by Rachel Lee
“And that’s when the trouble began.”
She nodded, compressing her lips. “It all seems so clear now. I just wonder how I could have been blind to it for so long.”
“Apparently, despite his best efforts, he didn’t turn you into a windup doll.”
“No.” She sighed and shook her head. “Not quite.” Looking down she realized that she had hardly touched her sandwich, and that her stomach was rumbling. She was being rude not to eat the meal he’d provided, and she would get awfully hungry as they worked that afternoon if she ate nothing.
She picked it up and forced herself to take a bite, even though it now tasted almost like sawdust. “I think,” she said when she swallowed, “I’ve just told you more about the last eight years than I’ve told anyone else.”
“It’s hard to talk to people who keep telling you how lucky you are.”
She looked at him. “Where did you get that from?”
“From something you said your first night here. Something about how you did all right for yourself.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, I heard a lot of that.”
“That makes it kind of hard to complain.”
“It does.” And somehow she sensed that he knew that intimately. But she was afraid to say anything, to ask anything. These moments were precious for her because she’d finally been able to talk to someone besides herself, and she didn’t want to shatter the moments of intimacy by barging into things he’d prefer to have left alone.
But the man was a mystery. That much was becoming clear to her.
Then another thought occurred to her. “I probably should apologize for dumping all that on you.” And she should probably be embarrassed for exposing herself so much to a stranger. What was it about him that made her run on about things she’d kept securely locked inside her own head?
It’s not as if he was a therapist or anything.
“I don’t mind listening,” he said as he finished his sandwich. “I was just sitting here thinking how easy it is for us to make the kind of mistakes you’re talking about. I’ve made my own share. The thing is, you shouldn’t beat yourself up for what you can look back and see now. You sure didn’t see it back then.”
“No, I didn’t. But I keep thinking I should have.”
He smiled slightly, but it crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Tell me what little girl didn’t grow up hoping Prince Charming would find her at the ball.”
His words struck her, making her catch her breath. “You think that’s what it was?”
“I think that story is probably at the back of every girl’s mind—consciously or not. And it’s understandable. Maybe Prince Charming won’t be rich, maybe he won’t ride a white horse or whatever, but I’m sure most little girls think their prince is going to come. So there you were, the handsome, wealthy doctor showered you with attention. No reason to think it was about your beauty, because, as you said, he was surrounded by beautiful women. Why would you stick out for him? Because you were young? Partly. Because you weren’t his work product? I’m sure. Then there’s this whole power thing a guy feels with a much younger beauty on his arm. But you were just twenty and your dreams seemed to be coming true. Why would you be looking under rocks for his midlife crisis?”
“Wow.” She breathed the word. Then she felt a huge rush of warmth toward him. “Thanks, Hank. You’re a nice guy. A really nice guy.”
“Why? Because I can see that a young, naive girl was hornswoggled by an older, much more experienced man with a bunch of personal issues? The thing to keep reminding yourself, Kelly, is why you married him. Was it for love, or was it for his money?”
“I loved him,” she said. “I really thought I loved him. At the time I’d have married him if he hadn’t had a dime.”
“Then I guess you don’t have one damn thing to apologize for.” He paused. “Didn’t he have you sign a prenup?”
“Prenuptial agreement? No, he never even suggested it.”
His face darkened. “Then it’s entirely possible he never intended to let you leave that marriage. At least not alive.”
Sometimes a thought just wouldn’t leave you alone. And from the instant that Hank had mentioned a prenuptial agreement—so common these days—and learned that Dean had never suggested it, his mind went to places so dark he was surprised they even existed inside him.
Given her description of Dean’s controlling behavior, the lack of a prenup stood out like a flashing warning sign on a lonely road. The man was old enough, and controlling enough, that he wouldn’t have overlooked such a thing unless he was sure Kelly would never be able to take him to the cleaners in court. Because Hank found it hard to believe that Dean had been anywhere near as in love as Kelly had been. She was right: Other than sex, why would a twenty-year-old appeal to a man of his age, experience and stature?
He had wanted a trophy wife, and he hadn’t felt any need to protect himself financially from divorce, alimony or settlements. That either meant he felt he’d sheltered enough of his assets, or it meant he’d been sure he could get rid of her if she became a problem.
Given what Kelly had said, it appeared Dean had been sure he could get rid of her.
He hobbled into his tiny den and sat at his computer to check his email. At last there was a response from his friend in the Denver PD. Yup, there’d been a report filed about a mugging involving Kelly Scanlon Devereaux—so she hadn’t given him her married name, only her maiden name. Smart. Maybe. Or maybe not.
The report listed it as a kidnapping and mugging at canal-side, detailing streets and intersections that meant nothing to Hank, and physical injuries: mild concussion from a blow to the head and some bruising. He skipped the photos taken of Kelly and tried to glean more information.
The description of the mugger was vague. The cops accurately reported that he’d snatched her from her parking garage, and that she’d claimed that her husband might have tried to have her killed.
