Page 146 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

She gasped, drawing in a ragged, burning breath of what was left of the air. Her lungs were on fire from lack of oxygen and she felt suddenly weak. She made one last vain attempt to claw her way out of her prison.

Above the macabre silence she thought she heard the throaty cackle of heinous, demonic laughter.

Oh, God, help me.

Whoever had done this to her was enjoying it.

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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 God, he was ready. Sweat began to bead on his upper lip and forehead. His cock 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 sexy 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 breasts 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 anticipated 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 shifted. 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 damned harlot, she acted as if she didn’t care that he was near, that this night was special to her. To him. To them.

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