Northwest: Deep Freeze Part 1

DEEP FREEZE.

A Novel.

by Lisa Jackson.

The Northwest Series.

Tonight, with the snow so heavy, he was forced inside, to watch Jenna via monitor, and as he did, he felt nausea attack. He was hot, itching from the inside out. Furious, he kicked a paint can and sent it reeling, the red color splas.h.i.+ng the walls. He barely noticed.

She was with another man.

Kissing.

Touching.

His pulse pounded, throbbed through his brain, and he felt betrayal of the worst kind. Didn't she know that only he could satisfy her? His shrine to her was nearly complete-and this was how she repaid him, by acting like a common tramp for the sheriff.

Shane Carter, a man who had vowed to uphold the law-and there he was, stripping off her clothes, running his tongue and hands over her skin. And she let him.

His Jenna.

She let him!

Rage burned through him, and he plotted all kinds of satisfying revenge, but he could not abandon his plan. Not now. Precision was key.

He watched them make love, and his rage grew cold as the night. How long had he worked for this? For years.

He and Jenna were meant to be together. There were no coincidences. His life was meant to be entwined with hers, and everything he did was for Jenna.

Always for Jenna...

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

There are tons of people who helped me with this book. They range from agents and editors to researchers and proofreaders, and friends and family who have offered their support. These people were all instrumental in getting this book published: In New York, thanks to John Scognamiglio, my editor, and Robin Rue, my agent, who are both incredibly smart, hilarious, and patient. On the West Coast, thanks to Nancy Bush, Ken Bush, Matthew Crose, Michael Crose, Ken Melum, Sally Peters, Marilyn Katcher, Linda Sparks, Larry Sparks, Carol Maloy, Celia Stinson, Danielle Katcher, Kathy Okano, Ari Okano, Jack Pederson, Betty Pederson, and Samantha Santistevan, and anyone else I may have inadvertently missed.

PROLOGUE.

Last Winter.

Unmoving, she waited.

As if she sensed he was near.

He could feel it-that throb of desire between them as he looked across a dimly illuminated expanse to the bed where she lay in semidarkness. Jenna Hughes. The woman of his dreams. The single female he'd lived his life for. So close. And in his bed. Finally in his bed.

And he was ready. Oh G.o.d, he was ready. Sweat began to bead on his upper lip and forehead. His c.o.c.k was stiffening, his nerve endings dancing.

The lamps were turned low, a few night-lights giving the large room an intimate atmosphere of shadows and fuzzy, muted corners. Soft music, the romantic score from the movie Beneath the Shadows, whispered through the cold, cavernous room. His breath fogged as he stared at her in the s.e.xy black teddy he'd bought for her. So nice that she'd decided to wear it for this special tryst. Their first.

Good girl.

The silk and lace had fit perfectly, sculpting her body. Just as he'd known it would.

He caught a glimpse of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s through the sheer fabric. Dark nipples looked nearly wet as they peeked through the lace. Had she moistened them for him? In eager expectation?

Beautiful.

He smiled inwardly, knowing that she was as eager as he was.

How long had he antic.i.p.ated this moment? He couldn't remember. It didn't matter. The time was now. The pills and vodka he'd swallowed had kicked in and he was working on the perfect buzz-just enough chemicals to make this moment even better.

"I'm here," he told her quietly, expecting her to turn her head, arch one of those delicate black eyebrows, and cast him a come-hither look. Or perhaps she would rise on one elbow and slowly crook a finger toward him, silently drawing him closer, her silvery-green gaze holding his.

But she didn't move. Not one strand of ebony-colored hair s.h.i.+fted. She just lay on the bed and stared upward.

That was wrong.

He froze.

She should look his way. That was what he wanted.

"Jenna?" he called quietly.

Nothing. Not so much as a flicker of a glance in his direction.

What was the matter with her? Dressed like a d.a.m.ned harlot, she acted as if she didn't care that he was near, that this night was special to her. To him. To them.

Not again!

His back teeth ground together in frustration at her cool disinterest. Was it a game? Was she teasing him? Just what the h.e.l.l was going on here?

"Jenna, look at me," he commanded in a near-whisper.

