Killer Heat. Brenda Novak
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was safer.
What a bastard, she thought. Did he really believe he could get away with coming after her?
Apparently, he did. And maybe it was true. As long as he didn’t leave any evidence behind, he could do whatever he wanted without fear of punishment. Clever killers often escaped the consequences of their crimes, didn’t they? Of course they did. But whether or not she came out of this alive, Francesca was determined to make sure he left some proof of his identity.
His blood would work nicely.
A thump outside her window made her heart seize. Was that him?
Trying to differentiate one shadow from another, she studied the murky shapes beyond the glass until they began to blur. She was straining too hard. Blinking to give her eyes a rest, she peered out again.
This time she thought she spotted a man….
No. It was the tree that provided shade for the deck. Fear was causing her imagination to play tricks on her.
Breathe. Briefly letting go of the pepper spray, she wiped her damp palm on her bare leg, then did the same with the other hand, the one holding the knife. She wore a T-shirt and panties, nothing in which she felt comfortable confronting anyone who might try to overpower her.
She considered dressing so she’d feel less exposed, less vulnerable. But then she’d have to set her weapons aside for longer than a millisecond, and she was afraid he’d strike as soon as she did. It felt as if he was watching her already, waiting for the perfect opportunity….
Was he looking in while she was trying to look out? The idea that he could be so close raised the hair on the back of her neck. Had he brought his bat? Would he come crashing through the slider? Or would he bide his time—until the unrelenting tension took its toll on her nerves—and use her key?
As the minutes stretched out and nothing happened, she crept to the closest window and raised her head above the pane. The yard appeared empty. The gardener had been by earlier today. She could smell the fresh-mown grass, see the meticulously trimmed plants in the side yard.
The gate stood open. She remembered closing it when she’d locked up for the night, but the latch didn’t always hold….
She needed to see more.
Through the next window, she could make out the area around the deck and pool. Moonlight glimmered off the water and bathed the lounge chairs in pearly white. But she saw nothing that might—
Wait! At the shallow end. A dark shape sat in one of the chairs. No, he was lying down. She was sure of it. His hands were propped behind his head and he was staring up at her room as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
She jerked her head back. Had he seen her? What was he doing just…lying there?
Heart thumping erratically, she crawled to the slider, which afforded her the best view of all. Sure enough, she had a visitor—a visitor who was doing very little to hide his presence. She got the impression Butch wanted to be seen. While she watched, he leaned over to pick up a small rock and threw it at her window. It missed the glass but hit the side of the house with a crack.
He wasn’t sneaking around, as she’d expected. Clearly he wanted to frighten her.
And he did. Far bolder than she’d thought he’d be, he seemed completely unafraid of the consequences. He was flaunting that lack of fear, letting her know he enjoyed the game he was playing.
What should she do?
She didn’t get the chance to decide. Before she could respond in any way, he rose into a sitting position and cocked his head as if he’d heard a noise that put him on alert.
What was he reacting to? Possibly nothing. He didn’t seem overly concerned. He came to his feet and stood there, gazing at her room from beyond the patio. Then he offered her a mocking salute, as though he knew she could see him, and strode calmly to the fence, which he jumped.
A few seconds later she heard what must’ve chased him off—the crackling of a police radio—and rushed to the front of the house. A cruiser sat at the curb.
Suddenly far less concerned about her state of undress, she unlocked the door and charged through it, down the driveway and right up to the officer’s lowered window.
“How did you know to come?” she asked the cop who sat behind the wheel, writing a report.
He put aside his clipboard. “Professional courtesy. Gentleman by the name of Jonah Young called in, said you were being harassed and asked if we could drive by every once in a while. I’ve been by twice already. Why? Somethin’ wrong?” He glanced around.
Heedless of the tears streaking down her cheeks, she sank onto the blacktop. It was over. For tonight.
But what about the next time? Butch would be back. His brazen behavior made it a certainty.
So? Are you going to answer? Will you do it?
Jonah rubbed his tired eyes, then reread Lori’s text message for probably the fifteenth time in three days. He needed to respond to her at some point. Ex-wife or no, he should be civil. But he wasn’t ready to address the issues her request dredged up. The clock on the wall showed three in the morning. He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours and was in no frame of mind to formulate an answer that sounded halfway polite. Considering how things had gone down when they were briefly married, which seemed like another life since it was before he’d ever become a cop, he didn’t feel he owed her any special consideration.
On the other hand, he couldn’t see a lot of reason to deny her what she was asking for. It wasn’t that big a sacrifice. And he’d made his own share of mistakes in life. Francesca was proof. Besides, he was over Lori. He believed she’d be a good mother. So why not write the letter? Why not support her attempt to adopt a baby?
Resentment had to be the answer. It’d been more than a decade since he’d learned the truth, yet he still cringed whenever he pictured her sleeping with the partner she’d left him for. All those days and nights when Lori had said she needed some “girl time” he’d thought she and Miranda were seeing a movie or shopping. He’d never dreamed they might be romantically intimate—because he’d been operating under the mistaken belief that he and Lori were, on the whole, happily married. That they had a normal sex life and would someday start a family. Lori had always seemed eager enough to make love. There’d even been times, plenty of them, when she’d initiated it.
But that was before she decided he never had and never would be able to fulfill her needs. It wasn’t until she asked him to move out that she claimed she’d never been turned on by him, that all the moaning and writhing had been for his benefit.
Just the memory of those words made him wince. During that final argument he’d realized she’d been involved with Miranda before she ever met him. If she’d been confused about her sexuality it would’ve been so much easier to forgive her. But, according to her, she’d known since she was a girl. Which meant their whole relationship had been a front, a lie. She hadn’t told him the truth because her family was absolutely opposed to same-sex relationships. She knew they’d never accept her lifestyle or respect her choice, and she was afraid she’d lose her position in the family business as well as her inheritance if they found out. She’d also wanted to have her own children and knew only a man could give her that.
Apparently, she’d seen him as some kind of sperm donor. But that was before she’d learned she couldn’t have children. Jonah was sure that news had made it a whole lot easier to toss him aside.
“Hey, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to your motel.”
Startled, he glanced up to see Dr. Leslie Price, the forensic anthropologist he’d been working with since he’d signed on to help with the Dead Mule Canyon murders. Diminutive and soft-spoken, the doctor was in her early sixties. Her white hair reminded him of his mother. So did her confidence and dedication to her craft. But the similarities ended there. As a successful corporate attorney, Rita Young dressed