There was no way he was putting that thumb drive into his laptop, but he needed to know. Was this serious, or just stupid? He went downstairs again, pulled out his old computer from the built-in bookshelves on either side of the river-rock chimney, set it on the table, and turned it on.
Nothing happened, of course. He found the power cord, plugged it in, waited an eternity for it to boot up—the reason it wasn’t his work computer anymore—and finally, when it had ground its endless way into functionality, put the thumb drive into the USB port.
Three image files. And a Word document. He thought about that virus, then shrugged and clicked on the first image anyway. The computer wasn’t important. Threat assessment was.
You could say the photo wasn’t illuminating. A selfie in a mirror, close up, going for artsy. A woman’s body half-turned away, the camera zeroed in on her breasts.
He had a little more information now, anyway. He knew his stalker was about a C cup. And that she was probably white. How white, he couldn’t tell. She’d taken it in black and white, and he couldn’t even tell the color of her nipples. Not too helpful.
He clicked on the second photo. Some more close-up, this time a rear view. A very rear view. He knew something else about her, maybe. That she was flexible, to have taken that photo.
Photo Three was no surprise at all. If these were supposed to make him crazed with lust, they weren’t working. Though he might have a little better understanding of what a gynecologist did all day.
“Tobias, mate,” he told the dog, “I think things are about to get dodgy.” The Ridgeback thumped his tail, and Jace said, “You’re right. Easier to face on a full stomach.” He stood up, pulled eggs, bacon, and bread from the fridge, cooked himself breakfast, going to some effort to get the bacon just right, and refilled his coffee mug.
He was arranging eggs on slices of buttered toast and scooping sautéed mushrooms onto the plate when he realized it. You’re stalling. He was letting her get to him.
Hell with that. He carried his plate over to the table, hooked the chair with a foot, sat down, clicked on the Word document, and began reading, registering the prickling of the skin of his arms, the back of his neck for what it was. His body’s response to a threat he couldn’t pin down.
Information was power. She’d been on his porch in the night. He needed to know.
The woman lay on the bed and listened.
The wind in the pines. The hard rain of a summer storm beating against the windows, coming in waves driven by the gusts.
Slap. Slap. Slap. With each slap of water on glass, her body jerked.
Relax. But how could she?
She checked off the items in the anonymous letter one by one in her head. The latest he’d sent, the instructions she still couldn’t believe she’d obeyed.
Red thong.
Red bra.
Black heels at least 3 inches high.
Leave the back door unlocked.
House dark except the bedroom.
And the last one.
Black blindfold. You will not take it off during the encounter. You will not speak during the encounter.
She could swear her heartbeat must be visible to anyone looking. Was he here already? Had he come in during the storm? Was he standing over her now?
She got her answer. The squeak of the front door opening, the slam of it closing. A heavy tread on the stairs.
Oh. God. I’m crazy. I’m going to die.
She felt the vibration of his footsteps coming closer even over the wind, the rain, the scrape of branches against the window glass. She knew when he stopped. She could hear his breath.
And when he grabbed hold of her wrists and yanked them over her head—she felt that, too.
“Relax,” he said, his voice low, amused. Unidentifiable. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to fuck you.”
Jace hit the down arrow. Blank. He hit it again, and found text. Not a story this time, though.
I’m not sure you liked my first idea. It makes me sad. Is it so hard to change? Change is good for you. You shaved, though, didn’t you? You’re giving me such mixed messages. I wonder if you even know what you want. So I thought I’d offer up an alternative scenario, one that you’re more comfortable with. We can ease into things. We’ll start out this way, and then, sometime, after you’ve fallen asleep, when you think you’re safe… you’ll find out how it feels to switch.
More blank space, and a tantalizing line of black text showing at the bottom of the screen. Jace hit the down arrow impatiently. His breakfast was getting cold at his elbow, but he had to finish this first.
