And his response to my kiss, the answering moan I am rewarded with, is white-hot fire in my blood that he ignites further with a deep, sizzling stroke of his tongue. He slants his mouth over mine, deepening the connection, kissing me with a fierceness no other man ever has, but then some part of me has known from moment one that he is like no man I have ever known. Which explains why he is everything I want. And nothing about this night is what I expected, any more than this man is anything I can control.
But there is something intensely arousing about the idea of trying.
As if claiming I am reaching for the impossible, he molds me closer, his hand between my shoulder blades, his tongue playing wickedly with mine, but I meet him stroke for stroke, arching into him. He cups my ass and pulls me solidly against his erection. He wins this one. Now I am the one moaning, arching into him, and I welcome the intimate connection. I burn for the moment he will be inside me.
But I also want him to burn for this just as much as I do, and I need to touch this man. Really, really, need to touch him. My hand presses between us, and I stroke the hard line of his shaft. Reese tears his mouth from mine, pressing me hard against the pillar supporting the window again, and when his hands leave my body, when his palms press to the concrete above me again, I sense his withdrawal is about control. I was winning. I confirm that as reality when our eyes lock, and the dash of fire in his eyes is lit by one part passion and one part challenge.
“If I slide my fingers between your legs right now,” he says, “are you wet for me? Are you ready for me?”
“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” I dare him, testing him, pushing him.
BUY YOUR COPY HERE
MURDER NOTES
Lilah Love book one
BY LISA RENEE JONES
ABOUT MURDER NOTES
New York Times bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones’s heart-pounding thriller of a woman’s secrets—and a past that’s about to come out of hiding…
As an FBI profiler, it’s Lilah Love’s job to think like a killer. And she is very good at her job. When a series of murders surface—the victims all stripped naked and shot in the head—Lilah’s instincts tell her it’s the work of an assassin, not a serial killer. But when the case takes her back to her hometown in the Hamptons and a mysterious but unmistakable connection to her own life, all her assumptions are shaken to the core.
Thrust into a troubled past she’s tried to shut the door on, Lilah’s back in the town where her father is mayor, her brother is police chief, and she has an intimate history with the local crime lord’s son, Kane Mendez. The two share a devastating secret, and only Kane understands Lilah’s own darkest impulses. As more corpses surface, so does a series of anonymous notes to Lilah, threatening to expose her. Is the killer someone in her own circle? And is she the next target?
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CHAPTER ONE OF MURDER NOTES
There is blood in the ocean.
I don’t notice it at first, but then, most people don’t. It’s called denial. We refuse to see what we eventually have to cope with, or perhaps even confess. For the innocent, they don’t expect the brutality of the actions required to take a life, so they simply cannot process the inconceivable. For the guilty, it’s all about denying your own ability to do such a thing, and denial can be a slow, brutal sword that carves you inside out. Though there is another class of people that are more animal than human. Those so sick, so demented that they feel a fleeting joy from death, and then seek more joy by doing it again. And again. You won’t find guilt in their eyes. You won’t find remorse. There are times when I’ve felt like one of those animals, but then the guilt starts again.
But you see? There is no remorse. I’m not sure what that says about me.
And so I walk on the beach, not seeing what is there, and it’s like so many other walks along East Hampton’s Beach. Cool sand between my toes. The taste of salt on my lips. A gust of wind lifting my long brown hair from my neck. I see it happening, like I’m above the scene, looking down. Like I’m dead and that other person on the beach is alive. Sometimes I can almost hear that wind whisper my name, too: Lilah. Lilah. As if it’s calling me to a place it knows I must travel, but I continue to refuse. It is a gentle, soothing caress of a whisper, a seductive promise that acceptance will bring relief, even forgiveness.
The wind lies. It always lies.
But then, that’s why it wants me. Because of my lies. Because it knows how they haunt me. It knows my secrets when no one else knows. Only that’s a lie, too, and I blink to find the only other person who does know in the distance and closing in quickly.
