by Cate Beauman
He groaned, following her lead, rubbing her with his thumb, bringing her up slowly.
“Let’s go to bed,” she panted out, gyrating against him, driving him crazy.
He didn’t like being away from the monitors when Shane wasn’t here. “What’s wrong with the couch?” He moved in the rhythm he knew would get her off.
“You’re trying to distract me,” she shuddered out.
“So?”
She bit her bottom lip, whimpering, digging her nails into his shoulders. “You’re going to make me cum.”
“I know.” He kept his pace steady, holding her gaze, watching as she stiffened on a long moan, pulsing against his hand. He brought her higher, not yet ready to bring her down, smiling his triumph when she clutched at him frantically, crying out loudly for the second time.
She sagged against him, her hot, steady breaths heating his neck. “I really like it when you do that.”
He grinned.
She sat up, flushed and smiling, unbuttoning his pants. “Do you want a turn?”
“I’ll never refuse a—” He stopped when he heard the first pop, then the next and the one after that, recognizing the sound of muted gunfire. “Shit.” He rushed up, setting Sophie on her feet, grabbing her hand as he shut off the living room light, watching the footage on the monitor go black with each gunshot “Fuck. Let’s go. Come on, Murphy.” He shielded Sophie’s body, running with her and the dog down the hall while bullets penetrated the door, shattering vases and other fragile knick-knacks as they ricocheted through the room.
“Stay down! Stay down!” He shouted as Sophie screamed, covering her ears with trembling hands. “Get in the shower.” He pushed her inside the bathroom and locked the door. “Come on. In the shower,” he said quietly, crouching over her while Murphy barked and growled in her arms. “We need him quiet.”
“Hush,” Sophie commanded next to the puppy’s ear.
Murphy stopped instantly, whimpering instead.
Sophie’s heavy breathing echoed off the walls as rain pounded on the roof. He strained to hear, pulling his gun from its holster, taking aim when glass crunched on the hardwood floors of the hall.
“He’s coming,” she whispered, trembling.
He didn’t have time to comfort her as he pushed her further behind the barrier of the marble stall, pulling his phone from the holder, hitting the button for Shane.
“Yeah,” Shane said.
“He’s in the house,” Stone said quietly. “We’re in the bathroom.”
“Fuck, man, I’m turning up the drive right now.”
“Get here.” He set down the phone, squishing Sophie against the wall as the knob twisted in the glow of the nightlight. “Cover your ears,” he said with deadly calm, ready to do what needed to be done.
Sophie did as he said.
He fired twice, around the chest and head range, and the man who wanted Sophie dead hollered out in a cry of pain.
Footsteps receded down the hall, and two rapid pops quickly followed along with the shatter of glass breaking in the master bedroom.
Stone kept his gun pointed for what felt like hours, his heart pounding, waiting, listening, his eyes glued to the door.
“McCabe, it’s me,” Shane yelled moments later, crunching his way down the hall. “I’ve called it in. Entering.” He kicked open the bathroom door, aiming as Stone aimed at him. “Rooms are clear.”
He rushed to his feet, a thousand weights lifting off his shoulders when he saw his soaking-wet friend standing in the doorway. “Stay with Sophie.”
“Where are you going?” She stood, grabbing his shirt, her eyes wild with terror. “Stay here with me, Stone. Stay with me.”
He couldn’t. It was clear this wasn’t going to stop until Sophie was dead. They were going to end this now, or Sophie would die. Next time the bastard might get off his shot, and he wasn’t taking that chance.
“I’ll be back.” He yanked free of her grasp and shut the bathroom door, waiting to hear the lock click in place, and hustled into the bedroom. He noted the blood on the windowsill, catching sight of the man hunched and gripping his side as he hurried off into the shadows. “There you are you son of a bitch.”
He hurtled his way outside, tucking himself into a roll as he hit the ground. Standing, instantly drenched by cold drops, he headed toward the canyons, following his prey into the brush and mud while blue lights flashed and police sirens wailed their way up his road. He wouldn’t be waiting around for LAPD tonight.
