Passion (15 page)

He could rest assured that he wouldn’t need it again. She’d decided last night while it was fastened around her wrists that
she wasn’t going to try any more escape attempts—unless, of course, the good Lord presented her with an opportunity too entirely
fail-safe to ignore. It was too hard, getting her hopes up so high and then being disappointed. It was hard physically, too.
She had the marks to prove it.

She wouldn’t try to get away again, and she wouldn’t give him
any
reason to use that cord on her again. She was going
to be the most agreeable hostage any kidnapper had ever taken.

When he moved toward the night table, the relief rushing over her was tremendous. She was overreacting, she knew. It wasn’t
as if the few minutes she’d been tied to the bed had been so terribly bad. He had bound her securely but not tightly. She
couldn’t have freed herself, but she wouldn’t have hurt herself, either, if she hadn’t insisted on trying. If she had lain
quietly, obediently, the way he wanted, she wouldn’t have these reddened ligature marks around both wrists. Her skin wouldn’t
be tender there. Whatever discomfort she had suffered had been of her own doing.

But she couldn’t have lain there quietly. Her fear had been too strong, her response to the restraints almost hysterical in
nature. She had lost control in those first few overwhelming minutes, convinced that being tied up was synonymous with some
terrible torment.

Returning the blush compact to her makeup case, she forced a faint smile. She didn’t know where that fear came from, but if
she had learned anything from years of dealing with her family, it was that everyone had fears, rational or not. D.J. was
afraid of the dark, and her mother had a terrible fear of drowning. D.J.’s fear stemmed from her childhood, but Lorna’s was
as groundless as Teryl’s newly realized fear of being restrained.

Groundless or not, fear was a powerful emotion. It could drive people to almost any lengths. It could make Teryl behave impeccably.

She was pulling out another compact, this one square and white, containing pressed powder and a thick, soft puff, when movement
behind her caught her attention. John had turned back from the night table.

And he still held the phone cord in his hands. He was wrapping the loose ends around the loops to secure it. When he finished,
he tucked it into his hip pocket.

Her compact slid from her hands, landing in the sink with a clatter.

The sound made him look at her. “Are you almost ready?”

For a time she couldn’t answer. All she could do was stare
at him while her stomach tied itself into knots as neat as the ones that had bound her wrists last night.

Then, abruptly, she tore her gaze away. “Al-almost,” she murmured, reaching blindly for the compact. She bumped the makeup
bag, knocking it over, spilling its contents over the narrow counter and onto the floor, then hastily began gathering them
back up. Her hands were trembling, her legs were none too steady, and her heart was beating an erratic, jerky rhythm in her
chest.

When the rest of the cosmetics had been returned to their case, she reached once more for the compact. It lay in pieces in
the sink, the lid separated from the case, the cake of powder broken in pieces and spotted darkly where water had touched
it. Picking up the pieces, she dropped them into the wastebasket, then wiped her hands on the last clean towel.

It took her only a moment, even though she was all thumbs, to pack everything she’d taken from her suitcase—the makeup, the
toiletries, the tank top she used as a nightshirt, and her dirty clothes. She didn’t aim for order but rather speed, stuffing
everything in together, then hastily fastening the latches.

Finished, she faced him and opened her mouth to tell him so. The wrong words came out, though. “Please don’t take that.”

For a moment he looked puzzled, as if he had no idea what she was talking about. Then his gaze moved to the side, to the night
table and the phone it held, and his cheeks flushed dull red. “It’s just a precaution.”

“You won’t need it. I swear, I won’t try anything.”

“If you don’t try anything, then you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?” He paused, letting his words sink in, then
picked up his suitcase and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go.”

She stood motionless, staring hopelessly at the floor; then she turned to pick up her own suitcase. He hadn’t carried it last
night, and, of course, he wouldn’t offer today. If he had both hands full of luggage, he would have less control over her.
She might actually make a run for it or scream for help or something.

At least, before last night she might have.

