Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle Part 208

CHAPTER 21.

CHAPTER 22.

CHAPTER 23.

CHAPTER 24.

CHAPTER 25.

CHAPTER 26.

CHAPTER 27.

CHAPTER 28.

CHAPTER 29.

CHAPTER 30.

CHAPTER 31.

CHAPTER 32.

CHAPTER 33.

CHAPTER 34.

CHAPTER 35.

CHAPTER 36.

CHAPTER 37.

CHAPTER 38.

CHAPTER 39.

Acknowledgments.

There are many people I would like to thank for their expertise and help in the writing and publication of this book. Special thanks to Rosalind Noonan, fellow author and friend, for her tireless help, and to everyone at Kensington Publis.h.i.+ng for their patience, especially my editor, John Scognamiglio. Also, in no particular order, thanks to Nancy Bush, Ken Bush, Matthew Crose, Niki Crose, Michael Crose, Larry Sparks, Ken Melum, Kelly Foster, Darren Foster, and my agent, Robin Rue.

If I've missed anyone-hey, no surprise there, but please accept my apologies.

Author's Note I know I've bent the rules and played around with the police department procedure just to keep my story moving; this book in no way reflects the actual police departments of Los Angeles, California, or New Orleans, Louisiana, or their procedures.

PROLOGUE.

Culver City, a Suburb of Los Angeles Twelve Years Earlier "So you're not coming home tonight, is that what you're getting at?" Jennifer Bentz sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to her ear, as she tried to ignore that all-too-familiar guilty noose of monogamy that was strangling her even as it frayed.

"Probably not."

Ever the great communicator, her ex wasn't about to commit.

Not that she really blamed him. Theirs was a tenuous, if sometimes pa.s.sionate, relations.h.i.+p. And she was forever "the bad one," as she thought of herself, "the adulteress." Even now, the scent of recent s.e.x teased her nostrils in the too-warm bedroom, reminding her of her sins. Two half-full martini gla.s.ses stood next to a sweating shaker on the bedside table, evidence that she hadn't been alone. "When, then?" she asked. "When will you show up?"

"Tomorrow. Maybe." Rick was on his cell in a squad car. She heard the sounds of traffic in the background, knew he was being evasive and tight-lipped because his partner was driving and could overhear at least one side of the stilted conversation.

Great.

She tried again. Lowered her voice. "Would it help if I said I miss you?"

No response. Of course. G.o.d, she hated this. Being the pathetic, whining woman, begging for him to see her. It just wasn't her style. Not her style at all. Men were the ones who usually begged, and she got off on it.

Somewhere in the back of her consciousness she heard a soft click.

"RJ?"

"I heard you."

Her cheeks burned and she glanced at the bedsheets twisted and turned, falling into a pool of pastel, wrinkled cotton at the foot of the bed.

Oh, G.o.d. He knows. The metallic taste of betrayal was on her lips, but she had to play the game, feign innocence. Surely he wouldn't suspect that she'd been with another man, not so close on the heels of the last time. Jeez, she'd even surprised herself. The metallic taste of betrayal was on her lips, but she had to play the game, feign innocence. Surely he wouldn't suspect that she'd been with another man, not so close on the heels of the last time. Jeez, she'd even surprised herself.

There was a chance he was bluffing.