by Debra Webb
Rowen barely stepped back in time for the door to close in her face.
So much for the sympathy ploy.
Chapter Eight
Rowen had spent at least an hour walking the floor.
She’d tried to pick the lock on the door with the short metal spoke she’d ripped from the lampshade where it attached to the top of the lamp base. Then she’d exhausted herself in an attempt to pry the boards from the windows.
Nothing had worked. The metal spoke wasn’t rigid enough and she wasn’t strong enough.
Having admitted defeat on that level, she considered her only other option—be prepared to physically fight her way out of here when Hunter returned.
If he returned.
It was the only way.
With that decision made, she waited. Distracted herself with details of the investigation. Merv and the chief would surely recognize that she was missing in action by now.
She didn’t need those two distracted by her disappearance. Someone had to be focused on this deranged killer before he struck again.
Her hands moved up to chafe her chilly arms as she thought about the brutal crime scenes from the past week. Guilt plagued her when she considered that her discomfort was nothing compared to what those victims had endured at the hands of some psychotic monster. What had made him choose those particular victims?
Only two that she was aware of were connected to Viktor Azariel. Could the others have been involved with him on some level she hadn’t discovered yet? Could she trust anything he told her? Common sense told her he would leave out anything incriminating.
One thing was certain—she couldn’t do anything from here. She surveyed the cramped room once more.
Frustration fired through her. Surely Hunter would come back. He wouldn’t leave her here like this.
Then again, maybe he would.
The grind of the key in the lock had her wheeling toward the door.
He was back.
Relief flooded her, but trepidation followed right on its heels. He was far bigger than her. Did she even stand a chance escaping? At least he’d come back. She should be thankful for that at least, she supposed, but the only emotion she could muster was fury. It burned away any misgivings she’d experienced.
Feet spread shoulder width apart, she adopted a defensive stance as he pushed the door inward.
The instant her eyes verified that it was, indeed, Hunter, some rogue cell misfired and her self-defense mode shifted into offense. She had to get out of here, one way or another.
With that in mind, she slugged him. Put every ounce of weight she had into the punch.
He staggered.
Pain splintered up her arm. Her fingers throbbed.
But, damn, it felt good.
Victory withered and died in the next instant.
He held on to the door as if that was all that kept him vertical. The bag he’d been carrying dropped to the floor. His breathing heaved in and out erratically, but the one thing that unnerved her the most was his attempt to restrain the soft grunts of pain.
She’d hurt him.
Really hurt him.
Damn.
Part of her wanted to make a run for it while he was down for the count, but the part of her that still cared for him couldn’t do it. She reached out to him. He flinched when her hand landed on his arm. She drew back, anger almost overtaking her softer emotions again. What was with that? Did he despise her touch that much? Or was he concerned she would attempt another assault on him?
Where was that big tough guy she’d come to know?
He straightened. Visibly pulled himself back together. “Your dog is fine,” he said, his voice weary, breathless. “I took care of her needs.” He kicked the bag on the floor toward her. “I brought this for you.”
He’d taken care of Princess and what had she done? She’d slugged him. Her first instinct was to apologize. God, he seemed so vulnerable. This was Hunter…how was that possible? But three years of bitterness overrode that initial instinct and she grabbed the bag and backed away from him without so much as a thank-you.
“I need a bathroom.” Good thinking, she told herself. Just get out of this room. Forget all the other stuff clamoring for her attention.
Truth was, she could use a bathroom.
He stepped back from the door. “This way.” He gestured to his left.
Rowen eased out into a dimly lit corridor. She looked around, determined that the bedroom was above the first level, maybe even the second, of wherever the hell they were.
“Next door on your right,” he told her.
She nodded and moved in that direction. If he let her go in alone, there could be items in there that she could use as weapons. Hurting him again wasn’t her goal, but if that’s what it took…
Anticipation influenced the rhythm of her heart as she closed and locked the door behind her. She had to get out of here.
Blinds filtered the natural light from the small window near the toilet. She dropped the bag and slipped over to it, parted the blinds and peered out.
She was on a third floor, she decided after judging the distance down to the ground. No trees or roof structures for jumping out onto, assuming she could wiggle through the cramped opening.
It was daylight, but still early. The grass and trees looked damp with morning dew. Assuming she hadn’t slept through a full twenty-four hour period, she might not be missed at all yet.
The area around her prison was wooded for as far as she could see. There were no distinctive features that lent even a remote clue as to where the hell she might be. She didn’t recognize a damned thing.
But what little she’d learned helped. She had an idea of her distance from the city—well outside Boston proper. Without a vehicle, she was likely trapped, even if she did manage to get away from the house.
After searching the bathroom and finding nothing, she took care of nature’s call and then washed her face. The bag still sat on the floor where she’d left it. She reached down and retrieved it, only then recognizing it as an overnight bag from her own closet.