Do I have your attention? You’re so lonely. So tired of not having the kind of company you need. The kind that’ll make all your fantasies come true, even the ones that are so dirty, you don’t even want to admit them to yourself. Here’s all you have to do to get it. Put the envelope in the bed of your truck when you’re at the gym today. Just the envelope, nothing else. Go there in the late afternoon, and park in the parking lot this time. I’ll get your message.
You can keep the thumb drive. You can even share the pictures. I don’t mind you sharing me. Tell your friends that you have a new girl, one who’ll do anything, including things you’ve never dared to ask for.
You can keep the thong and blindfold, too. I have another set. I’ll let you decide what to do about them.
Love,
Natalia
“Bloody hell,” Jace said under his breath. “You’ve got a few roos loose in the top paddock, darling.” His friends? Yeah, his friends would be impressed by that. If they were fifteen. And she didn’t know much about men if she thought they had a problem admitting their fantasies to themselves. You could say that was a man’s hobby.
He thought about those possible viruses, then copied the text, pasted it into an email message, addressed that to Rafe, too, and typed, “New level here. Mad as a cut snake in a sack, and she looks local. Think I’d rather have somebody shooting at me.”
He hit Send, ejected the thumb drive and shut the computer down, started to eat his now-cold breakfast, and stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth.
Curvy body. Blonde. A personality he couldn’t get a read on, and that constant sense that he was looking in a mirror, seeing things the wrong way round.
Lingerie.
Well, bugger.
Paige was doing much better with the goats this morning. Bribery, that was the ticket. Brett Hunter’s approach. Not jumping straight in with the bribe, either. Holding it just out of reach. She had to admit, she wondered what his “parcel” looked like. He knew how to tantalize, and it was effective.
Careless. Relaxed. Amused. No anxiety, and no stress. That was why she started in on her barnyard duties half an hour before she could expect Jace to appear, too—so she wouldn’t be subconsciously waiting for him. And possibly because she wanted to see him, and that was exactly why she needed to remove the opportunity for temptation.
This week wasn’t about her. It was about Lily. About protecting her sister, not causing more problems for her. That was her job. It had always been her job.
Her mother had told her, enough times that the story had grown old, that when the doctor had gone in to deliver the twins, he’d had to unwrap Paige’s arms from around her sister first. “You were hanging on,” her mom had always said, “like you were saying, ‘You want to mess with her, you’ll have to get through me first.’ That’s why I never worried about her being shy, because you were tough enough for both of you. You went through every door first like you were ready to take on whatever was on the other side. You did the stairs first so she could see how. I didn’t even worry when I put you two on the school bus the first time. You were that good.”
You could have called Paige’s approach “direct,” it was true. For all the years she could remember, and apparently for all the years she couldn’t as well. Now, though, she tried Hunter’s technique instead. She opened the gate, ignored the coyly scampering goats, went i
nto the shed, opened the grain bin, and poured a handful into the stainless-steel bowl on the milking shelf with the maximum of rattling sounds.
Sure enough, she got a couple heads, the black one and the white one with its pirate’s eye patch, poking around the door of the shed. She ignored them, rattled a little more grain into the bowl, and saw, from the corner of her eye, Edelweiss making a break for it, out-scampering Tinkerbelle to the shelf, jumping on, and going straight for the grain.
“Ha,” Paige said, tying the goat’s collar to a rope hanging from the stanchion the way she should have done yesterday, the way she would have done if she’d assessed the situation first instead of allowing herself to first be overconfident, and then to be rattled by the goats and the Milker. “Yeah. This is how we do it. Who’s in charge? I’m in charge.”
She wiped the udder clean, then perched on the stool, took a cleansing breath in and out, and started practicing the milking technique she’d studied on YouTube. More a squeeze than a pull, starting as high up on the udder as she could reach. Which made perfect sense if you thought about it. That was where the milk was. And fortunately, she had strong hands. Who knew that milking a goat would be so much like holding a gun? She was clumsy, but she was getting it done.
