Wicked Temptation

by Linda Verji

  But it was when Danny had heard the scuffle on the other end of the phone line that his heart had stuttered in its tracks.

  "Okay, Bradley, if you really want to talk now then let's talk." Misha's voice sounded surprisingly even as she said, "I saw your receptionist Camille, today. Did she tell you?"

  "Of course," Bradley snarled. "Otherwise how would I know that you were still snooping around? Why couldn't you let it go?"

  "Bradley, put the gun away." Misha's calm words drained the blood from Danny's face and froze it in his veins as total horror eclipsed him. She added, "There's no need for this. You're just adding to your problems."

  Dear God. Misha. She was by herself, trying to deal with a killer with a gun. Why the hell didn't she scream for help? Geneva would hear and- no, Misha would be dead by the time help came. Which was why she'd kept him on the phone, Danny realized. She was hoping that she could delay Bradley long enough for him to get there or get her help.

  Danny's brain immediately leapt into problem-solving mode. He was only ten minutes away but ten minutes was a long time. A bullet only needed a micro-second to find its target. Could someone else get there faster? He had to check. But that would mean ending the phone-call so Bradley wouldn't overhear him S.O.Sing. And leaving Misha officially alone.

  Damn it.

  Meanwhile on the line, Bradley was laughing. "You must've been awful at Math, Misha. I'm not adding to my problems. I'm subtracting. If I subtract you from the equation there'll be no one else poking their nose into my business."

  "What business are you talking about?"

  "Don't pretend to be stupid. It doesn't suit you," Bradley said. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

  There was a long pause on the line then Misha said, "So it really was you? You killed Eric."

  "Yes," the man confessed.

  Shit! Fear yanked at Danny's heart as he made his decision. If he wanted to get her help then it was clear what he needed to do. With a prayer and a mental declaration that he was coming for her, he swiped his finger on the end-call icon and cut his connection to her.

  Then dialed Tony's number. The phone rang. Once. Twice. No one picked. Thri-

  "Fuck." Danny swore under his breath as he ended the call. He had no time to wait for Tony to get his head out of his ass and pick up his phone. Misha was in danger.

  "Sir, is something wrong?" The cabbie upfront watched Danny through the rearview mirror.

  Danny ignored him as, heart nearly pounding through his chest, he dialed the next best thing to Tony.

  "You've reached nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"

  "I'd like to report a kidnapping…" In pithy statements, he recapped the situation and gave the dispatcher Misha's address.

  The cabbie it seemed was listening to the whole conversation and as soon as Danny ended the call with nine-one-one, he asked, "Sir, anything I can do?"

  "Yeah, move faster," Danny ordered tersely as anxiety pulsed through him like a snake releasing its venom into his system.

  He couldn't lose Misha. Not now. To have her finally admit that she loved him, then to have her snatched away? No. That wasn't going to happen. Jaw set, he ordered the cabbie, "Step on it."

  Misha swallowed hard as she absorbed Bradley's confession.

  She'd already figured it out, but to have him confirm it… well, she should've been feeling victorious. Instead she was trembling with fear.

  Despite the calm façade she was putting on for the mad man currently stalking her through the pantry passage with murder in his eyes and a gun in his hand, she was scared silly. She'd never been shot before, but she was sure that it would hurt. A lot. Her flesh cringed at the thought of a bullet tearing through her.

  Hell, no.

  "You can't shoot me," she told Bradley, as she backed farther away from him and into the kitchen still clinging to her phone. He hadn't yet noticed it and she wasn't even sure Danny was still on the line, but its presence gave her hope that maybe she'd be saved before Bradley did his dirty-do.

  Trying to keep the desperation from spilling into her voice, she reminded Bradley, "If you kill me the police will know that something is off and they'll come after you. You won't get away with it."

  "Yes, I will. I'll get away with it if…" His lips twisted in a crooked smile as he stopped at the archway that separated the kitchen and the pantry passage. With his free hand, he pulled a clear sachet filled with a white powder from his pocket and waved it. "… you commit suicide."

  Oh, God. The man was clearly as determined as he was unhinged.

