by Webb, Debra
“Asshole!” Clay stumbled to his truck. Somebody should’ve killed that son of a bitch long ago.
Muttering every foul word he knew, he climbed behind the wheel of his truck and took off.
Hell no, he wasn’t touching that bitch. His daddy and Henderson didn’t need to worry about him. Or his buddies.
Before going on into town, Clay drove to the place he’d been watching. He parked his truck. His balls had finally quit throbbing. He snaked his way through the woods until he reached that old abandoned shack.
Clay smirked. Nope. He wasn’t gonna have to lift a finger.
Dear old cousin Addy was on a short list.
And her name had just come up.
Chapter Twenty
Forrest General Hospital, 8:00 P.M.
She looked so innocent lying there.
Fury tightened his lips. Bitch. His gaze roved the white sheet, landing on her protruding belly. Disgust twisted in his gut.
He would not allow this.
His son would not suffer as he had.
More of that mounting fury exploded in his veins. It was Christmas and he couldn’t even be with his son.
It was her fault.
But he had a plan. One that destiny had set into place centuries ago . . . then whispered in his ear just weeks ago.
He relaxed. A smile spread across his face.
Soon. Very soon he would be with Danny.
Nothing could stop him now.
Everything was almost in place.
He touched his wife’s hand. Soon her flesh would be cold and that fucking princess growing in her belly would be dead.
Just like the others.
“Everything all right in here?”
His gaze shot to the door where the errant police officer now hovered.
Funny that he seemed interested in the patient’s well-being now. The stupid cop hadn’t appeared to mind when a virtual stranger walked into the room. But then the uniform had attracted the attention of another visitor. A woman from a room down the hall.
Ridiculous. Worthless. A smart man would never allow his cock to override his brain.
But, unfortunately, all men fell victim to that traitorous organ from time to time.
Even him.
“I could use your assistance, Officer,” he said in his gentlest tone. “This IV machine is acting up. I need to replace it”—he gestured to the one he’d brought into the room with him—“but the cords are a tangled mess. I hate to have to call another nurse. We’re shorthanded as it is tonight.”
“Sure.” The officer smiled. “I hope you got to spend some time with your family today. Christmas is a bad time to be on duty.” The cop came around the bed. He chuckled. “Believe me, I know.”
Smiling at the cop’s words, he reached into his right pocket and wrapped his fingers around the hypodermic needle he’d prepared for just this sort of obstacle. The same one he’d used on the nurse in the pharmaceutical storeroom. The key to the success of any plan was preparation.
“Stand right here.” He ushered the cop next to the bed. “Now hold her arm to ensure I don’t pull anything loose. We wouldn’t want to cause her any unnecessary discomfort.”
We just want her to stop breathing.
“Okey-doke.” The stupid cop did exactly as he was told.
Keeping one eye on the cop, he placed his free hand on the IV pole and withdrew the hypo with the other. “Here we go.”
The cop held on to the patient’s arm with both hands.
Perfect. Gritting his teeth, he jammed the needle into the cop’s back and shoved the plunger downward.
The cop released his hold on the patient and spun around. He cried out at the burn in his veins. Tried to speak . . . but it was too late.
Potassium chloride worked very fast, stopping the heart as effectively as if he’d reached into the man’s chest and ripped out the organ.
The cop crumpled to the floor.
He reared back to glance out the open door, checked the corridor. Now, he had to hurry. Time was not on his side. As soon as he’d injected the bitch the monitors would react. His escape plan was less than desirable. He’d watched for days and this was the only viable option.
This had to be done.
He reached into his left pocket and retrieved the second hypo. Carefully he inserted it into the tube of her IV. Perfect.
She moaned.
He froze.
One, two, three seconds he watched her. She lay still as stone. Must have been an involuntary response sound. The bitch was in a coma. He relaxed and returned to his work.
Her arm flopped.
She moaned. Louder.
Her eyes opened.
She flopped her arms again. Tried to roll toward the other side of the bed away from him, those hideous sounds gurgling from her throat.
The monitors screamed for attention as her heart’s rhythm reacted to the fear.
Fuck! He had to hurry!
He placed his thumb on the plunger, pushed. “Just die,” he muttered.
“What’re you doing there?”
The nurse didn’t wait for his response. She dropped the patient chart she carried and rushed toward him.
He released the hypo. Hoped it would be enough. He jumped across the bed, bypassing the nurse as she rounded the foot of the bed.
He knocked down another nurse as he charged out the door.
Would the small amount he’d injected prove sufficient?
As if to set his mind at ease, the code blue echoed through the hospital’s intercom system.
Excellent. He mentally marked taking care of that bitch off his list of things to do.
Now he had to escape.
His son needed him.
And there was the business of the last princess.
Chapter Twenty-one
1708 Monroe Street, 9:00 P.M.
Adeline closed her cell phone and moved down the hall to join Wyatt in the living room. The chief had called her a third time. He wanted to send Detective Metcalf down here to back her up. Metcalf had gotten his shield a couple months ago and she liked the guy. She wouldn’t mind having him as a permanent partner.
