Shadowed Paradise (43 page)

Jordan glanced at his watch. Time was running
out. Pretty soon the ducks would begin to move . . . just like one
of those arcade games where you could shoot and shoot and shoot and
the damn yellow tails never keeled over. The story of his life. He
never won the prize.

But not this time. This time he was going to
win. Knock off all the little ducks. Accomplish every goal. Every.
Last. One.

“
Strip,” he barked. “All the way to the
skin.”

The little cunt had the nerve to glower at
him. “I strip, and Jamie stays in the closet?”

“
Of course,” he agreed smoothly. “I
have no interest in children.” He moved toward her until he was
little more than a yard away. He held the knife at eye level, so
she could anticipate its deadly power.

He was lying, Jody realized, as she began to
comprehend the full horror of it. He couldn’t kill her and let
Jamie go. Jamie was a witness.

Claire might come home early. Or Brad. If she
could delay long enough . . .

Jody shut her eyes, trying to recall some of
the stripper moves she’d seen when she’d sneaked a peek at
forbidden web sites. If only she had a shirt with buttons, she
could make a thing of undoing them one by . . .

“
Move!” Hard, urgent. His eyes
glittered. So did the knife.

Jody stooped down, slowly pulled at the
tie on her left sneaker. Her fingers paused, then pulled the laces
out of the first few holes, one at a time. With maddening
deliberation she slid her foot out of the battered old sneaker. She
wiggled her toes. From under long, thick lashes, she glanced up at
Jordan, a half smile flittering across her face, as if to
ask
How was that? Did I do it
right?

The knife jabbed down, pierced the toe of the
sneaker, flung it across the room. A loud crash, the sound of
tinkling glass as the large mirror over Claire’s dresser splintered
into a hundred pieces. “No more games, bitch,” Jordan growled. “Get
on with it!” Humiliating, that’s what it was—that he who’d had
Diane Lake should come to this. No matter how fresh this little
morsel, she was just a Florida cracker. How dare she play with
him?

The hand with the knife swung forward, the
blade whistling within an inch of her throat. Jody’s heart
flip-flopped. The second sneaker came off with haste. She took a
steadying breath, grasped the hem of her T-shirt, inched it up.
Surely slow was acceptable for this part. For herself, it was a
necessity. Even if he cut her, she couldn’t ignore a lifetime of
modesty. Jody withdrew one arm from the T-shirt, then the other,
pausing for effect between each. Finally, with shaking hands and
churning stomach, she pulled the tee over her head, dropped it to
the floor.

Jordan’s smile reappeared. Better, much
better. The girl’s bra was surprisingly lacy and roundly filled.
His already considerable arousal grew harder yet.

Jody unbuckled her belt, pulled it
slowly through the loops. She wanted to keep her eyes on the floor,
anywhere but on
him
, but she
sensed he would tolerate her snail’s pace striptease only if she
could keep eye contact, keep him interested, keep him from losing
his temper. She stared into the pools of flint and unzipped her
jeans. She wriggled, stretched, pretended the jeans were a great
deal tighter than they actually were. Frantically, she tried to
remember what panties she’d put on that morning. Surely not the
bikini ones?

Jordan was breathing hard. Sweet fucking
hell, but the girl was built. He wheezed as the jeans pooled around
her ankles. He didn’t even notice when she took her time stepping
out of them. His eyes fixed on the scrap of stretch lace no man
could consider anything but a come-on. Like the bra, the panties
revealed more than they concealed. The wisp of virginal white lace
was like a red flag to a bull. If she was as cherry as she seemed,
who the hell did she think she was dressing like that for?

“
Don’t!” His voice shot out like a
bullet as Jody tried to cover herself with her hands. His own
breath wheezed harshly, lungs struggling for air. Maybe, like
Diane, he’d have her first. Just to give him the strength to go on.
And then the
pièce de
resistance
.

After
.

“
Keep going,” Jordan snapped. The
little bitch was frozen there, one hand vainly trying to cover both
mounds of flesh, the other splayed above her crotch. Foolish child.
He was superman. He had X-ray vision. Nothing could stop him,
certainly not some little Florida cunt’s work-roughened hands. He
stepped forward, hoisted a bra strap on the tip of the knife,
slipped it off one shoulder. Her eyes went wide, her lips quivered.
Good. Very good. He liked that.