He walks toward me, graceful and good looking, his suit ridiculously expensive; the wet sand beneath his black lace up shoes impossibly smooth everywhere he steps. But then, he’s a man who easily convinces people he walks on water, so why not sand? A man whose accomplishments are second only to his arrogance, while his charisma is just one of his many weapons. He can kiss a woman and make her crave more–he certainly did that to me–but I remind myself that this does not make me naïve, as he also has the power to utter only a word and have grown men follow him. He is the picture of perfection that very few see is framed with broken glass. But I see. I know things about him no one else knows.
Like he does me. And therein lies the problem.
Rejecting him, I turn away from his approach, facing the ocean, a new dawn illuminating the sky, a strange red spot tainting the deep blue of the water. It begins to grow, and grow some more, until the lifeblood of someone gone, and possibly forgotten, spills through it like oil, set on destruction. Blood is now everywhere. There is nothing else but it and the guilt that I’ve tried to deny.
And suddenly he is behind me, his hand on my shoulder, and I shiver with that touch. He did this. He spilled this blood.
Only…no. That doesn’t feel right. I think…I did this.
I wake from one of my freak-show nightmares, which I thought were finally over, to a dark room, my cellphone ringing on the nightstand and my body aching from the need for sleep.
“Rich,” I murmur, shoving against the big, hard body that has managed to drape over mine. “Get off. My phone’s ringing.” He doesn’t move, which is a problem that reaches beyond this moment, and more directly to us working in the same field office and hopping into bed together. “Rich, damn it.”
He gives a groan and rolls in one direction while I go the other and grab my cell, glancing at the caller ID. It’s the local PD. “Special Agent Love,” I answer.
“We’ve got a body off the Santa Monica Pier and need your assistance,” the man on the line says. “Early morning jogger made the discovery and called it in.”
I glance at the clock, five AM, and wonder what idiot jogs at four in the morning, in the dark, on the beach, but this isn’t my job anyway. “That’s the local authority’s territory. You’ve got the wrong girl.”
“You are Special Agent Lilah Love, correct?”
“You knew that already,” I say irritably, and since this clearly isn’t going away easily, I sit up, preparing to fight for my need to sleep.
“Then you’re requested by name. Director Murphy sent the directive.”
My boss is meeting me there? This is more than me lending my profiling skills to the locals if he’s joining me, and my exhaustion fades into concern. “I’ll be right there.” I end the call and throw off the blankets, grimacing when I realize I’m wearing Rich’s shirt, which is not sending him the non-committal message I need to send after dodging last night’s “talk.” But it smells good, the way he always does, I think as I push myself onto my feet and stumble toward the bathroom.
Stepping into the tiny bathroom, a cracked tile scrapes my foot, and I grimace, taking up residence at the equally tiny, ancient sink and grab my toothbrush.
“When are we going to finish that talk we started last night?”
At the sound of Rich’s voice, I start brushing my teeth, making sure I’m as incapable of
talking about moving in with him now as I was when we were having sex last night. “Lilah,” he says impatiently, my reprieve lasting all of ten seconds.
I glance over at him through the long drape of my messy dark brown hair to find him leaning on the doorway. Naked. The man is all kinds of blond, hard-bodied goodness, but still. Good grief. “Why don’t you have clothes on?” I ask, though I’m not sure he can understand me with my mouth full of foam.
“I’m serious, Lilah. We’ve been hot and heavy for six months. We need to have this talk.”
“You’re naked,” I say, yanking the toothbrush from my mouth, since clearly he didn’t hear me the last time. “I’m not talking to you naked.” I go back to brushing my teeth.
“You aren’t naked. I am.”
“Aren’t you funny,” I say, turning on the water and rinsing my mouth, and since he’s still standing there when I’m done, I face him. “I’m serious, Rich. You’re naked. I have a dead body waiting on me. The two do not compute. Now is not the time.”