But she didn’t need backup down here. She watched the man pacing the living room. Wyatt wasn’t going to let anyone close to her but him.
That realization settled heavily against her chest.
What the hell was she doing allowing this to happen?
Those emotions she’d struggled with all day churned fiercely, way down deep inside her. She gritted her teeth, pushed the feelings aside. This investigation was unnervingly close to home to say the least. But she’d worked unnerving plenty of times.
It was being here with him. Every cell in her body was affected by him. By being here. From the day she had left Mississippi, she had disowned this place. Home wasn’t home anymore. She’d worked hard to make Huntsville, Alabama, home. And she had succeeded . . . until about twenty-four hours ago when all the walls she’d built between her and here—between her and him—had come crashing down.
The choices she’d made, out of necessity at the time, now seemed all wrong. Misguided and hasty. Second thoughts weren’t supposed to haunt a person nine years later.
Yet, she stood here now, staring at the single most relevant part of her life back then and she understood that she couldn’t pretend there wasn’t still something there. Couldn’t ignore the hold he still had on some part of her.
She had loved him with every fiber of her being . . . with all that had made her who she was.
How had she imagined for an instant—even in the throes of passion—that she could have sex with this man and treat the incident like any other one-nighter?
Not possible.
If they hadn’t stopped . . .
But they had. She squared her slumped shoulders. From this point forward their every interaction had to be about the case. No more dancing too close to the flame.
“That your chief again?”
Ade
line pushed aside the troubling thoughts. “Yeah. He agreed that I should stay as long as necessary.” Not entirely true. He’d actually wanted her back in Huntsville and Metcalf working this investigation. At the very least he’d wanted Metcalf with her. She’d nixed the former idea right off the bat. Then she’d had to do some serious talking to hold her ground on the latter.
In the end she’d gotten her way. Second thoughts attempted to steal her certainty on the choice.
Why was she doing this to herself? She never doubted her decisions. This man, she stared at the gorgeous hunk of male in front of her, this place . . . did this to her.
Wyatt nodded. “I guess that’s good.”
He guessed. “What the hell does that mean?” She threw her hands up in frustration. Being the subject of everyone’s concern was getting damned old. Her mother had called five times. Her chief three. She was a big girl. With a big gun that she knew how to use.
Mainly, she was pissed at herself for being so damned wishy-washy.
“It means”—he moved toward her, putting her senses on guard—“that I care about what happens to you and this investigation is getting intense. Whoever this bastard is, he wants you. Have you forgotten?”
“Now that’s just stupid.” She sliced her hands through the air. “Enough, Wyatt.” Fury pumped up her confidence. “I’m a highly trained major crimes detective. I know what I’m doing and I can take care of myself. This coddling either stops now or I’m out that door.” She stabbed her finger in the direction of his front door. “I’ll stay at my mom’s before I’ll stand for this. You got it?” And that was saying something, by God.
He braced his hands on his hips. “Loud and clear.” He shrugged. “I’ll back off. Give you the breathing room you need.”
But his eyes said otherwise. That was the thing. Wyatt had always worn his feelings right there where anyone who knew him well enough could read exactly what was on his mind. He wasn’t going to back off any more than this freak who addressed her as “princess” intended to.
“You’re lying. You won’t do any such shit. You’ll hover around me like a mother hen and try to—” She shook her head. “Forget it. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She glared at him. “Consider yourself warned, though. I’m done tiptoeing around this bullshit. You treat me like you would any other detective or . . . I’m done working with you.”
Uncertainty seeped into her bones. Okay. She’d put it out there on the table. Couldn’t take it back. Brutal, honest. She hiked her chin. And she damned well meant what she said. For the most part anyway.
His expression cleared of emotion. “Understood.”
That was easier than she’d expected. This time there was no indecision glimmering in his eyes. “So.” She stretched her neck, right then left. “Where are we on the briefing with the folks in Wiggins?”
“Tomorrow. Ten o’clock. We’ll rendezvous at my office with Womack and Sullenger. Detective Lonnie Ferguson from Hattiesburg PD will be joining us. He’s been working the Prescott case from his end.”
That was the first she’d heard about the Hattiesburg detective. “ ‘Kay. We can use all the heads on this we can get.” Mainly because they didn’t have shit and those women were going to be dead before the investigation got a break. Not to mention that the bastard wanted her next. She repressed a shudder. Let him come. She wasn’t going to make it easy. Just maybe becoming a victim was the only way to get the break they needed.
She sure as hell wouldn’t share the idea with Wyatt.
Adeline pulled at her tee. “I need to find some clothes.” With nothing open on Christmas, she had no choice but to wear this same getup tomorrow.
“I could call Emma White and have her open her shop.”
Adeline laughed. “Emma finally got her shop?” Owning a boutique was all Emma White had ever talked about in high school. Damn, she’d gotten her wish.
“Yeah.” Wyatt lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “She married some rich guy from Biloxi, then got divorced a year later. Apparently the settlement gave her the stake she needed to make it happen.”
