Guest Authors
July 2000
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A daydreamer at heart, suspense author Patricia A. Rasey resides in her native town in Northwest Ohio with her husband, Mark, two teenage sons, and her lovable mutt, Levi. At the age of twenty-nine with her boys both tucked away in school all day, she decided to put her creative writing studies to use. Years later, she found her true niche in suspense.
When not behind her computer, Patricia can be found cheering on her sons at various sporting events, or taking karate, which she enjoys practicing with her eldest son.
All titles are available through Dark Star Publications:
- Deadly Obsession, Suspense, Sept 1999, ISBN 1-929034-44-X
- Twilight Visions, X-Genre Short Stories, Sept 1999, ISBN 1-929034-49-0
- Kiss of Deceit, Suspense, March 2000, ISBN 1-929034-46-6
- Twilight Obsessions, Thriller novellas, July 2000, ISBN 1-58697-046-1
- Façade, Thriller/Suspense, Nov 2000, ISBN 1-58697-104-3
- The Hour Before Dawn, Suspense, May 2001
Excerpt from Kiss of Deceit :
PROLOGUE 1998
His hands shook, blue veins standing out against white skin. They weren't overly large hands by any means, but oh, the power they possessed.
And what they had actually done--as if they weren't a part of his own body. As if they had acted on their own accord.
Of course, they had.
Certainly he could not be guilty of something of this magnitude. But the excitement--nothing compared. Just thinking about it again brought on a rock-hard erection.
From his vantage point in the bathroom, he looked back at the bed. She was perfect in every way. Her blond hair cascaded over the side of the bed like a waterfall, one curl falling gently into another. Her face was turned away from him, but he had memorized every curve, every line.
Her body, though slightly flawed with stretch marks telling of an earlier pregnancy, was almost faultless. Her nipples, large and distended, areola darkened from passion, pointed slightly out to the sides. Her hips flared gently to her legs, long like those of a ballerina.
He released a small groan as he remembered how quickly her face had gone from sanguine to full of terror. Her eyes actually bulged like something from a horror scene. Her mouth opened, gasping for air, and her hands grabbled at his, wrapping tightly around his wrists.
But he released her before she passed out; killing her had not been in the plan. Watching the color return to her face as life rushed back full force had been half the fun. And she had liked it, too. She said she loved the way it kept him hard. He didn't tell her that without the danger, she left him cold, flaccid.
Never in his menial life had he maintained an erection for such a long period of time.
For once, he was in control.
And just when she had begun to relax, he slipped his hands deftly around her slender throat as he pumped furiously into her. She gripped his wrists, drawing blood as her nails ripped the surface of his skin. He liked the sting, the feel of his blood as it trickled down his arm, the sound of her red acrylic tips snapping off in her struggle.
When he finally collapsed on top of her, sweat dripping from his brow, he waited to hear her gasps of air, her intake of much-needed oxygen. This time it wasn't there. Her chest lay still. Her eyes were open, but they stared blankly at the ceiling. Had he actually killed her?
Panic seized his gut like a vice. He slapped her face a few times, jerking her head to the side. He tried to resuscitate her, breath life back into her.
Nothing.
Perspiration trickled into his eyes, stinging them. Dumb bitch, why didn't she tell him to stop? She wasn't suppose to die. What a weak, stupid slut. He chuckled--half disbelieving, half amused--but then his gaze strayed down to her pale face and lifeless eyes. His stomach began to revolt. He ran to the bathroom, and retched into the toilet.
Now, as he stared at her from the opened doorway, she almost looked serene lying there as if she were sleeping and would wake at any moment. Funny, how death had made her somehow prettier, even sexier.
At least, this way, she would never again open her mouth.
The thought left him smiling. After jerking his pants up over his hips, he tossed the used condom into the toilet and flushed. He grabbed a towel and made quick work of wiping every surface he may have touched, then threw the cloth aside.
No one could ever know.
After grasping a rose from the vase on the bathroom counter, he pulled the sheet over her naked body. In mock salute, he kissed the blood-red flower and haphazardly tossed it atop the sheet. Then, with a remorseless chuckle, he stole into the night.
CHAPTER ONE 2000
"Marcus Gallego."
Marcus's ominous form turned slowly on his bar stool, then rose to his full six-foot, four height, glaring down on LeAnne McVeigh. His eyes, dark as night, bore something akin to evil.
Clearing her throat, she continued. "You are under arrest for the murder of your wife, Jillian Gallego. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up right..."
