High Energy (33 page)

sucked in a deep breath. "Tyber, we need to talk about this—"

"Hey, look," he interrupted her, "one of the tropical fish is staring straight

at you with a strange glint in its eye."

"Where?" She peered over her shoulder at the tank. He swooped across her.

"Zanita, really, how could a fish affect a strange glint?" His eyes danced with

mirth. And something else. Something suspiciously close to the quarter deck.

"If they're your fish, they could. Get off!"

"Know how fish kiss? Like this." His open mouth covered her own. He raised his

head, strands of his hair brushing across the peaks of her breasts.

"They look like this, don't they?"

Pressing his lips together, he sucked in his cheeks, causing his lips to bow out

like a fish's mouth. Leaving his mouth tightly closed, he moved his pursed lips

up and down while crossing his eyes. It was the funniest thing she had ever

seen.

Peals of laughter caused her to clutch her stomach.

Tyber untied the sash on her robe, bending over to nibble her midriff with his

undulating fish lips. Zanita couldn't stop laughing. It tickled and every time

he raised his head to stare at her with those crossed eyes and moving lips, she

was gone.

It wasn't until much later, after they had made love—Zanita was still

laughing—that she realized he had used the same technique on her that she was

going to use on him. He had expertly shifted her focus.

The apartment looked so small.

So empty.

So cold.

Zanita stood in the doorway observing her digs with the eyes of a stranger. What

had seemed so adequate before now seemed barren. Bleak. It was bleak.

She walked into the musty living-cum-bedroom. One room and a kitchenette. That's

what it was. Not a home. A place for singles, students, and transients.

It was depressing.

The fold-away couch lay open, as she usually left it, being too lazy to close it

every day. A few books were scattered across the bed table. Her one cactus

plant, the only living thing in the apartment besides herself, sat forlornly on

the window sill, the meager late fall sunlight barely sustaining the poor thing.

A chair. Her compact disc player. Her twelve-inch portable television. A few

wall hangings.

That was it.

The sum total of her life.

Did she really want to come back here? Leave the warmth of Tyber's home? Come

here instead of being in a place she felt nurtured and cared for and… cherished?

She must be mad to even consider—

The door behind her closed with a click.

She swung around. LaLeche was standing there inside her apartment.

He was wearing a ski jacket and—her eyes trailed down to his hands—leather

gloves. The first thought that filtered through her shocked brain was, Why is he

wearing gloves? It isn't that cold out.

Then several thoughts ran at her mind at once, the foremost being: Get yourself

out of here.

"What are you doing here?"

He didn't answer her; he just reached behind him, turning the deadbolt to lock.

Zanita backed up a few steps.

"What do you want?" She forced her voice to sound coldly clipped. Fear was not

something you wanted to show in a situation like this. Even if you were

terrified.

His gaze raked her contemptuously. "I think that should be obvious."

"I'm busy; I don't have time for this. I'll have to ask you to leave." Yeah.

Right. Like he hadn't locked her in here with him.

"That's too bad, Zanita. I have plenty of time for you." He started walking

toward her. She began backing up, although there really wasn't too far to go in

the small apartment.

Stall him, her panicked mind screamed. "All this just for a little article?"

He stopped stalking her to give her a sickeningly evil grin. "You flatter

yourself, my dear. It's not the article I care about. It was the picture you ran

with it. Now that was irresponsible."

Picture? What picture? It took her a few moments to realize that he was talking

about the photo Hank had run with the piece. How ironic! Here Hank was worried

about her being in danger when it was his actions that had placed her there. Not

that Hank was in any way responsible for this; he had done the right thing.

"You see, names can always be changed, but once you're exposed by a photo,

well—plastic surgery is expensive, and I so hate the pain."

She lifted her chin, trying to be brave. "What are you going to do about it?"

LaLeche shook his finger at her. "Now there's the question. You've caused me a

lot of trouble. The kind of trouble that calls for… a certain revenge. What

should it be, do you think?"

"Leave me alone," she whispered, genuinely frightened.

He ignored her. "Accidents can happen so easily. That idiot retainer of his, for

instance…"

Blooey! Sweet, kind Blooey. What would he do to him?

"Blooey is no threat to you. He had nothing to do with this— leave him out of

it."

"A little gardening accident, perhaps? I've heard of people being careless with

gardening tools. All kinds of nasty things can happen should one trip over one

and fall on, say, some shears."

"Stop it. I won't let you hurt—"

"Then there is that god-awful beast of his. Cats are such easy victims, aren't

they? And this one should have been put out of its misery years ago. It so likes

its food… it seems to eat just about anything." He leveled a hateful look at

her.

He was toying with her now, she knew. Threatening to poison Hambone. Even though

she knew what his sick game was, she still couldn't stop the trickle of fear

down her spine. She couldn't take it if anything happened to Hambone because of

her. She had grown quite fond of the idiosyncratic tabby.

"I don't know how much you care for the wretched beast, but he does, I'm sure."

Tyber. "What do you have against Tyber? I was the one who wrote the article."

"Yes, but he provided the material. I'm not stupid—I know all about Tyberius

Augustus Evans. I know his reputation, and I know what motivates him. He figured

it all out for you, didn't he? Not his usual type of pastime. I had to ask

myself why he bothered; the answer was immediately apparent. You. He wanted you,

so he gave you what you wanted."

Zanita stared at him. Was it true what LaLeche said? Did Tyber only help her

because he wanted her? She had always assumed it was the other way around; he

was helping her because it intrigued him, just as his research did. She kind of

came along with the deal.

