At five before eight, she left her sanctuary to return downstairs, practicing the art of keeping a pleasant expression on her face despite the fact that her feet hurt, the house was chilled to the temperature of a freezer, and she was petrified of what Michael might do.
As it turned out, the worst thing he did during the hour-long meeting with George Benoit of New Orleans was tug the elastic band out of her hair as he pulled her alongside him to open the door. She played the dutiful, attentive, smiling fiancée, and Michael the cordial and generous everyman who’d lucked into “this whole shipping thing.”
By the time Benoit left, Mori had begun to feel at ease for the first time since walking into the house, and she wished he’d stay longer. An outsider kept both Michael and her on their best behavior. Maybe they needed a full-time, in-house referee.
They watched from the doorway as Benoit’s taxi pulled out of the drive. Michael’s hand strayed from her waist to her butt, squeezing as if testing a ripe tomato for firmness. Mori gritted her teeth and let him squeeze a few seconds before stepping aside and walking back into the big living room, as ornate and passionless as the rest of the house except for the huge fireplace that took up most of the south wall, flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling windows.
“That went well, don’t you think?” Michael followed her into the room, and Mori gasped as he slipped an arm around her waist and deftly twisted her to face him.
“He was nice and seemed to be excited about your business deal.”
Mori held her breath to block out Michael’s scent of whiskey and aftershave as he pulled her closer and leaned in to kiss her neck. “That dress looks as beautiful on you as I thought it would.” He touched his lips to hers, and when she tried to slip away, he pulled her more tightly against him with his left arm.
“Your bruises healed nicely, I see.” His big right hand rested across the front of her neck, reminding her of how it had felt to have those hands choking her. She understood the implied threat behind the gesture.
“Michael, please. Let’s go slow—”
“You don’t think I’ve earned this?” He slid his hand inside the front of her dress, cupped her bare breast, and laughed as he jerked the bandage away and thumbed her nipple. “You belong to me now. This is what I was promised. This is what your family agreed to.”
His kiss was bruising this time, and Mori tasted blood as her lip was crushed against her teeth. God, she couldn’t do this. She just couldn’t.
“Wait, please.” She finally pushed him away, both of them breathing hard for different reasons. “Can’t we get used to each other? Just let me stay here a few days and adjust. I will come around, I promise.”
She expected an explosion of temper, but Michael looked at the floor and pursed his lips. He turned and walked to the fireplace, then knelt down, pulled a long match from a box sitting on the hearth, and lit the gas flame. The firelight rose high as he turned the knob as far to the right as it would go. Only then did he look at her. “So you need time for it to sink it that you belong to me?”
Mori dragged her gaze away from the fire, so out of place in a Houston living room in August. “Time for me to get used to being…with you. So we can be partners.” She belonged to no one but herself.
He nodded slowly. “And tell me this, Emory. When you look into our future as partners,” he emphasized, “do you see us raising our children together and teaching them about their heritage? Do you see us attending social functions arm in arm? Entertaining guests? Ending our nights in each other’s arms, our bodies joined? Because that’s what I need in a partner.”
Mori stifled a shudder and tried to paste in place that pleasant smile she’d been practicing. “I just need a little time to—”
“Or” — Michael turned to look at the fire — “do you look into the future and see long nights of sex with a man you find distasteful, raising children you wish had been sired by someone else, gritting your teeth as you sit through endless events with people you don’t give a rat’s ass about?”
That was exactly what Mori saw in her future. That, and the slow death of her soul and her spirit. The only saving part of it would be the children, because she knew she’d love them, even if they were his.
She sighed. Why pretend when he knew better? “You’ve won, Michael. I’m here. I’ve agreed to marry you. What more do you want from me?”
He leaned against the sofa table, arms crossed, and studied her with a dispassion that alarmed her more than his fumbling attempts at seduction. “I want the partner I described, and you might be surprised to hear that I already have a woman in my life who fills that role very well except for the children. Perhaps you’ll meet her one day. She picked out the clothes you’re wearing.”
