by Naomi Niles
"Welcome back, Halle. Did you have a good time with your Daddy?" I called out happily, but the room was empty. Halle wasn't there.
Disappointed, I opened the nursery door that led to the hallway, but no one was there, either.
I must be hearing things, I thought to myself, but then I noticed a faint glimmer of light coming from under the door to Tate's office, and my smiled grew into a wide grin. He was home.
I smoothed back my wet hair, trying to look my best, and adjusted the front of my robe. When I was as ready as possible, I opened his office door, striking a sexy pose, but it was empty, too.
Was I crazy? Maybe the light was on before and I just never noticed until now, but that didn't seem right. Tate never left his desk lamp on, and if he had, I would have seen the glow of the light under the door when I first came up to my bedroom. No, that light had been off, I was sure of it – which meant someone had turned it on while I was in the tub.
Just then, I saw a flash of movement downstairs, and my heart jumped in my chest, pounding rapidly.
"Tate, you scared the crap out of me." I laughed and hurried down the stairs to greet him. At least I hoped it was Tate; after all, who else could it be? Unless it is Rose's murderer coming to kill me, too. I was freaking myself out unnecessarily, and I knew it. Of course, it was Tate. I was just being paranoid.
I entered the sitting room where logic told me the person downstairs had been moving to, but it was completely dark, and no one was there.
"Tate? This isn't funny," I chastised. "Come out right now. You're freaking me out."
I walked slowly from room to room, but he didn't present himself. In the distance, I heard a floorboard creak, sending chills down my spine. I definitely wasn't alone. Someone else was in the house with me, and it wasn't Tate. He liked to play games, but not like this, and there was no way Halle could be so quiet.
Terrified, I could hardly think over the sound of my blood rushing in my ears. I reached into the pockets of my robe, desperately searching for my cell phone, but I didn't have it. I'd left it upstairs in my room.
Moving cautiously, I tiptoed very carefully through the house to the kitchen where I knew there was a cordless phone on the counter that Stuart used when ordering grocery supplies. If only I could get to it, I could use it to call the police.
In the not very far distance, I heard another creaking sound. Was it a door hinge opening? Was it a floorboard? I couldn't tell the difference, but it didn't matter. The sound was much too close for comfort, and I gave up all pretense of being casual, bolting through the house towards the kitchen.
I slammed through the door, gasping for breath, with my heart pounding so rapidly I thought it might burst. Phone, phone, where the hell is that damn phone? Unwilling to turn on the lights, I grappled in the dark searching for it. My hands felt a toaster, the blender, the chopping block.
With trembling hands, I pulled a knife out of the wooden block. It was a large carving knife, and I could see the blade gleaming in the faint moonlight streaming through the kitchen window. At least now I wasn't defenseless, but I had to find that phone so I could call for help.
Stumbling along the kitchen, I stubbed my toe on the kitchen aisle. Yelping out in pain, I grabbed my injured foot and ended up dropping the knife. It fell to the floor with a noisy clank, and I heard it skitter along the tile.
Shit! Dropping to my hands and knees, I crawled along the floor searching for it. Finally, I found it, and my hands gripped the handle. Standing up excitedly, I didn't realize I'd crawled beneath the table, and banged my head painfully. Christ, if the stranger in the house doesn't kill me, I'll surely do it myself.
Rubbing my head with one hand and clutching the knife with the other, I stepped very cautiously across the kitchen until I bumped into another counter. Fumbling along the granite surface, my hands felt something plastic and square. A phone! I'd found the cordless kitchen phone.
Clutching it to my chest like a beloved treasure, I rushed through the kitchen door into the adjoining laundry room. Crouching between the washing machine a shelf full of detergent bottles and fabric softener, I strained my eyes to see the buttons of the phone.
Nine, I pressed the button. One, I pressed the next number. One, I pressed it a second time. I had pressed all the numbers. I searched frantically for the button that said dial, so the call would be sent. Just as my eyes found it in the darkness, a figure suddenly came bursting out of the broom closet behind me next to the dryer.
