Cover Your Eyes

 

 

“Burton once again demonstrates her romantic-suspense chops with this taut novel. Burton plays cat-and-mouse with the reader through a tight plot, with credible suspects and romantic spice keeping it real.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

 

“Thrills on multiple levels.”

—
BookReporter.com

 

“A thrill a minute . . . there is no escaping the fact that with
No Escape
, Mary Burton delivers again.”

—
The Jefferson County Post (Tennessee)

 

 

“Dark and disturbing, a well-written tale of obsession and murder.”

—Kat Martin,
New York Times
bestselling author

 

“Burton delivers action-packed tension . . . the number of red-herring suspects and the backstory on the victims make this a compelling romantic thriller.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“Burton’s crisp storytelling, solid pacing, and well-developed plot will draw you in, and the strong suspense will keep you hooked and make this story hard to put down.”

—
RT Book Reviews

 

“A nail-biter that you will not want to miss. Terrifying . . . it keeps you on the edge of your chair.”

—
The Free Lance-Star
(Fredericksburg, Virginia)

 

 

“Will have readers sleeping with the lights on.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

 

 

 

“Convincing detective lingo and an appropriately shivery murder venue go a long way.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“Burton just keeps getting better!”

—
RT Book Reviews

 

“Terrifying . . . this chilling thriller is an engrossing story.”

—
Library Journal

 

“Mary Burton’s latest romantic suspense has it all—terrific plot, complex and engaging protagonists, a twisted villain, and enough crime-scene detail to satisfy the most savvy suspense reader.”

—Erica Spindler,
New York Times
bestselling author

 

 

“Stieg Larsson fans will find a lot to like in Burton’s taut, well-paced novel of romantic suspense.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“This is a page-turner of a story, one that will keep you up all night, with every twist in the plot and with all of the doors locked.”

—
The Parkersburg News & Sentinel

 

“With hard-edged, imperfect but memorable characters, a complex plot, and no-nonsense dialog, this excellent novel will appeal to fans of Lisa Gardner and Lisa Jackson.”

—
Library Journal

 

“Absolutely chilling! Don’t miss this well-crafted, spine-tingling read.”

—Brenda Novak,
New York Times
bestselling author

 

“A terrifying novel of suspense.”

—
Mysterious Reviews

 

“This is a story to read with the lights on.”

—
BookPage

 

 

 

“Burton’s taut, fast-paced thriller will have you guessing until the last blood-soaked page. Keep the lights on for this one.”

—
RT Book Reviews

 

“A twisted tale . . . I couldn’t put it down!”

—Lisa Jackson,
New York Times
bestselling author

 

 

“Dangerous secrets, deadly truths, and a diabolical killer combine to make Mary Burton’s
Dead Ringer
a chilling thriller.”

—Beverly Barton,
New York Times
bestselling author

 

“With a gift for artful obfuscation, Burton juggles a budding romance and two very plausible might-be perpetrators right up to the tense conclusion.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

 

“Taut . . . compelling . . . Mary Burton delivers a page-turner.”

—Carla Neggers,
New York Times
bestselling author

 

“Creepy and terrifying, it will give you chills.”

—
Romantic Times

 

I’M WATCHING YOU

 

DEAD RINGER

 

DYING SCREAM

 

SENSELESS

 

MERCILESS

 

BEFORE SHE DIES

 

THE SEVENTH VICTIM

 

NO ESCAPE

 

YOU’RE NOT SAFE

 

COVER YOUR EYES

 

 

MARY BURTON

 

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

 

 

 

 

 

Dixie Simmons’s pink cowboy boots, tipped in silver and embossed with glittering stars, clicked against the rain-soaked pavement. A rainstorm had flashed through Music City hours ago and left the air crisp, colder than normal and heavy with moisture. Burrowing deeper into her fringed leather jacket, she shoved chilled hands into her pockets, fingering the roll of wrinkled one-dollar bills from the night’s tip jar. The brisk air snapped at her bare thighs but didn’t slow her on-top-of-the-world gait or spark a bit of remorse for her choice of attire. The black miniskirt wasn’t warm but it showcased her long legs, always a crowd-pleaser at Rudy’s honky-tonk.

Tonight she’d been the last to sing at Rudy’s bar, the centerpiece of Lower Broadway’s four block stretch of honky-tonks and restaurants. The one a.m. time slot was not the best spot on a Thursday but considering Rudy hadn’t been expecting her, she’d appreciated the spot, the chance. Some singers might not give one hundred percent to the late-night crowd, but not Dixie. She’d sung as if her life hung in the balance, or better, that a talent-hungry music producer sat in a darkened corner. She’d been spot-on tonight, quickly forgetting about the gig’s mix-up while singing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy.” When she’d switched to a Taylor Swift song she’d energized the crowd who soon were hooping and hollering. Applause followed her when she’d left the stage, her black mini swishing around her thighs. The rush of excitement had rivaled great sex.

