Open Season
Page 1
LOOK FOR THESE HEART-POUNDING NOVELS OF ROMANTIC SUSPENSE FROM NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
LINDA HOWARD
Handsome, rich, sexy, deadly....
MR. PERFECT
“Sexy fun.” —People
...and don’t miss
ALL THE QUEEN’S MEN NOW YOU SEE HER KILL AND TELL SON OF THE MORNING HEART OF FIRE AFTER THE NIGHT
PRAISE FOR THE SENSATIONAL NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERS OF LINDA HOWARD
OPEN SEASON
“A perfect mystery for a late summer weekend. It’s part romance with a dollop of suspense.”
—The Globe & Mail (Toronto)
“This book is a masterpiece. Howard hooks us with a devastating opening prologue, then paints such visual pictures of her characters that they live.”
—Rendezvous
“The irrepressible Daisy Minor has a way of freshening everything.”
—The Palm Beach Post
“This lighthearted novel takes a dark turn when Daisy herself becomes prey.”
—People
“A modern-day version of the fairy tale about the ugly duckling that grows into a magnificent swan. . . .”
—The Orlando Sentinel (FL)
MR. PERFECT
“A frolicsome mystery. . . . Jaine Bright lives up to her name: she’s as bright—and explosive—as a firecracker.”
—People
“Mr. Perfect really scores. . . . Part romance novel, part psychological thriller, [it] is both a frightening and funny look at the plight of the modern woman searching for an ideal mate.”
—New York Post
“There is nothing quite like a sexy and suspenseful story by the amazing Linda Howard! . . . Funny, exciting, gripping, and sensuous. . . . One of her all-time best!”
—Romantic Times
ALL THE QUEEN’S MEN
“A high-suspense romance. . . . Howard’s trademark darkly sensual style and intense, layered plot will delight her fans.”
—Booklist
“Ms. Howard has made the character [of John Medina] irresistible.... A fascinating novel of suspense and sensual tension.”
—Rendezvous
“Heart-pounding sensuality and gripping tension made it impossible to put this page-turner down until the very end. . . . John Medina is quite a hero.”
—Old Book Barn Gazette
“[A] sexy thriller. . . . Another explosive hit.”
—Romantic Times
“Watching [hero John Medina] in action, à la James Bond, is exhilarating....”
—Amazon.com
NOW YOU SEE HER
“Steamy romance morphs into murder mystery....”
—People
“An eerie, passionate, and thrilling tale. . . .”
—Romantic Times
“Sensual, page-turning.”
—Amazon.com
KILL AND TELL
“Linda Howard meshes hot sex, emotional impact, and gripping tension in this perfect example of what romantic suspense ought to be.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A riveting masterpiece of suspense. Linda Howard is a superbly original storyteller.”
—Iris Johansen, New York Times bestselling author of And Then You Die
SON OF THE MORNING
“Linda Howard offers a romantic time-travel thriller with a fascinating premise . . . gripping passages and steamy sex.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A complex tale that’s rich with detail, powerful characters and stunning sensuality. . . . It’s no wonder that Linda Howard is the best of the best.”
—CompuServe Romance Reviews
Books by Linda Howard
A Lady of the West
Angel Creek
The Touch of Fire
Heart of Fire
Dream Man
After the Night
Shadow of Twilight
Son of the Morning
Kill and Tell
Now You See Her
All the Queen’s Men
Mr. Perfect
Open Season
Published by POCKET BOOKS
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
Copyright © 2001 by Linda Howington
Originally published in hardcover in 2001 by Pocket Books
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN 13: 978-0-671-02758-2
eISBN 13: 978-1-4391-4079-6
ISBN 10: 0-671-02758-1
First Pocket Books paperback printing June 2002
20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12
POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Cover art by Tom Hallman
Printed in the U.S.A.
I’m blessed with many, many friends, without whom I couldn’t operate. They aren’t in any particular order, but they are:
Kate Collins, an editor who never let me see her sweat, even though everyone else around her was in panic mode; Robin Rue, agent and friend and number one cheerleader; Gayle Cochran, who is always there when I need her; Beverly Beaver, whose love shelters all of us; Linda Jones, with her steadiness and quirky sense of humor and good advice; Sabrah Agee, with her laughter and endless sources of legal information; Liz Cline, who literally makes it possible for me to function; Marilyn Elrod, whose friendship is always there, like a rock; my sister Joyce, who has been side-by-side with me since childhood. . . . Like I said, I’m blessed. Catherine Coulter, Iris Johansen, and Kay Hooper are irreplaceable in my life. And let’s not forget the Clud Club—they know who they are.