As she hefted her bag off the bed and to the floor, her gaze slid across the nightstand. The phone sat there, minus its cord,
and tucked underneath the handset was a ten-dollar bill.

He had kidnapped her, for God’s sake, and tied her to the bed last night; yet he was paying—overpaying—for the cord he had
taken. Just what kind of criminal was he? A conscientious one? An honorable one?

Or a crazy one?

She wished she knew the answer… but at the same time she was afraid to know.

Outside the sun was shining brightly, making her wince after the artificial darkness of the room. The temperature was already
uncomfortably warm, and the humidity made the air thick. The town should have come to life by now, but as they descended the
stairs, she saw little activity. There were a half dozen cars parked in front of the convenience store across the street,
and an occasional car passed on its way into or out of town. From the parking lot, she could see that the nearest shops—a
café, a laundromat, and a garage—were open for business, but there was no one on the sidewalks, no one running errands, no
one to pay them attention.

John unlocked the Blazer on her side and put his suitcase in the backseat, then reached for hers. She didn’t notice, though—her
gaze was on the diner across the street—until, startling her with the unexpectedness of it, he took not only her suitcase
but also her hand in his.

Stiffening, she fought the urge to pull away, to scream and snatch her hand free and flee for safety, and she forced herself
to stand still while he examined the marks that encircled her wrist. His hand was warm, a little damp in the morning heat,
and the pads of his fingertips bore calluses that rubbed roughly against her skin as he probed around but avoided touching
the abrasions.

“Does it hurt?”

She wanted to answer flippantly. Of course it hurt; he had bruised her wrist, had grabbed it tightly enough to rupture small
blood vessels, had left marks that needed time to heal. But she controlled the urge. “Not really,” she replied. Then,
when he rubbed lightly across the bigger bruise, the one that matched the heel of his hand, and she involuntarily winced,
she amended her answer. “Not very much.”

With a fierce scowl, he abruptly released her, put her suitcase in the back, then stepped back. “Get in while I take the key
inside.”

She obeyed, climbing up into the seat, gathering her skirt around her, before he slammed the door with enough force to rock
the truck. She tucked her purse on the floor next to the door and fastened her seat belt. She didn’t even think about trying
to escape, didn’t even consider opening the door again and rushing across the street to one of the stores. She knew she wouldn’t
make it far if she tried. The motel lobby was mostly glass—she wasn’t out of John’s sight for even a moment—and she would
have to run right past it. There was no way he could miss seeing her, no way he could not catch her.

And, in spite of his apparent regret and guilt about the pain he’d caused her, there would be no way, she suspected, that
she could avoid getting tied up again. If he tied her hands behind her back, he could fashion a more than adequate restraint
using nothing else but the seat belt—she’d seen it on a TV movie—and they wouldn’t look particularly suspicious even to someone
who walked right up to the Blazer.

Since there was no way she was going to travel hundreds of miles bound like that, her only other option was to sit quietly.
To follow his orders. To show him just how good a little captive she could be.

When he returned to the truck, he was still scowling. He climbed into the driver’s seat and fastened his seat belt, then backed
out and turned out of the parking lot onto the highway. Teryl watched out his window as they passed the café; she was about
to venture a timid request when he spoke.

“We’ll stop for breakfast in the next town, all right? Can you wait?”

“Sure.” Turning to gaze out her own window, she gave a wistful little sigh. She wasn’t sure exactly how far it was to the
next town, but she did know that she was hungry almost to the point of being sick. After all, she had missed breakfast
yesterday, along with lunch and dinner. All she’d had to eat was two candy bars and a small bag of potato chips. That was
little more than a late-evening snack in her daily routine.

But yesterday hadn’t been one of her routine days, and today didn’t promise to be one, either.

John must have heard her sigh, though, because, after another block, he earned her gratitude by turning into the parking lot
shared by the town’s other two restaurants. Only one was open for breakfast, a place called Mom’s. The parking lot wasn’t
overly crowded, but in a place like this, she imagined it would take every single car in town to make a crowd. He parked near
the door, next to a pickup truck bearing a peeling McGovern bumper sticker, a rebel flag, and—God love the South—a gun rack
mounted in the back window and bearing arms.