The club’s owner Rudy Creed had watched her from behind the bar, clearly pleased by the way she’d roped the crowd’s attention. He’d stopped her on the way out and had said there’d been folks asking after her. “They think you’re good. Worth following,” he’d said.

Worth following
.

Lordy, but she wanted to be worth following more than the breath she took. She’d been on the music circuit for three years—a long time to be waiting tables, knocking on closed music executive’s doors and sinking every extra dime into publicity stills and demo CDs. One record producer had shown interest months ago, they’d slept together but lately he’d been dodging her. However his
no’s
, as far as she was concerned, were warm-ups to a
yes,
so she’d kept after him. She’d finally gotten him on the phone days ago and he’d been pissed by her persistence.
“Yeah, you got talent but stay the fuck away from me.”

All she’d heard was
you got talent
.

The metro buses didn’t run this late so she’d been forced to walk west on Broadway and past the hotels before turning on the tree-lined side street where she’d parked her car. Her cute pink boots cramped her toes and dug a blister on her heel.

Momma would have complained about the walk, the cold, and her feet. Momma understood hard work but she didn’t understand dreams or the cost of fame. Just last night, Momma had begged Dixie to take the secretary job in Knoxville, but Dixie had refused.

Dixie wanted to be a star. Wanted everyone to know her name. Just needed the right break.

Maybe, she’d finally paid enough dues. Maybe soon she’d look back on tonight and recognize the exact moment her life changed.

Her chest puffed with pride as she imagined people wanting her. She liked being wanted.

As she rounded a corner and headed north, a group of men on the opposite side of the street passed going south. They wore jeans, blue jackets, and collared shirts that popped up in a collegiate kind of way. She guessed they were students at Vanderbilt University. The men slowed their pace and a couple stared at her with wolfish gazes.

The flicker of pride grew brighter. She liked male attention almost as much as the stage. She savored the feminine power she brandished, knowing it could derail any man’s train of thought right off the tracks.

Dixie paused and bent forward to adjust a tassel on her boot. One of the boys whistled.

She grinned and waved, her excitement building. She’d have crossed the street, maybe suggested a party, but tonight another man waited.

She tossed the boys a wave, and when they called her over, she pouted and shook her head no before hurrying toward her car parked a half block away. The boots bit into her little toe.

Dixie fished her phone out of her purse, dialed a familiar number and waited. The phone rang once. Twice. Dollar store bracelets rattled on her wrist as she untangled a blond hair extension from a silver feather earring.

The phone kept ringing.

Sugar used to pick up on the first ring. He’d be breathless and excited as if he’d been waiting anxiously for her call. But lately,
if
he answered, he let the phone ring five or six times and his
hello
carried less anticipation.

Four. Five. Six. He picked up on the seventh ring. “Dixie.” He’d wrapped her name in a honey-flavored bourbon, his drink of choice.

“Hey. Want some company tonight?”

Hesitation and then, “Not tonight, Dixie. I’ve an early morning.”

Jealousy scratched as she imagined another blond lying beside him in his bed singing sweet songs in his ear. He liked blondes that could sing. The sound of a woman’s voice crooning in his ear made him hot. The first song she’d sung to him had been “You’re Still the One.”

“I thought you wanted me to come by tonight.” No missing the pout underscoring the words.

He yawned. “I know, but I’m tired. It was a long day.”

In the early days, he’d never been tired when she called. She’d been his tonic. His muse.

His rejection amplified her craving for attention. She nestled closer to the phone imagining she could touch him. “Sugar, I can wake you up. That’s a promise and a guarantee.”

“Not tonight, Dixie. In a day or two.” The soft edges hardened.

Rebuff coupled with cold and sore feet stripped her of patience. “Why’re you doing this to me? I thought I was special.”

He sighed into the phone. “You’re special. But enough is enough. We need to take a break. People are watching.”

Ducking her head, her long hair curtained off her face. “Who?”

“People. And that’s all you need to know.”

“You have names. I want them.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

They’d been careful to never be seen in public, opting for hotels on the outskirts of town. She recalled there had been a hotel clerk who had eyed her as if he were trying to read her thoughts. Did he put the pieces together? “It does to me.”

“Let it go, Dixie.”

What an ass. He’d promised her the moon and now he was kicking her to the curb.

