Last Wishes

CHAPTER 1

“There she is! That’s Jordan Davis. The woman ruining our lives.”

Judge Grayson Trent winced at his mother’s uncharacteristic outburst. Normally her voice never rose above a genteel drawl—except when yelling at him.

As he slanted a glance to his right, the idling engine of the motorcycle beside them drew his attention. A red Triumph Rocket III. The rider wore a one-piece red-leather catsuit that Gray would swear was painted on the long-legged figure of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover model. A full face red helmet shielded her head from view. Enticing strands of a curly black ponytail brushed her lower back in the breeze.

Attached to the bike’s back, where the second seat should have been, was a red metal cage with roll bar.

He grinned at the panting, black, miniature Schnauzer, his front paws on the edge of the cage. He wore a custom-made red crash helmet with faceplate and a small black leather jacket. Emblazoned in red letters across the back was “Born to Ride.”

Gray chuckled. “The pooch looks capable of handling the controls.”

“It’s a trap. That sweet animal is just another one of her weapons.” Libby inched forward until they were even with the driver. “You don’t understand. She’s a charlatan! She draws in unsuspecting old people who have money with promises she’ll make their last wishes come true.”

“And this ruins our lives how?” Unable to stop himself from feasting his eyes on that red catsuit, he stared at the dog’s mistress. “Have you been fighting about Becca?”

“Gracious, no. We don’t even talk.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Then the woman raised the face shield on her helmet. Their gazes met.

Gray groaned. “It’s her.”

She was a she-demon, a succubus. He’d seen her once, three thousand miles from here and had been on fire ever since. He couldn’t go to sleep without seeing her dark blue eyes, with touches of purple, staring at him. Beseeching him.

Every night he imagined her splayed in his bed, her long, wavy, black hair spread over his pillow, filling his dreams with heat.

He hadn’t imagined he’d ever see her again. But he’d hoped he would. If he wanted his life back, he had to exorcise her from his mind. And what better time to start then now, on her home turf. That way, when he left to return to California, he’d be free of her.

His eyes widened at of the look surprise on her face. Or was that interest? He hoped the former, yet both dreaded and desired the latter. As a judge and knowing what she was, he should have nothing to do with her. He snorted. Yeah, tell that to the fantasies that kept him up at night and put her face on every woman he was with.

Narrowing his eyes, he returned her look with his most judicial glare—the one guaranteed to put the fear of God into criminal defendants appearing before him.

Except for her.

Surprise lit her eyes. Then she did the damnedest thing. She gave him a slow, sexy smile and winked.

God help him. He thought she’d learned her lesson in San Francisco when he almost tossed her in jail for twenty-four hours for defacing public property. Instead, he’d let her off with a fine and warning. If his mother was right, she hadn’t learned a thing.

The moment the light turned green, she shot him a sassy grin, tapped the shield back into place, and peeled off down Boonsboro Road, the schnauzer hanging on for dear life.

***

Jordan Ashley Davis kicked the bike stand into position. He was here, in Lynchburg. She thought she’d left that brown-eyed devil in San Francisco.

She dismounted from her bike and frowned. Much as she hated to admit it, she should’ve listened to the tailor. If she’d bought the leather chaps and jacket or had him make the blasted leather catsuit an inch looser everywhere, she wouldn’t have a chafing problem. But vanity demanded a price.

She loved feeling sexy, and there was nothing sexier than an almost-six-foot-tall woman’s body covered in red leather. Sexy and fashionable didn’t come without a little pain. And A&D ointment was a cheap price to pay.

“Yip!” Muffin wagged his short tail in circles and batted his front paws against his cage.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you.” Smiling, she opened the roll cage, removed his helmet, and unsnapped his harness. Muffin jumped into her arms. “If it were possible, I’d think you like to ride more than I do.” She laughed as her baby gave her wet, slobbery kisses. “You, my little sweetheart, are the Evel Knievel of the dog set. Yep, I can see it now. There you go, jumping over ten doghouses in a row.”

