To Trust a Stranger

by Karen Robards

  One hand returned to grip her throat punishingly.

  “Give me any more trouble, and I’ll crush your throat and be done with it,” he said, then used his teeth to tear the tape from the roll. As he patted the strip down, his face was so close his oniony breath made her gag. His body, huge and smothering and ripe with BO, lay over hers, effectively rendering her helpless. Her heart pounded so hard she was surprised it didn’t burst through her chest. She panted with terror; her bruised throat was pulsing in and out like gills on a fish.

  Except for the light streaming from the open bathroom door the bedroom was dark, and his features were lost in shadows. But she could see the gleam in the eyes just inches from her own, the flash of his teeth against parted lips, the dark jut of his nose. . . .

  His nose.

  Savage as a cornered animal, Julie lunged upward and fastened her teeth on his nose and clamped down.

  She heard a crunch. Blood, warm and salty, spurted into her mouth.

  He howled, punching her viciously in the temple and throwing himself off her as her teeth were jarred loose by the stunning blow. Her head was knocked sideways. The room spun and she saw stars.

  It didn’t matter. Her fight-or-flight response was operating at full throttle now, and this time it screamed flight. She felt his weight shift and, spinning room and stars and all, she was off that bed as if propelled by industrial-strength springs, off the bed and bounding toward the door, running like Death himself was after her as she very much feared he was. She flew over the carpet and across the hardwood floor of the hall and down the slippery marble steps so fast that her feet barely touched ground, breathing in great ragged gasps that hurt her throat, her heart beating like the wings of a trapped bird, screaming like a thousand lost souls on their way to hell.

  “Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!”

  Oh, God, please let him not have his gun.

  Her shoulders scrunched in terrified expectation of a bullet in the back as she leaped down the last few stairs.

  “Come back here!”

  He was gaining on her, getting close, so close, grabbing for her, exuding so much fury and menace and evil that she could feel them like some huge trio of hounds snapping at her heels. Cold sweat poured from her body as it seemed to her that she was running in slow motion with the front door drawing ever farther away. The smell of him, oniony and rank, surrounded her. The rasp of his breathing filled her ears. The floor seemed to vibrate beneath her feet as he lumbered like some enormous, death-dealing monster in her wake.

  “Julie!”

  Mac’s voice shouting her name was the most welcome sound Julie had ever heard. It came from the direction of the kitchen. Screaming, Julie veered that way, scant inches ahead of the man behind her, her bare feet slipping and sliding over the cool slick marble of the entry hall, her bound hands stretching out in front of her, her fingers clawing at the darkness as if it was something tangible she could grasp and pull. She bolted through the dining room’s arched doorway, then raced across freshly waxed hardwood toward the kitchen.

  “Julie!”

  “Help! Help me!”

  As her feet hit the cool stone of the kitchen floor, the overhead light came on, all but blinding her. Unable in that split second to see, she careened into the corner of the glass-topped kitchen table and bounced off and kept going, not even feeling the pain as the sharp corner thrust into her tender abdomen.

  Then—thank God, thank God—she saw Mac, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the family room, one hand on the light switch. Her first glimpse of him seemed to catch him in midmotion, and then he saw her, too, and stopped dead, looking tall and strong and out of breath and nearly as terrified as she felt.

  “Mac!”

  She launched herself at him from maybe six feet away, sobbing and gasping and trying to warn him of the monster coming behind her in a hysterical screech that was all but incomprehensible to her own ears. Two things registered in the same instant: one, Mac—Mac!—was holding a gun; and two, she couldn’t hear the monster behind her anymore.

  Oh, God, where was he?

  “What the hell . . .”

  Mac caught her as she landed against him, wrapping a hard arm around her waist, pulling her close to his chest as she screamed her warning. He held her one-armed while he shifted in a quick dance step that brought his back up against the nearest wall. His grip on the gun stayed firm and sure, and he aimed it toward the door through which she had come.

