The Last Kiss Goodbye
The Last Kiss Goodbye
Number II of
Charlotte Stone
Karen Robards
Ballantine Books (2013)
Rating: ★★★☆☆
Tags: Romance, Mystery, Suspense
Romancettt Mysteryttt Suspensettt
When
New York Times
bestselling author Karen Robards brought her irresistible brand of hot passion and chilling suspense to the paranormal romance scene with
The Last Victim,
it was just the beginning. Now her all-new series cranks up the deadly danger and intense desire to the next level, as sexy serial killer hunter Charlotte Stone returns to action in her thrilling second adventure.
THE LAST KISS GOODBYE
Dr. Charlotte “Charlie” Stone has dedicated her career as a psychiatrist to exploring the darkest territory of all: the hearts and minds of serial killers. It’s a job she’s uniquely suited for, thanks to the secret talent that gives her an uncanny edge—Charlie can see dead people, whose tormented spirits cry out to her for the justice only she can provide. This blessing—or curse—gives Charlie the power to hunt down and catch madmen and murderers. It’s also turned her love life upside down by drawing her into a hopelessly passionate relationship with the lingering ghost of charismatic bad boy Michael Garland.
But there’s little time for romance with her supernatural suitor when murder comes pounding at Charlie’s door in the form of a terrified young woman fleeing a homicidal maniac. Saving her life places Charlie squarely in the cross-hairs of a sadistic predator nicknamed “the Gingerbread Man,” notorious for manipulating his victims like pawns in a deadly chess game. And now the queen this psychopath’s bent on capturing is Charlie. Refusal to play will only put more innocent lives in danger. Matching wits with this cunningly twisted opponent will require all of Charlie’s training and expert skills. But even with her devilish “guardian angel”—not to mention her favorite flesh-and-blood Fed, Tony Bartoli—watching her beautiful back, the Gingerbread Man’s horrifying grin might be the last thing Charlie ever sees.
Praise for Karen Robards
“One of the most popular voices in women’s fiction.”
—Newsweek
“Draw a line between two extremely popular genres, mysteries and romance novels, and in the middle you will find the bestselling Robards. She merges the two worlds like no one else, deftly interlacing plot and passion.”—Albany
Times Union
Praise for *The Last Victim
“[An] exceptional storyteller . . . Leave it to Robards to deliver the start of a series that is distinctive and unforgettable!”
—RT Book Reviews
“Excellent . . . This story is going to haunt you.”
—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
“Thrilling . . . a fun and sexy read.”
—Booklist*
BOOKS BY KAREN ROBARDS
Shiver
The Last Victim
Sleepwalker
Justice
Shattered
Shameless
Pursuit
Guilty
Obsession
Vanished
Superstition
Bait
Beachcomber
Whispers at Midnight
Irresistible
To Trust a Stranger
Scandalous
Paradise County
Ghost Moon
The Midnight Hour
The Senator’s Wife
Heartbreaker
Hunter’s Moon
Walking After Midnight
Maggy’s Child
One Summer
Nobody’s Angel
This Side of Heaven
Green Eyes
Morning Song
Tiger’s Eye
Desire in the Sun
Dark of the Moon
Night Magic
Loving Julia
Wild Orchids
Dark Torment
To Love a Man
Amanda Rose
Forbidden Love
Sea Fire
Island Flame
The Last Kiss Goodbye is dedicated to my wonderful editor, Linda Marrow. It is also dedicated, as always, with love to my three sons, Peter, Christopher and Jack, and to my husband Doug.
CONTENTS
Cover
eBook Information
Books by Karen Robards
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is a lonely profession until it’s not. That’s when the fantastic team at my publishing house steps in and starts to work their magic. My thanks to Linda Marrow, Gina Centrello, Anne Speyer, Ania Markiewicz, and the entire team at Ballantine Books.
CHAPTER ONE
The sight of the dead man stretched out on her couch stopped Dr. Charlotte Stone in her tracks.