I had the knife in my hand, but before I could turn around to face him with it, I felt a sharp blow to my arm, knocking the weapon out of my hand, and a punch to my kidneys. I doubled over with pain, and another sharp blow came to my head. It was so hard, I saw a flash of stars as I fell to the ground.
I fell face first on the tile of the laundry room floor, and the last thing I saw before everything went black was a pair of black leather athletic shoes with a number stitched in red leather on the side, the number twenty-two. The image seared into my brain before my eyelids became too heavy to keep open another moment and everything went dark.
I had no idea how long I'd been unconscious when I woke, but it must not have been too long because I could still see the numbers 9-1-1 programmed into the phone just waiting to be dialed.
The shoes were gone, and so was the knife. I hoped and prayed that my attacker was truly gone and not waiting just out of my eyesight to kill me. It was a risk I had to take, and I put my finger on the dial button and finally pressed it.
"Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?" the professional voice of the operator greeted me.
Tears of relief poured from my eyes and all I could say was, "Help me."
Chapter Twenty-Six: Tate
"Look at the pretty lights, Daddy!" Halle called out excitedly from the backseat, but I didn't share her optimism.
Police cars filled my driveway with their lights flashing red and blue as I arrived home from my day out with Halle. Dinner on the yacht had been so much fun that we ended up staying out a lot later than I’d originally intended. We even caught a white sea bass but ended up throwing it back in the water.
By the time the yacht pulled back into the marina, it was way past Halle's bedtime, and I was exhausted and ready for bed. The last thing I wanted to see when I finally came home was this.
"Welcome home, Mr. Holland." I was greeted by Detective Mitch Miller as I walked through my front door, which was wide open as a team of forensic specialists carefully dusted every inch of for prints.
"What are you doing here? What the hell is going on?" I skipped the small talk and got right to business.
"I'll ask the questions. Where were you tonight?" Miller stuck his tubby gut at me, glaring accusingly.
"Bullshit. This is my home, and I demand to know what's going on or I'm not saying a word."
Miller pulled a pen and pad from his pocket and started writing as he spoke aloud. "Suspect refuses to provide an alibi."
"Suspect for what?" I was getting pissed off, and it showed.
Miller smirked with satisfaction for having rattled my nerves and said, "Your home is the crime scene of another assault, Mr. Holland."
"My God, what happened? Who was it?" Bile rose to the top of my throat when he said the words that confirmed my worst fears.
"It was the nanny, again. With blunt force trauma to the head, again. This is a pattern in your household, Mr. Holland. Now, would like to tell me where you were, or should I arrest you and ask you down at the station?"
"Rachelle." Please God, don't let her be dead, too, I prayed silently. Pleading with Miller, I said, "Just tell me if she's alright, and I'll answer all the questions you want."
"Yeah, she's being bandaged up in the ambulance. The paramedic says she'll be fine. Just a concussion and one hell of a headache, but things could have been a lot worse. She could have ended up like the last one."
I exhaled with relief and slumped against the wall, ready to collapse. I didn't realize jus
t how much Rachelle meant to me until I thought I had lost her. Now there was no doubt in my mind: I loved her, and I'd do anything to keep her safe.
Detective Miller helped me to a chair and had a young female officer come and take Halle by the hand.
"Let's go to your room and you can show me your toys," the officer said with a smile, and Halle left with her.
Miller sat in a chair across from me so we could look at each other eye to eye. With a gruff growl, he said, "So, now that the kid is gone, tell me the truth. Where were you tonight while someone was bashing the nanny on the back of the head?"
"I was out with my daughter," I stated, and Miller just leaned back in his chair and shot me look of disbelief.
