The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa Jackson

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      Holly, jolly, my ass.

      Chapter Nineteen

      Jillian had never been so cold in her life.

      Teeth chattering, mind numb with fear, she struggled to free herself, to slip through the bonds. Her mind was sluggish and dull, but she forced herself to think, to find a way to extricate herself from the rope that held her fast to the tree.

      The sick smell of ether still clung to her nostrils and she coughed and spat as her mind began to clear. Vaguely she recalled being attacked as she tried to save the dog, of having a rag held over her nose and mouth as she flailed wildly, fighting for a breath of air, feeling her good leg wobble and battling the darkness that encroached upon her vision and dragged her under.

      Then her thoughts were scattered and vague. She remembered nothing clearly and the memories she did have were dull, mainly sensations. She sensed she was being dragged, that whoever had attacked her was laboring, having trouble breathing, and obviously hadn’t planned on having to carry her. But other than that, she remembered little.

      Shivering, she forced her eyes open. Daylight was fading, shadows lengthening, and she was just so cold, her skin covered in goosebumps, her flesh feeling as if it were ice.

      Help me!

      The thought stuck in her mind and she forced the words over her lips. “Help, oh please help!” she screamed, but her voice was raw and tight, the sound no louder than a whisper. She blinked and tried to look into the forest, into the encroaching darkness.

      This, she was certain, was how the others had died, though she remembered little of the details. That information hadn’t been big news in Seattle.

      Oh God, Seattle.

      Home.

      The townhouse with its narrow stairs, small decks and warm, soft calico cat. Her throat tightened and tears formed in her eyes. And she thought of Zane MacGregor, the man who had saved her from freezing to death in her car, all his efforts wasted. Her throat thickened as she remembered him. Dear Lord, how had she mistrusted him? Why hadn’t she gone with her instincts and gotten closer to him? Touched him? Kissed him? Now she would never get the chance. Now, aside from that chaste brush of his lips against her cheek, she’d never know his touch.

      Fool! She nearly sobbed as the tears tracked from her eyes only to freeze against her skin.

      Oh for God’s sake, Jillian, what’re ya doin’ sniveling and giving up? For the love of God, don’t feel sorry for yourself. Do something! Save yourself, honey. Show what you’re made of! Grandpa Jim’s voice echoed through her brain, though he’d been dead for years and she doubted, rationally, that his spirit was wandering through the snow-shrouded forests of these hills.

      “Help!” she yelled with more force, and looked down at the ropes surrounding her. She’d been tied at the waist first, secured against the cedar tree, her wrists lashed in front of her. Then her shoulders and legs had been bound so tightly that the rough fibers of the rope cut deep into her skin, making every movement even more painful.

      Her ribs still ached and her damned ankle throbbed.

      You won’t have to worry about that much longer, though, if your body goes numb.

      Great.

      Her mind was clearing, the ether wearing off, the urge to spit and cough lessening.

      Come on, Jillian. Somehow you have to untie the ropes. Work on your wrists. Get your hands free.

      But her fingers were unresponsive, unable to grab the ends of the knots. Nor could she reach them with her mouth, as her shoulders were so tightly lashed. She thought about the person who’d brought her here, a strong, determined individual hell-bent on destroying her.

      Why?

      And why harm the dog?

      Jillian’s stomach roiled when she thought how Harley, poor innocent pup, had given up his life for her. Why the hell would someone hurt MacGregor’s dog? Fury spurted through her blood, and if she ever got the chance, she’d beat the living tar out of the person who had done this.

      Perverted, twisted sicko!

      Angrier now, her head clearer, Jillian shook her body, trying to force the shoulder lashings lower so she could dip her head, but try as she might, she managed only to chafe her already raw skin.

      It was useless!

      So you’re 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 СКАЧАТЬ