by Nora Roberts
Over and done.
But now, he had work to do. He wanted to wipe down every inch of the bungalow, just in case.
After that, he’d wear gloves.
* * *
Darby woke at six sharp, slid out of bed to, as per habit, dress in the bathroom so Zane could sleep.
“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled. “I’m awake.”
“Hurting?”
“It’s always worse the next day.” He felt her hand brush over his hair as he eased up—ouch—to turn on the light.
“Ice and Advil. I’ll get it.”
“It’s all right. I need to move anyway.”
“Go slow. I’ll get you started with it.”
She trotted out—he no longer felt surprise at her ease of walking around the house naked—and he lowered his feet to the floor.
“Had worse. Lots worse.” Stood, breathed out. “But I was younger.”
He sat again.
As he did, he considered asking for a continuance, weighed the pros and cons of going into court with a black eye. A distraction … maybe some sympathy from the judge.
Maybe, maybe not.
“Don’t be a wuss. You can handle the drive into Asheville, an hour in court,” he told himself.
Before he stood again, Darby came back with the ice and Advil, studied him. “Looks worse the second day, too.”
“Thanks for that.”
“You’re going to see for yourself soon anyway.” She laid the ice bag on the left side of his face, then offered the pills and water.
“I got a really hot nurse out of it.”
“The hottest. Look, I can call Roy, have him get the crew started, give you some more TLC.”
“Just need to get moving.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Off and on. During one of the offs I did another chunk from the New York list, so at least something productive. Still no Bingley.”
“Brody’s going to be right. I feel it in my bones.”
“Maybe. Meanwhile during my on and off, I had another thought. He drives a car, so he’s got to have a driver’s license. I’ve got a pal or two on the force in Raleigh. Since I can’t ask Lee, I can ask one of them to run him.”
“Is that legal?”
“Eh…” He wiggled a hand in the air. “First, I’ll just pay the fee, look him up—all three names—on a criminal search, which is absolutely legal.”
“I’m going to get dressed, help you downstairs, make us some coffee. What does he look like?” she asked as she pulled out cargo shorts.
“From Brody’s description, sort of blondish hair, long, a little beard, glasses. Around my age—he thinks—not as tall, thinner.”
She paused as she pulled on a sports bra. “You know, I saw somebody who looked sort of like that out on the lake on a Sunfish the other day. And for some reason, he gave me the creeps.”
Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Did he do anything?”
“No, no.” She dragged on a T-shirt. “I didn’t get a good look anyway. He was just sailing by while we were finishing up at the Marshes’. He sort of waved, that’s all. But I got creeped. Maybe I should take the morning off, help you finish with this.”
“I’ve got it. But I could use that coffee. I’m okay here, darlin’. I don’t have to be in court until nine, so I’m just going to pull on some pants and I’ll be down.”
“All right. Let’s go, Zod.” The dog leaped, willing and able. She paused at the door. “This is a nice room, but I’m going to be glad when we’re back in ours.”
“Me, too. Couple days more.”
She’d said “ours,” he thought as he grabbed some sweatpants.
Maybe he wouldn’t need that filter much longer.
By the time he got downstairs where she had coffee and Cheerios with fresh strawberries, he’d worked out the worst of the stiffness.
“It looks worse than it feels,” he told her.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Stop and pick up some arnica gel somewhere. I didn’t think of it before because I’m out. It can help with the bruising.”
He put it on a mental list, went for the coffee. “Where are you working today?”
“Considering this Bingley may actually be a bad guy, I’m going to have Roy and Ralph go over there later this morning, do that maintenance. I’ll go by to see Emily at some point, but I’ve got to start on the north side of the lake. Do you know George Parkison?”
“Sure. He owns some rentals over there, lives in Asheville, but keeps a second home here.”
“That’s the one,” she said as they ate. “Apparently the company he had doing his property maintenance gets a D-minus, so he’s hired us. We’re mowing, mulching, weeding, pruning, and so on. He has four rentals, so that’s a nice new client.”
