“No,” she whispered.
Rebecca squeezed her hand. “I’m okay.”
No, honey, you’re not. But Isabelle knew she’d get nothing out of her. That alone made her ill, but there was nothing she could do. Not with Seth hovering. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Isabelle nodded, straightened up and left the kitchen because, after staring into those dead eyes, she’d just glimpsed her past.
Peter snatched his cell phone off the dresser. Izzy’s number. “Hey.”
“He did something to her,” she said in a rush of words that instantly set Peter on edge.
He closed his eyes, concentrated on slowing his heart rate. “What are you talking about?”
“Rebecca ran off and we all went looking for her. Courtney went with me, Seth and Mary Beth went in the other car. They found her first, brought her home, but she’s inside shivering. She’s practically in the fetal position. I know he did something to her and I want to kill him.”
The words flew at Peter and he took one, two, three deep breaths. Calm.
But Izzy was seriously hopped up. And he couldn’t get to her. Nor could she leave the compound. Not with that girl possibly in danger.
Izzy was on her own.
The alpha dog’s nightmare scenario. Right here. “Where are you?”
“On the front lawn. I had to get out of there. Peter, you should see her. She’s a mess. I couldn’t see any bruises, but I know something happened to her. What can I do? How do I get her to talk to me?”
“Whoa, hang on. You are way too strung out. If you go at her, she’ll get scared and clam up.”
“I don’t know what it is…The way Seth just stood there, not caring that a pregnant teenager was shivering made me nuts. I saw Creepy Izzy in her eyes, Peter.” She drew a hard breath. “I saw what you see and I hate it. Kendrick and this man did something to her.”
Kendrick? WTF? “Iz, you need to calm down. Right now. Close your eyes and get your shit together because if you go back into that house this way, you will screw up.”
Peter, his head throbbing, covered the phone with his hand and spun back to Billy. “Something is fucked-up over there.”
“Don’t you get nuts,” Billy said. “You’ve got that psycho Monk look. Chill.”
“Peter, I have to go. Seth is coming outside.”
“Iz, don’t hang—”
The line went dead.
Crap. “Izzy?”
Listening to nothing, Peter lost it. That same boiling anger that triggered the beating to Billy snapped at him. Teased him. Poked him. Insisted he set the beast free.
“Oh, son of a bitch,” Billy said. “Here we go again. You touch me and I’ll lay you to waste.”
Peter stepped back. Then moved sideways. Then back the other way. Just random, haphazard movement. Anything to vent the rage filling him, because he was so fucking useless. He couldn’t help Izzy. He’d let an emotionally tortured woman go into a place where who knew what kind of sexual depravity existed.
And for her, that would be suicide.
He made a move for the door, but Billy jumped in front of him. Made himself one hell of a big, tempting target.
“Forget it,” he said. “You’ll blow this whole thing if you go there. Let her work it out.”
But the rage kept coming, coming, coming, and Peter stepped back. He needed to hit something and unleash the insanity devouring him. He opened his mouth, sucked huge gulps of air. Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him.
“Work it out,” Billy said, tossing a pillow at him.
Peter clutched the pillow between his hands, curled his fingers into its softness and squeezed until his body quaked. He needed to destroy something. Go absolutely fucking apeshit and get rid of this pummeling agony. Total nutcase. Suddenly, feathers flew into the air, just—poof!—because, apparently, he’d ripped the pillow in half.
Feathers floated on the air and Billy put his hands on his hips. “I’m not cleaning this shit up.”
But Peter stared down at the remaining halves of the pillow still in his hands. His straining muscles quivered and he released the tension in his arms, let the assassinated pillow fall to the floor. Wow.
Then his phone rang, the sound piercing the turmoil in his brain before he saw Izzy’s name on the screen. He fumbled and punched the button while his pulse triple-timed. “Are you okay? Don’t ever hang up like that. Leave your phone on so I know what’s happening.”
