Insatiable Desire (4 page)

She’d long ago stopped calling for her mother. The night she took her own life, she appeared to Clarissa, whispered that she loved her and that she was sorry for leaving, but that she wouldn’t visit her from the grave, because she wanted Clarissa to stifle her ability, to have a normal life free from the voices. True to her word, she hadn’t visited since.

“Grandmother,” she said softly. “I’m here.”

“I know, sweetness.” Her grandmother’s voice sounded distant and low, like an ocean breeze ruffling the water. “I knew you were coming.”

“Then you know about Billie Jo and Jamie, that I need to help them cross into the light.”

“Yes, dear. But I’m afraid there will be more victims of this evil.” Her voice warbled. “There is talk that a new leader is rising from the underworld. A band of Soul Collectors has dispersed across the Earth to claim souls for the offering at his coronation.”

“Will I recognize him?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Some demons can shape-shift, possess a human’s body and walk among you.”

Clarissa swallowed. “What can I do to stop him, Grandmother?”

“Trust your instincts, and help the lost cross over,” her grandmother said.

Clarissa nodded. She’d accepted her destiny years ago.

“There is one who comes to town,” her grandmother continued, “one you must be wary of.”

Clarissa knotted her hands. “You’re talking about Vincent Valtrez, aren’t you, Grandmother?”

Her grandmother sighed. “Yes. He is dangerous, possesses a darkness as his father did.”

Clarissa waited for more, but her grandmother’s voice faded, and so did her image. Fear blanketed her as the mist of morning dotted the tips of the mountain ridges and animal life scurried through the forests.

She shivered.

She wasn’t a child anymore or a fanciful teenager. This time she’d heed her grandmother’s warning and protect herself from Vincent.

Troubling thoughts pounded at Vincent as he drove through the Smokies to Eerie, Tennessee. The mountain ridges jutted around the ghostlike town like soldiers guarding an ancient tomb, a tomb of lost souls and malevolence.

McLaughlin’s words about relaxing while he was here taunted him. This was not a place to relax—it was a place that bred trouble.

Storm clouds rumbled above the tall ridges, the spiked, jagged cliffs offering the perfect place for a madman to hide. Childhood memories of hiking through a similar area flashed back, making him break out in a sweat.

The insufferable heat choked him, the crunch of leaves and animals scurrying for safety echoing in his head. He inhaled the loamy scent of the earth, the rotting vegetation, the stench of an animal’s blood where nearby vultures gnawed at the carcass already too mauled to identify. He heard his father’s breath coaxing him on, driving him into the woods, teaching him to aim at his target, telling him to shoot.

Kill or be killed . . .

He banished the memory. The past did not matter now.

He was here to do a job, and he’d do it, then go home and on to the next case.

But a frisson of anxiety ripped through him. He had lived in these mountains near Eerie when he was young, then in that juvenile facility on the other side of the Black Forest as a teenager. Would people here remember him?

Praying they didn’t, he wheeled into the police station entrance and parked, dust spewing from his boots as he strode into the mud-splattered adobe building. This meeting would be a waste of time. Time he’d never get back.

Time he could have used on a
real
case, not on speculations made by a psychic.

A short, burly man with wiry graying hair lumbered up from behind a metal desk, a cup of coffee in one stubby hand. “Sheriff Dwayne Waller. Thank you for coming. Do you remember me, Valtrez?”

Vincent gritted his teeth. Hell, yeah, he did. Waller had been young and cocky years ago, had come out to his house on a couple of domestic calls. “Yes. That was a long time ago.”
And I’m not my father.

They shook hands, then the sheriff gestured for Vincent to follow him into a cramped, sweltering office overflowing with paperwork, dirty coffee cups, and Dolly Parton memorabilia. The aroma of bacon filled the air, along with strong chicory coffee.

Vincent fought a caustic remark, but the comment died on his tongue as his gaze shot to the woman seated in one of the caned straight-back chairs to the side. Damn.

Clarissa.

Not a frail-looking kid any more.

Yet those eyes . . . they were still huge in her heart- shaped face. Soft. Troubled. Mysterious. The color of burnt copper.

She stared up at him with a fierce expression of bravado, like an enemy warrior braced for attack.

