by Celia Aaron
“You’re impugning my honor as well?” I smirked.
“What do you know about honor?” She threw it back in my face with a quickness that had my blood racing. If I slapped her, would she quiet down or hit me back? I hoped the latter.
“More than the Rousseaus, apparently.” I surveyed the room. Sketches and paintings lined the back wall near the tall, narrow windows looking out onto the rear yard. A deputy went to one and ripped it down.
“No.” I kept my voice low, but the deputy glanced at me, seemed to shudder, and placed the drawing on a nearby table. He didn’t touch any more of the art.
“You can’t do this.” Mr. Rousseau shook his head and leaned on Stella. He was like a parasite, sucking her life away.
“It’s done.” I gave Stella one more long, appraising look. Her red hair fell in waves down her shoulders. I wanted to mark her alabaster skin with my teeth.
“I said, stop looking at her.” The young man stepped forward.
“Dylan, don’t.” A warning note laced through her voice. She was smart. One more step and I would drop Dylan on his ass.
“And you are?” I walked past Dylan and studied the closest sketch. I already knew who he was, but I might as well ask to be polite. Mother always wanted me to be polite, though not particularly to trash like the Rousseaus. None of them mattered to me, not even Stella. We were a different species.
“Dylan Devereaux, Leon’s stepson.”
The sketch appeared to be of a knife, the smooth edge almost glinting on the paper. The handle was a deep mahogany brown, and I smiled at the pool of blood drawn beneath it, some of the drops still on the blade.
“I think we’re about done here.” Sheriff Wood called as deputies carried boxes of material out to their cars. They’d emptied the entire contents of Mr. Rousseau’s desk and taken various other papers they’d found in the house.
“How much for this drawing?” I turned and peered into Stella’s eyes—still fascinating, still full of hatred.
This was only the beginning. Her hatred would build until her other emotions were weak whispers next to how much she wanted to destroy me. I needed to taste her rage, to savor it on my tongue.
“It’s not for sale.” Her words were even, but I could see the rapid flutter in the vein at her neck. Her heart was racing.
I shot a glance to her father. “Don’t be silly. Everything’s for sale, right Mr. Rousseau?”
“Get out of here.” He scowled.
“While your false disdain is amusing, I’m afraid a jury won’t find you quite as believable as your daughter does. So, what’s the price?” I kept my gaze on Stella. I wanted her to give in, though I knew she wouldn’t.
“I’d rather burn it than sell it to you.” Her voice lowered to a hiss as the last of the deputies cleared out.
Her hatred was like a blast of heat on a frigid day. I wanted to strip her flames away, bit by bit, until I reached her core. Once there, would I snuff her fire out, or stoke it until it raged beyond control?
I didn’t know the answer. But I knew I wanted her beneath me, my hands on her body, and her blood in my mouth.
“Counsellor?” Sheriff Wood leaned against the doorframe and flipped the strap on his holster off, popped it back on, off, on, off, on.
Stella held my gaze as I strode past.
“Maybe we can continue negotiations the next time I visit.”
“You already took everything you wanted.” Her father’s voice was like a claw in my eardrum.
I turned on my heel and eyed Stella up and down. The line of her legs, the flare of her hips, trim waist, and high, round tits. She shifted uncomfortably under my scrutiny.
I held her defiant gaze. “I’ll decide when I’ve taken everything I want.”
Chapter 4
I lay in my bed and studied Stella’s photo. It was already etched into my mind, no need to look at it any longer. But I did.
Someone from my office had snapped it as she left the courthouse after the arraignment. Her hair appeared even more vibrantly red in the sun. Her eyes, though, were sad. I wanted to see them glimmering with tears.
My cock surged at the thought of hurting her. Would she beg? The fire in her eyes told me she wouldn’t. Perhaps she would beg me to make it burn, to push her to the edge. The way she’d looked at me during the last search, and the one before that, and the initial one when she’d openly challenged me. Fuck.