"That's a repeating theme around her, too. Someone breaks into the home, although there are no signs of forced entry, bashes the nanny in the head with a blunt object, and lucky day, you just so happen to out with your daughter – a three-year-old kid who would provide any alibi her daddy tells her to."
"I've got other witnesses. I chartered a boat for dinner. You can talk to the captain and the wait staff." I pulled the business card for the charter company from my wallet and shoved it at Miller. He stared at it skeptically before pocketing it.
He asked me a series of mundane questions. When was the last time I saw Rachelle Clare? What time did I leave the house? What did I eat on the yacht? Did I have a fight with Rachelle? Who has access to the house?
"Here's the business card for the security company I use." I handed him the card for Brighton Security, but Miller refused to take it.
"We already called them when we saw their name on the security cameras. Whoever did this knew enough to cut the power so there isn't any video footage, and they say no guards were on duty at the house because you were out, so there was no one to protect."
"That's right. My bodyguard, Scott Roberts, drove me and Halle around today. My nanny had the day off, and I didn't see any reason to keep bodyguards around for the rest of the staff," I said defensively.
"Too bad. It's your staff that's always getting attacked while you're miraculously out with your daughter. You're just lucky it wasn't murder this time."
"So, can I go see Rachelle now?" I stood up from my chair. I was sick of this bullshit interrogation and being blamed for things I didn't do.
"Just a few more questions." Miller stood up to keep level with me. "Does anyone besides yourself have a key to the house?"
"All house staff – my chef, the maid, the chauffeur, and of course, the nanny."
"No one else?"
"No."
"There's no sign of forced entry on the door. No broken windows. No signs of theft. How do you explain that?" Miller was prodding me again.
"I can't. You're the detective. It's your job to figure this shit out." I pushed past him. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to check on Rachelle. I'm not answering any more questions without my lawyer present, so if you insist on asking them, take me down to the station and I'll have him file complaints for harassment and false arrest."
Miller’s fat face turned purple with rage, and I knew he wanted to say something, but he didn't. He just let me go, and I rushed outside to the ambulance where I saw Rachelle sitting on the rear bumper applying a cold compress to the back of her head.
"Baby, are you alright?" I pulled Rachelle inside the back of the ambulance and closed the doors so no one could see us together. Then I kissed her lips, being gentle not to hurt her.
"Yeah. I've just got a terrible headache." She winced. We sat on the bench in the ambulance, and I leaned her head on my shoulder and gently held the icepack for her. I wanted to kill whoever had done this to her, but the best I could do now was comfort her.
"Who did this?" I asked, hoping she knew so I could kick the shit out of him, but of course, that was too much to ask for.
"I don't know. All I saw were his shoes."
She tried to tell me all about the assault then, but I just stroked her cheek and whispered softly, "Shhh. Don't try to talk now, baby. Just rest. You've got a concussion, and you just need to be quiet and still so you can heal."
"That's what the paramedic told the police, but that didn't stop them from asking a million questions," Rachelle moaned.
"Like what?" I needed to know.
"Oh, you know. They asked me stuff about you and me and the house."
"They didn't ask about the assault?" I was mad as hell, and I accidentally jerked my shoulder, causing Rachelle to sit up and hold her injured head.
"Ouch!" she gasped, and tears of pain sprang to her beautiful blue eyes.
"I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't mean to do that." I kissed her cheeks tenderly and wiped her eyes. "Are you alright?"
"I'm okay." She managed a smile, but that only succeeded in making me feel like an even bigger asshole than I already was. She took my hand and said "They asked me about the assault, but there wasn't much I could tell them. I didn't see who did it. I never heard his voice or saw what he looked like. There was no sign of forced entry, nothing was stolen or missing. I don't have any enemies, and I'm not aware of anyone who might want to hurt me."
"It was the same when Rose was murdered…only at least you were just hit on the head and not killed." My chest felt tight as I said the words and I gripped Rachelle's delicate hand with my two large ones.
She looked up at me and said, "That's what Detective Miller said, too. Then he started asking me a lot of questions about you."
