The Monet Murders

promised to wait, but I haven’t the strength. I need you now.”

“Nem, not like this. So sordid.”

Poor Morgan. He had trashed his life and killed three people all for a “No.”

But he didn’t give up easily. I should have known. “Wait a moment, darling,” he said, his voice rising with anticipation, “I’ll check in the closet. There might be a blanket in there or something, anything, to put down on that hard floor.”

Uh-oh. A cold sweat broke out all over my skin.

He yanked open the double closet doors. At the sight of me, he went rigid as stone and stood staring into my eyes, a brushed pewter knob in each hand.

“You heard,” he said, drawing in a ragged breath then blowing it out fast, right into my face.

“Jaj Istenem!” Ilona gasped, peering over his shoulder at me.

Without looking back, as cool as if being overheard confessing to murder were an everyday occurrence, he said, “Don’t worry about a thing, darling. I’ll take care of this.”

He let go of the knob and those strong surgeon’s hands came up, fingers flexed, ready to press into my carotids. Or crush my larynx.

I backed up a step. “Stay away from me, Morgan.”

“I can’t let you leave.”

“I can’t let you stop me.”

He smiled in derision. The derision reached his eyes. The smile did not. “How are you going to prevent that?”

There had to be a way. I took another step back. And another. I hit the closet wall.

He reached for my neck. I swiveled my head, bobbing from side to side so he couldn’t get a grip. What else could I do? What else? His hands shot out and grasped me. At his touch on my flesh, my adrenaline shot to the sky. With an impulse of its own, my knee came up. Smack. Right into his groin.

Morgan let out a shrill scream and dropped his hands to his crotch.

As he bent over, clutching himself, I darted past him. Ilona stood wringing her hands in the center of the empty bedroom.

“No sex today, Ilona,” I told her as I rushed out of the closet. “You’re off the hook.”

“Deva, where you go? We must talk.”

“Nem,” I said, sprinting along the upper hallway. “Nem!”

I dashed down the broad staircase and raced through the empty rooms to the foyer.

Behind me, Ilona’s heels kept up a mad pace. “Deva, wait. Wait.”

As I fumbled at the entrance lock, she caught up with me, bosom heaving, perfect hair flying out of control.

I glanced at her hands. She had no weapon in them and none hidden in those tights and brights she wore, either. Unarmed, she was no threat. But I had to get out of there before Morgan caught up with me.

“I did nothing, Deva. Nothing. You must believe. The painting, it is mine. I have papers to prove.”

“Excellent.” How did this damn door lock work? “Save them for the jury.”

She grasped my arm with a slender hand, her cerise-tipped nails digging into my flesh. “Morgan, he kill. I never harm nobody. I can prove.”

The deadbolt shot back. I twisted the knob and flung the door so hard it sent a giant crack spider-webbing across the foyer’s lacquered wall. So much for a great paint job. Heavy footsteps sounded on the marble stairs. I sent a harried glance over my shoulder. Limping along the stairway, Morgan was moving as fast as he could.

“Hold her, Ilona,” he yelled. “Don’t let her go.”

“I no can,” Ilona cried, as I pried off her hand and raced away.

Once outside, I gulped a lungful of air before stooping to yank off my shoes. I’d run faster in bare feet. The spike heels I’d use as weapons if need be.

Above all, I couldn’t let Morgan reach me. Pulse pounding, heart going like a mariachi band, I raced down the stone steps and along the drive. No way would Ilona catch up to me in backless slides and skintight capris. All my years of jogging were about to pay off. Shoulders back, fists at chest level, the stilettos facing out like daggers, I soon broke into a sweat in the hot, hazy atmosphere. Too bad the houses were so spread out, each one nestled like a huge jewel in its own acre or so of lush gardens. My best bet would be to pound on the first door I came to. Or flag down a passing motorist.

A car. I glanced back. A blue Maserati was careening along the quiet road, aiming its long, sleek nose directly at me. Morgan. And gaining fast.

Chapter Twenty-Six

To my right, a For Sale sign sprouted on a parcel of land filled with subtropical growth. No Maserati could traverse that. Without hesitation, I plunged into the tangle of untamed jungle, shuddering as my bare feet sank into wet leaves, fallen palm fronds and God knows what else. Scorpions. Snakes. Iguanas.

A branch snagged my shirt. I ripped it loose and ducked behind a sabal palm to catch my breath and listen. The Maserati’s elegant purr had been replaced by a noisy slapping of tropical foliage. Morgan.

So he had recovered from my assault then. Too bad. In pants and sturdy shoes, he had an advantage over my miniskirt and bare feet.

Something crawled over my toes. Stifling a scream, I glanced down. Fire ants! They’d be all over me in no time. I leaped to the other side of the palm, my fast move rustling the fronds. Morgan must have heard. Only the chirping of the birds broke the silence now. He had to be listening for the slightest move. As was I.

I stood frozen, an ice sculpture in nearly ninety-degree heat. And then I saw it. Only a foot or so away, a black snake coiled in a patch of sunlight. I’d heard pythons were breeding in the Everglades. But that wasn’t a python. Nor was this the Everglades. Black snakes were harmless, weren’t they? Even to bare feet?

Blood pressure in the stratosphere, I stepped gingerly away from the tree and inched past the snake, my footsteps silent on the mucky bottom. Overhead, a blue jay flitted from branch to branch, cawing at my every move as though I were a vaudeville act cavorting across a stage. All Morgan had to do was follow the bird’s lead, and he’d have me. A persistent little devil, the jay perched on a nearby scrub pine and screeched his head off. I had to get out of his line of vision.

Up ahead, I spotted a dense clump of low-lying shrubbery. No telling what might be lurking in there. Well, only one way to find out. I crept over to the shrubs, parted the branches and stooped underneath them. A mosquito dive-bombed my head. I swatted it away, relieved no bigger critters were in there with me. Praying the bird would lose interest, I crouched motionless, listening to the heartbeat of the land, the tiny skitterings of unseen creatures, the hum of insects, the brushing of leaf upon leaf. And the loud crackle of branches thrust aside with an impatient hand.

Should I leap up and make a dash for it? No, too late. Morgan’s labored breathing sounded frighteningly near. I let go of the stilettos and hugged my knees, making myself as invisible as possible.

From under lowered lids, I saw the tips of two brown brogans. If Morgan reached out a hand he’d have me. But he didn’t. He stumbled on, noisily whacking branches as he went. The jay must have spotted him. Its raucous cawing started up again.

My throat dry, I swallowed and tried not to breathe deeply of the rotting vegetation. Unless Morgan had kept the gun he used on his victims, I doubted he had a weapon. I inhaled a breath of the heavy air and let it out slowly. He didn’t need a weapon. His hands alone were enough.

If I hadn’t been so scared, I would have pitied the guy. A gifted surgeon, stalking a woman through jungle growth to keep her from telling the truth-he had murdered three people, including his best friend. For a Hungarian blonde whose favorite word was nem.

The poor guy. Yeah, right. A poor sociopath with a tendency to sadism was more like it. A surgeon who earned his bread cutting into human flesh, separating tissue with his fingertips, removing pulsing organs… I shook my head,