Dixie peeked back toward the group of boys, now half tempted to double back. A party with them would teach him a lesson. “You’ll be sorry.”

“I’m not now but I could be real sorry. I’ve a lot riding on the next thirty days. I don’t want trouble.”

He’d given her the boot and still she clung. “Are you going to call me soon?”

“Sure. Sure.” He hung up.

Dixie stood for a moment, the phone still pressed to her ear not really believing he’d ended the call. When the dial tone buzzed in her ear, she pocketed her phone.

As much as she wanted to imagine him begging for forgiveness, she’d travelled this road enough times with other men to know the score. When men like him lost interest, it was over. And if any lessons had stuck in her twenty years on this earth, it was to cut her losses and move on to the next opportunity.

After a successful gig, she was juiced and full of energy and the idea of going home and staring at her four walls didn’t top the option list. She wanted a man. Her skin tingled and she conjured up the man at the bar who’d glared at her hours ago with burning desire as he’d pressed the napkin with his phone number into her hand. He’d not say no to her.

At her car, a twelve-year-old black Buick with silver chrome wheels, she unlocked the front door and tossed her purse inside. Those boys were almost out of sight but she figured if she drove she could catch up to them. If they went to Vanderbilt they might have a bit of money. And money always made the time pass faster. Thunder rumbled, promising rain.

Moistening her lips, she smiled at the sound of footsteps behind her. The boys had returned. Running her tongue over her lips so they glistened, she drew in a breath and turned. “Hey.”

For an instant, she registered a dark hoodie and a face hidden behind a hockey mask, but before she could scream a metal rod whooshed through the air and struck her on the side of her head.

Intense pain stole her breath. She staggered and fell to cold concrete, which tore the naked flesh of her palms and knees. Her cell phone jostled out of her pocket and hit the ground hard enough to pop off the back.

She blinked once and then twice trying to regain focus. She’d been hit before, but never like this. She raised a trembling hand to her cheek now slick and swelling with blood.
Oh, God. Not her face.

A cold metal rod pressed against her shoulder and she collapsed against the ground. “Scream and I’ll cave in your skull.”

Jesus, was she being mugged? She’d been mugged before. It sucked to hand over hard-earned tip money but sixty bucks seemed a fair trade for her life. “My pocket. I’ve money. Take whatever you want.”

Black booted feet moved within inches of her face. “I don’t want your money.”

Dixie groaned. Not a mugging? Then it was rape. Another indignity she’d survived. Her shattered cheek throbbed reverberating lightning bolts of pain through her entire body.

She moistened her lips, bracing. She’d not beg or plead. She was tough. She would survive.

But the attacker stood there, staring, watching, gloating.

Dixie drew in a deep breath, curling the fingers of her hands. Tears pooled in her eyes as she waited to be flipped on her back and her skirt tossed up. She grit her teeth. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. You’re a whore and a harlot.”

“I don’t want to die.”

In answer, the attacker quickly raised the rod and brought it down hard and direct against her shoulder. She gasped in a breath, the pain so blinding she couldn’t make a sound as she rolled on her back. Her vision blurred into black splotches. She wanted to fight, but couldn’t string two thoughts together. Whatever was gonna happen, it wasn’t going to be good.

“Why?” she gasped.

“Whore. Harlot. I’ve had it with watching you parade your pert little ass around. I’ve had it. You’ve hurt too many people.”

Dixie blinked her vision into focus and glimpsed dark eyes staring at her through the mask. The tire iron rose. She braced hoping against hope she could mitigate the blow’s damage by tensing.

“No mercy,” the stranger said.

The next blow struck her temple and in a flash her vision went dark.

 

 

Baby exhaled, breathless and excited.

An hour ago Dixie had flickered bright on the stage, swishing her skirt and flirting with the crowd. Now Dixie’s crumpled body lay on the cold, damp ground in a pool of blood.

Four well-placed blows had obliterated the sweet, seductive siren’s high swipe of cheekbones, full red lips, creamy skin and thick eyelashes into pulp. No whore deserved to go into the next world with her looks. That smacked of injustice in Baby’s book. A beautiful whore could well strike a deal with the Devil and then return to the earth to haunt.

The idea of Dixie returning had Baby gripping the cold iron high and slamming it on Dixie’s face in another crushing blow. Blood splattered. Bone crushed. Again and again the tire iron struck until finally, Baby, breathless and blood-soaked, stopped.

Stepping back, a satisfied smile curled at the utter ruin and destruction of one once so beautiful.

Dixie Simmons wouldn’t be parading her tart ass around town anymore or singing those songs designed to ruin men’s lives.

Dead and gone.