What? Mori sat on the sofa, weary from fear and from pointless games. “Then why this charade tonight, with the clothes and the ‘meet my fiancée’ business? Why not become a sperm donor and let’s just end all this fighting? That way, I fulfill my obligation as our only full-blooded female of childbearing age, and you get to keep your ideal partner.”
Michael paced around the table and went to stand in front of the fire again, his back to her, jabbing into the flames with a fireplace poker as if stabbing it with a knife. “You don’t understand, Emory. I spent twenty-five fucking years waiting for you, putting up with your whining, pandering parents, only to have you grow up to be a spoiled, selfish brat.”
He turned to face her, and Mori stood, alarmed. She’d seen him angry in his office when he’d hit her, but nothing like this. Rage twisted his handsome features into a cold, grotesque mask. “Michael, I think I should go.”
“Sit down and shut up.” His voice was low, taut, one timbre short of a growl. “I own you. I bought you when you were born. I’ve been paying for you since you were in diapers. I’ve given you enough leash to let you grow up, but now you’re mine. Not my partner. My property. I own you, and I don’t intend for you to forget it.”
The tension crackled in the air, charged and static. Mori was strong, but Michael was stronger, and they both knew it. He pulled a glove of some kind from the table, and Mori watched in confusion as he slipped it on his right hand and retrieved the fireplace poker he’d left in the flames.
“You know what we do with our property on the ranch, don’t you, Emory? Your grandfather taught you that.”
Mori gasped and turned as soon as Michael lifted the poker.
Not a poker. A branding iron with the letter B on the end.
She ran for the door as fast as she could, her heels sliding on the polished floor. She’d made it halfway through the foyer when her bare back exploded in white-hot, searing pain.
The room tilted, righted itself, and tilted again as she dropped to her hands and knees. Her body on fire and her nostrils filled with the smell of her own scorched flesh, Mori heard her screams turn to piteous howls before the world turned black, silent, and painless.
EPISODE 5
CHAPTER 17
The handcuff keys taunted Kell from atop the dresser, four feet out of reach. Might as well be four miles. God knew he’d tried to span the distance, stretching like Plastic Man until the shoulder above his imprisoned left arm ached as if it had been wrenched from its socket and roughly popped back in place.
He’d gotten the bright idea of using his utility knife to saw off the leg of the nightstand — before he realized it still rested in the pocket of the jeans he’d pulled off for his shower. They, of course, were already stuffed in his duffel.
The damned nightstand was nailed to the wall, as fixed and immovable as a stone monolith.
What a fucking idiot. He couldn’t decide who he wanted to dismember first, Mori or himself. No, he knew — probably himself. She’d been on the razor’s edge of making a run for it all afternoon, so he had no right to act surprised at anything but his own stupidity. Even that shouldn’t have surprised him at this point.
His cell phone barked with Gator’s ringtone, and he snatched it of
f the nightstand, grimacing at the name on the screen. No, he didn’t think he’d be talking to Colonel Thomas just yet. The variations on “fucktard” he’d called himself couldn’t possibly compare to whatever colorful epithets the colonel would devise as soon as he figured out Kell had gone off task. Seriously off task.
“Kellison, you are a disgrace.” He grasped the leg of the nightstand and pulled on it until his biceps bulged and the muscles in his shoulders burned in protest. All he got for his effort was a renewed throbbing in his back and not so much as a hint of splintering wood. He could practically bite through the headboard of the bed, so what was up with the industrial-strength nightstand?
Mr. Neat and Tidy, good soldier that he was, had returned his guns to the duffel and squeezed the bag into the narrow gap between his bed and the wall that separated the main room from the bathroom. It would be accessible without them tripping over it, he’d reasoned, and he hadn’t wanted Mori, his fragile flower who’d since proven herself to be a handcuffing vixen, to be freaked out by the firearms.
Yeah, he was both a fucktard and a chauvinist.
He pondered his current dilemma. Lying on his back, he stretched his right arm across the queen-size mattress one last time, wishing for either a cheap double bed or Godzilla arms. No way he’d ever reach it.