  Despite her intentions to remain calm, her voice shook as she said, "No one will believe I committed suicide." Her back smacked into the kitchen island when she took another step back, but she kept her eyes on her would-be killer as she reasoned, "What reason could I possibly have to kill myself?"

  "They'll have to believe that you did it…" His eyes were cold and determined as he did a quick scan of the kitchen. His gaze centered on the kitchen table. "… especially after they read your suicide note. Now be a dear and grab that notepad."

  The notepad in question was sticking out beneath the fruit basked in the middle of the kitchen table.

  Bradley was crazy if he thought she'd make his plan easier to execute by writing her own suicide note. Right now, however, her focus was on keeping him talking until help came or she figured out a way to get rid of him.

  So she stalled, "Why did you do it? Why did you kill Eric?"

  "The notepad," Bradley reminded her quite pleasantly. "Where do you keep your pens?"

  "On the counter," Misha helpfully gestured towards the corner of the counter where two pens were tucked in the 'bills, brochures and recipes' basket. Tucking her phone unobtrusively in the back pocket of her jeans, she padded in the direction of the kitchen table. She glanced at the kitchen door, considered making a desperate run for it then changed her mind.

  Last time she'd had darkness to cover her actions. This time the kitchen lights were blazing and Bradley had a perfect shot. He'd shoot her before she even took two steps. She took a trembling breath as she plucked the notepad from underneath the fruit basket.

  Tingeing her voice with curiosity, she asked again, "Why did you kill him?"

  "Why do you think? Because he was blackmailing me." Bradley shrugged, then when Misha gave him her best 'explain please' look he rolled his eyes and huffed. "I suppose I might as well explain. It's the least I owe you."

  You mean before you kill me, Misha thought inwardly but didn't say it aloud. Instead, she asked, "The story you told me about Camille being a married woman wasn't true, was it?"

  "No." Bradley gave her wide-toothed smile, before he said, "Grab the pen too, would you?"

  "Sure." The conversation felt almost as surreal as it sounded, but it was giving Misha time. Time she desperately needed. She grabbed one of the pens then came back and set it and the notepad atop the island.

  "To be fair. Camille and I are sleeping together," Bradley said as he wordlessly ordered her to write. "But she's single, so that's okay, right?"

  Yay. One point for Bradley Wilde. Seriously, was this guy so desperate for approval that even with her death by his hand on the horizon he was looking for her endorsement of his actions? She gave it to him anyway, "Yeah. That's okay," before asking, "You weren't with Jodie on the night of the murder, were you?"

  "I went to her house after the… you know?"

  "Murder?" Misha arched her eyebrows.

  "Yeah. That," Bradley waved his gun as if trying to clear out the stench of the word. "I didn't want to do it. But that - that greedy son of a bitch wouldn't stop. Even after I gave him the money he asked for. I heard him at the party telling Mother that he'd tell everyone about us. I couldn't let that happe-" He broke his story-telling stride to glare at Misha. "You're not writing."

  "Sorry, what do you want me to write?"

  "I don't know." He made an impatient swipe with his gun. "Tell them something about this life being too hard or
whatever. You're a smart girl. Be creative."

  "Okay." Misha set pen to paper started writing. Once upon a time, there was girl called I Don't Know… Her pen flying over the paper, she prodded Bradley, "So you followed Eric to the gas station?"

  "Yeah. It was pretty easy to slip into the back of his car while he was in the convenience store," Bradley bragged, his eyes glittering with pride.

  Still writing the nonsensical story, she asked, "What exactly did he have on you?"

  "Evidence that I killed someone."

  Misha's eyes widened, her heart lurched and her hand stuttered in its path.

  Seeing the shock in Misha's expression, Bradley rushed to defend, "Not deliberately. And I was in high school. There was this kid in our school, Fraser. Star of the football team, the school's Romeo, picking on us fat kids. You know the type." Bradley paused to ask, "You done with the note?"

  "Just one more line," she said. Just then, the acrid smell of chicken burning in the oven began to seep into the room. "The chicken's burning."

  "Leave it." Bradley continued, "My friend, Crawford, and I decided he needed teaching."

