A brisk December wind moaned in the pines, driving Rose Browning deeper into her long wool coat. She adjusted the basket of muffins hanging at a dangerous tilt in the crook of her left arm, breathing in the warm aroma of cinnamon that almost overpowered the tang of pine needles and fallen leaves carpeting the path through Bridey Woods.

The ramshackle facade of Carrie and Dillon Granville’s home came into view. Her pulse quickening, Rose crunched over the frosty ground, speeding up the closer she got. In a minute, Carrie would open the door and smile her welcome, her expression blurred by a shimmer of transparent silver in the shape of her husband Dillon’s face. Dillon would appear in the door behind his wife, his smile harder to come by, but that wouldn’t matter once Rose saw the image of Carrie dancing over his face.

This was the best part of what she did, getting to see the veils, each time like the first, fresh and wonderful.

She called them true-love veils, shimmery images of soul mates superimposed over each other’s faces. Seeing them was her gift, and she’d helped a lot of soul mates find each other over the years. She’d even made a career out of it, planning weddings for the people she brought together.

It was how she’d known that Carrie and Dillon were meant to be together, despite the obstacles keeping them apart.

The true-love veils were the best gift in the world, and she was grateful to be the Browning sister who’d received it.

Rose’s footsteps rang on the rickety porch steps, usually enough to bring the sound of feet moving across the rough wood floor inside. But this morning she heard only a low keening sound, which seemed to echo the December wind in the towering pines overhead, sending a chill curling down her spine.

She lifted her hand to knock but faltered, unease slithering through her belly. The woods around her lay silent, as if the animals were in hiding. She’d heard the bark of a gun as she’d left her house near town but thought little of it. Hunting season was in full swing, and, while Willow Grove, Alabama, could boast of lush green fields to lure hunters from the city, many of the locals couldn’t afford to be so picky.

Maybe a hunter had spooked the animals, she told herself.

But she didn’t quite believe it.

The keening grew louder. Harsh breathing, she realized, her nerves jangling. Coming from inside.

“Carrie?”

The breathing stopped.

Rose took a reluctant step closer to the cracked-open door. She could see nothing through the dark opening.

“Carrie? It’s Rose. Is everything okay?”

The silence stretched and grew taut. Rose leaned toward the narrow opening, trying to peer into the darkness.

Overhead a crow shrieked; the raucous sound was like a knife sawing over her tight nerves. Rose jerked, her hand smacking into the door, stinging her cold knuckles. She swallowed a hiss of pain as the door creaked open, hinges moaning.

Daylight slashed across the dark interior to reveal Carrie Granville’s arm outstretched across the plank floor of the main room. The rest of her body was hidden in shadow.

As Rose’s heart clenched, something dark, thick and fluid slithered across the floor toward Carrie’s hand.

Blood.

Rose took a step back, until a soft snicking sound brought her to a dead halt.

“She made me do it.” Dillon Granville’s country twang emerged from the shadows, low and pained. “I didn’t want to, but she made me.”

Wind gusted at Rose’s back, blowing her dark hair into her eyes and pushing the door into the wall. Daylight flooded the cabin’s interior.

Dillon squinted at the sudden light, giving Rose time to turn and run. But what she saw on his face froze her in place.

The true-love veil was there, just as she’d imagined it: Carrie’s face, smiling and happy, a horrific contrast to the slack, pallid face of the woman lying dead on the floor, her eyes half open and forever sightless.

Rose’s arms fell weakly to her sides. Her Christmas basket hit the porch with a thud, spilling apple-cinnamon muffins across the weathered planks.

Behind the lingering true-love veil, Dillon’s expression shifted, hardened. Rose’s heart jolted.

“I can’t live without her. It’s like you told us. We’re supposed to be together forever.” As the hardness of Dillon’s expression softened into a distant half smile, the veil over his face rippled, slowly changing to a translucent image of his own face, his left temple open and pulpy.

Before Rose could process what she was seeing, Dillon lifted the gun. Ice gushed into Rose’s veins and she took a stumbling step back, her legs heavy and unresponsive.