Just the cold, hard facts. There’d been a bulletin put out to look for a man who met Kelly’s description, but no one had yet been found. Kelly would probably be astonished to know that the cops had even interviewed Dean, who apparently had expressed the proper amount of horror because it was noted that the investigating officers had no reason to suspect him. Basically, nothing Kelly hadn’t already told him.
His friend in Denver had appended his own thoughts. “Just so you know, accusations like this aren’t rare, but they almost never pan out. Most likely the cops told Devereaux that he’d better hope nothing happened to his wife because he’d be at the top of their suspect list. I’ve said that a few times myself. Just to be safe.”
Just as he would have expected. Devereaux had been warned that they were looking at him. Unfortunately, that might be a bad thing, depending on the kind of man Dean was. Most folks who intended no harm would stay miles away from the victim after a warning like that. Other people, however, might just want to get even and finish it. And Kelly’s going on the run would make it even easier, because who would put it together if she were now to die in an out-of-the-way town in Wyoming?
Nobody, that’s who. Nobody at all.
And now it might even be easier, because while it would have to look like an accident in Miami, here in Conard City it wouldn’t have to.
He leaned back in his chair, ignoring the grinding-glass sensation in his hip, and turned it all around in his mind. The blackness that filled him was not unlike the blackness that had filled him when he’d finally awakened after his last fire and learned what had happened.
Or maybe in some way it was even worse this time, because this time he had advance warning.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, he was going to find out just how many breadcrumbs Kelly might have left behind her. Because he was sure she had left some.
And then, dammit, he was going to hunt down Ben and find out what the hell he’d been doing renting the house in that condition.
But even as he sat there, Hank knew. Her beauty. Her aura o
f vulnerability. It would take a far better man than Ben to say no to that blond, blue-eyed beauty.
He cussed quietly, and closed his eyes, trying to tamp down the response his body insisted on giving him every time he thought of Kelly or glanced at her.
He’d probably go to sleep tonight and dream of her. Sexual dreams. Because he wanted her—no two ways about it. Straight, simple, basic. Lust.
She deserved better than that.
But he was going to dream about her anyway, because his body was making demands and sending powerful signals to his brain.
He guessed that meant in some way he was no better than Dean Devereaux. No better at all.
Disgusted, he poured himself a shot of bourbon and tried to think of something else. Anything else.
Because he already despised himself enough.
Chapter 5
Kelly felt sick to her stomach. Thinking over her conversation with Hank had only made her more frightened. That thing he’d said about the prenup—he was right. She knew how attached Dean was to money and all the power and prestige it gave him.
So that lack of a prenup probably meant exactly what Hank had said—that Dean had been sure he would never face her in divorce court.
She might not have a medical background, but after eight years of working in a medical practice, she had some idea of how easily a doctor could arrange for something to go wrong.
But, of course, Dean wouldn’t do it himself. She was young and healthy, not a patient on his table. But she wouldn’t doubt that somewhere in the back of his mind was the knowledge of how easy it would have been to remove her later in life, whether because he wanted a younger trophy wife or she just became a problem.
For a long time she hadn’t been a problem, and that sickened her, too. Stars in her eyes, her mother would have said. Her mother would have been right. She’d been so overwhelmed, so awed, so in love, so dazzled…she’d been as compliant as a doll. All she wanted to do was please Dean. Keep him happy, make him proud of his wife.
Perfectly natural. And the women around her, all in similar boats, had pretty much reinforced that attitude.
At some point, though, she had begun to feel that she was trading too much to keep Dean happy. Why should it matter whether she wore the red dress or the blue one? Why should it matter if she went a half hour at breakfast without makeup if no one else was going to see her?
First had come the yelling. He said things that wounded her so badly she hadn’t dared fight back. Things that made her afraid to risk riling him again. Things that cut away at her self-confidence. Things that had made her meek and eager to please him, rather than face his wrath.
Her friends were more cynical about their relationships with their wealthy husbands. They knew they were making a trade-off: security in exchange for being beautiful and compliant. Many of them had even become Dean’s patients at a rather young age, worrying about every little line or slight sag in their bodies.
But Kelly hadn’t gotten cynical. At first she just told herself that Dean worked hard, that he was a gifted artist in the medical profession. Naturally, he was a bit temperamental—many surgeons were—and what did it cost her, after all, to do everything the way he wanted?
But finally, over the last two years, when he’d gone past yelling at her to hitting her, some spark had awakened in her. Some realization that the man didn’t love her. That to him she was an object—no better than a dog. Maybe not even as important. Dean, she finally realized, didn’t care one whit about what Kelly might want or need. She was just another possession.
Unlike her friends, she didn’t think it was enough to attend swank parties, eat at the best restaurants, play golf and tennis in her free time. Maybe because she had never stopped working in Dean’s office.
