His eyes flashed fury, but he took a deep breath and calmed himself, as if he knew she was goading him on purpose. “My wife rarely questions me about anything as long as I pay her many bills and take her to Europe a couple of times a year.”
“Those vacations are going to be tough to work out when you’re in the state pen.”
He came to where she stood and jerked a hank of her hair until her eyes watered in protest. He shoved the papers in her face. “Sign them.”
“No.”
She didn’t see the blow coming. He backhanded her so hard that her head hit the wall. His signet ring cut deeply into her cheek, and she felt warmth trickle down her face. When she held her hand to her aching cheek, her fingers came away bloody.
He tossed the papers aside and shoved his hands in his pockets. Then he stared at her. He simply stood and stared. And that was more frightening than anything he had done yet.
She thought about kicking out with her feet and trying to knock him down. Would that give her enough time to dash for the door? But what if she couldn’t run? The wound on her hip and butt was painful, especially now. Running might be so difficult she would fall. And an angry psycho was probably far more dangerous than one who was only mildly pissed.
She would bide her time and wait for an opportunity.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Get up.”
He didn’t offer to help her despite her obvious suffering. She rolled to her good side, got to her knees, and made it to her feet. But she was dizzy, and her legs crumpled beneath her.
He caught her before she hit the ground. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, and suddenly another kind of danger flared. His breath was hot on her face, his gaze avid with lust. “I see why Tanner dipped his paintbrush in you, Ms. Nola Grainger. You make a man think about things . . . exciting things . . . dirty things . . .”
His mouth covered hers, and she tried not to gag. He groped at her breasts, ground his hips against hers. Her heart cried out in revolt, but her head, still marginally clear, told her that if she submitted, she might have a chance to escape.
Fortunately, she never had to make that decision. He shoved her away and wiped his mouth. “No time for that. As much as I want to. But I’ve got too much on the line to be blinded by a little slap and tickle.”
She managed to stay on her feet by sheer stubbornness. She didn’t want to appear helpless. The balance of power was delicate, and bullies jumped on any weakness.
He glared at her now, temper sketching red patches on his face. “I’ll ask you one last time. Will . . . you . . . sign?”
She was shaking so hard, her teeth chattered. Nerves? Or shock? It didn’t matter. “No.” Her voice was faint but clear. “I won’t let you steal my home and my future.”
His face closed up. “All right then. We’ll do this the hard way.”
He gripped her arm with bruising strength and led her out of the house. She struggled instinctively at first, but the effort weakened her, and she gave in, realizing that she would need every ounce of energy to escape when she spotted an opportunity.
He bypassed the car and led her into the woods. The new construction was not in a subdivision. There was nothing else in sight but fields and trees and vultures circling overhead. She hoped, with mounting hysteria, that the carnivorous birds weren’t waiting for her.
In about a hundred feet, Harold stopped and shoved her to her knees. Before she could stop him, he had retrieved a rope from a stash behind one of the trees. He looped it beneath her arms and formed a loose knot. She’d been expecting him to tie her hands and feet. This new move confused her.
She was getting weaker. The day was hot . . . a portent of summer. Sweat trickled down her back. She was dizzy, and she tried to remember her plan. He turned away for a split second, and she lurched at him with all her pitiful strength. The element of surprise aided her cause. He went down headfirst and saved his face by bracing himself with his hands.
But the maneuver cost him. He rolled to his back, howled in pain, and grabbed his left wrist. His face was a mask of rage. “You nearly broke my arm, you little whore.”
She was on her side, full length on the ground, barely able to breathe. Her blood pressure was through the roof, and the rapid beat of her heart was loud in her ears.
Had she succeeded in stopping him? Was it enough?
He stood up. She had failed.
He dragged her to her feet and supported her. But not solicitously. He wanted only to make his own job easier. Shoving her along, he took her several feet farther into the forest. And then she saw it—an abandoned well from an old house site. A shaft that hadn’t been sealed. Or if it was at one time, Harold had reopened it.