The gun barrel was pointed in her direction for only the briefest moment on its way up to Dillon’s right temple.

“No.” Rose’s voice came out strangled, watery with horror.

Dillon smiled at her. “Together forever,” he said.

Then he pulled the trigger.

Chapter One

The woman sat alone at a table near the narrow stage at the front of the bar, nursing a strawberry daiquiri and feigning interest in the alt-rock cover band currently grinding its way through an old Pearl Jam classic. Now and then she took a sip of her drink but mainly watched the crowd, her eyes alert.

Daniel Hartman studied her from his seat at the bar, curiosity distracting him from his own agenda. There was an odd stillness about her, a composure that set her apart from the rest of the restless liquor-soaked crowd in the small club in the heart of Birmingham’s Five Points South.

Who was she? What was she looking for?

The door opened and a man in a striped shirt and leather jacket entered, pausing in the doorway. Daniel dragged his attention away from the woman to give the newcomer a quick once-over. He was pushing forty, a little paunchy though his clothes hid it well. The wedding ring on his left hand quickly went into his pocket.

Classy.

Daniel looked away, losing interest. This place was a bust. He took another sip of Coke and considered moving on to another club a few doors down. But his gaze drifted back to the woman with the daiquiri, and he stayed put, watching her through narrowed eyes as she took another dainty sip of her drink and clapped politely as the cover band crashed its way to the end of the song.

The paunchy man in the leather jacket approached her table, on the prowl. Of course he’d choose her—a pretty woman all alone in the middle of a bar was too much temptation. Daniel sat forward, curious to see how she’d handle being hit on. Would she notice the imprint on his left ring finger where the wedding band had been? Would it matter?

She looked up at the man, her brow furrowing as he spoke to her. Her gaze drifted to the hand resting on the back of her chair and the furrowed brow smoothed, replaced by a cool, neutral mask. She murmured to the man, who stepped away with a frown. Muttering something that made the woman’s lips tighten, he moved on to the bar and ordered a bourbon neat.

Daniel looked back at the woman and found her watching him. When she didn’t immediately look away, he lifted his glass and nodded.

Her frown returning, she looked down at her glass, stirring the red slush with slow, deliberate strokes. Her chin lifted, followed by her eyes. She locked gazes with him, her expression impossible to read. An electric shock zigzagged through him as he took the full brunt of her attention.

Was it an invitation? A rebuff? He didn’t know, and he’d always prided himself on being an accomplished reader of women. Of people, in general, given his chosen profession.

He could look around this bar and guess, with accuracy, the stories behind the faces surrounding him: The balding salesman with the desperate come-on sitting with the aging beauty queen who’d accepted his offer of a drink because she was desperate for the attention she used to command without effort. The raw-nerved coed drinking to forget her cheating boyfriend and her unfinished term paper. The tax accountant sipping a trendy dark ale and trying to look as though he was just one of the guys. Daniel could read them all.

But not her.

She looked across the room and caught the eye of a waitress, who came at once. They murmured an exchange and the waitress went toward the back, soon returning with the check.

The woman paid her bill and rose from the table, darting a glance in his direction. He followed her with his gaze, memorizing the curve of her hips and the dip of her narrow waist, the way her calf muscles flexed as she navigated the crowded club and pushed her way through the exit door into the cool October night. His skin felt hot and tight.

Part of him wanted desperately to follow her, to see where she went next. What was she looking for? Would she find it?

But he had a job to do here, a job that didn’t include tailing pretty brunettes with great legs. He stayed where he was, waving at the bartender to pour him another Coke. The bartender complied, giving him a black look because he wasn’t buying pricey liquor to go with the soda. Daniel couldn’t blame him—the bar didn’t make money off designated drivers.

But he needed his wits about him tonight.

ROSE LOCKED THE CAR DOOR behind her and closed her eyes, giving in to the tremor in her legs.

Was he the one?

She thought she’d know it immediately, that the rage and violence roiling inside him would surely show on his face, but the man at the bar had looked so normal. Attractive, even, with masculine features, eyes the gray of a winter sky and a lean swimmer’s build. The kind of man she might have smiled at a year ago, encouraged to join her in a drink and some friendly conversation.