Had she been blind or was LaLeche just confusing her for his own demented

thrill?

Chapter Fifteen

« ^

"Then there is the other—that perfect revenge against both of you."

She angled her chin at him, refusing to be pulled into the sick game. He seemed

to be waiting for her to ask him what he intended and seeming put out when she

didn't.

"I could take you, you know." His lecherous observation made her skin crawl. She

forced herself to remain calm.

"I don't think so, Mr. LaLeche. I'll scream the house down." She infused his

name with all the contempt she felt for him.

He rubbed his jaw, contemplating her words as if they were merely having an

existential discussion on the topic and he wasn't threatening her with real

violence.

"I disagree. I could do it and get away with it. There are no other tenants here

this time of day; I checked. Scream all you like. No one will hear you."

Zanita's heart sank to her toes; apparently she and Tyber had been blinded by

his traits of greed, dishonesty, and lack of human decency. They had never once

considered that when cornered, he would aggressively seek revenge. She was in

real trouble here.

"Someone will see you." It was worth a shot.

"No." He shook his head. "No one saw me come in; I'll make sure no one sees me

leave. I'll simply slip away into the ether as I always do. No one will be any

the wiser. Except you and Doctor Evans. After this, I imagine I'll stay with you

for the rest of your lives. Always between you, as it were." He chuckled

maniacally at his twisted pun.

Zanita had never faced the prospect of violence before. Somewhat in shock, her

thoughts seemed icy clear and removed at the same time. This was about

subjugation, control, and revenge. The malignancy of the crime was brought home

to her.

What he was threatening would be beyond horrible for her, and it would torment

Tyber for the rest of his life. She knew him; he would feel responsible for not

protecting her. It was an illogical male attitude, but she was positive Tyber

would blame himself.

LaLeche was right—it was a chilling revenge, for if he succeeded in carrying out

his threat, it surely would destroy them both.

She had to think of something to put a stop to his line of thinking. There was

only one thing her fear-numbed brain could come up with. "There will be

evidence…."

" I have a condom right here in my back pocket—what evidence?" He started

approaching her again, this time with deadly intent.

She moved around the sofa. Did he think she was going to go down without a

struggle? "I'll fight you; I'll make sure there will be bruises, scratch marks,

trace evidence—"

"I'll do my best to prevent that, you understand. I'm quite strong; it won't be

too difficult for me to subdue a tiny thing like you. And if you should manage a

few black-and-blue marks—" He shrugged. "Trace evidence—not much to convict a

man on. If you happen to have some bruises—and you will—well, it will look like

your boyfriend just got carried away. Everyone knows he's something of a wild

man."

He thought for a minute. "Even if you do decide to press charges, there will

always be that doubt in everyone's mind: Maybe the illustrious Tyberius Evans

abuses women and she's protecting him. Should do wonders for his career, don't

you think? He'll have you to thank for that as well. Remember, it will be my

word against yours." He moved a little closer to her.

"I think my word would carry the greater weight." She edged into the

kitchenette.

"A reporter looking to get her name in the news? Think of what a good lawyer

could do with that in a courtroom."

My god, he's going to hurt me. Too late she realized that he had backed her into

a corner with no escape. Before she could think what to do, he was on her.

He tore at her clothes, slamming her hard against the wall. Zanita fought back

with all her strength, screaming. LaLeche had been right about one other

thing—she was no match for him physically. He had her at his mercy with

ridiculous ease. Zanita sobbed, feeling utterly helpless against his aggression.

Tyber, her heart called to him. Tyber…

LaLeche unzipped his pants, holding her captive with one powerful arm across her

throat, blocking her air passage. She couldn't stop him. Nothing was going to

stop him.

Later, she could never figure out what had caused her to blurt out what she did.

At the last possible second, she screamed, "We have a file on you!"

LaLeche froze. He raked her with a contemptuous sneer. "What kind of file?"

Zanita was shaking uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face.

"Answer me, dammit." He grabbed a hank of her hair, slamming her head back hard

into the wall. Little spots appeared before her eyes. Zanita willed herself not

to pass out, afraid that if she did, she might not get the chance to wake up.

"An—an FBI file. They know all about you, LaLeche. They've been after you for

years. They'll find you. And when they do, you'll pay for what you've done to

innocent, trusting people."

LaLeche paused, thinking over her words. "Did they trail me here, or was this

investigation strictly your idea? Tell me or I'll end this here and now." The

dire threat paralyzed Zanita.

He slapped her across the face, splitting her lip.

"It—it was my idea, but they—they know we have the file."

"Then they probably haven't been trailing me…." A bead of sweat trickled down

his forehead. "They don't have anything on me, you know. Not a damn thing.

Still… It's best I don't press my good fortune." He abruptly released her.

"Today's your lucky day, Zanita. It appears I must be on my way again." He

strode quickly to the door and opened it, cautiously checking to see if the

coast was clear. He turned back to her. "I'll be seeing you… sometime."

He was gone as quickly as he had come.

Zanita slumped down to the floor, clutching her stomach. The aftermath of shock

would soon be setting in. A roil of nausea flipped her stomach. Her insides

churned. She rushed to the bathroom, just making it.

She vomited repeatedly into the commode. When the spasms had passed, she

automatically rinsed her mouth out and brushed her teeth, not even thinking

about what she was doing. When she noticed a toothbrush in her hand, she

couldn't remember how it had gotten there.

She sagged back against the wall. Her only coherent thought was: Tyber.

As soon as her wobbly legs could support her, she rushed out of the bathroom,

grabbed her purse where it had been knocked to the floor, and ran out of the