Lisa Jackson - Hot Blooded

The phone jangled and Sam punched the button for the speaker phone. Hi, this is Samantha.

Glad I caught you in.

She froze. Her heart missed a beat. Who is this? she said, but she recognized the smooth, sexy voice immediately.

Dont play games, Samantha. You know who I am. Are we having fun yet?

Sam wanted to slam down the receiver, but couldnt sever the connection, not if she ever wanted to nail this creep. I wouldnt call it fun. Not fun at all.

I caught your program tonight.

But you didnt phone in.

Im calling now, he pointed out. I wanted to talk to you alone. What we need to discuss is personal.

I dont even know who you are.

Sure you do, Doctor, you just dont remember.

What is it you want? Why are you calling me?

Because I know you for what you are, Samantha. A phony. He was getting angry now, his voice becoming agitated. Women like you need to be punished.

I dont know what youre talking about.

Its all in your past, Dr. Sam, that past you hide from the world. But I know. I was there. The wages of sin are death, he reminded her coldly.

And youre gonna die. Youre gonna die soon

SEE HOW SHE DIES

FINAL SCREAM
RUNNING SCARED
WHISPERS
TWICE KISSED
UNSPOKEN
IF SHE ONLY KNEW
HOT BLOODED
COLD BLOODED
THE NIGHT BEFORE
THE MORNING AFTER
DEEP FREEZE
FATAL BURN
SHIVER MOST LIKELY TO DIE
ABSOLUTE FEAR
ALMOST DEAD
LOST SOULS
LEFT TO DIE
WICKED GAME
MALICE
CHOSEN TO DIE
WITHOUT MERCY
DEVIOUS
WICKED LIES
BORN TO DIE

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

H OT B LOODED

L ISA J ACKSON

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Attributor Protected.

ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

Kensington Publishing Corp.
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New York, NY 10018

Copyright 2001 by Susan Lisa Jackson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as unsold and destroyed to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this stripped book.

All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn. Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-2466-8
eISBN-10: 1-4201-2466-8

First Printing: August 2001

30 29 28

Printed in the United States of America

To John Scognamiglio, who was not only the editor of this book, but a major player in the creative process, just as he was with all my books for Kensington, especially during the writing of If She Only Knew. Always sane, with infinite patience and brilliant ideas that push me farther than I might dare to go, John has so inspired me that Im paying him back by naming the villain in this book after him. Thanks, John!

First and foremost I would like to thank the City of New Orleans Police Department for their help and courtesy, even though I bent the rules a tad to accommodate this story.

I would also like to thank the following individuals who offered their support, knowledge, and expertise, without which this book would not have been written. Thanks to Nancy Berland, Eric Brown, Ken and Nancy Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Alexis Harrington, Jenny Hold, Richard Jaskiel, Michael Kavanaugh, Mary Clare Kersten, Debbie Macomber, Arla Melum, Ken Melum, Ari Okano, Kathy and Bob Okano, Betty and Jack Pederson, Jim and Sally Peters, Jeff and Karen Rosenberg, Robin Rue, Jon Salem, John Scognamiglio, Larry and Linda Sparks, Mark and Celia Stinson, Jane Thornton, The LO Rowers, and, of course, Pliney the Elder.

If Ive missed anyone, my apologies.

June

New Orleans, Louisiana

You want something special? she asked, running the tip of her tongue over her lips provocatively. He shook his head.

I can

Just strip.

Theres something wrong with this guy. Seriously wrong, Cherie Bellechamps thought, a drip of fear sliding through her blood. She thought about calling the whole thing off, telling the john to get lost, but she needed the cash. Maybe her imagination was getting the better of her. Maybe he wasnt a creep.

She unbuttoned her dress slowly and felt his eyes upon her, just as hundreds of other eyes had stared in the past. No big deal.

Over the noise of the city, music played from her bedside radio. Frank Sinatras smooth voice. Which usually calmed her. Not tonight.

A hot June breeze, heavy with the dank breath of the Mississippi, blew through the open window. It ruffled the yellowed lace curtains and cooled the beads of sweat collecting on Cheries forehead, but didnt ease her case of nerves.

The john sat on a three-legged stool and fingered a rosary in one hand, the blood-red beads catching in the frail light. So what was he? Some kind of religious nut? A priest who couldnt handle celibacy? Or was this just another weird fetish? Lord knew in New Orleans there were thousands of oddballs, all with their own sexual fantasy.

You like? she asked, conjuring up a slightly Cajun accent as she ran a long-nailed finger along the cleft of her breasts and pushed aside any lingering trepidations.

Keep going. From the stool in the little room, he wiggled a finger at her bra and panties.

Dont you want to? she asked, her voice low and sultry.

Ill watch.

She didnt know how much he could see. This second-story room on the fringes of the French Quarter was lit by a single lamp, the shade covered in a black-lace mantilla so that intricate shadows played upon the walls and hid the cracks in the old plaster. Besides that, the john was wearing Ray-Bans with dark lenses. Cherie couldnt see his eyes, but it didnt matter. He was good-looking. Athletic. His jaw was square, his nose straight, his lips thin and secretive in a days worth of stubble. He wore a dark shirt, black jeans and his hair was a thick, coffee brown. Unless there was something hideously wrong with his eyes, this guy was Hollywood handsome.

And spooky as sin.

Already hed asked her to scrub her face and don a red wig to cover her short platinum hair. She hadnt argued. Didnt care what got a trick off.

She flicked off the front clasp of her bra and let the scrap of red lace slide to the floor.

He didnt so much as move. Except to rub the damned rosary beads.

You got a name? she asked.

Yeah.

Youre not going to share it?

Call me Father.

Father likemy dadorshe glanced at the dark beads running through his fingers like a priest?

Just Father.

How about Father John? It was her attempt at a joke. He didnt smile.