But she wasn’t that woman anymore.

She put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine purred to life, the heater vents blowing cool air in a blast that amplified her shivers.

She tightened her sweater around her and turned on the CD player. Allison Krauss’s clarion voice flowed from the speakers, a plaintive plea to a potential lover to let her touch him for a while. She punched the power button off with a growl, glancing at her rearview mirror, where the front entrance of the Southside Pub reflected back at her in garish neon. Part of her expected the door to open and the man from the bar to emerge, seeking her out.

Stalking her.

Another part of her was disappointed when he didn’t.

She glanced at the dashboard clock. Only nine-fifteen on a Friday. The night was young. There were at least half a dozen more bars just in the Five Points South area she could visit before closing time.

Her chest tightened at the thought, but she tamped down her reluctance and pulled her Chevy into the moderate traffic on Twentieth Street, heading for the next bar on her list.

She found one of the last parking places on a side street where two bars sat side by side, as different from each other as day and night. Hannity’s, an old-fashioned Irish pub complete with green neon shamrocks in the window, occupied the corner. Next door was Sizzle, unmistakably a dance bar with flashing lights and a driving bass beat she could hear from her car.

She headed for the dance bar, steeling herself for the noise and light. Southside Pub had been sedate in comparison. Sizzle’s clientele was a good decade younger and twice as loud. At twenty-seven, she was one of the oldest women in the place. Her skirt was at least five inches too long, her silk blouse not nearly tight enough and her upswept hair prim compared to the flying tresses of the women gyrating on the dance floor.

She quelled the urge to head right back out the door, reminding herself that Elisa Biondi had last been seen at this very bar the night she died.

He came to places like this. He looked for women on their own. Easy targets.

She felt an invisible bull’s-eye sitting between her shoulder blades as she weaved through the restless crowd and found a seat at the bar.

“Virgin daiquiri,” she ordered, ignoring the bartender’s arched brow. Had the woman never heard of designated drivers?

The bartender mixed the drink, leaving out the rum, and slid it down the bar to Rose. “Knock yourself out.”

Ignoring the mild gibe, Rose paid for the drink and sipped the sweet slush through her straw, turning her gaze toward the club floor. Dancers filled the cramped space, most of them moving with more enthusiasm than skill, their focus on seduction rather than rhythm. Faces blended into one another, merging into an undulating mass of color and motion.

“Rose?”

The sound of her name drew Rose’s attention away from the dance floor. She turned to find Melissa Bannerman, her current client, sitting at a table nearby, sipping a margarita. Melissa motioned her over.

Picking up her daiquiri, Rose crossed to the table, relieved to see a familiar face. “No Mark?” she asked Melissa, referring to her client’s fiancé.

Melissa hesitated before responding. “He’s in Knoxville for the Bama-Tennessee game. I have a stack of unread manuscripts to get through this weekend, so I couldn’t get away.” Melissa’s family owned a small publishing company. “Have a seat. I promise we won’t talk wedding business.”

Rose took one of the empty seats. Melissa was obviously not alone; someone’s drink sat on the table in front of one of the other chairs. “I shouldn’t barge in on your night out—”

“Alice won’t mind.” Melissa waved toward the dance floor. “We’ll be lucky if we see her the rest of the night. She just broke up with her scummy boyfriend and I think she plans to dance with every guy in this place. Therapy, you know?” A hint of bitterness tinged Melissa’s words. She’d almost ended her engagement a year earlier after catching Mark cheating. Mark’s promise never to stray again had kept the engagement intact. Rose wasn’t sure Melissa had made the right decision.

The true-love veils had made it so much easier to know if a couple was about to make a big mistake.

“Look at her go,” Melissa said with a chuckle.

Rose followed Melissa’s gaze and spotted a tall, curvy woman with wavy brown hair. Her back was to Rose and Melissa, her body grooving to the pounding bass coming from the giant speakers on the wall. Her dance partner could barely keep up, but he didn’t look unhappy about it, his eyes wide with male appreciation as his partner danced off her frustrations.