“Shhh! I have to hurry. Seth apologized. He’s trying to put me off. No chance. I’m heading inside to check on Rebecca.”
Peter pounded a fist against his head. “Listen, you need to take a couple of minutes before you go back in. Settle down some. Please.”
“I will. I’ll feel better when you’re here.”
Peter glanced down at the mangled pillow. “Yeah. Me too.”
“I need to go, but I’m okay. Really.”
“Call if you need me.”
He hung up, tossed the phone on the bed and dropped onto it himself. Feathers leaped into the air, a not-so-subtle reminder of what an insane asshole he was. He dug his fingers into his head. Too much pressure.
“Dude,” Billy said. “You gotta stop thinking you can save everyone. Izzy is a smart girl. She’s a survivor. And if you don’t quit trying to control a situation that’s beyond your control, you’ll give yourself a coronary. And get her hurt.”
Peter reclined his aching, spent body and spread his arms wide. “You may find this hard to believe, but you’re right. I don’t know how to stop though.”
“It’s simple. Stop trying to control every damned thing.”
Peter snorted. It sounds simple.
Chapter Thirty-One
Isabelle pulled into the gravel parking lot of the so-called regional airport, an airstrip really. The morning sun’s rays danced over the steering wheel and her twitchy hands.
Right now, all she needed was to set eyes on Peter in one of his nutty do-rag-combat boot ensembles. Some sense of normalcy would help the hollow agitation she’d been experiencing the past two days.
She spotted him sitting under the overhang of the office, his arms stretched casually across the back of the bench, and the voice in her head said yes. Peter made everything in her life easier.
She knew he had been sitting there for almost an hour. Billy had dropped him off early because they didn’t want to chance Isabelle being followed and someone seeing Peter getting out of the car rather than a private plane.
Peter rose from the bench, straightened his slacks—dress clothes—grabbed his duffle and jacket. He smiled that million-dollar smile and all Isabelle wanted was to get her hands on him.
She loved him in his quirky do-rag outfits, but seeing him in tailored black slacks and a French cuffed shirt kicked her heart into overdrive.
Hot, hot, hot.
Steamy hot.
Like her body had gone through an incinerator.
She punched the air conditioner up as he opened the door and tossed his duffle and jacket into the back seat. Normalcy. Maybe normalcy meant Peter. Regardless of what he wore. Her stomach dropped.
“Hey,” he said.
Unable to keep from touching him, she popped the release button on her seatbelt, leaned over the console and kissed him until her toes curled. Her midsection caught fire when he started that sweeping thing with his tongue and slid his hands under her shirt. The rough texture of his fingers glided over her back, made her think of the night at the motel and what it felt like to have those fingers inside her.
The voice in her head again whispered yes. Fun Izzy.
But Creepy Izzy burst forward. Don’t give yourself over.
Controlling the physical and emotional with Peter was becoming a hassle. Particularly after the I-think-I-love-you-thing. Did she even know what she was doing anymore? She backed away from him before she climbed over the console and did him right there in the airport lot.
“I’m guessing you wer
en’t followed,” he said, his eyes sparkling, “because if you were, they just got a good show.”
She grinned at him and rebuckled her seat belt. “I wasn’t followed. On these quiet roads I would have noticed. Plus, I explored a little bit and found a dirt road in the middle of a farm that’s in foreclosure. I would definitely have spotted someone.”
“Izzy, you’re getting good at this.”
She put the car in gear, gave him a head to toe once-over. “Buckle up. And, can I just say, you are sizzling today?”
He laughed. “Is this your way of trying to get me to dress up more?”
“Not at all. I’m just wondering if you and Billy went shopping yesterday.”
“Hell no. I don’t buy dress clothes off the rack. I had Vic overnight me some stuff from my closet.”
He doesn’t buy his clothes off the rack. That cracked her up and, after the drama of the night before, it felt so good to laugh. “How very blue blood of you.”
