Paul slid the handgun toward them then calmly resumed his stance with hands on head, facing away.
Harold grabbed her by the hair and shoved her forward two steps until he bent to retrieve the gun. Pain ripped through her scalp but she kept silent, biting down on the cry of agony. The more she reacted to what he was doing to her, the meaner he’d get. The crazier.
“How nice of your boyfriend to bring me a gun.” Harold leveled it at Paul’s back then threw the knife to the side where it crashed against her small workbench.
The sound of a cocking gun was something she’d only heard in movies. She’d never dreamt it would be such a harsh, final sound. The sound of death knocking.
The barrel turned toward her and cold steal pressed against her temple. Harold laughed. He was psychotic, she thought. Using her hair, he jerked her head back.
I’m going to die.
“Now you’re going to be a good little sub and obey me. Remove those cuffs from lover-boy and put them on him.”
Harold’s hand eased then shoved her toward Paul. Dizziness pervaded her, and she stumbled into him. His body felt like a piece of granite. He didn’t budge a millimeter.
She whimpered and fumbled the snap on the cuff case.
“Shh.”
Paul’s sound of reassurance was so soft, at first she thought she’d imagined it. The cuffs were cold and ominous in her fingers.
“Over there. Cuff him to that shelf.”
It was a solid, heavy, metal shelving unit secured to the wall and stacked with boxes filled with holiday decorations. If she cuffed him to it, there’d be no escape for him.
“Move, bitch!”
She jumped at the shout, glanced at the shaky barrel of the gun, and stifled another whimper.
Paul backed up to the shelves. How could he be so fucking calm?
Because he wasn’t the one who was going to be raped and beaten.
Anger boiled over her other emotions. He’d sworn! He’d sworn to protect her and look at him...acting as docile as a meek sub.
She snapped the handcuff on his left wrist. The clicking sound rattled like a death knell in her head. As she put the chain behind the support, Paul gave her his right hand.
No. This was wrong. She couldn’t... He’d die. How could he protect himself or her if he was trapped?
“Do it.” Paul’s barely audible words had the panic rising again.
She couldn’t look at his face as she clicked the cuff, trying to leave it loose enough for him to pull his hand through.
“Good and tight,” Harold ordered as if he’d read her mind.
Paul nodded.
Was he suicidal? “Oh, God, no.”
Harold’s laugh was menacing. “Too late for prayers.”
She hadn’t realized she spoke aloud.
“It’ll be all right, Heather,” Paul said, his face turning to the side. “Trust me.”
“Yeah, trust him...to get you killed.”
Her stomach coiled in a knot of anxiety at Harold’s abrasive tone.
“Trust me, Heather.” Paul snared her gaze with his. “Do everything he says and trust me.”
Through her panic, anxiety and terror, Heather focused on Paul’s dark eyes. On his sincerity.
He’d sworn to protect her. Somehow he would. She had to believe that, or there was only death to consider.
She was not ready to die.
She tightened the right cuff and stepped back.
Harold’s hand was back in her hair, jerking her head, shoving her to one side. “Don’t fucking move.”
She couldn’t tell whether he meant her or Paul, but she didn’t dare budge an inch as Harold released her hair long enough to ensure the cuffs were tight on Paul’s wrists.
She never pulled her gaze away from Paul’s. She couldn’t. He was her lifeline. Her only hope of escape. How he was going to manage to save them trussed to the shelf, she didn’t know. But he asked for her trust and, for some inexplicable reason, she gave it to him. Whatever Harold did to her body, she’d survive because Paul was there. As long as he was there...and alive.
Harold could take her body, but not her soul. Never that. It already belonged to Paul.
Hand in hair again, Harold dragged her toward the car. “Watch this, lover-boy. Maybe you’ll learn something. On your knees, bitch.”
Gaze focused on Paul’s rugged face, his eyes showing her a quiet composure she couldn’t fathom, she lowered herself to the hard, concrete floor.
