The Mak Collection
| The Mak Collection | |
| Tara Moss | |
| Harper Collins, Inc. (2011) | |
| Rating: | **** |
| Tags: | Mystery & Detective, General, Fiction |
### Product Description
5 books in 1. Tara Moss's Mak Vanderwall series: stylish, sinister, edge-of-your-seat thrillers. Split Hit Fetish Covet Siren
Split
Mak is beautiful, street-smart and single, a model paying her way
through a degree in forensic psychology. She's come to Vancouver to
finish her studies. But instead she walks straight into a city gripped
by fear of a killer, and a campus where the students are the prey. As
winter closes in and the nights grow longer, Mak is drawn into a
shifting world of twisted minds, a world where no motive is clear and no
desire is held in check.
Hit
Makedde Vanderwall has her PhD and is ready to begin her new life in
Australia with her detective boyfriend Andy Flynn. Hoping to scrape
together some extra cash to start her own forensic psychology practice,
Mak begins working part-time for an infamous Sydney private
investigator. With a knack of investigation and bending the law, she
might just have stumbled across her true calling - and the career choice
that could break up her relationship once and for all. Then Mak is
hired by a mysterious client to investigate the murder of A-list PA
Meaghan Wallace. The police believe it's an open and shut case but Mak
discovers that it's a lot more complicated, uncovering a dangerous web
of deceit, killers for hire and the sleazy underworld of the powerful
and dabauched rich.
Fetish
Mak is young, beautiful--and in grave danger. An international fashion
model, she arrived in Australia on assignment, only to find her best
friend brutally murdered, the latest victim of a serial killer with a
very deadly fetish. Before she knows it, Mak herself is caught up in the
hunt for the killer...and trapped in a twisted game of cat-and-mouse.
Who can you trust and where can you turn when you are the dark obsession
of a sadistic psychopath?
Covet
Makedde Vanderwall has done something few women can claim--she survived a
terrifying ordeal at the hands of the sadistic Stiletto Murderer.
Eighteen months later, she has steeled her nerve to confront him again
at his trial. But her worst nightmare comes to life when the killer
escapes, aided by an accomplice no one could have suspected. The
Stiletto Murderer has only one goal now...to find Mak and finish what he
started.
Siren
Mak Vanderwall - beautiful, street-wise daughter of a cop, graduate in forensic psychology, and now PI - is hired by a widowed mother to track down her missing nineteen-year-old son. Has he come to harm? Or has he run off with a bizarre troupe of shady French cabaret artistes sweeping through Australia?Has the dark beauty of the burlesque, the magic, the mind-bending contortion, beguiled him? Or has he been seduced by the mysterious and amoral older woman who has a terrifying starring role in the troupe's modern performances of the Grand Guignol 'Theatre of Fear', famous in Paris in the early 1900s?And what of the rumours of violence and tragedy that have plagued the troupe for the past decade? Is their horrifying past fact or fictionMeanwhile, Mak is increasingly obsessed with the powerful and ruthless Cavanagh family. And it seems their security advisor Mr White, and his hitman, Luther Hand, may not have forgotten about Mak either ...
Tara Moss
Tara Moss
For Janni Moss
She wore stilettos—burnished, black and stylish, with thin straps that bit into her pale, slender ankles. Her heels clicked on the winter pavement as she made her way up the street alone. He strained to capture the sound they made, the beguiling music pulling him in like the Pied Piper’s song.
Click, click, click…
Slowly he drove past, observing the girl through the hungry eyes of a predator. She was young, raven-haired and seductive, wearing a short black skirt to reveal willowy bare legs. A winter jacket fell to her thighs but wasn’t enough to keep her slim legs warm; he could see goose bumps, and the bluish hue of cold, bare skin.
Click, click
…
He passed her again minutes later. The street was nearly empty, but still she did not acknowledge his presence. She continued instead on her misguided course, her pretty face set with determination.
Walking alone.
Lost.
The clouds above her were leaden-heavy with the threat of rain. He could see no umbrella. How far would she be willing to walk once the skies began to cry? Surely she didn’t want to get wet. Surely her feet were tired. It was inevitable that she would need him.