But as he edged closer, he realized that she wasn't as perfect as he'd thought. No...her makeup wasn't quite right. Her lipstick was too pale, her eyeshadow barely visible. He'd wanted her to look more like a wh.o.r.e. That was the plan. Hadn't he told her to play the part of a prost.i.tute? Isn't she dressed as a prost.i.tute? Isn't this part of your fantasy?

d.a.m.n, he couldn't think straight. His mind wasn't as clear as he'd hoped. Probably the drugs...or was it something else? Something vital? Jenna wasn't responding the way he'd hoped.

She knew what he liked.

But then, she'd always been defiant. Always aloof. Icily so. That was part of his attraction to her.

"Come on, baby," he whispered, deciding to give her another chance, though he was having trouble focusing. Maybe he was a little too high and he wasn't seeing those little nuances of l.u.s.t that she was known for. That was it. His mind was a little too cloudy, his thoughts not quite joined, his l.u.s.t overtaking reason. He was quivering inside, and his lungs felt constricted. His erection was rock-hard, straining against his fly, but the images in his mind were a little blurry.

He licked his lips. No more waiting.

He placed a knee on the bed beside her, and the mattress creaked loudly.

Still she refused to look at him.

"Jenna!" he said more sharply than he'd intended, his temper catching fire, his tongue a little thick.

Take it easy. She's here, isn't she?

"Jenna, look at me!"

Not so much as a flinch.

Stubborn, thankless woman! After all he'd done for her! All the years he'd thought of no one but her! Rage burned through his blood, and his hands began to shake.

Calm down! You can still have her. In your bed. She hasn't moved away, has she?

"Jenna, I'm here," he said.

She ignored him.

Fury blazed white-hot, but he tried to fight his anger. This was her game, that was all. She knew that the more she pretended disinterest, the more he would want her, the higher the erotic stakes. And that was all the better.

Wasn't it?

He didn't know. Couldn't really remember.

He was sweating though it was cold in here, the temperature hovering only a few degrees above freezing. And yet he was hot inside, a fire raging through his blood.

Didn't she feel it-the intimate bond that tethered them together?

He leaned closer, and with a trembling finger traced the outline of her cheek. It was warm to his touch.

Then he understood. This was all part of her fantasy. She wanted him to think of her not as Jenna Hughes, but as one of the roles she'd played on the big screen. Wasn't she dressed as Paris Knowlton, a New Orleans prost.i.tute in Beneath the Shadows? Hadn't he wanted Jenna to act like Paris tonight? Isn't that exactly what she was doing? Suddenly he felt better, the warmth running through his veins due to l.u.s.t and drugs rather than rage.

"Paris," he cooed, touching her dark hair lovingly. It s.h.i.+mmered a blue-black in the shadowy lights. "I've been searching for you."

Still no response.

Jesus, what did she want? He was playing his part...or was he?

"Jenna?"

Not so much as a glance his way. Anger sparked. It tore through him, his blood suddenly thundering in his ears. "Oh, I get it," he snarled, his fingers roughly grazing her neck. "You're really into this, aren't you? You like acting like a wh.o.r.e."

He heard a gasp.

Finally!

His fingers surrounded her throat. It was warm to his touch. Pliant. He tried to feel her pulse as his hands pressed against her skin.

A groan.

Pain or desire?

"That's it, isn't it? You like it when I'm rough, don't you?"

"Oh G.o.d, no!" Her voice seemed to come from a distance, echoing in his head, bouncing off the walls. "Don't!"

His grip tightened, sinking into her nearly hot flesh.

"Stop! Please! What are you doing?"

He was so hard he was trembling, but he couldn't take his hands from her neck, couldn't unzip his fly. He shook her then and her head wobbled wildly, beautiful green eyes fixed straight at him.

A terrified scream ripped through the room.

Jenna's head fell backward.

Her neck wobbled in his hands.

Another horrified, panicked shriek ricocheted off the rafters, the sound echoing through his brain.

"b.i.t.c.h!" He slapped her hard.

Smack! Her face twisted hard to one side.

"Oh G.o.d!" There was crying now. Sobbing. "No, no, no!"

Her makeup began to run, her perfect features distorting from the blow. Her hair came loose, the thick black wig falling onto the rumpled mattress, her bald pate visible in the dusky room.

A gasp.

Her head twisted to one side.

That was better.

He raised his hand again.

"Don't...oh G.o.d, please don't!" she pled from immobile lips. "What're you doing?" She was wailing violently, nearly incoherently, panic stretching her vocal cords. But her shoulders remained stiff. Inflexible. Her face without any pa.s.sion.

Something was wrong here, very wrong...