Lisa Jackson's Bentz And Montoya Bundle - novelonlinefull.com
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UNSPOKEN.
IF SHE ONLY KNEW.
HOT BLOODED.
COLD BLOODED.
THE NIGHT BEFORE.
THE MORNING AFTER.
DEEP FREEZE.
FATAL BURN.
SHIVER.
MOST LIKELY TO DIE.
ABSOLUTE FEAR.
ALMOST DEAD.
LOST SOULS.
LEFT TO DIE.
WICKED GAME.
MALICE.
CHOSEN TO DIE.
WITHOUT MERCY.
DEVIOUS.
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
CONTENTS.
Books by Lisa Jackson
CHAPTER One.
CHAPTER Two.
CHAPTER Three.
CHAPTER Four.
CHAPTER Five.
CHAPTER Six.
CHAPTER Seven.
CHAPTER Eight.
CHAPTER 1.
"It's time." The voice was clear.
Smiling to herself, Camille felt a sublime relief as she finished pushing the last small b.u.t.ton through its loop. She stared at herself in the tiny mirror and adjusted her veil.
"You're a vision in white," her father said.
But he wasn't here, was he? He wasn't walking her down the aisle. No, no, of course not. He'd died, years before. At least that was what she thought. But then her father wasn't her father ... only by law. Right? She blinked hard. Woozy, she tried to clear her brain, wash away the feeling of disembodiment that a.s.sailed her.
It's because it's your wedding day; your nerves are playing tricks on your brain.
"Your groom awaits." Again, the voice propelled her, and she wondered if someone was actually speaking to her or if she was imagining it.
Silly, of course it's real!
She left the small room where she'd dressed and walked unsteadily along the shadowed corridor, lit by only a few wavering sconces. Dark, yet the hallway seemed to glisten.
Down a wide staircase with steps polished from thousands of feet scurrying up and down, she headed toward the smaller chapel where she knew he was waiting.
Her heart pounded with excitement.
Her blood sang through her veins.
What a glorious, glorious night!
One hand trailed down the long, smooth banister, fingertips gliding along the polished rail.
"Hurry," a harsh voice ordered against her ear, and she nearly stumbled over the dress's hem. "You must not keep him waiting!"
"I won't," she promised, her voice reverberating from a distance, as if echoing through a tunnel. Or only in her head.
She picked up her skirt to move more quickly, her feet skimming along the floor. She felt light, as if floating, antic.i.p.ation urging her forward.
Moonlight washed through the tall tracery windows, spilling shadowed, colored patterns on the floor, and as she reached the chapel, her legs wobbled, as if she were wearing heels.
But her feet were bare, the cold stone floor penetrating through her soles.
Poverty, chast.i.ty, obedience.
The words swirled through her brain as the door to the chapel was opened and she stepped inside. She heard music in her head, the voices of angels rising upward through the spires of St. Marguerite's Cathedral on this, her wedding day.
Night ... it's night.
Candles flickered at the altar, and overhead a ma.s.sive crucifix soared, reminding her of Christ's suffering. She made the sign of the cross as she genuflected, then slowly moved forward.
Poverty. Chast.i.ty. Obedience.
Her fingers wound around the smooth beads of her rosary as the music in her head swelled.
As she reached the altar, the church bell began to toll and she knelt before the presence of G.o.d. She was ready to take her vows, to give her life to the one she loved.
"Good ... good ... perfect."
Camille bowed her head in prayer, then, on her knees, looked up at the crucifix, saw the wounds on Christ's emaciated body, witnessed his sacrifice for her own worldly sins.
Oh, yes, she had sinned.
Over and over.
Now she would be absolved.
Loved.
Forever.
Closing her eyes, she bent her head with difficulty. It seemed suddenly heavy, her hands clumsy. The chapel shifted and darkened, and the statuary, the Madonna and angels near the baptismal basin, suddenly stared at her with accusing eyes.
She heard the sc.r.a.pe of a shoe on the stone floor, and her light-heartedness and joy gave way to anxiety.
Don't give in. Not tonight ...
But even her wedding dress no longer seemed silky and light; the fabric was suddenly scratchy and rough, a musty smell wafting from it.
The skin on the back of her neck, beneath the cloying veil, p.r.i.c.kled with anxiety.
No, no, no ... this is wrong.
"So now you know," the voice so near her ear reprimanded, and she shrank away from the hiss. "For the wages of sin are ..."