She floored the gas pedal, and the tires spun against the gravel parking lot. The country roads made driving a whole lot more fun because she could push the pedal.
“Hey,” Peter said, “I’m a guy who paid twelve ninety-nine for his last pair of shorts, so don’t think I’m a snob. I’m not comfortable in dress clothes. If I’m going to wear them, I’m getting them made for my body. I don’t want to think about if they fit right. Plus, people won’t look at me funny because I have the wrong shirt on with my pants.”
This from a man who wore combat boots with his shorts. Isabelle glanced over at him, but quickly brought her eyes back to the road. Only Peter could be secure enough to admit his weakness with dress clothes. “I hope you never stop surprising me. I love that about you.”
He gave her a happy grin. “I am who I am, babe.”
Fine with her. As long as he kept kissing her and rubbing those big hands over her like he just did.
Oh, boy. She shouldn’t have gone there because, yes, the itching in her legs started again.
What the hell?
This could not be happening. No. No. No. Her body was not craving this man. No sirree. Her mind always decided on sex. Always. No fair changing the plan. She didn’t need a man. Men were tools. A means to an end. When she wanted sex, she got sex. Sometimes it was good, sometimes not, but that was before Peter Jessup marched into her life and screwed the whole thing up.
Damn him.
Panic crawled up her body gobbling all remnants of rational thought along the way. Her chest collapsed and she gripped the steering wheel harder.
Concentrate. Flip the switch.
She came upon the abandoned farm, pressed the brake and swung a hard left onto the dirt road in the middle of an open field.
“Whoa,” Peter said. “I love a good ride, but let’s not get killed in the process.”
The crumbling barn she’d spied on the trip out came into view and she braked again, turned onto the patch of dirt in front of the barn and, because the doors were thrown open—a sign from the universe for sure—she drove straight in and slammed the car into park.
Peter snorted a laugh and looked at her like she’d just run naked through a nursing home. “Nice barn?”
For what she needed, yes it was.
She left the car running, climbed over the console and straddled him as the blast from the air conditioner hit the back of her thighs. Her micro-miniskirt dug into her and she hiked it up. Peter drew his eyebrows together and backed away, but the seat kept him from going anywhere.
“Iz?”
“Don’t start yammering at me.” She reached down and started on his belt buckle. “I don’t want to hear about Creepy Izzy or Fun Izzy because I don’t know who the hell I am right now. It’s all jumbled in my head, and it’s your fault.” She stripped the belt from him, tossed it to the backseat and started on his pants. The sudden swell of his erection poked at her inner thigh.
Oh, yes. Come to mama.
He grabbed her wrists, but she yanked free, caught sight of his wild, freaked-out eyes and fisted his shirt in her hands. “I need you. With you it feels good and I need to feel good. Now. Right. Now.” She gripped his shirt tighter. “Can you do this for me?”
“Iz?”
“What?”
“You’re wrinkling my shirt.”
Tears flooded her eyes and she pounded on his chest. “Screw the shirt. I know you think I’m crazy. Maybe I am, but I can’t do this anymore. Nothing in my world is in my control and I hate it. But I need to get rid of this panic and you are the only person that does that for me. I hate you for that. I hate you for throwing my life upside down and making me think I need you. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
She smacked him on the chest again, but he sat there calm as could be. How incredibly humiliating that she should fall apart.
Over a man. A man that would probably eviscerate her.
Then the stupid, blasted sobbing started and she struggled to take a breath, one measly breath. That’s all she needed. But no. She couldn’t do this. Could. Not. Do. This. It hurt too much.
But then Peter whipped his arms around her, pulled her against him. “I know who you are. I know.”
She tried to push away, but he locked his hands together and held her close.
“Stop,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.” The warmth of his breath against her ear, that steady reassurance he was so good at, silenced her and she snuggled into him.
“It’s okay,” he said.
She inhaled, let it back out slow and dropped her head to his shoulder. “I need you inside me and I don’t want to be analyzed.”