She smiled over a bite of cereal. “Especially if we charm him into adding in his own place.”
“Bet you do.”
“With the shape the rentals are in, and with sending Roy and Ralph off for a while due to subterfuge, it’s going to take us two solid days. Then I’m hoping Cherylee Fogel, who’s a book club pal of Patsy Marsh, bites on the proposal I gave her yesterday. Apparently, she recently divorced husband number two, is now sitting pretty on a fat settlement from same, and wants to—as she put it—‘reimagine her lakeside cottage, inside and out, top to bottom.’”
“I believe you could give Maureen a run for her money on knowing who’s who and what’s what in Lakeview.”
“People tell me things. Such as Cherylee’s second ex-husband is a cosmetic surgeon—and I can attest, as Cherylee and I were up close and personal, he does excellent work. They lived in Greensboro during their four-year marriage, had the cottage, which is actually a lovely home with a soaring atrium and a summer kitchen overlooking the lake, as a weekend/vacation home. She took up permanent residence almost a year ago, during the separation, got the house and a hefty settlement due to the fact the ex had not one but two lovers on the side.
“One lover found out about the other,” Darby explained as she ate. “They bonded, and together they went to Cherylee. Due to female solidarity, the philandering doctor is now out the lakeside home and all it contains, two BMWs, several pieces of art and antiques, a monetary settlement to the tune of three-point-three million. Not including a separate percentage of stocks and bonds.”
Zane listened, fascinated. “Introduce me, because if she gets married and divorced again, I’d like to represent her.”
Darby grinned. “She says she’s done with marrying, and intends to stick with casual and adventurous sex, at least until she’s ninety.”
“You’re not making a bit of that up, are you?”
“No need. She’s fifty-eight, looks maybe forty—like I said, excellent work. She never had kids, but dotes on a selection of nieces and nephews, has formed a good circle of friends in Lakeview. And after seeing what I did at the Marsh place, looked up my website, saw your water feature.”
Darby polished off her cereal. “She wants one of her own—and canna lilies. She remembers her grandmother’s fondly. And she wants a lot of other things. She told me I was adorable, which is sweet, but even more that she feels strongly about supporting female-owned businesses. If she bites, and I think she will, High Country Landscaping’s going to be rolling right into the fall.”
She took her bowl and, since he’d finished as well, his to the sink. “And one more. She’s thinking about starting a small charitable foundation—that would be funded with her half of the worth of their private plane, not included in that monetary settlement number. I said she might want a local lawyer to help her work that out, mentioned you—along with the disclaimer we lived together. So, you may get a call.”
Delighted, impressed, Zane just stared at her. “I’m seriously crazy about you, in every possible way.”
“Who wouldn’t be?” She came to him, linked her arms around his neck. “I have to ask you for something that feels a little strange to me.”
�
��Go ahead.”
“I need you to text me when you get to the courthouse. Then again when you get back to your office.”
He laid his hands on her hips. “You taking care of me, darlin’?”
“Apparently. It’s a little out of my usual range of motion, but I need you to text me.”
“Then I will.”
He nudged her into a kiss. Before she drew back, she touched her lips to his black eye, the cut above it, the bruised jaw. “I gotta go. Come on, Zod.”
Breaking free, she grabbed her water bottle, her phone, her cap. “Don’t forget the arnica. Pick up two,” she added, as she strode away with the dog racing ahead of her. “I could use some in my kit.”
He wouldn’t forget, he thought. And believed it was time to bring her flowers again.
She opened the truck door for the dog, lowered his window partway as he wiggled his butt into the seat.
“New job site today, Zod, but same rules apply. No digging, no pooping until you’re taken to a suitable location. No cat and/or other dog chasing,” she continued as she started down the road. “No crotch or butt sniffing.”
