Chosen To Die. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ movement in the shattered, crumpled mirror.

      The shotgun. She needed the shot…gun…

      She tried to respond, to look for her assailant, but she was feeling numb all over. Her head lolled to one side, the pistol slipped from her fingers, and the world began to spin in eerie slow motion, images becoming dim and foggy.

      “No!” she said, her tongue thick as she tried and failed to find her sidearm again.

      And then she saw him, his features distorted by the broken mirror, a tall figure in white, ski mask obscuring his face, huge dark goggles shielding his eyes.

      She was beginning to fade, to slip beneath the surface of consciousness as he said, “Detective Pescoli,” in a warm voice that indicated he knew her. He was only a few feet away…if she could just aim her weapon…“Looks like you’ve had yourself an accident.”

      She rolled her eyes up at him and with one last great effort snarled, “Go to hell.”

      “Already there, Detective, but at least now I won’t be alone. You’re going to join me.”

      Not if I can help it, she thought with a sudden burst of clarity. She scrabbled for her pistol, her hands sluggish as she brought it up and fired.

      A series of blasts echoed through the canyon.

      But the shots missed. Her aim was off.

      As close as he was, she’d missed him, hitting only trees and rocks and God knew what else.

      He sighed and clucked his tongue. “You’re going to regret that.”

      She wanted to squeeze off another round but her fingers refused to respond and the best she could do as he came closer was to swipe at him with her hand, her fingernails catching in his ski mask, then tearing down his skin. He let out a surprised yelp.

      “You bitch!”

      That’s me, jerk-wad, and I’ve got your epithelials and DNA under my fingernails. If I’m ever found, you’re as good as dead.

      She noticed blood welling on his skin and he reached into some kind of pack and pulled out something…an apron? God, she just couldn’t focus…everything was so distorted…but she should recognize the piece of clothing dangling from his hand…

      A straitjacket?

      A chilling, mind-numbing fear sliced through her.

      She realized he wasn’t going to let her die easily or quickly, he was going to keep her alive, torture her, nurture her, but inevitably kill her, just like the others.

      But a straitjacket? Being bound and rendered completely helpless…it was as if he understood her worst, most terrifying fears.

      The white blizzard swam before her eyes, his image and that of the straitjacket clouding in the swirling, dancing, icy flakes.

      As she sank into unconsciousness she felt no fear; just a hard-edged determination that if she ever woke up again she was going to take this son of a bitch down. Way down. To a place so dark he would never, ever see the light again.

      She only prayed she’d someday get the chance.

      Chapter Two

      Today

      Where the hell is she?

      As a brutal storm shrieked through the surrounding canyons, Nate Santana paced in the stable, his cell phone pressed hard to his ear, no sound emanating from the slim, useless device. “Come on, come on,” he encouraged but he knew it was no good.

      Regan, damn her, was MIA.

      No service appeared on the phone’s small screen.

      Frustrated, Santana jammed his cell into the pocket of his worn jeans and told himself to remain calm. He was just keyed up from everything that had gone on in the sleepy town of Grizzly Falls in the last few weeks. No big deal.

      And yet, he felt worry eating at his gut, reminding him that everything that had been good in his life always disappeared and that Pescoli, damned her sexy ass, was the best thing that had happened to him in a long, long while…probably since Santa Lucia…

      His thoughts took a dark twist as he considered the last woman who had changed the course of his life, then pushed her beautiful image from his mind. Shannon Flannery was past history.

      Right now, he had to deal with the fact that Regan was ducking his calls.

      Or was she?

      He shoved a hand through his hair and glared at the indoor arena where a particularly stubborn and nervous colt was staring back at him, challenging him.

      Usually Santana could be easily distracted by animals. In his experience they were a helluva lot easier to deal with than people. More trustworthy. More constant. But this frigid morning, he couldn’t concentrate, his thoughts creeping ever to Regan.

      Hell, he had it bad. And he hated it that she’d somehow gotten under his skin. You let her. You allowed a quick, no-strings-attached fling to develop into a full-fledged affair starting to border on a relationship.

      His jaw tightened at the thought.

      She was the worst woman he could have chosen to get involved with. The absolute worst!

      He mentally castigated himself, calling himself a long list of names that grew progressively more derogatory. No woman in a long time had infiltrated his brain, or caused him to think about finding ways to get her into bed at all hours of the day. And Regan was a damned detective with the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, for crying out loud.

      What did that tell you?

      Avoid. Avoid. Avoid!

      But he’d been drawn to her like a dying man in the desert to an oasis.

      A glance through the window confirmed that the mother of a storm wasn’t letting up. Sub-zero wind howled through the deep ravines of this part of Montana. Ice glazed the outside of the panes and the snow was falling so thick and fast, he couldn’t see the lights glowing in his cabin only a hundred feet away.

      Inside, the huge stable with its indoor exercise arena was warm, the heating system wheezing and stirring up the dust of last summer, while the familiar smells of saddle soap and horse dung, scents he’d known all his life, filled his nostrils. Horses shuffled in their stalls; one, the nervous mare, sent out a quiet whinny. Sounds and odors that usually calmed him. Truth be known, he felt far more akin to animals than he did to most men. Or women, for that matter.

      Until damned Regan Pescoli.

      With her two children.

      Two finished marriages.

      Their relationship, basically all sex, wasn’t the least bit romantic or conventional.

      No vows.

      No promises.

      No СКАЧАТЬ