His free hand clamped down on the arm Jody
was using, vainly, to cover her breasts. For a moment they
struggled in a travesty of an arm wrestling contest, and then
Jody’s arm was down, pinned to her side. The knife gleamed, icy
steel burned as the center of her bra split open, the long strip of
lace cast away with a flick of the blade. The tip of the knife slid
down, skimming a trail over her skin like a deadly snake. The
narrow band of elastic at her hips snapped as easily as a thread.
The bikini didn’t cling. It fell away, leaving her naked, exposed
to madness.

Once again, Jody tried to cover
herself. She shut her eyes, recognizing the absurdity even as she
did it.
Daddy! Mom! Oh, God, Brad, Slade!
Somebody!

And then, sudden silence. His hands no longer
touched her. The harsh agonized breathing stopped. The room went
absolutely still. Jody opened a slit in one eye. He was simply
standing there, looking at her, his face gone from red to ghostly
white. His hands lay full length at his sides, the knife tip
pointing straight at the floor. A trap? Was he tempting her to run?
Had he flipped out? Frozen up? Or was he simply enjoying the
view?

She’d never get a better chance. Jody put
every ounce of her considerable wiry strength into the spring that
took her to the middle of the bed. She bounced once, rolled, and
was off, running hard for the door. If she could get to a phone,
dial 911, she would somehow find a way to keep him off Jamie until
help arrived. The yank on her flying hair brought her up short, the
agony, the horror of its meaning, tearing a scream from her
throat.

“
Bitch!” he screamed. “Goddamn bitch.
All I wanted to do was look.” At that moment, raging, he actually
believed it. He pinned her to his chest, drew her back against the
hardness of him. Bet the little cunt wasn’t so innocent she didn’t
know what was poking into her back. She was a farmer’s daughter,
wasn’t she? Couldn’t be that dumb, could she?”

At first, when he felt her go still, he
thought it was a show of good sense, respect for the knife he held
to her throat. And then he heard it. The crunch of tires on the
driveway.

Fuck! Time had run out. He wasn’t going to
have a taste of her. Only the joy of killing her. The knife was too
easy; there was no satisfaction in it. He had to do it himself,
flesh to flesh. Feel fingers sinking in, squeezing out the life.
See the eyes bulge, turn up. Hear the rasping efforts to breathe,
slowly growing quieter, fading into nothing.

Jordan tightened his grip on her body, drove
the knife into the sheath on his belt. He knew all the moves now,
the rhythm of it. The hard, fast attack, destroying the ability to
struggle before it began. Then the slow, deadly squeeze. Now, now
was the time.

He flexed the long fingers of his powerful,
well-manicured hands. And, in one swift movement, fastened them
hard around Jody’s throat. Cutting off air, will, light . . .
life.

He tightened the vise.

Claire could never say why she left work
early, but for all her life she would ascribe it to divine
intervention. Her nerves started to twitch about the time Jody was
scheduled to pick up Jamie. A natural reaction, she’d thought.
Jamie’s moving day—they were about to become a real family. And
today she would see Jamie for the first time since the wedding,
have time to hug him, reassure him.

But warm thoughts of home and family faded
into disquiet, an increasing edginess, a flare of hideous
imagination. With such evil hanging over them, how could she help
seeing stalkers and killers behind every tree, peeking into
windows, doing an end run . . .

Doing what no one expected. Sneaking up on
Jamie and Jody.

Absurd. And yet . . .

Claire picked up the phone. Brad was at the
far end of the complex working with the architect on the custom
modifications for the reclusive author’s home, which would have a
spectacular two-way water view at a bend in the river. “I’m closing
up early,” she told Brad. “Jamie and Jody are moving his things
today, and I’m anxious to see him. Okay, boss?”

She heard him chuckle. As if anything he said
could have stopped her. “Be sure Pat goes with you,” Brad
cautioned. “I’m going to be tied up here for another hour or
so.”