She wanted to tear me apart. I wanted her to rail against me until she gave in, beaten and defeated. I’d savor every last tear, every cry of pain, and finally, every scream of pleasure.
The violence I’d seen in her eyes made me groan, and my hips surged upward. I slid my hand down to my cock, stroking it slowly as I stared at her photo. Her delicate neck would fit perfectly in my hands. I dropped the picture and clenched my eyes shut, imagining her pale body, the scars on her wrists, the feel of her soft skin. I wanted to bend her to my will, to force her onto her knees and use her—vengeance in her eyes and my cock in her mouth.
I kicked the sheet off. Her mouth was wrapped around me, her smooth tongue weaving along my shaft. I’d tied her hands behind her back, and her ass already bore red welts from my hand and belt.
Licking my lips, I imagined her taste on them as she sucked me, her eyes never wavering from mine. I fisted her hair and pulled her forward until my cock was lodged deep in her throat. Her eyes watered, and I knew she couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want her to. I held her life in my hands, and I could kill her without a second thought.
Still, her eyes burned with hate, and she tried to fight me off. I didn’t let her go, not until her eyes began to glaze and flutter closed. I pulled out and she gasped. I needed to be inside her hot cunt, so I threw her onto the bed. She cried out from the pain of her hands being crushed behind her back, and I savored the sweet sound. I spread her legs and plunged inside her, no warning. I took what I wanted. Her eyes widened with surprise and that delicious spark of agony.
My hand sped, squeezing me just like her pussy would. She fought, trying to buck me off. I only thrust more deeply into her. My balls drew up tight to my body as I clapped my hand over her mouth to muffle her screams.
I sank myself inside her and matched every bit of rage I saw in her eyes with my punishing strokes. She wouldn’t break. I had to work harder. I could. I sped my pace, each impact bruising her thighs, her pussy. I reached down and palmed her tit, squeezing mercilessly. Her eyes narrowed, the challenge alive and well. I moved my hand up so it covered both her mouth and nose.
She tried to turn her head, but couldn’t escape my strong grip. No air moved inside her body. She fought some more, but I kept taking from her, shoving inside her because I owned her. I didn’t let up, suffocating her as I glared down into her rebellious eyes. Her body jerked, still trying to get air.
When she realized I wasn’t going to stop, something else lit her gaze, the one thing I’d wanted from her all along. Fear. I came, my cock jolting in my hand as my release spurted onto my stomach. I gasped at how intense the orgasm was, rolling over me and constricting every blood vessel in my body. My cock kicked once more as I relaxed into the bed, my hand still and my heart pounding.
“Fuck.” I stared at the ceiling, trying to put all my pieces back into place. She’s no one. No one. She was nothing to me, other than a body I wanted to use. Nothing.
This time she sat on the swing reading when the cruisers rolled up to the house. She glanced up, shook her head, then went back to her book. The deputies got out and strolled up the front porch. They flashed a warrant. She ignored it.
She said something I couldn’t hear and waved at the door. Ten men entered the house. I’d asked them to get even rowdier than the last couple of times. More than a few items would be destroyed during this ‘search’ I smirked and continued to stare at her. A hot summer breeze rustled the first of the fallen leaves on the lawns nearby. Fall was almost here, and her father’s trial was set for the following week.
Two
days of testimony and he’d be convicted. There was no other option for a parish jury, especially given the dirt I had on the old man. Then sentencing. I’d have him sent to the nastiest pen in the state. His suffering would only weaken her, make her ripe for the taking.
She continued perusing her book, only turning her head to the side a couple of times—likely when she heard something break inside. I was a little disappointed she didn’t get up to investigate or make a scene, but I’d rather keep my eyes on her anyway. I knew it bothered her, so it was the best of both worlds.