Alice turned her back on him, a not-so-subtle reminder that she was here for the music, not the man. She looked at the table where Rose and Melissa sat, waggling her fingers at them.

Rose sucked in a swift breath.

Alice’s face was covered with a shimmery silver veil.

Rose called them death veils for lack of a better term. She’d seen several since Dillon Granville’s suicide, death masks superimposed over the faces of the doomed, a gruesome contrast to the true-love veils she’d seen all her life up to that horrible day in Bridey Woods.

The particular death veil Alice wore was one Rose had seen before, six weeks ago on the face of a woman at the grocery store where Rose shopped. Three days later, she’d been found murdered near the Birmingham Zoo. Two weeks ago, Rose had seen the same kind of veil on the face of a cyclist riding in front of her house. She’d been found murdered, as well.

News reports hadn’t mentioned their wounds, but Rose knew what they’d been. Slashes across their jaw-lines and foreheads. Gouges on the soft apples of their cheeks. And a ragged slit across each of their throats, the killing blow.

Two women dead, and Rose had foreseen their murders. How many others hadn’t she seen?

She stared at Alice, transfixed by the shimmer of death on her pretty face. What now? Tell Melissa what she was seeing? She discarded the idea immediately. Melissa might be unpredictable and impulsive, but beneath it all was a solid strain of rationality, and what Rose could see was about as irrational as it got.

Would Alice be more open? How long did Rose have to convince her? Would the killer strike tomorrow?

Tonight?

A finger of dread traced an icy path up Rose’s spine. Was he here already? Hidden by the throngs, watching Alice dance and imagining what he was going to do to her?

Fear rose in her throat, nearly gagging her.

The song ended and Alice crossed to their table. She dropped into the chair in front of the half-empty beer bottle. “Whew! That was fun.”

“Richard who?” Melissa teased.

Alice laughed, her eyes crinkling with good humor. “Exactly.” She turned to Rose. “Hi. I’m Alice.”

“I’m Rose.”

“Sorry—how rude of me!” Melissa gestured to Alice. “This is Alice Donovan, the dancing queen. We went to college together at Bama. Alice, this is Rose Browning, my wedding planner. I told you about her.”

Alice grinned at Rose, the expression grotesquely juxtaposed against the blood-streaked death veil hovering over her face. Rose swallowed the bile rising in her throat and managed a smile in return.

“You should give Rose your card, Alice. Alice just opened a florist shop down the street from here,” Melissa explained.

“Really? I’ll be sure to give you a call,” Rose said, tamping down her growing distress.

“Great!” Alice pulled a card out of her clutch purse and handed it to Rose. “We’re brand-new, but we have terrific suppliers, and I think you’ll be very pleased with our work.”

Rose tucked the card into her purse and took a deep breath, wondering what to say next. A lot of people claimed interest in the paranormal, but even if Alice wasn’t a stone-cold skeptic, would she really believe that Rose could foresee her death? What person would want to hear something like that, much less put any stock in it?

True-love veils had been easier to talk about. Everybody wanted to believe in happily-ever-after.

“Listen, I hate to boogie and run, but the shop opens tomorrow bright and early.” Alice slid her chair back and took a last swallow of beer on the table in front of her. She turned to Rose. “It was nice meeting you. Give me a call and we can discuss what I can do for your business.”

Now, Rose thought. Tell her now. Just blurt it out.

“I’ll do that,” she said, kicking herself for her cowardice. “First thing in the morning.”

Alice flashed her another smile beneath the death veil and headed for the exit.

Rose watched her go, wondering if he would follow her out. Could it be that simple? Was he here in the crowd, waiting for his chance? Waiting fifteen seconds or twenty, enough that nobody would notice him following her, but not so long that he couldn’t catch up with her before she reached her car?

Rose counted the seconds in her mind. Five. Ten. Fifteen…

Nobody followed Alice out of the bar.

Rose clutched her purse and turned to Melissa. “I’ve got to run, too, Melissa—I almost forgot about a meeting I have first thing in the morning.” She rose from the table.

“The new caterer?”

“Yes,” Rose lied, already on her way to the exit, heading off any more questions from Melissa.

