by Cherry Adair
Then she could go home. Maybe.
Sole ownership of Blush wasn’t a guarantee of her safety. And Miles still hadn’t ascertained who, if anyone, was trying to kill her. Maybe it was all a big tempest in a teacup, and they were being alarmist? Mia wished to hell she knew. If her death was to prevent the LBO, it would be too late once she signed the papers. And if it had nothing to do with the leveraged buyout, she had no idea who was trying to get rid of her. Would she ever know?
She sat on the foot of the neatly made bed. What if she never discovered who was trying to kill her? Would she stay in Louisiana forever? While this new life was surreal, her life in San Francisco had insidiously become the paler version of her reality.
Blush was her life. It was her birthright, her passion, her entire life from the day she’d been born. It was as if some unknown entity with enormous power had thrown her life up in the air like juggling balls, and they were falling back to earth in slow motion.
It seemed ludicrous to be trying to teach herself to swing around a pole when she didn’t know where she’d be after this weekend. Tomorrow, Friday, the buyout would be officially over. That was finite.
Bayou Cheniere, Louisiana, wasn’t where her life was. She belonged in the cosmopolitan city with her people around her, her meetings, her business dinners, and the opera.
And Cruz? How did he fit into her real life?
He knew all her secrets, and it felt right to trust him. She felt safe with him. What she’d do with that, Mia didn’t know. But for now it was good to know she had him at her back.
One more day and the LBO would be a done deal. Then Saturday and Sunday before the investment brokers received the paperwork back. Then she’d have to decide if she wanted to remain in Louisiana hiding, or go back to San Francisco and face this situation and take a more hands-on approach.
Decisions had to be made.
She always felt better when she’d made a decision and took action.
But right now, all she had to think about was mastering the pole. She looked over the detailed text description for the move that was being demonstrated on the video, and skeptically eyed the jar of iTack2, which apparently was going to help her stick to the pole like a baby tree frog. Now or never.
The pole felt cold against her bare arm and hooked leg as Mia perfected the first handhold. He’d called her “sweetheart.” Was that a universal endearment when he couldn’t remember the woman’s name? Her stepmother called everyone, even those she’d just met, “honey” because she never listened when introduced, so she didn’t know anyone’s name. She’d been married to Amelia’s father for almost three years and had called her stepdaughter by her name perhaps twice. Candice still called her “honey.” Even when she came to the office.
She paused, one ankle hooked around the base of the pole, her hands— Where was her left hand supposed to be? Leaning over the keyboard, Mia backspaced to see that section of video again. The moves were basic, so-called easy. Maybe she needed the knee-high, high-heeled boots the instructor wore?
To “Blurred Lines,” she imitated the slinky, catlike walk of the instructor and approached the pole again. “Okay, pole. Front hook spin. Ready?” Leg hooked on the pole, Mia hung from it like a monkey and executed a sort-of, kind-of spin around it. Her biceps protested. She did it again. And again. Easier each time.
She attempted a back hook spin and nearly dislocated her neck. “Skip to the next.” Fast-forwarding the instructional video, she slinked back to the pole. Thank God no one was watching, because she was pretty sure she looked like an idiot. She imagined Todd watching her, and could almost hear her cousin saying, “Dance like no one is watching. Feel the music.”
Okay, new music. She started up “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. The lyrics were rude, crude, and offensive as hell, and the beat primal and sexy. Mia blocked out the words and let the driving rhythm take her.
“God, that’s sexy as hell.” Cruz’s large hands circled her bare waist as he came up behind her. “I’d consider the class money well spent.”
Mia gave his wandering hand a small smack as he explored her breast. “I haven’t done anything but wrap myself around this thing. Come back later when I have half a clue.”
“I can stay and help. For a start, I think you have on too many clothes.”
“Don’t you have something to paint?”
“I do. But I need to run to the hardware store for another gallon for the trim, and might as well pick up those plumbing supplies. Want to come with me? We can stop for lunch at Sandy’s, or go into Houma.”