I slid my gaze down her v-neck shirt—the bare swell of her breasts just visible. Her athletic shorts showed plenty of leg, and I admired the way her calves tapered to narrow ankles. I wanted to knot rope around them and spread them wide. A flogger to the pussy would shake any woman’s resolve, even Stella’s.
The breeze picked up again and splayed tendrils of her hair across her face. She brushed them out of the way and stretched. Her back arched. My cock swelled to a painful degree. She brought her arms back down and glanced out to the road. She froze, her eyes locked with mine.
She cocked her head to the side again, listening to the sounds inside the house, and scowled. The deputies must have been following my instructions with verve. Tossing her book to the side, she rose, her eyes never leaving me as she strode down the front walk, her bare feet silent on the cracked concrete.
I couldn’t stop the smirk that turned my lip at the corner. She wanted a confrontation. I would give it to her. Rolling my passenger window down, I waited. She arrived and bent over. I saw her simple white bra. I could rip it off in two seconds, and I wanted to. When I caught her lilac scent, my cock went from hard to painfully hard. My jacket hid it. She held my gaze, that fire inside her burning brighter by the second.
“Pleased with yourself?” Even when she was harsh, her voice still had a melodic quality.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Rousseau. I don’t quite take your meaning.” My mask was in place—I was the parish prosecutor, a public servant to the core. Everything I did was in the name of the law.
“There is nothing here. There hasn’t been anything here since the first time you came. Why are you doing this?” She peered at me, but she didn’t see me. Just my mask.
“I have to make sure every piece of evidence is collected. After all, you wouldn’t want me to miss the one document or item that could exonerate your father, would you? I have to be thorough.”
She dug her nails into the trim along the window sill. “You don’t fool me for a second. You just like to torment him. That’s all you’re doing.”
“I’m only doing the job I was elected to do. Keeping the parish safe from fraudulent operators like your father.”
“You’re lying.”
Always. “I’m sorry to hear you think so. I truly am.”
“We’ll see at the trial. No one will believe your lies then.”
I tsked at her and shook my head. “You think he’ll win, don’t you?” I laughed. “Foolish. Then again, I never took you as particularly clever. Not like he is.”
“Insult me all you like, but the truth will come out. My father will be found innocent, because that’s what he is.”
She actually believed her father’s lies. Why was it so hard for her to believe mine?
“We’ll see. Now, I have much more important affairs to tend to than your diatribes. If you’ll excuse me.” I cranked the car.
She didn’t move, her green gaze still taking in my mask. There were no cracks in it, nowhere she could see inside. I’d crafted it so well that people had no idea it was actually a mask to begin with.
“I see you.” She spoke through gritted teeth.
“That makes sense as I’m sitting right in front of you in broad daylight.” The hackles on the back of my neck rose as she stared harder, her eyes glinting.
“No. I see the real you. Don’t think for a second that you’re fooling me. It may work on everyone else. But I see what you really are.” She pulled her hands away. “And you disgust me.”
“If that was some sort of threat, it fell flat, Ms. Rousseau. Maybe work on your inflection and try again next time. I’ll attempt to act sufficiently frightened.” I turned the wheel.
She backed away as I hit the gas and cruised down the street. I stared at her in my rearview mirror, her arms crossed over her chest and her mouth drawn down in a scowl.
I didn’t want to leave. What I’d wanted to do was grip her shirt and yank her into the car. Kidnapping her in broad daylight wasn’t an option, unfortunately. But if I had, how long would it take before she screamed? Before true fear overcame the steel lining her spine?
I didn’t know, but I wanted to find out.
Chapter 5
“I have no further questions.” Mr. Rousseau’s attorney sat down. The fool had put Mr. Rousseau on the witness stand when he should have remained silent.
I cracked my knuckles, and Judge Montagnet turned away from the jury to hide his grin. This would be fun.
The gallery was filled with Mr. Rousseau’s victims, each one of them having already testified in the State’s case in chief. The jury had listened to every word, every syllable about what a dirty schemer Mr. Rousseau was.
