Deadly Obsession (8 page)

* * * *

"Daddy," Tori asked, "is Chris coming home tonight?"

Brayden looked up from the board game and into his daughter’s eyes.

"She said she would be here around dinnertime. She might run a little late because of rehearsals or something." He looked at the clock, surely she wouldn’t be too much longer. At the latest it would be another hour.

Tori nodded her dark head and studied the game again.

Brayden hadn’t called Christian all day, though he’d wanted to. He figured she’d left the ringer off her upstairs phone and he assumed she hadn’t had time to get a new one. Again, he looked at the clock. Had she left yet?

He’d tried to reach Morris today, but that hadn’t worked. He should have just gone over to the guy’s condo this morning, but he hadn’t known which one belonged to the lieutenant. This afternoon when he’d closed the shop early, he’d gone by the station, but Morris had been out.

Brayden shook his head and tried to concentrate on the game with his daughter, but his mind kept wondering.

He should have stayed that morning and forced Christian to tell him what was going on. Another look at the clock told him it was going on six. Like he’d ever been able to force that woman to do anything?

Well, force or no, willing or no, they were damn well going to get to the bottom of things this weekend.

He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he felt at ease where Christian was concerned.

* * * *

Christian heard a voice thundering in her ear. The words pierced her brain, but she couldn’t make them out. God her head hurt. Nausea swirled in her stomach.

Someone moaned.

Was that her?

"...It’s time to play." His voice slithered over her, through her. A nightmare.

Wake up. Wake up.

His laughter danced across her face.

Scattered bits and sharpened pieces, scenes floated through her mind. Why couldn’t she think? Move?

Then everything fell into place and she remembered.

Oh God. No!

She tried to sit up, her eyes flying open and pain radiating through her head.

Ropes bit into her wrists, held her legs immobile.

The room was spinning and spinning.

Her chest tightened.

Breathe. Breathe.

It was a dream. Please let it be a dream.

A sob caught in her throat.

She focused on the face above her.

Oh no.

Richard. He was leaning over her, grinning down at her struggles.

Oh, please no. Please no. Her chest vised, but she closed her eyes again, prayed and pleaded to not have an asthma attack now. Not now. She fought the tightness back just a bit and opened her eyes.

She would not beg. She would not. He loved that. What had he given her? She felt light and heavy at the same time.

The sonofabitch drugged her. She remembered the feeling, the games he liked to play.

When his lips touched hers, softly, lovingly, bile rose hot in her throat.

Again she jerked her wrists and the ropes didn’t slacken. Or was she not trying hard enough? Her arms were heavy.

This was not happening. This was not happening. Not again, please, God, not again.

He pulled back, and caressed her face. "Still so beautiful."

Christian jerked from his touch.

Richard tsked. "Now, now." He tapped his bottom lip. "Remember? Tit for tat, my dear."

With that, he leaned down and bit hard enough on her lip that she tasted blood.

She couldn’t keep the whimpered cry locked in her throat.

"You know my rules," he told her, wiping her blood off her chin. The red liquid glinted in the lights, catching her attention as he rubbed it between his fingers.

His green eyes flickered as he stared from the drop of blood on his gloved hand to her. Then, his look raked down her body.

Her clothes! He’d taken her clothes off! What had he done? She was completely and utterly exposed to him. No. No. No. Twisting and tugging did no good, but she didn’t stop. The ropes bit into her wrists.

"You gave me something. What did you give me?" She twisted her head and saw the syringe by her lamp, by the telephone. "You’re a sick, twisted bastard! A low life sonofabitch!" She spat at him. "I hate you! I hate you!"

He backhanded her, right beneath her eye. Pain exploded in her cheekbone.

Richard reached down and grabbed her hair. "Be quiet and be still." The bed gave under his weight. He straddled her, his legs locking around her torso. "I need you quiet."

She saw the long piece of material he held in his hand. The silk gag pulled the corners of her mouth tight as he tied it roughly behind her head. She smelled him on the material, tasted him, and almost gagged.

