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If Looks Could Kill
BEVERLY BARTON
Get ready to embark on the ride of your life with this thrill-fuelled thriller, for fans of Karin Slaughter and Karen Rose.Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?The victims are found face-down in the murky waters of Cherokee Pointe, Tennessee. The murders all share the same characteristics: the victims are found naked except for a black, satin ribbon tied around they're necks – and they're all redheads.Meanwhile, Reve Sorrell has come to Cherokee Pointe seeking answers about her connection to bad girl Jazzy Talbot. With their stunning looks, the two redheads are mirror images of each other – but raised in very different worlds.As the serial killer leaves another chilling calling card, Reve turns to Sheriff Jacob Butler to help her unravel the deadly secrets of her past. But one person will do anything to stop her – and they are closer than she could ever imagine…


IF LOOKS
COULD KILL
BEVERLY BARTON


Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/)
Copyright © Beverly Barton 2004
Beverly Barton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9781847561398
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2011 ISBN: 9780007371693
Version: 2018-07-05
In memory of my father, a man with a kind and generous heart, a mind that thirsted for knowledge and a truly good soul destined for eternal happiness. This one is for you, Dee Jr., my daddy.
Contents
Cover (#u75178c3c-d91e-50e5-bcf2-8a4a40521914)
Title Page (#u7919159d-10cb-59bc-86d8-1e3f94c0e25d)
Copyright
Dedication (#uc9e79762-c76a-52b0-9751-a8341be598f1)

Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue

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About the Author
Also by Beverly Barton
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Kat Baker applied the dark pink lipstick to her mouth, tossed the plastic wand onto the dressing table and stood up to view herself in the full-length mirror. Studying her image, she decided she looked damn good, despite her hair color, an outrageous shade of dark red. She’d been a brunette since childhood and had gone blonde in her early twenties, but never had she considered dyeing her long, glossy mane in red. However, being a working girl whose livelihood depended upon pleasing her clientele, she did whatever the men in her life requested. And this new man had the money to pay for the exclusive rights to her whenever he was in town.
Tonight would mark their fourth “date.” When he’d telephoned two days ago, he’d given her specific instructions on how to dress and where to meet him, just as he’d done on two previous occasions. He called himself Harry—no last name—but she knew that wasn’t his real name. Few of her clients ever divulged their true identities and she couldn’t blame them, although some used their real given names. They seemed to want to hear her cry out their name when she came. And she was good at faking those earth-shattering orgasms many men tried so hard to give her.
But Harry wasn’t like that. He didn’t seem to give a damn whether or not she got off, just as long as he did. A shudder passed through her as she recalled the last time he’d been in town. He’d come here the first time, as most of her johns did, to this small Knoxville apartment she rented strictly for her business dealings. She kept another place—her own private home—across town in a nicer neighborhood where no one knew what she did for a living. The first two times with Harry, he’d been aggressive and demanding, but hadn’t requested anything out of the ordinary. But the third time had been different. And truth be told, if he hadn’t offered her such an exorbitant amount of money to be available whenever he came to Knoxville, she’d never see him again. She could deal with rough sex, even with mild S&M, but Harry had come damn near close to choking her. When she’d managed to breathe again, she had tried to get away from him, but he’d held her down and fucked her like crazy.
Before he’d left that night, he’d given her a huge sum in cash, instructed her to dye her hair red and to wear a black corded ribbon around her neck the next time they were together. He’d even pulled the ribbon from his pocket and handed it to her. The guy gave her the creeps, but she’d convinced herself that he hadn’t really hurt her—just scared the shit out of her—and the money was three times what she usually made. A woman in her business who was over thirty had to think about her future, didn’t she?
Kat opened the middle drawer in her dressing table, reached inside and pulled out the black ribbon. As she tied it at the back of her neck, she wondered just what it was about this strip of black braided satin that turned Harry on. Probably some freaky thing from his past. Something to do with his mommy or his nanny or his teenage sweetheart.
Grabbing her purple leather jacket from the closet where she kept her working clothes, she thought ahead to her appointment and wondered what Harry would do to her tonight. Whatever it was, she was sure she’d earn her pay.
Kat’s eyelids fluttered as she tried to open her eyes, but the lids were heavy. So heavy. Her head throbbed something awful. Where was she? What had happened to her? Why couldn’t she remember?
She heard an odd noise rumbling in her ears and realized it was the sound of her own groans. Wake up, Kat. Dammit, girl, wake up.
Something odd was going on. Had somebody drugged her? Think. Try to remember. She’d had an appointment with Harry tonight. Oh, God, that was it! The last thing she remembered was having drinks with Harry. Wine. She hated wine, but he’d insisted, telling her that it was a very expensive bottle he’d bought especially for them.
Suddenly she felt something brush over her breasts. Hands. Large hands. A man’s hands. But those hands felt strange, as if they were covered in plastic.
She tried again to open her eyes, but without success. Then she tried to speak, but all she managed was a hoarse moan.
“You’re beautiful, Dinah,” a man said, his hands caressing her body with gentle force.
Who the hell was Dinah?
Kat moaned and tried again to open her eyes. When she gazed up at the man hovering over her, she recognized him. It was Harry.
Harry looked down at her and smiled as he rammed into her. “You’re always a good fuck, Dinah. The best.”
“Har . . . ree . . . ?” She couldn’t manage to keep her eyes open.
“You shouldn’t be waking up, my love. But it doesn’t matter. It’ll soon be over. For this time.”
For this time? Her mind was still so foggy she couldn’t think straight. She knew she was with Harry, knew he was screwing her and suspected he had drugged her. But why had he drugged her? He’d paid her for her services. She’d do anything he wanted. He knew that. Hell, maybe he got off fucking a woman while she was unconscious. You never knew what turned a guy on.
He pumped into her, his thrusts increasing in speed. She lifted her arms, intending to caress him, to urge him on, but her arms felt as if they weighed a hundred pounds each. That must have been some strong drug he’d put in her wine.
She forced her eyes open again only moments before Harry came. Grunting and shivering, he moaned into her ear. “Dinah . . . my Dinah.”
He lifted himself up and off Kat, then slid backward out of the car. Kat managed to halfway sit up. That’s when she realized they were in a parked car. She peeked out the window. Darkness. She stared at Harry, who stood just outside the open back door. He carefully removed the condom from his penis and placed it in a plastic bag.
How odd was that? Maybe the guy’s a neat freak.
After laying the bag on the floor board beside her, he zipped up his pants, which couldn’t have been an easy task with gloves on.
Gloves?
Why was Harry wearing plastic gloves?
Glancing at her, he smiled again. He reached out, shoved her back down on the seat, then caressed the black satin ribbon around her neck.
“Harry? What—”
“Hush, sweet Dinah. Don’t talk. It’s not part of our game.”
“What game?”
He laughed and the sound sent chilling ripples up her spine.
Harry untied the satin cord, then grasped the ends.
When Kat saw the wild look in his eyes, she panicked. She knew in that very instant that he was playing a deadly game.
“No . . . don’t,” she pleaded. “I—I don’t want to play this game.”
“I told you not to talk.”
He tightened the ribbon around her neck.
Grasping his hands, she struggled against him.
“Please . . .” Is he going to kill me?
He slowly tightened the ribbon more and more.
She could barely breathe. God help her, he was choking her to death.
Don’t kill me, she pleaded silently. I don’t want to die.
Allowing the good feelings to linger inside him for a few minutes, he looked up at the dark night sky and laughed aloud. God, he felt great! When he’d come, when he’d finished humping Dinah as he’d dreamed of doing, a great sense of satisfaction had claimed him completely. She had denied him, snickered at him, made him feel like a fool. But in the end, she’d given in and allowed him to make love to her.
He focused his gaze inside the car at the lovely redheaded woman lying on the backseat. Moonlight illuminated her luscious naked body—her parted thighs, her full, round breasts, her slightly open mouth. Power surged through him, every nerve in his body electrified by the dark energy flowing through him. He could taste her—all that lush sweetness. He intensified the pressure as he pulled the cord until it cut into her neck. As he squeezed the life out of her, the pressure from the ribbon burned into his palms and heat suffused his body. This was the defining moment, the pleasure almost unbearable.
It took only seconds for her to die. Or at least that was the way it seemed to him.
But she would not stay dead. She never did.
He had to act quickly, remove her body and dispose of it so that he could put this incident behind him and live in peace for a while. Until she returned to him.
Slipping his arm beneath the plastic sheet he had used to protect the car seat, he pulled her into a sitting position, wrapped the sheet around her and dragged her toward him. He didn’t especially like the scent of death, but it didn’t repulse him, either. Actually, the odor reassured him that he had accomplished his goal.
Resting there passively cocooned in the sheet, like a limp dishrag, she made no protest when he scooped her up into his arms. Although she wasn’t a large woman, she felt heavy, as if she weighed two hundred pounds.
Dead weight, he thought.
Carrying Dinah with great care, he tromped down the dark, isolated dirt road. He could hear the soft rush of the river nearby, a melodic lull carrying quietly through the woods. When he neared the edge of the embankment, he paused, leaned over and opened the sheet enough to expose her face, then leaned down and kissed her good-bye. Sighing heavily, he tossed her into the Tennessee River and stood watching while the current carried her body downstream.
Farewell, my love.
There, that was done. Now he could go home, return to his normal life and put her out of his mind. At least temporarily. Of course, it was only a matter of time before she would come back. To taunt him. To entice him. To drive him crazy until he possessed her again. Each time she left, a part of him hoped—even prayed—that she would stay away for good. But his prayers were never answered. She always came back. At first it had been years between her reappearances, but gradually she’d begun returning more frequently. Often she returned within a year or less, but most recently she had shown up again in a little over six months.
He wondered how long she would stay away this time.
Chapter 1
Reve Sorrell closed the lid on her suitcase, lifted it off the foot of her bed and set it on the floor. She’d been up for over an hour, after waking at three, unable to sleep. Her decision to return to Cherokee Pointe had been made after a great deal of deliberation. She’d spent months unable to put Jazzy Talbot out of her mind. Back in the spring she’d driven up to the mountains to seek out the woman Jamie Upton had told her was her spitting image, a woman who looked enough like her to be her twin. She’d met Jamie at a party here in Chattanooga, back before Christmas last year. He’d been a charming jerk, the type of man she usually avoided. But he had piqued her curiosity when he’d mentioned that his teenage sweetheart, a bar and restaurant owner in Cherokee Pointe, could easily pass for Reve’s twin.
If she hadn’t been an abandoned child, adopted in infancy by wealthy socialites, Spencer and Lesley Sorrell, she’d have passed off Jamie’s comments without a second thought. But since she knew nothing about her birth parents, she’d wondered if it was possible that this Jasmine Talbot Jamie had mentioned could be her sister. So she’d disregarded what her common sense had told her—not to go digging around in the past—and had gone to Cherokee Pointe.
Her first encounter with Jazzy had been less than pleasant. She’d found the woman to be rather crude and vulgar. They had disliked each other on sight. And Reve would have returned home that very day, if she hadn’t been involved in a minor car accident.
As if wrecking her Jag hadn’t been bad enough, following the accident, the local sheriff had treated her abysmally. Sheriff Jacob Butler was an old friend of Jazzy’s and took offense at an offhand comment Reve made about the woman. It had seemed to Reve as if half the men in town were Jazzy’s friends, a fact Reve had learned both firsthand and from local gossip.
To complicate matters now that she was returning to Cherokee Pointe, she’d been plagued by thoughts of the big, surly, half-breed sheriff. He was a thoroughly unpleasant sort. A real ruffian. After their initial encounter, she had hoped she would never see the man again. But when Jamie Upton was murdered while she was still in town and a witness identified a woman fitting Jazzy’s description—and therefore her description—as having been seen with Jamie shortly before his death, Sheriff Butler had come knocking on her door. He’d had the gall to practically accuse her of the murder, had in fact assumed—erroneously—that Jamie and she had been lovers. Naturally, it hadn’t taken the authorities long to realize she wasn’t involved in the crime, so she had, thankfully, been able to escape from Cherokee Pointe and the watchful eyes of the Neanderthal sheriff.
Upon returning to Chattanooga, to her home on Lookout Mountain and her own set of friends and business associates, she’d tried to put her less than pleasant experiences in Cherokee Pointe behind her. She hadn’t wanted to think about Jazzy or the fact that they did in fact resemble each other in a way only twins did. But try as she might, she hadn’t been able to erase from her mind the image of her double, a woman of dubious character.
Reve sighed heavily. Would she regret going back to Cherokee Pointe and joining forces with Jazzy to seek the truth about their possible sisterhood? They had spoken on the phone several times recently. Somewhat reluctantly, Reve had made that first call. Thirty years ago, someone had thrown her into a Dumpster in Sevierville and left her for dead. She’d been an infant, possibly only days or weeks old at the time. However, Jazzy’s Aunt Sally, who had raised her from a baby, swore that her sister Corrine had given birth to only one child. Was Sally Talbot lying? Or was there some other explanation? Reve knew she’d never have any peace of mind until she found out the truth—the whole truth.
She hadn’t intended to leave Chattanooga this early. It wasn’t quite four-thirty. But why not go ahead and get on the road? If she left now, she’d be in Cherokee Pointe by the time Jasmine’s opened and she could have breakfast at the restaurant before meeting Jazzy at Dr. MacNair’s office around nine. They had agreed that DNA testing was the first step in discovering the truth about their past.
Not wanting to bother any of the servants at this ungodly hour, she heaved her suitcase off the bed. As she walked through the house and out to the garage, she couldn’t help wondering if she was making a monumental mistake. She and Jazzy Talbot had nothing in common, other than a strong physical resemblance—and possibly the same birth parents. Did she really want to form a familial connection with this woman who was, by all standards, socially beneath her and morally inferior? God, Reve, listen to yourself. You sound like the biggest snob in the world. All right, maybe she was a snob. No maybe about it. She was a snob. But she’d been trained by her parents and peers to look down her nose at her inferiors. There you go again, assuming just because she grew up poor, has a reputation as the town tramp and owns a honky-tonk bar selling cheap drinks and playing loud music, that Jazzy isn’t your equal.
Reve unlocked the trunk of her Jaguar, dumped the suitcase inside, then slid behind the wheel and started the car. Even if Jazzy and she turned out to be twin sisters, that didn’t mean they had to become friends. She seriously doubted that Jazzy wanted to build a relationship with her anymore than she wanted one with Jazzy. But there was a need deep inside her to find out the truth—who had thrown her in that Dumpster and why? Had her birth mother thrown her away? If so, why had she disposed of one baby and not both? And if she and Jazzy were twin sisters, why had Jazzy’s Aunt Sally lied to her all these years? After the DNA testing confirmed their relationship, the likely place to start their search for the truth was with Sally Talbot. And what a place to start—with a nutty old woman the whole town thought of as a kook.
Reve hit the button to open the garage door, backed out and then closed the door. As she entered the street, she stopped the Jag and took a long, hard look at her home. This house had belonged to her grandparents, Spencer Sorrel’s parents, and the plush mansion held only happy memories for Reve. If only she weren’t adopted. If only the Sorrells had been her biological mother and father. But her adoptive mother had pointed out to her on numerous occasions that she was a true Sorrell in every way that counted. Except by blood.
As she drove along the steep, twisting street leading off Lookout Mountain, Reve compared the similarities between this road and the one where she’d had her car accident outside Cherokee Pointe. Damn! Why had she thought about that wreck again? Automatically her mind brought Sheriff Butler to the forefront—a vivid image of his hulking six-five frame, his green eyes, his hawk nose, his fierce frown. She intended to do her best to avoid Jacob Butler while she was in Cherokee Pointe. Not only did the man annoy her, but he unnerved her. His nature was a bit too savage to suit her. He’d been more than just downright unfriendly toward her; he’d shown no respect whatsoever for who she was—one of the richest and most powerful women in the state of Tennessee.