Muffin panted in agreement.

She set her squirming companion down. “There you go, precious.”
Amused, she kept an eye on Muffin prancing beside her up the greenstone walk to her front door, while replaying her most recent run-in with the devil-judge himself. She hadn’t expected to see Judge Trent here, three thousand miles from the scene of the crime. Yet there he was, big as life and just as handsome. From his stunned expression when she’d winked, she’d more than unsettled him. Which was surprising, given Judge Trent was known as the iceman of Department Sixteen.

Damn, he’d probably told his mother, one of Lynchburg’s snootiest grandes dames, all about her appearance before him.

He shouldn’t have heard her case. It wasn’t a felony. But he’d filled in for another judge, and she found herself standing in front of him as he glowered down at her, demanding to know what she’d been doing troweling ashes into the flowerbeds of San Francisco’s City Hall at two in the morning.

“Defacing public property,” they’d called it. Like anyone would have been able to tell the difference afterwards.

She’d told him the truth. She’d been fulfilling her client’s Last Wishes. The fine and warning had been a small price to pay to live up to her promise to Mrs. Morgan.

Given how he’d haunted her lonely nights, Jordan wished she considered His Honor a challenge, but she knew better. With a challenge, you had a chance of winning. Getting away with spreading ashes over Mount Rushmore from a balloon was fun. Rappelling into an almost impenetrable canyon to set a bronze urn on a particular piece of ground was a game—as was the trip out of the same canyon.

A buttoned-up, straight-laced, tight-assed male was not her idea of fun, a game, or a challenge. She shivered. Dealing with him was all about survival. It was like being in the wilderness with only a nail file and an empty box of matches.

And MacGyver she wasn’t.

Yet there was something about the slight hint of silver at the temples of Judge Trent’s dark brown hair. Worse, there was the swirling tint of gold in those cold, brown eyes, which seemed to twinkle with humor and hinted at a soft heart beneath his impenetrable shell. From the moment she’d stood in front of him, she’d felt a flash of sexual awareness.

Sighing, she unlocked her front door. As Muffin charged inside ahead of her, Jordan’s gaze settled on the photo of her mother sitting on the fireplace mantel. As wise as her mom had been, Jordan disagreed with her. Her “special talent” was not a “welcomed gift” from God.

It was a burden, and it had cost her much throughout her life.

Nothing like being a reader of eyes. The damned “talent” enabled her to see the truth before a person said a word. At one time she’d actually believed people wanted to know the truth. Like the time she told her half-sister the man she loved was a fortune hunter. If Danielle hadn’t already hated her, she sure did after Jordan had exposed her fiancé to family and friends at the engagement party.

How it landed on Inside Edition, Jordan had no idea. Yes, she did. Everyone and his brother had their cell phones and were uploading. It made YouTube, too. Went viral.

Jack Nicholson’s character in A Few Good Men was right. Most people can’t handle the truth and tended to blame the messenger.

Ah, well, that was Danielle’s problem, not hers. Since that day five years ago, they hadn’t spoken, which was fine with Jordan. After all, who wanted to be around a snobbish woman who hated her for having the temerity to be honest?

Latching the door, she walked over to her mom’s photo. “Okay, maybe you were right. It is welcomed. At least for the clients of Last Wishes.”

She now used her gift to discover which people wanted their deaths celebrated and which didn’t care. If their plans were for show, and not truly last wishes, she refused to take them on as clients. While this made her the object of derision with some, others considered her a shining beacon of freedom.

Her talent for reading eyes had told her Judge Trent’s heart was gentle, yet damaged.

“Wonder why I’ve picked him of all men to fantasize about.” She shrugged. “Of course, I haven’t had a man in my bed since I left med school.”

That could be why the cipher intrigued her. She loved puzzles and a man that closed off was like a neon invitation to her. Not that there was any future in it. Aside from considering her a major flake, he lived in San Francisco.

She leaned her head against the cool marble mantel. “If Mom and the good Lord work their magic, I’ll never see him again.”