Outside, she scanned the street for a glimpse of Alice Donovan. There weren’t many parking places near the bar. Rose had lucked into her spot a few cars down. There had to be a parking lot somewhere nearby—

She spotted a sign that said Free Parking and followed the arrow to a side lot around the corner of the Irish pub. There. She spotted Alice opening the door of a dark blue Camry.

Quelling her fear, she called out Alice’s name, jogging toward her across the narrow lot.

Alice turned at the sound, her brow crinkling until she recognized Rose. “Oh, hi. Did I leave something in the bar?”

Rose faltered to a stop, taking a deep breath to brace herself. “I have to tell you something, and you’re going to think it sounds crazy, but I need you to hear me out.”

Alice’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Rose licked her lips. “I see things. I guess, you might call them visions—sort of. Not exactly.” She grimaced as Alice’s expression darkened. “Do you remember the U.A.B. student who was murdered a couple of weeks ago?”

Alice’s expression shifted from wary to alarmed. “Yes.”

“The day before she died, I saw her riding her bike in front of my house. Over her face was this…thing. I call it a veil—it’s like a shimmery image superimposed over her face. Her own face, only…dead.”

Alice took a step back, her fingers closing around her car keys. “Look, I’ve got to go—”

Rose took a desperate step forward. “I know it sounds crazy. I know it does. But I saw the death veil and then she died. I saw another woman a few weeks ago—the same thing. Her face, slashed and bloody. She turned up dead three days later.”

Alice shook her head. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I see a death veil on you,” Rose blurted.

Alice’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re right. You sound crazy.” She unlocked her car door, keeping her eyes on Rose. “We’ll chalk this up to too much rum, okay? I’m leaving now.”

“Just be careful, Alice. I don’t care if you think I’m crazy, as long as you remember what I told you.”

Alice opened the car door, turning her back on Rose only at the last moment, when she slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut behind her. Rose heard the click of the automatic locks engaging and released a pent-up breath.

The Camry’s engine fired to life, forcing Rose to step out of the way to let Alice pull out of the parking space. The Camry wheeled around and headed out of the small lot, pulling into the light traffic headed toward Twentieth Street.

Rose’s knees began to shake. She leaned against the car parked next to the now-empty slot. Closing her eyes, she gave in to the tremors rolling through her.

Okay. It hadn’t been pleasant, but she’d warned Alice of the danger. Maybe it would be enough. Maybe she’d do something different, be a little more alert over the next couple of days. Avoid being alone where someone could take advantage of her vulnerability.

Alone.

As she was now, in the middle of this isolated parking lot, with only the muddy yellow streetlamp on the corner to chase away the evening gloom. Dread slithered through her belly.

She was alone.

Vulnerable.

The hairs on her neck rose. She felt eyes on her, as tangible as the mist of her breath in the cold night air.

She whirled around and peered into the darkness at the far end of the parking lot. She saw only blackness, impenetrable and infinite. But somewhere in that abyss, someone was watching. Waiting.

Swallowing her rising panic, Rose turned and ran, her heels clattering on the uneven blacktop. She reached the sidewalk and looked behind her at the far end of the parking lot.

Something moved, darting through the gloom and disappearing behind the pub.

Her pulse hammering in her ears, Rose raced to her car, oblivious to the stares of the scattered pedestrians dotting the sidewalk. She fumbled with her keys, her breath coming in soft, keening gasps, until she managed to unlock the Impala’s door. She slid inside, pulling the door shut so quickly that she almost caught her foot.

She jabbed at the power lock. The levers snicked softly as they slid into place, closing her safely inside.

In the silence, her breathing was harsh and rapid. She forced herself to let her heart rate settle into a less frantic cadence before she put the key in the ignition.

She hadn’t been imagining it, had she? She’d seen movement in the shadows, felt his gaze like a touch. She wasn’t crazy.

He’d been watching Alice. Waiting for his opportunity. Maybe he would have made his move right there in the parking lot, if Rose hadn’t showed up.

Maybe she’d already saved Alice Donovan’s life.

But now the killer had seen her.