Jazzy’s orgasm exploded inside her, eliciting a loud, guttural moan from deep in her throat. The powerful sensations went on and on until they finally tapered off into delicious aftershocks. Hot, damp, completely sated, she smothered Caleb with deliriously exuberant kisses. He toppled her off him and onto the bed, his hard penis slipping out of her during the maneuver. Before she had a chance to catch her breath, he thrust up into her. Deep and hard. Once. Twice. And then he came.
Roaring like the male animal he was, Caleb shuddered with release. Moments later, their bodies damp with sex- induced sweat, they lay on their backs, their bodies not touching, only their entwined fingers.
She loved holding hands with Caleb. A sweet, sentimental gesture, but it said so much about their relationship. About who she was when she was with him. About the type of man Caleb McCord was.
Jazzy looked up at the ceiling, stretched languidly and smiled. Sex with Caleb was always like this—explosive and fully satisfying. But there was so much more to their relationship than great sex. They were friends as well as lovers. And they were madly in love, too. Honest to goodness in love.
She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve a fabulous guy like Caleb, but she thanked God for him. And with each passing day, she trusted Caleb and the love they shared more and more. Maybe one of these days soon she would be able to accept his marriage proposal. He had asked her to marry him so many times, it had almost become a joke between them.
Almost.
Even now, months after Jamie Upton’s death, his memory haunted her. But not in the way Caleb thought it did. On some basic, totally masculine level Caleb was still jealous of Jamie, of the fact that he’d been her first love and her first lover. There was no reason for him to be jealous. She didn’t love Jamie. Only the distrust and fear Jamie had instilled in her kept him alive and allowed him to stand between her and Caleb, between her and happiness.
“Jazzy?” Caleb said her name in that lazy, sexy Memphis drawl she loved so well.
“Hm-mm?” She turned sideways and looked at the silhouette of his long, lean body there in the semi-darkness of her bedroom. She knew his body as well as she knew her own.
“Marry me.”
Her smile widened. She reached over and ran her fingertips up and down his body, from throat to navel.
He grabbed her hand. “I mean it. Marry me. Let’s get a license tomorrow and just do it. We’ll elope. No fanfare, no—”
“No Miss Reba throwing a hissy fit until it’s over and done.”
“Do not bring my grandmother into this equation. I’ve told you a thousand times that I don’t give a damn what she thinks.” Totally naked, Caleb jumped out of bed and grabbed his jeans up off the floor.
Damn it, she’d hurt his feelings by questioning his loyalty to her. Her mind told her that he would never do as Jamie had done and allow Miss Reba to dictate who he could and couldn’t marry. But her heart had been broken once by an Upton heir, by the charming, worthless, womanizing Jamie. And her heart was afraid to trust, afraid to believe that Miss Reba didn’t wield the same power over Caleb that she had over her other grandson.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m putting on my clothes,” Caleb told her.
“Why? You aren’t leaving, are you? Please, Caleb, don’t go.”
He pulled on his jeans, then felt around on the floor until he found his shirt. “I’m just going outside for a few minutes. I need some early morning air to clear my head. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Just remember, I’m not Jamie. I’m not walking out on you or giving up on us. Not now or ever. You couldn’t beat me off with a stick, honey.”
“I know you’re not Jamie.” When she sat up, the sheet dropped to her waist, exposing her breasts.
“Then stop assuming I’m going to treat you the way he did. I can’t stand it when you project his actions onto me.”
Caleb turned from her and hastily left the room. Jazzy flipped on the bedside lamp, then got up and headed for the bathroom. Usually they didn’t get up this early—and seven- thirty was early for people who didn’t go to bed until two in the morning—but she had an appointment to meet Reve Sorrell in Dr. MacNair’s office at nine. Galvin had explained to them that the results of the DNA test might take a few weeks, but Reve had informed him that she would pay any extra costs necessary to facilitate a speedy response.
Jazzy turned on the water, waited a couple of minutes for it to heat, and then stepped under the showerhead. As the warm spray doused her, she thought about her future. Her first concern was Caleb. She couldn’t keep putting him off. Sooner or later he’d get tired of waiting for her to marry him. The thought of losing him was too terrible to consider, yet she wasn’t ready to say yes. There were too many un answered questions in her life, too many loose ends she had to tie up before she could build a solid future with the man she loved. And she did love Caleb. More than she’d ever thought possible to love a man. But she had to convince him that he was the only man she loved. In order to do that, she had to let go of Jamie completely.
Since Caleb spent most nights at her apartment above Jazzy’s Joint, they usually closed the bar together and came upstairs for a late-night meal and then went to bed. She loved being with him, making love with him, sharing her life with him.
So why don’t you marry the guy? she heard Lacy Fallon’s voice inside her head. Lacy, the bartender at Jazzy’s Joint, treated Jazzy like a kid sister, giving her advice and watching out for her.
Don’t let what Jamie did to you keep you from finding happiness with Caleb, Jazzy’s best friend, Genny Sloan, had told her repeatedly.
Even her own heart advised her to reach out and grab the happiness Caleb offered.
Jazzy bathed hurriedly, washed her hair and emerged from the shower, fresh and clean and clear-headed. By the time she dried her hair and dressed, Caleb would probably be back in the apartment and in the kitchen fixing their breakfast. She smiled to herself. Her Caleb was a man of many talents.
The telephone rang. Who on earth would be calling so early? Everyone knew they slept late. After wrapping a towel around her, Jazzy rushed into the bedroom to answer the phone.
“Hello.”
“Jazzy, this is Reve Sorrell. I got an early start so I’m already in town. I’m over at Jasmine’s and have just ordered breakfast. Any chance you can join me?”
“Ah . . . I just stepped out of the shower, but—” Maybe it was a good idea to touch base with Reve before they went to see Galvin. After all, if it turned out they really were twin sisters, as they suspected, they’d be spending a great deal of time together in the upcoming weeks. They had agreed that if the DNA tests proved they were siblings, they would work together to discover the truth about their parentage.
“If you’d rather not—” Reve said.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll hurry and dress.” Jazzy peeked through the open bedroom door and into the living room. No sign of Caleb. She listened for any sound of him in the kitchen. None.
“It’s okay if I bring Caleb along, isn’t it?”
“Sure. After all, he is your fiancé, right?”
“He most certainly is. Unofficially.”
“Have you two set a date?”
“Not yet.” Everyone assumed that sooner or later she’d accept Caleb’s proposal—everyone except Caleb’s grandmother, one of Cherokee County’s grande dames, Reba Upton.
Damn the old bitch!
“Bring him along,” Reve said. “I’ll go ahead and eat, then have coffee when y’all arrive. Or would you like for me to order for you two and wait?”
“Yes, do that. Just tell Tiffany that Caleb and I will be eating at the restaurant this morning. She knows our usual order.”
“See you soon.”
“Mm-hm.” The dial tone hummed in Jazzy’s ear.
Reve Sorrell had been pleasant enough, but not overly friendly. The woman had erected some sort of emotional barrier around herself, one that effectively kept people at bay. If they were twin sisters, how was it possible that their personalities were as different as night is from day? She supposed it all boiled down to the old question about which dominated a person’s physical, mental and emotional makeup more—nurture or nature.
Reve Sorrell was a class act. A real lady. Jazzy Talbot was a dame, a broad, a good old gal.
“Jazzy?” Caleb called to her as he entered the living room.
“Huh?”
“Want me to put on some coffee?”
Caleb might get upset with her, he might storm off in a rage, but he always came back. He never left her for more than a few minutes, an hour or two on a few occasions. He meant what he’d said about not ever leaving her. Not the way Jamie had done, time and time again.
“Reve Sorrell just called,” Jazzy said. “She wants us to meet her for breakfast over at Jasmine’s.”
“She got in early, didn’t she?”
“Yeah, she did. I guess she’s as anxious as I am to get our DNA samples sent off to the lab.”
Caleb appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Give me a couple of minutes to grab a quick shower.” As he moved past her, he paused, leaned over and kissed her cheek, then yanked off her towel before he went into the bathroom.
Jazzy hugged herself and sighed contentedly. Reve Sorrell might be a lady—a very rich and important lady—but who cared? Caleb didn’t. And it didn’t matter to him that Jazzy wasn’t some blue-blood with a lily-white reputation. He loved her just the way she was. And Caleb’s opinion was all that mattered.
Sally Talbot stood on her front porch, a tasty chaw of tobacco in her mouth. Peter and Paul, her old bloodhounds, lounged lazily under the porch, their heads barely peeking out as they snored. She wished she could sleep as easy as them two varmints did, but if they had the worries she had, they wouldn’t be sleeping so soundly either. After spitting a spray of brown juice out into the yard, Sally wiped her mouth and took a deep breath of autumn mountain air. There weren’t nothing like autumn in the Appalachians. The crisp, clean morning air. The bright colors nature painted the earth this time of year. No, sirree, weren’t no place on earth as near God’s heaven as these here mountains.
All her life—some seventy-one years now—she’d spent here in Cherokee County, most of it in this same old house her pa had built for her ma before he up and died of TB back in forty-nine. And all these years she’d been an oddball, different from folks hereabout. Not crazy, mind you, but not quite all there either. She had book learning. She could read and write and add up figures. And she knew these hills as well as anybody, better than most. She’d always been poor and hadn’t never cared a hoot about money. Not until Jazzy came into her life. She’d wanted to give that gal everything her little heart desired, but she’d failed miserably. She’d done the best she could. If she’d had a man bringing in a living, things might have been better, but she and Jazzy had made out all right. They’d had a roof over their heads and they’d never gone hungry. Jazzy had grown up to be a fine woman, a real smart woman who’d done all right for herself. Her gal owned a restaurant and a bar in Cherokee Pointe and she was a partner with some other people in Cherokee Cabin Rentals. Yep, she was damn proud of her niece.
A chill racked Sally’s body. “Winter’s coming,” she said to no one in particular.
But it wasn’t the cool morning breeze that had chilled Sally. It was thoughts of Jazzy. Her little Jasmine. She’d named Jazzy for them beautiful flowers that her sister Corrine had loved so. When she’d put Jasmine in Corrine’s arms thirty years ago, she’d never dreamed that within a few months Corrine would be dead—her and her lover—and she’d be left to raise Jazzy all alone. But there hadn’t been a day passed that she hadn’t thanked the good Lord for that gal. She loved Jazzy as if she were her own, and Jazzy loved her like a mother.
“God, forgive me and please help me,” Sally said softly. “You know I didn’t have no idea there was another baby, that Jazzy had a sister.”
Reve Sorrell might not be her sister Sally told herself. Could just be a coincidence that they look so much alike. But if that DNA test they was having done proved them to be twins, then Jazzy was going to be asking a lot more questions. She’d want to know how it was possible that her aunt Sally hadn’t known nothing about another baby.
All the lies she’d told Jazzy from the time she’d been a little girl would come back to haunt her—if that Sorrell gal turned out to be Jazzy’s sister. She knew what Jazzy would say to her, could almost hear her.
“You told me that my mama came back home to you right before I was born, that her boyfriend had run out on her and she had no place else to go. You told me that you delivered me and that you sent for old Doc Webster a few days later to record my birth and check me and Mama to make sure we were all right. Isn’t that so? Tell me, Aunt Sally, did you or did you not deliver another baby? Were you the one who threw my sister away?”
Them there DNA tests wouldn’t lie. If they proved them gals to be sisters, then Sally had some explaining to do. If I tell Jazzy the truth, will she hate me? I just couldn’t bear it if that gal hated me.
Genny Sloan stopped suddenly on her morning trek from the greenhouse to her back porch. Although she’d seldom been able to control the visions that came to her, she had learned what signs to expect, signs that forewarned her.
Drudwyn paused at her side, then licked her hand.
“It’s all right, boy. I think I can make it to the porch.” Genny stroked the half-wolf dog’s head. “But if I don’t make it, you let Dallas know that I need him.”
Drudwyn hurried ahead of her, then paused and waited at the door. Genny made it to the porch. Barely. She slumped down on the back steps and closed her eyes. She’d been born with the gift of sight, a God-given talent inherited from her grandma. More times than not, she’d found the gift could be a curse.
Lights swirled inside her head. Colors. Bright, warm colors. And then she heard Jazzy’s laughter mixing with softer laughter. Another woman’s laughter. Happiness. Beautiful happiness. Genny sensed a togetherness, a oneness, almost as if Jazzy and this other woman were a single entity. As that knowledge filled Genny’s consciousness, she understood she was receiving energy from Jazzy and from Reve Sorrell. She didn’t need to see the results of a DNA test to know they were twins. Identical twins. Individuals, yet forever linked from the moment of conception.
Suddenly the bright, cheerful lights inside Genny’s mind darkened. Black clouds swirled about in her consciousness, completely obliterating the beauty and happiness. Fear. Anger. Hatred. Jealousy! An evil mind concealed by a mask of normalcy.
Danger! Jazzy and Reve were in terrible danger.
But from whom? Who possessed this dark, viciously cruel heart? Who feared the truth? Who was willing to do anything—even kill—to keep the truth hidden?
Genny delved deeper into the black abyss, seeking the identity of this person, searching for any link between this evil and her dearest friend, Jazzy.
Oh, God, the hatred. Pure, wicked hatred.
“Genny!”
She heard Dallas’s voice as if it came from far away.
“Damn it, Genny, come out of it. Now! You’re going in too deep.”
He shook her soundly.
Genny groaned. Her eyelids flew open. She gasped for air.
Dallas pulled her into his arms. “What the hell happened? I thought you promised me that you wouldn’t go in that deep without my being there to—”
“I had to go as far as I could,” she said as she rested her head on her husband’s chest and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I had a vision about Jazzy and Reve Sorrell. I know they’re twins.” She lifted her head and looked at Dallas. “That was a vision filled with joy and light and beauty. But suddenly the darkness came. I—I’m not sure if there’s a connection between Jazzy and Reve and the evil I sensed.”
“The two visions might have nothing to do with each other,” Dallas told her as he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.
“Maybe not, but usually, when two visions overlap that way, they’re somehow connected.”
“But not always.”
“No, not always.”
Dallas lifted Genny into his arms and carried her into the house. She snuggled close, loving the protective feel of this man she loved above all others, more than life itself.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Dallas said. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes, I’m all right. But Jazzy and Reve may be in grave danger.”
Chapter 2
Veda MacKinnon had a slight hangover this morning, the second one this week. She’d realized months ago that she was drinking too much and had tried her best to cut back on the amount of alcohol she consumed. She had been succeeding to some extent, but twice this week she had succumbed to stress and worry. Outsiders might well wonder what she had to worry about considering she was married to one of the two richest men in Cherokee County. But her husband was one of her worries, as was their son and her husband’s brother. And truth be told, her own brother had lately given her a reason for concern. If only she’d had a daughter, someone who could understand, could see her side of situations. But she was a lone female in a family of men—unless you counted the servants, and she didn’t.
Donning her satin robe, Veda glanced at herself in the cheval mirror in her bedroom. God, she looked a fright. Dark circles under her eyes. Her mouth drooped with age. And without makeup, she looked every day of her sixty-eight years. She supposed she could do as Reba Upton did and have a facelift every five or six years, but instead she had opted to grow old gracefully.
Veda laughed softly.
Gracefully?
There had been a time when that adverb described the way she did everything. With grace and flair, with pomp and ceremony. When Farlan had brought her, as his bride, home to his parents’ Victorian mansion in Cherokee Pointe, she’d been twenty-two. Slender. Beautiful. Charming. An Atlanta debutante. And Farlan MacKinnon had been the envy of every man in town.
Here she was forty-six years later, fat and wrinkled, with a husband who no longer loved her—if he ever had. A son who was sad and lonely, despite his successful career running MacKinnon Media. His childless marriage had ended in a bitter divorce years ago. She suspected that her brother, Dodd, was on the verge of ruining his life—over a woman! And then there was Wallace. God, there had always been Wallace. Poor old soul. The first time she’d met him, she’d actually been afraid of him. But it hadn’t been her fault. After all, her husband’s younger brother had been the first mentally handicapped person she’d ever known. Wallace had the IQ of a six-year-old and the sweet innocence, too.
