Cold hearted - Beverly Barton

Trusting Her.
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They all loved her. That was their mistake. Two husbands, her college fianc, an influential boss--every man who gets close to Jordan Price is made to pay in blood. And the list is growing.
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Could Be.
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Hired by the Powell Agency to investigate Senator Dan Price's death, Rick Carson can see at once why people would believe Jordan Price incapable of cold-blooded murder. Slender, pale, and elegant, she stands by her late husband's graveside exuding sweet vulnerability. Only Rick notices that she never sheds a tear. And the deeper he delves into the string of deaths from which Jordan has profited handsomely, the more convinced Rick becomes that he is dealing with a callous, cunning, unstoppable killer.
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The Last Thing You Ever Do.
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The closer Rick gets to the chilling truth, the more dangerous this game of cat-and-mouse becomes. The targets are changing, and suddenly, nothing and no one is safe. If Jordan is as innocent as she claims, Rick may have placed her in a killer's cross hairs. And if she's guilty, he'll never live to regret it.
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Prologue



Perhaps the best thing he could do for himself and everyone
he loved was to commit suicide.



Dan Price stared at the Glock pistol lying atop his desk.
He had bought the 9mm automatic for his wife, but she
had refused the gift, politely reminding him of her aversion
to guns. But at his insistence, she had gone with him
to the practice range and learned to use the weapon, only
to please him. But to his knowledge, she had never carried
the pistol, never kept it in her room or in her car.



If his sweet Jordan had any idea that he was contemplating
taking his own life, she would do her best to convince
him that no matter what the future held, she would
stand by him. It was her basic integrity and loyalty that
had first attracted him to the woman who had become his
greatest political asset.



Dan lifted the half-full glass of Kentucky bourbon to
his lips and finished off the remainder. The liquor burned
a path down his esophagus and hit his belly like fire. He
coughed a couple of times, then wiped his mouth, picked
up the bottle, and poured himself another drink.
If he was going to do this--and he fully intended to
end his life tonight--he knew he couldn't do it stone cold
sober. He wasn't that courageous. Before he could put the
hammer-forged barrel into his mouth and pull the trigger,
he needed to be more than a little drunk.



He sipped on the bourbon as he leaned back in the swivel
desk chair and let his gaze travel over the room. His private
study, as it had been his father's and grandfather's before
him. An impressive room inside a 200-year-old
antebellum mansion, part of an estate that had been in his
family since before the War Between the States. Generations
of Price men had served their country, first in wartime
and then in local, state, and national politics. In Georgia,
the name Price was synonymous with public service.
If he killed himself, how would that affect his family's
good name? No Price man had ever taken the easy way
out of a bad situation.


But could he continue, knowing what the future held for
him? Could he condemn Jordan to such a life? And what
about Devon? And his brother, Ryan? They would never
desert him, and that would mean great sacrifices for each
of them.




You don't have to do this tonight. You have time.


But how much time? Six months? A year?



Dan finished off his second drink and poured himself a
third.


The grandfather clock in the hall struck twice. Two in
the morning.



He unlocked the file cabinet in the bottom drawer of
the desk, rummaged through the folders until he found
the file he wanted. A copy of his will. His lawyer kept another
copy and a third was inside his safe at the house in
Bethesda. The contents of his will were not secret to anyone.
Everything he possessed would be equally divided
among Jordan, Devon and Ryan. Jordan had protested, telling him that she didn't expect such an enormous legacy,
but he had quieted her protests with a tender caress.


"I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay," he'd
told her.



Dan finished off his third drink.


Minutes ticked by as he contemplated the Glock on his
desk. Grandfather Price's antique desk. Family lore claimed
the desk had belonged to Jefferson Davis, a contemporary
of his ancestor, General John Ryan Price.


Dan poured another glass of bourbon, picked up the
bottle and the glass and walked over to the leather Chesterfield
sofa. He sat down, placed the bottle on the floor, and
considered his options. Death was preferable to the fate
that awaited him.


Dan's eyelids flicked open and shut. In the twilight
zone of being half-awake/half-asleep, he didn't immediately
realize where he was or what had awakened him so
abruptly. Woozy from sleep and too much bourbon, Dan
recalled that he had contemplated suicide to solve his problems,
but in the end, drunk and, oddly enough, thinking
more clearly than he had when he'd been sober, he had
realized that killing himself would have been the coward's
way out.


Dan swatted at something cold against his cheek. His
fingertips raked across the metal object. He opened his eyes
fully, stared up at the woman leaning over him, and smiled.
She did not return his smile. His gaze zipped from her familiar
face to his own hand holding the 9mm, its barrel
pressed firmly against his head. And it was only when he
tried to ease the gun away from his head that he realized
her hand covered his, her index finger squeezed tightly
over his against the trigger.


"What the--!"


Before he could react, she forced his finger down against
the trigger, firing the gun at point blank range directly into
his brain.


Dan's last thought was that someone he'd trusted completely
had just killed him.