Except this soldier had curly auburn hair that cascaded over slender shoulders. Skin like hot honey. And a body that was sinfully curvaceous.

His mouth watered as he pictured the womanly Clarissa sprawled beneath him, naked and begging him to bed her.

He had a habit of imagining a woman naked the first time he saw her. Liked to guess at the color of her nipples. Clarissa would have large areolas, golden brown tipped in bronze. He could almost see them hardening beneath his gaze, imagined wetting them with his tongue.

He hadn’t believed she could talk to ghosts when he was young. Then she’d freaked him out when she’d offered to commune with the spirits to see if his mother had passed . . .

Time to get this meeting over with. He cleared his throat. “Clarissa?”

Her gaze remained steady, soulful like an exotic gypsy’s, as she extended her delicate hand. “Special Agent Valtrez.”

He clenched his jaw as he accepted the gesture. Her palm would have fit inside his hand twice, her skin soft next to his callouses.

Heat seared him at her touch, making his body harden. Had she felt it, too?

A cool look slid onto her face, masking any emotion, giving him his answer.

Against his will, though, that aloofness turned him on. He’d like to do her right here in the office up against the wall with Dolly Parton watching.

But that mysterious, almost eerie look settled back in her eyes again, sucker punching him, and he realized that once with her might not be enough.

She’d want more. She’d pick at a man’s soul with those probing deep eyes, weave a magic spell around him with her sultry voice.

His jaw tightened, and he pasted his professional mask in place, reminding himself why he was here.

To check out the possibility of a serial killer. Nothing more.

CHAPTER FOUR

C
larissa took one look at Vincent and a tingle rippled through her. He had been a tough and lonely little boy, mad at the world, and he had grown into a tougher man, big and broad shouldered, all dark, brooding, and sexy.

In fact, he was absolutely breathtaking now.

He stood well over six feet. His muscles had become defined and pronounced, his jaw square, and a few lines had started to fan around his eyes. His black hair was thick and layered and shadowed dense brows, deep-set eyes, and a slight scar on his forehead.

Tension vibrated between them as those intense black eyes bore into hers. They were blacker than she remembered, angry, as if he was void of a soul.

Maybe it had been ripped out by all he’d seen as a kid and since he’d left Eerie.

God knew that living with the victims’ spirits had robbed her innocence. Their suffering—the mind-numbing fear that had frozen them in place and kept them from escaping their tormentor—ate at her. Sometimes their final thoughts as their last breath shuddered from their failing bodies haunted her at night, especially those not ready to pass. And then there were the ones with so many sins they’d never make it into the light.

Fear of not being able to help the victims barreled through her. Sorrow rolled in on the last train in that car. She couldn’t fail. Billie Jo and Jamie were depending on her. And so was this other woman.

“Sheriff Waller requested the FBI’s assistance because of information you’ve supplied, Clarissa?” Vincent’s husky tone dripped sarcasm and male sexuality.

“Yes. Thank you for coming.”

He claimed the other metal chair, his impressive height towering over her, his intimidating look pinning her to the seat. He fully intended to discount any information she offered, that was obvious.

She forged on anyway, determined to convince him to investigate. She didn’t care what he thought of her personally anymore, but she had to help the ones in limbo.

“Let’s review the facts. You’re a grief counselor now?” he asked.

“Actually, I’m a family therapist here in town, but I specialize in grief counseling. I’ve spoken with each of the two families who lost loved ones.”

He gave a clipped nod. “I’ve studied the files on those cases, and I don’t see anything to indicate they’re connected.” He consulted the folder in his hand. “In fact, both the drowning victim and spider-bite victim appear to have died from accidental causes. And according to the lack of evidence of a struggle or footprints, the drowning might have been a suicide.”

“Billie Jo Rivers did not kill herself,” Clarissa stated with conviction. “She had just gotten engaged last week and was excited about planning her wedding.”

Vincent glanced at the sheriff for confirmation.

Sheriff Waller nodded. “I talked to Billie Jo’s mama. She said she and Billie Jo were supposed to go dress shopping the next day, that Billie Jo couldn’t wait.” Sheriff Waller hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “There was no suicide note, either.”