Mia shuddered at the name of the coffee shop. “Maybe she knows which rock her dickhead brother is hiding under.”
“She wouldn’t tell me if she did. Don’t worry, the cops will find him. Coming or staying?”
“Staying. I’m on a learning curve with my pole dancing. You’re on your own with picking out thingamajigs and other doohickeys. Get a rain shower jet while you’re at it.”
“Not enough water pressure, unless you get new pipes and a bigger water tank.”
“I’ll add those to my list.”
He cast a quick amused glance at the pole. “Maybe I should stay to supervise. You might climb too high and need help getting down.”
Mia laughed and pushed him with her palm on his muscular chest. “Go. Anticipate all the cool moves I’ll show you later.”
“Don’t break anything.”
She turned up “Tainted Love,” the pounding beat perfect for getting in the mood.
An hour later, sweaty and triumphant, she’d mastered a dozen moves, including hanging upside down like a bat. The problem with the basic inversion position wasn’t getting into the position; it was unknotting herself and getting on her feet instead of sliding down the pole onto her head. Currently she was twined, ankles tightly crossed, gripping the pole tightly between her legs, watching the video upside down, the blood rushing to her head.
The plan was to loosen her hands and tuck her head in a graceful slide, supported by her legs. Except that she couldn’t quite get the knack of opening her hands. Eyes closed for a moment, she visualized the graceful, head-tucked slide.
Mia had just started to let go with her hands, when she felt a hard hand on her ankle, and wrinkled her nose because Cruz smelled different—like stale pizza and booze. Her heart jerked in warning. “That was quick. Did you change your m—”
Starting to twist herself right side up, she opened her eyes. The smile disappeared as she was unceremoniously, and violently, yanked off the pole, saving her from doing it herself. It didn’t hurt any less.
Landing hard on her hip, Mia looked up at Marcel Latour with dread. He stood over her, his flushed face contorted in a rictus of fury. A vein bulged in his forehead. His dirty orange T-shirt was the same one he’d worn all week, and it smelled like sweat and desperation, and was covered with food stains and, she realized sickly, his wife’s dried blood. Clearly he’d had enough liquid courage for him to barge into her house with blood in his eye.
Her heart slammed up into her throat, and her mouth went dry. Mia scrabbled backward on her butt, trying to get her feet under her. Cold sweat prickled her skin at the feral look on his face “You have no business being here. Leave. Now. Get out of my damn hou—”
Unshaven, with bloodshot eyes and heavy stubble, he was mean drunk and furious. With shocking speed, he grabbed her throat and hauled her to her feet, his fingers digging into her skin like painful steel bands. Her heart leaped, then started pounding hard and fast.
Her throat hurt from the pressure of his fingers, and it was hard to drag in a breath between him cutting off her air and sheer, unadulterated panic. Mia grabbed his forearms, digging her nails into his skin, trying to break his hold. She gagged. Black spots danced in her vision and her ears roared as she struggled like a fish on a line to break free.
Bringing his face right up to hers, he shouted, “Where the fuck is she, bitch?” Boozy spit flew with every word.
She gasp
ed for air as she dug her short nails deeper into his forearms, trying to break his hold on her throat, shoving as hard as she could, her legs flailing uselessly. His grip and the violent shaking just got harder and more out of control.
Her panic and fear rose like a black tide, wiping out all reason. She screamed in fear, in fury. But there was no one to hear her. She was an animal caught in a trap, and fought as hard as she could to break free. Nobody had ever put their hands on her in anger in her life. And while theoretically she knew what she should be doing, her brain went completely blank in the face of such violence.
“How did you get into the house?” Mia gasped inanely. The back door locked automatically. Why hadn’t Oso barked? How long until Cruz came back? An hour? More? She’d lost track. All she knew was that this man had beaten his wife and almost killed her, and he’d have absolutely no compunction doing that, or worse, to her.
The Beretta was under the far side of the bed. It was loaded—all she had to do was get to it and flip the safety.