Rose grabbed the rearview mirror, positioning it to see her own reflection. Her eyes, dark with fear, stared back at her, but her face was clear. No death veil.

She slumped against the car seat, relief tingling through her, quickly swamped by guilt. So what if she was safe? Alice Donovan was still in danger, and Rose’s clumsy attempt to warn her had failed. If her warning had changed Alice’s fate, wouldn’t the death veil have disappeared?

She lowered her forehead to the steering wheel, feeling sick. The truth was, she didn’t know if the death veil would have disappeared. She knew nothing about the damned things, except that they had made her life a constant misery for the past ten months.

She gave herself a shake. Maybe she was giving up too soon. The other victims hadn’t died immediately. A day or two had passed before their bodies were found. Alice had said she was going straight home; maybe the killer wouldn’t strike tonight.

She still had Alice’s business card and the phone number to her florist shop. She could call Alice in the morning, apologize for scaring her and try to explain things more coherently.

Maybe it would work.

She forced her rubbery limbs into motion, buckling her seat belt and starting the car. The dashboard clock showed ten twenty-five. The night was still young, by Friday-night-clubbing standards, but she’d seen all the death veils she could bear in one evening.

She pulled carefully into traffic and circled the block, coming to stop at the traffic light in front of the Storyteller fountain. Spotlights in the center of the fountain lit up the whimsical bronze sculpture of a ram dressed as a man reading to an assembly of smaller bronze animals. A young couple sat on a bench nearby, holding hands and gazing at each other, oblivious to the beauty of the fountain.

A few months ago Rose could have known at a glance whether or not the couple was destined to love each other for a lifetime. Now all she could say, for sure, was that neither of them was destined to die in the next few days.

She looked up at the red light, willing it to change.

A cluster of pedestrians crossed in front of her, heading toward the fountain. A dark-haired man brought up the rear, his long trench coat flapping with each confident stride. A flutter of awareness sparked in Rose’s belly as she recognized him.

The stranger who’d been watching her at the Southside Pub.

He turned his face toward her as if he could sense her scrutiny. Rose shrank back into the shadows, knowing that the glare of the streetlamp off her windshield most likely hid her from his view. The light changed to green as he reached the sidewalk by the fountain, but Rose didn’t move. Adrenaline rushed into her bloodstream.

He’d come from the direction of the club she’d just left.

Behind her, a horn honked, rattling her nerves. She accelerated across the intersection, her heart rate picking up speed. She took a left at the next intersection, heading toward Mountain Avenue. Just a few blocks and she’d be home. Safe.

At least, for now.

MIDNIGHT HAD COME and gone, but Rose remained curled up in the overstuffed armchair by the front windows, gazing out at the moonless night. The lights of the city cast a yellow haze across the night sky, obscuring the stars from her view.

She closed her eyes and listened to the thud of her pulse in her ears, steady and just a little rapid, still pumped up with adrenaline from the evening’s events. Behind her eyelids, the sight of Alice Donovan’s scarred and bleeding face played in strobing slow motion, like a silent movie.

A scratching sound at the front door jerked her eyes open. Staring at the solid door, she held her breath, wondering if she’d imagined it.

Then she heard it again. It was faint but unmistakable, a discordant sound, as if someone were scraping fingernails down the outside of the door.

Releasing a shaky breath, Rose crept to the door and peered through the fish-eye lens. She could see nothing outside.

Checking to make sure the safety chain was engaged, she unlocked the dead bolt and cracked the door open.

Alice Donovan’s wide, sightless green eyes stared up at Rose from the welcome mat. Blood from the gashes in her face flowed onto the concrete stoop, the crimson turned black in the muddy yellow light from the streetlamps.

Alice’s lips moved slowly, a soft rattle rising from her ruined throat. “Too…late—”

Rose jerked awake, her heart in her throat. It was still nighttime, the clock over the mantel reading 2:00 a.m. She sat in the armchair by the window, her back and legs aching from the cramped position.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, beating out a guilty cadence.

Too late.

Olete lõpetanud tasuta lõigu lugemise. Kas soovite edasi lugeda?

Forbidden Temptation

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