by Debby Conrad
Table of Contents
Title Page
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Other Books by Debby Conrad
About the Author
Every Breath You Take
by
Debby Conrad
Copyright 2011, Debby Conrad
PROLOGUE
Hollin was coming home to Whisper Lake, Pennsylvania. It had been so long since he’d last seen her. Too long. And this time, he planned to have her again.
The last time he’d fucked her, she’d been fifteen years old, barely a woman. A lot about her had changed in thirteen years. She now had a few curves, and her breasts were slightly larger. But still small enough to excite him. He hated women with big breasts. They were cows, as far as he was concerned.
Glancing slowly at the hundreds of photos of Hollin pinned to the wall, he made his selection. The picture he’d taken, without her knowledge, while following her around Boston a few months ago.
He traced a finger over the glossy photo, remembering her slender body and her straight, shoulder length hair. The dark blond strands, highlighted with streaks of lighter blond, and the wispy bangs that fell just beneath her eyebrows. He caressed the photo, could almost feel her milky white, flawless, skin. It was so smooth, like alabaster. She stared back at him with those turquoise eyes. God how he loved those eyes.
But her best feature was the tiny mole next to her top lip.
Sometimes, if he stared at that mole for any length of time, he’d get an erection. Like now.
He wondered if she still smelled the same. If she’d scream and cry and fight when he penetrated her, like she had the last time. It was a good thing he’d gagged her, or the entire neighborhood would have butted into his business before he’d finished with her. Fucking her cunt, and then her ass. In spite of how she’d reacted, he knew she’d enjoyed it.
“Yes, Hollin,” he whispered, lying back on the bed. “We’re going to be together soon. You and me. And this time, you’re going to beg me to take you, over and over again. Until then, I’ll be watching every breath you take.”
Holding her picture to his cock, he let out a loud groan and ejaculated on her pretty face.
CHAPTER ONE
Hollin Pierce shivered with chill and fatigue as the wind kicked up, spraying a cool mist in her face. She’d twisted her hair back this morning, but now wished she’d worn it down to help block the cold, April air. Pulling the collar of her raincoat up to meet her chin, she tried to concentrate on the minister’s words.
“ . . . through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .”
The heels of her shoes sank into the wet ground, but she didn’t dare move. Her sister Rachel stood to her right, clinging to her, trembling so uncontrollably, Hollin could hear her teeth clatter. Their stepbrother Brad was on Hollin’s left, his fingers twined with hers.
Angela had announced this morning she was too sick, too weak, to attend her husband’s funeral and had stayed at the house with her private nurse. She’d insisted her six-year-old granddaughter Chelsea skip the funeral as well. The child had the sniffles. It wouldn’t be right to send her out on such a nasty day, even though her grandfather had died. Rachel, Chelsea’s mother, hadn’t bothered to argue with Angela. Once their mother’s mind was made up, there was no use trying to change it.
“I’m so sorry about your stepfather.”
Hollin looked up to see Neil Thorpe standing in front of her. The crowd had started to dissipate, and several guests moved toward their cars. There had been no calling hours, and there was to be no wake for John MacDougal. Angela had insisted she wasn’t up to it.
“Thank you, Neil.” Hollin broke contact from Rachel and Brad to hug her old high school friend. “And thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”
“Sure,” he said, hugging her back, holding her much too closely. He smelled the same as he had in his teens. Like menthol. He looked down at her and wiped a tear from his ruddy cheek. “He was a good man. If there’s anything I can do--”
“Thank you,” she said again, quickly moving out of his embrace. Friends had accused her of being standoffish, but she didn’t care what people thought. She didn’t like being held. Not since . . .
She shivered with vivid recollection, then forced the ugly memories from her mind.
The wind lifted a tuft of Neil’s sandy blond hair, and he smoothed it back into place. He hadn’t aged a bit in thirteen years. “Rachel. Brad,” he said with a nod. “My condolences.” And then with one last backward glance at Hollin, he moved on.
Neil had never had a steady girlfriend as far as she knew. Though painfully shy, he had gotten up the nerve to ask her to the Sweetheart Ball their sophomore year. Afraid of hurting his feelings, Hollin had accepted the invitation.
Regretfully, the evening had been uneventful, and she’d made up her mind not to go out with him again. But no matter how many excuses she’d come up with for turning him down, he’d kept asking. Neil had certainly been persistent back then. She wondered briefly if he’d changed any over the years.
“Heart attack,” Hollin heard a woman say to the man standing next to her beside the mahogany casket. “That’s the way to go.” John MacDougal had been one of the good guys and was sure to be missed. She didn’t recognize the forty-something brunette or the gray-haired man, but she smiled at them just the same. Probably some of her stepfather’s clients.
However, she did recognize the woman marching toward them. She looked nastier than the threatening, gray clouds swirling overhead.
“I can’t believe your mother isn’t here,” the woman said.
“Angela wasn’t feeling up to it, Aunt Marsha,” Brad intervened, his blue eyes hollow and lifeless. Hollin was grateful for the intervention. She’d never been close with her step-aunt.