A zipper rasped. Material rubbed. Still she held Paul’s gaze.
Harold jerked her head around by her hair. She yelped in pain and lost the invisible bond with Paul. Harold’s hard cock was in her face. The sight of him made her gag. She thought she’d puke as her stomach coiled.
“Suck my—”
Like an attacking tiger, Paul lunged at Harold with a deadly growl. Harold and Paul went flying into the workbench, knocking over paint cans, buckets, and tools.
The gun went off.
She screamed. The men kept fighting.
Paul was free. The cuffs still dangled from one wrist as he wrestled with Harold whose right hand still gripped the gun.
Heather surged to her feet and frantically searched for a weapon of her own.
Paul pounded Harold’s hand into the wall. The gun fell to the floor, sliding beneath the car. Harold went sailing into the shelving unit and collapsed to the concrete.
“Get up, you worthless piece of shit,” Paul challenged. “You think you’re a man because you have a dick?”
Heather found the knife, picked it up, and spun around as Paul yanked Harold to his feet.
“You’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.” The man roared with fury and swung. Paul ducked, used Harold’s momentum against him, and sent him headfirst into the garage door. “You have the right to an attorney—”
Harold charged Paul, ramming him into the car. She jumped out of the way, stumbled, and collided with the shelving unit. The knife flew from her hand. Panicked, she sought something—anything—to stop the fight. Picking up a half-full paint can, she ran toward the scuffling men.
They broke apart. Harold landed a fist to Paul’s gut, while Paul connected with a right to Harold’s jaw. Gripping the handle in both hands, she swung the can as Harold spun toward her. The solid impact resonated up her arms. The lid popped. Sunset red paint splattered over her.
When Harold turned on her, shaking his head to clear it, she tossed the can at him and backed away. Paul grabbed him by the back of the collar and threw him against the car. When he struggled, Paul kicked his legs out from under him. Harold landed face down on the concrete floor, his head bouncing off the hard, unforgiving surface. His struggles ceased.
With his knee on Harold’s back, Paul pinned the man’s hands behind him. “Get the cell phone, Heather,” he said, breathing hard but voice steady. “Call 911. And get me my goddamn gun.”
Chapter Twelve
The entire house smelled like turpentine. Heather leaned back against the kitchen sink while Paul lightly scrubbed at the dried paint splatters on her cheeks, neck, and arms.
The police had finally left after hours of questions. Harold was on his way to jail. Mike assured her that with his criminal history and outstanding charges, he’d be a very old man when he got out. If he got out.
Other than briefing his supervisor on how he’d used the spare key he kept inside his handcuff pouch to get free and capture Harold, Paul hadn’t said much at all. He stood before her now utterly silent. She had no idea what he was thinking.
Would he leave now that she was safe? Had she simply been an assignment? A case for his over-protectiveness, his sense of duty, even though he’d denied that very thing?
Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. She wouldn’t beg him to stay. She wouldn’t.
“Fumes are a bit strong, aren’t they?” He leaned past her and cranked open the window over the sink. “I’m not sure how we’re going to get all this
out of your hair.” He lifted a paint-stiffened lock. “I don’t think paint thinner is very healthy for hair.”
She bit her bottom lip to keep it from visibly trembling. His voice was as deep and gentle as always. His soft drawl made her want to close her eyes and just listen to him speak.
He dropped the cloth in the sink and cupped her cheeks with his warm, slightly rough palms. “You’re safe now, honey. He’ll never hurt you again.”
She nodded. It wasn’t Harold she was afraid of any longer. It was Paul. And what he might do to her heart. Could she open up and let him in? Could she survive another loss if it came?
“Thank you for trusting me.”
His words were a battering ram against her chest. Yes, she’d trusted him. She’d trusted and loved and offered up her very soul to him. But now it was time to close it down. Or lose it forever.
“You’ll never know how much it meant to me.” He brushed his lips over hers.
