by Meg Tilly
From the center of the flower, her fingers started to travel outward. As always, she counted the sapphire petals, then slid her fingers underneath, exploring the bottom of the brooch. What is hidden, kept private, is as important as what you show the world. Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head. And that’s when she snagged her finger on the sharp pin.
“That’s it.” Eve breathed a short prayer of thanksgiving, then unpinned her grandmother’s brooches. A difficult maneuver with her wrists bound. However, she managed to detach them and tuck them into her right palm, positioned so the sharp pins were barely visible as they protruded from between her fingers.
“You’re gonna get a big surprise, buddy,” she said, a grim smile on her face, the brooches gripped tight in her hand.
Fifty-nine
“SHE’S WHAT?” IRENE Dawson stared up at him bleary-eyed. The smell of gin and Opium perfume permeated the air around her.
“Missing,” Rhys repeated patiently. The temperature had dropped quite dramatically, and the wind had picked up, causing the tall trees that surrounded the house to sway and groan, small branches snapping off and plummeting to the ground.
“Oh dear.” She wrung her plump, bejeweled hands, drunk and distraught. “I’m so sorry. This is very disturbing indeed. I wish I could help, but I haven’t seen her.”
“You were seen conversing with her at the pharmacy this afternoon.”
She blinked once, twice, owl-like, her body swaying as if on a boat, her mouth slack and slightly ajar. “I was? Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“Oh my.” She shook her head. “At my age the days blur together—”
He cut her off. “Another witness saw her follow you out of the parking lot in her car.”
“Well . . .” She gave a slight laugh, which contradicted the tight sadness around the corners of her eyes. “I have no control over whose car exits the parking lot after mine, do I?”
Rhys didn’t answer. As an actor, part of his training was to observe people, to look for and understand the subconscious clues. She was dissembling. He was sure of it.
Irene shifted, glanced to his hand on the doorframe, then back at him. “Oh, silly me.” She giggled. “I just remembered. She did drop by, only for a second. It was so inconsequential, I forgot all about it. The dear girl was looking for migraine medicine.” She shrugged in a bemused sort of way. “I gave her a couple of mine, and off she went, happy as a bug in a rug.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind if I came in, took a quick look around?”
It took only a split second for her befuddled, distressed expression to morph into something that caused the hair on his arms to rise. “Are you threatening me, young man?” Her voice was sharp, cold. Eyes suddenly lizard-like.
“Where,” he bit out succinctly. “Is. She?”
“How should I know? I’m not her keeper. But she’s not here.” There was a hint of mockery lingering under her innocent act. “If she’d decided to stay for a visit, wouldn’t her car be here?”
He hesitated.
Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “That’s right. You are barking up the wrong tree, and if you don’t vacate the premises immediately, I’m calling the police.”
“Do that,” he replied, but it was bravado. Was it possible he’d read the signs wrong? Maybe Eve had returned home and was wondering where he was.
The door slammed shut. He heard the dead bolt being thrown. He could feel in his gut that time was running out.
Sixty
EVE HEARD A snick, possibly a key turning in a lock, then a metallic clunk and a scrape, the sort of noise a padlock makes when yanked down and removed from a locker.
There was a long creak, and then a waft of fresh air. Footsteps descending. They sounded heavy—it must be the man.
She was listening hard, but she couldn’t tell whether he was coming down wooden stairs or a wooden ladder.
There was a slight grunt, then another clunk. The door had been shut, cutting off the outside world and sealing him in. With her.
Her heart thrashed in her chest like a wild bird in a cage. Stay calm. Stay calm. A silent incantation as she gripped her grandmother’s brooches tight for courage. Her mouth was dry as chalk. You’re going to have one chance to catch him off guard. Play along until you see your opening.
Footsteps. Leather-soled shoes. A soft tuneless whistle, more breath than sound.
Her throat constricted, as if a large hand was wrapped around it, cutting off her air.
He appeared in the doorway, at first as a hulking dark shape, and then he moved into the room. The overhead lightbulb cast shadows across his face, distorting his features, but there was no mistaking who he was.
“Eve, darling,” the coffee-only customer said, holding a mangled bit of metal and glass in his hand. “I found your cell phone under the kitchen table. You must have dropped it when you were drugged. Not to worry. I’ve disabled it, so no one can trace you here and burst in on us at an inopportune moment.” He giggled, the sound like a fistful of spiders crawling up her spine. “Sledgehammers are so much fun.”
“I’m sorry, remind me of your name?”
His mouth tightened. “Timothy,” he said as if she had disappointed him.
“Timothy,” she repeated softly, trying to appeal to his human side. “Clearly you’re rich and successful, have a beautiful home and a devoted wife. Don’t throw it all away to fulfill some sort of misguided fantasy. I’m not for you. Let me go.”
