by Zee Monodee
With one big hand clutching both of hers in a tight grip, he trailed the other up along her body and onto her shoulder, before travelling up to her neck to cradle her face. His mouth grew more possessive, and the weight of him pressed her down into the soft cushions on the sofa.
She tried to battle with him, but his grip and his rock-hard body had her imprisoned. As she forced herself to draw away from his invading kiss, his teeth grazed the soft inside of her lip, and she tasted the metallic tang of blood.
As soon as she could breathe, she screamed. “Gareth, stop it!”
But he refused to listen.
“Come on, Dee. You’ve been aloof all this time.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, chilling all of her with its low tone. “Don’t you know you make my blood boil? Come on, you’re not made of ice, surely.”
He lowered his mouth on hers again and stifled her cries. This time, when he invaded with his tongue, she bit him hard. He pulled away and slammed an open palm onto her cheek.
The surprise blow, more than the strength in it, rendered her speechless and frozen. Everything blanked inside her mind. How could he?
“So you like it hard and rough, don’t you?” He chuckled. “Only had to say so, sweetheart.”
Gareth slapped a large hand onto her neck, dragging his fingers down fiercely on her skin as he edged towards the opening in her blouse. Her skin chafed and burnt raw under his punishing touch.
When he stopped his fiery fingers on her blouse, Diya reckoned she should move. But she couldn’t, especially not when he ripped the delicate chiffon and exposed her bra.
The cheek of the lout. “Stop it!”
But he wouldn’t listen, and simply laughed.
Panic flooded her. All the openings in the flat being double-glazed, no one would hear her calls for help. His much larger body along the length of hers pinned her down, and his mouth on hers again held her captive. Hot tears burst from under her shut eyelids.
Trent’s words echoed in her head. He’d been right about Gareth. And in her mighty pride, she’d ignored his sincere and heartfelt warning. Gareth would rape her before the night was over.
Not if she had her word to say. No one toyed with her, not against her will.
His kisses, if they could be called that, had grown sloppy and less insistent. Passion had probably shrouded him, wrapping him in the complacency of an uncomplicated lay.
Bloody bastard. He’d pay for this. She’d wait for the perfect opportunity, and lull him into dropping his guard in the meantime.
He shifted his heavy body, to press her closer to him. When Diya realised she could move her legs, a surge of hope filled her. Biding her time until she could take him unawares, she let him kiss and fondle her. But then, with a mighty jerk, she pulled her knee and hit him hard in that very vulnerable spot.
As soon as he keeled over with the pain, she shot up and made for the door, dragging her tattered clothes over her as best as she could while she fled from the flat and down the three flights of stairs. Everyone knew the first thing to do in the face of such danger was to flee to safety. Adrenaline fuelled her, and she stopped for a split second near her truck. Shoot, she didn’t have her key fob with her, and her vision still hadn’t cleared, her head too light from the effects of the alcohol still in her bloodstream.
She couldn’t go back to the flat. Gareth was still there. She had to get away from here, and she knew no one she wanted to turn to in the building.
Only one safe haven registered in her frantic mind, and with stumbling steps, she ran.
Chapter Fourteen
The pale light of the midnight moon cast a ghostly glow on the mansion, and Trent shivered in his seat as he eased his Saab into the driveway at La Porte du Paradis.
The evening shift at the airport had knackered him senseless. There’d been yet another mishap in the flight plans, but thank God they’d managed to ease everything into proper order.
He snickered. He’d managed the feat. Bloody hell, when would this stress be over?
He craved nothing more than to head home and get some much-needed sleep, but he’d misplaced his mobile phone and had to come search for the device. A soft chuckle escaped him. Could absent-minded Diya be rubbing off on him? He’d never been this forgetful before. And this state of mind was her fault. She stirred him like no other woman. Not even Crystal had had such an effect on him.
He thumped the steering wheel as he cut the engine. He still couldn’t understand why Diya had fled from him that afternoon. Had he done something wrong? If so, he had absolutely no idea what.
He cursed again as he walked up the massive stone steps and disabled the security system with a few presses on the keypad hidden behind a window shutter.
Why were women so complicated? He’d have a full head of grey hair before he understood Diya.
After pushing the heavy oak door open, he walked in and switched on the tiny overhead lights running the length of the corridors. With quickened steps, he headed for the kitchen, where he last remembered using his phone, calling Kavita to enquire about Shankar’s health.
When he’d cut the call, he remembered having fully registered the bright and beautiful kitchen, awe filling him. Diya had really done another great job in the room. Set in a scheme of pale butter yellow, the fully equipped space beckoned, cheerful and airy, and not the least bit out of setting with the rest of the manor, for Diya had concealed all the high-tech appliances behind panels of whitewashed wood that could pass for pantry doors.
His steps squeaked on the faux-wood laminate flooring in the kitchen, and he paused as he switched on the stained-glass lamp that hung from the middle of the ceiling. Light erupted, hurting his eyes. Blinking a few times to adjust to the glare, he then walked in to grab his phone on the glass-topped table. He pocketed the device and turned on his heel to exit the kitchen. His shoes made another squeaking sound, but they couldn’t conceal the sudden creak from above his head.
