Unsure (8 page)

“Someone who could turn you in?”

“Yes.” I’m reduced to whispering again now, chewing my lip—a nervous habit of mine. I’ve still to convince him to keep my secret. Better still, to allow me to stay here. If I do decide to stay that is, after this. I want to, if I can find some way to make it work. I fell in love with the place on my first day, and I adore my cottage. I don’t want to lose it all now. I glance up at him. His eyes are hard again, green crystal glinting at me. No sympathy there. I try one last attempt at apologizing, but I’m starting to resign myself to having to make a run for it, one step in front of the police and the untimely resumption of my prison career.

“I’m so sorry. Truly sorry about that night. If I could turn the clock back I would. Please, you have to believe me.”

The scorn is unmistakable in his voice, the distaste as he rakes me with that hard, mossy gaze. “You might not have been involved every time, but you were definitely there that night and you took a very active part. Was it you that clubbed me over the back of the head?”

I shake my head. “No. That was Kenny’s mate, the little one. The one with the knife. I can’t remember his name. They planned it that way—two of them would attack you from the front to distract you and the other would get behind you. He hit you with a brick.”

A thread of cold steel now in his tone, he leans forward, spearing me again with that cruel, searching gaze. “I know what he fucking hit me with. The hospital cleaned the dust and muck out of the hole in the back of my head. After they’d patched up my three broken ribs. And treated me for concussion. I was in hospital for five days after you and your vicious little friends finished with me. Coughing up blood for days.”

“I’m sorry. Really. Please believe me.” Inadequate. Totally pathetic. But it’s all I have to offer.

He’s not impressed. His voice is bitter, contempt glittering in those vivid emerald eyes. “It took nearly eight weeks for all the bruising to disappear. I wonder how long yours’ll take?”

I gasp, my eyes widening at the threat. Or promise. I’m not to escape unscathed then. Oddly resigned to a beating—after all, there are worse things—I tip my chin up, a fragile knot of defiance gathering once more. And if he attacks me, batters me, he can’t then go to the police. Can he? It might even be worth it to have that sort of security. Maybe. If I wasn’t so bloody scared.

My voice is shaking as I continue to plead with him. “You said you don’t beat up women. And anyway, it’s Kenny you should be telling this to, not me.” Worth a try. Surely he won’t take his anger out on me.

No such luck. “Kenny’s not here, though, is he? You’re all I’ve got so you’ll have to do. And I don’t intend to beat you up. Just spank you—there
is
a difference.” That arctic gaze is locked on mine—I now know what a rabbit feels like caught in headlights. Tom Shore’s determined to have his pound of flesh. And he’s having it from me.

“Do you normally beat women? Does it make you feel good?” I suspect it always worked for Kenny, but somehow Tom Shore doesn’t seem the type to need to get his jollies that way. But what do I know?

His grin is distinctly unpleasant now as he considers that suggestion. Then, “Ah, you’d be amazed, Shaz.”

I start to correct him, but he’s there ahead of me. “Sorry, Ashley, wasn’t it?”

Well, at least he’s taken on board my new name. As for the rest—all right. So be it. He will be settling this score with his fists then. Time to strike whatever deal I can. “And then we’ll be quits? You’ll leave me alone after that?”

“Hardly. Then I tell the police all about your little games, let them take it from there.”

“No! You can’t tell the police.”

He glances sharply at me, alerted no doubt by the panic in my voice. This is a disaster for me, the worst nightmare I can imagine. The terms of my suspended sentence were carefully explained before I left prison. If I get into any trouble at all within two years of my release from jail I’ll be returned there immediately, no further trial, no appeal. Just back to prison to serve the rest of my sentence. No one’s going to believe I’ve turned up here in Tom Shore’s neighborhood by chance. They’ll believe I was stalking a former victim, just like he thought. No one’s going to accept it was a genuine coincidence. I’ll probably get more time added on for that alone.