“
Yes, sir,” Claire quipped. Swiftly she
locked up and headed for home, Deputy Farrell trailing after her in
his patrol car.

They were three miles into the nine-mile
journey to Palm Court when Claire heard the unmistakable sound of
crunching metal and shattering glass. A glance in her rear view
mirror revealed the wreck of a car and a van in the intersection
she and Pat Farrell had just passed. It was far worse than a fender
bender. Claire pulled to the side of the road.

The deputy switched on his flashing blue
lights, pulled beside her as he began a U-turn. “I gotta go,
Claire, I’m sorry. I’ll call Brad and tell him. Keep your eyes
open. Be careful.” And he was off with siren wailing, already on
the phone calling for emergency medical service.

Playing it safe, Claire picked up her cell
phone and called Brad herself. “I’m fine,” she assured him, “but
the accident looks bad. Pat had to handle it. No need to worry.
There’ll be three of us at the house. Nobody’s going to take on a
mob like that. So do what you have to do, we’ll be fine.”

She could tell Brad wasn’t happy, but the
architect’s time was valuable, the modifications they were making
vital to an important contract. At this point money might not be at
the top of their worries, but it was far from the least. For the
sake of Amber Run she could manage on her own for an hour or
two.

Of course she could.

As Claire pulled into the driveway at Palm
Court, her heart soared. Absorbed as she was in her hunk of a
husband, she’d missed Jamie. Four whole days. She could hardly wait
to see him. Tumbling out of the car, she jogged through the kitchen
door, then stopped dead. Something about the atmosphere in the old
house struck her in the face. Almost as if a scream still echoed
through the silence. As if evil leaped at her out of the
stillness.

The house shouldn’t have been so quiet. Not
with Jamie in it. Never with Jamie in it. But he and Jody were
here. Jody’s pickup was in the driveway.

Silly!
They
were up on the third floor, that was all. Why Brad had sided with
Jamie about having the tower room when he could have had a much
larger, more elegant bedroom on the first floor, Claire couldn’t
have said. Male bonding, she supposed. But the tower room it was,
and it was a long way up. It was unlikely she could hear them from
way up there.

But somehow she couldn’t call out—her lips
were frozen shut. She was going to have egg on her face when she
found them, but she was going up the back stairs oh-so-quietly. And
she was going armed. There were fireplaces in every room except the
kitchen. Moving as silently as she could, Claire inched her way
into the nearest downstairs bedroom and grabbed a heavy metal
poker. She hefted it in both hands, staring at the long black shaft
of iron in horror. With that little prong at the end, it was a very
deadly weapon indeed. Could she actually bring herself to use
it?

Of course she could. There wasn’t anything a
mother wouldn’t do in defense of her child. They would laugh about
this later, she and Brad and Jamie. Mommy stalking through her own
house, clutching a poker.

No. Something was very wrong. She could feel
it.

Claire tiptoed to the foot of the back
stairs, started up, praying the wood wouldn’t creak. By the time
she inched past the maid’s room, she could hear the heavy
breathing. The panting exquisite agony of sex. Jody.
Oh, God, he was here
. Raping
her!

Which meant—Claire leaned hard against the
wall for support—which meant he was probably oblivious to all
else.

She slid along the wall, forced herself to
peek around the edge of the door. The monster’s hands were around
Jody’s throat. His face, unrecognizable, was set in a triumphant
rictus, the mask of evil caught in the moment of orgasm.

Jody’s body dangled from his hands.

The angle was bad, with Jody’s limp form
between Claire and her goal. Nonetheless . . . Claire’s first blow
broke his hold on Jody, who tumbled to the floor. Before he could
recover, Claire swung the poker again, but, shockingly, in the
midst of the blow she recognized him. Before, she had seen only a
killer, an evil, mindless thing. Now she saw Jordan Lovell. Ginny’s
friend. Phil’s friend. The organizer of her wedding.

Jordan Lovell?

Claire’s hesitation gave him time to duck.
Her second swing still managed to knock him flat. Jordan crumpled
into a heap between Jody and the door to the walk-in closet. Claire
gulped for air, watching him closely for any sign of movement.
There was none.

Jamie
.