Moving into the increasing darkness and staying close to the thick line of bushes, he squinted in the familiar surroundings of his land, trying to spot the bastard who wanted to murder his wife. His fears of the man getting away made him want to rush ahead, but getting shot wouldn’t help Sophie. He paused, catching his breath as adrenaline coursed through his body, listening in the relentless rains for any sound that might give the hired gun away.
A twig snapped a few feet in front him, and he inched further forward, drawing his gun, finding the man hunkered low, peering through the sight of his rifle aimed at the house while muttering something into his cell phone.
The assassin turned his head in Stone’s direction.
Stone raised his weapon. “Hands up, asshole, or you’re dead.”
“Fuck you.” He whirled, launching himself at Stone.
Without hesitation, Stone fired. He hit the man in the shoulder but then fell back, losing his grip on his gun with the nasty thud of impact as the well-muscled killer landed on top of him. Stone reached behind him for his weapon, feeling nothing but open, empty air, and was forced into a roll over several unforgiving rocks toward the huge drop-off into the basin below. Stone used the momentum he gained to sit up and plow his fist into the fucker’s face. “Who sent you?”
“You’re going to die,” the hit man replied, slamming the side of his hands into Stone’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. They rolled again, battling for leverage, bringing them closer to the ledge.
Stone struggled to move further onto solid ground, gripping the base of a bush as his right leg dangled and the man fought to push him to his death. Grabbing for anything next to him, he clutched a palm-sized rock, swinging, connecting with the man’s temple. Using the moment of surprise to his advantage, he kicked out, shoving at the guy’s chest, sending him over the edge as shouts and lights shined his way.
He lay where he was, gasping for each breath, wincing as the sickening smack of the body collided with the land below.
“McCabe,” Detective Owens hollered as he ran, stopping next to him.
Stone rolled to all fours, shakily gaining his feet. “He’s down there.”
An officer hustled over, shining his flashlight over the edge. Stone followed the beam, staring at the gore, needing to see that the man wouldn’t be getting back up to come after Sophie.
“Get somebody into the basin,” Owens directed. “Are you okay? Do you need an ambulance?”
He shook his head. “No, I—”
“We’ve got a rifle and a phone over here,” someone shouted.
“He was setting up again when I found him,” Stone explained, following Owens to where another cop stood several inches from the evidence.
“Give me that pen.” Owens took it from the officer and crouched down. “Let’s figure out who’s on the other end.” He pressed redial with the tip of the ballpoint. The phone rang once.
“Is she dead? Did you finish it?”
Stone’s gaze sharpened on Owens’ as he recognized Eric’s voice from their encounter in the Bangor Police Department hallway. He nodded his confirmation to the detective.
“We’re wrapping this up right now.”
“Who the hell—”
“Mr. Winthrop, this is Detective Aaron Owens from the Los Angeles Police Department.” Owens pointed to a female officer with a phone at her ear.
“Go,” she said, and within seconds a huge commotion filled the background of Eric’s phone line.
“That should be Bangor PD taking him into custody,” Owens said.
“It’s about damn—”
“Stone! Stone!”
He looked up, watching Sophie break away from Shane and sprint forward. She launched herself into his arms, the force knocking him back a step.
“You’re okay.” She clutched his face in her hands, kissing him. “You’re okay.”
He moved further away from the scene the cops would want to process. “I’m fine.” He kissed her again. “I’m fine, Soph.” He hugged her, gripping her tight. “It’s over. You don’t have to worry anymore.”
“Where’s the man?” she asked as rain dripped down her face.
“He’s dead, and Eric was just arrested.”
“He’s going to jail?”