And worst of all, this could mean Kenny’ll be free before I am. Career criminal that he is, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d have asked for the robbery by the river to be taken into consideration when he was sentenced, to stop it coming back to bite him later. I wish I’d done the same but it never even occurred to me. For some reason the police haven’t connected it to Tom Shore and informed him that the offender was in jail for another offense and the case solved. Kenny’s due out in a few months, and I know full well he’ll be waiting for me when I finally do get out for good, expecting to just take up where we left off. And after all I’ve been through, everything that’s happened, I’ll be back where I started, with no hope ever of escaping again. Whatever else happens to me, whatever I have to do to avoid that, I can’t let Tom Shore turn me in.

Desperate now, I start to plead again, “What do I have to do? What would it take to make this right? To make up to you for what happened, for my part in it? I’ll do anything you ask.” I know what he’ll think I’m offering. But I’ve survived worse already. I can do whatever I need to do. I hope.

His next words throw cold water on that little plan. His icy gaze rakes me up and down, the contempt and distaste obvious. “Er no, I don’t think so. We’ve already been through this. I’ve no interest in fucking a cheap little slag like you. I usually aim a bit higher than that. I might catch something.”

Stung by his contempt, nevertheless I don’t protest. The irony isn’t lost on me, though. I’ve only ever been with Kenny and I never found sex especially rewarding. To imply I’m promiscuous is just so far wide of the mark as to be a bloody joke. A sick joke.

I can understand, though, why he’s arrived at that conclusion, what he must think of me. Why wouldn’t he? I’m ashamed to have even implied such a thing. People do stupid things when they’re desperate. And even more humiliating, to have been turned down so bluntly. I may not have been especially enthusiastic at the prospect of exchanging sex for safety, and I have no illusions about my lack of appeal, but even so it stings to be rejected out of hand. Kenny was the only man who ever showed any interest, but even he was fond of telling me I’ve no tits and I was useless in bed. But still, the female in me resents Tom Shore’s careless, cutting rejection, and I would have liked him to perhaps consider my offer, if only briefly.

Humiliated beyond measure, I remain silent. If all else fails I’ll take one more beating then make a run for it before the police arrive. Assuming I can still run…

“You want to make this right? Make it up to me?” He waits. I nod. “Then pay me back what you stole. That’s what it’ll cost you to keep the police out of this.”

Hope and relief surge up simultaneously. Money. It just comes down to some cash. I have money, a little left over from my inheritance. I can pay back what we took.

“How much? How much do you want?”

“Well, let’s work it all out, shall we? My jacket was worth around a thousand…”

“What! Never.” My knee-jerk expression of disbelief earns me a growl.

“You’re the lying little thief round here, love. Not me. So, a thousand pounds for the jacket. Plus an iPad, say four hundred. And my phone, another hundred or so. My wallet cost me fifty quid and it ended up in the river. I had over three hundred in cash, plus you caused me the hassle of having to replace all my cards. Shall we say four hundred for wallet and contents? And there was my watch. Nothing special I suppose, another hundred. And my camera—that was a beauty. Another thousand for that, definitely. Plus the cost of replacing a perfectly good sports shirt and Levi’s, another hundred. Lucky for you, you didn’t find my car keys or we’d have been looking at much, much more.” He stops, remembering, his mouth quirking in amusement. “Except you did find them, didn’t you? You just didn’t dare reach into my pocket. Why was that?”

I feel the burning embarrassment creeping up my face, remembering the solid, thick erection I’d brushed with my hand as I went through his trouser pockets that night. How nervous he’d made me feel, how vulnerable, even back then. Even when he was lying beaten in the mud. And how I’d lied to Kenny to save me having to search him any further.

For the first time, I see Tom Shore smile. He shakes his head, amused. “Who’d have thought a little scrubber like you would turn out to be shy?” Then he’s back to the business in hand. “Shall we say that’s a straight three grand you owe me?”

Insulted again, oddly hurt by his continued and unjust denigration, I stiffen, straighten in my chair. “Two grand. I still have your camera. And yes, it
is
a beauty. I’ve loved using it, but it belongs to you and you can have it back. It’s behind you, on the table.” A watery gaze is the best I can manage as I try to gather some shreds of pride around me, but at least my voice is more even now. “Will you take a check for the rest?”