“Number one,” he said, holding up a finger. “Possessing you is totally worth the risk. If anything, the risk will heighten my satisfaction quotient. Number two—”
“You will never possess me,” she said, trying to keep the shakiness from her voice. “Rhys will find me and—”
“Are you kidding?” Timothy laughed as if she had said something funny. “And how’s he going to do that? Hmm? No one but my wife has ever discovered my little predilections. What makes him different from the rest of mankind? Not to mention, the chief of police and I are like that.” He held up two entwined fingers with a smirk. “We went to grade school together. He would never suspect me. As far as letting you go? No,” he said ruefully, shaking his head. “So sorry, but I’ve never been one to share my belongings.”
The airy way he implied she was a belonging of his made her want to punch him in the face, but she kept her expression blank.
He ambled to the desk, slipped off his gray suit jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. “By the way, speaking of . . . Rhys? Is that your ex-boyfriend’s name?” His conciliatory tone made her want to spit. “He did drop by. My wife, bless her soul, sent him on his way.” He unbuttoned the cuffs on his crisp white shirt and rolled them up. “She’s useful that way. A good-looking young man. Too bad I’ll have to kill him. Can’t have someone asking questions, snooping around, complicating our straightforward arrangement. Anyway . . .” He smiled and spread his arms outward in a congenial manner. “Enough of the small talk. I won’t bother you with the pesky details. Suffice it to say that I’ll deal with him later tonight. Perhaps I’ll bring you his head on a platter. A silver one! That would be fun, huh? No. Silver-plated! That would be funnier. But we’ll deal with that later, the construction of our future plans.” He bowed with the flourish of a Shakespearean actor. “Welcome to our humble abode, my love.”
Sixty-one
RHYS TURNED RIGHT at the end of the long driveway, keeping the truck’s high beams on. He scoured the winding mountain road for a place to park that wouldn’t attract attention.
There.
The neighboring property had a fancy entryway with substantial stone gateposts. Beyond that was a turnout with additional parking for overflow. There were two beat-up cars already parked there—probably staff. He slid his truck into the vacant parking space between them, shut the engine off, and got out.
&n
bsp; Swiftly and silently he made his way back to Irene Dawson’s property. He turned left into her drive, slipping past the apocalyptic-looking gateposts, jutting jagged shards of steel thrusting upward. The full moon shined bright, like a beacon, covering the world in a silvery-blue light. The driveway was lit up like the road to Oz.
Rhys could see without the aid of a flashlight, but so could Irene if she glanced out the window. And if I were a betting man I’d say the woman has a pistol in her bedside table, Rhys thought as he made his way toward the house. He kept his body crouched low, using the luxuriant rhododendrons that lined the driveway as a shield.
His phone buzzed, causing an additional jolt of adrenaline to shoot through him. He stepped behind a massive Douglas fir tree, using his jacket to contain any ambient light. “Yes?”
“Luke here. We’ve just landed. Any word from Eve?”
“No. However, two eyewitnesses saw her leave the pharmacy with Irene Dawson. I spoke with Irene, and something’s off. Eve’s car isn’t here, which would point to the fact that Eve already left. That’s all I’ve got, but my gut is telling me not to leave. So I parked down the road. I’m making my way back to Irene’s house to suss the situation more thoroughly.”
“Good. Always listen to your gut. I believe we pick up cues intuitively that our logical mind can’t absorb. Give me the address.”
“It’s 983 Manzanita Heights.”
“We’re on our way over.”
Rhys slipped his phone back in his pocket, relief causing him to drop his knees to the ground. Luke was on Solace Island and was heading over. Thank God, because he was a fucking useless actor who was in way over his head. He had no idea how to find a missing person or how to keep them safe. His characters did, but that was all smoke and mirrors, with pretend weapons and pretend blood and a director to yell “cut.” The real Rhys Thomas was a failure as a man. He hadn’t kept his mother safe, and now history was repeating itself with Eve.
Eve. His eyes felt hot, his throat constricted. Thank God Luke is coming. He pushed himself to his feet and dragged his arm across his eyes to mop the salty wetness that had streaked his face. Luke will know how to find Eve and will decimate the person who’s been harassing her.
And that’s when he saw—through the gap between the rhododendron bushes—the paper-thin rectangle of shimmering light. It was around thirty yards from the house and seemed to be emanating from the forest floor.
Sixty-two
“NO. PLEASE,” EVE was sobbing, but it was to no avail. Timothy Dawson had already removed her shoes and was dragging her jeans down over her hips, exposing her pale flesh to his hungry eyes and the cold, damp air. She was trying to choke back the tears, but they wouldn’t stop. The acrid taste of fear burned the back of her throat.
His cool fingers lightly skimmed her skin as he drew her pants down past her thighs, her knees, her calves, her struggling feet.
She was freaking out. Yes. But there was a part of her brain that was removed from emotion. That was coiled and waiting like a cobra for the right moment to strike.
He stood, admiring his handiwork, her jeans dangling from his fingers. “Beautiful.” His eyes were glazed, eyelids at half-mast. He released her jeans, and they fell to the floor. “And now, for the pièce de résistance.” He climbed onto the bed and straddled her hips, grinding his pelvis into her groin, laughing low and deep in his throat. “You’re shaking like a leaf, dear one.” He reached out and stroked her hair. “Don’t worry. You’ll experience the glory of my magnificent dick soon enough. But you’re going to have to be patient.” He smiled. “I want to take my time, savor possessing you.” He ground his pelvis into her again. She could feel his small, rigid dick rubbing against her through his gray wool slacks. The smell of his body and his overpowering cologne were making her gag. He was sweating profusely. Dark wet patches had soaked through the fabric under his arms.
