The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson
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just going to give up? Freeze to death without a fight? Her grandfather’s voice mocked her and she thought of the tough old man who had been so kind and loving. God, she missed him. And now, facing death, she missed her crazy, busybody of a mother and even her supercilious sister. Dusti could be such a pain in the neck, but she was still her damned sister.
And then there was Mason, her ex. Had he lured her to this part of Montana, taunting her with information about Aaron, with pictures of her first husband? Pictures that somehow jogged an obscure recollection? Mason had accused her of still loving her first husband, even long after they were married. Her “mental infidelity,” as Mason had called it, had been a major crack in the foundation of their marriage and she’d never been able to convince him that she was over Aaron, that though his body had never been found, she’d buried him and his memory forever.
Had it been a lie?
Trembling with the cold, she didn’t know the answer to her feelings for her supposedly dead husband, but she saw no reason for Mason to bring it all up now. He’d remarried, had claimed to be happy, was “getting on with his life.” So why would he now, long after they were divorced, try to draw her back to Montana, shoot out her tire and leave her here for dead?
That just didn’t make sense.
But then, nothing did.
Again she began to cry, and again she sniffed back the stupid tears.
Setting her back teeth down hard, she struggled again, then heard the sound of someone running, hard. She looked up, half-expecting her tormentor to reappear. Instead, racing wildly through the trees was Zane MacGregor.
Her heart soared at the sight of him, wearing nothing but a sweater and jeans. He carried a rifle in one hand and didn’t falter one step as he broke from the woods to the clearing and the solitary tree to which she was bound.
“Jillian! Oh God!” He covered the snow-crusted ground in an instant.
Her voice squeaked and tears rained from her eyes.
“What the hell happened?” he asked, but was already reaching into his pocket, withdrawing a jackknife and sawing through the thick rope. “Who did this?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “Sick bastard.” The ropes around her shoulders gave way and she sank against him as he sliced through the cords binding her wrists. “Are you all right?”
“Ye–e-ss.”
He gave her an impassioned look that turned her insides to liquid. Then he cut through the ropes that held her hips to the tree, stripped off his sweater and forced it over her head. Her arms were lost in its sleeves, the hem barely covering her buttocks. “I’m getting you out of here.”
She was still fighting tears of relief that seemed hell-bent to track from her eyes though she cleared her throat and refused, absolutely refused, to allow herself to sob. “How?”
“I’ll carry you.”
“Oh no, you can’t—”
“Watch me.” With one arm, he lifted her off her feet and she sucked in her breath as pain shot through her ribs.
“Sorry,” he started to apologize. “I didn’t mean to—”
She kissed him. Without hesitation. Pressing her frozen mouth to his and wrapping her arms around his neck. His lips were warm and hard, the arms around her tightening as he kissed her back.
Eagerly.
Hungrily.
It felt so good to let go and kiss him. Despite the bruises on her body, the emotional horror she’d been through, the harrowing, near-death experience, she reveled in his touch, in the feeling of being alive again.
His fingers were strong and supple, their warmth permeating the oversized sweater, and in her mind’s eye she saw herself making love to him. Soon. She would be lying across his bed, the fire crackling on the hearth, desire pounding through her brain as need coursed through her bloodstream. She envisioned him as he came to her, his skin taut over hard muscles, his pupils dilated with the night, his hands and mouth insistent as he loved her.
Even now she felt it—that need to connect, the desire to lose herself completely to this man whom she barely knew, this stranger who had saved her twice.
She moaned when his tongue slipped between her teeth. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she held his face fast to hers, her mouth opening for him, her entire body trembling more from desire than the cold.
And yet they were alone in the forest, only the snow-crusted pines and hemlocks as tall sentinels.
Dear God, she wanted him. As crazy as it was, as cold as she was, as frightened as she was, she wanted him. He shifted a bit, breaking the kiss. “I have to get you to a hospital,” he said, his voice husky.
“MacGregor, I—”
“Shh.”
She just clung to him, burying her face in his neck and believing for the first time since she woke up naked and bound to the tree that she might actually live.
And then she remembered.
The dog!
“Oh God,” she whispered, her heart tearing at the image in her mind, a picture of Harley lying in the snow, blood crusting on his mottled fur. “Harley. He—”
“I know,” MacGregor said quickly, the corners of his mouth hard and set. “I found him.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Is he—?”
“Still alive. Or at least he was half an hour ago.” He looked at the tree again and hitched his chin toward a marking hewn from the bark. It was smaller than a man’s palm and positioned around six feet from the ground, obviously having been whittled over her head while she was tied to the tree.
“What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“A star?” His eyebrows slammed together and worry clouded his eyes. Somewhere, from the surrounding forest, an owl let out its lonely call.
Jillian, still clinging to MacGregor, felt the tiniest breath of wind play against the back of her neck. “Why would anyone cut a star or any kind of symbol into the trunk of that tree?”
“It’s a calling card. Whoever tied you up wanted the world to know that it’s his handiwork.”
“Sweet Jesus,” she whispered as the realization that she was in the hands of a demented killer suddenly hit home.
“It’s fresh. He did it today. After binding you to the tree.”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” She stared at the crude symbol, and though the day was still bright, the snow blindingly white in the sunlight, she felt a darkness hidden in the trees, an evil concealed but present in the icy forest.
“You have slivers in your hair.” He pulled a bit of wood out and she nearly threw up. The thought of the monster working over her as she was slumped against the ropes, of him taking the time to carve out a symbol as she was helpless, drugged and naked, made her sick. A man who would go to so much trouble wouldn’t give up.
MacGregor must’ve felt it, too—the danger that lay in the surrounding thickets. His features hardened and his gaze scoured the surrounding woodland. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. He carried her to a stump, where he set her on her good foot, then turned so that his back was to her. “Wrap your legs around my waist and hold onto my neck.”
“You can’t carry me like…”
He stared at her so hard her thought dissipated and she let her voice trail off.
“I was in the war, Jillian. I’ve packed out soldiers and they were a helluva lot heavier than you.