***

Gray pulled the car into the driveway and exhaled his first relaxed breath of the day. Libby had finally calmed down. All it had taken was a slow lunch, complete with chocolate dessert and a ten-milligram Valium.

She’d claimed the one in her purse was only for emergencies. He suspected emergencies came almost daily. He smiled as his mother’s head drooped in sleep.

If asked, he’d maintain to his dying day the devil made him say, “Nice to see this part of Lynchburg hasn’t changed.”

Her head snapped up. “Uh?”

“Lynchburg hasn’t changed.”

“Oh, yes, it’s still the same.”

He suppressed a laugh at Libby’s chagrin. “Once I get unpacked, let’s go see Aunt Becca.”

“No! We need to see her now. You have to hear her. Becca thinks she’s dying. Not likely. Okay, she uses oxygen occasionally. Not that it means a thing. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles, her ticker’s better than yours and mine combined.”

Gary returned her glare with a grin.

“This isn’t a laughing matter, Grayson.” Libby dabbed beneath her eyes with a monogrammed linen handkerchief. “If she doesn’t give up smoking around those tanks, she’s not going to have to worry about her outrageous Irish wake. She and her home will be nothing but a pile of ashes.” Her last words were barely above a whisper, as if saying them aloud would cause them to happen.

He shrugged “True. But she’s had COPD for years. I can understand why she’s concerned over how long she’s got.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “She’s about ten years older than you, isn’t she?”
Gray waited for Libby to take the bait. He loved the way she pretended to be younger of the two, but he knew the truth. Years ago on a camping trip, his father told him that Libby and Becca were born the same month, on the same day, ten hours apart, but he’d always refused to say who was older.

During the ensuing twenty-five years, Libby had turned those ten hours into ten years. No way would she ever tell anyone how old she was. She had been thirty-nine for over three decades. Hell, the woman tried to cover her birth date with her thumb during a routine road check. He wondered how they allowed her to renew her driver’s license. She had the attention span of a goldfish.

Gray caught her smoothing a strand of hair back in place. Nothing like being eleven and carrying out the trash to learn his Mother’s hair color was Number One-Oh-Three-C, Champagne Blonde. Hell, even her hairdresser didn’t know for sure.

“Becca is at least ten years older, sweetheart. But friends swear I look more than twenty years her junior.”

Amen, sister. He pictured his Godmother’s laughing face in his mind. Just seeing it made him feel better. Aunt Becca was as devoid of vanity as his mother was obsessed with it.

She patted his arm. “Dear, when you see her, don’t rub it in. Bless her heart, she never married and lived a life alone without the comfort of a loving family.”

“Right.” Nothing like a father leaving his only child a comfortable trust to make life a trial. Okay, it wasn’t a fortune, but it’d been enough that she’d never had to work.

With a grimace, Gray drove down Rivermont Avenue toward Becca’s house on Woodland Street. His mind filled with memories of her house. A small smile curved his lips. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d always associate the smell of fresh baked gingerbread with Becca.

He loved Becca. When growing up, her house had been his refuge. With its six bathrooms—one for each suite on the second floor plus the powder room and maid’s quarters on the main floor—his father and Becca never found him when they’d played hide-and-seek.

Yet according to Libby, Becca wasn’t quite up to snuff. Her five thousand square foot home sat on only two acres instead of the twenty surrounding their home. Trent Hall wasn’t in just a good area. It was in one of Lynchburg’s most prestigious neighborhoods.

Gray frowned as memories of his father doting and pampering Libby flooded him. Even after he’d died, Libby continued to live in the lap of luxury, courtesy of the Trent fortune. He had, too. But Libby had always acted as if it were her privilege, her due. Gray wondered if she realized it was his birthright, not hers.

He shook the negative thoughts from his head. “I’ll be ever so gentle with her. Don’t forget, she’s my Aunt Becca.”

“Yes, she is.”

At the slight hardening of her tone, Gray turned and saw his mother’s pinched lips smooth into a Botoxed smile. He’d seen that smile for years. It was her show smile, her steel magnolia smile, her Junior League smile. It was as automatic and meaningless as a mask.

