BEVERLY BARTON - If Looks Could Kill

“Becky! Go over to Jasmine’s and pick up Mr. MacKinnon’s lunch, right now!” Glenda Motte, Brian MacKinnon’s secretary, called out to her.

“Right away, Ms. Motte.”

Becky hurried to the employee’s lounge, where she’d left her jacket that morning, and glanced at the wall clock above the coffeemaker. She hoped the meal was ready when she got to Jasmine’s; otherwise, Mr. MacKinnon would take a strip off Ms. Motte’s hide. The man was a tyrant. She figured that nobody who worked for him really liked him. But who had the balls to tell the man to go to hell? He ruled over MacKinnon Media like a damned dictator, and if anybody crossed him, he saw to it that they lost their job. Since starting work here in June, she’d had to run errands throughout the complex that housed the Cherokee Pointe Herald as well as WMMK TV and radio stations, so she’d heard plenty of grumbling about the big boss.

“He’s not half the man his father is.”

“Farlan MacKinnon is one of the best men I know. A fair and honest man. Brian runs a poor second best to his father.”

“Brian is such a shithead. Too bad he’s not more like the old man. Or even more like that loony uncle of his. At least Wallace MacKinnon is likable.”

Becky buttoned up her jacket as she rode the elevator from the fifth floor to the first. The MacKinnon Building was the tallest building in town, with the boss’s office taking up a large section of the fifth floor. When she went outside, the autumn sun warmed her despite the chilly north wind stirring up leaves from the sidewalk and scattering debris. She quickened her pace as she sauntered up the street.

He watched Becky Olmstead as she strode up the street, her slender hips swaying seductively in her skin-tight jeans. The girl was a tramp. None of her fellow employees at MacKinnon Media knew what she did to earn extra money at night. But he knew. He knew all about her. For months now, he’d made a point of learning everything he could about Becky without drawing any attention to himself.

He didn’t intend to do anything about his attraction to her, even though he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about her, from watching her. Of course, the first thing he’d noticed about her had been her red hair. It wasn’t quite the same shade as Dinah’s, but then again, she didn’t always choose to come back as a redhead. However, when she came back as a blonde or a brunette, he always asked her to dye her hair. And she always obliged.

If Becky didn’t live here in Cherokee County, he would approach her, get to know her and see if there was a pos sibility that Dinah might come back through her this time. Dinah always came to him in the bodies of women who reminded him of her, women who attracted him physically. But whenever he was drawn to a hometown woman, he never acted on that attraction. He didn’t want to run the risk of becoming involved with someone this close to home. Over the years, he’d always found Dinah outside Cherokee County. In Knoxville. In Sevierville. In Johnson City. In Kingsport. In Oak Ridge. Even down in Cleveland and Chattanooga. And once as far east as Asheville, North Carolina.

But watching Becky, his gaze focused on the sexy way she walked, his penis grew hard. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would feel like to be inside her. He ran his hand over the fly of his slacks and sighed.

He’d have to make another trip out of town soon and see if he could find Dinah. If he couldn’t find her, he could at least ease the ache with some other whore. But it was never the same with another woman. Never as satisfying. He could fuck a dozen other women and still be hungry for what only Dinah could give him.

He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, imagining what Becky Olmstead would taste like if he kissed her, if he sucked her tits, if he delved his tongue between her parted thighs.

Groaning inwardly, he turned around and looked the other way. After taking several deep breaths, he managed to control the raging hunger inside him. He would have to wait for satisfaction. There was no way he could leave town again so soon, but at the first opportunity, he’d go back to Knoxville and find himself a willing woman.

And if he was very lucky, he’d find Dinah again.

Chapter 4

Dora opened the front door of the Uptons’ antebellum mansion situated a half mile off the winding road leading up the mountain. She offered Caleb a warm, welcoming smile when he entered the massive black-and-white marble- floored foyer.

Although both Miss Reba and Big Jim had accepted him as their grandson and had invited him to move in with them, Caleb still didn’t feel as if he really belonged—in this house or to the Upton family. He’d been born and raised in Memphis, never knowing his father and somehow managing to survive as the child of a drug-addicted mother. It wasn’t until Melanie Upton was dying that she told Caleb who her parents were and where they lived. She’d begged him to go to the Uptons then, when he’d been sixteen. But back then, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with people he didn’t know. Up until then he’d been taking care of himself by cheating, lying and stealing, doing whatever it took to stay alive and keep just below the child welfare department’s radar. Despite all his mother’s faults, he’d loved her and had done whatever he thought was necessary not only to stay with her, but to take care of her. In their case, the parental roles had become reversed when Caleb was about seven.

“They’re waiting for you in the breakfast room. Go on in. I’ve made a big pot of chicken stew and baked a carrot cake, fresh this morning.”

Dora, the Uptons’ faithful housekeeper, had taken an immediate liking to Caleb the first time Big Jim had brought him home. But on their very first meeting, she’d issued him a warning. “That Jamie was a no-good devil, but we loved him. Miss Reba most of all. He broke her heart over and over again. I suspect you ain’t nothing like Jamie. But I’m telling you now, if you ever hurt Miss Reba, you’ll have to answer to me.”

The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt either of his newly found grandparents. But he’d realized right off the bat that his grandmother was a master manipulator, a strong-willed woman who liked to rule the roost. Although Big Jim was more laid-back, not as snooty or judgmental, the old man was used to running things his way. Caleb guessed that kind of authoritarian mind-set came from being born rich and powerful.

“One thing I’ve found out since I’ve been getting to know the grandparents is that their most valuable asset is you, Dora.”

Giggling like a child, Dora blushed, then swatted Caleb on the arm and said, “You do have that in common with your cousin Jamie—you know how to flatter a woman.”

“My flattery is sincere,” Caleb assured her, hating to be compared to his late cousin in any way, shape, form or fashion.

“Yes, I believe it is. And that’s the difference. One of many that makes you a far better man.”

While Caleb headed toward the breakfast room, Dora turned and went into the kitchen. The moment Miss Reba saw him, her face lit up, her lips curving into a broad smile and her eyes bright with excitement. Big Jim eased up from his chair and threw out his hand.

“We’re delighted you could join us today,” Miss Reba said.

“Good to see you, son. Good to see you.” Big Jim took Caleb’s hand in a firm, man-to-man shake.

“You just don’t come around nearly enough.” His grand- mother’s tone was friendly yet scolding. “I do wish you’d reconsider coming here to live with us. We’ve got so much room. You could have your own suite. We’d redo Jamie’s old rooms for you or—”

“Leave the boy be.” Big Jim indicated one of the large oak chairs at the table. “Sit, sit. Dora’s fixed some of her world famous chicken stew. You’re in for a real treat.”