Trent groaned. The house had a way of making bizarre noises at the most unexpected time. He listened for another minute, but nothing resounded in the stillness. Reaching the front door, he paused. What if someone, or some stray animal, had gotten inside? Havoc in this dwelling? Diya and Angélique would scream if anyone, or anything, tampered with their work.
His mind wouldn’t be at peace until he’d checked.
Taking in a deep breath to steel his resignation, he headed towards the back of the house, to the spiral staircase that led to the attic.
Easing his large body along the cramped stairway proved a tricky endeavour, and he winced as his shoulder hit the sturdy middle bar holding the flight of steps. He cursed at this awkward stairwell, the reason he’d been to the attic only once. But he had to admit the single visit had been well worth the trouble. The top of the house boasted a marvel of wooden architecture, shaped like the upturned hold of a boat. Diya had told him how most of the craftsmen who built colonial houses back in the day had also been ship builders, hence the uncanny similarity in the two structures.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he had to stoop to progress into the attic. Moonlight bathed the place as a light breeze blew the soft voile curtains at the gabled windows. Small lamps hung from the ceiling. Bookshelves ran along the whole length of the back wall, and a corner had been set up like a Turkish lounge, complete with colourful cushions and draperies. Window seats had been arranged in the same scheme, with rich fabrics and tapestry.
A shift caught his eye, and he froze. A shadowed shape stood near one of the window seats, and he heard a small, muffled sob.
As he edged closer, a fist punched his stomach when a sliver of moonlight fell on the form in the corner.
Diya?
What was she doing there?
He called her name, but she didn’t seem to register his voice. He must’ve spoken too softly, for she stood there with her eyes lost in the distance, her cheeks tear-stained, her skin and lips pale. Wisps of fabric from her tattered blouse blew softly about her as she
remained absolutely still.
Bloody hell.
“Diya?” he called again as he reached her.
After what seemed like long seconds, she moved blank eyes onto him, a flicker of numb shock passing over her features. She then faced the window again, shutting him out.
A strong gust of wind blew in, sending a chill down his body. But Diya seemed unruffled by the cold.
A volcano of emotions and questions erupted in him when he put two and two together. Like any pilot, he’d trained in first aid, hence recognising the signs of shock in Diya. But what could’ve happened?
He had to be careful, however, and handle her gently. He sat down at the window seat and waited. When she didn’t acknowledge his presence, he spoke.
“Diya, it’s dark in here. Do you mind if I turn on some lights?”
She didn’t reply, but he proceeded to switch on a few of the small lamps around the attic.
The light only emphasised her pallor. Knives and daggers churned his gut, ripping the life from him to see her like this.
The wind blew the dark hair from her pale neck, and he gasped at the raw, red marks on her skin.
Someone had tried to abuse her.
None other than Clark could be responsible, surely.
The bloody swine …
Trent clenched his jaw, pain erupting all over his face as he fought to remain in control of his emotions. He closed his eyes briefly. What mattered was Diya, and seeing that justice was served.
Walking over to the lounge area, he picked up an afghan throw and carried it back to the seat, where he softly draped it over her shoulders. He accidentally touched her collarbone, and she flinched away from his touch as if she’d been burnt.
She blinked then, as if seeing him for the first time.
“It’s okay, Diya. It’s me, Trent.”
“Trent,” she said on a hollow whisper.
“You’re safe here. It’s okay now.”
She remained standing, still as a statue, though a fiery light burned in her eyes.
“Take your time. Everything will be fine,” he again reassured.
His voice sounded calm and warm, but Trent felt nothing like it inside. Fury battled with outrage, and his heart bled with sorrow at seeing his precious Diya in such a sad state. What more could he do for her?
“I’ll go make some tea. Okay? I’ll be back in a minute.”
He got up, but the hoarse sound of her voice held him back.
“Don’t leave.”
He sat down, completely lost as he hesitated to reach out and hold her hand. She might not be ready for any kind of physical contact, and it gnawed at his insides to know he couldn’t do anything for her.
“I’ll stay,” he said. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head.
Only once had he felt at such a loss, when Matthew had been taken to the emergency room. But he didn’t dare touch her, so he balled his fists to keep the feeling in check.
“Trent,” she said on a soft moan.
He jumped to his feet and drew close to her. Not enough to scare her, but only so she’d know he was there for her.
Diya reached out all of a sudden and touched his cheek. He remained still, allowed her to re-acquaint herself with him. He watched her trail those big eyes all across his face. She blinked a lot, and tilted her head this way and that as she observed him.
What could be going on in her head?
Then, she rubbed the pad of her thumb along his cheekbone.
“Are you okay?” he asked in a whisper.
It killed him not to know what had happened, to not be able to help her, or protect her. If Clark was responsible for this ...
“I’m fine.”
How could she be, after what happened?
“No, you’re not.” He drew closer. “Diya, did Clark do this to you? We have to go to the police. You need to consign a report against whoever assaulted you.”