  “Julie. Julie. It’s okay, I’ve got you safe.” He spoke over the noise she made, and she collapsed gasping and shuddering against his chest. His body was tense, ready for action; she got the sense that he was balanced on the balls of his feet. Clearly he knew his way around a gun. He exuded controlled power, and she was suddenly possessed of absolute faith in his ability to protect her. Accordingly, she clung to him as to a rock in a murderous sea. “Stay right here, and I’ll . . .”

  “No!” She clutched his shirtfront with both her bound hands, her hold a death grip that she never meant to release. “He’s got a gun.”

  Then her ears started to ring, and the world was once again spinning madly. Her knees gave way and the floor seemed to rise up to meet her. If he hadn’t caught her, she would have slithered right down the front of his body to expire in a quivering puddle of spineless terror on the floor.

  15

  “JULIE! CHRIST, JULIE!”

  She had fainted in his arms.

  At least, he hoped it was a faint. Any other possibility scared the hell out of him.

  Mac supported her dead weight with one arm, running a quick, anxious glance over her at the same time as he tried to keep an eye on both doors that opened into the huge, gleaming, stainless-steel and white kitchen. The silky thing she was almost wearing made it hard to keep his grip on her. The brown crust that covered most of her face appeared, at closer glance, to be some kind of cosmetic rather than any of the more horrific possibilities, like blood or burns, that had flashed into his mind when he had first spotted her flying toward him. Her wrists were bound tightly together with silver duct tape. Her throat was a deep, ugly red that gave promise of turning purple later. But there was no blood that he could see, and no other obvious sign of injury.

  Had she been raped?

  Fear for her joined forces with a deep, atavistic fury that made him want to go after whoever had done this to her and rip him apart with his bare hands, or, at the very least, empty a magazine into him.

  The perp was still in the house. Mac knew it with the kind of sixth sense that had, long ago, made him such an effective cop.

  He could not leave Julie alone to go after the bastard.

  That much coolheadedness he retained. If the perp by some unlucky chance managed to get him first, the way would be clear for the sick bastard to finish what he’d started with Julie.

  The graphic mental images that accompanied the thought made him feel murderous all over again.

  Cool out, he warned himself. His first objective had to be to get Julie to safety.

  With a low growl of frustration he bent and heaved her over his shoulder. Her arms and head hung sack-of-potatoes-style down his back. The silky animal-print stuff of her nightgown was cool against his ear and cheek. The lace that hemmed it tickled his jaw whenever he moved his head. She was not heavy but she was awkward to carry, to no small degree because her slithery gown made her deadweight keep wanting to slide off his shoulder. He had to hold her tight, with his arm locked across her thighs. Her position might very well have left her something less than decently covered, but he was too preoccupied with getting them both out of there to register the occasional glimpse of a sweetly curved cheek more than peripherally. He did notice, because he couldn’t help it, that the backs of her thighs felt smooth and firm and silky—as well as surprisingly cold to the touch. From shock or the air-conditioning, he couldn’t be sure, but he was betting on shock.

  She’d said her attacker had a gun. The chances were good that the
guy would run for it, but criminals were not known for their reliability and Mac wasn’t taking any chances. What he was doing was hauling ass.

  A single set of keys dangling from a hook near the door caught his eye. Thinking fast, juggling Julie and his pistol and praying that he wasn’t about to be jumped from behind, he snagged them, fairly sure that they were the keys to the white Infiniti in the garage. It was a loaner from her insurance company; that much he knew. That made it, in effect, her car.

  He was taking her straight to the nearest hospital. Sid would get home sooner or later, the police would do their thing, and what had happened in the Carlson house tonight would be the talk of Summerville tomorrow. In the interests of keeping Julie’s retention of a private investigator confidential, it would be better if he took her in her car. After he made sure she was safe and in good hands he could fade into the scenery, and, when the time came for her to give a statement, she could claim that she had escaped on her own and driven herself in.

  Always provided that she was conscious and talking by then.

  Mac dismissed the thought as useless and distracting, and backed warily out through the heavy panel door leading into the garage.