Edelweiss apparently still found fault with her technique, because she shifted, then kicked out with a leg way too close to Paige’s head, as if Paige would flinch. Instead, Paige grabbed the leg, shoved it back down, got her forearm against the goat’s flank in case Edelweiss tried it again, and said, “Too bad for you that I know what it looks like when you start going for your weapon. You’re in custody, sister.”
It was silly, but the goats were silly. She’d call them “ridiculous,” in fact. Pint-sized drama queens. Right now, Tinkerbelle was chewing on some hay, looking at the milking shelf resentfully, and bleating in a complaining way, like she wanted her turn and it was no fair that Edelweiss got to go first. Like a goat who thought Paige might forget that she’d pretended getting milked was the most hideous fate known to Goatdom the morning before.
Edelweiss, though, was getting the message, or maybe she just got smug about her superior position, because she decided to settle down and let herself get milked. Which process was oddly relaxing, Paige found. Rhythmic. Physical. Soothing to the nerves.
The goats’ sibling rivalry made Paige wonder, though. Could there be a downside to sitting on the inside of the school bus seat every time so your big sister could sit on the outside, where she could react to any problem, could get there first? To being told you were a little bit helpless? Could it even make you choose the wrong guy, if you thought you couldn’t fight your own battles?
Maybe so. Maybe once, but Lily had proved that she could do it now, right? Paige wasn’t the one who owned demon-spawn goats, who lived in a cabin in the woods, who ran a business, who had a riding mower with a snowplow blade in her garage. Paige was helping, that was all, not holding her sister back. Just this one more time.
The barnyard was quiet when Jace walked up the drive except for the excited, high-pitched bleating of the three tiny kids, who were playing king-of-the-hill on a weathered picnic table this morning, racing to the top and trying to butt each other off. Nimble as otters, and just as playful. Tobias wagged his tail at the sight of them, but Jace was having a hard time being amused.
He’d told Lily he’d be here at eight. It was barely seven-thirty, but he’d wanted to make sure he caught her at home. And to catch her at a disadvantage, before she expected him. He went through the gate, shut it behind himself and Tobias, and walked soft-footed toward the shed. Just in case she was already there.
He paused just outside the door, put one hand out to warn Tobias back, and let his eyes adjust to the dim light and his nose to the not-unpleasant barnyard smell.
There she was. She’d had an early start herself. But this morning, she was milking. One goat, the black one, had been milked already, judging by the look of her udder. What the hell?
He’d been right. He acknowledged the lurch in his gut at the confirmation, then stepped inside and said, “Thought you’d sprained your hand.”
Lily whirled, the goat started and kicked out, and somehow, she’d caught its leg before it kicked over the pan. In her right hand. The “sprained” one.
She set the animal’s leg down, turned back to her task, and said, her voice measured, “I didn’t tell you the truth about that.”
That rocked him back for a split second, and then he advanced until he was beside her. Tobias trotted forward, touched noses with the free goat, then sat down beside Jace. Jace said, “That wasn’t all you lied about, I’m thinking.”
She froze. That was the only word for it. He could see the breath she took, the almost-instant readjustment before she said, “What are you talking about?”
Caught you, he thought, and wished he felt better about it. He asked, “What are you? I can’t wait to hear.”
The two streams of milk squirted into the pan, one after the other, as she said, “I was in the wrong, uh, space when I came back from my trip. The goats weren’t listening. I was embarrassed. And I did injure myself. Paragliding,” she added in an obvious afterthought. “So I thought of saying that about my hand. Maybe it’s not me, it’s you, did you think of that? Maybe you’re intimidating.”
“Except that I don’t intimidate you a bit. Try again.”
She finished off the goat, removed the pan of milk, stood up, and untied the halter rope, all without answering. When the goat had jumped down, she poured the milk through a funnel into a half-full quart jar, her hands steady, her face giving nothing away.
