Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) (44 page)

His gaze swept her as he stepped off the
escalator outside security, and her heart sank to the toes of her
sensible pumps. The glare he shot made her tremble. Was he pissed?
Had she ruined everything?

Two confused, blank-eyed children clung to
his big hands.

His estranged wife met them, ready to take
his kids from him.

He neither kissed nor touched the pretty,
plump blonde. Her sole purpose was to pick up the children after
they’d returned from a visit with his parents.

His hands now empty and his bag slung over
his shoulder, he walked several steps behind them. His wife
chattered at the children and ignored him. Clusters of travelers
engulfed them until they disappeared in the throng surrounding the
baggage carousel.

She lingered in the waiting area another ten
minutes, then rose, dragging her leather purse up her arm to her
shoulder, and headed for the front doors, a lump in her throat.
Once outside, she stood at the curb for the next long-term bus. He
was at the other end of the island, the way they’d arranged. His
wife had unknowingly played into the scheme, telling him she’d pick
up the kids but
he’d
have to take a taxi.

She wondered why he and his wife still played
this silly game.

The night had cooled. Her silk blouse was
thin, but the heat from rumbling buses swept beneath her skirt and
set her on fire. She could feel the hot lick of his gaze as if
twenty feet didn’t separate them, his anger and desire a potent
combination.

Need, hunger, dread, and excitement formed a
squirming package in her stomach. Butterflies. Spontaneous
combustion.

He sat in the back of the bus, she in the
front. They neither spoke nor looked at each other. The ride to
long-term was the longest ten minutes she’d ever known. Finally
they turned down her aisle. She couldn’t believe she was doing
this, couldn’t imagine stopping it now. Wouldn’t stop it even if
her life depended on it.

She exited from the front of the shuttle, he
from the rear, the overnight bag now in his hand. Pulling out her
keys, she pressed the remote alarm.

The bus pulled away. Her heart hammered.

His bag was on the ground beside them and his
hands were up her skirt before she had the car door open.

He dragged her into the back seat. She spread
her legs over him, straddling his thighs. The roof of the car
scuffed her hair. Tugging on his zipper, she took him in her hand.
He sucked in a breath; in the past, he’d always initiated. There
wasn’t time to fish the condoms out of her purse. When she slid
down onto him, he groaned, but he didn’t take his eyes off her
face.

She’d never been so wet, so vocal, or come so
willingly in her life.

Three power-thrusts later, he came.

She screamed.

* * * * *

She screamed out her orgasm. Tears gummed
her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. Hands circled her throat.
From the floor of the car, the rumpled bit of green notepaper, the
one she’d thrown away, taunted her, and the empty condom wrapper
shouted her shame. How had it come to this?

In that moment, before fear gripped her,
before instinct took over, when her guilt was strongest, she
welcomed Death. Welcomed it as the life was choked from her,
welcomed it until her eyeballs ached and colors exploded behind her
lids. Until blood from her bitten tongue leaked down her raw,
bruised throat. And then her body fought for survival.

She tore at the fingers, shrieked, twisted,
kicked, scratched, and punched. And still she couldn’t drag in a
breath. Terror fisted around her heart and squeezed. Fear of death.
Fear of life. Fear like she’d never known. Not even the night
someone put a bullet in Cameron’s head.

Max Starr woke clawing at her throat,
Cameron’s name breaking the thrall of the dream. Blood drummed in
her ears. Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest.

But she could breathe. Oh God, she could
breathe, sweet, clean air smelling of early morning, green leaves,
and hope. She was here, in her bedroom, where she belonged.
Safe.

“Are you all right?” Cameron’s voice, not
spoken but inside her head, comforting, familiar, the way a dead
husband’s voice should be, the only way a crazy, grieving widow
should hear her husband’s ghost. But she’d have given anything to
feel his arms around her right now. For real, not just in the
erotic dreams he brought her.

Sometimes fantasies weren’t enough.

Like now, when her throat still ached. She
lightly caressed the flesh, her fingers cool, her skin tender with
residual effects of the nightmare.

“It was a dream,” she murmured for both their
benefits. Maybe her worst nightmare--except for that night two
years ago when Cameron was killed--but still just a dream. After a
deep inhale, then a long sigh, the tension dribbled out her
fingertips and the soles of her feet.

Physical, reality-based sensation
returned--sheets tangled around her legs, her back stuck to the
cotton. She pushed the bedclothes aside to let cool air from the
open window blow across her naked body. In the elm outside her
window, the stray black cat gave a pathetic mewl. She shouldn’t
have fed it yesterday, but knew she’d do the same thing today. Her
racing heart eased into a steady, normal beat.

“That was a vision, Max, not a dream.”
Cameron’s voice again, always with her, inside her.

It had been his name that woke her. It wasn’t
part of the dream, vision, whatever it was; his name was something
she’d interjected into a reality that didn’t belong to her. Even
now she sensed remnants of another’s strong emotions inextricably
linked with her own.

In the dark corner across the room, dear
departed Cameron’s eyes flashed. Despite the two years since his
death, those glittering points of light, all she ever really saw of
him, still gave her a little jolt, part excitement, part fright.
The red tip of his spectral cigarette glowed. He’d loved them when
he was alive. They’d been the death of him in the end, not by
cancer, but by gunshot at the corner 7-Eleven where he’d gone to
buy his last pack.

If you enjoyed this excerpt, look for all the
Max Starr mysteries on
My
Smashwords
:

Dead to the Max, Book 1

Evil to the Max, Book 2

Desperate to the Max, Book 3

Power to the Max, Book 4

Vengeance to the Max, Book 5

Max Starr in Print on Demand:

Dead to the Max
POD

Evil to the Max
POD

Desperate to the Max
POD

Power to the Max
POD

Vengeance to the Max
POD

Connect with Jasmine Haynes & Jennifer
Skully online

Jasmine's
Smashwords

Jasmine’s Website:
www.jasminehaynes.com

Jennifer's
Smashwords

Jennifer’s Website:
www.jenniferskully.com

Max Starr Website:
www.jbskully.com

Blog:
www.jasminehaynes.blogspot.com

Facebook:
www.facebook.com/jasminehaynesauthor

Twitter:
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About the Author

Award-winning author
Jennifer Skully
is
back! The author of KOD Daphne winner
Sex and the
Serial Killer
brings you a poignant tale of loss and renewal.
Her books are peopled with hilarious characters that will make you
laugh and make you cry. And don’t miss her classy erotic romance
writing as
Jasmine Haynes
, Rita
Finalist for
Somebody’s Lover
, plus two-time
Holt Medallion and National Readers Choice Award winner. You can
find Jasmine’s books at Loose-Id.com and Berkley Heat. Also look
for her upcoming new
West Coast
series, starting
with
Revenge Sex
. Of course, she’s also the
author of the award-winning
Max Starr
psychic mystery series.