Marcel backhanded her, snapping her head so she fell backward, held upright only by his fingers clamped around her neck. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, and her heartbeat was manic as tears of pain stung her eyes. She blinked the moisture away, struggling with all her strength to get free.
She kicked his leg but, barefoot, it didn’t have any impact. He was an arm’s length away, so she couldn’t bite or head-butt him or knee him in the balls. All she could do was use both hands and her nails to lessen his grip on her throat.
It would be pretty pathetic if she was murdered by a drunken, wife beater instead of a highly paid assassin.
Stop being a damn girl, Amelia Elizabeth!
Thinkthinkthink. Don’t panic. Think.
“You fucking told her to leave me! Take my kid? Who the fuck do you think you are, you sanctimonious bitch?”
“I offered to help h—” Oh, crap. Wrong thing to say. He swung back the hand on her neck, giving her a nanosecond to suck in oxygen, then backhanded her again, his full body weight behind his arm. This time she saw sparkling silver dots in front of her eyes as she staggered back to slam into the wall. The impact jarred every bone of her body. She used the palms of her hands on the wall to steady herself because she couldn’t get her footing enough to maintain her balance.
“I help her, you fucking rich bitch!” he yelled, grabbing the front of her tank top, his nails scratching her chest as he dragged her upright and began shaking her like a rag doll. “She doesn’t need someone like you putting fancy ideas in her stupid brain, now, does she?”
“If Cruz finds you here, he’ll kill you.” The words came out of her mouth as a threat, but Mia realized she believed them. If Cruz saw this man with his hands on her, he’d take immediate action.
But Cruz wasn’t here. And by the time he did get back, it might be too late. She wasn’t prepared to wait to be rescued. She absolutely had to get her shit together and be smart if she had a hope in hell of surviving this.
“You think I’m scared of your pussy lover boy?” he scoffed, fingers clamped at her throat tightly enough that she felt dizzy and light-headed and the black dots returned. “A drifter?” His voice came at her down a long tunnel as blood pounded in her ears. “Where’s your phone? Call Daisy and tell her to get her ass back home where she belongs. Tell her she’d better goddamn be there when I get there, or she’ll be good and fucking sorry.”
She barely heard him over the fast drum of her heartbeat. “My phone’s d-downstairs. Why don’t you go ahead and go home? I’ll make sure she’s there waiting for you.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Do you want me to call her? You can tell her yourself.” If she could get downstairs, she had a better chance of getting out of the house. The garden was still so overgrown, she could hide in a dozen places, or go over the wall and hide between the mausoleums in the graveyard next door.
But Latour knew the garden better than she did, and the crumbling stone wall was six feet high. She’d have to run like hell. Down the gravel driveway, and—
“Give me your phone!”
“I told you. It’s downsta—”
The horrible pressure of his fingers around her throat eased, and she sucked in half a breath of blessed relief. But it was just a momentary reprieve. “You lie!” he screamed, grabbing a handful of hair at her temple and flinging her across the room.
Mia tried to break her fall, but she slid across the carpet on her side, then banged her head against the leg of the bedside table and saw stars. There was no time for pain, or rationale. She was operating on pure animal self-preservation.
“Everybody carries their phone with them wherever they fucking go! Give it to me—”
She blinked rapidly to bring him into focus, stupid and dizzy with pain and sheer, unadulterated terror. As he walked toward her, she scrabbled under the bed like a crab in the confined space, her breathing harsh and erratic. She had to get to the other side, grab the gun—
Hard fingers grabbed her ankle and yanked hard as he used his body weight, attempting to drag her out from under the bed. Mia flipped on her back, using her free foot to wedge up against the bottom of the box mattress to prevent him from pulling her free.
The lockbox was perhaps two feet away from her outstretched, straining fingers, but felt like a hundred miles. Sweat stung her eyes, and adrenaline raced through her body, making everything feel surreal and in slow motion.
Hurryhurryhurry.