"Me?" The son-of-a-bitch just couldn't stop suspecting me of being guilty, and now he was trying to turn Rachelle against me.
She must have seen the emotion building in my eyes because she spoke quickly to calm me. "I didn't tell him a thing about us. I just said my head hurt too much to talk and I'd come in for an interview later when I was feeling better."
"Good girl, that was smart thinking." She beamed under my praise.
But then a dark look dimmed her face, and hesitated before saying, "That's when Detective Miller asked to search the house."
"What do you mean?" Fear and anger battled inside me as I tried to put on an outward appearance of calm.
"His men were investigating the front door, the kitchen, and all the downstairs windows and access points. They did a full search of the kitchen and laundry room where the assault happened, but they didn't really have cause to search upstairs. They needed permission to do that."
"What did you tell them?" My fingers were starting to squeeze her hand, and I had to force them to relax.
"I said it wasn't my house, that I was just an employee and he needed to get your permission to search the upstairs."
"Good. I'm proud of you." I kissed her lips, probing with my tongue gently before deepening the kiss to a fully passionate embrace. Rachelle moaned softly with pleasure, and I pulled back before her moans became ones of pain from her concussion.
"I didn't think you'd want him to find... you know."
"Don't talk about it. There are too many ears around," I silenced her, and we both glanced around at the cops that surrounded the area, searching for evidence.
"I knew it." Rachelle cast her eyes downward. "Something bad happened there that you don't want the police to know about it. I saw the blood. I know there was some kind of accident there that killed her. At least I hope it was an accident, and you didn't mean for her to die."
"What? Where is this coming from?" It was like a knife splitting my heart in two, and my pain came through in my voice.
She looked up at me, startled and confused. In a soft whisper, she asked, "You didn't play with Rose on your swing?"
"No. Not once," I told her earnestly.
"And, you didn't accidentally hurt her?"
"No." I took a deep breath and looked deeply into Rachelle's eyes so she would know I was telling her the truth. "Rose and I had sex, it's true, but the relationship I had with her was nothing like what we have. She didn't have your sense of adventure and passion. I installed the swing long ago, but you're the first gi
rl I've actually used it with."
"Then, why the secrecy? Why the hidden room that you don't want me to tell anyone about?"
This was harder to explain, especially with half the local police department just twenty feet away, but I had to try. Staring into Rachelle's eyes, I said, "A man in my position has to be very careful about the public's perception of him. I can't acquire new investors or be taken seriously at board meetings if the media is reporting tales of my sex dungeon. Conservatives don't accept kinky pleasures as a form of recreation. If news got out about the way I like to play, I'd be crucified, and my business empire would be ruined. How would I take care of Halle then? That's why I keep it a secret."
"There's no other reason?" Rachelle's blue eyes were as wide and as bright as the summer sky.
"No other reason." I kissed her lips, and she opened her mouth to me, taking me in a passionate embrace.
When we pulled apart, I stroked her cheek and said, "If I could, I would tell the world that we're together, but they wouldn't understand. So don't say a word to the police about us, the things we do together, or my sex room. Promise?"
"I promise," she whispered.
"Good girl." I winked and then walked away before we attracted suspicion by being gone too long.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Rachelle
"Easy. Take it slow. Don't sit up too fast." Tate was by my side when I woke the next morning. He'd laid me to rest in his bed in the master bedroom suite, propped by pillows. He'd stayed up half the night checking on me, changing my ice pack, making sure the swelling was going down, and that I kept hydrated.
"Drink this." He handed me a cup of hot tea, and I sipped it gingerly.
"How are you feeling?" His handsome face was filled with concern.
"Better. I still have a slight headache, but nothing like before." I smiled to reassure him.
"Let me get you some aspirin." He rushed to the bathroom and returned with two pills that he set carefully in my palm. It was sweet being waited on like this, and I kissed him as a thank you.