“I still remember how caring she was to me when you came home from the hospital with colic. The darling insisted I get some sleep while she stayed up and rocked you in Gran Nita’s wooden rocking chair.”

“Ah, yes, I remember it well.”

“You were only six weeks old.” She lightly slapped his wrist. “No one likes to be pandered to as if they were in their dotage. Now, step on it. Becca is in need of a long lecture about that woman and her plans. I know you’ll make her see reason.”

He pulled the car into his godmother’s circular driveway, blew the horn, and killed the engine. “I wonder how long it’ll be before she opens the door.”

“She isn’t moving all that well, especially when there’s high humidity like today. So don’t expect her to greet you as she did on your last visit.”

He smiled. Memories of Becca’s bouncing brown hair and sparkling chocolate-brown eyes filled him. She always ran out the door and pulled him into a hug. She’d been as much a mother as Libby, maybe more so.

He watched the leaded glass-paneled front door in anticipation, waiting for it to swing open and invite him inside. He could already see the love-filled interior and smell the intertwined scents of cinnamon and lemon-waxed furniture.

His eyes narrowed on the still-closed door. A shadow of cold fear pressed in on him.

Her car was in the drive. She knew he was here. She’d always had a sixth sense about him. One that was even better than his mother’s. Like the time he’d fallen off his bike in Rivermont Park and suffered a sprained ankle and there hadn’t been anyone around to help him. She’d appeared out of nowhere, loaded his bike into her trunk, and taken him to the emergency room.

“Enough of this crap. Something’s wrong.” Gray bolted from the car and charged up the front steps.

“Now, darling, don’t jump to conclusions. Wait for me,” Libby said, easing out of the car.

“Nothing would ever keep Becca from running to meet me.” Unless something was— Alarms clanged in his head.

With one hand, he hit the large brass knocker on the door. With the other, he pushed the doorbell.

No answer.

“I’ll give her another ten seconds.” After rattling off one through ten, he turned the doorknob. The massive door swung open effortlessly. “Damn it! I’ve repeatedly told her not to leave her door unlocked.”

The days of trust were over. Even in Lynchburg. She knew it, too.

“Aunt Becca?”

Libby peered around his arm. “Rebecca Morrison, stop your silly shenanigans. You’re scaring me to death.”

Gray slowly entered the house, his mother scurrying behind him.

“Aunt Becca, are you here?”

He walked through the living room, into her office, and froze.
For a moment he’d feared the worst then realized everything was okay. She had fallen asleep over her computer keyboard, nasal cannula in place and oxygen running. He said a silent prayer of thanks and moved forward.

As he neared her, the smell hit him. Her bowels and bladder had emptied.

Damn it. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She’d always promised him she’d be there for him. Never leave him. Blinking rapidly, Gray swallowed hard.

Libby grabbed his arm and squeezed as she leaned toward Becca. “Rebecca! You get up this minute. You hear?”

“Libby—”

She turned on him, her gaze filled with pain. “How many times must I tell you that using my name hurts me to my core?”

“Sorry.”

“Thank you. Now help me wake her up.”

He stared down at Becca’s beautiful, weathered, lived-in face, now empty of animation, marred by the purpling of lividity.

“She’s dead. Has been for some time. Full rigor’s set in.”

“She can’t be! We spoke just last night.” Libby flitted around Becca, waving her hands like an expectant hen. “Rebecca Morrison, you answer me this second!”

Gray grabbed his mother by her forearms. “She’s dead, Mother.”

“No, she isn’t. She’s just sleeping. She’d never die without telling me first. We’re best friends, you know.” Libby shook Becca’s shoulder. “You listen to me, Rebecca Morrison, wake up this instant!”

He reached out and caressed the side of Becca’s cool face. He’d mourn her more than he would Libby. Head down, Gray left. The faster the police got here, the quicker he could get away, be alone, and come to terms with how his life had changed forever.