Inside she found two pair of jeans, three blouses, sneakers, socks and toiletries. She pulled out a clean pair of panties and she was instantly transported back to three years ago. He’d been the handsomest man she’d ever met. Attentive, intriguing. Just damned interesting. She’d been infatuated with him immediately.
But he’d walked away. Left her to deal with how deeply she’d fallen for him.
She didn’t want him touching her or her things.
Anger clicked her bitterness switch and she suddenly wanted to slug him again, just to see if she could hurt him the way he’d hurt her. It wasn’t bad enough he’d turned her world upside down three years ago; he had to show up now and hold her hostage. Obviously he’d intended to keep her here awhile, judging by the items he’d packed.
Allowing her anger to build and smolder, she took her time, washed up, pulled on fresh clothes, then brushed her hair. She didn’t usually wear makeup, so it didn’t matter that he hadn’t brought any.
She bundled up the gown and undies she’d shed and stuffed them into the bag. She left bag and all on the chair next to the porcelain sink and opened the door, determined to find a way to escape her jailer.
“Did you find everything you needed?” he asked as she stepped into the hall where he waited. She couldn’t be sure if the question was sincere or if he wanted her to know he realized what she’d been doing rummaging around in there.
“Everything but my Glock,” she told him frankly. “If I had it, I could end this right now.”
He showed no outward reaction to her remark. She wondered if he still carried a weapon. What was she thinking? Of course he did. This was Hunter. Ace special agent. That coat could conceal several weapons.
“There’s food downstairs if you’d like to eat.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “Sure. I want to keep up my strength. I’m going to need it when I take you down, Hunter.
Because you are going down for this.”
Again, he chose not to respond. But since he was on to her machinations, he now insisted she go first when they descended the stairs.
The first staircase was narrow and led straight down. The door at the bottom opened into a second hallway at the end, of which a more traditional staircase led down to a first-floor entry hall.
Judging by the wood trim, floors and architecture, the house was at least a century old. But that didn’t tell her anything. There were tons of old houses just like this in the Boston area. The woods that surrounded the property gave far more information. She wondered if they were in the Berkshires near Azariel’s estate, but she couldn’t be sure.
Like the bedroom where she’d been held prisoner, the rest of the house was spartanly furnished. The absolute bare essentials. The smell of the place suggested that it stayed closed up a good portion of the time.
In contrast to her kitchen back home, this one hadn’t been revamped since it had been built, but it looked clean enough. A rental, she decided. Summer rental, considering the lingering odor of disuse.
A sandwich and soup waited for her. The packaging indicated it had been purchased at a deli near her home. That the soup was still warm surprised her. Maybe they weren’t so far from the city. She’d tried to get a look out the windows she had passed en route to the kitchen, but all were shrouded in heavy draperies.
Speaking of shrouded, the fact that Hunter still wore that long black coat and the dark glasses tugged at her curiosity.
As much as she wanted to be rid of him, especially at the moment, she also wanted desperately to know what had happened to him.
For now, she ate. Strength was necessary for what lay ahead of her. She didn’t need to be distracted by hunger pains or the weakness that went hand in hand with going without proper nourishment.
As she finished off the soup, she suddenly pondered the idea that he could have put more drugs in there. Her hand paused halfway to her mouth. She should have thought of that sooner. He’d no doubt drugged her in order to get her here.
Her gaze drifted to Hunter, who was sitting directly across the table watching her. Why the hell hadn’t she thought of that already? Where were her usually dependable instincts?
“There’s nothing in your food,” he said, reading her mind as effectively as if she’d asked the question aloud.
Annoyed at his ability to read her so thoroughly, and still ravenous, she devoured the rest of the sandwich. She wished she could see his eyes. She could feel him watching her and she didn’t like that he hid his thoughts from her so well when she couldn’t do the same.
When she’d finished eating, she cleaned up, all under his watchful gaze, despite her inability to see his eyes. He followed her movements and that was indication enough that his complete attention was on her.
“Now can we talk?” she asked. He’d remained silent, save for that one statement, throughout the course of her meal.
She needed answers. She needed to know what had possessed a man who had once been a highly respected agent in the Bureau to kidnap an officer of the law, ultimately preventing her from working on an ongoing case. A high-profile one at that—with five murder victims.
“I won’t change my mind,” he warned, his mouth firm with resolve.
Dammit, she’d give most anything to see his eyes. To read what he was thinking.
Surely the man she’d loved so desperately hadn’t turned into some sort of madman.
“I want to see your eyes, Hunter.”
Somehow the words had come out of her with more neediness than she wanted him to hear…but it was too late to worry about it now.
For half a dozen frantic beats of her heart, she wasn’t sure he intended to respond, but then he stood. “Come with me.”
She wanted to look for a knife, anything with which to defend herself, but there was no time…and, quite honestly, it felt wrong. Completely wrong.
There was no way Hunter wanted to hurt her. Whatever he was doing, he felt compelled to do in order to protect her. Barring, of course, the idea that he had suffered some sort of mental breakdown.