Not with his hand, anyway, but maybe his foot. Maneuvering around the bed, he wrestled his way onto his stomach, the freakishly bright floral bedspread bunched underneath him in painful lumps. His already-throbbing back taunted him. He was going to pay for this.
Using his elbows, he slid his body toward the wall until his feet touched the wallpapered sheetrock, then shifted his right leg downward until he finally hooked a foot through one of the duffel’s straps. If he could drag it onto the bed without breaking his ankle, he’d shoot off those goddamn cuffs. Of course, the way his luck was going, he’d probably trigger the rifle with his toe and dispatch his own ass to China.
Pain, hot and sharp, shot through his back as he strained to angle his right leg onto the bed with the heavy pack attached to his ankle. And it was working fine — until the duffel turned at an odd angle and got wedged between the bed and the wall, trapping him in a position halfway between a pretzel and a crab. Of all the stupid, fucking—
A keycard slid into the door lock with an electronic whir. Kell groaned and planted his face in the bedspread. Whose bright idea had it been to make sure both he and Nik had keys to the safe places? Oh yeah, that would be him.
He would never live this down. Not in this lifetime or the next. Maybe he’d luck out and Nik would’ve left Robin in the car.
The gentle whoosh of the door opening, the snap of the safety being released on Nik’s gun, the soft footfalls on the carpet inside the door — all were audible to Kell’s trained ears, even over the air-conditioning’s white-noise roar.
“What the fuck?” Nik’s footsteps halted and the dead bolt clicked home. Kell remained facedown and still. If he didn’t move, maybe they’d think he was dead and leave.
Something tickled his right ear, and he instinctively jerked his head to the side and opened one eye to see Robin’s face about three inches from his. She held up a feather and grinned.
“Let me guess. You were playing Bed Twister and lost?”
“Get my fucking foot out of the duffel bag strap.”
Only after she’d extricated his foot and laughed for the week and a half it took him to wrestle himself into an upright position did Kell look up. Nik remained just inside the door, arms crossed, eyebrows bunched, without a trace of humor on his face.
“What the hell have you done?”
Robin danced and twirled to the bed opposite him and sat down with a flounce. “And how’d you get handcuffed to the nightstand?” She was having way too much fun.
“What?” Nik’s voice rose half an octave as he walked farther into the room, took a look at the cuffs, and shook his head. “Shit, Kellison. Where’re the keys?”
“Dresser.” Kell gave Robin his most intimidating stare, but judging by her squawking laughter, it didn’t work. “Where’d you get that feather, bird-woman? Out of your ass?”
Instead of shutting her up in righteous indignation, the comment only made Robin laugh harder. There was simply no way of ending this with any self-respect, so he might as well accept it. “Sorry.”
Damn, but he was tired of apologizing.
Nik grabbed the keys and tossed them on the bed where Kell could reach them and, blessedly, free himself. Now, if only he’d perfected that disappearing act. He had to settle for what he hoped was an expression that conveyed sincerity, contrition, and good humor. The gritted teeth probably ruined the effect.
Robin snorted a few more times before getting herself under control, but Nik was nowhere in the zip code of amused. “Guess I don’t have to ask who nailed you with your own cuffs.”
Kell rubbed his back and hobbled to the dressing table for more ibuprofen. He’d taken three times the normal dose already today. Awesome.
No point in responding to Nik’s comment; they all knew who’d cuffed him, and he’d only humiliate himself further if he made excuses. “Robin, think you can track where she went? She’s been gone about an hour.”
“Maybe. You got any ideas on where to start? It’s a big old world out there.” Robin shifted on the edge of the bed to make room for Nik, who looked like he had a lot to say and was holding his tongue with effort. Had Robin not been here, Kell had no doubt Nik would have chewed up his ass and handed it back to him like so much ground beef.
Kell deserved it, but he desperately needed their backup. “I know it looks like I’ve gone nuts, and maybe I have. Mori Chastaine isn’t guilty. I’m certain of it. But she does know something, and she’s our best hope of solving this case.”
