If You Hear Her: A Novel of Romantic Suspense (5 page)

She erased the messages and then headed out of the kitchen. She needed a shower. She was hot, she was sweaty, and if she wanted to be ready when Carter arrived to pick her up, she couldn’t stay in the kitchen brooding about why Ezra King had never called her back.

What in the hell did it matter?

They’d had one date.

One very wonderful kiss.

It didn’t add up to much.

So what if she’d dreamed about him quite a few times since then?

In the end, what were a few dreams? A few really, really hot, sexy, poignant dreams?

Dreams.

Fuck, Ezra hated these dreams. They chased him. He could drown them out with liquor. He could lose them in a drugged stupor.

He chose to live with them. He might change his mind, though … if he lived through the night. This one was choking him.

In the dream, he was back in the alley. Back in the alley where he discovered that his partner, “Mac” Stover, was dirty.

His partner, his friend … his lover.

They had known there was a dirty cop involved somewhere. They had spent the past year trying to bust a statewide theft ring and every time they got close, something went wrong. It was a cop—in his gut, Ezra knew it.

But he hadn’t thought it would be her. Hadn’t thought it would be Mac …

“We can’t keep this up. Sooner or later, we’re going to screw up.”

Ezra stood in the shadows, listening. Dark, it was so dark. He should be able to see—shouldn’t he? See
something. Know something. Like that voice—he knew that voice
.

Who was it?

Who was she?

“We got a good thing going here. One more big shipment, Mac. Then we’re done. One more go-round.”

A low, tired sigh, followed by a rough, husky chuckle. “Yeah, one more, my ass. Hell, you know what? I am done. One more round and I am so fucking done. One more. That is it.”

A storm of memories assaulted him as he stood in the shadows. Walking down the street, side by side with his partner
.

“Come on, Mac. One more. We can hit one more.”

“Yeah, one more, my ass, pretty boy. One more, and then you’re buying me dinner.”

Mac. It was Mac.

Get out … gotta get out. Shit, fuck that. Got to go knock some sense into her … Mac … aw, shit.

No.

Get out. Got to get out.

Couldn’t seem to move his legs, though. Damn it. Like they were stuck in lead, and his head didn’t want to work. Mac … his partner. Best friend. His lover … how many times had he held that woman in his arms? How many nights had they lain awake talking?

Mac … his partner
.

Best friend
.

Lover
.

Killer
.

Rational, man, you gotta be rational … gotta get out …

As the world turned to hell, as voices raged, he kept thinking that
.

Get out—

Ezra tore himself out of the nightmare, ragged breaths
sawing in and out of his lungs, a half scream twisting inside his throat.

He wanted to rub his hands over his face, but he feared, once more, they’d be covered in blood. Mac’s blood.

“Lights,” he mumbled to himself. “Need the damn lights.” He smacked at the lamp on the bedside table until it came on and then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, staring at his hands.

Scarred. Callused. And clean. There was no blood on them.

So why did he still see it?

His memory of that night was a mess. Indistinct. He knew all the medical jargon—head trauma, blood loss, and a bunch of psychobabble shit he had no use for. It was possible he’d recall more of that night in time. It was equally possible he’d go to his grave not knowing exactly what went down.

He knew what mattered the most—Mac was dead. He had killed her. After she had drawn a gun on him. Her lifeless body had been found on top of his, her gun still in hand.

The doctors had spent hours working to save his leg; one of the bullets had nicked the femoral artery. Another had lodged in his bone.

He could have died. Maybe he should have.

He was alive. She wasn’t.

He knew Mac—if she had wanted him dead, he would be dead. She wouldn’t have missed, would she? Had she spared him? If she had, then what kind of bastard did that make him? He’d killed her. Leveled his gun at her heart and ended her life, just like that.

“Fuck, you can’t sit here thinking about this,” he muttered.

Guilt. It could choke a man.

“All that time,” he whispered. All that time and he hadn’t seen it.