Her gaze swept the bar as her voice went through the motion of reading him his rights. She had done this many times before and could probably do it in her sleep. Except, this time was different--this time the man was strong enough to take off her head, and good-looking enough to sweep her off her feet.
Marcus simply chuckled, mocking her. The sound, deep and rumbling, seemed to travel from the soles of his worn leather boots up through the broad expanse of his chest.
Of course, the two deputies accompanying her could have done this, saving her the trouble, if not the embarrassment. But she had wanted to be in on the arrest. This was her case.
Besides, the deputies were here to watch her back. LeAnne knew better than to enter a bikers' bar alone to arrest one of their kind, and certainly would not have dared, had the bar been full.
"Place both hands on the bar, Gallego," she instructed, motioning for one of the deputies to pat him down.
He simply crossed his arms over his chest and grinned. "You got the wrong man, lady."
LeAnne clenched her teeth. Sure, she was a woman, but she would be damned before she would allow him to think her any less of an adversary than the deputies accompanying her.
"Hands on the bar, Gallego," she repeated, taking a step forward. The two deputies fidgeted, obviously nervous at her putting herself within the tall man's reach.
His jaw twitched as he seemed to weigh his options, then finally did as she instructed. Tom, the larger of the two deputies, kicked Gallego's feet farther apart, then frisked him. Tom laid Gallego's change, keys, and wallet on the bar as murmurs from the other patrons increased.
Tom stepped back. LeAnne grasped Marcus's wrist, wrenching his taut arm behind his back. She slapped the cuff around it, the sharp clack easily carrying through the now-hushed room.
"What the--" he gritted between his clenched teeth as he jerked on his arm, nearly tearing it from her clasp.
But with a strength someone her size could not seemingly possess, she pulled his arm back behind him, pushed his chest down on the polished but scarred bar, and cuffed his wrists together.
"Don't push me today, Gallego," she hissed. "I sure as hell am not in the mood." Then snatching a fistful of his worn brown leather, she jerked him upright. "You're going downtown."
"What about my bike?"
LeAnne wanted to laugh. Here she was hauling his sorry hide to the station for the murder of his wife and the only thing he could think about was his precious Harley.
"Not my problem now, is it? Get someone else to take it home," she stated in a stern voice, daring him to argue.
She knew she posed no threat to a man of his caliber, but with two armed men accompanying her, he might think twice before harming her.
He nodded his dark head at a salt and pepper-haired biker with a beard reaching to his chest. A beer-belly parted his vest as the sides of his rear spilled off the stool. This man held no similarities with the one she held in her grip; she doubted Marcus Gallego sported even an ounce of fat.
"You take my bike home, Rebel," he stated more than asked. "Lock up my house--feed the dogs."
"No problem, buddy." The man smiled a missing-toothed grin. "Just need your keys."
Marcus turned his head to look down on LeAnne , a sneering smile on his face. LeAnne's heart flipped in her chest. His smile could melt the coldest of hearts; his gaze could turn any warm-bodied female's insides into a pile of quivering mush. This man could charm the skin off a snake.
"My keys..." he tugged on his arms. "...Would you mind?"
LeAnne grasped them from the surface of the bar and tossed them to the gray-haired biker, who caught them in mid-air.
"You know I would have enjoyed this even more had you taken the keys from my pocket yourself, sweetheart," Gallego said, his smile growing to full-blown. "We're among friends here; no reason to be shy."
Hoots and hollers grew in intensity as the bikers seemed to mock the law's presence. Heat traveled up her neck and warmed her face. The best plan of action was to get Marcus Gallego out of his habitat before the scene turned ugly.
LeAnne raised a brow and grinned at the formidable opponent. "Don't flatter yourself, Gallego. If I had the notion to reach into your pocket, I doubt there'd be much there to find."
Laughter filtered about and the noise of the bar amplified.
"I think she's got something for you, Snake," a tall, thin man with stringy hair and a sparse beard called from his stool at the end of the long bar, earning him low chuckles. Tattoos littered every inch of his bare skin.
"Lady pig," came from beside Rebel, while yet another said, "Hey Snake, she looks good enough to eat."
Having had enough, LeAnne jerked on his wrists, causing him to groan slightly from the pain as the cuffs tightened. She pushed him through the bar, ignoring the catcalls. Definitely not one of the better parts of the job. Female deputy sheriffs around Henry County were rare--not to mention she was their sole homicide detective.
Copyright © 2000 Patricia Rasey
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