Curled up in the narrow space between the bedspring and floor, with her free foot she used the hard edges of the box spring to anchor herself while Marcel pulled and twisted her other foot to pull her free. All the while he was screaming invectives and threats. Mia didn’t bother listening. It was all noise. She shut it out. She shut out the pain he was inflicting on her ankle, and the way the wood slats hurt her foot and hand wedged tightly against the frame.
She. Was. Not. Letting. Go. Fuck him. If he wanted to kill her, he’d have to crawl under the bed with her.
She knew she had to be proactive, but for once in her life she had no idea how. The knowledge that she was helpless to deal with the situation scared her almost as much as the situation. If she could just have a few minutes to think—
Her fingers screamed with agony as he pulled, but she maintained her grip on the hard wood frame. Stretching her arm overhead to reach the lockbox, every muscle and tendon, like rubber bands about to snap, screamed in agony. She felt as though, any minute, she’d be snapped in two.
Still holding her bare foot, Latour lay on the floor now. His voice echoed in the confined space, so enraged, so out of control, that he was inarticulate. His fingers scrabbled up her leg, his nails scoring her bare calf as he tried to use her leg as a fulcrum to force her out from under the bed.
Lashing out with her wedged foot, she kicked him in the face. As hard as she could under the circumstances. There wasn’t much power behind it, but for a moment he released her other ankle enough, giving her time to slide away from his flailing hands.
Sweat dripped into her eyes, and Mia’s manic heartbeat tripped, then raced even faster as her fingertips brushed the metal box just as Marcel dug his fingers into her foot again. God, oh God, oh God. The crazy son of a bitch was crawling under the bed after her. She let out a cry of pure fury. The man was like a damned zombie.
“Hi, honey, I’m home— What the fuck!”
Cruz. Mia almost puked with relief.
• • •
Cruz yelled out the teasing greeting before he entered the bedroom. What he saw when he walked in chilled his blood. The bottom half of a man, in filthy jeans and work boots, protruded from his side of the bed.
Dropping the plastic bag of plumbing parts, he dashed across the room, grabbed the man’s legs, and dragged his ass out from under the bed.
His blood chilled as he wrenched Latour off the floor, and decked him before he stood upright. Twisting a fistful of the man’s shirt in his left hand, he
yelled, “Mia, where the fuck are you? Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
Latour swung a fist, trying to reach him. Cruz just held him at arm’s length, so his punches went wide. The guy cursed a blue streak. “You can’t do this. I have my rights—”
Cruz punched him again, getting satisfaction from the crunch of cartilage and the instant gush of blood from Latour’s nose. “You don’t have any fucking rights, dickwad. You lost them the moment you broke in and committed assault. Call the cops,” he told Mia.
“M-my phone’s d-downstairs.” Disheveled, glassy-eyed, Mia emerged on the opposite side of the mattress, the gun box clutched in a white-knuckled grip as she staggered to her feet.
Latour continued to fight Cruz’s firm hold on him as Cruz watched Mia from the corner of his eye. She seemed to be whole. He didn’t see blood, but he saw the dark smudge of bruises beginning to form on the delicate skin of her throat and along one cheek.
Latour’s boot hit him a glancing blow on his knee. “You can’t steal a man’s family. I have my rights!”
Cruz kicked his legs out from under him and planted a heavy foot on his throat the second the dickhead hit the floor. “Use mine.” He tossed his phone on the other side of the bed close to where she stood.
It took every ounce of control for Cruz not to shatter the man’s skull like a fucking watermelon after what he’d done to Mia. Not to mention putting his wife in the fucking hospital, and scaring the shit out of his kid. But then it wouldn’t look like an accident, and he couldn’t afford for the police to dig too deeply into his handyman persona and find out who he really was.
“She’s mine, dammit!” His breath wheezed as he tried to suck in the small sip of air Cruz allowed him in a moment of generosity. “You and your damn Yankee bitch got no business here. We take care of our own. You fuckers better tell me where she is or I’ll kill the both of you with my bare hands,” Latour shouted. “You’re nothing but a vagrant and she’s”—Latour pawed at his face, catching clots of blood that dripped from his nose as his gaze fell on Mia—“and she’s nothing but—”