He knew what she was doing. Adjusting. Reconnoitering. Working out a new plan. His fists were clenching, his jaw bunching, and he relaxed both. Anticipate.
She turned to face him at last, her expression still neutral, her stance nothing but solid, and said, “I’ve got things to do here. You can talk to me while I do them, or you can go away. Makes no difference to me. If you want to hang around, though, you can go open the gate for the babies.”
She was wearing leggings again, black ones this time, and the same polka-dot apron. No sweater, just a close-fitting, long-sleeved purple knit shirt. She didn’t look one bit sweet to him this morning, maybe because he knew too much. Her body did look like the pictures, though, as much as you could tell from the angle and the closeness of the shots.
He hadn’t been wrong. He wasn’t wrong.
She didn’t wait obligingly for him to do his reassessment. She grabbed a wheelbarrow, trundled it over to one of the stalls, and began to muck it out with a pitchfork. Shoveling fast, but with an awkwardness to it all the same. He said, “You told the truth about your leg. You’re injured.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him and said, “I thought I asked you to open the gate for the babies.”
He did it, and told himself it didn’t put him at a disadvantage. Then he stood by the gate, barely noticing the excited mother/child reunion, took the backpack off his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair, and thought it through. When he went back into the shed, he said, “Here. Let me do that. It’s hurting.”
Why did he say it? Damned if he knew. It would have been better to have her off-balance, and pain and fear put you off balance like nothing else. It wasn’t just the mixed signals she was sending, either. It was his own mixed reactions. Getting soft. Getting too far away from the game. Which was dangerous.
She looked at him again, a measuring thing, laid the pitchfork against the stall wall, said, “Fine,” and unhooked a feed tray from the wall, fumbling with it. He could sense her frustration, but he didn’t offer to help. Instead, he waited for her to finish, then picked up the pitchfork and started in himself.
She didn’t say anything else, and it surprised him. Surely she’d explain. Excuse. But she didn’t. They worked in silence until the fresh straw was down, the hay and water containers cleaned out and refilled, and then she glanced at him and said, “Chickens.”
“Chickens,” he said gravely, and she almost smiled. She took a basket from the shelf, went to the coop, and opened the door to let them out, which happened in a flutter of wings and a rush of feathery orange and white bodies. She did it after the milking, the way she should have done the first time. Had she been hung over the day before? On something? What? How did she know how now when she hadn’t then?
She didn’t help him out. She just said, “Refill their water,” and he did it without a word. After she’d collected the eggs from the nesting box, she stood up and said, “You’re still here, for some reason, so you can help me carry everything to the house.”
“A woman as aware as you are,” he said, walking back to the shed with her, “and you’ve got no qualms about letting me into your house? Alone?”
“No,” she said, handing him the milking containers and funnel and taking the milk bottle and her basket of eggs. “I don’t. I’d say that you’re the one who should be worried.”
He picked up his backpack and followed her. Whatever her plan was, he outweighed her by a good sixty pounds, he’d had a wee bit of training, and he was armed and she wasn’t. Besides, he had a Ridgeback. She’d lost the element of surprise, and he had a lion hunter.
He’d say he was in pretty good shape.
Breathe, Paige told herself. Deny. He can’t know, not for sure. Who is this guy?
She should have looked him up. She hadn’t wanted to be that interested. More fool her.
He was carrying a backpack, which was always concerning. On the other hand, it wasn’t like he’d been trying to ingratiate himself or talk his way into her house. Anybody less ingratiating would be hard to imagine. Besides, if he were a bad guy, she needed to find out right now for Lily’s sake. Even if she had to use herself as bait.
She stopped at the door, set the milk and eggs down on the round wooden table that sat on Lily’s sheltered porch, and tugged off her dirty boots without saying anything to him. He probably expected her to chatter, to excuse. He wasn’t getting that.
Guilty as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 1) Page 10