Studying herself in the mirror, Veda decided she needed her hair cut. The ends were a bit frizzy and weren’t curling under the way she liked. She’d worn her hair in the same neat chin-length pageboy most of her life, not changing as her hair went from dark brown to gray. And she really should lose a few pounds before the holidays. She tended to put on at least five pounds between Thanksgiving and New Year’s every year and had to struggle half the year to shed those unwanted extra pounds. Of course on a woman who weighed in at one-ninety-five and stood barely five-three, what was five more pounds one way or the other?
Five pounds would mean weighing two hundred, she reminded herself. She’d sworn she’d never reach that two- hundred pound mark.
Veda made a detour into her dressing room. After running a brush through her salt-and-pepper hair, she applied a touch of blush and lipstick. There, that’s better, she thought, then a moment later wondered why she’d bothered. It wasn’t as if Farlan would notice. He hadn’t paid much attention to her in years. They shared the same bedroom, the same bed, but he had not been a real husband to her in going on two years. She could remember the exact date they’d last made love. It had been on her sixty-sixth birthday.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he kept a mistress. But not Farlan. Since that one woman, years ago, he’d been as faithful as an old dog. To this day she blamed Dodd for Farlan’s one and only indiscretion. But that was the past, water under the bridge. Best forgotten. After all, when she had strayed a couple of times after she hit forty, Farlan had forgiven her and they’d gone on as if nothing had happened.
As Veda made her way down the hall, she listened to the familiar sounds of morning in her home. Although this enormous house had seemed alien to her when she’d come here as Farlan’s bride, she had soon renovated the place and made it her own. Everything in this house—from the crystal and china in the dining room to the imported soap in the bathrooms, from the landscaped grounds to the wicker furniture in the sunroom—had Veda’s personal stamp on it. She ruled this house as if she were a queen. And she was. Queen Veda. Everyone in Cherokee Pointe either respected her or feared her just a little. She was known for being a vengeful bitch, and that pleased her. Let that silly, skinny, blond Reba Upton be the social grande dame. Who cared? She certainly didn’t. She much preferred being a power to be reckoned with. No one crossed Veda Parnell MacKinnon without paying a steep price.
When she entered the dining room, Farlan glanced up from the morning paper. The Knoxville News-Sentinel, she noted, not MacKinnon Media’s local Cherokee Pointe Herald. He made a habit of checking out other East Tennessee newspapers almost daily, such as the News- Sentinel, the Cleveland Daily Banner, the Chattanooga Times Free Press, and the Maysville Ledger Independent.
“Good morning, my dear,” Farlan said, his gaze quickly returning to the newspaper.
Brian rose from his chair and assisted her as she sat on the opposite end of the long dining table from her husband. Her son leaned down and kissed her cheek.
“You’re looking lovely this morning, Mother.”
She offered Brian a fragile smile. She loved her only child with all her heart. If only there was something she could do to make him happy. But he’d always been rather gloomy, even as a boy. Her father had been like that—a stern, gloomy man who had wandered in and out of her life after her parents’ scandalous divorce when she was an infant. Then, when she was fourteen, he’d killed himself. Veda had been the one who’d found his body, there in her mother and step-father’s library in their Atlanta home.
“Thank you.” Veda patted Brian’s ruddy cheek. Her son resembled her a great deal, which meant he was a handsome man. But the older he became, the more he looked like her father. Sometimes when she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, she’d shiver, somehow feeling as if she had just seen a ghost.
“Something interesting in the News-Sentinel?” Brian asked Farlan as he returned to his seat.
Farlan grunted. “Nothing much.”
“You seem quite absorbed in nothing much,” Veda said, knowing her comment would evoke a reaction from her husband. It seemed the only way he’d talk to her these days was if she provoked him.
Farlan folded the newspaper and laid it on the table beside his plate, which was empty except for biscuit crumbs. He glanced at Veda, a somber expression on his face, his faded brown eyes skimming over her quickly before his gaze settled on his coffee cup. He seldom smiled at her anymore. In fact, he seldom smiled at all.
“The news seems to remain the same, just the people and places change,” Farlan said. “A fire in a low-rent apartment complex in Oak Ridge, two policemen accused of racial profiling in Cleveland, the mayor in Harriman fighting with the city council and a prostitute’s body fished from the river outside Loudon.”
“Another one?” Veda said. “I seem to recall that about six or seven months ago, they found a prostitute’s body in the river south of here. I don’t remember where.”
“Downstream from Watts Bar, I believe.” Brian picked up his fork and speared the scrambled eggs in his plate.
“You have an excellent memory,” Farlan said. “I used to. Never forgot anything. But lately . . . I suppose it comes with growing old.”
Veda motioned to Abra, their cook, to pour her a cup of coffee. Abra Trumbo had been with the family for the past twenty-five years and was the only servant who actually lived on the premises; all the others, even the new housekeeper, Viv Lokey, chose to come in at seven each morning and required Sundays off. Servants just weren’t what they used to be.
“You blame everything on old age,” Veda said, her tone scolding. She didn’t mean to always be so critical, but couldn’t stop herself where Farlan was concerned. Over the past few years, it seemed they brought out the worst in each other. Perhaps they always had. She wasn’t sure.
“Old age is—” Farlan began, but was interrupted by the rumble of thundering footsteps.
Wallace MacKinnon, a towering bear of a man, came barreling out of the kitchen and into the dining room, his eyes bright, his fat cheeks pink from having been exposed to the cool morning air. He still wore his heavy gray sweater, the one Veda had thrown away several times only to have him drag it out of the garbage again and again. With his faded overalls, ratty sweater and scuffed leather boots, her brother-in-law looked like a bum.
“She’s here!” Wallace clapped his huge, calloused hands together, the way an excited child might do when exclaiming he’d just seen Santa Claus.
“Calm down,” Farlan said. “Who’s here?”
“Miss Jazzy’s sister. I told you she was coming in from Chattanooga today, didn’t I?” Wallace grinned. “I saw her over at the restaurant. She and Miss Jazzy were eating breakfast together. They look just alike.”
“For the life of me, I can’t understand why you go into town to eat breakfast at that restaurant so often when you could eat at home with your family.” Veda frowned dis approvingly.
“Let him be,” Farlan said. “He enjoys the company at Jasmine’s. He’s especially fond of Miss Jazzy, who he tells me is always very nice to him. And he gets a chance to run into all sorts of interesting people.”
“Interesting indeed. As I recall, this Jazzy person is the town trollop.” Like most other Cherokee County residents, Veda knew all about that woman’s shameful reputation. “She was accused of killing Jamie Upton a few months back, wasn’t she?”
“Jazzy Talbot didn’t kill him. You know as well as I do that it turned out she was innocent.” Farlan stood and walked over to his brother. “Take off your sweater and have a seat. Tell us all about seeing Jazzy and her sister.” With Farlan’s assistance, Wallace removed his heavy sweater, handed it to Abra and then sat next to Brian.
“They’re twins. They look just alike,” Wallace repeated. “Except Miss Jazzy’s got short hair and Miss Reve’s got long. Only she wears it done up. Everybody at the restaurant was talking about them and saying that they had to be sisters, that two people don’t look that much alike unless they’re twins.”
Veda reached over and patted Wallace’s hand. “Have you already eaten, dear? Or should I have Abra—”
“I ate over at the restaurant,” Wallce replied. “I had pancakes.”
“Very well, do go on with what you were saying.” Veda offered her brother-in-law an approving smile.
“Must we hear all of this? You shouldn’t encourage him, Mother,” Brian said. “It’s just the latest Cherokee Pointe gossip. Jazzy Talbot and some woman named Reve Sorrell may turn out to be long-lost sisters. Why should this concern us?”
“Why indeed?” Veda agreed.
“Reve Sorrell is Spencer Sorrell’s daughter,” Farlan said. “The Sorrels have been stockholders in MacKinnon Media for decades. I knew Sorrell slightly, but I never met his wife or his daughter. The man died ten years, ago and his wife took control of the family business, which his daughter now owns.”
“If this woman is Spencer Sorrell’s daughter, why on earth would she want to claim Jazzy Talbot as a long-lost sister?” Veda asked.
Brian scooted back his chair and stood. “As much as I hate to leave in the middle of such scintillating conversation, I’m afraid I need to go or I’ll be late getting into the office this morning.”
“Are you working on a Saturday morning?” Farlan asked.
“You often did, didn’t you, Father?” Brian said. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a slacker.”
“Will you be home for dinner?” Veda smiled warmly at her son.
“I’ll phone if I make other plans.”
Once Brian had left the dining room, Veda sipped on her coffee and half listened to Wallace as he launched into a blow-by-blow account of his early morning venture into town, where he went almost every day to eat breakfast at Jasmine’s. Her brother-in-law knew everyone in Cherokee County and associated with people of every social class. Since his teens, Wallace had spent his weekdays working up in the mountains at the Cherokee Pointe Nursery, now operated by the original owner’s granddaughter, that odd young woman, Genny Madoc, who’d recently married Dallas Sloan, the new chief of police. The girl was lovely— dark and exotic, a quarter-breed Cherokee. And said to possess the gift of sight, as her grandmother, the old witch woman, had.
“Veda? Veda!”’
Hearing Farlan calling her name, she snapped to attention and stared at her husband. “Yes, what is it?”
“Do you think perhaps we should invite Ms. Sorrell to stay with us while she’s in Cherokee Pointe?”
“What?”
“I’m simply thinking along the same lines you were,” he told her. “After all, Spencer Sorrell was a business associate, if not a friend. And his daughter is unlikely to find anyone, other than the Uptons, in these parts who are her social equal. She’ll have no place to stay other than one of those dreadful cabins. I hardly think she’ll choose to stay with Jazzy Talbot, at least not unless they do find out they’re siblings.”
“How old is Ms. Sorrell?” Veda asked.
“How old? I have no idea. The same age as Jazzy Talbot, I suppose, if they believe they’re twins.” Farlan rubbed his chin. “I’d say Jazzy is in her late twenties, early thirties.” He eyed Veda speculatively. “What sort of crazy notions have you got going on in that silly head of yours?”
“I don’t think it’s silly to want to see our son married and providing us with grandchildren, do you?”
“If you decide to invite Ms. Sorrell to stay with us, do not”—he stressed the word not—“try to play matchmaker for Brian and her. Do I make myself clear?”
“Brian needs a girlfriend,” Wallace piped in. “Ever since Miss Genny got married, he’s been so sad. He doesn’t like Miss Jazzy, but I think Veda’s right—Brian might like Miss Reve. She’s awfully pretty. Not quite as friendly as Miss Jazzy, but—”
Farlan shot to his feet, the move silencing his brother and bringing a soft gasp from Veda. “God help me!”
Farlan marched out of the room and went straight to his study. Veda knew without following him where he’d gone. He holed up in what he considered his private domain every morning and she’d yet to work up the courage to interrupt him. Though a good man at heart, her husband had a terrible temper.
“Is Farlan mad at me?” Wallace asked.
Veda patted his hand again. “No, dear, no. He’s upset with me. But he never stays angry with me, so don’t you worry about it.” Although she felt more like crying, she smiled. “Later on, why don’t you come outside with me and we’ll work in the flower garden. I always count on you to help me. You’ve learned so much about gardening over the years. First from Melva Mae Butler and in recent years from Genny.”
Veda loved gardening. It was one of the few passions left her in life. She’d been born with the proverbial green thumb, as had her brother-in-law. Most of the time, she considered Wallace a nuisance, a burden she and Farlan had to bear. But she genuinely enjoyed his company when they worked together in the yard.
“Veda, how’s it possible for Miss Jazzy and Miss Reve to be twin sisters and not grow up together or even know each other?” Wallace asked.
“That’s a complicated question with a very complicated answer.”
“If you explained, do you think I’d understand?”
“Probably. It’s just that I really don’t know anything about it. Let’s just say that when they were born—twins are usually born within minutes of each other—for some reason their mother couldn’t keep them . . .” Veda grew silent as ancient memories invaded her thoughts. Painful memories.
“Yeah, go on. If their mother couldn’t keep them, what?”
Veda cleared her throat. “The girls would have been given to other people, people who couldn’t have their own child and wanted a baby to raise.”
Wallace’s face screwed up in a pondering frown. “Is that what folks call adoption?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Miss Jazzy ain’t adopted,” Wallace said. “But I heard somebody say that Miss Reve’s mama and papa adopted her when she was a baby.”
Not wanting to continue the conversation about babies— twins in particular—Veda rose from her chair. “I’m suddenly not very hungry. I—I think I’ll take my coffee”—she lifted the cup and saucer—“into the parlor and catch the morning news on WMMK.”
“I’m sorry, Veda,” Wallace said, his voice trembling with emotion. “I just remembered that talking about babies makes you sad.”
“It’s all right, dear. I—I’m perfectly fine. I’ll see you after a while. We’ll work in the garden together later this morning.”
She escaped from her brother-in-law’s scrutiny as quickly as she could. She hated the way he often stared at her with such pity in his eyes. The poor old fool had such a kind heart. Wallace wasn’t very bright, but he wasn’t totally stupid either. Since he’d always lived with them, he’d been around when she had suffered miscarriage after miscarriage, trying again and again to have another child, not wanting Brian to be raised without at least one sibling. Perhaps if he’d had younger brothers and sisters, if she’d been able to fill this house with more joy and laughter, her son wouldn’t be such an unhappy man now. And maybe her husband would still love her.
The mention of the word twins shouldn’t bother me the way it does. After all, just because Jazzy Talbot and Reve Sorrell might turn out to be long-lost twin sisters really has nothing to do with me, with what happened thirty years ago.
Are you sure? Are you one hundred percent sure?
No, I’m not sure. And that’s the problem. I don’t have any idea exactly how old Jazzy Talbot is, and I need to know. If she’s older or younger than thirty, then I can breathe a sigh of relief However, if she’s the right age, perhaps I should find out more about her and Reve Sorrell.
Do you think they could be those twin girls?
Of course not. Those twins are dead. They’ve been dead for thirty years.
You didn’t see them dead, did you? You didn’t actually kill them yourself.
No, but—
You trusted someone else to dispose of them. You should have done the job yourself. That way you could have been certain.
They’re dead. They have to be dead.
And if they’re not? What if Jazzy and Reve Sorrell turn out to be those twins?
Then I’ll have no choice but to kill them. No one can ever find out the truth.
Chapter 3
The DNA samples had been taken quickly and easily—just a swab in the mouth. Such a simple thing that would determine if she and Reve Sorrell were indeed sisters. If it turned out to be true—that they were twins—the fact would irrevocably change their lives. Everything she had believed since she was a child would prove to be lies. How could she deal with knowing her aunt Sally had been deliberately lying to her all her life? How was that possible? She knew, deep inside her, that Aunt Sally loved her with all her heart. The two of them shared a mother/daughter bond stronger than most.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Wait for the results. And even if you two are twins, maybe Aunt Sally will have an explanation as to why she never told you about having a sister.
But could there be a good reason for throwing away a baby, for tossing her into a Dumpster and leaving her for dead?
The few times since she’d met Reve that she’d brought up the subject to Aunt Sally, her aunt had sworn to her that Corrine Talbot had given birth to only one child, one baby girl, and that baby was Jazzy.
“I’m told we should have the results within a week,” Galvin MacNair said as he walked with them into the waiting room. He smiled warmly at Jazzy and then at Reve. “Your paying for a private lab to do the test will speed things up immeasurably.”
“What good is money if you can’t use it?” Reve said, but she didn’t smile.
Jazzy had been raised dirt poor, watching Aunt Sally scratch and scrape for every dime, so she’d grown up thinking all of life’s problems could be solved with money. She had longed to be rich. Rich like the Uptons and the MacKinnons, Cherokee County’s two families worth multi-millions. There had been a time when her dream had been to marry Jamie Upton, the heir to a vast fortune, but that dream had never come true. Thank God!
