alcohol that his lifestyle afforded him and which he partook of liberally were finally taking their toll. At forty-eight years old, Donahue was a heart attack waiting to happen.
Maybe a prison diet would tack on a few extra years to his worthless life, Ryan thought with a sense of grim satisfaction as Donahue flashed a sharklike smile at the end of the sound bite. It really steamed him to see scum like Donahue being kowtowed to by the press as a community leader and respectable businessman.
For Ramiro's sake, Ryan hoped his partner wasn't watching the sickening display.
He irritably clicked off the television and stood to look into the mirror again.
"Hope. I need to speak with you. You're in danger," he said, feeling like an idiot for talking to himself but just desperate enough not to care.
Two more nights. All he had was two more nights.
He stalked across the room and picked up the leather-bound book of sonnets. He'd already checked the pages once this evening for some kind of message—hadn't Hope said she'd seen what he'd written? But there was nothing. Although he hadn't completely ruled out writing her a message of warning, he'd rather give her such an alarming message in person.
He needed more than just to leave her a message. He needed to reach her.
Protect her.
When he approached the mirror again there was still no sign of her, but Ryan noticed that the band of fogginess at the edge of the glass was definitely narrower. He ran his hand along the filmy band. He'd wondered if it wasn't decreasing last night, but tonight it was evident that it was.
Did the clarifying mirror somehow relate to his connection to Hope?
"Hope, please" he entreated, feeling foolish.
Feeling helpless.
How the hell could he reach her?
As he stood there and talked to himself, wearing nothing but a pair of dark blue sweats, his skin roughening as he caught a chill in the drafty old house, Ryan started to wonder if he wasn't losing it.
Should he schedule an appointment with one of the police counselors? He and Ramiro had put in a lot of long hours on the Jim Donahue investigation. Maybe the stress was finally getting to him!
Maybe his visions of the delectable Hope Stillwater were all part and parcel of a stress-induced psychosis?
If that were the case, his libido must be playing a major part in his hallucinations. He recalled the way Hope had looked last night bared to the waist, her flawless skin dewed with moisture, her high, full breasts quivering slightly as she trembled. Or when he'd seen her in the mirror wearing that sinfully sheer gown, her large, pink nipples pressing against a fabric so translucent it did nothing to cover the triangle of dark hair between her shapely thighs.
Ryan groaned as his cock stiffened against his thigh. He shoved his hand down his sweatpants and fisted it, trying to alleviate the pain of lust that had sliced through him at the graphic memories of Hope. How was it that the daughter of a wealthy social reformist minister wore such a revealing garment?
And more important, why had Hope Stillwater been in those erotic photographs?
It had been a mistake to think of those photos, Ryan realized as he withdrew his cock and shoved the waistband of his sweats below his balls. He stroked the length of his penis as he stared into the mirror, but he wasn't really seeing himself masturbate. Instead he was imagining those erotic images of Hope: her thighs spread wide and her lips opened in a silent keen of pleasure as her pussy was being eaten; the crop frozen in the action of smacking against the voluptuous curve of a white, shapely breast crowned with a stiffened, distended nipple.
God, what he wouldn't give to tie down that gorgeous creature and make her scream with need and desire.
He groaned as his pistoning motions on his cock became more rapid. He briefly considered getting the photographs out of the bedside drawer where he'd placed them and bringing himself off several times just like he had the
Maybe a prison diet would tack on a few extra years to his worthless life, Ryan thought with a sense of grim satisfaction as Donahue flashed a sharklike smile at the end of the sound bite. It really steamed him to see scum like Donahue being kowtowed to by the press as a community leader and respectable businessman.
For Ramiro's sake, Ryan hoped his partner wasn't watching the sickening display.
He irritably clicked off the television and stood to look into the mirror again.
"Hope. I need to speak with you. You're in danger," he said, feeling like an idiot for talking to himself but just desperate enough not to care.
Two more nights. All he had was two more nights.
He stalked across the room and picked up the leather-bound book of sonnets. He'd already checked the pages once this evening for some kind of message—hadn't Hope said she'd seen what he'd written? But there was nothing. Although he hadn't completely ruled out writing her a message of warning, he'd rather give her such an alarming message in person.
He needed more than just to leave her a message. He needed to reach her.
Protect her.
When he approached the mirror again there was still no sign of her, but Ryan noticed that the band of fogginess at the edge of the glass was definitely narrower. He ran his hand along the filmy band. He'd wondered if it wasn't decreasing last night, but tonight it was evident that it was.
Did the clarifying mirror somehow relate to his connection to Hope?
"Hope, please" he entreated, feeling foolish.
Feeling helpless.
How the hell could he reach her?
As he stood there and talked to himself, wearing nothing but a pair of dark blue sweats, his skin roughening as he caught a chill in the drafty old house, Ryan started to wonder if he wasn't losing it.
Should he schedule an appointment with one of the police counselors? He and Ramiro had put in a lot of long hours on the Jim Donahue investigation. Maybe the stress was finally getting to him!
Maybe his visions of the delectable Hope Stillwater were all part and parcel of a stress-induced psychosis?
If that were the case, his libido must be playing a major part in his hallucinations. He recalled the way Hope had looked last night bared to the waist, her flawless skin dewed with moisture, her high, full breasts quivering slightly as she trembled. Or when he'd seen her in the mirror wearing that sinfully sheer gown, her large, pink nipples pressing against a fabric so translucent it did nothing to cover the triangle of dark hair between her shapely thighs.
Ryan groaned as his cock stiffened against his thigh. He shoved his hand down his sweatpants and fisted it, trying to alleviate the pain of lust that had sliced through him at the graphic memories of Hope. How was it that the daughter of a wealthy social reformist minister wore such a revealing garment?
And more important, why had Hope Stillwater been in those erotic photographs?
It had been a mistake to think of those photos, Ryan realized as he withdrew his cock and shoved the waistband of his sweats below his balls. He stroked the length of his penis as he stared into the mirror, but he wasn't really seeing himself masturbate. Instead he was imagining those erotic images of Hope: her thighs spread wide and her lips opened in a silent keen of pleasure as her pussy was being eaten; the crop frozen in the action of smacking against the voluptuous curve of a white, shapely breast crowned with a stiffened, distended nipple.
God, what he wouldn't give to tie down that gorgeous creature and make her scream with need and desire.
He groaned as his pistoning motions on his cock became more rapid. He briefly considered getting the photographs out of the bedside drawer where he'd placed them and bringing himself off several times just like he had the
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