Except for the flickering glow of the TV, the house was dark, but his big body sprawled across the pale natural linen upholstery was impossible to miss. Freezing in place just inside the threshold of her living room, Charlie fought desperately to get a grip. Lying on his back with his head resting on one of the couch’s thickly padded arms, eyes closed and arms folded across his wide chest, he could almost have been asleep. But she knew better: he was beyond sleep now. The sudden tightness in her chest as she looked at him made it difficult to breath. Her heart pounded. Her pulse raced.
She was swallowing hard, working on corralling her runaway emotions and whipping them into some kind of acceptable shape, when he opened his eyes and looked at her.
Even seen by TV light, those sky blue eyes of his were enough to make an unsuspecting woman go weak at the knees. Luckily, she had experienced their power before. Plus, she knew what he was, what he was capable of. But the sad fact was, she was a sucker for him anyway.
He smiled at her. It wasn’t a particularly nice smile. Didn’t matter: her stomach still fluttered.
Idiot.
“So how’s that whole moving on thing working out for you, Doc?” he drawled.
The hint of acidity in Michael Garland’s honey-dipped voice didn’t stop the warm rush of—let’s call it relief—that had started flooding her veins the second she’d laid eyes on him. She absolutely should not have been so glad to see him. In fact, she should not have been glad to see him at all. But where he and she were concerned, “should” had flown out the window a while back.
“Fine.” Charlie’s answer was as cool and untroubled as she
wasn’t
feeling. Regaining her power of movement, she hit the wall switch that turned on the lamps on either side of the couch. Then she walked across the polished wood floor to the bleached oak coffee table, picked up the remote, and turned the TV off, ending the deafening blast of the sports channel he had been watching. Cranked to an almost painful loudness, the sound was what had brought Charlie rushing in from the porch a couple of moments before—and what had broken up the more than friendly good-night that she’d been exchanging at her front door with Tony Bartoli, the handsome FBI agent whom Garland thought she was moving on to. Garland had clearly seen her kissing Tony, and he just as clearly hadn’t liked it. What his jibe meant was that he thought that she was moving on to Tony from
him.
Not that she and Garland had the kind of relationship that she could move on from, exactly, but—well, it was complicated.
The short version was, she was a psychiatrist who studied serial killers. Garland was a convicted serial killer, and, as an inmate at Wallens Ridge State Prison, where she was conducting her latest government-sponsored study, her former research subject. That association had ended with his death.
This was the part that bore repeating: Michael Garland was absolutely, positively, no-coming-back-from-it dead. As in, what she was looking at and talking to was his ghost.
See, she had the unfortunate ability to see ghosts. Oh, not all ghosts. Only the recently, violently departed, who, confused about what had happened to them, sometimes lingered for a short period on earth after their passing. Garland had been murdered eleven days before, shanked by one of his fellow inmates. Charlie had tried to save his life, to no avail. In classic no-good-deed-goes-unpunished style, his ghost had attached itself to her at the moment of his passing, to torment and harass (among other things) her until he should finally pass on to the Great Beyond.
Which, in typically irritating fashion, he was resisting.
Usually the ghosts she could see lingered for no more than a week. By that yardstick, Garland was already well past his sell-by date.
Which was one reason she had been so glad—strike that—so surprised to see him. She had last set eyes on him some four days before, when he had saved her life. Since then, she had been afraid—strike that, too—increasingly convinced that she would never see him again.
Much as she hated to admit it even to herself, the thought had made her heart bleed.
But here he was, all six-foot-three hunky inches of him. Thirty-six years old at the time of his death. Chippendales-worthy body in a snug white T-shirt and faded jeans. A thick mane of tawny hair that didn’t quite reach his wide shoulders. Square jaw, broad cheekbones and forehead, straight nose and well-cut mouth. Absurdly tan and healthy-looking for a ghost—or a man who had spent the last four years of his life in federal prison, which he had done. Outrageously handsome. Certifiably dangerous. The proverbial bad penny.
Who could make her heart pound and her blood heat and her good sense fly out the window. He was the very last thing she needed—or wanted—in her life.
Dead or alive.
Not that she had any choice in the matter.
She could no more control his presence in her life than she could control the sun, the moon, and the stars. He had just shown up, and one day—probably sooner rather than later—he would disappear. The universe was in charge here, not her.