She closed her eyes, not willing to give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

Again, she worked her wrists, moved her feet, but it did no good. No good. He’d always tied the knots tight.

He laughed. "You’re shaking, my dear."

She was. And even though she knew, knew he only fed on her fear, she could no more stop the trembles than the tightening around her chest.

Please not now. Not now.

Her head was spinning again. Damn him.

Carefully, she pulled air in through her nose, even as she heard the swish of silk again. She managed to see his black-leathered hands holding another white scarf before he wrapped it around her eyes.

This time her whimper turned into a muffled yell.

She was not going to let him do this to her. Thrashing her head from side to side dislodged his blindfold.

Again pain burst in her cheek as he hit her in the same spot. "Be still."

Her chest tightened and she tried to breathe calmly. He tightened the blindfold and she felt her hair pull at her temples.

"Now, now. Calm down. I don’t want you passing out. That would hardly be enjoyable."

His hands slid down her stretched arms. To her chest. "And I so want to enjoy this."

She heard something clatter from the nightstand. What did he get? The syringe again? Something else she hadn’t seen?

"You cut me," he said, his breath warm on her face.

She heard him moving around the room.

"Do you know how long I’ve waited for this, Josephine? How very long I’ve planned our meeting?" His voice arrowed to her, a fine cutting edge evident.

"People were constantly asking questions on why you disappeared."

He was pacing. He’d only paced before when he’d been enraged. And enraged, he was so much worse. So much.

Oh, God. The bands in her chest tightened, but she held them back. She couldn’t have an attack now.

Please not now.

"Your grandparents and brother tried to file murder charges on me. Me! As though I were no one." He continued to mumble and pace, but his words gave her courage. Joshua? Grandmiere? Granddaddy?

They’d believed in her, even if they’d known nothing, they’d blamed him. If she could have, she would have smiled.

Christian had no idea how much time passed. He continued to pace and once he went downstairs. What he was doing, she couldn’t begin to guess. Then she heard her piano, the tiny ping as he hit a high note, then the lower base notes following. Chopin. She hated Chopin because the composer was a favorite of his.

She pulled and jerked and tugged on the ropes, but it did no good. The more she moved, the more she focused, the more she could think. The sluggish feel of the drug was thinning. Her wrists were sticky when the piano silenced and she heard his footsteps coming back.

What was she going to do? What?

What about Drayson? Geoffery? Were they at home? No one was here to help her. No one. It would be hours before Brayden came looking. God, she’d been so stupid, so perfectly stupid. All but setting herself up. She should have told Brayden. She wouldn’t be tied to a bed now if she had just talked to him.

And Gabe?

Gabe. He was expecting her at six. Six. What time was it?

Footsteps hushed across the carpet to the bed. Christian stiffened.

"You’re hair is the wrong color," he whispered furiously. "This can’t be right! What..." he trailed off. She heard a slap. "Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Too red, damn it." Then he yelled, "Blonde. Your hair is supposed to be blonde! Not this trashy tarnished color."

She jerked at his raised voice and pressed herself into the mattress as she heard him near the bed.

Something cold slid onto her chest, his hands on either side of her face. He jerked her head up, and she felt the pull of metal along her neck. The locket.

"You were supposed to have this on. I found it in your purse downstairs." Carefully, he worked the chain around and settled the locket between her breasts. He jerked on her hair, muttering to himself. She felt the mattress rise as he moved away. The squeak of her closet doors filled the air. What did he want in her closet? Who cared. As long as he stayed away from her. Mutters and mumbles lost their way to her.

Tearing material, the slice of fabric rent the air.

"I don’t like the looks of your clothes, Josephine, anymore than your hair. Don’t know what happened.

Red. Cheap. You look cheap." His words were hurried and clipped.

He was cutting her clothes. He’d done that before too. That last night. He figured if she had nothing to wear, she couldn’t leave. And she wouldn’t have, if Susan hadn’t shown up and helped her. Susan.

