If Looks Could Kill. BEVERLY BARTON

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      Genny delved deeper into the black abyss, seeking the identity of this person, searching for any link between this evil and her dearest friend, Jazzy.

      Oh, God, the hatred. Pure, wicked hatred.

      “Genny!”

      She heard Dallas’s voice as if it came from far away.

      “Damn it, Genny, come out of it. Now! You’re going in too deep.”

      He shook her soundly.

      Genny groaned. Her eyelids flew open. She gasped for air.

      Dallas pulled her into his arms. “What the hell happened? I thought you promised me that you wouldn’t go in that deep without my being there to—”

      “I had to go as far as I could,” she said as she rested her head on her husband’s chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I had a vision about Jazzy and Reve Sorrell. I know they’re twins.” She lifted her head and looked at Dallas. “That was a vision filled with joy and light and beauty. But suddenly the darkness came. I—I’m not sure if there’s a connection between Jazzy and Reve and the evil I sensed.”

      “The two visions might have nothing to do with each other,” Dallas told her as he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

      “Maybe not, but usually, when two visions overlap that way, they’re somehow connected.”

      “But not always.”

      “No, not always.”

      Dallas lifted Genny into his arms and carried her into the house. She snuggled close, loving the protective feel of this man she loved above all others, more than life itself.

      “You’re awfully quiet,” Dallas said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

      “Yes, I’m all right. But Jazzy and Reve may be in grave danger.”

      Chapter 2

      Veda MacKinnon had a slight hangover this morning, the second one this week. She’d realized months ago that she was drinking too much and had tried her best to cut back on the amount of alcohol she consumed. She had been succeeding to some extent, but twice this week she had succumbed to stress and worry. Outsiders might well wonder what she had to worry about considering she was married to one of the two richest men in Cherokee County. But her husband was one of her worries, as was their son and her husband’s brother. And truth be told, her own brother had lately given her a reason for concern. If only she’d had a daughter, someone who could understand, could see her side of situations. But she was a lone female in a family of men—unless you counted the servants, and she didn’t.

      Donning her satin robe, Veda glanced at herself in the cheval mirror in her bedroom. God, she looked a fright. Dark circles under her eyes. Her mouth drooped with age. And without makeup, she looked every day of her sixty-eight years. She supposed she could do as Reba Upton did and have a facelift every five or six years, but instead she had opted to grow old gracefully.

      Veda laughed softly.

       Gracefully?

      There had been a time when that adverb described the way she did everything. With grace and flair, with pomp and ceremony. When Farlan had brought her, as his bride, home to his parents’ Victorian mansion in Cherokee Pointe, she’d been twenty-two. Slender. Beautiful. Charming. An Atlanta debutante. And Farlan MacKinnon had been the envy of every man in town.

      Here she was forty-six years later, fat and wrinkled, with a husband who no longer loved her—if he ever had. A son who was sad and lonely, despite his successful career running MacKinnon Media. His childless marriage had ended in a bitter divorce years ago. She suspected that her brother, Dodd, was on the verge of ruining his life—over a woman! And then there was Wallace. God, there had always been Wallace. Poor old soul. The first time she’d met him, she’d actually been afraid of him. But it hadn’t been her fault. After all, her husband’s younger brother had been the first mentally handicapped person she’d ever known. Wallace had the IQ of a six-year-old and the sweet innocence, too.

      Studying herself in the mirror, Veda decided she needed her hair cut. The ends were a bit frizzy and weren’t curling under the way she liked. She’d worn her hair in the same neat chin-length pageboy most of her life, not changing as her hair went from dark brown to gray. And she really should lose a few pounds before the holidays. She tended to put on at least five pounds between Thanksgiving and New Year’s every year and had to struggle half the year to shed those unwanted extra pounds. Of course on a woman who weighed in at one-ninety-five and stood barely five-three, what was five more pounds one way or the other?

      Five pounds would mean weighing two hundred, she reminded herself. She’d sworn she’d never reach that two- hundred pound mark.

      Veda made a detour into her dressing room. After running a brush through her salt-and-pepper hair, she applied a touch of blush and lipstick. There, that’s better, she thought, then a moment later wondered why she’d bothered. It wasn’t as if Farlan would notice. He hadn’t paid much attention to her in years. They shared the same bedroom, the same bed, but he had not been a real husband to her in going on two years. She could remember the exact date they’d last made love. It had been on her sixty-sixth birthday.

      If she didn’t know better, she’d think he kept a mistress. But not Farlan. Since that one woman, years ago, he’d been as faithful as an old dog. To this day she blamed Dodd for Farlan’s one and only indiscretion. But that was the past, water under the bridge. Best forgotten. After all, when she had strayed a couple of times after she hit forty, Farlan had forgiven her and they’d gone on as if nothing had happened.

      As Veda made her way down the hall, she listened to the familiar sounds of morning in her home. Although this enormous house had seemed alien to her when she’d come here as Farlan’s bride, she had soon renovated the place and made it her own. Everything in this house—from the crystal and china in the dining room to the imported soap in the bathrooms, from the landscaped grounds to the wicker furniture in the sunroom—had Veda’s personal stamp on it. She ruled this house as if she were a queen. And she was. Queen Veda. Everyone in Cherokee Pointe either respected her or feared her just a little. She was known for being a vengeful bitch, and that pleased her. Let that silly, skinny, blond Reba Upton be the social grande dame. Who cared? She certainly didn’t. She much preferred being a power to be reckoned with. No one crossed Veda Parnell MacKinnon without paying a steep price.

      When she entered the dining room, Farlan glanced up from the morning paper. The Knoxville News-Sentinel, she noted, not MacKinnon Media’s local Cherokee Pointe Herald. He made a habit of checking out other East Tennessee newspapers almost daily, such as the News- Sentinel, the Cleveland Daily Banner, the Chattanooga Times Free Press, and the Maysville Ledger Independent.

      “Good morning, my dear,” Farlan said, his gaze quickly returning to the newspaper.

      Brian rose from his chair and assisted her as she sat on the opposite end of the long dining table from her husband. Her son leaned down and kissed her cheek.

      “You’re looking lovely this morning, Mother.”

      She offered Brian a fragile smile. She loved her only child with all her heart. If only there was something she could do to make him happy. But he’d always been rather gloomy, even as a boy. Her father had been like that—a СКАЧАТЬ