Stella sat behind her father, the circles under her eyes growing darker with each passing day. We’d just come back from lunch, and I was more than ready to take my time with her father, squeeze out every last lie and hold it up for the jury—and Stella—to see.
I couldn’t help myself. I shot a glance at her over my shoulder as I rose and buttoned my suit coat. She kept her gaze on her father. Good.
“I have a few questions, if you don’t mind, Your Honor.”
“You may examine the witness.” Montagnet had composed himself and leaned back in his chair, ready for the show.
I strode forward and positioned myself directly in front of the jury. Leon Rousseau was on trial, but I was the star of the show.
I clutched my hands in front of me, humbleness in every calculated movement. “Mr. Rousseau, I’m Sinclair Vinemont, the parish prosecutor. We’ve met before—”
“I know who you are.” His snarl, though understandable, did not play well to the jury. Two of the ladies on the back row shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
“You remember meeting Mrs. Caldwell?” I motioned to the elderly woman with the tennis balls attached to her walker. She sat in the front row, her aged face in a permanent frown.
Mr. Rousseau, sweat beading along his upper lip, nodded. “Yes.”
“You told her to invest in Mirabella, a tenants-in-common product?”
“Yes.”
I turned to the jury, affecting a teaching tone. “Tenants-in-common means that several investors go in together to buy a property, one that is usually fully leased and provides steady income via rent payments and increase in value in the property market. Is that correct, Mr. Rousseau?”
“Yes.”
“Mirabella was a good investment for Mrs. Caldwell?”
“Yes.” His tone turned warier with each affirmative response.
“It would provide steady income to pay her living expenses?”
“Yes.”
“Especially when the housing market is on an upswing, like now?”
“Yes.”
“So.” I turned to the jury. “It was a highly suitable and wise investment?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t invest her money into Mirabella, did you, Mr. Rousseau?”
He swallowed hard and looked away.
“Mr. Rousseau, did you invest her money into Mirabella?”
“I-I…”
“It’s a simple yes or no answer. Which is it?”
His watery eyes fell. “No.”
“You told her you did?”
“Yes.”
“But you actually put that money into another account?”
“Yes.”
“An interest-bearing account with your name on it?”
�
�Yes, but I was going to transfer her investment—”
“You never put her money in any other investment, did you?”
“No, but I was going to.” He talked quickly. “I was waiting until the market bounce—”
“Mrs. Caldwell never received a dime of interest?”
“No. But if you’d just let me explain. She’d been in a series of annuities that actually depleted her principal at a far faster rate. I would have transferred her money over into the Mirabella accounts once I received all of her principal from the annuity companies, but you froze my accounts before I had the chance.”
“I see.” I nodded as if I agreed with his assessment. “So, you were trying to help Mrs. Caldwell?”
“Yes.” He surveyed the jurors, trying to make eye contact with each one.
“Are you aware of a rule for financial advisors, like yourself, that states any commingling of funds results in a total disbarment?”
“Yes, but—”
“And isn’t it true that you were barred from working as a financial advisor by the financial regulatory agency three months ago?”
He turned his gaze toward me. “Because of you. Because you testified to all these lies about me. I did nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wrong? Didn’t you just admit to putting Mrs. Caldwell’s money into your personal account?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you remember the first time you met Mr. Calgary?” I pointed to an elderly man in a wheelchair who glared at Mr. Rousseau.
Mrs. Caldwell, Mr. Calgary, Mrs. Green, Mr. Bradley, Mr. Hess, Mr. Graves, Mrs. Oppen, Mr. Travis—I went through each elderly victim, each transaction, each instance of misappropriation. Mr. Rousseau had an excuse each time I pointed out that their funds always wound up in his personal accounts. By the end of my cross examination, several of the jurors leaned back with their arms crossed. They didn’t believe him, were repulsed by him, just like I was.