He smiles unpleasantly at me, a grin that doesn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “My, my, aren’t you full of surprises! Have you come into money? Or just stolen some poor sod’s check book?” He stands, strolls over to the table and picks up the camera, turns it over slowly in his hands. “Yup, that’s mine all right. Where’s the memory card?”

I ignore the dig about the cheqck book. It’s got nothing to do with him where I get my funds from. “Slot in the front of my laptop.”

He presses the release and the small memory card pops out. The motion reactivates the dormant screen, my latest and one of my most striking panoramic shots flashing up onto the display. A landscape I took today, the moorland scene shrouded in mist, isolated treetops silhouetted, jutting eerily out of a blanket of low cloud, stepping stones across a lake of clouds. One hand on the table he leans in to look more closely.

“Did you take this picture? With my camera?”

“Yes. Earlier today. I just got back…”

“And you got caught in that rain an hour ago. That explains why you had a shower, I guess. Your hair’s still wet. And why you’re so conveniently undressed at this time in the afternoon.”

Convenient?
Once more, I realize how vulnerable I am.

“Er, would you excuse me. I’ll just go upstairs and…”

“Don’t bother. You’ll only have to take your clothes off again. Now, we need to finish discussing terms.” The words hang between us as he slips the camera into the pocket of his waxed jacket, then casually takes the jacket off and drapes it over the back of a chair. He strolls back to sit opposite me, slowly rolling up the sleeves of his black denim shirt. Preparing for…what?

“What do you mean? What are you going to do? I thought you said… I mean…”

“I said I didn’t want to fuck you. I still don’t. But that leaves the little matter of three broken ribs, concussion, severe bruising. You’re going to pay for that. And not with cash. That comes out of your pretty little hide.”

“But you said if I pay you back…”

“The payment is for the stuff you stole. My injuries are a separate matter. You hurt me, so I’ll hurt you. Fair’s fair. And you did say you’d do anything to make this right.”

I’m starting to get really scared again now. I can hear the desperation in my tone as I try one last time to reason with him. “How’s this fair? I never laid a hand on you. It’s Kenny you should be threatening, not me.”

“But we’ve already established that dear little Kenny’s conveniently detained elsewhere. You, on the other hand, are right here.” He smiles grimly at me, looking me up and down, appraising, as I continue to hunch up in my chair, my head whirling from my rollercoaster dash through the peaks and troughs of hope and despair. “But first things first. My money. You won’t be needing a check book. I’ll take it in labor. You’ll be working for me.”

I glare at him, indignant. “I will not. I already have a job. I’m self-employed. A photographer.”

“A photographer without a camera. How very unfortunate. Still, you’ve got a check book. You can write out a check for a new one, I dare say. Now, like I said, you work for me. As a cleaner.”

“No way!”

“You prefer the police? Fine. Have it your way. Just slip that very fetching bathrobe off then, and let’s get on with the rest of our business. I’ve got work to do, can’t hang around here all day.”

“Don’t let me keep you.”

His cold glare is as effective as a slap, his tone clipped. “Mind your manners, Miss McAllister. Things could suddenly become a lot worse for you if you irritate me any further. How old are you?”

“What’s that got to do with…?” The glare is enough. “Twenty. Nearly twenty-one.”

“Twenty. Minimum wage for a twenty-year-old is four pounds ninety-eight an hour. When are you twenty-one?”

“January first.” I see no point in hedging. I can see where this is going.

“Ah, a New Year baby. How sweet. That’s only a couple of months away, so we’ll assume you’re twenty-one already. Because I’m a reasonable man. Generous even. So, at six pounds nineteen an hour…” He stands and goes back over to my laptop, pulls up the internal calculator in Windows. A few keystrokes later he turns back to me, casually leaning his hips against the edge of the table. “Right, that’s three hundred and twenty-two hours you owe me. You can work it off by cleaning my house, and any other menial little tasks I might come up with for you. You can do my washing, I think, my ironing, maybe a bit of gardening. One day a week should do it—seven hours. You’ll still have time for your pictures. You’ll be fully paid off by the time your lease here is up. And then you can get out. Out of this cottage, out of this area. I’ll never want to see you again. Is that clear?”