Her head hurt from holding in the tears. She put her hands on his chest to push him away, to tell him to leave now. She wanted to be alone in her misery. But she couldn’t push. She gripped his shirt in her fists and clung, silently begging him not to leave. Never leave.
His lips were gentle and warm. His tongue smooth and damp as he slowly, tenderly invaded her mouth.
She memorized his taste, his textures, his scent. Oh, God! How could she live without him?
When he pulled back, he smiled down at her. “Even covered in paint and smelling like turpentine, you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
“Paul...”
His smile grew into a grin. “You can go back to work tomorrow. Do your grocery shopping alone. Get back to your life.”
She nodded. But what about you? What will you be doing tomorrow? If she only had the courage to ask.
“Or you could take a few more days off. We could take a little vacation somewhere, just the two of us. I still have some leave time left, and I could talk to Mr. Zimmerman again....”
The tears sprang from her eyes. He wasn’t leaving! She threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his throat.
“What’s this?” His arms closed around her, his big hands on her back. “Honey?”
“I love you.” Her heart soared with the freedom of the words. She’d never said those words to any man in her life other than Davie. “I love you, Paul.”
“Aw, darlin’. I love you, too.” He held her tight, rocking her slowly from side to side. “Do I move my stuff in before or after our little vacation?”
She pulled back, looked up into his smiling eyes, and totally melted. Every brick of the wall around her heart crumbled. “Your duffle bag is still on the floor in my bedroom.” She grinned. “What more could you possibly need?”
He laughed and swung her up into his arms. “You’re an imp.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and laughed as he headed for the bathroom.
“I have plenty of needs, but first a shower to do battle with the paint in your hair.” He set her down next to the tub and kissed her hard, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, making her moan. “Then I’m taking you to bed for the next week or so.”
“Mmm. Promises, promises.”
She giggled when he lightly slapped her ass.
“I always keep my promises.”
* * * * *
Six weeks later...
Paul pulled up to the stately mansion that was Incognito, wondering what had made Katriona summon him to the club so early in the evening. There was little chance of a break in since someone was always around, but the place didn’t really get going until after sunset either, so the crowd shouldn’t have gotten out of hand this early.
As he got out of his truck, he glanced at his watch and hoped he could straighten out the trouble quickly so he could get home to Heather.
Their vacation had been idyllic but brief. Unfortunately, their return to work meant playing catch-up. Heather had been spending extra hours at the office, and he’d been stuck behind his desk loaded down with case files and paperwork. Tonight had been one of the first nights in a while that he’d been able to call and confirm that he’d be home for dinner.
Then Kat had phoned with some urgent need and wouldn’t let him off the hook. Paul wasn’t sure the demanding dominatrix knew how to accept no for an answer. The cost of being one of a very few cops on the club’s membership roster, he thought as he made his way up the flagstone walk.
Not that he’d gotten much out of his membership to Incognito lately. He hadn’t been back since before moving in with Heather. As much as he longed for a D/s relationship, he wasn’t sure she was up for it, and he loved her too much to risk ruining his chances with her.
He scanned the front lawn. The windows. The door. Nothing appeared amiss. Kat better have a damn good explanation.
He raised his hand to ring the buzzer, but the door swung open first.
“Welcome, Detective,” Katriona purred with a wicked curve to her dark red lips that made him decidedly uneasy. “It’s been entirely too long since you crossed my threshold.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “Your call sounded urgent. I hope you weren’t toying with me.”
She slapped her thigh with her ever-present riding crop and grinned. “As much as I might enjoy toying with you, Master Paul, I’m afraid that might upset the sub awaiting you inside.”
He frowned. “Thank you, Mistress Katriona,” he said formally so as not to offend. “But I’m in a relationship and no longer interested in any more of your pairings.”
He turned to walk away but paused, biting back an angry curse, when her riding crop slapped against his chest.