“You’re one of the top FBI profilers in the country,” he states. “You always have a dead body waiting on you. Which is why we never talk.”
I turn and press my hands to the sink, showing the white ceramic more interest than it deserves, while his naked body might deserve more than I can afford to give it right now. “Everyone has their fetishes, I guess.”
“You don’t like dead bodies. Why do you say shit like that?”
Because I want to scare you off, I think, and I might actually really freak him out if I insist I do have a fetish for dead bodies. Of course, as logical as Rich is, he'd know it's because they help me catch killers. Instead, I just say, “I’m getting dressed,” and hope he takes a hint and does the same, I turn to walk into the closet. Thankfully, his sound of frustration is followed by a shift in the air that tells me he’s finally gone to dress. Wishing for the shower I don’t have time to take, I yank a pair of faded jeans and a black V-neck t-shirt from their hangers, get dressed, and then lean on the wall to pull on black combat boots.
All of three minutes later, I re-enter the bathroom to find Rich back in the door frame, and while he’s not naked, his low slung black jeans aren’t doing much to cover his assets, which I really want covered right now. I toss him his shirt, which he catches and pulls over his head. Seizing the momentary distraction I’ve created, I head back to the sink to wash my face, brush my hair, and contemplate how washed out my pale skin is without the make-up I’d prefer to be wearing right now. I’m a girl. I like being a girl despite this job and I pretty much fucking love how that, mixed with my “potty mouth,” as my mother would call it if she were alive, confuses the hell out of people.
Ready to get out of here for more reasons than one, I step to Rich and he doesn’t budge, his big body blocking my petite one. “So about that apartment,” Rich says. “You’ve been in Cali for two years. This place is the size of a Cracker Jack box and it’s a dump, Lilah. It’s time to make a change.”
“You’re right. This place is tiny, a point driven home by the fact that you’re presently suffocating me. I need something bigger and if it came with a toilet that doesn’t require me jiggling the handle every time I use it, that would be a plus.”
“I’m glad you agree.”
He’s glad I agree? Okay. That didn’t go as planned. He’s not registering what I’m telling him. I see it in his face and I need to shut up before I dig myself in deeper. “Move, Rich. I need to go.”
Still, he blocks my path. “I have a long-term lease and a toilet that doesn’t need to be jiggled,” he says. “It’s not your fancy Hamptons place of old, I’m sure, but it’s a step up from this shit hole. Move in with me. I want to wake up and look into those gorgeous brown eyes of yours every morning for now on.”
Yep. Officially screwed this up big time. “Did I mention I have a dead body waiting on me? And Murphy?”
His brow instantly furrows. “Murphy’s meeting you?” He backs away. “What the hell is going on?”
“I’m clueless,” I say, walking to the chair in the corner of the bedroom and slipping the satchel I carry to all my crime scenes over my head and chest.
“If Murphy’s at the crime scene,” he says, “we’re taking over.”
“Most likely,” I say, and not about to invite more conversation, I leave it at that and make my way to the door for my escape, but frustratingly, Rich steps in front of me.
“Move in with me,” he repeats, his hands coming down on my shoulders. “I’m crazy about you.”
“I’m not a relationship kind of girl.”
“What do you call what we’re doing?”
“Sex. Friendship.” I’m confusing him and I think me, too. I should have left out the friendship part, except I do like him. Quite a lot actually. Frustrated at myself, I add, “I don’t know.”
“You just described a perfect relationship, Lilah. That’s what we all want. Sex and friendship in one place.”
Note to self: Friendship is a really bad word with men. “Look. Rich. I mean, you’re like the perfect Cali surfer dude: gorgeous and sweet, but-”
“Surfer dude and sweet? Holy fuck.” He drops his hands from my shoulders and scrubs one of them through his longish, curly blond hair. “That’s how you see me?”