He leaned forward, covering her mouth with his wet, clammy lips, his tongue jamming against her teeth, trying to find entry but unable to. Her jaw clenched shut. His nose smashed against hers, eliminating her flow of air. She couldn’t breathe.
Now, her inner voice shrieked. Now! Slash the bastard’s eyes out. But something made her wait. She felt a better opportunity was going to present itself.
He pulled away, his hands closing around her throat, squeezing slightly. “Open your mouth,” he ordered.
So she did, choking on spit and tears. And down he swooped, his fat tongue plunging into her mouth. His hands at her throat, compressing slightly, cutting off part of her air supply.
Now? Can I do it now? Claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm her. Her body wanting, needing to vomit. But still she waited as his slimy tongue thrust in and out.
His hands left her neck and moved to her cheeks to hold her flailing head still, as his thumbs slid back and forth, gathering her tears. “That’s better . . . so much better,” he murmured. “When you stop fighting me, you get to enjoy so much more.” He kissed the tip of her nose. Lapped the salty wetness from the corner of her eyes. “Now it’s time for your panties to come off.”
He swung his knee around so he was straddling her in reverse, then bent over. She felt the scrape of his chin as he gripped the silken waistband of her panties in his teeth, his wool-clad ass and package hovering around two inches above her face.
This was the blessed opening she had been praying for. She moved her tied fists to the center of her chest, pulled them in close to her body to give her strike more force. More momentum. She clenched her fingers tight together so the pins would strike true. Fear gone now, vanished like a summer squall, leaving in its place a warrior woman ready to rumble.
The dipshit started to edge her panties down.
Now! her inner voice commanded. She slammed her fists hard into his exposed groin. She could feel the brooch pins driving deep through fabric and flesh, hitting bone. She heard his high-pitched scream ricocheting off the concrete walls as he toppled off her, doubled over, and clutched his junk. An unearthly roar erupted from her mouth as she flipped onto her side. Using her bound hands as ballast, her bottom leg bent under her at a right angle to ground the weight of her body into the bed. Her other leg soared into the air, foot flexed. Then she slammed her leg down as hard and as fast as she could, her heel smashing into his head over and over, each impact accompanied with a volcanic “NO!”
Sixty-three
RHYS TORE THROUGH the underbrush at a dead run. Sometimes he could see the sliver of light and sometimes not. Every time it flickered out of sight, his chest felt like someone had kicked it hard with steel-toed boots.
There it was, almost indiscernible among the detritus of the forest floor, a camouflaged trapdoor leading into the ground. A large padlock lay open beside the door.
Whoever had her was down there now.
The faint sounds of a muffled commotion filtered out through the wood door. No time to lose. He yanked the door open, the sound of the battle bursting outward, filling the night air. No time to use the ladder, he swung his body down, dropped to the floor, and tore down the narrow, dank hallway toward the lit room beyond.
He burst into the room, squinting in the bright light, ready to tear her stalker into a million pieces. But the moment he laid eyes on her, it was clear Eve—even with her hands tied—had taken care of the problem. The guy was out cold. His body limp, his face a bloody mess, and still Eve was roaring at the top of her lungs, her leg crashing down on him, an enraged thunderbolt of fury.
“Eve. Eve, honey.” Keeping his voice soothing, calming, so as not to startle her, even though he wanted to sob for joy. “You can stop now. You saved yourself. Everything’s okay.”
She looked up at him as if awakening from a dream. “Rhys?”
“Yeah. It’s me, sweetheart,” he said, going to her, gathering her in his arms. “You’re safe now, you magnificent woman. He can’t hurt you anymore.�
�
And that was when the tears came, his and hers. Clinging to each other like life preservers, unable to let go.
* * *
• • •
RHYS BROKE THE crystal decanter and used the jagged edge to free Eve’s hands. He ripped strips off the sheets and made sure the assailant was securely bound, while Eve pulled on her jeans and slipped her shoes back on.
“Ready to get out of here?” he asked, holding out his hand.
Eve hadn’t spoken since saying his name. She was clearly in shock. All the color had leached from her face, but she nodded and placed her hand in his. She was trembling, her teeth chattering.
He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, rubbing his hands briskly up and down her arms and her back, attempting to warm her. Then he put his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go,” he said, guiding her toward the hall.
She made a distressed noise and pulled free, running back to the bed where the guy’s limp body was lying.
“Eve, what are you doing?”
She was scrabbling frantically around the bedcovers. Trying to lift the guy.
“Eve?”
“My brooches . . . my grandmother’s brooches. I can’t leave without them.”
He was heading toward the bed to help when he heard someone descending the ladder into the bunker. “Eve,” he whispered.