Not until somebody made him look. Made him see. Made him think.

He hadn’t wanted it to be true, had insisted it wasn’t. That’s why he had followed her. To prove them wrong.

He had ended up proving them right … he had proved them right and he’d killed Mac, almost died himself. She had been his best friend, his lover … and now she was dead.

Certain he would never sleep, Ezra glanced over at the clock. Then he closed his eyes and swore. Not even eleven. Shit. Not even a fucking hour of sleep. He’d been so tired, he’d crashed and burned just a little before nine and now he’d be paying for that, probably sleepless the rest of the night.

Except he doubted he’d really want to sleep anyway. Not after the dream. Maybe in a few hours … after he leveled out.

Yawning, he climbed out of bed. The shorts he’d worn the day before were draped over the footboard and he grabbed them. After dragging them on over naked hips, he headed downstairs. The muscles in his right leg knotted in warning. Almost in afterthought, he detoured by the bathroom and grabbed the bottle of Vicodin just in case. That ache could go from mild to holy shit in no time flat.

He crashed on the couch. The plan was to watch some TV, veg out. He might not sleep, but he could shut his brain down. Avoid thinking about Mac.

If he could manage to do that, he’d make it through the night okay.

Fifteen minutes after he made it downstairs, his leg let him know in no uncertain terms that he wouldn’t be making it through the night without some pharmaceutical help. When he could, he tried to just deal with the pain. But he’d heaped too much abuse on the healing muscles. He washed the pill down with a Diet Coke and
remained on the couch, watching the TV and stubbornly refusing to think.

Life was so much easier when he just didn’t think.

It took another thirty minutes before he was floating comfortably in a mind-numbed haze.

He might have even made it to sleep.

If it wasn’t for the damned four-wheelers.

He hit the front door just in time to see the back end of the last one before it shot off into the dark night.

“Son of a bitch.” He stormed outside, the first edge of anger burning through his sleepy brain.

They’d trashed the flowerbeds. Reckless, idiotic kids. They’d been ripping through the back of his property off and on for the past few weeks, but this was the first time they’d ever gotten this close to his house, and they’d never actually done any damage.

Damn it, damn it,
damn it
.

Squinting in the dim light, he stared down at the flowerbeds his grandmother had lovingly tended. A rainbow of petals littered the ground, muddied and mangled.

For some reason, he found himself oddly mesmerized by the sight of the broken and ruined blooms.

Her name was Jolene Hollister.

She was twenty-nine, engaged to be married.

One week ago, she’d been on top of the world, living her life to the fullest.

Now, she was in the lowest level of hell, and she’d begun to pray for death.

In some part of her mind, she thought she should feel guilty for that but she didn’t. She knew she should want to fight for her life, for the life she should have had with her fiancé, but she hurt so badly and she was so tired …

Death would be an escape. From him.

But as much as she might pray for death, when Jolene realized how loose her restraints had become, she worked
them even looser. When she managed to free herself, she crouched in the corner and hid, her hands gripping a metal bar. It had leather cuffs on it and her mind tried to shut down when she remembered what he’d done with that bar.

It didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter that it had been stained with her blood. Now that bar was a weapon in her hands and she’d use it against him.

But she was so weak.

When he came inside, she swung it at his head. It connected and he went down, but she knew she hadn’t hit him hard enough.

Still, she ran.

She’d get away, or die trying.

She only hoped …

That had been her only thought and now that thought mocked her. She wouldn’t get away and his mocking laughter infuriated her as she thrashed through the woods, struggling to get away from him.

Laughing—the bastard was laughing at her.

Laughing at her while she ran.

Laughing
.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was furious.

The sick, perverted fuck was laughing.

The rage tried to take control, but the fear wouldn’t let it. She had to run. He was coming after her and she had to get away, get help before he caught her.

He’s going to catch me … I’m not going to get away from him
. Despair whispered in her ear, dark and cloying. She tried to shove it aside. She could get away—she’d gotten outside, right? She could get away.

