Free The Fifth Victim by Beverly Barton

miscarried at three and a half months. A part of her heart had died with that sweet little baby.
    As she climbed out of bed, the chill in her bedroom encompassed her. She reached out and lifted her robe off the foot of the bed, then slipped into it as she headed for the bathroom. After relieving herself, she went to the tiny kitchen in her second-story apartment over Jasmine’s and hurriedly prepared the coffeemaker.
    She glanced out the window facing the east and saw the first faint glimmer of dawn. Was Jamie asleep at home with his latest fiancée, or was he in bed with the woman named April or Amber or something that started with an A and had a cutesy sound to it? He was with one or the other, Jazzy thought. He’d made love to one of those women, held her, kissed her, and whispered sweet nothings in her ear. That woman could have been her. All she’d had to do was welcome him back into her life. He’d be with her now and every night for as long as he was in town, if only she’d said yes.
    Her body ached for his.
    Jazzy opened the refrigerator, took out a carton of orange juice, and drank straight out of the carton.
    Was it Jamie her body ached for or was it just a man? Any man? She hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. Despite what people thought—that she was a slut—Jazzy took sex seriously. Over the years, there had been a few men other than Jamie, but not many. And she’d cared about each of them, had hoped for a future with each of them, and had been disappointed by each of them.
    A part of her might always love Jamie, but she wasn’t in love with him anymore. He was poison to her. Every time he breezed into town, he came to her and renewed her hope for something real and lasting between them. But not this time. Not ever again. She’d cried her last tear over Jamie Upton!

    Dallas woke instantly when he heard the woman’s screams. He shot straight up in bed. For a moment he didn’t remember where he was. You’re in Genny Madoc’s home in Tennessee, in the mountains , he reminded himself. Good God, had that been Genny screaming? He jumped out of bed, slid into the slacks he’d tossed across the cedar chest at the foot of the bed last night, and then eased his Smith & Wesson semiautomatic from his hip holster and raced out into the dark hallway.
    “Genny?”
    Silence.
    “Genny?” he called again as he rushed toward her bedroom.
    He knocked on the door. No response. He knocked again. Drudwyn growled. And then he heard a soft, weak voice.
    “Help me,” she said.
    He flung open the door, not knowing what to expect. A kerosene lamp’s dim glow shimmered over the room, illuminating the mantel on which it rested and casting shadows across the wooden floor and over the flowery wallpaper. Genny lay in the middle of the bed, unmoving, rigid, her gaze focused on him as he made his way to her.
    Drudwyn growled when he approached the bed.
    Genny closed her eyes and instantly the dog quieted. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn the animal had read Genny’s mind.
    As he leaned over her, his gaze fixed to hers, he asked, “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Are you in pain?”
    She nodded, then whispered, “Yes.”
    Okay, he knew a little first aid, enough to get by in a pinch, but if there was something seriously wrong with Genny, then they were in big trouble.
    “Can you tell me what’s wrong?” he asked. “And what can I do to help you?”
    “Stay with me.” She glanced at the edge of the bed.
    “Do you need me to help you to the bathroom?” Maybe she had a stomach virus or food poisoning.
    “No, I’m not sick.” Her voice was breathless, as if she’d run a race and was now exhausted.
    “Then what’s wrong?”
    “Is the telephone working?” She looked at the extension on the bedside table.
    Dallas lifted the receiver to his ear. Dead. “No. It’s still out.”
    “Try my cell phone.”
    “Where is it?”
    “In the drawer in the nightstand.”
    He opened the drawer, removed her