Her skin crawled, and her mind grappled with the awful truth. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. She struggled wildly, but he subdued her easily. He kissed her again, a nasty, taunting assault that bruised her mouth and bloodied her lip against her teeth.
He held out a hand. “Witness your tomb, pretty Nola.”
She tried desperately not to let him see her blind terror. But sobs ripped from her aching throat and tears trickled down her cheeks. She nearly begged for the papers. She’d do anything to prevent what was coming.
But the terrible truth was . . . if she had signed the papers, she’d be dead already.
He pushed her closer and closer to the edge. “I’ll let you live for a few hours. I’m guessing that after that you may have a change of heart. You’ve made a mess of things, little girl. You could have been a wealthy woman. You’d have gone back to Chicago and your life would have been long and happy. But now you pay.”
He wrapped the extra rope around his shoulder before picking her up and dangling her, feetfirst, over the edge of the well. “Bon voyage.”
Nola gripped the looped rope with both hands, and she tried to kick and fight him. She really did. But it was an unequal contest at best. And if she struggled too much, she would slip loose and plunge into unknown horror. He lowered her into the stygian, odorous gloom.
If he had sent her all the way to the bottom, she might not have survived. But he tied off the rope, leaving her dangling halfway down the dank pit. As she flailed weakly, a chunk of something tore free from the moss-covered inner walls and made a muffled splash below.
She sobbed softly, bereft of all hope.
Above her, Harold shoved the cover into place. The only saving grace was that part of it, not quite half, had broken off. The precious light from that one gaping hole shone down and kept her spirit alive.
Harold knelt and peered into the well. “Think long and hard, Nola. I’ll be back to get your answer.”
Time passed slowly. She couldn’t read her watch. She couldn’t see the sky. But she clung to the light. The pain from her gunshot wound had spread until everything from her waist down was one giant, burning ache.
Her arms were going numb. She clung to the rope, terrified of slipping free and falling below. She felt something crawl over her cheek and imagined a host of spiders in her hair. She shuddered and raked her hands across her scalp, panting and crying silently.
One of two things could happen: Tanner would find her. Or Harold would kill her. And she had absolutely no control over the outcome. As she reached that realization, a kind of calmness swept over her.
She dozed, half conscious, leaning her head against her arm. The hours passed, each one immeasurable, each one an eternity. She thought about Tanner, the way his eyes warmed when he looked at her. The beauty of his nude body . . . strong . . . virile. She imagined his face when he filled her, surrounded her, made her body sing. She loved him so much, and it broke her heart to think that they were going to be cheated out of a life together.
She thought about her grandmother and Marc and Billy. Her grandmother had been right to call Nola picky. Nola did always find a reason to end a serious relationship. But that was because she was afraid to trust in happiness. Losing her parents and then Billy had made her wary.
Maybe that was why her grandmother had written such a preposterous will. Perhaps she thought Nola needed a nudge.
Now, finally, Nola had found love. But for a third time, she was in danger of losing the person most important to her. It wasn’t fair. But when she analyzed it, she realized with a stone in her stomach that it would be Tanner losing her, and not the other way around.
Did he really love her? She believed so. And if that were true, he would grieve for her.
Her heart leapt when she heard footsteps, but it was Harold again. He called down to her, “Ready to sign, stubborn witch?”
She stared up at him, dry eyed. “No. Not yet.”
He cursed, and she took pleasure in thwarting him. Tanner would come. All she had to do was hold on.
Harold abandoned her a second time, and darkness fell. Now the well really did feel like a tomb. The thick darkness was impenetrable. The old cliché about not seeing your hand in front of your face had its basis in fact. Nola could testify to that.
She realized in some tiny, coherent corner of her brain that she was drifting in and out of consciousness. She was desperately thirsty, probably dehydrated. She heard rustling down below and refused to contemplate its origin. Nocturnal forest sounds filtered down to where she hung. But they were no danger to her.
