Malice. Lisa Jackson

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      “And a baby? Look, I don’t think that will solve the problem.” He met her gaze evenly. “You can’t run from problems, Livvie. You know that. Sooner or later they catch up to you. Mistakes have a way of chasing you down. Even ones from a long time ago.”

      “That’s what you think’s happened?” she asked, her mind spinning to tiny references he’d made lately. “Your past in L.A. finally finding you?” She pulled her hand away from his.

      “I don’t know what’s happening. But I’m working on it. Right now, it’s the best I can do.” He signaled a passing waiter for the bill and the conversation was effectively ended. They settled up and Bentz walked stiffly, though unaided, through the dark restaurant toward the street where his Jeep was parked. He’d insisted on driving and had done a fair enough job on the way to dinner. Though now, on the way home, Olivia whispered a few Hail Marys as he pushed the speed limit on the freeway and she accused him of driving like Montoya.

      He flashed her a grin and stepped on it.

      They drove home in relative silence, the radio playing softly, the engine humming, each of them lost in thought. At the house he walked her up the front steps, held the door for her, and outwardly seemed attentive. Even loving.

      They went through their usual routine. She took care of the pets and went upstairs to read in bed; he watched the news before coming up to their room. They didn’t say much; uncertainty and the tension between them still simmered in the air.

      From the corner of her eye Olivia watched Bentz strip down to his boxers, noticing that he winced a little as he slid into bed. She dog-eared the page she’d been reading, folded the book closed, and placed it on her nightstand. “I don’t want to fight,” she said, reaching to turn out the light. She lay still a moment as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. “I don’t want to go to sleep angry.”

      “Are you?”

      A breeze lifted the curtains at the window as it blew in from the bayou. “Yeah, a little. And frustrated and…worried, I guess. It seems like…like you’re right here but I can’t find you.”

      The mattress creaked as he turned to her. “Keep looking,” he whispered into her hair, his breath warm as it brushed over her skin. One big hand smoothed over the curve of her waist. “Don’t give up on me.”

      “Don’t give up on us,” she said, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes.

      “Never.” His arms surrounded her as he pulled her close. His lips found hers in the dark and he kissed her hard, with a pulsing intensity that ignited her blood.

      She shouldn’t do this, fall into this sexual trap when she was riddled with angst over their future. But his touch, as always, was seductive, the feel of his body comforting. His tongue pressed hard, then slid through her teeth, touching and dancing with hers.

      Don’t do this, Livvie. Don’t fall for this sex in lieu of conversation.

      He began tugging her nightgown ever upward, his fingers grazing her skin. Still kissing her, he skimmed one warm hand over her thighs, her hips, and higher still to her waist.

      “I don’t know if this is a good idea,” she whispered.

      “It isn’t. It’s a great idea.” He yanked the damned nightgown over her head, tossed it to the floor, then quickly settled over her, his body stretching the length of her. “Don’t think for a second I would give up on us,” he said against her skin as she tore off his boxers, her fingertips skimming his tight buttocks and sinewy legs.

      She wanted to believe him. With all her heart.

      “Feel good,” he said, and she closed her eyes and gave herself up, body and soul, to his touch.

      Later, she was still awake. The ceiling fan whirred above the bed, forcing the air to move.

      God, she loved this man. Her heart ached with the burden of loving him. But she wouldn’t let that love destroy her.

      She ran her fingers through his coarse hair and listened to him gently snore. His eyes were moving rapidly behind his lids, his body hardening, muscles tense rather than relaxed. “No,” he said aloud. “No…oh…God. Stop!”

      “Shh,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”

      “Stop! Please! Don’t!” He was frantic, his breathing wild. “Jennifer!” He yelled her name without waking, then settled into a troubled slumber.

      But Olivia didn’t sleep a wink.

      The sound of his voice yelling Jennifer’s name echoed through her mind. She slid from beneath the covers and walked downstairs. She wrapped a fuzzy blanket around her, stretched out on the couch, and let the dog curl into her lap as she stared out the window at the rising moon.

      Olivia didn’t know what was going on with her husband, but realized that somehow, some way, Rick’s first wife was causing a rift between them.

      It was ridiculous. She’d met Bentz long after Jennifer had died and though she suspected he carried some guilt for his young wife’s death, for living when she lost her life, he seemed to have handled it well.

      Until he’d spent two weeks in a coma.

      Something had happened in those lost days when he’d been unconscious. Rick Bentz had changed. Which wasn’t unusual, considering the circumstances. He’d nearly died.

      No one could escape such a trauma without some emotional scarring. Withdrawal and introspection were normal. The man had faced death, for God’s sake, so Olivia had granted him ample time to heal, not just physically, but emotionally as well.

      But what the hell did Jennifer Nichols Bentz have to do with it?

      She must’ve dozed because she was surprised to notice dawn seeping over the horizon. Deep shades of magenta and lilac streaked the eastern sky and she couldn’t stand lying on the couch another second. Her head ached and she decided to start the coffee. Decaf, she reminded herself as she walked into the bathroom and pulled out the small wastebasket beneath the sink.

      Lying on the top of a pile of wadded tissues was the remains of her most recent pregnancy test, the package unmistakable, the test stick with its pink line still giving a positive reading, indicating that yes, indeed, Olivia Bentz was pregnant.

      CHAPTER 3

      “Help me.” Jennifer’s voice was as clear as it had been the last time he’d seen her alive. “Rick…help me.” She was lying in the car, her face bloodied, her body broken, unmoving. And yet he’d heard her voice.

      “You’ll be okay,” he said, trying to move closer to her, but his legs were leaden, weighted as if in quicksand. The harder he tried to reach her, the more distant she was, her face disintegrating before him.

      Suddenly, her eyes opened.

      “It’s your fault,” she said as the flesh peeled away, revealing only a skull with damning eyes. “Your fault.”

      “No!”

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