By the way, there was a real Buffalo Club, though the only resemblance it bore to the one in the book was the name and the fact that it served alcohol. The real Buffalo Club burned to the ground many years ago, but it was the stuff of legends.
OPEN SEASON
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Carmela nervously clutched the burlap bag that held her other dress, some water, and the small package of food she had been able to save for the trip north, across the border. Orlando had told her that they wouldn’t be able to stop, for food or water or anything, until they reached Los Angeles. She was locked in the back of an old truck that bounced and swayed, throwing her from side to side if she didn’t manage to wedge herself into a corner and brace her back and legs in the small V, making sleep impossible because the moment she relaxed, she was sent tumbling across the rough wood bed of the t
ruck.
Carmela was terrified, but determined. Enrique had gone across two years before, and he’d said he would send for her. Instead he had married an American, so he could never be deported, and she had been left with her dreams destroyed and her pride in shreds. There was nothing left for her in Mexico; if Enrique could marry an American, then so could she! And she would marry a rich one. She was very pretty; everyone said so. When she married her rich norteamericano, she would find Enrique and thumb her nose at him, and he would be sorry he had lied and betrayed her.
She had big dreams, but she felt very small, bouncing around in the back of the truck as it charged across uneven ground. She heard grinding metal as Orlando changed gears, and a soft exclamation of pain as one of the other girls banged into the side of the truck. There were three others, all young like her, all wanting something better than what they had left behind in Mexico. They hadn’t exchanged names, hadn’t talked much at all. They were too preoccupied with the danger of what they were doing, and both sad and excited: sad at what they were leaving behind, and excited at the prospect of a better life. Anything had to be better than nothing, and nothing was what Carmela had.
She thought about her mother, dead for seven months, worn out by a lifetime of hard work and having babies. “Never let Enrique touch you between your legs,” her mother had lectured, time and again. “Not until you are his wife. If you do, then he won’t marry you, and you’ll be left with a baby while he finds another pretty girl.” Well, she hadn’t let Enrique touch her between the legs, but he had found another girl anyway. At least she hadn’t been left with a baby.
She had understood what her mother meant, though: Don’t be like me. Her mother had wanted Carmela to have more than she’d had. She hadn’t wanted her to grow old before her time, forever laden with a baby in her arms and another in the womb, and dying before the age of forty.
Carmela was seventeen. By the time her mother had been seventeen, she’d already had two babies. Enrique had never understood Carmela’s insistence on remaining a virgin; he’d been, by turns, angry and sullen at her steadfast refusal to let him make love to her. Perhaps the woman he had married had let him do that to her. If that was all he wanted, then he had never truly loved her at all, Carmela thought. Good riddance! She wasn’t going to waste her life mourning a . . . a fool!
She tried to keep her spirits up by telling herself everything would be better in America; everyone said that in Los Angeles there were more jobs than there were people, that everyone had a car, and a television. She might even be in the movies, and become famous. Everyone said she was pretty, so perhaps it was possible. The fact, however, was that she was seventeen and alone, and she was frightened.
One of the other girls said something, her voice drowned out by the laboring engine, but the tension came through. In that moment, Carmela realized the other three were as frightened as she. So she wasn’t alone, after all; the other three were just like her. It was a small thing, but she immediately felt braver.
Bracing herself against the lurching as the vehicle bounced from one rut to the next, she scooted across the rough wood of the truck bed until she was close enough to hear what the girl had said. It was daylight now, and enough light seeped through the cracks that she could make out the faces of the others. “What is it?” she asked.
The girl twisted her hands in the worn fabric of her skirt. “I have to relieve myself,” she said, her voice thin with shame.
“We all do,” Carmela said in sympathy. Her own bladder was full to the point of pain. She had been ignoring it as best she could, unwilling to do what she knew they would eventually be forced to do.
Tears rolled down the girl’s face. “I must.”
Carmela looked around, but the other two seemed as helpless as the weeping girl. “Then we will do what we must do,” she said, because she seemed to be the only one capable of making a decision. “We will designate a corner . . . that one.” She pointed at the right rear corner. “There is a crack there, so it will drain. We will each relieve ourselves.”
The girl wiped her face. “What about the other?”
“I hope we stop before then.” Now that the sun was up, the heat inside the truck would climb steadily. It was summer; if Orlando didn’t stop and let them out, they might well die from the heat. He had said they wouldn’t stop until they reached their destination, so surely they would be in Los Angeles soon. She had paid Orlando only half of his usual fee; if she died, he wouldn’t be able to collect the other half. Normally everyone had to pay in full before the coyote would take them across the border, but because she was so pretty, Orlando said, he would make an exception.
