suddenly a big hand clamped down on Jamie’s shoulder and jerked him away from Jazzy. She almost lost her balance when he released her so unexpectedly. After taking a deep breath and steadying herself, she saw Caleb McCord manhandling Jamie. He had one hand on Jamie’s shoulder and the other gripping the back of his neck. Jamie squirmed and grumbled. Caleb held fast.

  “What the hell?” Jamie tried to free himself, but to no avail. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll release me this instant.”

  “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do as the lady asked and leave.”

  Caleb began marching Jamie toward the door. Jamie’s feet skidded on the wood in an effort to halt his departure.

  “Do you know who I am?” Jamie asked, his voice tinged with anger and fear.

  Jazzy wasn’t sure she’d ever heard fear in Jamie’s voice.

  “I don’t give a damn who you are,” Caleb said. “You’re leaving here and not coming back. If I find out you’ve bothered Jasmine again, I’ll take it personally.”

  Caleb escorted an uncooperative Jamie out the front door, onto the sidewalk, and to his car. As if drawn by an invisible force, Jazzy followed
them, as did all the customers in the bar. And even Lacy came over and stood behind the others in the open front door.

  Caleb bent Jamie over the hood of his fancy little Mercedes parked in a no-parking zone directly in front of Jazzy’s Joint. Caleb leaned over and whispered something in Jamie’s ear.

  Jazzy held her breath.

  Caleb released his hold on Jamie and took several backward steps. Jamie straightened to his full height, turned around, and glowered at Caleb. But he avoided even glancing at anyone else.

  “You’ll be seeing me again,” Jamie said.

  “Bring it on,” Caleb replied. “Anytime. Any place.”

  Jamie jerked the keys from his pocket, unlocked his car, got in and revved the motor. When he drove off down the street, a resounding cheer rose from the small crowd standing behind Jazzy. The minute Caleb walked toward her, the others scattered and returned to the bar.

  Standing there on the sidewalk, the bitterly cold winter wind whistling around the street corners, Jazzy waited for Caleb.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Not many people in Cherokee Pointe would stand up against Jamie Upton.”

  Caleb’s eyebrows lifted. “Jamie Upton, huh? I take it he’s not used to being told no.”

  “What did you say to him? When you had him bent over his car, what did you say?”

  Caleb laced Jazzy’s arm through his and led her toward the front entrance to the bar. “What I said to him is between me and him. Besides, it isn’t something fit for a lady’s ears.”

  Jazzy felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Nobody had ever called her a lady. And only a few had ever treated her like one.

  “Come on inside and let me buy you a drink,” she said. “And, call me Jazzy. I think we are going to be friends after all.”

  Chapter 13

  Genny sensed that Dallas wanted to stay longer, even if that need went against his better judgment. He’d gotten up to leave a couple of times, but kept lingering. He didn’t understand why, of course, but she did. Everything in life happened for a reason. And despite any evidence otherwise, she knew there was a rhyme and reason to events, even those that seemed inexplicable. She had been waiting a lifetime for him, perhaps more than one lifetime. Waiting for the man destined to be her mate. Naturally, she’d known from the beginning that Brian MacKinnon wasn’t the man for her; and even though she’d been drawn to Royce Pierpont, she’d never felt “the connection.”