A sob burned inside her abused throat, threatening to choke her. She could hear him, trailing behind her, chuckling as she ran.

She thought she could even hear the sound of his feet
on the hard-packed, uneven forest floor. Above her own breaths, harsh and ragged, she could hear him as she pushed through the night-dark forest.

Or maybe it was just her heart.

She hurt. She hadn’t thought it was possible to hurt like this, hurt so that every breath, every move was sheer agony. All she wanted to do was huddle into a ball and whimper from the pain, but she couldn’t—couldn’t stop running, couldn’t stop.

There were lights ahead. She could just barely make out the faint golden glow.

Lights—lights could mean a house. Could mean help. Safety—

Wide-eyed, Jolene looked back over her shoulder and darted off to the left, desperate to put more distance between them. Desperate to get to those golden lights ahead.

She suspected she was going to die tonight, but that didn’t mean she was going to give up. Not without a fight.

Her name was Jolene Hollister.

Unconcerned, the man trailed along behind her, a dark, shadowy presence that moved through the forest with ease. He knew the forest, knew it well, knew all the paths, knew where fallen tree limbs or exposed roots waited to trip up the unwary. He’d been walking these paths for years—some of his fondest memories had taken place in these woods.

She was pretty, this new girl. Pretty, quick, not quite so easily broken. Even after a week, she tried to fight. Tried to struggle. Even tried to run, and she ran well, her nude legs muscled and strong. Very strong—he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, feeling the open wound where his teeth had sliced him open when she smashed her head into his mouth just a few days earlier.

He’d seen to it that she drank, that she ate, although he had to force it on her. Letting her get too weak from hunger or dehydration was such a waste. Although now he had to admit, if she hadn’t been so strong, she wouldn’t have slipped away from him, wouldn’t even now be running through the woods, screaming.

He hadn’t broken her and that was what gave her the strength to run.

Still, although this was making more work for him, it was fun. A lot of fun. His blood pounded hot in his veins and his dick was so hard, so ready, he ached. He was going to have even more fun with her tonight.

Ahead of him, she screamed.

“Help me!”

He laughed, listening as she struggled through the undergrowth. Most likely she was trying to get to the house ahead. From time to time, he caught a glimpse of the porch lights before a bend in the path once more hid it from view. It was still some distance away. He would catch her before she got much closer. He would have to, after all. He liked his games too much to risk them.

As he passed a tree, something glinted on the ground and he glanced down, frowning when he saw the silvery moonlight reflecting off the necklace there.

He’d seen that delicate gold chain before—it belonged to his girl. It was his girl’s.

Scooping it up, he tucked it in his pocket and bit back the angry snarl that tried to rise in his throat. It wouldn’t have been good if that had been left here. Not good at all.

He’d have to teach her a lesson for that.

Once their game was over. And speaking of games, it must be time for a new one.

It had gone quiet. Cocking his head, he listened for the sounds of her running through the forest, branches breaking, leaves crunching underfoot.

But there was nothing.

She’d gone completely and utterly silent.

“Are we going to hide now?” he asked, stopping in his tracks and turning in a slow circle. “If I find you, does that mean I win?”

A sound caught his ear. Cocking his head, he listened. It was faint, that low, soft moan. The erratic gasps as she struggled to breathe. Quiet, but not quiet enough.

Laughing, he followed the sound.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are …”

He hadn’t ever realized how much fun it would be to chase them.

Such possibilities …

The voice of reason advised caution, though. Wouldn’t be wise to make such a drastic change in his game plan, not now.

Lena was dreaming.

She knew it and she had to admit, it was one damn fine dream.

In the dream, she could see. She had vivid memories from back before she’d gone completely blind and sometimes, those dreams taunted her.

This dream wasn’t so bad, though.

She was outside and the sun shone down on her, a brilliant burst of light and warmth raining down on her. Tipping her face to it, she stared into the sun until her eyes watered and burned.