Brad kissed the woman’s cheek, knocking her black, straw hat askew. She grabbed at it, frowned and settled it atop her frizzy, auburn hair.
Brad was tall and as lean as when he’d played on the high school basketball team. His hair was blond with no signs of thinning or gray.
Lifting her double chin with determination, Marsha MacDougal glared at Rachel, then at Hollin, her mouth tight and grim. “Your mother uses her illness whenever it suits her. Fibromyalgia. Hah! Why, I bet she invented that fancy title.”
“Aunt Marsha, please,” Brad said, taking the woman’s arm and leading her away from the small gathering of guests still milling about. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“Bitch,” Rachel said, not bothering to keep her voice down. She flicked her long bangs from her eyes, obviously annoyed with the wind. “I’ve never liked that old biddy. No wonder she never got married. Who would want to wake up next to that old prune everyday?”
Hollin didn’t defend the woman. Rachel was right. She was an old biddy. Instead, she focused on her sister. “Are you all right?” she asked. Pockets of fatigue underlined her eyes, and emphasized her pale face. Rachel had also los
t weight since Hollin had seen her nearly a year ago. At least ten pounds, ten pounds she couldn’t afford to lose. At five-eight she was way too skinny.
“I wish you’d stop asking me that.” Rachel pushed a strand of bleached, blond hair away from her face. “You’ve been annoying me ever since you got home.”
Hollin opened her mouth to say something, then snapped it shut. She could argue with her sister later.
“Hello, Rachel. Hollin. I’m sorry about your stepfather.” The young woman reached out with shaky fingers and touched Hollin’s arm. “You look fabulous, like a model.”
“Thank you, Sara, and thanks for coming.” Brad’s ex-wife wore her auburn hair cropped short to her scalp, and no makeup. She was dressed in wrinkled, khaki pants, a bulky sweater and sneakers on her feet. Not exactly funeral attire. But Hollin still thought it was sweet of her to come.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Brad demanded, grabbing at Sara’s arm. “Look at you. You’re a mess. This is my father’s funeral, for chrissakes. Have a little respect.” He dragged her away from his stepsisters.
Hollin, appalled with the way Brad treated Sara, spoke up. “Brad, leave her alone, please,” she said to no avail. Either Brad hadn’t heard her, or he didn’t care. He was now pointing a finger in his ex-wife’s face, his voice a low rumble.
“Stay out of it, Hollin,” Rachel said.
“But did you see the way he was treating her? I’ve never seen Brad behave like that. He’s always so even tempered, gentle.”
Rachel rolled her eyes and crossed her arms around her middle. “That’s the trouble with you, Hollin. You only see what you want to see.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” Rachel angled away from her sister. Then, just as quickly, she jerked back around to whisper in Hollin’s ear. “Remember Randy Swartz?” Hollin glanced at the couple walking their way. “Here he comes with that prissy wife of his. Watch this.”
Randy still had that quarterback look about him. Stocky, big shoulders, square jaw, and a mean look on his face. His hairline receded and his dark hair had begun to thin.
“Randy, I can’t thank you enough for coming today,” Rachel purred.
Hollin burned with humiliation as she witnessed her sister lean forward and drape herself across her old high school boyfriend. She rubbed against him, then kissed him on the lips. Hollin swore Rachel slipped her tongue inside the guy’s mouth.
At least Randy had the good sense to push her away. “Rachel, you remember my wife, don’t you?”
The animation left Rachel’s face. “Yes, I do. It’s Joan, right?”
“Jodi,” the pixie-haired blonde said, glaring at Rachel with burning, reproachful eyes.
“Hey, Gumby,” Randy said. The way he ogled her body gave her the creeps. And the use of the nickname only he had ever used made the bile rise in her throat. She’d never had any use for him as a person. He seemed to think he could get any woman he wanted. He met Hollin’s gaze and nodded. “It’s been a long time. You’re looking . . . well.” He waggled his eyebrows for effect.
Jodi grabbed her husband’s hand and gave it a tug. “C’mon, Randy.”
Frustrated, Hollin concentrated on the remaining guests. Ed Townsend and his wife stood on the opposite side of the casket, both crying softly. It was all too much, she thought, trying to control her own tears. Although she appreciated the friends and family who had come, she now wished everyone would simply leave. She was tired, so tired her nerves and muscles throbbed. All she wanted was to go back to the house and curl up in her bed until morning.
Suddenly, the wind howled and the rain came sluicing down from the clouds. Umbrellas shot up, and people ran to their cars for cover, leaving only a few stragglers behind.
“C’mon,” Brad said, taking her hand and dragging her from the gravesite. Rachel ran behind them. Hollin waited while Brad fumbled with the key remote, then climbed into the front seat of his black, Mercedes sedan. Her sister got into the back.
Brad ran around to the driver’s side and slammed the door behind him.
“I’m probably going to get sick,” Rachel complained. “I can feel my throat turning raw and itchy already.” She swiped her hands over her coat, flinging rainwater onto the seat.