“If you leave now, you’ll set off her Irish temper. As delightful as that might be to watch, I’d prefer not to have more than one policeman here to subdue her.”
His gaze shot to Kat’s, his insides clenching. “Did you say Irish?”
“Did I?” Kat raised a thin arched brow. “I don’t recall.”
“Where is she?”
Kat swept a gloved hand in a wide curve. “This way.”
He followed Katriona through the mansion, wondering what in the hell was going on. Why would Heather be here? She hadn’t returned to Incognito in months.
“I heard you captured Harold,” Kat said as they crossed the spacious main room, quiet due to the early hour.
“Yes.”
They passed the bar and entered a hallway, walking past the ground floor restrooms.
“Good.” She stopped at a door. Resting her hand on the knob, she met his gaze. “The triad observed the attack from the next room over, but this is the voyeur room where it happened.” Kat slipped a key into the lock.
The brass plate on the door indicated the room was occupied.
The door swung open.
Heather sat on the foot of the bed, ankles crossed and small hands gripping the scarlet red comforter in white-knuckled fists. She was dressed casually in a pair of faded jeans and a dark blue tank top that exposed more freckles than it hid. Her red hair hung free around her shoulders and blocked his view of her face until she turned toward them. He spotted the lines of worry etched across her brow an instant before they faded as she smiled at him.
He was across the room before he thought to walk through the door. The faint click of it shutting barely registered in his mind.
“What are you doing here, honey?”
She took his hands and stood. “I had to come...Master.”
He blinked, squeezed her hands, and shook his head. She hadn’t called him that since before Harold’s arrest, and he wasn’t sure he wanted her calling him that here, in this blood-red room. “I don’t think—”
She put his hands on her breasts, wrapped her arms around his neck, and rose on tiptoes to kiss him. He returned her kiss while doubts hammered his brain.
“Heather...” He cast an uneasy glance around the room, noting the table of sex toys, the keyhole window in one wall, the scarlet
satin-covered bed.
Hands on his cheeks, she turned his head, forcing him to meet her eye. Then she lowered her gaze and dropped to her knees. “Forgive me, Master. I needed to exorcise some demons. The only way I could think to do that would be to replace the bad memories of this place with good ones. I’m afraid I didn’t consider how you might feel. I’m sorry.”
Paul stared at her bowed head, his heart tripping against his ribs. Like a true sub, she was trying to put his needs above her own, when he should be the one on his knees begging her forgiveness for not realizing that she might need something like this to help overcome her past and move on.
He ran his hand in a gentle caress over her head.
“No,” he said softly, lifting her chin to make her look up. “No apologies...woman.” When she smiled, he did, too, and then knelt in front of her. “I’ll never betray your trust, Heather Gilpatrick.”
She raised her hand to his cheek. “I know,” she whispered and lowered her gaze to the floor again.
He stood, took a steady breath, and slipped into the role of Dom. He’d give her anything she needed. Anything to help her heal. His own excitement at having her submit to him, trust in him, was simply a pleasant byproduct.
“What is your safe word, woman?”
“Violet.”
He walked to the table and rifled through the supplies until he found a red silk scarf typically used as a blindfold. Returning to Heather, he said, “Stand up and remove your clothes.”
With a wide grin, she did as ordered.
“Slowly.” He sat at the foot of the bed and watched her peel away her clothes, revealing every delectable inch of her luscious, tempting body. As her panties hit the floor, his heart tumbled. “Gorgeous.” He knew he’d never get enough of her, even if he lived to be a thousand years old.
Her smile was sweet, almost innocent, yet not shy. He loved her so damn much he ached inside.
When she stood before him naked, he said, “Hold out your right hand.”
He placed the silk cloth across her palm and closed her fingers over it. Ignoring her confused look, he walked around her. Pulling both hands behind her back, he asked in a soft whisper against her ear, “Do you trust me, Heather?”
Anna Leigh Keaton & Madison Layle - Incognito 04 - Healing Heather Page 12