Inside he guided her toward the corner booth. It was unoccupied, as were the other booths and tables nearby, and offered a
view of the parking lot and the door. He chose the bench facing the dining room and left her with the bench facing the wall.
Good planning on his part, she thought with a scowl. Other than the moment it had taken them to walk in and the additional
moment they would need to walk out, no one in the room, other than the waitress, would get much of a look at her. Later, if
anyone asked, if D.J. eventually got suspicious and contacted the authorities, if somehow she and John were tracked to this
small town, no one would remember her. Even the waitress was more interested in John than in her.

The woman gave them menus and coffee, then took their orders. He ordered biscuits and gravy, but Teryl was too hungry to settle
for so little. She asked for that, plus bacon, eggs over easy, toast, and a short stack of blueberry pancakes.

Alone with him again, she stirred sugar and creamer into her coffee, making it rich enough to almost fool her stomach into
thinking it was nourishment, but she hadn’t tasted it yet. She was waiting for it to cool, waiting and stirring and uneasily
ignoring him.

“Tell me about life in Richmond.”

The task of ignoring him went right out the window. She looked up sharply, surprised that he’d spoken, wishing he hadn’t.
At last, with a little shrug, she put the spoon down, resting it on a paper napkin. “Well, it’s the capital of Virginia, and
it’s located a few hours south of Washington—”

He interrupted her. “Not life in general. Tell me about
your
life.”

Suspicion entered her eyes. “Why?”

Her question obviously annoyed him. It darkened his eyes, thinned his mouth, and made his voice go flat and empty. “Humor
me. I want to have a conversation. Other than Tuesday evening with you, I haven’t had a conversation in more years than I
can remember. So what do you do in Richmond?”

For a moment she ignored his question and wondered about the statement that had preceded it. How could a person live so totally
isolated that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d indulged in such a simple pleasure as conversation? More importantly,
why
would a person choose to live that way?

Maybe because he was crazy. Maybe being crazy was easier to deal with when you were never around anyone who was sane.

“I work for the Robertson Literary Agency,” she said at last. “I spend time with D.J. and the rest of my family, and I occasionally
go out on dates. It’s not an exciting life, but I like it.”

“I thought D.J. was your best friend, not family.”

“My parents take in foster kids—they have ever since I was a kid. D.J. came to live with us when she was nine and I was eight.
We’ve been best friends ever since.” Pausing, she sipped the coffee, wrinkling her nose a bit at the taste. “A person can
be your best friend and be family, too. D.J. is. My mother is. So is my dad.”

“My mother wishes I were dead. My father wishes I’d never been born.” Realizing he’d spoken the sullen words aloud, he flushed
and directed his gaze to his own coffee. “Are you an only child, other than the foster kids?”

Teryl studied him for a moment. She didn’t want to feel
even the slightest bit of sympathy for him, but she couldn’t help it. She’d seen too many firsthand examples of the damage
uncaring parents could do to their innocent children to feel nothing at hearing his words. But he was embarrassed that he’d
said anything, and, while she might be totally sympathetic, she wasn’t about to offer the man who’d kidnapped her any of that
sympathy.

“In a manner of speaking,” she replied. “I’m the only Weaver by birth, but Mama and Daddy adopted eight of the kids they took
in. And some of the foster kids, like D.J., lived with us ten or fifteen years or even longer. They’re family, too.” She paused
again, then asked her own question. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

It was a simple question to cause such pain, but that was undeniably the emotion that crossed his face before he blanked out
everything. Again, she found herself wondering, again feeling just a little bit sorry for him. “There were three of us. Janie,
the youngest, is a high school Spanish teacher in Florida, in a little place called Verona.”

“And the third one? Brother or sister?”

“Brother.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older.”

“What is he?”