“Iz?”
Dammit. “What?”
“I’m not…you know…prepared for this.”
The relief ravaged her and she sat up. “Condom?”
He nodded.
“I’ve got one.” She reached for her purse on the back seat.
He grinned and popped the seat to recline. “That’s what I love about you. Crazy as a loon, but always prepared.”
“Shut up and get your pants off.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He lifted his hips, slid his pants down, then shoved his hands under her skirt and helped her push her panties off. Sex in the front seat of a car, a small car, was no easy feat and she banged her knee against the doorframe. “Ow.”
“I’ll see if I can fix that for you.”
His fingers were suddenly inside her and she sucked in a breath, exhilarating in his touch. “Fix what?”
“Thought so.” But he pulled his fingers away—darn—so he could tend to the condom. Could he not multitask?
He grinned at her again. “Don’t be smug,” she said.
“I guess you riding me like a rodeo queen can come off my fantasy list.”
Oh, yes, she thought when he entered her, the mixture of his groan and her sigh filling the car and comingling with the radio. He dug his fingers into her thighs, pushing her down and she rocked her hips, needing him deeper and deeper until they reached that part of her that had been locked away so many years ago. The part she never knew she’d been waiting to offer someone.
She vanished in the feel of him, his body under hers, the wanting from both of them until her core caught fire. The coiling inside her began to unwind and everything, except the two of them loving each other, faded.
Peter’s hands went under her shirt and bra to her breasts. The chaotic spinning started over again and she groaned.
Too much.
Please let him be the one.
Rob Thomas’s voice from the radio floated around her. Something about being touched by a loving hand. Yes. Finally. A man that loved her.
Peter closed his eyes, “Ah, shit. I can’t wait.”
She smiled. “It’s okay.”
But he reached down, used his fingers to search for the spot that might send her over the edge. Please. Please. Let it happen.
A blast of sparking colors erupted around her. She dug her fingers into his shirt while
layer upon layer of pressure rose inside her. It climbed higher and higher until it reached her throat, captured her breath.
Let me be normal. Just once.
The breath she’d been holding blew apart. Her body turned liquid, and the kaleidoscope of colors erupted behind her eyes. A low, guttural moan sounded in her throat as her body and mind—yes, all of her—wrapped around the sensation of total release.
Finally.
Hot tears shot down her cheeks and she sat forward to get even closer and feel his breath on her skin. Please, no shame. This was too perfect for the shame.
Peter seized and cried out with the force of his own orgasm, and Isabelle snuck her hands under his shirt to the hot skin. She did this to him. This crazy, mind-blowing thing she couldn’t yet describe. “I love you.” She cuddled into him, and the scent of his soap lingered when he slipped his arms around her.
The kuh-kunk of his heartbeat bounced against her ear and she smiled. She’d finally made love to a man. Fun Izzy wasn’t a virgin anymore. And it couldn’t have been more perfect. Even if it did happen in a deserted barn that would probably collapse on them at any second. At least she’d die happy.
“I love this,” she said.
He laughed. “Me too.”
She sat up slowly to preserve the last few seconds of their bodies being joined. He grazed his finger down her cheek and kissed her with a tenderness that touched her soul.
“I’m terrified,” she said. “Should it feel like this?”
“Absolutely.”
Peter pulled his sunglasses off and whistled as Izzy turned into the compound’s driveway. This being his first up-close survey of the place, he wanted to sear it into his brain. The magnificent white Victorian, complete with covered porch and high turret, must have been five thousand-square-feet. The healthy shrubs surrounding the porch were obviously well cared for, and Peter wondered just how much cash Seth and Kendrick had dumped into this palace.
He glanced up and counted the windows on the first and second floor.
“Which room is yours?” he asked.
“Second floor. Third from the right. Although, you’ll be staying in that room and I’m moving in with Courtney. No more rooms at the inn.”
A Just Deception Page 23