Nik’s doubts were obvious. “And that’s the only reason you helped her escape?”
Might as well not lie; his friend knew him inside and out. “Of course not. I want to help her. But that doesn’t mean she can’t help us, too. She’s just scared.”
When Kell’s phone barked again, Robin picked it up and laughed at the screen. “Poor old colonel. I don’t think he really wants to talk to us right now. It would be bad for his health.” She set the phone back on the nightstand. “So, where do you think Mori might have gone?”
Kell had been thinking about that. “She knows she can’t go back to her apartment or the Co-Op. The DHS guys will be all over both places.” He tried to put himself in her position, with fear of the law on one side and fear of Michael Benedict on the other. The way she’d talked about handling the situation with Michael, it sounded as if she had a plan. And knowing that Kell was closing in on the truth, she’d be convinced she needed to move fast. She’d said “a couple of days,” but that had been before he let her know how much he’d figured out.
“She’ll confront Michael Benedict — maybe at his office or house.”
Nik took a deep breath, and the tension eased out of his expression and posture now that he had something to focus on other than Kell’s stupidity. “What about her parents? Don’t they have a ranch west of Houston?”
Kell shook his head. “My gut says Mori wouldn’t go to them for help. She seems to be having some kind of falling out with her family. They didn’t call or pick her up when she was detained by Homeland Security that first day.”
Robin turned sideways, leaning against the headboard. “I think she’d go to Benedict’s home rather than his office, so I’d nix Galveston. It’s almost eight now, and Tex-La would be closed. Does she have a car?”
Kell paused, his anger at Mori slowly shifting to worry. He’d been so pissed off he hadn’t considered the danger she could encounter in trying to walk through the eastern burbs at night. And if Michael Benedict had hit her before, he’d do it again. Bullies like that weren’t onetime abusers.
“No, she left on foot, although she could’ve gotten a taxi. Her car’s at the Co-Op.” Was at the Co-Op. Kell figured it had
been impounded by now. “Sounds like the first place to check out would be Benedict’s house in River Oaks. Robin, you know where that is?”
She nodded. “Although, the smell of money in that neighborhood might camouflage even the human signatures. Speaking of which, you got anything of hers I could scent that doesn’t smell like hotel bodywash? The room reeks of it. Maybe I could check out your car?”
He had something better. “That’s her T-shirt on the dresser.”
“Did she leave naked?” Nik arched a brow, still without a shred of humor. Kell was going to have some fence-mending to do with his best buddy.
“No, she didn’t leave naked.” And now it was time for yet another appearance of Kell the Great Apologizer. “I screwed up, and I appreciate you guys going off radar for me. But Mori’s being set up by somebody, and our friendly neighborhood millionaire, Michael Benedict, is in it neck-deep and rising fast.”
“Apparently, she isn’t that interested in your help.” Nik’s voice bristled with sarcasm. “In case you missed it, the handcuffs were a dead giveaway.”
Kell tugged on his running shoes and tied the laces. “Look, you can bitch me up one side and down the other when we get this straightened out. I deserve it. But for now, Robin needs to track Mori, and you and I need to pay a visit to the esteemed governor of Texas and find out why he’s going along with this frame job. Is he still in Houston?”
“Yep.” Nik puffed out a frustrated breath and tugged his hair back into a short ponytail. “I pulled Archer out of New Orleans and flew him into Houston as soon as the governor showed up alive. He’s been tailing Felderman.”
Kell frowned. “Tailing him? I thought he was in the hospital. He didn’t look too good on the news conference this afternoon. Did they transfer him to a hospital in Austin?”
Robin had been uncharacteristically silent since walking to the dresser to retrieve Mori’s shirt, and she looked somber as she rejoined them. She reclaimed her seat next to Nik, the fabric grasped tightly in her hands. Her gaze was fixed on the carpet, her brow furrowed, but she still wasn’t talking.
Omega Force 01- Storm Force Page 13
