Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  “I’m sure.”

  Maybe Logan didn’t love her now, but that could change, couldn’t it? Anything was possible. After all, she had a lot more going for her than just putting out. She had all her daddy’s money, too.

  Pudge stared at the calendar on his computer. December 24. One twenty AM. Later today most of the people in the world would be celebrating Christmas Eve. He would celebrate, too, in his own special way.

  He had become bored with LaTasha. Bored with the same old hunt. That, too, was Nicole Baxter’s fault. Despite the fact that she had nearly killed him, or perhaps because she had, he wanted her as he had never wanted another woman. Wanted to make her suffer unbearably before he killed her.

  In the meantime, he would take LaTasha on another hunt today before the final one tomorrow. He wondered if she realized tomorrow was Christmas Day or had any idea it would be the last day of her life.

  There was one thing about the island that made it superior to Belle Fleur as a hunting ground. He could release his prey, unchained, unmonitored, and know she had no chance of escaping. But that advantage took the edge off the excitement of the hunt. At Belle Fleur, that added risk, that slight danger, had thrilled Pudge.

  Yesterday’s hunt had been terribly disappointing. He had managed to track LaTasha down far too quickly. It was as if she had given up. Of course, he’d had to punish her. She had spent last night in the cage. Today, she should be more than eager to please him.

  But before he donned his hunting gear and revved his dirt bike into action, he had one other little chore to attend to, a preliminary part of his game that he enjoyed. The anticipation of pleasure yet to come.

  He laughed at his own play on words.

  There was nothing more sexually stimulating than the end of the hunt. Catching his prey, overpowering her, showing her who her master was, aroused him. But he did not pleasure these women. Fucking them would be like screwing an animal, and he was not into bestiality.

  A shiver of anticipation rippled through him at the thought of killing LaTasha. At least in dying, she would provide him with some satisfaction.

  Pudge opened the file folders he had compiled during the past week. Only by planning the next abduction had he been able to pacify himself and assuage his discontent. He had narrowed the search down to five women. A volleyball player. A ballroom dancer. A cheerleader. A gymnast. And a college team swimmer.

  One by one, he studied each woman’s picture and the information he had acquired on her. Two blondes. Two brunettes. One redhead. All of them young. Each of them in prime physical condition.

  He paused on the photo of the curvy cheerleader. Large breasts. Long legs. Probably five seven or eight. Chin-length dark brown hair and chocolate-brown eyes. Not pretty, but appealing. And there was something about her that reminded him of Nicole. Perhaps it was that confident glint in her eyes and the self-assured tilt of her chin.

  Hello, Mia. How would you like to visit my island paradise? This place is simply … to die for.

  Sanders had taken Barbara Jean for Christmas Eve services at the Methodist church she attended on a regular basis. And to Griff’s surprise, Yvette had gone with them. He realized that was his cue. She was giving him time alone with Nic, the perfect opportunity to tell her something about the ten missing years of his life. After speaking to him only once, Yvette had not broached the subject again, leaving the decision entirely up to him.

  But if Yvette believed that the best way—perhaps the only way—to help Nic recover was for him to tell Nic that he had been held captive by a madman and subjected to inhuman treatment, then he had to find the courage to confess at least a part of his deepest, darkest secrets.

  “Barbara Jean and I baked three cakes today,” Nic said as she curled up in an easy chair near the windows in the living room. “I’ve never baked a cake in my life. It was fun.”

  “Didn’t you ever bake cookies or cakes with your mother?” Griff asked.

  “Nope. She tried to teach me how to cook, but I refused to learn any domestic skills. I was determined not to follow in her footsteps and become a housewife, which to me was equivalent to being a slave.”

  “My mama was a servant,” Griff said. “She cleaned other people’s houses. Some people treated her well, but others acted like she was dirt beneath their feet.”

  “So, it’s true that you grew up extremely poor.”

  “We were as poor as church mice.”