Jamie’s wealth had not made him happy, and it certainly hadn’t helped make him a better man than those without so much money. He’d been a heartless bastard. And now here she was practically engaged to his cousin, the new heir to the Upton fortune. But Caleb McCord was as different from Jamie as night from day. He hadn’t been raised in the lap of luxury, hadn’t even known about his mother’s wealthy family when he’d grown up on the streets of Memphis. But now he’d been crowned the heir apparent by his grand- parents—by Big Jim and Miss Reba. As much as she wanted to believe that Caleb’s new station in life wouldn’t change him, she lived in fear that it would.
Jazzy glanced at Reve and wondered if she was happy with all her millions. She sure didn’t act like a happy person. To her way of thinking, her might-be twin was an uptight, bossy snob. How was it possible that two people who shared the same genes were nothing alike?
But looking at Reve, Jazzy once again got that guttightening reaction. The woman was her spitting image. Except for a few minor differences. Reve was slightly taller, maybe fifteen or twenty pounds heavier and she didn’t wear green-colored contacts over her brown eyes or dye her auburn hair a bright red.
“You’ll call us the minute you receive the results,” Reve said, her words a commanding statement, not a question.
“I certainly will,” Dr. MacNair assured her.
“Thank you.” Reve shook hands with Galvin, then turned to leave.
“Thanks,” Jazzy added and rushed to catch up with her sister.
Damn, don’t do this. She’d already begun thinking of Reve Sorrell as her sister. And it was apparent to anyone with the least bit of perception that the last thing Ms. Sorrell wanted was to find out she was biologically linked to a person like Jazzy Talbot.
“Hold up, will you?” Jazzy grabbed Reve’s arm just as she headed out the door of the Cherokee Pointe Clinic.
Reve skewered her with a narrowed gaze. “What?”
“Are you staying in town until we get the results or—”
“I’m staying.”
Jazzy released her hold on Reve’s arm. “Where?”
“I reserved one of your cabins.”
Jazzy shrugged. “I see. You could have stayed with me.” “I didn’t want to inconvenience you.” Reve wasn’t a very good liar. Just a hint of color darkened her cheeks. Jazzy knew right away that her look-alike hadn’t even entertained the idea of staying with her.
“If you need anything while you’re here—”
“I think we need to become better acquainted,” Reve said. “Perhaps we should have lunch together today and figure out the best way to approach this problem.”
Jazzy swung open the door and held it. “You first.”
Just as Reve exited the clinic and set foot on the sidewalk, Jazzy directly behind her, she came face to face with the one person in Cherokee Pointe she’d told Jazzy she hoped she would never see again.
Jacob Butler, all six-feet, five-inches of him, blocked Reve’s path. The man’s size alone was intimidating, but adding to his tough-guy image were the hard, chiseled features, the pensive green eyes and the long black hair. His appearance screamed dangerous savage.
“Morning, Jacob.” Jazzy tried to control the grin spreading across her face. She glanced from Reve to Jacob. She wasn’t sure whose expression conveyed more shocked dismay. These two had despised each other on sight when they’d met back last spring. “You remember Reve Sorrell, don’t you?”
Jacob tipped his Stetson. “Ma’am.”
Reve’s spine stiffened. “Sheriff.”
When Jacob tried to walk past them, Jazzy jumped in front of him. “What’s your hurry?”
“I need to talk to Dr. MacNair. I’ve got an appointment.”
“Are you sick?”
“You sure are nosey,” Jacob said.
“You know me—always concerned about my fellow man.”
Jacob’s lips twitched in a hint of a smile. Ever since they’d been kids, she’d been able to make Jacob smile, even when Genny couldn’t. And he loved Genny more than anybody on earth, her being his cousin who’d been raised like a sister to him.
“I’m setting up a time for flu shots for all my employees,” Jacob explained. “It’s getting to be that time of year. With the small force I have at the sheriff’s department, I can’t afford to have anybody laid up with the flu for a week.”
“I hear your staff is going to be decreasing by one pretty soon,” Jazzy said. “Just as soon as Tewanda gets her law degree and passes the bar.”
Jacob nodded. “Yeah, and we’re all right proud of her, but we’re sure going to miss her. She’s been a topnotch deputy.”
“Hey, if you’re not doing anything special for lunch today, why don’t you come over to Jasmine’s and join Reve and me.” She swallowed a chuckle and clamped her teeth together to keep from laughing out loud. “We’re going to get acquainted. You know . . . just in case we turn out to be sisters. You could fill her in on what I was like as a kid. And you could give her some insight into me as a woman.” She turned to Reve. “You know Jacob and I even dated for a while, and I’m here to tell you that this man”—Jazzy wound her arm around Jacob’s arm—“is one great kisser.”
Reve gasped. Jazzy laughed. Jacob seared Jazzy with his tight gaze.
“Ah, lighten up, you two,” Jazzy told them. “Relax. I’m just having some fun with y’all.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the humor in this situation,” Reve said.
“Look, I don’t know why you two decided instantly that you can’t stand each other, but we need to do something to change this. Right now. If Reve is my sister, I can’t have one of my oldest and dearest friends and my newly found twin hating each other.”
“I haven’t got time for this,” Jacob said and tried to move past Jazzy.
She stood stubbornly in his way. “Agree to have lunch with us and I’ll—”
“I have other plans for lunch,” he said.
“Then supper tonight—you two with Caleb and me.”
“Don’t do this,” Jacob told her, a strained expression on his face.
“I’m not available for dinner,” Reve said.
Jazzy heaved a deep sigh. “Okay, I give up. For now. But don’t think this is the end of it.” She moved aside and allowed Jacob to pass.
Once they were alone, Reve snapped around and glared at Jazzy. “I do not—under any circumstances—wish to be engaged socially with Sheriff Butler. I’d appreciate it if you’d give up any plans you have that involve my becoming better acquainted with that man.”
Jazzy let out a long, low whistle. “He really punched all your buttons, didn’t he?”
“All the wrong buttons.”
Jazzy shook her head. “I just can’t figure it out. I’ve never seen Jacob have a negative effect on a woman before. Usually, a woman takes one look at him and swoons at his feet. After all, honey, let’s face it—the man is to die for.”
“I’m afraid I fail to see whatever it is that makes him so irresistible.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Let’s end this ridiculous conversation.” Reve started walking toward her Jaguar in the side parking lot next to the clinic. “I can drop you back by Jasmine’s, if you’d like. I made plans for an early check-in at my cabin. I’d like to get settled and freshen up before lunch.”
“I’ll walk,” Jazzy said. “It’s only a few blocks.”
“Very well. What time shall I meet you for lunch?”
“How about one o’clock?”
Reve nodded agreement.
Jazzy didn’t press the matter—getting Reve and Jacob together—but she had no intention of letting it drop. She suspected that although Reve disliked Jacob and probably found him intimidating, she wasn’t as immune to his obvious masculine charms as she professed to be. Maybe Reve just didn’t know how to deal with unwanted sexual attraction. And unless she missed her guess, that was what was going on between Jacob and Reve.
Jazzy couldn’t contain her laughter, amused at the thought of sexual sparks igniting between Jacob and Reve. Talk about a mismatched couple.
“Dare I ask what you find so amusing?” Reve asked.
“Nothing really. I was just thinking how you stick out like a sore thumb around here. Unless you hobnob with the Uptons or the MacKinnons, all you’re going to run across around here are just common folks. Hill people. Rednecks. And a few breeds, like Jacob and Genny.”
“I suspected the sheriff was part Native American. Doesn’t he mind being referred to as a breed?”
“He and Genny are both a quarter Cherokee and damn proud of it. And I’m practically family to them, so my referring to them that way is the same as the two of them calling themselves breeds.”
“At least they know their heritage. Whereas you and I . . .” Reve let the sentence trail off into silence.
“You really are worried about it, aren’t you? Poor Reve. What if you find out I’m your twin and that our parents were really white trash? Me, I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve always been white trash. But you—”
“I am a Sorrell, regardless of my genetic heritage.”
“Yeah, I guess you are, aren’t you?”
Jazzy turned and walked away, not glancing back, but sensing that Reve was watching her. She wanted to be friends with this woman, to find some common bond between them other than the likelihood they were sisters. But the chances of that happening appeared to fall into the snowball’s chance in hell category.
Becky Olmstead had graduated from high school in the spring and was working as a gofer at MacKinnon Media headquarters to earn enough money to pay for college. At least, that was what she’d told her mother. But she had no intention of going to college, and her job here was just a smoke screen to keep her old lady off her back. Combining what she earned here with what she picked up at night on her other job, she should be able to leave Cherokee Pointe before New Year’s and begin a new life in Nashville. More than anything, she wanted to get away from home—from her nagging mother and her mean, drunken stepfather. If anyone had told her two years ago that she would have gone from being a teenager who just liked to have fun, to one of half a dozen hookers in Cherokee Pointe, she wouldn’t have believed it. But when, at sixteen, she’d been offered fifty bucks to go down on a guy, she hadn’t been able to refuse such easy money.
If folks knew the men she’d screwed during the past couple of years, they’d be surprised. Hell, they’d be shocked. Her first john, the one who’d given her fifty bucks to give him a blow job, was old enough to be her grandfather and was a prominent citizen. He still came to her occasionally, but not so often lately. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t serviced him in nearly two months. But he wasn’t the only big spender. Not by a long shot. Actually, if she wasn’t just a little bit afraid of getting into some bad trouble, she’d try blackmail. She sure could ruin a few lives if she named names.
Nah, better not go that route, she told herself. She’d been saving steadily for her big escape, and pretty soon she’d have a sizable nest egg, enough to live on until she could hook up with the right people in Music City. Who knew, could be she’d wind up married to some famous country singer and get to live in one of those fancy mansions that would put the Upton house and the MacKinnon house to shame.
“Becky! Go over to Jasmine’s and pick up Mr. MacKinnon’s lunch, right now!” Glenda Motte, Brian MacKinnon’s secretary, called out to her.
“Right away, Ms. Motte.”
Becky hurried to the employee’s lounge, where she’d left her jacket that morning, and glanced at the wall clock above the coffeemaker. She hoped the meal was ready when she got to Jasmine’s; otherwise, Mr. MacKinnon would take a strip off Ms. Motte’s hide. The man was a tyrant. She figured that nobody who worked for him really liked him. But who had the balls to tell the man to go to hell? He ruled over MacKinnon Media like a damned dictator, and if anybody crossed him, he saw to it that they lost their job. Since starting work here in June, she’d had to run errands throughout the complex that housed the Cherokee Pointe Herald as well as WMMK TV and radio stations, so she’d heard plenty of grumbling about the big boss.
“He’s not half the man his father is.”
“Farlan MacKinnon is one of the best men I know. A fair and honest man. Brian runs a poor second best to his father.”
“Brian is such a shithead. Too bad he’s not more like the old man. Or even more like that loony uncle of his. At least Wallace MacKinnon is likable.”
Becky buttoned up her jacket as she rode the elevator from the fifth floor to the first. The MacKinnon Building was the tallest building in town, with the boss’s office taking up a large section of the fifth floor. When she went outside, the autumn sun warmed her despite the chilly north wind stirring up leaves from the sidewalk and scattering debris. She quickened her pace as she sauntered up the street.
He watched Becky Olmstead as she strode up the street, her slender hips swaying seductively in her skin-tight jeans. The girl was a tramp. None of her fellow employees at MacKinnon Media knew what she did to earn extra money at night. But he knew. He knew all about her. For months now, he’d made a point of learning everything he could about Becky without drawing any attention to himself.
He didn’t intend to do anything about his attraction to her, even though he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about her, from watching her. Of course, the first thing he’d noticed about her had been her red hair. It wasn’t quite the same shade as Dinah’s, but then again, she didn’t always choose to come back as a redhead. However, when she came back as a blonde or a brunette, he always asked her to dye her hair. And she always obliged.
If Becky didn’t live here in Cherokee County, he would approach her, get to know her and see if there was a pos sibility that Dinah might come back through her this time. Dinah always came to him in the bodies of women who reminded him of her, women who attracted him physically. But whenever he was drawn to a hometown woman, he never acted on that attraction. He didn’t want to run the risk of becoming involved with someone this close to home. Over the years, he’d always found Dinah outside Cherokee County. In Knoxville. In Sevierville. In Johnson City. In Kingsport. In Oak Ridge. Even down in Cleveland and Chattanooga. And once as far east as Asheville, North Carolina.
But watching Becky, his gaze focused on the sexy way she walked, his penis grew hard. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would feel like to be inside her. He ran his hand over the fly of his slacks and sighed.
He’d have to make another trip out of town soon and see if he could find Dinah. If he couldn’t find her, he could at least ease the ache with some other whore. But it was never the same with another woman. Never as satisfying. He could fuck a dozen other women and still be hungry for what only Dinah could give him.
He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, imagining what Becky Olmstead would taste like if he kissed her, if he sucked her tits, if he delved his tongue between her parted thighs.
Groaning inwardly, he turned around and looked the other way. After taking several deep breaths, he managed to control the raging hunger inside him. He would have to wait for satisfaction. There was no way he could leave town again so soon, but at the first opportunity, he’d go back to Knoxville and find himself a willing woman.
And if he was very lucky, he’d find Dinah again.
Chapter 4
Dora opened the front door of the Uptons’ antebellum mansion situated a half mile off the winding road leading up the mountain. She offered Caleb a warm, welcoming smile when he entered the massive black-and-white marble- floored foyer.
Although both Miss Reba and Big Jim had accepted him as their grandson and had invited him to move in with them, Caleb still didn’t feel as if he really belonged—in this house or to the Upton family. He’d been born and raised in Memphis, never knowing his father and somehow managing to survive as the child of a drug-addicted mother. It wasn’t until Melanie Upton was dying that she told Caleb who her parents were and where they lived. She’d begged him to go to the Uptons then, when he’d been sixteen. But back then, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with people he didn’t know. Up until then he’d been taking care of himself by cheating, lying and stealing, doing whatever it took to stay alive and keep just below the child welfare department’s radar. Despite all his mother’s faults, he’d loved her and had done whatever he thought was necessary not only to stay with her, but to take care of her. In their case, the parental roles had become reversed when Caleb was about seven.
“They’re waiting for you in the breakfast room. Go on in. I’ve made a big pot of chicken stew and baked a carrot cake, fresh this morning.”
Dora, the Uptons’ faithful housekeeper, had taken an immediate liking to Caleb the first time Big Jim had brought him home. But on their very first meeting, she’d issued him a warning. “That Jamie was a no-good devil, but we loved him. Miss Reba most of all. He broke her heart over and over again. I suspect you ain’t nothing like Jamie. But I’m telling you now, if you ever hurt Miss Reba, you’ll have to answer to me.”
The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt either of his newly found grandparents. But he’d realized right off the bat that his grandmother was a master manipulator, a strong-willed woman who liked to rule the roost. Although Big Jim was more laid-back, not as snooty or judgmental, the old man was used to running things his way. Caleb guessed that kind of authoritarian mind-set came from being born rich and powerful.
“One thing I’ve found out since I’ve been getting to know the grandparents is that their most valuable asset is you, Dora.”
Giggling like a child, Dora blushed, then swatted Caleb on the arm and said, “You do have that in common with your cousin Jamie—you know how to flatter a woman.”
“My flattery is sincere,” Caleb assured her, hating to be compared to his late cousin in any way, shape, form or fashion.
“Yes, I believe it is. And that’s the difference. One of many that makes you a far better man.”
While Caleb headed toward the breakfast room, Dora turned and went into the kitchen. The moment Miss Reba saw him, her face lit up, her lips curving into a broad smile and her eyes bright with excitement. Big Jim eased up from his chair and threw out his hand.
“We’re delighted you could join us today,” Miss Reba said.
“Good to see you, son. Good to see you.” Big Jim took Caleb’s hand in a firm, man-to-man shake.
“You just don’t come around nearly enough.” His grand- mother’s tone was friendly yet scolding. “I do wish you’d reconsider coming here to live with us. We’ve got so much room. You could have your own suite. We’d redo Jamie’s old rooms for you or—”
“Leave the boy be.” Big Jim indicated one of the large oak chairs at the table. “Sit, sit. Dora’s fixed some of her world famous chicken stew. You’re in for a real treat.”