Vincent arched a thick black brow. “Maybe she discovered her fiancé was cheating and was distraught.”

“No,” Clarissa argued. “Curtis Riggs worshipped that girl. He’s not the cheating kind.”

Vincent leaned back, his crisp shirt stretching across massive, powerful broad shoulders. “What about defensive wounds?”

Waller hesitated, then scratched his head. “That’s what makes this so danged confusing. There weren’t any. And Billie Jo was a strong girl—she should have fought back.”

“Any markings around her neck or head where someone held her underwater?” Vincent asked.

Waller shook his head again. “No. And she didn’t have any enemies, either. Everyone in town loved Billie Jo. That girl was sweet as molasses.”

“You questioned the fiancé?”

“Yep. Standard police work.” Waller’s tone held a defensive edge to it. “We may be small-town, but we’re competent. Curtis was devastated over Billie Jo’s death, cried like a baby.”

“He loved Billie Jo,” Clarissa seconded. “They were high school sweethearts. I talked to him myself, and he’s despondent. He said Billie Jo was afraid of water, too, that she never would have gone to that creek by herself.”

“How about alcohol in her system?” Vincent asked.

Waller shifted. “Tox reports showed no alcohol or drugs.”

“That’s interesting,” Vincent conceded, “but what makes you think the spider-bite victim was murdered?”

“Did you see the number of bites she sustained?” Clarissa asked, annoyed. “Her apartment building was new, too. Someone had to have collected those spiders and put them in her bed.”

Vincent leaned forward, his jaw set hard and firm. “Even if that were so, what makes you think the two deaths are connected? That they’re the work of one person?”

The two women’s faces floated into Clarissa’s vision, ghostly hues in ethereal, shimmering pale white that screamed for her to speak for them, because they could no longer speak for themselves. They wanted justice and deserved an explanation. So did their loved ones.

Vincent folded his hands, hands that were large and masculine, filled with power and strength. His fingers were scarred now, rugged—she wondered about the scars, then if his hands could be gentle.

He cleared his throat. “Clarissa, answer the question.”

“Because Billie Jo’s and Jamie’s spirits are together, holding hands,” she said in a strained whisper.

Vincent’s jaw tightened. “If these spirits can talk to you, why don’t they tell you who killed them?”

“Because they don’t know.” She wet her dry lips with her tongue. “When people die from a sudden trauma or violent death, their souls go into shock,” she explained. “It takes time to adjust, to accept that they’re dead. It may take even longer for them to communicate.”

“Why do these spirits appear to you?” he asked.

Clarissa twisted her hands. “Two reasons. I knew both victims. And I’m what’s called a safe zone. The spirits know I’m a believer and more emotionally detached than a family member.”

His eyes narrowed. “Have you ever been tested?”

“No. I don’t need testing. I know what I hear.”

“I meant for mental disorders,” Vincent said.

Anger and hurt gnawed at her. “I’m
psychic,
not psychotic, Vincent.” She glared at him. “I understand that believing in the supernatural is difficult for some people, especially those who don’t have an
open
mind, but I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think I could help.”

A flicker of surprise glinted in his eyes, along with anger. “Even if I did believe in psychic powers,” he said sharply, “how exactly do you intend to help me if you can’t offer any real information?”

“Look, I didn’t ask for this gift, to hear from the spirit world, but I can’t control when they come to me.” Clarissa’s voice rose. “If I ignore them, I might as well be putting them in the grave myself.”

He stiffened.

“You don’t have to believe me, Vincent. You don’t have to even like me. All I’m asking is that you investigate.” A chill swept over her. “The spirits are here now, I can see them. They need our help so they can cross into the light.”

Sheriff Waller coughed. “Her granny was like this—”

Vincent cut him off with a wave of his hand, and Clarissa realized he was getting ready to dismiss her. She grabbed his arm, imploring him to wait. A zing of electricity rippled through her veins, and her pulse jumped.

Vincent dropped his gaze to her hand, then looked into her eyes as if he’d felt it, too. Judging from the scowl on his face, he didn’t like it, either.

“I don’t need this bullshit,” he said gruffly. “I work with cold, hard facts. Evidence.”