He nodded. “For a long, long time. Let’s get the hell out of here and dry off.” He walked away, achy and relieved, still holding Sophie as he started toward the house.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Eric sat on the bottom bunk in his disgusting cell, waiting for the guard to tell him his attorney was here. He pulled at the uncomfortable, baggy blue jumpsuit as he looked down at the ridiculous sock-and-sandal combination he was forced to wear. For eighteen days he’d been stuck in insufferable conditions, waking at the crack of dawn to the shouts of the jail staff and groans of the dirty man above him. And he was expected to sweep and mop floors that were a hopeless cause and eat food that was little more than slop. He stood as an officer came to his metal and reinforced-glass door. “It’s about time.”
The portly man chuckled, shaking his head. “What’s your rush? You’re not going anywhere anytime soon.” The guard let him out and walked him down to the visiting area. “Arms out and spread ‘em.”
Sighing, Eric complied, enduring the indignity of being patted down.
The guard buzzed open another door. “Go ahead in.”
He walked into the sterile room where other men spoke with their public defenders or family members and took a seat across from the man who wasn’t doing his job. “Why am I still here?”
Paul folded his hands, looking comfortable in the superior-quality threads of his Armani suit. “I’m working on it—”
“Not hard enough.” He leaned in. “Do you know what it’s like? I shower once every two days. The ‘milk’ is powder and water, and there’s no privacy when I need to use the bathroom. It’s humiliating.”
“I’m sure it is, but at this time I don’t see the judge reversing his decision on your bail. The prosecution’s case is solid, and they have enough evidence to consider you a threat to Mrs. McCabe’s life.”
Mrs. McCabe. He barely suppressed a scoff. She was still married to the longhaired fool. Sophie and her husband had ruined everything. She was supposed to be dead. He was going to sit in here and suffer while Stone McCabe took the money that rightfully belonged to him. “I never tried to hurt Sophie. I was set up. I want out of here.”
His attorney held his gaze. “I’m going to fight for you in the courtroom, Eric, but you’re looking at life. If we’re lucky I’ll get you a shot at parole.”
“Parole? What happened to ‘Eric, I’ll take care of this?’”
Paul leaned in close. “I’m going to give it to you straight. I owe you that much. You’re fucked. Prosecution is airtight. I haven’t found any loopholes so far. The cops were real careful with this case—no mistakes that I’ve seen. We’ll consider it a miracle if I can get you out in fifteen.”
He wiped at the cold sweat blooming across his brow, barely able to tolerate the idea of staying incarcerated for another minute, let alone fifteen years to the rest of his life. Luckily the authorities hadn’t linked him back to Johnston Sanders’ death. He’d held his breath for days while the police investigated the moron he’d hired to kill Sophie. “You’ve already thrown in the towel. Maybe I need a new attorney.”
“You’ll have to make that decision, but they’ll tell you the same thing.”
His heart pounded and his hands shook. Why wasn’t Paul scrambling to appease him the way he had for the last several years? When he issued threats people were supposed to listen and take action. “Find a way to get me out.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but as I said, the judge isn’t going to reverse his decision on your bail. You need to prepare yourself for that.” Paul stood.
“Wait.” He scrambled up. “Where are you going?”
“My daughter has a school function in an hour. I’ll contact the courts later this afternoon.”
“Now. I want you to do it right this minute.”
“I’ll take care of it.” Paul walked off, leaving him alone.
Sitting, he slammed his eyes shut, trying to gather himself as the guard called him. With little choice he got to his feet and went back to his cell, staring at the dirty, chipped walls and unsanitary toilet in the corner while his “roommate” hummed and did whatever it was that he did in his bunk.
He grew nauseous while the man above him grated on his nerves. This would be his life for months to come until he had his day in court. Paul had assured him he was doing everything he could to make sure he wouldn’t go to prison, but the evidence against him was staggering—the dozens of pictures of Sophie’s bruises, the reports David had compiled that the police had found on his computers, the sums of money he’d transferred out of his accounts around the time Sophie started having trouble in Los Angeles, and Dylan Matthers had decided to open her mouth and tell Clyde about the little incident in her apartment.