“Hey,” Brad scolded, glancing over his shoulder. “Do you mind? The car’s only a few months old.”
“Ooh, I wouldn’t want to hurt your precious car,” Rachel taunted.
Not bothering to intercede, Hollin faced the front and fastened her seatbelt. Brad and Rachel had been going at it since the day her mother married Brad’s father. More than twenty years now. She was too tired and miserable to ask them to put their differences aside, even if it was for only one day. Besides, neither of them had ever listened to their baby sister. Why would they start now?
As they started down the hill, she noticed a dark green, pick-up truck sitting off in the distance. She thought it odd that someone would park so far from the gravesite.
And as they got a little closer, she saw a man behind the wheel, watching her as they passed.
A cold chill ran up her spine and icy fear gripped her heart. She choked back a sob. It had been thirteen years since she’d last seen him, but she recognized those dark eyes and the coal black hair.
Griffin Wells. The man who had raped her.
#
Griffin waited until long after Brad MacDougal’s car disappeared around a bend before starting out. He didn’t know what had made him show up here like this. It was a stupid thing to do. And now Hollin had seen him. He was sure of it. Even from this distance he’d seen the fear in her turquoise eyes, and on her pretty face.
He should have ducked when he saw her running to the car with Brad and Rachel, but he hadn’t. Had he wanted her to see him? To make her aware that he was watching her?
The woman had cost him over three years of his life. It would have been longer if he hadn’t been such a model prisoner. She owed him at least the opportunity to see her, to talk to her. He wanted to explain . . . about that night.
Yeah, right, pal, like you’re ever going to get near her with her family around. But somehow he had to find a way to see her, to make her listen. No matter the consequences.
She was still beautiful, even more beautiful now that she was a woman. He shook his head in amazement. Hollin had already destroyed him once. And yet, he wanted her now even more than he had when she was a girl.
Only a sick man could feel the way he did about Hollin after all these years. A sick man indeed, Griffin thought, pulling onto the main highway and heading toward Whisper Lake.
CHAPTER TWO
The sound of dripping water woke Hollin with a start. She shivered, realizing she was soaking wet. She shot off the bed and found the wall switch. Once her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she saw the problem. A leak directly above her bed.
And it wasn’t a small leak. The rainwater was coming down in a steady stream. The dark stains on the ceiling indicated it wasn’t the first time the roof had failed. As was the case with Brad’s old room down the hall, Rachel had informed her.
“Great,” she mumbled, barely awake, barely coherent. Outside the lightning flashed and the thunder clapped with a deafening boom. She nearly jumped at the sound.
She shuffled into the adjoining bathroom to wash her face, hoping to wake up. In the mirror, she noticed the worry lines on her face and the tenseness of her shoulders. She shivered again, goose bumps snaking up and down her arms and legs.
Griffin’s presence at the cemetery had terrified her. Wanting to forget about the past, that horrible night in particular, she’d taken one of her mother’s sleeping pills and climbed into bed when they’d returned home after the funeral yesterday afternoon. She’d passed out shortly thereafter and had been asleep for nearly twelve hours, according to the clock that ticked annoyingly on the antique bedside table. It read four A.M.
Half asleep, Hollin fell into the green velveteen wingback and dr
ew her knees to her chest. She took in the details of her old bedroom. The shades of burgundy and olive that had once given the room a rich flavor had faded with time, although the furniture that used to belong to her grandparents had been well cared for and polished over the years.
She sighed and listened to the rain pour. Sitting here, wishing it would stop, wasn’t going to make it happen.
After changing into dry clothes--an old T-shirt and boxers--she went downstairs in search of a bucket. She didn’t bother to turn on the light in the hallway. Having lived in the old house--that was now falling apart at the seams--until she was fifteen, she knew her way around blindfolded.
The steps creaked with her weight, sounding as if the burden and stress were all too much for the old mahogany staircase. The windows rattled and the radiator hissed in the darkness. Padding barefoot through the hall’s hardwood floor, she made her way to the kitchen before turning on a light.
Everything in the kitchen needed updated, and she wondered why her mother and stepfather hadn’t bothered to have it remodeled. Then again, why hadn’t they had the aging roof fixed? Her mother loved this old house. It had once belonged to her parents, and her grandparents before them.
Over the years, the expensive paintings had been replaced with cheap replicas. Even the Chippendale furniture that had once graced the living room, had been sold a few years back. The room now sat empty. She’d questioned John about it, but he’d always said he and Angela planned to restore the family home soon. Now she wondered why they hadn’t done anything to improve the place.
Hollin opened the door to the utility closet and pulled on the chain. The single light bulb illuminated the four-by-six walk-in. Plenty of canning supplies lined the shelved wall, along with at least three dozen Mason jars, and a ton of cleaning supplies. An assortment of brooms and three vacuum cleaners lined the opposite wall. But there wasn’t a single bucket in sight.
Sighing, she turned off the light and shut the door. From the kitchen window she saw the guest cottage and beyond that the pool shed. She was certain there would be a bucket or two in the shed.