He sent her his dreamy-in-love look. “This one’s pretty much straight cleanup,” she told him. “But it could lead to more. If we do a good job, we might get the client to go for some perking up next spring. Gotta think ahead,” she reminded him, and made the turn at the end of the road, then slowed when she saw the car on the shoulder, the hood up.
She pulled up behind it. “Just be a minute,” she told Zod, and stepped out.
“Having some trouble?” she called.
She heard, likely muffled by the hood, what sounded like “Battery dead” in a heavy Spanish accent.
“I can give you a jump,” she began as she walked toward the front of the car, “or—”
She had an instant to see shoes, jeans, the back half of the figure hunched under the hood.
The fist swung up so fast, so unexpectedly, she never saw it coming.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Because he had to move fast, he caught her before she hit the ground. He had the zip ties ready, secured her wrists—just in case—once he’d shoved her into the backseat. Tossed a blanket over her, another just-in-case, though he didn’t have far to go.
In a little over a minute since she pulled up behind his car, he sat behind the wheel again, pulled out. He nearly laughed himself sick as he drove with the radio blaring.
And with it blaring, he didn’t hear the dog, abandoned in the truck, begin to howl.
He had everything ready at the cabin, and forced himself to stifle his humor until he’d parked and taken a cautious look around. Barely sunrise, he thought, pleased. Even the lake was empty.
He hauled her out, carried her inside, dumped her on the floor while he made certain the Privacy sign was out, the door locked, all the shades pulled.
“Just you and me, baby doll. Just you and me.”
When she moaned a little, stirred a little, he hit her again.
“Not quite ready.”
He cut the zip ties, dragged her into the chair he’d placed in the center of the room. A good sturdy one, with some weight to it. He zip-tied her wrists to the arms, her feet to the legs.
“You won’t be trying any of that Bruce Lee shit today, bitch. Oh yeah, I read all about that. Even found an interview online. I like to jerk off while I watch it.”
He searched her pockets, put her phone in one of his own, her multi-tool in another. And gave her breasts a couple of hard pinches just for fun.
He checked the time. Right on schedule! Though he figured he could take a solid two hours with her, he’d promised himself he’d keep it to one.
He’d wiped the place, top to bottom, and had packed his things. Time to get started.
He yanked her head back, tried slapping her awake. But her head just lolled. Must’ve hit her a little too hard the second time, he decided. With a shrug, he got a cold bottle of Gatorade out of the cooler he’d stocked for the road.
He sat, laid the Glock in his lap, drank, and watched her.
She came to slowly, her face alive with pain. Bad dream, bad dream, she thought, dazed. Terrible headache.
“Wake up, sleepyhead!”
Her blood froze; her stomach dropped, then clutched like a fist.
When her eyes flashed open, the pain was nothing against the fear.
“Miss me, baby doll?”
Only one person had ever called her that. She knew him. The beard, the hair—long and a duller color—didn’t change his eyes. She knew him.
When he rose, holding a gun so casually, fear sweat sprang to her skin, soaked it.
She tried to spring to her feet, to defend herself, to fight, found herself pinned.
“Scream,” he warned, “and I’ll shoot you, not to death, but it’ll hurt. Then I’ll gag you. I’m looking for a little conversation, but we can go with your bleeding on the floor and a monologue. Your choice.”
“What do you want, Trent?”
“Didn’t I just say?” He slapped her—not too hard, just enough so she’d know who the hell was in charge. “What did I say? Repeat after me. Trent wants a little conversation.”
She had to swallow the bile that wanted to rise into her throat. “Trent wants a little conversation. You don’t need the gun, Trent. I’m tied to the chair. I can’t go anywhere.”
“Are you telling me what to do?”
“No. I’m asking if you’d put the gun down while we talk.”
Her mind emptied but for terror when he stuck the barrel under her chin. “Denied! How about I just pull the trigger? How about that?”
“I can’t stop you, but then I wouldn’t hear what you came all this way to say to me.”