Everyone had turned against him. The newspapers were calling him a monster when he was the real victim. For once his money and influence didn’t appear to matter. Everyone had written him off.
He jumped, startled by the loud buzz echoing through the cellblocks, and cringed when the door opened. Lunchtime. He hated leaving his cell.
“Let’s go. Everyone out,” the portly guard hollered.
Swallowing, Eric stepped from the cell, glancing toward the small slit of window in his room and the barbed wire keeping him from his freedom.
“Hey, artist.” Someone bumped into him from behind.
He stood straight, sweating, as the disgusting, beefy man who’d been hitting on him since he arrived ran a hand over his butt. “You ready for me to make you my bride?”
Several men laughed.
Eric took another step forward. “Get away from me.”
“I keep asking you for a date but you won’t give me one. I’m about to take what I want.” He grabbed Eric’s crotch. “It’s a little small, but I’m not picky. See you in the showers.” He grinned and walked by.
Eric leaned against the wall, his legs buckling. Tomorrow was his shower day.
“Keep moving,” the guard said.
“I—I need a minute.”
“Keep moving.”
He glanced back at the guard then at the man who would “date” him whether he liked it or not. He looked to the tall railing keeping him secure four stories up from the solid concrete floor, ran forward, and climbed.
“Get down!”
Shouts and jeers filled the hallway as he gasped for air, glancing around at the sea of blue jumpsuits. He made eye contact with his potential husband, turned, and let himself fly, closing his eyes, ready for the end.
~~~~
Sophie stood in her shop, smiling as she handed off her latest sale. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, honey.”
Business was booming now that she was back in the press’s good graces. She was once again Lily Brand’s sweetheart and latest survivor instead of the irresponsible woman who fled from arrest warrants and caused life-threatening accidents with her carelessness, as they’d painted her to be just weeks ago. “I hope you’ll come again,” she said as the older woman walked out and Stone stepped in, wearing carpenter shorts and a white t-shirt, his hair tied back in a kerchief. Her stomach tightened with the rush of tingles as she grinned. “Hi.”
He walked up to the counter, leaning
over to kiss her lips. “Hey.”
“How’s the day off?”
“Not too shabby. Murphy and I just about have all the pavers down. He’s home napping.”
It had taken them almost three weeks to repair the house after the fiasco on the cliffs. Now that doors, windows, and flooring had been replaced, they were moving on to the bedroom patio. Stone had been starting on their latest project as she walked out the door this morning. “Sounds like you’ve been busy.”
“A little.” He pulled her back for another kiss. “You look good, Soph.” He slid an appreciative glance up and down the slim-fit, side-slit, black-ruched maxi-dress. “Can you get away for lunch?”
She shook her head. “Carolyn left early today. I wanted her to relax since she’ll be here tomorrow and Saturday morning by herself.”
He frowned. “Is something going on Saturday?”
“Mmhm.” She smiled, taking his hand, playing with his fingers.
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“I’m going to a wedding.”
Eyes playful, he pulled her hand to his mouth, nibbling her knuckles. “Maybe I could be your date.”
“Definitely.”
“I need to talk to you about something.” He nipped again.
“Okay. What’s going on?”
“Come here.” Gesturing with his head, he tugged her out from behind the glass counters and hooked his arms around her waist. “So, I got some news.”
She swallowed, not sure she was going to like it. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
Unease started weighing on her shoulders. “Stone, what is it?”
He sighed. “Soph, Eric killed himself this afternoon.”
She blinked, surprised, trying to feel something. “Oh.”
“I thought you would want to know. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the press starts in again.”
“I don’t know what to say or…think…or feel.”
“You don’t have to say anything, and you’ll think and feel whatever you want when you’re ready.”
“I imagine I should be relieved or maybe a little sad or maybe even happy, but I’m just glad he’s out of my life.” She kissed him. “How do you feel?”
