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 Page A
Authors: Lisa Jackson
Tags: Romance
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all her weight on her bad ankle. “I’m Samantha,” she said. “Samantha Leeds.”
“Ty Wheeler. I live right around that point.” He gestured to the small jetty of land, then squatted near the engine and fiddled with a wire or two. Satisfied, he tried the ignition. It ground. The engine sputtered. Wound down pitifully. Ty swore under his breath. “Look, it’s no use. Probably the fuel line. I need to run to the house and grab some more tools.” He swiped the sweat from his forehead and scowled up at the boat. “She’s not mine, not yet. I’m just trying her out.” He shook his head. “Now I know why she’s such a bargain. Bright Angel, my ass. More like Satan’s Revenge. Maybe I’ll rename her if I decide to buy.”
Sam didn’t move a muscle. She couldn’t breathe for a second and told herself she was overreacting. It was a coincidence he’d mentioned Satan, that was all. So she was skimming through the pages of Paradise Lost, so what? There was nothing to it. Nothing.
He checked his watch, then the lowering sun. “Do you mind if I leave her here? I’ll run down and get my tools. I live just down the street, about half a mile.” He checked his watch and frowned. “Damn it all.” Glancing up at her again, he said, “I really thought I could make it back to my dock, but she”—he glared at the engine—“had other ideas. I’ll try to get back today, but, it might be tomorrow. I’ve got to be somewhere in an hour.”
“I suppose that would be okay,” Sam said, and before she could second-guess herself he was out of the boat, dog at his heels, marching toward the house.
Shading her eyes, she watched as he crossed the broad expanse of lawn, passed under one of the shade trees, rounded the porch and headed for the gate near the front of the house, as if he’d known exactly where it was.
Though that wasn’t such a big leap. The gate had to be on one side of the house or the other. He had a 50 percent chance of figuring it out. He’d just gotten lucky.
She settled into her deck chair again and opened the book, but she couldn’t concentrate and soon she heard Hannibal barking madly, then thought she heard a car pull into the drive over the rise of the wind. Slamming the book shut, she got up too quickly, felt a pain in her left ankle and muttered to herself at her own stupidity.
By the time she reached the back porch, she heard the soft peal of her doorbell and she flew through the rooms yelling, “I’m coming.” At the door she looked through the peephole and saw a tall, barrel-chested man wearing a tan jacket. His hands were jammed into his pockets and he was chewing gum as if his life depended on it. Sam opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow.
“What can I do for you?”
“Samantha Leeds?”
“Yes.”
“Rick Bentz, New Orleans Police Department.” He flipped open a black wallet that displayed his badge and ID. Gray eyes drilled into hers. “You filed a report down at the station. This is a follow-up call.”
Everything looked in order, the picture on his ID matched the face staring sternly at her, so Sam unlocked the chain and opened the door. Bentz walked in, and Sam sensed the man was keyed up. “Let’s go over what happened,” he suggested. “We can start with”—he glanced down at his notes—“the call you got at the station and, it says here you got a threatening letter here at the house. You called the local police about it.”
“And the message left on my machine while I was on vacation. This way.” She guided him into the den, handed him a copy of the letter and marred photograph, then changed tapes in her answering machine. “These are both copies. The originals are with the Cambrai police.”
“Good.”
Sam played the message that had haunted her for nearly a week.
Bentz listened hard as he stared at the publicity photo with her eyes cut out.
“I know what you did, and you’re not going to get away with it. You’re going to have
“Ty Wheeler. I live right around that point.” He gestured to the small jetty of land, then squatted near the engine and fiddled with a wire or two. Satisfied, he tried the ignition. It ground. The engine sputtered. Wound down pitifully. Ty swore under his breath. “Look, it’s no use. Probably the fuel line. I need to run to the house and grab some more tools.” He swiped the sweat from his forehead and scowled up at the boat. “She’s not mine, not yet. I’m just trying her out.” He shook his head. “Now I know why she’s such a bargain. Bright Angel, my ass. More like Satan’s Revenge. Maybe I’ll rename her if I decide to buy.”
Sam didn’t move a muscle. She couldn’t breathe for a second and told herself she was overreacting. It was a coincidence he’d mentioned Satan, that was all. So she was skimming through the pages of Paradise Lost, so what? There was nothing to it. Nothing.
He checked his watch, then the lowering sun. “Do you mind if I leave her here? I’ll run down and get my tools. I live just down the street, about half a mile.” He checked his watch and frowned. “Damn it all.” Glancing up at her again, he said, “I really thought I could make it back to my dock, but she”—he glared at the engine—“had other ideas. I’ll try to get back today, but, it might be tomorrow. I’ve got to be somewhere in an hour.”
“I suppose that would be okay,” Sam said, and before she could second-guess herself he was out of the boat, dog at his heels, marching toward the house.
Shading her eyes, she watched as he crossed the broad expanse of lawn, passed under one of the shade trees, rounded the porch and headed for the gate near the front of the house, as if he’d known exactly where it was.
Though that wasn’t such a big leap. The gate had to be on one side of the house or the other. He had a 50 percent chance of figuring it out. He’d just gotten lucky.
She settled into her deck chair again and opened the book, but she couldn’t concentrate and soon she heard Hannibal barking madly, then thought she heard a car pull into the drive over the rise of the wind. Slamming the book shut, she got up too quickly, felt a pain in her left ankle and muttered to herself at her own stupidity.
By the time she reached the back porch, she heard the soft peal of her doorbell and she flew through the rooms yelling, “I’m coming.” At the door she looked through the peephole and saw a tall, barrel-chested man wearing a tan jacket. His hands were jammed into his pockets and he was chewing gum as if his life depended on it. Sam opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow.
“What can I do for you?”
“Samantha Leeds?”
“Yes.”
“Rick Bentz, New Orleans Police Department.” He flipped open a black wallet that displayed his badge and ID. Gray eyes drilled into hers. “You filed a report down at the station. This is a follow-up call.”
Everything looked in order, the picture on his ID matched the face staring sternly at her, so Sam unlocked the chain and opened the door. Bentz walked in, and Sam sensed the man was keyed up. “Let’s go over what happened,” he suggested. “We can start with”—he glanced down at his notes—“the call you got at the station and, it says here you got a threatening letter here at the house. You called the local police about it.”
“And the message left on my machine while I was on vacation. This way.” She guided him into the den, handed him a copy of the letter and marred photograph, then changed tapes in her answering machine. “These are both copies. The originals are with the Cambrai police.”
“Good.”
Sam played the message that had haunted her for nearly a week.
Bentz listened hard as he stared at the publicity photo with her eyes cut out.
“I know what you did, and you’re not going to get away with it. You’re going to have
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