Patiently, he watched her remove a map from her heavy shoulder bag. Jet, silken hair fell over her face as she unfolded it and struggled to make sense of the intricate web of streets, roads and lanes. She squinted with concentration, and when the clouds finally opened, showering her with cold droplets, she shot an irritated look at the lowering sky, before scanning the street for shelter. There were no taxis, no telephone booths, no open cafés or corner stores. Nothing for blocks.
The rain began to fall more heavily.
Click…
The girl set off again, walking faster, aimlessly. Her black bag weighed upon her shoulder, the map scrunched in frustration in her hand. Raindrops made slick, shimmering lines down her soft, hairless legs.
He pulled up beside her.
Now is the time.
He unwound his window. “Are you OK?” he asked. “You look lost.”
“I’m fine,” the girl replied, and glanced nervously up the street. Her accent was foreign, American, or perhaps Canadian.
“Are you sure? This isn’t a safe area for you to be walking alone.” He made a show of checking his watch. “My wife is expecting me home for dinner, but I could spare a few moments to drive you where you need to be.” A gold band shone on his left ring finger. He’d polished it specially for occasions like these.
Her eyes rested on it for an instant. “Oh, no…I’m all right, I think…” Her face was beautiful; youthful and achingly flawless, and her pale complexion was rosy with exertion, radiating warm light like a soft porcelain lamp. “Do you know where Cleveland Street is?” she asked.
“Oh dear. You’re nowhere near Cleveland Street. We’re on Philip now. Here, let me show you on your map.” He beckoned her closer, and she slowly walked over to lean against the passenger side door. He could smell the odour of sweet, young sweat. Her face was glistening, now only a foot from his.
“Here, hop in for a sec’. You’re getting all wet.” He pushed the passenger door open for her.
She stepped back and watched the van door open, uncertainty etched on her face. For a moment she didn’t move, and he wondered if she would accept his help. He smiled harmlessly, not allowing his impatience to betray him. Then, with raindrops rolling down her forehead, the girl shrugged and slid onto his dry passenger seat.
Sheltered from the rain, she looked relieved. She passed him the map, offering a wide, friendly smile that revealed a set of perfect white teeth. She left the passenger door open, with one slender leg stretched down to touch the wet pavement.
He forced his eyes away. “We’re here.” He pointed to the map. “You need Cleveland Street, which is here. You’ve got to walk up this way, then…”
Her scent overwhelmed him; honeyed, wet smells, musky and damp between her legs. He sensed that her heartbeat was slowing. She was relaxing for him, trusting him. He kept talking, explaining in soothing, paternal tones. It looked impossibly far on her map, indeed the distance sounded inconceivable as he spoke.
In reality it would have been a short walk.
Night coated the city with an impenetrable, inky blanket. The clouds had shed their rain and had rolled away, and the sleepy streets glistened with moisture as the van passed quietly over them. With eyes well adjusted to the dark, he drove to a large isolated parking lot, turned off his headlights, and coasted towards his chosen spot under some tall, overhanging figtrees.
His beautiful girl whimpered softly behind him as she had from time to time during their drive
together. He fetched a pair of gloves and put them on. After checking that the driver and passenger doors were both locked, he made his way to her, carefully closing the heavy curtains which separated the cab from the rear of the van. He switched on a battery-powered lamp, blinking for a moment while his eyes adjusted. The thick black blanket had fallen down to the girl’s stomach during the drive. Her arms were still held straight up above her head, wrists secured to shackles on the wall, her body lying flat against the van’s floor. Her thin, pale blue, knitted top was decorated with haphazard splatters of blood; the same treacly blood that glistened around her hairline. A dark mole the size of a lady beetle stood out against her pale neck. With eyes half open and full of salty tears that streaked mascara down her cheeks, she was moaning again, shifting weakly.
Impervious to her weeping and plaintive struggles, he reached for his supplies. He would have to gag her now. She had remained placid since he hit her, but she might become noisy, and even in their isolated spot, he couldn’t risk that. Her eyes followed his movements as he brought the gag close to her face, and widened at the sight of the red rubber ball and its long leather straps. She was becoming lucid. The timing was good. He had long ago lost interest in unconscious victims.
“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you,” he lied. There was no sense in getting her excited until she was fully secured.
He yanked her jaw open with both hands and shoved the rubber ball inside. The girl’s watery eyes became huge saucers of shocked blue and she choked out a stifled protest. He pulled the straps around her head and fastened the buckles at the back, his fingers running through the gummy blood oozing from her crown.
