Kilting Me Softly: 1 Read Online Free PDF Page B

visit her once her killer was dead?
    When her mother called in hysterics, her speech so garbled she couldn’t make sense of anything but the tone, Morgan knew something bad had happened. And since there were just the three of them in their little family and the two of them were on the phone, that left one possible conclusion. Megan Keevy. Age twenty-five. Attacked on her way back to her dorm room. Raped. Mutilated. Murdered. A short list of suspects. One arrest. No closure.
    But Morgan Keevy had a suspect. And he was here.
    Beneath her.
    Inside her.
    What was it about this monster masquerading as a man that had obtained her sister’s trust so easily? Was it the voice, friendly and disarming, the penetrating green eyes or his toothy grin employed yet again in luring Morgan to his bed? The same smile that fooled her sister into letting down her guard long enough for him to grab her, beat her and snuff the life out of her. Her body withdrew from his and the warm juices of their mating spilled out between them.
    “My name is Morgan Keevy and I’ve come to kill you.”
    She’d said it a thousand times in what seemed like a thousand hotel mirrors halfway around the world. For months she’d spent her entire college savings on plane tickets, taxis, rooms and information. In that short period of time she’d become a globetrotter, starting in Houston, booking a flight to London and points beyond, traveling throughout the remotest parts of Great Britain searching for Ciaran McCade. It took months to track him, always missing him by a few days or a few hundred miles. Finally she’d got word from a local innkeeper he’d left for Ireland. Another two weeks of hiding and waiting and at long last she gained on him. Morgan showed his picture to everyone. When they stopped talking and clammed up, she knew she was getting close. Now he was in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. At a cottage out in the middle of nowhere.
    Right here.
    Right now.
    Her arms floated high above her head and slammed down against his chest with all her strength, burying the dagger in the flesh below. The dying man screamed and kicked in rejection of what had to be unbelievable pain. She couldn’t help but wonder if his pain was anything like Megan’s. Unable to endure anymore, she grabbed a pillow and pressed it to his face, desperate to silence him once and for all.
    Die. Dear God, why don’t you die?
    She weathered the jerky flailing of his body as he fought for air. It seemed like a lifetime that Morgan pushed against him, praying for it to be over, waiting for the stillness that death promised. The movies were wrong. They were edited for time and content. They spared people the real horror of the real world. Smothering someone took an eternity.
    At last, he went quiet. She was unable to move at first, frozen in position above him like a macabre statue. Halfway afraid that a remaining gasp of breath would bring him back to life and scare her to death, she watched him.
    But she saw nothing. Nothing but a small pool of blood running from the fatal wound in his chest to the bed beneath them.
    Sobbing, Morgan slid off him. Blinded and in a daze, she tumbled to the floor and covered her face in her hands. The shroud of finality wrapped itself around her like a concrete shawl. She was a murderer. Now she knew how it felt.
    Through the steady stream of tears she gazed at the pile of clothes nearby. In a defeated slump she fell to the floor and saw the small flat leather wallet protruding from his jacket pocket. With shaking hands she reached for it, then reconsidered. Fingerprints. She couldn’t afford to leave behind such damning forensic evidence. While she was at it, she needed to wipe down the dagger. But first things first. Using a sock to cover her fingers, she managed to flip the billfold open. The idea seemed terribly morbid. She was going through a dead man’s things.
    No way in hell she was seeing things clearly. Such a fate wasn’t possible. It had to