Lisa Jackson's Bentz & Montoya Bundle: Hot Blooded, Cold Blooded, Shiver, Absolute Fear, Lost Souls, Malice, & an Exclusive Extended Excerpt From Devious by Lisa Jackson
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: Romance
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settled into a chaise under the table umbrella, popped her can of soda and flipped open the pages of the musty-smelling book. Maybe this was a long shot; maybe “John’s” calls had nothing to do with Milton’s epic, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling that there was some connection, if only a feeble one.
Pelicans and seagulls flew overhead, and a jet cut across the clear blue sky as Sam skimmed the text wherein Satan and his army have been thrown into hell and the fiery lake.
“It is ‘Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven,’” she whispered, reading Satan’s words from the text. “Now, there’s a line.” She glanced at the cat stalking a butterfly that flitted out of his reach over the water. “Yeah, I know. I’m probably waaaay off base here.” Quickly scanning the pages, she wondered if she’d misinterpreted the caller’s intent when he’d phoned.
She lost herself in the words as she sipped her drink while basking in the warmth of the sun. Bees hummed, a lawn mower chewed blades of grass somewhere down the street and Mrs. Killingsworth’s pug started barking wildly, probably at a squirrel or a kid on a bike. A boat engine coughed, echoing across the water, sputtering and gasping. Sam didn’t pay any attention. Just kept reading, her mind conjuring up the images Milton had scribed over three hundred years earlier.
The sun had lowered considerably when she looked up and saw the sailboat; not just any sailboat, but the same sloop she’d seen docked at Milo Swanson’s house, the very boat she’d thought had been gliding the waters late at night, though the sails were now down and the boat was being propelled by an engine that hesitated and died, only to cough and start up again.
A man was straining at the wheel, guiding the sloop closer to the dock and for once, it seemed, Mrs. Killingsworth was right. Even from a distance, she could tell he was fit, strong, and good-looking. His shirt was open, flapped in the wind and offered a view of a broad, tanned chest gleaming in the sunlight. Cut-off jeans hung from his hips, fraying over athletic thighs that strained as he kept his footing. His body glistened with sweat. Thick, dark hair blew across a high, tanned forehead. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and sitting at his feet, nose to the wind, was a dog, some kind of German shepherd mix, she guessed.
With difficulty he guided the dying craft into Sam’s slip, then threw his line over a mooring and tied up. As if he knew her. As if it was his right. The engine gave up a final growl, then died.
Sam straightened in the chair and set her book aside as she studied an angled face with strong cheekbones and a square jaw covered with a couple of day’s worth of shadow. Nope. She didn’t recognize him as he scrambled over the deck and started working on the engine. He didn’t so much as cast a glance her way.
She pushed herself upright and got to her feet. “Can I help you?”
No response. He was too engrossed in his work.
“Hello?” She walked along the dock. The dog gave off a sharp bark and finally he glanced over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said, still working on the engine. “Got a problem here. Thought I could make it home, but…oh, damn.” He slanted her a self-deprecating grin, then turned his attention to the engine. “This darned thing decided to give up the ghost.”
“Can I help?”
He stared at her from behind dark glasses anchored over a slightly crooked nose. “You a mechanic?”
“I have been on a boat before.”
He considered, looked her over once again. “Sure, come aboard. But it’s not just the engine. The damned keel’s been giving me trouble, and the sails are ripped. I shouldn’t have taken her out today.” Frustration lined his forehead where thick, coffee-colored hair caught in the breeze. He straightened and slapped the boom with an open palm. “I knew better.”
Barefooted, she climbed carefully onto the deck, wincing just a bit when she put
Pelicans and seagulls flew overhead, and a jet cut across the clear blue sky as Sam skimmed the text wherein Satan and his army have been thrown into hell and the fiery lake.
“It is ‘Better to reign in Hell than to serve in Heaven,’” she whispered, reading Satan’s words from the text. “Now, there’s a line.” She glanced at the cat stalking a butterfly that flitted out of his reach over the water. “Yeah, I know. I’m probably waaaay off base here.” Quickly scanning the pages, she wondered if she’d misinterpreted the caller’s intent when he’d phoned.
She lost herself in the words as she sipped her drink while basking in the warmth of the sun. Bees hummed, a lawn mower chewed blades of grass somewhere down the street and Mrs. Killingsworth’s pug started barking wildly, probably at a squirrel or a kid on a bike. A boat engine coughed, echoing across the water, sputtering and gasping. Sam didn’t pay any attention. Just kept reading, her mind conjuring up the images Milton had scribed over three hundred years earlier.
The sun had lowered considerably when she looked up and saw the sailboat; not just any sailboat, but the same sloop she’d seen docked at Milo Swanson’s house, the very boat she’d thought had been gliding the waters late at night, though the sails were now down and the boat was being propelled by an engine that hesitated and died, only to cough and start up again.
A man was straining at the wheel, guiding the sloop closer to the dock and for once, it seemed, Mrs. Killingsworth was right. Even from a distance, she could tell he was fit, strong, and good-looking. His shirt was open, flapped in the wind and offered a view of a broad, tanned chest gleaming in the sunlight. Cut-off jeans hung from his hips, fraying over athletic thighs that strained as he kept his footing. His body glistened with sweat. Thick, dark hair blew across a high, tanned forehead. Dark glasses covered his eyes, and sitting at his feet, nose to the wind, was a dog, some kind of German shepherd mix, she guessed.
With difficulty he guided the dying craft into Sam’s slip, then threw his line over a mooring and tied up. As if he knew her. As if it was his right. The engine gave up a final growl, then died.
Sam straightened in the chair and set her book aside as she studied an angled face with strong cheekbones and a square jaw covered with a couple of day’s worth of shadow. Nope. She didn’t recognize him as he scrambled over the deck and started working on the engine. He didn’t so much as cast a glance her way.
She pushed herself upright and got to her feet. “Can I help you?”
No response. He was too engrossed in his work.
“Hello?” She walked along the dock. The dog gave off a sharp bark and finally he glanced over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said, still working on the engine. “Got a problem here. Thought I could make it home, but…oh, damn.” He slanted her a self-deprecating grin, then turned his attention to the engine. “This darned thing decided to give up the ghost.”
“Can I help?”
He stared at her from behind dark glasses anchored over a slightly crooked nose. “You a mechanic?”
“I have been on a boat before.”
He considered, looked her over once again. “Sure, come aboard. But it’s not just the engine. The damned keel’s been giving me trouble, and the sails are ripped. I shouldn’t have taken her out today.” Frustration lined his forehead where thick, coffee-colored hair caught in the breeze. He straightened and slapped the boom with an open palm. “I knew better.”
Barefooted, she climbed carefully onto the deck, wincing just a bit when she put
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