Caleb sat between his grandparents at the large oak table. “I’ll do my best to visit more often, Miss Reba. But I have a job and a girlfriend that both require a great deal of my time.”
He sensed rather than saw his grandmother stiffen at the mention of a girlfriend. Reba Upton had forbidden her grandson, Jamie, to marry Jazzy when they’d been teenagers and he’d gotten Jazzy pregnant. And although Jazzy had miscarried the child and Jamie had allowed his grandmother to dictate who he could and could not marry, Jamie and Jazzy had continued an on-again, off-again affair for years. Not only did his grandmother’s disapproval stand between Jazzy and Caleb, but so did his cousin’s memory. Yet he hoped that with each passing day, Jazzy’s memories of Jamie would dim and the time would come when she would trust him with her heart. Jamie had used her and disappointed her so often that Jazzy was afraid to believe in another man, especially another Upton heir. The fact that Miss Reba staunchly opposed his and Jazzy’s relationship sure didn’t help his efforts to convince Jazzy to marry him.
“You shouldn’t be wasting your time working as a bouncer in that awful place,” Miss Reba told him. “Jim is eager to have you come into the family business. He should have retired completely years ago. Someday in the not too distant future, Upton Dairies will be yours, so you should be learning the business now.”
That was another thing he hadn’t quite gotten used to—being the only heir to a fortune worth at least fifty or sixty million, maybe more. The Uptons had originally been dairy farmers, and he supposed that’s what they still were. But right after World War I, Big Jim’s grandfather and father had expanded the local business, and by the time World War II ended, Upton Dairies was the biggest producer of milk and dairy products in the state of Tennessee. With shrewd investments and by branching out, the family’s wealth had increased immeasurably over the years. Big Jim had recently taken Caleb aside and explained all this to him.
“Good God, woman, will you stop pressuring the boy. Let him get used to being our grandson before you start trying to run his life.”
Reba gasped dramatically. “I’m offended that you’d accuse me of such a thing. I’d never try to—”
Big Jim laughed, the sound deep and robust. “Lord love you, honey, you honestly can’t see your own faults. Never could.” Not giving his wife time for a quick rebuttal, Jim reached out and slapped Caleb on the arm. “Something tells me that this young man won’t be so easily manipulated. From what I’ve seen, he has a mind and a will of his own. He’ll do whatever the hell he pleases—about Upton Dairies and about Jazzy Talbot.”
“How is Jasmine?” Miss Reba asked, her voice strained.
Caleb was genuinely surprised that his grandmother had even inquired about Jazzy. He knew how much effort it had taken her to say Jazzy’s name in a civil manner, con sidering how she—no matter how irrational the idea was—held Jazzy partly responsible for Jamie’s death.
“Jazzy’s just fine,” Caleb replied. “Thank you for asking, Miss Reba.”
“I do wish you’d call me Big Mama.”
“I feel more comfortable calling you Miss Reba, at least for now.”
“Miss Reba and Big Jim us fine with us,” Jim said. “So, Jazzy’s doing fine, huh? You’ll have to bring her out here to dinner one evening.” He shot Reba a warning glare. “Won’t he, honey? We’d be pleased to have her.”
Caleb glanced at his grandmother and barely restrained the laughter bubbling up in his throat. Miss Reba had gone ghost white, her perfect pink mouth formed a startled oval and her big blue eyes widened as round as saucers.
“I doubt Jasmine Talbot would accept an invitation to dine with us,” Reba said. “Considering our past history.”
“She might.” Caleb looked pleadingly at his grandmother. “If you telephoned her and invited her yourself.”
Miss Reba swallowed, took a deep breath and offered him a weak smile. “Would you like that, dear? Would it please you?”
“Yes, ma’am. It would please me a great deal. I’d very much like it if the woman I love and my grandmother could get along.”
“You—you love her?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“I see.”
Jim sat quietly, watching and listening. And apparently waiting to find out what the outcome of this exchange would be.
“You might as well know that sooner or later, I’ll wear Jazzy down and she’ll agree to marry me.” Caleb kept his gaze fixed determinedly on his grandmother’s pale face. “And there’s nothing anyone can say or do to stop me from making her my wife. Do you understand what I’m saying, Miss Reba?”
“Yes, I understand perfectly.”
“I hope you do because I wouldn’t want to ever have to choose between you and her. I’ve just found you and Big Jim. I’d sure hate to lose you.”
“You aren’t going to lose me—lose us,” Miss Reba said with firm conviction. “I’ll telephone Jasmine later today and invite her to Sunday dinner tomorrow.”
Grinning, feeling as if he’d won a major battle, Caleb got up, walked over to his grandmother and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”
Tears glistened in Miss Reba’s eyes. Curling her small hand around his arm, she pursed her lips and returned his kiss.
“Oh, by the way, you might want to invite Reve Sorrell, too,” Caleb said. “She arrived in Cherokee Pointe earlier today and is going to be staying for a while. Dr. MacNair took DNA samples this morning and sent them off. We should know within a week if Jazzy and Reve are twins.”
“That’s a mighty peculiar thing,” Big Jim said. “Those two gals finding out that they could be sisters. Has Jazzy questioned her aunt Sally again about the circumstances surrounding her birth?”
“No, not lately, but the old woman has sworn that Jazzy was the only baby born to her sister, Corrine.”
“Where is Ms. Sorrell staying?” Reba asked. “Surely not with Jasmine. I mean, the two hardly know each other and certainly have nothing in common.”
Caleb pulled away from his grandmother and returned to his seat. “No, she and Jazzy haven’t reached the sisterly bonding point. Yet. Reve is renting a place from Cherokee Cabin Rentals.”
“I should invite her to stay here,” Reba said and elicited surprised looks from Caleb and Big Jim.
“Why ever would you do that?” Jim asked.
“Because Ms. Sorrell was a friend of Jamie’s. And her parents were part of the same social circle as the Wallaces and the Grambrells. Eileen Wallace and I were sorority sisters. Anna Lee Grambrell and I have served on numerous Republican fund raisers statewide. And I’m almost certain that I met Lesley Sorrell not only at a couple of those fundraisers, but at Eileen’s daughter’s wedding, too.”
“Then by all means, considering how closely our families are connected, you must call Ms. Sorrell immediately and invite her to stay with us.” Big Jim chuckled, quite pleased with his own sarcastically humorous assessment of the situation.
“I don’t appreciate your facetious comment,” Reba told her husband. “I’d be remiss in my duties as a social leader in Cherokee County if I didn’t extend an invitation to Ms. Sorrell.” She eyed Caleb quizzically. “Do Reve Sorrell and Jasmine Talbot look just alike?”
Caleb grinned. “Yes, except for a few superficial differences. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason.” Reba sighed, then a genuine smile spread across her face. “I’ll telephone Jasmine and invite her and Ms. Sorrell to join us for Sunday dinner. Tomorrow, when they’re here, I’ll issue Ms. Sorrell an invitation to stay with us. I’m sure she’ll find living here preferable to staying in one of those dinky little cabins. A lady of her breeding must find roughing it quite intolerable.”
Big Jim chuckled under his breath, then winked at Caleb before looking directly at his wife. “I know you, Reba Upton. You’re up to something. You wouldn’t by any chance think that since those two gals look just alike, they could be interchangeable as far as Caleb is concerned, would you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She feigned innocence.
“I’m talking about your thinking Reve Sorrell is socially acceptable and would make a suitable granddaughter-in-law.”
“Why, Jim, what a thing to say.”
Caleb reached out and grasped his grandmother’s hand. “I’m sure you’d never believe something so foolish, would you, Miss Reba? I’m in love with Jazzy, with everything about her. And that includes a lot more than her physical appearance. You could parade a dozen look-alikes in front of me and not one of them would ever measure up to Jazzy. After all, if a man who looked just like Big Jim showed up, you wouldn’t automatically fall out of love with Big Jim and in love with this other man, would you?”
“No, of course not. I—”
Dora came bustling into the breakfast room, placed a china soup cauldron on the table, then hurried back to the kitchen and returned with a plate of cornbread and a pitcher of iced tea. “Save room for dessert.”
“Let’s enjoy our lunch,” Big Jim said. “This afternoon, while you’re issuing invitations”—he smiled at Miss Reba—“I want to show Caleb around the stables and maybe the two of us will take a ride out over the farm.”
“A ride as in a horseback ride?” Caleb asked.
“Have you never been horseback riding, son?” Jim cocked his eyebrows ever so slightly.
“Nope. I was raised a city boy. I spent a lot of time riding a motorcycle, but I’ve never been on a horse.”
“Then it’s high time you learned how,” Jim said. “The best way in the world for a man to look over his land is from horseback.”
Caleb groaned inwardly. This business of being the Upton heir was going to take some getting used to. He just hoped he could find a way to make his grandparents’ golden years happy and still live his life on his own terms.
On the ride up the mountain, Reve let Jazzy do most of the talking, just as she had during their lunch together at Jazzy’s downtown Cherokee Pointe restaurant, Jasmine’s. This was yet another striking difference between them— Jazzy was an extrovert, who could and did talk non-stop. Apparently the woman never met a stranger. On the other hand, Reve was more of an introvert; and although she enjoyed good conversation, she never talked just to be talking.
Reve wished she could relax around Jazzy, wished she could look at the woman and not cringe at the thought that they were probably twin sisters. Jazzy had done nothing to make Reve dislike her. The exact opposite was true. She seemed determined to make Reve feel comfortable about their potential relationship as siblings and was working overtime to achieve that goal.
Maybe she could learn to like her. She really haven’t given her a chance. Whenever she looked at Jazzy, all she saw was the woman’s wild, bright red hair, her abundance of dangling jewelry and her rock star clothes. And listening to Jazzy’s silly, non-stop chatter about nothing that she could even vaguely relate to made Reve assume Jazzy was un sophisticated and uncouth. The words redneck, hillbilly and white trash instantly came to mind. Besides, Reve couldn’t quite get past her private investigator’s initial report that concluded Jasmine Talbot was considered the town tramp. However, Reve had learned at an early age that some things were not what they seemed. She couldn’t shake the feeling that Jazzy was sorely misjudged by the local populace. Is that really a gut feeling? she asked herself. Or is it that you just want to believe Jazzy isn’t a slut?
As Jazzy maneuvered her red Jeep up the steep driveway to the side of Genny Sloan’s house, Reve took in her surroundings. The large old farmhouse sat way up off the road on a rise, nestled into the mountain. Woods surrounded the place on three sides. Colorful, towering trees reached high into the clear blue sky. An old rock-wall fence marked the front yard and rock steps led from the road to the rock sidewalk. Already, in mid-October, the foliage had begun changing from green to deep, vivid shades of red, yellow and orange. Leaves covered the ground and pine cones dotted the landscape. Jazzy pulled her vehicle alongside the SUV parked in the drive.
“There’s Genny,” Jazzy said. “She’s expecting us. You’ll like her. Everybody does.”
“She’s the . . . the psychic, isn’t she?” Glancing through the windshield, Reve saw Genny standing on the wide front porch, waiting for them. “She’s lovely.”
The woman was breathtakingly exotic, with creamy tan skin, long, straight, jet-black hair and a small, slender body.
“Yeah, Genny’s a beauty.” Jazzy opened the driver’s door. “She and Jacob have similar coloring, but Genny looks a lot like her Granny Butler and I’m told Jacob looks a great deal like their Grandpa Butler.”
“Oh, yes, I’d almost forgotten that Genny and the sheriff are first cousins.” Don’t dislike Genny Sloan just because she’s Sheriff Butler’s cousin, Reve told herself. It wouldn’t be fair to assume this woman was anything like her unpleasant relative.
“Actually, they’re more like brother and sister. They were raised together after their mothers were killed in a car wreck when they were just kids.” Jazzy got out of the Jeep, then motioned to Reve. “Come on. Genny’s eager to meet you.”
Reluctantly, Reve emerged from the vehicle. She had tried to beg off making this trip up the mountain to meet Jazzy’s best friend, but Jazzy had insisted. “I’ve asked her to give us a reading,” Jazzy had said. “She might be able to pick up on whether or not we’re twins. And if she can, I’m hoping she’ll be able to help us find out what happened when we were born.”
Reve was not looking forward to this visit—to becoming acquainted with a backwoods witch. For the sake of civility, she’d do her best not to voice her opinion on people who professed to have a sixth sense. But if Genny started foretelling her future, she’d have to find a courteous way to let Genny know she wasn’t interested in any predictions or prophecies.
“Come on. Don’t drag your feet,” Jazzy said. She reached out and grabbed Reve’s arm. “You act like you’re going to your own hanging. I promise you won’t regret coming here with me today.”
“I’ll hold you to that.” Reve tugged free, but let her lookalike lead the way.
Genny scurried off the porch and met them in the yard. She hugged Jazzy with great affection. “It’s turned out to be such a gorgeous day, I’ve set up apple cider and tea on the porch. And I baked one of Granny’s apple dapple cakes. I’ll bring some out later.”
“Genny, this is Reve Sorrell.” Jazzy presented Reve as if she were introducing her to royalty. “Reve, this is my dearest friend on earth, Genny Madoc Sloan.”
Reve extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sloan.”
“My goodness, you two do look remarkably alike.” Genny grasped Reve’s hand firmly. “Please, call me Genny.” She shook Reve’s hand, then held it for a brief moment.
Reve jerked her hand away.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean . . .” Genny smiled. “Most people don’t mind if I probe just a little. And I must admit that I’m curious about you.”
“Did you pick up on anything?” Jazzy asked.
Reve glared at Jazzy. She wanted to beg them not to include her in any of their forays into the psychic world, a world in which Reve did not believe.
“Only that Ms. Sorrell isn’t comfortable making this visit.” Genny spread her arm out in invitation. “Why don’t we go sit on the porch and relax?”
Be polite, Reve told herself. Make an effort to get along with these people. “Genny, you must call me Reve. And I apologize for—”
“No need to apologize,” Genny said. “You don’t know me and you’re skeptical. You have every right to be. I don’t expect you to accept my gift of sight as a natural, God-given talent. Nor do I expect you to like me instantly just because Jazzy and I are best friends.”
An odd feeling of relief eased Reve’s tension. She wasn’t quite sure why or how it happened. There was something strangely comforting about Genny’s voice. She projected a gentleness that seemed to encompass everything around her.
Once the three were seated in big wooden rockers, Genny’s chair turned so that she could face the other two, Genny asked, “Tea or cider, Reve?”
“Neither, thank you.”
Genny poured hot liquid from an earthenware teapot that looked hand-painted, then gave Jazzy a cup. “Well, I’m going to come right out and say it. I had a vision this morning.”
Reve sighed. Here we go, she thought.
“Was it about us? About Reve and me?” Jazzy asked.
“Part of it was. The good part. The happy part.”
“Tell us,” Jazzy all but begged.
“I sensed laughter,” Genny said. “And wonderful happiness. A oneness as if the two of you were a single entity. You are separate and yet together. Individuals, but linked from birth.”
“Then you sensed that we’re twins, didn’t you?” Jazzy asked.
Genny smiled at her friend, but Reve picked up on something not quite right about the smile. She sensed a sadness in Genny. Stop doing that! Reve scolded herself. You’re playing right into Genny’s hands by letting your imagination play tricks on you.
“Yes, I believe you and Reve are twin sisters,” Genny said. “I have no doubt about it.”
“That’s good enough for me.” Jazzy looked at Reve as if she expected her to respond by grabbing her, proclaiming them sisters and hugging her. Instead Reve stiffened her spine and sat up straighter in her chair.
“I believe I prefer to wait for the DNA test results.” Reve hated that she’d been unable to mask the coolness in her voice, but she simply could not accept some hillbilly psychic’s sixth sense.
Jazzy glared at Reve, then fixed her gaze on Genny. “You said that was the good part of your vision. What was the bad part?”
Genny hesitated, as if she didn’t want to tell them more. Was her hesitancy real or was it a way to dramatize the moment? Reve wondered. She could not—would not—take Genny’s psychic abilities at face value.
“I sensed evil.” Genny’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “And danger.”