  Misha's stomach curled at what Bradley's version of 'teaching' was. Where the hell was Danny and the brigade?

  "We weren't planning on killing him. We just wanted Fraser expelled. If the administration thought he was on drugs they would send him away to go bully someone else. Crawford knew someone who could get us the pills, I knew someone who could get them into his food." Bradley's eyes glittered angrily. "How were we supposed to know that he was allergic? Shouldn't he have been wearing a bracelet or something?"

  If he wasn't pointing that gun at her maybe Misha would've felt sorry for Bradley, even understood his impulse to retaliate against his bully. But right now, sympathy was the least of her emotions and fear was at the forefront.

  "I called Mother in a panic," Bradley continued. The mention of Katherine seemed to erase some of the anger on his face. "She told me that she'd handle it. A few days later, Fraser's death was ruled as a drug overdose. I thought it was all over."

  The anger sparked back in Bradley's eyes. "Then that bastard Eric turns up with a confession from Fraser's roommate stating that we paid him not to say that I was the one who gave him the pills to spike Fraser's food."

  Unfazed by the smoke now wafting upwards from the oven, he snarled. "The son of a bitch even had a recorded conversation between himself and Crawford where Crawford pointed me out as the one who came up with the plan. Then instead of dying quietly, that- that Eric had to lie to me and tell me he'd already given you the evidence. If I hadn't come after you…"

  I wouldn't have had any reason to investigate, Misha inwardly finished for him. She didn't see the point of reminding him that the conversation she'd overheard between Katherine and Eric would likely have pushed her to investigate regardless.

  But the recollections seemed to have angered Bradley, so much so that he pointedly leveled the gun at Misha as he said in a hard voice. "You better be done with that letter."

  "I'm done." Misha swallowed as she hastily scribbled a 'I killed myself' at the bottom of all the nonsense she'd been writing. In the middle of her nonsensical scribbles she'd inserted an 'I didn't kill myself'. Hopefully, Bradley would scan right over it. If he didn't well…

  Fortunately, Bradley didn't ask to see the note. "Leave it there."

  Idiot. If she was killing someone she'd definitely ask to see the note. And she certainly wouldn't toss her intended victim the sachet of powder (of which she had no doubt was poison) and tell them, "Mix it in water."

  "Bradley, Fraser was bullying you, and his death was an accident," Misha reasoned as she plucked the powder from the island top. "I'm sure the police will understand."

  "Don't patronize me." Bradley and his pistol trailed her to the sink. "We both know that I'll still go to prison. And if they link me to Eric's death, that will mean even more time in. I won't go to prison." She flinched when he pointed the gun to her head and insisted desperately, "I won't."

  Her heart in her mouth, Misha picked a glass from the rack even as the smoke from the oven rapidly filled the room and bit into her lungs. She thought of emptying the poison into the sink. He'd said he wanted her to commit suicide. If she didn't maybe he'd give up… She snuck a glance at him. No. The look on his face scared that idea out of her.

  Bradley had the look of a desperate man. His stare was stony and his lips were pressed together so tightly a white line had formed on either side of his mouth. He was desperate enough to shoot her if she didn't follow his orders. She turned the knob on the tap.

  Danny, where are you?

  A rush of water flooded into the glass. When it was full, she set it on the side-splash then, delaying the inevitable, she emptied the white powder into her cupped palm, started to tilt her hand…

  Then the most amazing thing happening.

  Sirens sounded.

  And Bradley swung panicked eyes towards the window, his gun-arm drooping slightly.

  It was all Misha needed. The moment his gaze whirled back to her, she tossed the powder at him while bringing down the glass on his shooting hand. The powder flew into his eyes just as the glass shattered over his hand. He yelped in pain, dropping the gun in the process. The gun cluttered to the floor, sliding partway under the sink.

  Seizing her opportunity, Misha snatched a pan from the rack and swung. With a solid, satisfying thunk it met the side of his face. Bradley howled as he staggered forward dazedly shaking his head. Misha backed away from him so fast that she smashed into the wall, back of head first. But she barely noticed the jolt of pain that seared through her skull, shoulders and spine. All her attention was on taking Bradley down.