  “We weren’t rich by any means, but we lived in a nice house, we had a nice car, we dressed well. For all intents and purposes, we were your ideal all-American family. Dad owned his own business. Mom stayed home with the kids, one boy and one girl. I took ballet and tap lessons. My brother played Little League. Charles David and I did everything we were told to do until we became teenagers.”

  “Then you rebelled as most teenagers do.”

  “It was a little more than that,” Nic admitted. “The funny thing is, if Charles David had been the girl and I’d been the boy, everything would have been perfect. My brother was sweet and sensitive and artistic, like our mother. I was rough and rowdy and aggressive, like our father.”

  “I take it that your father didn’t want a sensitive, artistic son.”

  Nic laughed, the sound hollow and bitter. “I don’t know which he hated more, having a sissy for a son or a tomboy for a daughter.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this now?” Griff asked.

  “I suppose it’s been on my mind. Dr. Meng keeps making me go over things from my childhood again and again. She’s convinced that my choice in a husband and my guilt about Greg’s death are connected to my feelings about my parents. And somehow all that mixed-up mess between my parents and my husband is actually connected to the way I’m handling—or, in her opinion, not handling—the recent trauma I experienced.”

  “And you think she’s wrong?”

  Nic shrugged. “I want her to be wrong.”

  “You do realize that Yvette has not shared your confidences with me. All she’s told me is that she can’t help you because you won’t let her. And she thinks—”

  “Screw what she thinks!” Nic shot up out of the chair. “Let’s forget about all that crap for tonight and tomorrow. It’s Christmas. We should be eating and drinking and laughing and celebrating and opening presents.” She walked over to the tree and looked down at the mile-high pile of gaily wrapped gifts. “When Sanders drove Barbara Jean and me into Knoxville to shop last week, we bought out the stores. And it’s all your fault for giving me your credit card.”

  When Griff joined her in front of the tree, she turned and faced him. “But I want you to know that I bought your gift with my own money,” she said.

  “Nic?” He looked right at her, into her beautiful honey-brown eyes.

  Tensing her jaw and forcing a smile, she met his gaze head-on. “Yes, Griff?”

  “Yvette believes that I can help you.” Nic stared at him, her expression questioning his comment.

  “Tell me something,” he said. “Describe me.”

  She emitted a close-mouthed laugh. “Are you serious?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, you’re handsome.”

  “That goes without saying.” He grinned. “What else?”

  “You’re rich and powerful. You’re strong and … and brave. And you’re the kind of man other men envy, the kind they’d like to be.”

  “Hmm … Do I remind you of anyone?”

  Nic’s forced smile vanished. She looked away from him.

  “Do I remind you of your father?” he asked.

  Lifting and dropping her shoulders, she heaved a deep sigh. “A little.” She sighed again. “Before I got to know you better, I thought you were just like my dad and I suppose that’s one of the reasons I detested you.” She glanced over her shoulder at Griff. “I guess you know my opinion of you has changed somewhat. And my feelings for you have pretty much done a complete one-eighty.”

  “Same here,” Griff told her. “Y
ou know, don’t you, honey, that you and I are an awful lot alike. Yvette told me that I’m your male counterpart and vice versa.”

  Nic turned around slowly and faced Griff, her eyes wide with wonder and acceptance. “Dr. Meng is right about that.”

  “We’re two halves of a whole.”

  Nic grinned. “Now, I wouldn’t go that far. Saying something like that borders on the romantic and we both know that neither of us are romantics.”

  “We’re realists, aren’t we? We see life for what it is and deal with it the best we can.”

  Nic’s smile wavered. “I know what you’re trying to say.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, I think I do. You think I’m pretending to be all right, when in reality, I’m not. But let me ask you this, Mr. Nic Baxter’s Male Counterpart: if what happened to me had happened to you, wouldn’t you handle it the same way I am?”

  “I did,” Griff confessed. “At first, I pretended I was too tough, too strong to need anyone’s help. But in the end, I did need help. Sometimes, I still do.”

  Nic stared at him, studying his face, obviously trying to understand what he had just told her. “You lost me back there with ‘I did’ and now I’m totally confused.”