“Danger for Reve and me?”
“I’m not sure. But . . . y’all must be very careful.”
“This is nonsense!” Reve shot out of her chair.
“Why must you be such an uptight, unfeeling, unhappy bitch?” Jazzy stood and faced her. “Believe me, I’m having as much trouble accepting our being sisters as you are. For all your millions and hoity-toity ways, you’re no grand prize yourself, you know.”
Reve felt as if she’d been slapped. Taken back by Jazzy’s outburst, she stared at her look-alike, then smiled. “You’re quite right. I’m not a grand prize, am I? I’m sure you’d never have chosen me to be your sister. I’m rich, well- educated, socially prominent and yet I don’t have one single close friend. And not one man has ever cared about me just for me, whereas men seem to fall at your feet.”
“Well, well, well.” Jazzy laughed. “You are human after all.”
“Oh, yes, only too human.” Reve turned her gaze on Genny. “I don’t believe in hocus-pocus stuff. But I apologize if I’ve been rude. And if letting you do a reading, as Jazzy calls it, will make her happy, then by all means—”
“You are not what you seem,” Genny said, her dark eyes pinning Reve with their intensity. “You and Jazzy are two halves of a whole, and very soon both of you will begin sensing your oneness.”
Reve wasn’t sure how to react. Genny wasn’t telling her anything that couldn’t be true about any set of identical twins. But the way Genny stared at her, as if she could see beyond her body and into her spirit, unnerved Reve.
“You’re very lonely,” Genny said. “That loneliness will soon end. I see you surrounded by family. You will never be lonely again.”
Chapter 5
The Cherokee Country Club was just barely within the city limits of Cherokee Pointe. The two-story frame Federal- style house had once been home to a wealthy banker who’d lost a fortune in the Crash of 1929 and shot himself in one of the upstairs bedrooms. His widow had taken her children and returned home to Mississippi several years later, letting the house go for back taxes. Farlan MacKinnon’s father had purchased the house and surrounding twenty acres for a song. He’d been a young husband with a wife growing increasingly unhappy living with her in-laws, so he’d packed up his wife and two young sons and moved into the old Watley house in 1936. Farlan supposed that was the reason he felt so at home here, because he’d lived in this house as a boy, before he’d been shipped off to military school in Chattanooga.
When, over forty years ago, the most prominent citizens m the county had decided they needed a country club, Farlan had offered this house, which by then had been empty for a good many years, except for a few odds and ends of furniture his mother had left when she’d run off. Farlan had been eighteen at the time of his mother’s great escape and had been preparing to enter college that fall. Moonshiners used to run rampant in the hills making illegal whisky, and that summer the federal agents had swarmed the county in search of stills. He remembered Agent Rogers—a robust, devil-may-care bachelor who’d set local feminine hearts aflutter. But never had he imagined that the woman who could capture Agent Rogers’s heart would be Farlan’s forty-year-old mother. Helene MacKinnon had run away with her lover, leaving behind her two sons and their heartbroken father. Farlan never saw his mother again, although he did attend her funeral in Baltimore many years later, where he’d met his young half-sister.
Water under the bridge. The past should stay in the past, he’d told himself countless times. He could no more change anything that happened in the past than he could stem the tide of the Tennessee River, although the Tennessee Valley Authority had done their best to control the raging river with their numerous dams.
A man shouldn’t look back, Farlan reminded himself. But it was hard not to think about what might have been, especially when a man’s present life was less than satisfactory. He supposed there were others worse off and knew he should count his blessings. The only problem was, his blessings were few. Being filthy rich was, he supposed, a blessing. But when had it ever brought him happiness? In their youths, he and Jim Upton had both offered sweet Melva Mae everything money could buy and she’d turned them both down flat. She’d married a penniless quarter-breed and lived happily ever after. He supposed he’d come out of that ill- fated love triangle far better than old Jim Upton because Jimmy had been madly in love with Melva Mae and never did quite get over losing her.
Farlan, on the other hand, had fallen deeply in love again—with the prettiest little Atlanta debutante who’d ever come out. Veda Parnell had taken his breath away the first moment he laid eyes on her. They dated less than six months before he proposed, but at first she’d been reluctant to accept and leave the social whirl of Atlanta behind. Eventually he’d won her over and they married, but she never seemed really happy. Having her younger half-brother move to Cherokee Pointe when he finished law school had helped her finally adjust to life in the small mountain town. But the young, vibrant girl he’d married soon disappeared and was replaced by a melancholy woman he’d never been able to please.
He wasn’t sure when he’d come to realize that something wasn’t quite right about Veda. Looking back, he supposed he could have figured it out sooner if he hadn’t been so besotted with her.
Cyrus, the waiter who had worked at the country club since it opened and had before that been a groom at the MacKinnon stables, entered the library. His appearance interrupted Farlan’s less than pleasant thoughts about his wife. This room in the old Watley home—Farlan’s favorite at the club—housed the Watley family’s books as well as numerous additions club members had made over the years.
“Judge Keefer and Mr. Fennel have arrived, sir,” Cyrus said.
“Show them in,” Farlan replied. “And as soon as my son and Mr. Truman complete their game, send them on in.” Brian and the county’s Democratic district attorney, Wade Truman, played golf together almost every Saturday afternoon. Farlan liked young Truman and had hopes of helping put the boy in the governor’s mansion when the time was right.
“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”
“Pour up some of my best bourbon for Dodd and Max.” Farlan swirled the liquor in the glass he held. “And make sure no one else disturbs us.”
Cyrus nodded, then discreetly disappeared, leaving the pocket doors open. Max entered first, a big grin on his round, full face. Maxwell Fennel was Farlan’s first cousin, once removed. Max’s grandmother had been Farlan’s mother’s elder sister. Always dapper in his three-piece suits, Max considered himself somewhat of a ladies’ man, even at the age of fifty-nine. He kept his hair dyed dark brown, and Farlan suspected he’d had a few nips and tucks to keep his face from succumbing to the ravages of time.
“Glad you set the meeting up for this afternoon,” Max said, a mischievous twinkle in his hazel eyes. “I have an engagement with a mighty fine young lady tonight.”
“Not too young, I hope,” Dodd Keefer said as he followed Max into the library. “You wouldn’t want your penchant for sweet young things to mar your sterling reputation, now would you?”
Max’s smile dissolved into a solemn frown. “Why do you insist on bringing up that one indiscretion? It was years ago. And the girl told me she was eighteen.”
“A married man should be faithful to his wife and not out chasing young girls.” Dodd glared at Max.
“Something you learned from experience,” Max shot back without blinking an eye.
Cyrus appeared in the doorway, a tray of drinks in his hand. Farlan cleared his throat, cautioning his guests to watch what they said, then motioned for Cyrus to enter.
“Is this some of that fine bourbon I’m so fond of?” Max asked as he lifted his glass from the silver tray Cyrus carried.
“Yes, sir.” Cyrus offered Dodd the other glass.
“Thank you.” Dodd lifted the crystal tumbler and took a sip of the corn mash whiskey.
Farlan studied his brother-in-law, a tall, slender, elegant gentleman. Dodd was now, as he’d been for many years, Farlan’s best friend. It never ceased to amaze him how different he was from his older half-sister. As different as daylight is from dark, Dodd shared none of Veda’s mental and emotional problems. He was highly intelligent, soft spoken and easy to get along with. Farlan had always liked him. Physically, Dodd and Veda shared the same pensive blue eyes—the color inherited from the mother they shared— but Dodd’s once sandy hair was now a multi-colored brown and gray mix. At sixty-four, Dodd lived alone and had since his wife’s death ten years ago.
“Have a seat and we’ll get started.” Farlan motioned to two tufted leather chairs flanking the fireplace. “Brian and Wade will join us when they finish their game.”
After the two men sat, Farlan eased down on the overstuffed couch that faced them. He took a final swig of his liquor and set the glass atop a coaster on the sofa table behind him.
“Well, don’t keep us on pins and needles. What’s this meeting about?” Max lifted his glass to his lips.
“Politics. Our sheriff, our DA and our two circuit court judges are all Democrats, but we’ve still got a damn Republican mayor,” Farlan reminded them. “I want us to get a jump start on the next mayoral election by finding ourselves a suitable candidate before the first of the year. We want to spend time building him up, letting the folks in Cherokee Pointe know there’s a better man for the job than Big Jim’s man, Jerry Lee Todd.”
“You got somebody in mind, Farlan?” Dodd gazed down into his glass as if studying its contents.
“A few names come to mind. But the reason for this meeting is so we can put our heads together and see if the same name keeps coming up. If it does, we’ll know we’ve got the right man.”
“What about George Wyatt?” Max asked.
“He’s better off left on the city council,” Dodd said. “My recommendation is Joe Duffy. He’s a good age—forty—and he’s married with two children. He attends church every Sunday, and since he has a thriving feed and seed business, he wouldn’t be put off by the pittance we’re able to pay our mayor.”
Farlan nodded. “That’s one of the names that keeps popping up in my mind.” Farlan turned to Max. “Do you know of any dirt in his past that might jump up and bite him in the ass during a campaign?”
Max shook his head. “Not that I know of, and I’ve known Joe since he was born. He’s lived here all his life, except for four years away at UT, University of Tennessee, that is. And he married a local girl, Emily Patrick.”
“So, are you saying you’d okay Duffy for our choice as a mayoral candidate?” Farlan asked.
“I suppose so.”
“Good. But before we make a definite decision, I want to hear what Brian and Wade have to say. They’re closer to Duffy’s age and probably know him better than any of us.” Farlan relaxed into the comfort of the familiar old sofa, crossing his legs and motioning for Cyrus to bring him another drink.
By the time Brian and Wade joined the older men in the library, they’d each polished off their third bourbon and even Dodd Keefer’s usually soft voice was a little louder than normal. They had discussed various subjects of interest to three wealthy, successful men, albeit neither Max nor Dodd possessed the sizable fortune Farlan did. As the afternoon wore on, they’d laughed and talked and enjoyed their whiskey. For the life of him Farlan couldn’t remember who’d brought up the subject of the article in this morning’s Knoxville News-Sentinel about the prostitute’s body being dragged out of the river near Loudon. But he figured it must have been Max, who had a tendency to talk too much, a quality shared by many in his profession.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.” Dodd downed the last drops of his third drink.
“Do you mean to say you think it’s all right for someone to murder prostitutes?” Max asked, rather indignantly.
“No, of course not.” Dodd’s olive complexion splotched with pink. “I spoke without thinking.” Dodd stood, set his whiskey glass aside and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the massive front lawn.
“I hear it’s going to frost tonight.” Farlan quickly changed the subject, hoping to ease Dodd’s discomfort. His brother- in-law was a sensitive, emotional man. A good man.
An apologetic look crossed Max’s face. He glanced from Dodd, who stood with his back to them, to Farlan, then nodded agreeably. “Yes, sir, cold weather is just around the corner.”
Farlan studied Dodd’s drooping shoulders, his bowed head. If they were alone, he’d bring up that old taboo subject that haunted them both; and they would discuss it again, as they occasionally did when the burden of guilt and regret overcame them. But they weren’t alone and that shameful part of their pasts wasn’t something they ever discussed with anyone else, not even Max, whom they both trusted implicitly. That particular time in their lives was something Farlan would rather forget. And usually he was able to keep it buried deep inside, but occasionally he wondered if he should have done things differently. If he had, would his life now be better or worse?
Apparently sensing he’d inadvertently upset Dodd, Max began talking about this and that, doing his best to lighten the mood. Maxwell presented a jovial face to the world, even to family and friends. Farlan knew Max as few others did, knew the demons that plagued him.
“What are you jabbering about, Max?” Brian asked teasingly as he and Wade walked in, both ruddy-cheeked from having played a round of golf in the crisp October weather.
“Did I hear someone say something about another prostitute being found in the Tennessee River?” Wade inquired.
Farlan looked at the young man and thought not for the first time that the boy was too damned good-looking. Too pretty to be a man. “The prostitute’s murder was just something Max mentioned in passing. We’ve been shooting the bull for a couple of hours waiting on you boys to show up.”
Wade meandered over toward the windows where Dodd still stood with his back to the room. “How are you, Judge?”
“Well enough,” Dodd replied in a quiet, stilted voice.
“What did you mean when you said another prostitute?” Max asked. “Has there been more than one murdered?”
Wade turned around and faced the others. “Several in the past couple of years. All in the eastern part of the state, all the bodies dumped into the river. One was as recent as six months ago. That body was recovered downstream from Watts Barr. I believe I took note of a similar case for the first time only a couple of years ago, and if I recall correctly, there have been four cases with practically the same MO.”
“And that MO would be?” Brian asked as he turned to accept a glass of bourbon from Cyrus, who’d just offered him a drink.
Dodd whirled around, his eyes overly bright, his facial features drawn. “If y’all will excuse me, I’m not feeling well.”
“Do you need me to drive you home?” Farlan asked.
“No need for that,” Dodd replied. “I’ll just go to the men’s room and throw a little cold water in my face, then I’ll see if Cyrus can rustle me up a bite to eat. I skipped lunch. I’m sure that’s the problem.”
Poor Dodd. Brilliant man, but far too sensitive. People said that combination made him an excellent judge.
Once Dodd left the room, Farlan motioned for Wade and Brian to sit. “As much as y’all find the gruesome murders of several young women fascinating, let’s set aside the gossip and get down to business.”
Brian shrugged. “And that business would be?”
“Choosing a new Democratic candidate for mayor.”
“Joe Duffy,” Wade and Brian said practically simultaneously.
Chuckling, Farlan eyed Max, who nodded. It would seem this meeting was over before it began. By unanimous agreement, they had their candidate. All that remained was putting the idea into Duffy’s head and promising him not only Farlan’s full support, but the backing of MacKinnon Media.
Genny sensed Reve Sorrell’s uneasiness and did all she could to make the woman feel comfortable. Although Reve had eventually drunk a cup of tea and eaten a slice of cake, she still seemed tense, as if she were afraid of something. What was she so afraid of? The moment the question came to Genny’s mind, the answer appeared seconds later. The wealthy and powerful Ms. Sorrell was afraid of being taken advantage of, afraid of being used. She believed that anyone professing to possess a sixth sense had to be a fake. Was that what vast wealth had done to her? Made her distrust everyone? How sad, Genny thought, and decided at that very moment to make this lonely woman her friend.
“I’d love for y’all to stay for supper,” Genny said, while the threesome sat around the kitchen table, their crumb- dappled plates and empty, tea-stained cups sitting in front of them. “And I will not take no for an answer.” Not giving Reve a chance to refuse, she turned to Jazzy. “Call Caleb and tell him to grab a ride in from town with Dallas.”
“That’s a wonderful idea.” Jazzy lifted her small red- leather shoulder bag from where she’d hung it on the back of her chair. “I’ll call him right now. This supper will give Reve a chance to get better acquainted with the most important people in my life.”
“I’m not sure—” Reve looked like an animal caught in a trap, her brown eyes wide open and filled with uncertainty.
“As I said, I won’t take no for an answer.” Genny scooted back her chair. “Have you ever done any cooking, Reve?”
“No, not really,” she replied. “When I was a child, I occasionally watched our cook when she prepared dinner. And sometimes she allowed me to help her frost a cake or bake cookies.”
“Well, I intend to put you and Jazzy to work helping me fix tonight’s supper. Nothing fancy. Just some fried chicken, fried potatoes, butter beans, cornbread and deviled eggs.” Genny eyed the glass-domed cake plate sitting atop an antique sideboard at the far end of the room. “We still have plenty of cake left for dessert. And I froze a half gallon of homemade vanilla ice cream the last time we made some, so there should be more than enough for a couple of scoops each.”
Jazzy punched in Caleb’s cell number and while the phone rang, she asked Genny, “Will we have time for you to give us a reading before we start supper?”
“I really don’t want to participate in any kind of reading,” Reve said.
Jazzy frowned, but quickly recovered from the disappointment. “Okay, then, just give me a reading. Reve can be an observer.”