The other girls were pretty, too, she realized. Perhaps he had made an exception for all of them.
Relieving themselves was a group effort, because of the bouncing of the truck, and Carmela organized that effort. In turn, with herself going last, each squatted in the corner while the others wedged themselves around her to hold her upright. At last, feeling exhausted but much better, they sank down on the truck bed to rest.
Abruptly, with one last bounce, the truck began rolling smoothly. They were on a highway, Carmela realized. A highway! Surely they were close to Los Angeles now.
But the morning hours ticked away, and the heat inside the truck grew stifling. Carmela tried to breathe normally, but the other girls were panting, as if drawing in extra air would help cool them. Since that air was hot, it didn’t seem logical. At least, the way they were sweating, they wouldn’t have to relieve themselves again very soon.
She waited as long as she could, because she had no idea how much farther they had to go, but finally her own thirst grew unbearable and she took her small flask of water from her burlap bag. “I have water,” she said. “Just a little, so we must share equally.” She gave each of them a hard look. “If you take more than one sip before passing the flask, I will slap you. And just a small sip, too.”
Under her fierce dark gaze, each girl obediently took one small sip and passed the flask. Somehow, in organizing them to relieve themselves, she had gained the position of leader, and though she wasn’t very tall, she had the force of will they all recognized. When the flask reached her, Carmela took her own one small sip, then passed the flask around again. When they had each had two sips, she capped the flask and put it back in her bag. “I know it isn’t much,” she said, “but I don’t have much water and we must make it last.”
There was, perhaps, enough water for them each to have another two sips. That wasn’t much water, not when they were losing more than that in sweat every hour. Perhaps it would be enough to keep them alive. Why hadn’t the other girls thought to bring food and water? she thought irritably, then forced the irritation away. It could be that they hadn’t had anything to bring. As poor as she herself was, there were always others who had even less. She must be kind, in thought as well as deed.
The truck began slowing, the difference in the sound of the motor signaling the change. They looked at each other with hope bright in their eyes.
The truck pulled off the highway and stopped. The motor wasn’t turned off, but they heard the slam of the door as Orlando got out. Quickly Carmela grabbed her bag and stood; since he had said they wouldn’t stop for anything until they reached Los Angeles, then they must have arrived. She had expected more noise, though; she couldn’t hear anything other than the sound of the truck’s engine.
Then there came the sound of a chain rattling, and the roll-up door of the truck was shoved up on its tracks, letting in a blinding glare of sunlight and a blast of air that was both hot and fresh. Orlando was just a black shape, silhouetted against the white glare. Shielding their eyes, the girls all stumbled to the rear of the truck and awkwardly climbed out.
As her eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Carmela looked around, expecting . . . she didn’t know quite what she expected, but at least a big city. There was nothing here but sky and sun and scrub bushes, and drifts of gritty gray soil. Her eyes wide,
she looked at Orlando in question.
“This is as far as I take you,” he announced. “The truck is too hot; you would die. My friend will take you the rest of the way. His truck has air-conditioning.”
Air-conditioning! In Carmela’s small village a few people had owned cars, but none of them had air-conditioning. Old Vasquez had pointed with pride to the controls on the dashboard of his car that had once made cold air come from the vents, but they no longer worked, and Carmela had never actually felt such a thing. She knew about it, though. She would ride in a truck with air-conditioning! Old Vasquez would be so jealous if he knew.
A tall, lean man wearing jeans and a plaid shirt came around the side of the truck. He carried four clear bottles of water, which he gave to the girls to drink. The water was cold, the bottles wet with condensation. The thirsty girls gulped the water while he talked to Orlando in English, which none of them spoke.
“This is Mitchell,” Orlando finally said. “You are to do what he says. He speaks a little of our language, enough for you to understand what he wants you to do. If you disobey, the American policemen will find you, and throw you in jail, and you will never be freed. Do you understand?”
Solemnly, they all nodded. They were then swiftly hustled into the camper shell on Mitchell’s large white pickup. There were two sleeping bags tossed on the truck bed, and a small stool with a hole on top, which on inspection turned out to be a toilet. There was no room to stand up; they had to either sit or lie, but after their sleepless night they didn’t care. Cold air and music, both of which were incredibly soothing, were pouring into the camper shell through the open sliding rear window of the truck. After spreading out the two sleeping bags so they could all lie down, the four girls quickly fell asleep.
She hadn’t imagined Los Angeles to be so very far away, Carmela thought two days later. She was tired of riding in the camper, of not being able to stand up and move around. Stretching kept her muscles as limber as possible, but what she really wanted was just to walk.