  Nic glanced down at Griff’s outstretched hands. After briefly hesitating, she placed her hands in his.

  “Let’s sit down.” Griff led her to the sofa. She went with him willingly, without one word of protest.

  When they were seated, he reached out and caressed her cheek. “There was a time when I didn’t give a damn what you thought about me.”

  Her lips quivered in a tentative half-smile. “Ditto.”

  He ran his hands down her arms, then released her. “What you think of me matters to me now.”

  “Griff, what are you trying to say?”

  “When I was twenty-two, just graduated from UT and was a first-round draft choice for the Dallas Cowboys, something happened that drastically changed my life.”

  Nic watched him closely.

  He forced himself to keep looking directly at her. “I was drugged and kidnapped.”

  Nic gasped.

  “The only other people who know about what happened to me are Sanders and Yvette. I’m trusting you with this information because Yvette believes my telling you about what happened to me will help you.”

  “Damn it, Griffin Powell, if what you’re telling me isn’t the absolute truth … If you and Dr. Meng have concocted some elaborate tale—”

  Griff grabbed Nic by the shoulders. Her eyes widened in alarm.

  “If you think that I’d lie to you about something like this, then maybe you don’t know me at all.”

  “I’m sorry, Griff. I—I trust you. I know you won’t lie to me.”

  He released her.

  “The man who had me kidnapped was a billionaire who owned his own South Seas island, a place called Amara.” Griff did not intend to tell Nic everything. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But he would give her the basic facts. “He abducted and held captive young men in prime physical condition. He collected them as other men collect stamps or coins or antique cars. He tortured them until they bent to his will. Then he prepared them for the hunt.”

  “Oh, God, no!” Tears misted Nic’s eyes.

  “I spent four years on Amara. I became little more than a wild animal, living each day as the captive of a madman. I was forced to kill in order to live. I did unspeakable things in order to stay alive.”

  When Nic touched his arm, Griff tensed. Their gazes met and locked.

  “You don’t have to say anything else,” Nic told him. “You don’t have to tell me everything. Not tonight.”

  “What matters, is that I survived. I got away from York, just as you escaped from Everhart. And I recovered from my ordeal, just as you can. I’m not a weak, helpless victim. I’ve spent years being helped by Yvette and Sanders, who were also York’s captives. Without them, I wouldn’t be the man I am.” He grabbed her hand. “How did you describe me—strong, brave, powerful, the kind of guy other men envy?”

  Nic swallowed her tears. “Oh, Griff … Griff …”

  He pulled her into his arms and held her fiercely. If only he could absorb her pain and suffer it for her, he would. But where Nic had to go in order to heal her wounded soul, she would have to go alone.

  Chapter 28

  LaTasha swiped the perspiration out of her eyes and wiped her damp hands on her filthy shirt. Her heart raced as she struggled with the heavy wooden boat. She had to turn it over, place the oars inside it, and drag it to the beach. And she had to accomplish all this as quickly as possible. She knew the Hunter was close. He had almost caught her, probably not more than half an hour ago. She couldn’t be sure of the exact time. But she had managed to elude him long enough to get a good head start. Today was the day she’d been waiting for, planning for, ever since she had discovered the old boat.

  She had one chance to get away. If she failed … No, she wouldn’t fail. She had to live, had to find her way home to Asheen.

  Grunting as she put all her strength into turning the boat over, LaTasha almost shouted for joy when the boat flipped upright in the sand. Why was the boat so heavy? What kind of lumber had been used in its construction?

  The boat isn’t all that heavy. It’s you. You’re so damn weak because you haven’t eaten in days. You have practically no physical stamina.

  After sucking in a deep breath and huffing it out slowly, she grasped the end of the boat and tugged. She was surprised when it moved more easily than she had anticipated. Grunting as she strained to drag the boat to the waterline, LaTasha didn’t hear the approaching dirt bike. Only when she slid the boat into the ocean and started to climb aboard did she hear the bike’s roaring engine.

