Free The Last to Die by Beverly Barton

qu-ite be-li-eve Sally Tal-bot's sta-unch de-ni-al that Sally's yo-un-ger sis-ter had gi-ven birth to mo-re than one child, Re-ve co-uldn't ac-cept the fact that she and a wo-man such as Jaz-zy Tal-bot might be blo-od re-la-ted. The wo-man was trash.
    And from what she'd gat-he-red on very bri-ef ac-qu-a-in-tan-ce, Jaz-zy was a who-re. Even if by so-me we-ird trick of fa-te she and Jaz-zy we-re re-la-ted, Re-ve didn't want to pur-sue the truth. She didn't want to be the wo-man's sis-ter. Hell, she didn't want them even to be co-usins. And she cer-ta-inly didn't want the li-kes of Sally Tal-bot to be her aunt!
    As she zo-omed her Jag along the hig-h-way le-ading out of town, she con-si-de-red the can of worms she might ha-ve ope-ned with her vi-sit. Why had she told them her na-me? If any of them wan-ted to find her, it wo-uld be very easy. Ever-yo-ne who was an-yo-ne in Chat-ta-no-oga, in all of Ha-mil-ton Co-unty, knew who Re-ve Sor-rell was. She was the he-ir to Sor-rell for-tu-ne! Pe-op-le li-ke Jaz-zy Tal-bot and her aunt Sally we-re the type to want mo-ney from a long-lost re-la-ti-ve.
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    And what abo-ut Ca-leb McCord? She'd ta-ken an in-s-tant li-king to him, but she didn't kid her-self abo-ut what sort of man he was. From the lo-oks of him, he was a di-amond in the ro-ugh, a po-or boy from the wrong si-de of the tracks. A wo-man li-ke Jaz-zy wo-uld know how to han-d-le that kind of man, but Re-ve fi-gu-red she wo-uld be out of her depths. She li-ked her gen-t-le-men fri-ends to be her so-ci-al, in-tel-lec-tu-al, and fi-nan-ci-al equ-al. It didn't ta-ke a ge-ni-us to fi-gu-re out Ca-leb McCord didn't fit that bill, at le-ast on two co-unts.
    Would Ca-leb's cu-ri-osity abo-ut why Re-ve Sor-rell and Jaz-zy Tal-bot lo-oked eno-ugh ali-ke to be twins tran-s-la-te in-to ac-ti-on? Wo-uld she ha-ve to pay him off so he wo-uld let the mat-ter drop?
    And on-ce they dis-co-ve-red how rich she was, what wo-uld it cost her to ma-ke Jaz-zy and Sally Tal-bot di-sap-pe-ar from her li-fe?
    Cursing her-self for al-lo-wing her de-si-re to know the truth abo-ut her "do-ub-le" to cre-ate a po-ten-ti-al-ly em-bar-ras-sing si-tu-ati-on for her, Re-ve didn't re-ali-ze how fast she was dri-ving un-til she whiz-zed past a big black pic-kup truck go-ing in the op-po-si-te di-rec-ti-on. Sud-denly she he-ard a si-ren. Damn! Glan-cing in her re-ar-vi-ew mir-ror she saw the blue flas-hing light atop the truck, which had tur-ned aro-und in the mid-dle of the ro-ad. Oh, gre-at. Just gre-at. Who was this guy? A po-li-ce-man? A she-rif-fs de-puty?
    Slow down and pull off to the si-de of the ro-ad , she told her-self. Pay off this ove-re-ager law-man and be on yo-ur way.
    Before she co-uld fol-low thro-ugh with her plans to be a co-ope-ra-ti-ve ci-ti-zen, an enor-mo-us ani-mal das-hed ac-ross the ro-ad in front of her. Go-od God! A full-grown buck with an im-p-res-si-ve rack that wo-uld ga-in the de-er the ad-mi-ra-ti-on of any hun-ter. She swer-ved, trying to ke-ep from hit-ting the mag-ni-fi-cent ani-mal, and in the pro-cess wo-und up run-ning her Jag in-to the ditch. And not just a shal-low ditch on the si-de of the ro-ad. No, it was a de-ep ditch, on the si-de of the mo-un-ta-in. Luc-kily she ma-na-ged to bring the car to a full stop only se-conds be-fo-re it wo-uld ha-ve hit he-ad-on in-to a mas-si-ve oak tree. When she skid-ded to a halt, even her se-at belt didn't pre-vent her from bo-un-cing. Than-k-ful-ly, the air bag didn't dep-loy.
    With her he-art be-ating wildly, her ner-ves scre-aming, and a sud-den he-adac-he po-un-ding in her tem-p-les, Re-ve tri-ed to un-do her se-at belt. Her ner-vo-us fin-gers co-uldn't ma-na-ge the sim-p-le task. What was the mat-ter with her? She wasn't hurt. Didn't ha-ve a scratch on her. Wha-te-ver da-ma-ge had be-en do-ne to the Jag co-uld be re-pa-ired, and if not, she'd simply buy her-self a new car and use one of the fi-ve ot-hers she