“If you’re sure that’s what you want.” Genny didn’t often give readings, only under special circumstances and for special people. She had learned that most people only thought they wanted to delve into the supernatural realm, and when confronted by predications they didn’t like, they wanted to shoot the messenger.
“I’m sure it’s what I want.” Jazzy slid back her chair, stood and gathered up their empty plates, stacked them and put them in the sink at the same time Genny picked up their cups. “Do we need to go into Granny Butler’s room the way we did the last time?”
“I’d prefer to do it there. I always feel closer to Granny and her powers in her old room.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Genny caught a glimpse of Reve’s furrowed brow, her wrinkled nose, her pursed lips. The expression of skepticism and disapproval. “Give me a couple of minutes to prepare, then you two come on up.” She looked right at Reve. “I know you don’t believe, but come upstairs anyway. Consider it an adventure. Or perhaps a learning experience.”
“She’ll become a believer,” Jazzy said. “Just give her time.”
Genny offered them both an understanding smile, then left them to go upstairs. The moment she entered the semi-dark bedroom, the scent of roses assailed her. Granny had always worn rose-scented powder, and although she’d been gone for a good many years, her scent lingered. Of course there were times, when the scent was very strong the way it was today, that Genny felt her grandmother’s presence.
You’re here, aren’t you? She didn’t expect a reply.
Hurriedly she lit the array of white candles situated throughout the room, then pulled the curtains to darken the room completely, except for the positive light given off by the candles. After arranging two chairs at a small, antique table, she sat in one of the chairs, folded her hands in her lap and waited, her mind settling into a meditative state. Readings were not like visions. During a vision, the images were clearer, sometimes so clear it was as if she were watching them through the lens of a movie camera. But when she did a reading, she seldom received clear pictures. She usually simply felt things, sensed things and sometimes heard a voice inside her head.
While she waited for Jazzy and Reve—she knew that despite her misgivings, Reve would come—Genny concentrated, all her thoughts on the look-alike redheads. Almost immediately she sensed a deep yearning to protect the twins. Protect the babies.
Babies?
Pure white light surrounded Genny. The innocence of newborn babies. Completely void of any evil. Love. Maternal love. A desire to nurture and protect.
Whoever had given birth to the twins had wanted them, loved them and believed she had to protect them. But from what? From whom?
Genny focused on Jazzy and Reve again instead of the mother, willing herself to move forward into the present and out of the past. She couldn’t even be certain that it was the real past she sensed, anymore than she knew for certain it was a past that Jazzy and Reve had shared. But her instincts, which were seldom wrong, told her that the two women were twins and the powerful maternal love she sensed did indeed come from their birth mother.
“Are you ready for us . . . for me?” Jazzy asked.
Genny opened her eyes. Jazzy stood in the doorway, Reve directly behind her.
“Yes, please come in.” She motioned to the chair on the opposite side of the antique table. “Sit here, Jazzy.” She nodded to a rocker in the corner. “You may sit there, Reve.”
Both women did as Genny had instructed. The vibrations from the sisters—the twin sisters—bombarded Genny. Jazzy was eager, hopeful, almost giddy with excitement. On the other hand, Reve was anxious, uncertain, fearful.
Genny laid her hands, palm up, on the table, closed her eyes and repeated the name “Jasmine” several times. By using that one name, she hoped her gift of sight would connect only with that one person.
“Happiness. Love. A rejoicing over good news,” Genny said.
“That means the DNA tests will prove we’re sisters.” Jazzy sneaked a peek at Reve.
“Two who are one. Forever linked. A bond that cannot be severed.” Suddenly the bright, clear light in her mind grew dim, darkened. Gray shadows filled Genny’s consciousness. She tried to will the negative thoughts away, but they persisted. Grew stronger. “Fear. Fear of discovery. Anger.”
“Who’s afraid of being discovered?” Jazzy asked. “Is it Aunt Sally? Has she been lying to me all my life?”
“No, I don’t believe it’s Sally.”
“Then who?”
The gray mist within Genny’s mind turned black. Black swirls of malevolence. “I sense a strong combination of love and hatred, of desire and rage.” Genny tried to see who emitted such powerful emotions, but she could not pin them down, couldn’t even discern if the person was male or female. But she did know—without a doubt—that these disturbing feelings were connected with Jazzy. And with Reve. The twins. “There’s danger. Great danger.”
“Stop. Please, stop. Don’t do this.” Reve jumped up from the rocking chair.
“Who’s in danger?” Jazzy asked. “Reve and me?”
“Yes, both of you. But—Oh, God! Jazzy, I sense the greatest danger for you.” Genny gasped, then slumped over, her head dropping to the table, cushioned by her cupped hands.
Chapter 6
He stood alone in the shadows of autumn twilight, the sky overcast with gold, and thought about Dinah. In the beginning, after she’d gone away that first time, it had been years before she came back to him. Years he’d been able to live in relative peace. And then she had reappeared un expectedly, still as beautiful and alluring as ever. He had stupidly thought they had been given a second chance to be together and that this time she would really love him. She had pretended not to know him, but he’d understood that she was simply playing a game. Being the whore she was, she’d made him pay her for her favors. He’d paid her handsomely those first few times, but unfortunately found the sex less than satisfactory. That was when he came to understand what he had to do. Only by repeating the past could he achieve the fulfillment he craved, the pleasure only Dinah could give him. So they had played out the same scenario that time and then again and again with every return visit, both of them acting out their parts from memory.
After half a dozen recurrences, he had considered keeping a diary, marking down the dates and places But he’d thought better of the idea, and the only record he kept was in his head. If anyone had ever accidently come across such a diary, they might not have understood. The police wouldn’t understand. They would think he had killed numerous women—over twenty in all—when he’d actually killed only one woman. Dinah. The authorities wouldn’t care that he’d been justified in killing her. They wouldn’t believe that it really hadn’t been murder. No one would understand that he had to keep killing her over and over again because she wouldn’t stay dead.
For the past few hours, he had been unable to get Becky Olmstead out of his mind, despite his best efforts to forget her. He always went with his heart in these matters, because his heart always knew when the woman he desired was Dinah. But allowing his mind to rule his emotions when it came to protecting himself was what had kept him safe all these years. No one had ever connected him with any of the bodies found in the river. Thankfully, Dinah had never come back to him in Cherokee Pointe, and he’d never sought her out in his home area. But he feared that things had changed, that Dinah had chosen to tempt him beyond all reason in his own backyard. He had hoped Becky wouldn’t turn out to be Dinah, but he was beginning to believe she was. Dared he risk going to her and confronting her?
What choice did he have? Once Dinah came back to him, she wouldn’t leave him alone. What he didn’t understand was why she’d returned so quickly, only a matter of days since they’d last been together.
Soon—very soon—he would have to seek Becky out. Once he’d fucked her, he’d know for sure whether or not she was Dinah.
Reba Upton parked her black Mercedes at the back of the mountaintop chalet so that anyone who happened to drive past wouldn’t see it. As nervous butterflies jittered in her stomach, she flipped down the sun visor and inspected her face in the mirror. She had taken special care with her hair and makeup and had worn her pink cashmere sweater set with a pair of winter white slacks. He’d told her she looked especially lovely in pink. She’d been wearing a pink silk bed jacket the first time he’d visited her in the hospital while she was recovering from her heart attack this past spring. That visit had been the beginning for them. Odd that she had known him for years, had been friends of a sort with his late wife, and yet she’d never thought of him as more than an acquaintance. In all the years Jim and she had been married, she hadn’t looked at another man, despite knowing Jim cheated on her frequently. She’d been so in love with her husband, so totally, devotedly in love.
Reba opened the door and got out of the car, then glanced at her wristwatch. She was early. But once Jim had left the house, supposedly to go to the club to have dinner with some of his political cronies, she’d been so eager that she’d dressed and left less than half an hour after he had. She suspected he wasn’t going to the country club. In fact, she was ninety-nine percent sure he was driving straight to Erin Mercer’s cabin, straight into the arms of his latest mistress.
But Erin wasn’t just another in a long line of women her husband had bedded. No, she was different and the way Jim felt about her wasn’t just lust. He was in love with this woman. He loved Erin as he had never loved her, his wife of over fifty years. She suspected that Erin was the first and only woman he’d truly loved since he’d been a very young man and mad about Melva Mae. She supposed that was why, when Dodd Keefer had begun showing an interest in her, she hadn’t rejected his advances. Oh, there had been nothing more than friendship between them at first, all during the spring and summer. He had come to the house several times on this or that pretense, and she’d shown up in various places she’d known he would be. After losing her grandson Jamie, she had desperately needed comfort. Although Jim and she had tried to offer each other comfort, they had both needed more. Jim had soon turned back to Erin, and once again she’d been alone. So alone. Then right after Labor Day, Dodd had made a confession that prompted her to search her heart.
“I find that I’m falling in love with you, Reba,” he’d said.
She’d stared at him, surprised by his admission, but strangely, giddily happy. “I’m flattered, Dodd, really I am,” she’d told him. “But surely you’ve mistaken a deep liking for love. After all, I’m several years older than you and I—I am a married woman. Besides, a man like you could have his pick of women.”
“I’ve picked you.” He had caressed her face tenderly. “I’ve admired you from afar for many years and when you almost died, I promised myself that I would go to you and—”
“Don’t say anything else. Please.”
She had tried to stay away from him, tried to concentrate on the joy of having a new grandson in her life, tried to remain faithful to her unfaithful husband. During the past six weeks, whenever Dodd had called her, she’d put him off, telling him she wasn’t ready for an affair. But a few days ago, she realized that her feelings for Dodd Keefer were stronger than her will to resist infidelity. She wasn’t quite sure when it had happened or how, but she had fallen out of love with Jim and in love with Dodd.
Reba owned a rustic chateau high in the mountains. This had been a place where her son, Jim, Jr., and his young friends used to come to let off steam, and then later on he and his wife had used it for weekend getaways. After their deaths, Reba had thought about selling it, but instead she’d handed it over to a Realtor to lease as a rental property. Then this past summer, when she’d been recuperating, she’d hired a contractor to update and remodel the A-frame mountain house. They had finished up a few days ago, so the place hadn’t been rented again.
After fishing the key from her purse, Reba climbed the wooden steps to the front entrance, unlocked the door, opened it and walked into the two-story great room. A shiver of uncertainty mixed with a large dose of anticipation rippled up her spine. Could she do this? Could she really follow through with her plans for an intimate tryst with Dodd? She hadn’t been with a man in years. Knowing about all of Jim’s affairs, she had finally reached a point where she couldn’t bear for him to touch her and had requested they have separate bed-rooms. What if when Dodd made love to her, she couldn’t respond? What if she couldn’t feel anything sexual? After all, she was past seventy and those fiery hormones of youth had long ago died down. What she didn’t know was if her sexual desire was now cold ashes or simply dying embers waiting to be stoked back to life.
The room was cold. She felt the chill even through her white wool coat. Originally there had been a wood-burning fireplace in the chateau, but ten years ago, on her Realtor’s advice, she’d had it converted to propane gas. A fire would add a touch of romance. If she’d had more time to prepare, she’d have brought candles and champagne. Maybe next time.
If there was a next time.
Nervously, Reba shed her coat, tossed it onto a plaid armchair and quickly reset the thermostat on the heating unit and turned on the gas logs in the fireplace. Glancing around, she decided that if she was going to spend any time here in the future, she needed to make some changes. The decor was much too rustic country to suit her tastes, but tourists who rented the cabins and chateaus in the mountains often preferred this old-timey look—at least that’s what the Knoxville decorator she’d hired had told her.
Going through the selection of CDs stacked beside the entertainment center, she found that it was comprised of mostly older country hits. She didn’t care much for country music and doubted seriously if Dodd did. As she continued perusing the stack, her gaze stopped on one particular CD that stood out from the rest. The Romantic Piano. She removed it from the stack, opened it and inserted it in the player. When she heard the soft, sweet strains of Schuman’s “Dreaming,” she sighed.
Only moments after she relaxed on the sofa, she heard a car outside. Her heartbeat accelerated. Forcing herself not to jump up and run to the door, she rose from the sofa and walked slowly toward the entrance. By the time she reached the door, she heard footsteps on the porch. She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Dodd Keefer was an elegantly handsome man, his grayish- brown hair neatly styled, his attire a sports coat, dress slacks and lightweight turtleneck sweater. He paused the moment he saw her and smiled. His sparkling blue eyes devoured her. A tingle of some sort fluttered in her belly. Suddenly she felt like a young girl meeting secretly with her first beau.
He held up a bottle of wine. “I brought champagne. Dom Perignon. It’s been chilled, but we might want to—”
Reba boldly grasped his free hand and tugged, urging him toward her. Lowering his hand holding the bottle to his side, he stepped over the threshold and eased the door closed behind him. Acting purely on instinct, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him fully on the mouth. He responded instantly, returning the kiss with gentle force. A feeling of pure euphoria filled her body, unlike anything she’d experienced in ages.
Dodd ended the kiss somewhat reluctantly. Reba gazed up at him. He smiled.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for a very long time,” she admitted, then took a step back, putting some space between them.
“So have I.” He studied her for a moment. “This isn’t something we have to rush. I’ll be perfectly content this evening to sit here in front of the fire with you and drink champagne, listen to music and talk.”
She nodded. “I’d like that very much.” He’s a rare man, she thought, a man who understood that she wasn’t quite ready to make that big step into a full-fledged affair.
“And perhaps you’ll allow me to kiss you again.”
“I’ll be disappointed if you don’t kiss me. Several more times.”
Reve found herself at Genny Sloan’s kitchen sink removing the shells from a dozen boiled eggs. If her Chattanooga friends could see her now, they’d be shocked. Reve Sorrell doing a menial task! She had rolled up the sleeves of her silk blouse and donned a white apron her hostess had provided, then had listened carefully as Genny explained how to prepare deviled eggs. It had seemed simple enough, but she was having more than a little difficulty. Some of the eggs shed their shells without a problem, but some shells stuck as if they were glued on, and the only way to remove them was to tear the egg apart.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.” Holding one of the tattered eggs in her hand, Reve glanced across the kitchen to Genny, who was lifting pieces of fried chicken from the heavy iron skillet filled with hot grease.
“Oh, you’re doing fine,” Genny told her. “The whites that mess up, just save for Drudwyn. That dog loves eggs. And put the yolks with the other ones. I always like to have more yolks than whites. It makes for overflowing deviled eggs.”
Reve forced a smile. She felt as out of place here in this old mountain farmhouse helping prepare dinner as Genny and Jazzy would probably feel at one of her elaborate dinner parties. And it’s not dinner here in Cherokee County, she reminded herself. These people call the evening meal supper.
These people? Watch out, Reve, your snobbery is showing again. These people are two very kind women who have done their best to make you feel as if you fit in. Since that crazy “reading” Genny had done a couple of hours ago, both Genny and Jazzy had bent over backward to soothe Reve’s ragged nerves. Considering how she’d reacted to Genny’s dire prediction that both she and Jazzy were in grave danger, Reve supposed she was lucky they hadn’t asked her to leave and never come back. She had jumped up from her chair in the corner of the darkened bedroom and screamed for them to stop.
“This is total insanity and I want no part of it!” After yelling this, she had run from the room, leaving Jazzy to deal with Genny, who had either fainted or had done a great job of acting as if she had. As skeptical as Reve was about Genny’s sixth-sense abilities, she didn’t think the woman was a fake. Maybe sometime in Genny’s childhood, her crazy old witch woman grandmother had convinced her she was psychic. It seemed obvious that Genny truly believed she was gifted.
Later on, the two women had found her outside on the porch. Neither mentioned the “reading” or Reve’s outburst. Instead, Genny suggested she give Reve a tour of her greenhouses, which turned out to be a rather interesting excursion. It seemed that Genny owned a successful local nursery and specialized in herbs she also sold by mail order.
As soon as Jazzy removed a skillet of cornbread from the oven and turned it out onto a brown earthenware plate, she came over and eased the hot skillet down into the soapy water on the left side of the double sink. The minute the skillet hit the water, it emitted a sizzling sound.