  Except for the light from the open kitchen door, it was dark in the garage. It was far warmer than the air-conditioned house, and smelled faintly of freshly cut grass and 10-W-40. Mac was jumpy as a squirrel in a cat’s backyard and moving fast as he rounded the Infiniti’s hood and tried its rear door, knowing that they could come under fire at any second. To put her in the car required both hands. Cursing a blue streak under his breath, he placed the Glock on the roof. Unarmed now and feeling hideously vulnerable, he did a clumsy juggling maneuver with her inert body that by the grace of God somehow ended with her lying, knees bent, on her side in the backseat.

  Good enough. Mac shoved her feet all the way inside, closed the door, grabbed the Glock, and leaped for the garage door that he had broken into on his previous visit to the house. It had not yet been fixed; he knew, because he’d entered through it. Keeping a wary eye on the bright rectangle of light, he heaved the door up, wincing at the telltale rattle it made, then jumped behind the wheel of the car, placing the Glock within easy reach on the front passenger seat. The key fit, the engine turned over, Mac slammed the car into drive, and they were out of there.

  Thank God. Until he hung a left at the end of the driveway and felt the tension leave his shoulders, Mac didn’t realize just how scared he’d been.

  He had left the Blazer parked across the street. Pulling up behind it, he stopped, sprinted to the driver’s-side door, opened it, retrieved his cell phone, and locked the door again. Jumping back in the Infiniti, he saw that Julie had not stirred. She was still breathing; her breasts rose and fell rhythmically beneath the flimsy nightgown, and her truly world-class legs shifted restlessly as he watched.

  Alarm at her state made his movements jerky and his foot heavier than usual on the accelerator. Peeling out around the Blazer, he dialed 911 and reported a break-in in progress at Julie’s address. At least that would get some uniforms on the scene, though he doubted that it would do much good.

  Unless the intruder had shit for brains, he was already long gone. Mac gritted his teeth at the thought. It went way against the grain with him to just let the son of a bitch escape, but under the circumstances there seemed to be no help for it.

  It occurred to him then that the degree of his fear and anger was way out of proportion, considering Julie Carlson’s role in his life. He should be feeling a decent amount of concern, a little chagrin that the attack had happened right under his nose, but nothing like the combination of grinding fear and murderous rage that was at that very moment churning through his guts.

  Mac didn’t think he’d ever been so petrified in his entire adult life as he had been when he’d first heard Julie scream.

  Speeding through the stop sign at the corner with scarcely more than a pause and a glance, he went cold all over again as he remembered.

  After she had left him, he had settled down in the Blazer to wait for Sid to get home, turning his spy ears on so that he could listen to what was going on in the house but not hearing anything because there was nothing to hear. Julie was alone. The time to really listen was after Sid was inside the house. If anything was going to happen, it would happen then.

  Julie had said Sid wasn’t violent, but Mac had his own reasons for knowing better than that. The thing was, Sid apparently wasn’t violent to Julie. Of course, that could be because she’d never given him cause.

  Having him followed as a prelude to divorcing him might well, in Sid’s book, constitute cause.

  In any case, Mac wasn’t inclined to bet the farm that it wouldn’t. If Sid had made them at Sweetwater’s—and he didn’t think Sid had, but it never paid to take things like that for granted—Julie might just discover a whole new side to her husband that she apparently had no idea existed.

  If that were to happen, Mac meant to be on hand. Over the last twenty-four hours, watching out for Julie seemed to have become his mission in life.

  Besides, knowing what time Sid got home and what he did after he got there could be important in figuring out exactly what was going down. Maybe Sid would make a phone call. Maybe he’d go out for a walk. Maybe he’d simply go to bed.

  Although not, Mac was glad to remember, with Julie. Mac didn’t think he could listen to that. No, he knew he couldn’t listen to that and stay sane.

  Which was a bad sign. A really bad sign. Julie Carlson was his client, for God’s sake, and his link to Sid, and that was all. He had no interest in her beyond that.

  Yeah, and his real name was Debbie, too.

  Mac grimaced as he realized that the situation was starting to get way out of hand.