I hold up my hands. “No. God no. I’m sorry. See? I suck at this stuff.” I toughen my voice to make sure he knows how serious I am. “You’re an all-American G.I. Joe bad ass. You would die for just about anyone. You are amazing, Rich. Absolutely fucking amazing. Too good for me. I’m the one that’s the problem. I have issues. Big issues. That’s why I don’t do commitment.” I shove a strand of hair from my face. “And I can’t do this now. You know I can’t do this now.”
His jaw sets hard and he gives me a disgruntled, reluctant nod. “Go. Deal with Murphy.”
I don’t argue. I step around him, and dart for the living room, pausing in the doorway long enough to say, “Lock up when you leave. Sick fucks love me.” I take off for the front door.
“What the hell does that make me, Lilah?”
“The exception,” I call out, and he has no idea how true that statement rings.
***
Thanks to that early Wednesday morning jogger getting us all out of bed at the crack of dawn, I travel from my Los Feliz neighborhood to Santa Monica in thirty minutes, which would be unheard of any other time of the day. Parking my gray Ford Taurus in a lot near the beach is just as easy. I step out of the car, slip my FBI badge over my neck and fight a gust of September seventy-something wind and head down the sidewalk toward the pier. Weaving my way through the now sleeping perpetual carnival of the boardwalk, I make a beeline for the Ferris wheel certain to lead me to the end of the pier. Turns out, the growing crowd around the yellow tape on the nearby beachfront does the job just fine.
I approach several uniforms and show them my badge. “Who’s the detective in charge?” I ask.
“Oliver,” one of them tells me.
Great, I think, moving on along the sidewalk. That man hates me. I’ve made it all of ten feet across the sidewalk, about to hit the sand, when I hear, “Special Agent Love.”
At the sound of Detective Oliver’s voice, I grimace and turn to find the forty-ish “Gray Fox,” as the ladies on the force call him, joining me. And yeah, I guess he’s good looking. If you like the stereotypical, cigarette smoking, perpetually-wrinkled-suit-wearing good cop with a bad attitude.
“Detective.”
“Are you going to do a better job for me this morning than you did two days ago?”
And here we go. “It was a professional hit, Detective Oliver,” I say tightly. “You don’t just get a read on him, or her, with a snap of your fingers.”
“You didn’t get me a read at all.”
“This isn’t a thirty-ish perp with two kids and a dog you can track down in the suburbs. There are papers written on this shit. They don’t fit profiles.”
“I don’t give a fuck about paper
s, college girl. And if you and your people are coming onto my scene, you had better find a way to get me a profile.” He starts walking, exiting the sidewalk to hit the sand.
Irritated, I whirl around and pursue him, catching up quickly. “My services are volunteered as a professional courtesy, not to invade your personal space.”
“Funny,” he says dryly. “I don’t remember being given an option this morning when I declined your services.” We reach the dock area where various officials have gathered several feet from another taped-off area. One of the badges motions to him, and he in turn motions toward the cluster of people gathered by the dock.
“Go. Get me answers this time,” he says before showing me his back.
Grinding my teeth, I face forward and walk, pushing through the layer of personnel to find Joe, the red-headed forensic guy–which is actually what everyone calls him–leaning over the victim, his thick-rimmed glasses inching down his nose. “Hiya, Agent Love.”
“Hi Joe,” I say, but it’s not him that has my attention at present. It’s the dead, naked male body in the sand, water washing over his bare feet, a chill racing down my spine, and not because I’m squeamish. Because this is exactly how we found another victim only two nights ago, and we never found the victim’s clothes. I don’t expect to now either. The absence of clothes on the body, or anywhere to be found, is assumed by most on the scene to be an effort to hide evidence. But not by me. My gut said there was more to it two days ago, and it most definitely does now as well.
I step closer and Joe moves to the dead man’s head. “Bullet between the eyes,” he says, glancing up at me, and indicating the clean hole center of the brows. “Look familiar?”
“All too familiar,” I say, removing plastic gloves from my bag as I squat in the sand and inspect the remains.
“Clean entry,” Joe adds, “perfect precision, no mess, no fuss.”