Danny.

Oh, God.

Rips and tears mixed with his furious whispers and curses to her. "Whore’s clothes ... trashy ... what were you thinking?"

Wood moaned on wood. Her dresser. The same ritual happened there. The rustle of material, the jerk of drawers, the slicing click of scissors. Finally, silence settled and it was more terrifying than the sound of bladed objects cutting her things.

What was he doing? Where was he?

She could hear his breath, hurried and fast.

Something sharp poked her chest and she froze.

"Did you know I was advised you should have an accident?" he told her quietly. "You probably will, you know. Eventually, you’ll have to. You’re rather a liability." His sigh filled the air. "It’s a shame you’re no longer perfect. I have to decide what to do about that, you know. I tried to get you back to you, but I wonder if it’ll ever happen." His fingers ran through her hair. She sensed rather than saw his shrug. "But right now, now I want to have fun with you. I’ve missed you."

I’ve missed you. Those same words had filled her with hope and longing earlier. Brayden. Oh, please.

Please. Tears wet the material at the corners of her eyes.

I’ve missed you. Now they stabbed her heart with terror.

Something clicked. Clicked again. What was that?

Again the snap continued. On her right side, then around to her left. His chuckle danced from the end of the bed. One more snapping click, then silence.

What was he doing?

She could sense him to her right. Cold metal grazed the tops of her breasts, clinked against the necklace he’d put there. "I could kill you so easily right now, and no one would know who, let alone why. No one."

The asthma attack she’d been fighting, roared to life.

The knife! It was cool where he slipped it between her breasts. She half expected him to stab the thing in her chest. But then, pain seared across the underside of her upper arm as he cut it.

"Tit, tat."

Her stomach muscles tightened as she felt the steely point graze over her abdomen, past her navel.

She couldn’t hold the whimper in.

A slashing sting burned across her thigh. Once, twice, three times.

Tears leaked out the sides of her eyes to absorb into the silk scarf of her blindfold.

Please. Please. Please. She jerked and pulled against her bindings.

Her chest tightened unmercifully and she tried to breathe through her nose.

He laughed. "You wouldn’t be wanting this would you?"

She heard the puff of her inhaler. Again the misted sound filled the air.

Calm down. Calm down. She had to think, breathe.

* * * *

Lieutenant Gabe Morris looked at his watch. It was almost six thirty. He glanced at his partner, Emma Laurence.

"What’s up?" she asked him.

"Something." He had a bad feeling. Miss Bills should have been here by now.

"What?"

"Come on," he told her standing and grabbing his coat.

In the car he filled her in.

"We can’t help her if she doesn’t report the crime, Gabe."

He flicked his blinker and switched lanes. "I know that. And this could be nothing. But she said she was coming in to report it and file a complaint by six. She called at four thirty, said she was going home to pack for the weekend. She’d stop by the station do what had to be done and then planned to tell her family this weekend."

The message that Brayden Kinncaid had stopped by to see him reached him too late to do anything about. He didn’t figure theirs was a conversation to have over the phone anyway.

Holding the wheel with one hand, he dug through his stash of business cards in the console.

"You’re gonna kill us in this traffic," Emma told him. "Who the hell are you looking for?"

"Brayden Kinncaid, or Gavin. The family home number is on the back."

Finally, she rattled off the number. Gabe punched the digits into his phone.

When the other end was answered, he asked to speak to Christian Bills.

As he’d figured, she wasn’t there.

Damn.

He asked for Brayden.

"Brayden Kinncaid."

"This is Morris. Is Christian there?" he asked, as he maneuvered through the traffic, heading to the condos.

"No, why?"

Gabe caught the tension in the question. He weighed his options. He could blow it for Christian now, or give her the benefit of the doubt and let her tell her family everything. For now, he’d go with

‘which-one-of-us-will-get-the-girl’ routine. "I just got a message she’d tried to reach me. I thought she mentioned heading up there for the weekend."

Silence paused between them. "Did you try her cell?"

"No."