In retrospect, it seemed odd that he hadn’t turned her into a housewife, but maybe he liked being sure he could control her every minute of the day. Or maybe her presence at the office protected him from embarrassing moments with some of his patients. God knew, she’d seen enough of them look at him with hunger once he’d transformed them into the beauties they wanted to be.
She’d never wondered about it. It just was. Dean coddled the women who came to him, made them feel as if each of them was his most important patient while he charged them through the nose and their wealthy husbands paid for it.
So, of course, they mistook his bedside manner for something more. One thing she knew for sure about him—he never got mixed up with patients. His staff maybe, but never his patients.
Finally, during those last few months, around the third time he hit her, she had started taking a course in self-defense. And she didn’t tell him about it. All she knew was that she was determined to get to the point where if he ever hit her again she could protect herself.
But it hadn’t gotten to that point. The last time he hit her, something in her snapped. As soon as he’d gone out for his golf game in the morning, she had packed a few things and left.
Enough.
And now this. Now she was truly frightened. Oh, she tried to tell herself that she’d run long enough and far enough that he could never find her, but some part of her couldn’t be sure.
Some part of her no longer felt safe. Probably the same part of her that no longer fully trusted her own judgment about things.
After all, if she could have been so wrong about Dean, how could she know what else she was wrong about?
No prenup. Those words chilled her. She so feared that Hank was right. Dean, so canny about financial matters, so careful about feathering his nest and increasing his wealth, wouldn’t have overlooked something like that.
And if she’d remained compliant, they might well have lived out another thirty years just the same way.
God. She shuddered just thinking about it.
She had been on her way to becoming a Stepford Wife. So close. Closing her eyes, she wondered what it was that had awakened her from the spell.
Because when she looked back, she honestly couldn’t understand any of it at all.
Hank had plenty to think about come morning, and it wasn’t all about working on the house next door, although he really needed to finish caulking the new windows before it rained.
No, he was thinking about Kelly, as he seemed to be doing entirely too much lately. Now that his male urges had been fully awakened, he found his thoughts too often drifting to her, and his eyes too often drifting over her body.
She had a cute rump as she knelt on the floor working at pulling away old vinyl tiles.
He’d considered just laying fresh vinyl over the old, but when he looked at the torn, ragged and tacked-down stuff, he couldn’t bring himself to leave it. Especially since he was sure there was wood under it, although he had no idea what condition it was in.
But this house was old enough that it probably had been built with solid wood floors, unlike newer houses that were built with cheap subflooring meant to be covered by carpet.
What was the worst that could happen, he wondered, as he tugged at the vinyl himself. That refinishing wouldn’t salvage it all? That he’d have to replace it with laminate, which people seemed to prefer these days anyway?
Then his gaze drifted back to Kelly. Her arms were bare as she worked and he could see muscles bunching, a sign of a lot of exercise of one kind or another. She took care of herself. Whether she had done it because she wanted to or because her husband had demanded it, he had no idea, but he’d already figured out that she wasn’t afraid of hard work, and he liked that.
Along with the way she looked, of course. It was impossible not to see her stretch and reach and crouch and just generally move without thinking about how all that loveliness would feel in his arms, against his body, writhing above him or below him.
He was too young still to be turning into a dirty old man, wasn’t he? But of course, these weren’t dirty-old-man thoughts. They were the normal thoughts of a fairly healthy male when surrounded by a beautiful woman’s presence and scents
.
Desperate to get his mind off the fact that there was a bed only a few dozen feet away, he came back to something that concerned him.
“How sure are you that you didn’t leave a trail?” he asked.
At that she stopped pulling at the tile. For a couple of seconds she froze, then she turned to face him, sitting on her butt, legs stretched out, her arms propping her from behind. An unfortunate choice of position from his perspective, since it seemed to accentuate her breasts. Full, perfect breasts, from what he could tell, not too big, not to small.
He closed his eyes a moment and silently yelled at himself.
“Truthfully,” she said finally, “I’m not sure.”
His eyes snapped open. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly that. I’m not sure. I mean, I thought I was being very careful. But these days you can’t always get by without showing ID.”
Too true, he thought. He knew all the new precautions from Homeland Security. “I know. You practically can’t use a public restroom anymore.”
At that she smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I thought buses would be pretty anonymous, and mostly they were. I paid cash for my tickets, but sometimes they wanted ID anyway. Not every time, just some of the time. Then there were motels. The really, really bad ones just let you sign in, but you’d be surprised how hard they are to find. So sometimes I had to use ID there too.”
“Did they write it down?”
“A few times.”
“Phone calls?”
“I only made a few, to my lawyer. He should be safe enough.”
“He should.”
His knees and hips were hurting, so he tried sitting cross-legged. Didn’t help much, but little did. “Okay, so you weren’t completely off the grid.”
“No, but I think, I hope, things were scattered enough that I’d be hard to follow. It wasn’t like I was making a beeline in some direction. I just bounced this way and that.”