“You’re shaking, Darb. You scared?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m scared.”
“Good. You should be.” But he removed the gun, stepped back. “Scared little baby doll, aren’t you? You’ll give me whatever I want, won’t you?”
When he pinched her breast, she couldn’t stop the flinch, the shudder, but she made herself say, “Yes.”
She’d thought she’d hated him to her capacity to hate. But she found more.
“Do you think I want sex from you? I could take it if I wanted, but you’re not getting off, oh no. No goodies for you, bitch. You want to know what I want? I’ll tell you what the fuck I want.”
The rage in his voice had her bracing for another blow, but he spun away, spun back, gesturing wildly with the gun. “I want my goddamn life back, the life you stole. I want every minute of the time I spent in prison back. I want my business back instead of having my own fucking family shove me behind closed doors, paying me to keep out of the damn way, and not embarrass them. I want my fucking partners dead, my so-called-friends dead for cutting me out, taking what was mine. I want to stop pretending I’m sorry for smacking around my own wife when she deserved it.
“How about that, Darb? Can you give me what I want?”
His face, red with fury, shoved close to hers. Submission, she thought, he wanted her submission, her humiliation.
Maybe if she gave it to him she’d live.
She let the tears come, let them flow. “I’m so sorry, Trent. I’m so sorry.”
“Are you, Darby? Are you? Were you sorry when you sat in court, when you testified against me? You didn’t look sorry, you lying cunt, when they found me guilty and you and that bitch of a mother of yours hugged like it was your goddamn birthday.”
Give him what he wants. “I was afraid, I was afraid and I made a mistake.”
“A mistake? Is that what you call it? The first week I was in prison, because of your mistake, I got jumped. Bastards beat me up just because they could. Mistake?”
Oh, the irony, she thought, but kept her head lowered, her eyes down. “You were so strong. I was afraid.”
“You belonged at home, at the home I gave you, under the roof I put over your head, not out grubbing in the dirt like some damn dog.”
The dog, the dog, the dog. Someone would find the dog, her truck. Someone—
“Are you listening to me?” He yanked her head back.
“I’m ashamed, so ashamed. I don’t know how you can ever forgive me. If you could let me try to make it up to you—”
“Do you think I want you?” With a wild laugh, he gave her hair a vicious yank, then let go. “Do you think I came all the way down here, holed up in this hick backwater, because I want you back? You’re going to pay, Darby, pay for all the things I want and can’t have back.”
He jabbed the gun into her stomach. “How’s this for a start? How’s your mommy doing, Darb? How’s she doing, mommy’s little baby girl? You know how easy that was?”
She heard her own ringtone—incoming text? Distracted, Trent drew the gun away, pulled her phone from his pocket. “From Roy. Are you fucking him, too?”
Trent dropped her phone on the floor, stomped on it.
“Sorry, Roy, Darby can’t come to the phone right now.”
The shaking came back so her knuckles rapped, rapped, rapped against the arm of the chair. “What are you talking about? About my mother?”
“What? Oh right.”
He strolled back for his Gatorade, took a good gulp. “You went running home to her, didn’t you? Went running home to her while your lawfully wedded husband rotted in prison. Even got a fresh new restraining order against me when I got out, and stayed all safe and warm with Mommy.”
“You…” Nothing, even after all he’d done, had prepared her. Nothing ever could. “You killed my mother.”
“You killed her! You signed her death warrant when you put me in prison. I just stole a car—you learn some useful things inside. That’s what they call it, you know. Inside. Stole a car, put my bike in it, poured some beer on the floor, blew some weed inside. Just had to wait for her to come jogging along, and bam!”
He did a kind of dance across the floor. “Man, she flew! Just keep driving, dump the car, ride the bike to where I stashed mine. Boom, and boom. And boo-hoo-hoo, Mommy’s dead.”
Grief, rage, shock slammed into her, so she tried to rock up in the chair despite the restraints. “She did nothing to you!”