The night passed in agonizing increments, but she was almost surprised to see the first faint light of dawn. She must have slept more than she realized. Or was this a dream?
Birdsong increased as the sun gained power. The walls of the well, with their soft green covering, became visible once more.
Nola tried to lift herself and alleviate some of the pressure under her armpits. Where the rope dug into her skin, her flesh burned and chafed. And her hands had long since gone numb.
Aeons later, Harold appeared one last time. Nola knew she had no choice. She would sign the papers to get out of this hell-hole, and then if she had any strength at all, she would fight him when he tried to kill her. Dying quickly would be preferable to whatever else he had in mind.
Only a madman would believe that he could really take possession of the house and land with its previous owner missing, but Harold had clearly stepped into a reality of his own creation.
She saw a portion of his nondescript face framed in the hole above, and she heard his voice.
“You ready to give in?”
“Yes.” Her voice was dull.
Harold leaned closer. “I need an answer.”
She tried to swallow, to coax some moisture into her dry throat. “Yes.” It took her a third try before he heard her.
Before he could react to her capitulation, she saw him move back. Had he stood up?
A man’s voice broke the silence. “Harold, you son of a bitch. What have you done with her?”
Dogs barked frantically nearby, and in the distance the whine of sirens grew closer.
Nola jerked on the rope wildly. If Harold led them back toward the house, they might not find her.
The sound of a fist connecting with flesh resonated, and Harold howled.
“Where is she, God damn it?” Tanner’s voice was almost unrecognizable. The cold fury and the desperation in his growled words were something she had never heard before.
Weakly, she called to him, “Tanner. Help me. I’m here.”
But her plea was pitiful and faint.
She broke down again, surprised that she had any tears left. She had clung to hope, but she was beaten down by hours of torment. Now there was so much noise outside that she couldn’t tell what was going on. She could hear Harold’s belligerent ranting as he blamed Tanner for everything that had gone wrong. Tanner must have punched him again, because Harold let fly with a stream of invective.
There were new voices. Someone, the sheriff maybe, offered to search the house. Nola shouted, but nothing came out. I’m here. I’m here. She had a vision of the lot of them walking away.
But thank God for the bluetick hounds. The air swelled with the raucous baying of a pack of hunting dogs. Their frantic barks grew louder.
A shot was fired.
And then, in a miracle, Tanner’s dear, familiar face appeared in the small opening that had been her lifeline. His words were hoarse and ragged. “Nola. Oh, God, are you in there?” His voice cracked.
The half-broken cover slid away, sending down a shower of debris. Weakly, Nola covered her head. He jerked on the rope, and she tried to answer, but her throat had tightened to the point that she was mute.
She felt herself being lifted, the rope cutting into her tender flesh, and she clung on as best she could. The bright morning sun hurt her eyes, so she squeezed them shut. Tanner’s weren’t the only hands helping her out. The half dozen men were gentle, their faces creased in concern. Marc was among them, haggard and pale, his hands reaching out to touch her hair as she was lifted free of her prison.
But only one man held her attention. Tanner. The expression on his face was terrible, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. His hands shook as he worked at the stubborn knot that bound her. It had tightened as the night progressed. Someone helped him, and finally, the rope fell away.
Nola moaned as the blood started flowing to her extremities. It was relief and punishment. Tanner drew her into his arms, crouching beside her as she sat in the decomposing leaves from last fall.
He cupped her cheek. “Nola. God, I’m sorry.”
He blamed himself. The story was written in his colorless lips and agonized eyes. She wanted to comfort him, but she still hadn’t found her voice. One of the men supplied a bottle of water. Tanner supported her as she drank thirstily.
A loud gunshot snapped all their heads around in unison. Harold had made a break for it and now lay on the ground clutching his thigh.
Nola couldn’t find an ounce of pity in her heart for him.