“Need some help?” Jazzy asked Reve.
“Yes, I’m afraid I do.”
“Looks like you’ve managed to keep about six of the whites intact.” Jazzy lifted a tray from the counter and set it down to Reve’s right. “Clean your hands and then arrange the whites on the tray in a circle. While you do that, I’ll prepare the yolks.”
Reve sighed with relief. “Thanks.”
Jazzy patted her on the back. “It’s okay. Really. You’re just new to this kind of stuff. Any time I try something new, I feel as if I’m all thumbs.”
Before Jazzy could take over, a phone rang. Reve knew instantly from the musical ring that it wasn’t her cell phone or Genny’s residential line.
“That’s mine.” Jazzy wiped her hands on her apron, then grabbed her purse from the back of the kitchen chair and retrieved her cell phone. “Hello.” Jazzy’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’m doing just fine, Miss Reba. How are you?”
Genny stopped dead still and looked inquiringly at Jazzy, who shrugged and grinned. Genny eased up beside Reve and whispered, “That’s Caleb’s grandmother. She’s always hated Jazzy. I can’t imagine why she’s calling her.”
“Lunch tomorrow?” Jazzy asked. “I—yes, I suppose so. Hold on just a sec, will you?” Jazzy looked at Reve. “Miss Reba has invited us to Sunday dinner. What do you say? Want to go?”
Not really, Reve thought, but when she noted the hopeful expression on Jazzy’s face, she replied, “Yes, certainly, if you’d like to go.”
“Miss Reba, we’ll be there.” Jazzy sucked in a deep breath and slowly released it. “And thank you.”
The minute she hit the off button on her phone, Jazzy whirled around, grabbed Reve and hugged her. Reve stiffened. She was unaccustomed to physical displays of emotion. Her parents had been kind and caring, but neither of them had been the type to shower hugs and kisses on anyone, not even their only child.
“Hot damn!” Jazzy released Reve and danced jubilantly around the room. “I guess hell has done froze over, gals. Miss Reba not only was civil to me, she honest-to-God invited me to Sunday dinner.”
The sound of a dog’s friendly barks alerted them that someone was outside several minutes before they heard tromping on the back porch. The kitchen door swung open, and a huge wolf-looking dog came barreling in, followed by Caleb McCord and Dallas Sloan. The dog came straight to Reve and sniffed her. Oddly enough, she wasn’t afraid of him, even though she’d never owned a pet. When he finished sniffing, the dog lifted his head and stared at her with golden eyes.
“I believe Drudwyn likes you,” Genny said. “You should take that as a compliment. He’s usually a very good judge of character.”
Chief Sloan slid his arm around his wife’s waist, leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. Reve glanced away, somehow feeling as if she was a voyeur. Her line of vision just happened to turn to Jazzy, who was in the middle of an equally loving exchange with Caleb. Reve’s cheeks burned with an embarrassing blush.
Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, you have nothing to be embarrassed about and you know it. If people chose to make spectacles of themselves, she was hardly to blame. Not once had she ever seen her parents kiss each other. They considered such public displays of affection vulgar and low class.
With shaky hands, Reve placed the halved boiled egg whites in a circle on the plate, deliberately avoiding making eye contact with anyone else in the room.
“You’ll never guess in a million years who called and invited Reve and me to dinner tomorrow,” Jazzy said.
“My grandmother,” Caleb responded.
“You did it, didn’t you? Somehow you twisted her arm into—”
“Didn’t do any arm-twisting,” Caleb said. “I simply told Miss Reba that I loved you and intended to marry you and it would please me greatly if you two could get along.”
“You actually said that to her?”
“Sure did. And I mentioned that I’d hate to think she’d force me to choose between the woman I loved and my grandmother because I’d choose the woman I loved.”
Reve glanced up just in time to see Jazzy throw her arms around Caleb’s neck and kiss him again.
“You’re the most wonderful man in the world,” Jazzy told him.
“Then why don’t you accept my proposal? Say you’ll marry me.”
Jazzy pulled away from him, but held on to both of his hands. With tears misting her eyes, she looked right at him and said, “I’ll marry you.”
“Glory hallelujah.” Genny clasped her hands together in a prayer-like gesture.
Reve grew more uncomfortable with each passing minute. She should never have agreed to come here with Jazzy today. It had been a mistake from the very beginning. These people were little more than strangers to her, and yet here she was, not only helping prepare a meal they would soon share, but being privy to a marriage proposal and acceptance.
These two couples were close friends. She was an outsider who was unaccustomed to feeling out of place. Even if she and Jazzy were twin sisters, she doubted she’d ever be able to fit into Jazzy’s world. No more than Jazzy could fit into hers.
While the foursome were sharing this happy moment, Reve eased toward the back door. She could hardly escape and go back into town to her rental cabin, considering she’d ridden out here with Jazzy. Besides, none of them would understand why she felt so uncomfortable around them. But she needed a few moments alone, to compose her thoughts. She could step out on the back porch. Just for a couple of minutes. Several deep breaths of cool evening air might do her nerves a world of good. She seriously doubted anyone would miss her, at least not immediately.
Reaching the door without being noticed, Reve grasped the knob. Just as she opened the door and took her first step, she came face-to-throat with a wide-shouldered man wearing a brown suede jacket. Her heart all but stopped when she lifted her gaze and looked into the slanting green eyes of her worst nightmare—Sheriff Jacob Butler.
Chapter 7
When his father left the country club to drive home shortly after six, Brian had told him that he wouldn’t be in until late. And when Farlan had asked—hopefully—if he had a date, Brian had smiled and said yes, but that it was a first date and he preferred keeping the lady’s identity to himself in case things didn’t work out between them. It was far from the first lie he’d told his father, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Lying had become second nature to him. Sometimes he thought it easier to fabricate a lie than to tell the truth. Besides, what did his father expect after the example he’d set? Both of Brian’s parents were adept liars and apparently felt little or no guilt when they didn’t tell the truth. He’d been a kid, barely twelve, when he’d discovered that his beloved father, his idol, had feet of clay. And although he’d always adored his mother and, in a way, still did, he’d known since childhood that she was emotionally unstable.
Here he was, at forty-two, still living with his parents. He’d tried living on his own, during his years away at college and during his brief marriage to Phyllis, but he preferred the family residence in the heart of Cherokee Pointe. The MacKinnon mansion made a statement. It shouted, “The people who live here are rich and powerful and important.” He enjoyed being a MacKinnon, with all that entailed. And someday the entire family fortune would be his and his alone. If his nutty Uncle Wallace outlived Veda and Farlan, he’d have the old man put away somewhere. A nice facility where he’d be taken good care of, but where he’d be out of Brian’s hair. His uncle had been an embarrassment to him all his life, but neither of his parents would hear of institutionalizing him. His father truly loved his only brother, but he suspected his mother’s concern for her brother-inlaw was more self-serving. After all, she had to know that on any given day, she, too, might be a candidate for the looney bin.
His parents had made it perfectly clear to him that they expected him to remarry and sire at least one child, to provide the family with a MacKinnon heir. Although he seriously doubted he could endure the dullness of a monogamous relationship for more than a few months, he realized he needed to get married. A man in his position should have a family. Otherwise, people talked. They wondered about his sexual orientation. And they whispered that maybe his first wife had broken his heart so badly that he could never love again. Some probably even speculated that he’d been too much of a mama’s boy growing up to be able to completely sever her apron strings.
What did he care? Let the tongues wag. For now. When he did remarry, that would shut them all up fast enough. And he would get married again. It was just a matter of time. He’d thought he had found the perfect woman to be his wife. Genny Madoc. Lovely beyond words. Gentle and kind. And she’d been a virgin. He’d courted her, turned himself inside out to please her, and yet the minute that burly blond FBI agent had shown up in Cherokee County, Genny had proven herself to be no different from most other women. She’d given her precious innocence to a man unworthy of her, a man who could never have appreciated the priceless gift the way Brian would have.
Even now the thought of tutoring Genny in the ways to please him aroused him unbearably.
Brian had driven his Porche this afternoon, not only to impress Wade Truman, but because he had known he’d be picking up a companion for the evening. Ladies—and he used the term loosely—always appreciated riding in an expensive car. He’d never used a local prostitute before and even now, on his way to pick up his “date,” he felt uneasy. What if someone saw him with this woman? How would he ever explain? When the need to be with a woman drove him hard, he usually made a trip to Knoxville, but he’d been assured by Mr. Timmons that the girl he was sending Brian tonight would fulfill all his fantasies. All he required in a woman was that she be agreeable to a little S&M.
Farlan didn’t want to go home. His life had reached that sad state where he’d rather be anywhere than with his own wife. If the guilt of a long-ago indiscretion hadn’t weighed heavily on his shoulders—a love affair with another woman that had pushed his unstable wife over the edge—he would have sought a divorce twenty years ago. But Veda had never completely recovered from the nervous breakdown she had suffered when she found out about his mistress. She had gone so far as to try to kill herself and threatened to try again if Farlan ever left her. Since then he’d been shackled to her with a ball and chain formed out of guilt and regret.
Poor Brian had been only twelve at the time Veda tried to commit suicide, and Farlan would never forgive himself for the upheaval he and Veda had created in their son’s young life. After Veda’s botched suicide attempt, Brian had become unruly and occasionally violent. But when Farlan had mentioned seeking psychiatric help for both his wife and his son, Veda had gone berserk, saying she’d rather die than be subjected to such humiliation for herself and their child. Looking back, Farlan realized that he’d made a mistake by giving in to her threats But at the time, it had been easier to let Veda have her way. If he could turn back the clock and do everything all over again, he wouldn’t take the easy way out. Not with Veda and Brian. And not with—
No, don’t even think her name, he told himself. After she went away, you swore to yourself that you wouldn’t go after her. Not ever. And you wouldn’t let her memory drive you mad. But how could a man ever completely forget what it was like to have a woman love him with her whole heart, to light up the moment he walked into a room, to lie in his arms and make him feel like a king?
Before he knew what he was doing, Farlan parked his Bentley down the street from Jazzy’s Joint, the local honky-tonk. It had been over a year since he’d ventured inside—since Max’s last birthday when he’d asked his buddies to meet him there for an all-male celebration. After parking, Farlan called home on his cell phone and left a message with Abra.
“Tell Miss Veda that I won’t be home for supper. I’m staying late at the club.”
What was one more lie between them, after a lifetime of lies?
The minute he entered Jazzy’s Joint, the roadhouse ambience put him at ease. In this place he wasn’t Farlan MacKinnon, Chairman of the Board of MacKinnon Media. In here, he was just another man looking for a glass of beer and a quiet corner where he could drown his sorrows. Of course, he’d already drowned quite a few sorrows with three glasses of bourbon at the club, but the numbing effect of that liquor had begun to wear off. He needed to renew that languid feeling only alcohol produced.
Surrounded by loud music and smoky air, Farlan walked up to the bar and ordered. The bartender wasn’t especially busy since this early in the evening there was only a handful of patrons. A couple of guys in the back shooting pool, one sitting at the other end of the bar and another man at a nearby table, nursing a glass of what looked like whiskey.
“I haven’t seen you around here in quite a while,” the bartender said.
“You know who I am?”
“Of course. Everybody in Cherokee County knows you, Mr. MacKinnon.”
He shrugged. So much for finding anonymity in this place. “You have me at a disadvantage, madam. You know me, but I don’t know you.”
“Lacy Fallon.” The middle-aged bleached blonde offered him a kind smile. “I’ve been bartending here ever since Jazzy opened up this place.”
Farlan nodded, then glanced around the room. “Guess it’s a bit early for most folks.”
“Yeah, this place doesn’t usually start hopping on a Saturday night until after nine.”
“Well, that suits me fine. I just came in for a beer. I’m too old for much of anything else.”
“You don’t look too old to me,” a feminine voice behind him said.
The bartender frowned and turned up her nose as if she’d smelled something rotten. Farlan glanced over his shoulder. The girl standing only a few feet away was a pretty little thing and probably not a day over twenty. She wore too much makeup and not enough clothes.
“We don’t want your kind in here,” Lacy Fallon said, loud and clear. “Jazzy’s done sent you packing once. If you’ll leave now, I won’t call the police.”
Farlan glanced back and forth from the young woman to the bartender and realization dawned. The unwanted customer was a prostitute. He hadn’t realized there were any in Cherokee Pointe. But then again, he hadn’t been in the market for a hooker. Not since . . .
“I’ll leave quietly,” the girl said, then cozied up to Farlan and whispered, “Want to give me a ride? Or if you’d prefer, I could ride you.”
Farlan didn’t flinch, but his gut tightened. He inspected the girl thoroughly, from head to toe. For a split second his old eyes played a trick on him, and he saw the ghost of a pretty young woman from his past.
He paid for his drink, then said, “Why don’t I give you a lift home, young lady? You shouldn’t be in a place like this. You should be out on a Saturday night date with some nice young man.”
Glowering at Farlan, the bartender harrumphed. Hell, let her think whatever she wanted to. He had no intention of taking this girl up on her offer, but he did want to spend a little time with her. And he didn’t owe Lacy Fallon or anyone else an explanation.
The young woman curled her arm around his as they walked out of Jazzy’s Joint. “I don’t have a place of my own, so you’ll have to rent us a room somewhere. Or if you’d rather, we can just do it in your car. I give great blow jobs.”
Without replying to her offer, Farlan led her out of the bar and down the street to his Bentley. He unlocked the car and helped her in on the passenger’s side; then he slid behind the wheel and turned to her. “I don’t want sex from you. But I am willing to pay you for an hour or two of your time tonight.”
She stared at him, her expression one of doubt. “How much? And what do you want me to do?”
“Would a hundred dollars be sufficient for . . . say, two hours of your time?”
She grinned. “Yeah, I’d say a hundred is just fine, depending on what I have to do to earn the money.”
“Take a ride with me. Talk to me. Tell me about your hopes and dreams.”
She looked at him as if she thought he was crazy. “That’s it. That’s all you want from me?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s all.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m perfectly serious. You see, I’m a lonely old man with only a few truly happy memories. Some of those mem ories are about another pretty young woman who had so many hopes and dreams for her future.”
She shrugged. “Sure, if talk is all you want. I can talk all night for fifty bucks an hour. And if you change your mind about the blow job or—”
“I won’t change my mind. I know what I want.”
She’d told him she was eighteen. He’d asked to see her driver’s license. Sure enough, she was legal. Just barely. Despite his penchant for tasty young things, he couldn’t risk screwing around with jail bait. He’d learned his lesson ten years ago when a certain fifteen-year-old gal’s daddy had come after him with a shotgun. If Farlan hadn’t had the law in his hip pocket back then—both the sheriff and the chief of police—things might have gotten nasty. But once Farlan paid her father fifty thousand not to press charges, the whole ugly mess simply went away. Not one word had ever been printed in the local paper, thanks to the fact that MacKinnon Media had a monopoly on the press in Cherokee County. Max couldn’t help shivering just a bit whenever he thought about the whole situation and how close he’d come to ruining his life. He owed Farlan a debt he could never fully repay.
Max lay in bed, naked as the day he was born, and let her remove his soiled condom. When she got up, he swatted her smooth, round backside. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled at him, then disappeared into the bathroom. With the heat of passion fading, he felt a sudden chill, so he dragged the sheet and blanket up to his waist.
He had needed this evening’s entertainment, needed it the way he needed air to breathe. Sex with his wife—which he got about once a month, if he was lucky—had never been great, not in years. Not after she got a little older and more demanding. He liked ’em young. So sue him. If all men would admit the truth, most of them would prefer a sixteen- year-old to a thirty-year-old.
Hell, he wasn’t a damn pedophile. Little girls didn’t turn him on. They had to be mature enough to have tits and a furry pussy before he was interested. Somebody between fourteen and twenty. He’d enjoyed his share of the younger ones in the past, until he’d picked the wrong gal. Ever since then, he’d made sure they were either legal age or in an illegal profession. Lately most of his pickups were the later. Young prostitutes.
When she came out of the bathroom, she started putting on her clothes. Max patted the bed and motioned to her.

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