He showed her the way to what appeared to be a parlor or den. Dark, shadowy…very much like the man. The windows were scarcely distinguishable from the walls, both were clad in a deep mahogany hue, almost a black.
He closed the double doors that led into the entry hall and Rowen couldn’t help a shudder. The smell of age and mustiness dredged up images of past lives and ghosts who purportedly haunted houses like this.
Now she was falling victim to the Halloween craze. Just what she needed.
She waited in the middle of the room, standing, though the usual conversational grouping of a sofa and two chairs flanked a fireplace. She didn’t want to sit, needed to be ready in the event an opportunity presented itself.
When Hunter turned to face her, she looked to him expectantly. She didn’t understand his hesitation. Was he scarred? Was that the reason for the heavy clothing? Had his vision been affected somehow?
The thought of the kind of scars fire could leave behind and the subsequent tenderness made her wince inwardly at the idea that she’d hurt him…purposely hurt him. Had he suffered some devastating accident? Fire could have damaged his vision, as well.
She swallowed, her throat tight with indecision. She didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or to be angry as hell at his impudence.
Slowly, his hands moved up to his face and he removed the concealing eyewear. Evan blinked a couple of times but with the room this dimly lit, it wasn’t intolerable.
Rowen stared at him, waiting to see what he would reveal.
He settled his gaze on her now, let her see what she would. What he saw was very nearly his undoing. The glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes, the distant hope for something he refused to broach. There was a time when he had loved looking at her. So beautiful, even now, in well-worn jeans and a simple tee. She would have been even more beautiful naked…he remembered well how she looked. Dreamed of her often.
But such dreams were a mistake. Only made his existence more unendurable.
She moved closer. His heart reacted, sending the resulting tremors of angst through his soul.
“Your eyes look…the same,” she said after a thorough scrutiny. “Why do you wear those glasses?”
He shoved the eyewear into his coat pocket and mulled over how best to approach this answer.
“You can see all right, can’t you?”
“I see perfectly.” He did. He saw the way she looked at him. Rowen would have him believe that she hated him now and some part of her did. She was bitter and resentful of the time they had shared and how much it had cost her. But she still cared for him. He ached to foster that…to hold her as he had before. But that would only condemn them both to the hell he’d awoken to three years ago. That was why he hadn’t returned to her…why he never could. And he had paid dearly for that decision. But his own pain in no way assuaged his guilt for having hurt her.
He should never have come back…but she’d needed him. Rowen simply didn’t understand it yet.
She moved nearer still. He braced for what she would say or whatever sudden attempt she might make to escape him.
“Your face looks just like before,” she said softly, her eyes still studying him.
Then she reached up…he drew back.
Her hand fell away and she shook her head, fury kindling in her eyes. “Why do you do that?”
The pain behind the anger in her voice twisted his insides into knots of agony. She misunderstood his dread of her touch.
“Contact is uncomfortable for me,” he admitted, his tone guttural with his own pain, part physical, part mental. How could he do this to himself? Bringing her here like this…being with her was like being poleaxed over and over again. Like her, he still had feelings, feelings he had kept carefully compartmentalized. Until now. Until this moment, when he wanted so desperately to touch her.
“So i
f I touch you in any way it hurts?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
She clasped her hands behind her back as if she feared her inability to restrain them, then moistened her lips. “Then I’ll be careful not to do that.” She inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. When I slugged you it must have been—”
“It doesn’t hurt now,” he hastened to assure her. He didn’t want her feeling guilty for any of this. It wasn’t her fault.
She closed her eyes and visibly fought her emotions. “Hunter.” She opened those beautiful honey-brown eyes once more and looked deeply into his. “Tell me what happened to you.”
“There was an explosion,” he explained. “The rest of my team was killed. I survived, but there were side effects from the intense trauma.”
“You had some sort of brain injury?” she prodded, logic leading her.
“Yes. Senses heightened to the point of pain. My hearing in particular. Something as simple as a breaking glass can be excruciating.”
She nodded her understanding, remembering the incident in her kitchen. “There’s nothing they can do?”
“A partial lobotomy,” he said derisively, “but the risk of being turned into a living vegetable was an even worse scenario, so I refused.”
“It must be awful for you.” She considered what he’d told her for a few moments, then asked, “Is this why you didn’t come back?”
His heart started to race. He tried to slow it, but it was no use. The sound of his own blood roaring through his veins was deafening, but even that could not detract from how badly he wanted to tell her…to see the forgiveness in her eyes. But that would be wrong. He knew Rowen too well. She would stick by him in spite of his curse. Then her life would be doomed to this hell as surely as his own was.
He cleared all emotion from his eyes and let her believe the lie he uttered to be truth. “No. I made that decision before the accident happened. There was no room in my life for commitment.”
She drew back with the impact of his words. Hurt filled her eyes before she blinked it away. She’d wanted to believe that she finally had a justifiable reason for the way he’d walked away and he’d snatched it from her—for her own good. Just as his holding her here was for her own safety.
