Lisa Jackson - Cold Blooded

He saw her.

Half-running, head bent, fingers clutched at the hood of her coat, she hurried through the darkness to the small church.

From his hiding spot beneath the magnolia tree, The Chosen One waited. His blood began to sing through his veins as he crouched in the darkness, every muscle tense, nerves strung tight as piano wire.

How easy it would be to catch her. In three swift strides he could be upon her and drag her away. While her father waited inside. That particular thought appealed to him, was warm seduction.

But it wasnt her time, he reminded himself. There were others.

She paused beneath the overhang near the front doors, tossing off her hood and shaking her hair free. Long and wavy, the strands gleamed a tempting red brown in the lamplight. The Chosen One swallowed and felt the first stirring between his legs.

He wanted her.

So badly he ached.

Just looking at her, his senses were heightened. He heard his heart beating, felt his blood pulse through his veins, smelled the heavy odor of the Mississippi River winding dark and slow through the town where traffic whined on slick streets and sin was waged at every corner.

As she disappeared through the doors, he edged deeper into the dense foliage of the grounds to his hiding spot near the flawed stained-glass window. A tiny panel of glass had been removed and replaced by a small clear pane, giving a perfect view into the nave. Crouching, The Chosen One peered through this portal and he watched as she walked down the aisle, genuflected, then slid into the pew to take her seat next to her father. The bastard cop.

They exchanged a few words before she planted herself next to him.

Once seated, she fidgeted in the pew. Looked bored. As if shed rather be anywhere than at evening mass with her father. She flipped her long hair this way and that, glanced at the others as they entered, slumped onto her lower back to bite at one fingernail as dozens of candles burned.

The Chosen One let his gaze move to the cop.

The enemy.

He was a solid man, over six feet. His jaw was square, his eyes deep-set and world-weary, showing his forty-plus years. Rick Bentz was a detective whose tarnished reputation had been polished to a recent sheen, his past sins forgotten if not forgiven. In his black suit and starched shirt, he appeared more uncomfortable than his daughter, definitely out of place in the house of God.

As well he should be.

Tugging on his tie, Bentz leaned closer to the girl and whispered into her ear. Immediately she stopped biting at her nails and straightened in the pew. She folded her arms over her abdomen defiantly and inadvertently raised her breasts, making them plump a bit at the neckline of her dress. White supple flesh against turquoise silk.

The Chosen One imagined what was hidden beneath that smooth fabric rosebud nipples, virgin skin, and lower, a dark nest of curls the same reddish brown as that luxurious tangle of copper that tumbled to her shoulders.

He thought of her as the princess.

Her fathers pride and joy.

Athlete, scholar, and a little naughty. Rebellious. It was there, in her eyes. Hed seen it before. Heard it in her deep, sexy laughter.