  Oh, dear Jesus, no. Not yet. Please, just a few more minutes.

  As she hopped into the boat, sat down, and reached for the oars, the Hunter came into view, barreling out of the wooded area. His dirt bike hit the sand, sending a spray of fine particles flying up around the wheels.

  LaTasha grasped the oars and thrust them down into the water.

  She ignored the distant rumble of thunder. She didn’t have time to worry about the weather.

  The Hunter parked his bike, yanked off the strap holding the rifle across his back, and pointed the weapon directly toward her.

  “Stop now or I’ll shoot you!” he yelled, his eyes wild, his face beet red.

  She began rowing, but the boat didn’t move, simply sloshed back and forth on the incoming and outgoing waves.

  Help me, sweet Jesus. Help me.

  The Hunter aimed and fired.

  The bullet hit the top edge of the boat, blasting off a strip of wood and turning the fragments into minute projectiles.

  LaTasha kept trying to make the oars cooperate. Just as the Hunter shot at her again, she managed to find her rhythm and row the boat away from shore. His second bullet barely missed her head.

  The Hunter jumped off his bike and ran toward the ocean, bellowing at the top of his lungs. Cursing. Damning her. Warning her.

  He aimed and fired again. The third bullet sailed through the side of the boat, but hit high enough so that it didn’t create a leak.

  Outraged and screaming louder, he ventured into the water, then aimed and fired again. This time the bullet hit its mark.

  LaTasha gasped as fire shot through her body, radiating from the hole in her gut. She was bleeding really bad, but she didn’t dare take time to inspect her wound or give in to the unbearable pain. She kept rowing and rowing and rowing. And praying and praying and praying.

  She looked back at the island, still no more than a hundred feet away. Her last coherent thought before she passed out was that she had escaped and somehow, someway, she was going to make it home to Asheen.

  With her mouth agape, Nic stood in the driveway in front of Griff’s home and stared at the big blue truck. Rip Tide Blue, Griff had informed her. A brand-new, shiny Escalade ESV, with all the bells
and whistles.

  “Merry Christmas, honey,” he said as he tossed her the keys.

  She looked down at the set of keys in her hand, then up at Griff. “I can’t accept this. Do you know how much a truck like this costs? It’s a Cadillac, for crying out loud.”

  Griff laughed. “Would you prefer a Ford or a Chevy?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.”

  Yvette walked up beside Nic and, with humor in her voice, said, “Just say thank you and accept his gift, otherwise none of us will be able to enjoy the rest of our Christmas.”

  Everyone at Griffin’s Rest was aware that if the Hunter remained true to form, he either had already killed LaTasha Davies or he would kill her today. But in the spirit of the season, trying to make the day enjoyable for everyone else, no one had said aloud what they were all thinking. Instead, they had eaten a fabulous dinner, prepared by Sanders and Barbara Jean, had listened to Christmas carols, and had exchanged presents.

  Nic grunted. “That cashmere sweater I bought him sure does pale in comparison to what he got for me.”

  “Think of it this way,” Sanders said as he came up on the other side of Nic. “To Griff, the cost of the truck was no more extravagant than the cashmere sweater was to you.”

  “Come on, honey. Let’s take it for a spin.” Griff motioned to her.

  She zipped up her quilted parka, smiled first at Sanders and then at Yvette—and yes, she was finally calling Dr. Meng by her given name—and hurried out to meet Griff. She smiled at him.

  “What did you buy all your other girlfriends for Christmas?”

  He chuckled. “I don’t have any other girlfriends. Not anymore. I’m thinking seriously about keeping the one I’ve got. If I’ve got her. Do I, Nic?”

  “Do you what?”

  “Do I have you?”

  “Sure you do. You’re stuck with me for at least another week.”

  She raced around to the driver’s side, electronically unlocked the door, and heaved herself up and into the Escalade’s plush leather seat. By the time she buckled herself in, Griff was sitting beside her.

  “You know I can’t keep this truck,” she told him.