Not an easy thing to do in this economy, particularly in small-town nowhere. “Good for her.” Adeline hitched her thumb toward the hall. “I think I’m gonna take a shower and hit the sack.” She gave her head a shake. “I don’t want to bother anybody on Christmas night. I’ll just make use of your in-house laundry service.” Maybe she’d give old Emma a buzz tomorrow afternoon. Though they hadn’t exactly been friends in school, at least Emma hadn’t been one of Adeline’s mortal enemies.
“Sure.” He stared at the floor a moment.
What now? If he started that whole “we need to talk” thing again she was going to scream.
“I caught the news a few minutes ago,” he said, meeting her eyes once more. “It’s supposed to rain tonight.”
Adeline clenched her jaw. Banished the too familiar anxiety that climbed into her throat. “I’ll be fine.”
She gave him her back and headed for the hall bath.
The dreams didn’t come every time it rained.
In fact, until the other night she hadn’t had that damned dream in a couple of months.
So what if she did tonight? It was just a dream.
Sunday, December 26, 12:05 A.M.
Wyatt jerked awake.
He flopped onto his back and listened. Nothing but the rain beating against the roof.
Catching the time on the clock, he frowned. He couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour. Addy had taken her shower and closed herself up in the guestroom. The light hadn’t gone out for another thirty minutes or so.
He’d finally given up his vigil and hit the sack. Sleep had dragged him under in record time. Exhaustion would do that to a guy.
He frowned. Sat up. Listened hard. A muffled sound brushed his senses a second time. Somebody talking?
What the hell?
He kicked the cover back and got up, grabbing his service revolver from the bedside table as he went. Keeping his movements as quiet as possible, he eased to the door. Addy’s light was out. The light in the hall bath cut a dim path across the door to her room. A constant tick-tock whispered from the old clock hanging on the living room wall. Otherwise the house was quiet.
Maybe he’d heard the neighbor’s cat yowling.
There it was again.
Definitely not a cat. Someone talking . . . no, shouting.
He covered the distance between his room and hers in three long strides and threw open the door. The light filtering from the hall settled over the tousled sheets of her empty bed.
“Goddammit!”
As he raced through the house he thought of all the things he should have done to prevent this. Like cuffing her to the bed. Or to him.
The front door stood wide open.
Resisting the impulse to burst out the door into an unknown situation, he moved to the window, drew the curtain back just enough to take a covert look outside.
“Fuck.”
Addy stood in the middle of the yard, her arms hanging at her sides, her weapon in her right hand. She was alone. No unfamiliar vehicles on the street.
He let the curtain drop and stormed to the door. What the hell was she doing? Didn’t she get that standing out there in the dark all alone was a bad, bad idea?
As he burst into the pouring rain, she lifted her face to the dark sky. “This,” she shouted, “is bullshit. It’s just rain.” The last was scarcely a whisper.
“Addy.”
She whirled toward him, the weapon in her hand, thankfully, remaining pointed at the ground. In hindsight, he should have approached this a little differently.
“What’re you doing?” The jersey he’d given her last night to sleep in was sopping wet and plastered to her body, hung practically to her knees. Her long hair was soaked.
Her lips trembled, she flattened them to stifle the reaction. She jutted out that stubborn jaw and hiked her chin. “Making a point.”
Though
it was about fifty degrees out, with the rain it was damned cold. “Come inside.” He reached out, offered his hand to her.
She stared at his hand then at him. Without another word she walked around him and into the house.
He blew out a breath and looked up at the sky. What the hell was he going to do with her? He scanned the dark street and the shadows at the edge of his yard. Anything could have happened to her . . . while he slept.
Water slid down his bare chest. He’d tried hard to do this her way. To stay off her toes. Just a couple of hours ago he’d promised to give her a wide berth. And then she pulled this kind of crap.
Shaking his head, he turned and walked back into the house. He locked the door and then followed her damp trail on the wood floor all the way to the hall bath. She’d dragged a couple of towels from the linen closet.
She tossed one at him. “Sorry I woke you up.”
He scrubbed the terry cloth over his wet hair. “Not half as sorry as I am that you set foot out that door alone. You’re not making this easy, Addy.”
She didn’t bother debating his statement. Her fingers worked the towel over her hair, squeezing those long blond tresses. His gaze dropped to where the jersey clung to her hips, then traveled up to her breasts. His throat thickened with the desire unfurling in his loins.
His gaze collided with hers in the mirror. “You”—she pointed at his chest—“are dripping.”
He looked down. Yep. Drops of water slithered down his skin and soaked into the waistband of his sweatpants. He scrubbed the towel over his chest and arms, then lifted his attention back to her reflection. “I ain’t dripping half as much as you are.”
Water trickled from the hem of the jersey and splattered on the tile floor around her feet.
She looked down and laughed. “Shit. I’m making a hell of a mess.”
A laugh rumbled from his chest. “Just a little bit.”
Her eyes met his once more. “I had the dream.”
“Oh yeah?” He’d figured as much. Knots formed in his gut, clenched with the misery he saw in those blue eyes.