  Adrenalin pumping hard in her veins, she swung the pan again. This time Bradley emerged from his pain long enough to curl bleeding fingers over the appliance's edge before it connected with his face.

  "Ugh." They grunted as they fought for control of her weapon. She was taller, but he was stronger. With a forceful yank that almost ripped her arm out of its socket, he disarmed her. He cocked his uninjured arm and threw it in a punch clearly aimed for her face. Misha ducked downwards, narrowly avoiding the punch then let her leg fly between his legs and upwards, right into his groin.

  "Uuumph." Bradley let go of the pan and doubled over, his groan mingling with the clanging of the fallen pan. His pained, blood-shot eyes met Misha's as he cupped his family jewels and his lips parted in a silent cry for mercy.

  Hell. No. Sorry.

  Her fear now replaced by anger, she aimed another kick at his face and caught his nose. She actually felt the cartilage crack against her foot. Blood gushed out of the appendage, a suiting addition to the pained scream that tore from Bradley's throat as he collapsed on his knees.

  While he was busy collapsing, she was reaching for a plate. The sound of glass shattering filled the kitchen as she broke it over his head. She picked another glass plate and slammed it over his head too. Then for good measure put all her strength into a kick on his torso that sent him sprawling to his side. He stretched his arm, reaching under the sink but she stepped on his fingers before his hands closed over the butt of the gun and picked it up herself.

  Then pointed it at him.

  Her entire being was consumed with the need to protect herself and get rid of the sniveling, bleeding, murderous, menace groaning at her feet. All the things she believed in - law, justice and fairness- disappeared in the vortex of anger as she stared at Bradley.

  The man was now covering his face with his hands as if that would somehow protect him from a bullet. Fear vibrated from his trembling body as he begged, "Please don't. Please don't kill me. Mercy, please."

  Why should she give him mercy? He certainly hadn't given it to Fraser or Eric. And he certainly hadn't planned to give it to her either. Her finger tightened over the trigger.

  "Misha." The sound of her name being called cut into her anger, paused her trigger-finger. Panting in harsh, irregular bu
rsts, she looked in the direction of the sound but kept the pistol trained on Bradley.

  "Misha, don't." Danny was at the kitchen door, coming towards her. His gaze held hers as he edged closer. "He's not worth it." His blue eyes seemed to imprison her, preventing her from doing anything other than watching him. "He's not worth it."

  He held her rapt as he made the final steps towards her. He stopped beside her and still holding her gaze, closed his hand over hers and over the gun. "Don't."

  Slowly a thread of sanity penetrated through her anger and cooled it. Danny was right. She inhaled a deep breath as she let him lower her hand.

  Likely realizing that the danger had faded, Bradley whimpered, "Get her away from me. She's crazy-"

  The words died on his lips as his stare focused on Danny. Misha glanced at Danny to find him glaring at Bradley with such demonic rage that she had to transfer the gun to her other hand so Danny wouldn't shoot the other man himself.

  CHAPTER 34

  "Ooowe. You should've seen his face. " Geneva entertained the gaggle of supporters who'd gathered in Misha's house after the cops had bundled a dejected Bradley away. "Misha smacked him around like she was his Daddy."

  That drew a roar of laughter from her audience. To Misha the most amusing part was that the sirens Bradley had heard were not even headed her way - or cops. It was just an ambulance carting someone to hospital. But if it wasn't for that siren…

  "It's true," Collette Miller added to Geneva's words. "Poor man looked liked he'd accidentally stumbled into a WWE match."

  "You should'a hollered at me." Marcus, Collette's husband, flexed his arms as he mean-mugged Misha. "I would'a taught him how we do it in the hood."

  Yeah. Right. Misha merely smiled at that assertion. This was the same Marcus who two months ago was racing down the road, pants around his ankles and his wife on his heels brandishing a rolling pin.

  "Wait until he gets to prison. My cousin, Lemar, is in there…" Someone added to the caucus.

  Misha let their words flow around her, deflected their questions about her ordeal with a smile and light-hearted answers, but her focus remained on Danny. He was seated next to her, his arm slung across the couch behind her, and silent.