A sob tore from her throat. “No. Not the police. They won’t understand—”
“They will. And I believe you. You are not at fault here, you hear me?”
“I ... I can’t. If anyone comes to know ...”
“Diya, you cannot let him off the hook. Let me take you to the station, okay?”
“No.”
“Please.” He hesitated before reaching out and gently clasping her shoulders. “I’m with you. All the way. Trust me.”
Something in his voice must’ve broken through her resistance. She nodded and allowed him to steer her down the stairs, out of the house, and into his car. She huddled in her seat, shivering, and he powered the heater on full to ward off any cold she might be feeling.
But luck wasn’t on their side at the station. The first thing the officers asked was if she had ingested any alcohol. Rage boiled inside Trent. As if that were any excuse for a woman to get assaulted. The more time passed in the station, the more he came to regret his decision to bring her there. She’d been right—they didn’t want to understand, especially not when they reckoned she would be pressing charges against a foreigner.
Two hours later, they finally stood outside the station with Diya’s report duly filed and a request for a protection order issued in her name. Not that he thought anything would come from that. He’d seen the looks the men had given her. As if it had been her fault for leading that bastard on.
Justice would have to come from other means, and if he had to take it into his own hands, he would.
But the priority was Diya, and getting her to safety.
He lowered his gaze on her, taking in how frail and young she appeared still wrapped in the afghan. “Is there someplace I can take you? To your sister’s, maybe?”
She shook her head. “Not with the baby.”
He winced—both at the pain etched on her beautiful, haunting features, and the shock such news would be to heavily-pregnant Lara.
Still, come what may, he’d do everything in his power to protect her.
“Do you wish to go home?” But then, she’d been assaulted in her flat. Not a memory she should come back to so soon. “How about at Angélique’s place? She’s got your back.”
After long seconds, she nodded.
The trip to the Victorian house happened in silence, but at least, she was no longer shivering and cowering away. Her focus appeared lost as she watched the scenery. Something told him she wouldn’t be seeing much, and was probably huddling in her thoughts, in a little world where the hurt couldn’t get to her. She’d bucked up and been remarkably strong at the station, but how much had such bravado cost her?
Trent stopped the car in front of the mansion and cut the engine. He walked out and opened her door. She blinked up at him, as if not realising they had reached their destination.
“Come,” he said, and took her hand.
She followed like a meek lamb as he led her to the front door and pounded the knocker. It was the very late hours of the night—early morning, even; dawn would come soon. What would they be thinking?
A man built like a brick wall and with the scary face to match opened the panel, but his features lost the hardness as he spotted Diya.
“Dee? What happened?” he asked, his now worried gaze cutting back to Trent.
“She …” How did one talk about this outside on the doorstep? “Can we come inside?”
The door swung open, and then, Angélique was rushing towards them.
“Trent! Dee! What happened?”
He let out a sigh as he stepped inside. Angélique had pulled Diya forward into an embrace.
The man—must be the Laroche guy, Ange’s husband—closed the door. As he stood there staring at Diya, it appeared he’d figured he should keep his distance. At one point, he’d reached out to touch her shoulder, and Trent had been about to dissuade him, but he’d seemed to figure out she needed feminine coddling and safety.
Angélique peered up at him. “What happened?” she mouthed.
Trent shook his head. “Can you, maybe, run her
a bath, then tuck her in?”
She nodded, though her sharp look told him he wasn’t off the hook.
“Come on, ma puce. Let’s get you settled.”
Diya went away like someone in the throes of sleepwalking—conscious, but not aware. His heart tore with every step she took away from him, but she would be safe here. That’s what mattered.
“I’m Patrice Laroche,” the man said as he extended a hand. “We haven’t been introduced.”
Trent shook hands with him. “Trent Garrison. I’m Diya’s neighbour.”
“Come on in.” Patrice led him into a sitting room, going straight to the decanters on a side table. “Scotch?”
A sigh escaped him. “Wouldn’t say no.”
After the stress and duress of the past few hours, he doubted a drink would hurt. He took the glass and downed it in one single gulp. Patrice indicated if he wanted a refill, but he declined.
“Patrice, qu’est-ce qui se passe?”
Trent cut his gaze to the woman standing in the doorway. She looked like an older version of Angélique.
“Un petit problème avec Diya,” Patrice replied.
Though Trent’s French was rusty, he understood the gist of it, and was glad when Patrice veered back to his heavily accented English.
“What happened?” the man asked. “Oh, and this is my mother-in-law, Agnes Armont-Marivaux. That’s Trent Garrison, Dee’s neighbour and good friend.”
Something told him he could trust these people, so he told them about the assault and Diya’s narrow escape from Clark, how he’d found her at the colonial house totally by chance, and how disappointing the police had been when they’d gone to file a report.
Agnes shook her head all through his tale. “You cannot really count on anyone else to get a job done here.”
He nodded, his disillusionment turning to surprise when she next spoke.
“Tell me about this sale cochon,” she continued.
At least, she, too, was calling him a dirty swine. “His name is Gareth Clark. He is the General Manager of Palm Palace Hotel.”