When she had drained the contents of the plastic container, Tanner eased her onto her good side and touched her hip. Her jeans were stained red from waist to knee. He cursed violently and scooped her into his arms. “Let’s get her to the hospital.”
She wanted to protest. All she needed was her own bed and Tanner by her side. But her head lolled against his shoulder as he carried her toward the police car and got in the backseat with her. Nola was only barely aware of what was happening. She heard the siren and sensed movement.
Tanner stroked her hair. He was holding her tightly, keeping her from flying into a million pieces. Now that it was over, she wanted to scream hysterically. But instead, she dozed and tried to forget.
This would haunt her forever.
She roused at the hospital. And when she tried her voice this time, it worked. “Don’t let them keep me,” she begged, unashamed. She hated the smells, the impersonal conversation, the poking and prodding.
Her fingers dug into Tanner’s arm, but he was adamant. He kissed her briefly, his eyes shadowed. “I know you don’t like being here, but there’s no choice this time, Red. So close your eyes and pipe down.”
Nineteen
She didn’t remember much of the next twenty-four hours. Later she would find out that they had kept her sedated.
Tanner was the first person she saw when she woke up. He was sprawled in a chair beside her bed. His long legs and powerful thighs were outstretched, his hands linked over his flat belly. His eyes were closed, and even when she said his name, he didn’t stir.
His mouth was set in a grim line. She wondered if he was having bad dreams.
She had a feeling that it would be a long time before she had a normal night’s sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw a long, dark tunnel with no end . . . nothing but blackness and fear.
She reached for a glass of water and sipped carefully from a straw. Her throat felt funny. Her hip and butt ached, but it was a muted pain . . . nothing at all like the dreadful, throbbing agony she had endured in the well.
Tanner jerked upright suddenly, his head whipping around to face her. “Nola. You’re awake.”
“Did we miss our wedding?” She knew the answer in her gut, but she was still hopeful.
He nodded somberly. “Today is Saturday. But don’t worry. The doctor doesn’t want you to have any stress.”
She started laughing, but ended up in tears. Tanner, his jaw set, got up and came to sit on the side of her bed. He stroked her hair, his big hand infinitely gentle. “Please don’t cry, Red. You’re ripping my heart out. This is all my fault. If I had told you the truth in the beginning, none of this would have happened.”
She shook her head, turning her cheek into his hand. “You don’t know that. He’s slipped over the edge. And he would have gone after Lochhaven regardless of what you did or didn’t do.”
Tanner scooted beside her on the bed and put his arm around her, taking care not to dislodge her IV. She couldn’t see his face now, but in his embrace, she felt safe. She would never again take that assurance for granted.
She felt the mighty sigh that lifted his chest. “Nola . . . did he . . . ?”
She realized what he was afraid to ask. “No. He didn’t hurt me like that. There was a moment. . . . He kissed me, and I was afraid . . . but he had his mind on other things.”
His arm tightened. “Thank God.”
There was a quiet knock at her partially open door, and then Billy Inman stepped into the room. Though he was carrying a vase of blush pink roses and baby’s breath, he looked first at Tanner and not Nola. The men exchanged some kind of silent communication.
Tanner eased out of bed and stood up. “I’ll give you two a few minutes alone.” He dropped a kiss on the top of Nola’s head, smoothed his hand over her cheek, and then he was gone.
Billy hesitated, his face somber. Nola waved a hand. “Come on in. I’m not at death’s door.”
He set the vase on the windowsill, but remained standing.
Nola, confused as to his state of mind, tried a smile. “Thank you for the flowers.”
Billy shoved his hands in his pockets. “I owe you an apology.”
She frowned. “For what?”
Billy was agitated, restless. He paced the small room, his expression troubled. “As soon as you went missing Thursday afternoon, Tanner came straight to the store. He begged, Nola . . . asked me to please, please tell him where you were if I had had anything to do with your disappearance.”
Mating Game Page 24