  She kissed him like she was dying to take him to bed, then twenty minutes later told him she wasn’t going to sleep with him. Well, that was fine by him, because he wasn’t planning to sleep with her either. Sleeping with her would be the equivalent of a last fatal step into quicksand.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t help recalling some saying about what happened to even the best-laid plans of—was it mice and men? He couldn’t remember how it went exactly, but the upshot was that the plans went to hell, and the mice and men that made them pretty much wound up being roadkill.

  Under the circumstances, though, keeping his eye on the ball wasn’t all that easy. When he’d been sitting in the Blazer in the dark, growing old waiting for Sid’s Mercedes to pull up the driveway, pretty much all he had found to do was breathe and think about Julie. He had tried not thinking about her, but that didn’t work, so at last he gave up and allowed his memory—and his fantasies—free rein.

  Having to take a leak was almost a welcome interruption.

  He’d gotten out, taken care of business, then set off on a leisurely stroll around the Carlson McMansion just for something to do. Standing at the edge of the stone patio, looking at the moonlight glinting off the kidney-shaped swimming pool, he had acknowledged that there just might be a real solid reason why Julie wanted to hang on to her marriage.

  Yo, little bro, big bucks buy babes.

  He could almost hear Daniel saying it, all those years ago, and a wry, faintly tender smile touched his mouth at the memory. As a cocky sixteen-year-old he’d confronted his big brother, who at the time had no steady employment that he knew of, about the illegality of his newest money-making venture, demanding to know how he could have done something so damned stupid as to fly a buttload of marijuana into the country from Mexico in the small plane he’d somehow managed to buy.

  Daniel had grinned that big, shit-eating grin that had driven girls wild and made his more serious-minded little brother increasingly want to pop him in the nose, and said he did it because there were big bucks in it, and yo, little bro, big bucks buy babes.

  Julie Carlson was definitely a babe. Had big bucks bought her? Looking around ye olde McMansion, there didn’t seem to be much doubt.

  �
��Mac?” Julie’s voice was faint, but it snapped Mac’s attention back to the present as effectively as a shout. Glancing over his shoulder as the Infiniti scooted through yet another stop sign, he saw that her beautiful brown eyes were open at last and she was struggling to sit up.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Don’t move. We’re on our way to the hospital.”

  “Oh, God, Mac, he—I . . .” Her reply ended in a wordless quaver.

  That quaver went through him like a knife.

  “It’s okay,” he said, his voice gruffer than usual because he wasn’t sure he was ready to hear the details of what had happened. He figured, while he was driving, it might be better that he not know. If the answers were bad, talking about it might further traumatize her, too. “You’re safe now.”

  “I—must have blacked out.” She sounded faintly woozy still, and she kept trying to sit up, although her bound wrists seemed to be making sitting up more difficult than it should be. Or maybe she had some injury he hadn’t spotted, and it was hindering her. The thought turned him cold.

  “No shit,” he said. Then, with another glance at her over his shoulder that nearly caused him to sideswipe a mailbox, he added, in the hard, cop voice he hadn’t used in years, “Did you recognize him? Was it someone you know?”

  “No. I don’t know. I don’t think so. God, he—he knew my name.” She shuddered, and he cursed under his breath. Easy, he reminded himself, take it easy.

  He deliberately gentled his tone. “Can you describe him? What did he look like?”

  She shook her head, and took a deep, shaking breath. “He was wearing a mask, at first. And then—I didn’t get that good of a look.”

  “Are you hurt anywhere? Any pain or anything like that?”

  “My head hurts,” she said after letting a beat pass in which Mac realized his palms were starting to sweat. “He punched me in the head. And my neck. He was going to strangle me, I think. After—after . . .”

  Her voice broke. Mac ground his teeth. He took the safer tack of glancing at her through the mirror. She was sitting up now. Her head rested limply back against the tan leather upholstery. Her hair in that ridiculous cascading ponytail still nearly reached her shoulders. Her face was covered with a cracked and flaking layer of something brown.