With a grunt he shoved his shoulder into her belly, held on to her legs and pushed upward, swaying slightly under his burden. The hike back to his ATV took too long. Afraid he’d be caught, he kept glancing back to make sure nobody saw him.
Winded, gasping for air, he dropped her dead weight on the back of the bike. Figuring since it worked for deer it would work for her, he slid the woman onto the rack behind the seat and gathered the bungee cords wound around the slats. Once he had her strapped down, he wasted no time getting off her land. He had big plans for the blonde slut and he couldn’t wait to rub it in his uncle’s face. Wyatt called him a no-account fool, said he could never get nothin’ right.
Well, not this time. Done snatched the bitch right out from under the noses of those pansies she’d hired, he did. And hell if he wasn’t gonna have some fun when he got her settled in that special room. Oh yeah, they were gonna get right familiar, him and Miss Savannah.
Chapter Seven
Ten hours of travel on a holiday—what a nightmare. Two flights with a layover and change of planes in Minneapolis followed by one hell of a frightening cab ride through Boston had brought him to the gates of a huge mansion.
Of course the hellion had run scared instead of facing anything. The woman was driving him crazy by keeping him simultaneously pissed off and turned-on. He was damn sick of the games. The time had come to find out what had caused her to act like a cold-hearted bitch even though beneath the surface he’d seen a soft woman who longed for stability and love. He knew damn well it had something to do with her family.
Although she didn’t know much about Tink’s childhood, Kate reluctantly told him Tink had walked away from her blueblood relatives. He figured learning about her past was the best place to start his search for answers.
Everyone at the ranch had wanted him to wait, give her some time and space. He’d tried that for a month the first time she’d run. It hadn’t worked and Brock’s patience had run out. No more waiting. Once he talked to her father he was heading to Denver to confront Tink. He would not let her hide from their intense connection. It was more than great sex. More than her being able to handle his Dom. He had to find out if what he felt was real and could last.
Staring up into a camera, he pushed the call button. The box came alive with a crackle of static.
“Yes?” a snooty voice asked through the speaker.
“Hey there. I need to see Mister St. Claire-Fitzmoore, please.”
“The name is Fitzmoore, which you would know if you had an appointment.”
What the hell? He’d heisted Tink’s driver’s license while visiting Jesse in Denver. No way he’d mistaken such a highfalutin hyphenated name. “Uh, nope. No appointment.” And he was in no mood for any bullshit.
“I’m sorry but Mister Fitzmoore is not receiving.”
The static cut off abruptly indicating the other person had ended their communication. Rude bastard. Well, he could be rude too.
Pushing the white button in time with his escalating pulse, Brock counted to fifteen before Mr. Snotty was back.
“Yes?”
“I need to see Mister Fitzmoore. It’s about Prunella.”
There was a brief pause before the man responded. “I’m sorry but Mister Fitzmoore is busy and we don’t recognize anyone by that name.”
“You what? How can you not recognize his daughter’s ridiculous name? Who gives their kid a name like Prunella Lucretia St. Claire-Fitzmoore anyway? Probably earned her a lot of black eyes in school.”
“As I have already stated, Mister Fitzmoore is busy. You may call his secretary if you would like to make an appointment.”
Wow, what a starched shirt. Brock glanced over at a hoity-toity woman walking her poufy poodle on the sidewalk. He pushed the button again and stared up into the security camera. “Look, Jeeves. I have no problem standing out here and discussing this matter in front of the fine, high-society neighbors.”
He pointedly turned toward the woman and smiled. “Howdy, sweet thing. I sure do like the way you swing those hips.”
The woman gasped, muttered, “Well, I never,” then crossed to the opposite side of the street.
Turning back, Brock faced the camera with a jaw-splittingly wide grin. “Now, as I was saying. I can stand out here and discuss the matter with the neighbors—”
An electronic buzz sounded and the large wrought iron gates slowly parted. Tipping his hat at the camera, Brock took his time walking along the tiled driveway, past manicured lawns and a fancy fountain. He marched right up the marble stairs and reached for the brass knocker, intending to have some more fun irritating the uptight servant, when the door opened.
“Hiya, Jeeves.” He handed the pretentious stuffed suit his dusty hat, getting a brief thrill from the servant’s offended expression. Playing up the country hick, he whistled and glanced around the huge atrium. “Whoo-damn. This is sure some fancy mausoleum.”
The servant dropped the hat on a side table and walked away. “This way please, sir.”
He followed the man down a hallway lined with fine works of art. “So how long you worked in this palace, Jeeves?”
“It has been my pleasure to serve the St. Claire household for more than three decades.”
St. Claire? So the money and blue blood came from mom’s side of the family tree?
“Then you must know Tink?” If possible, Jeeves’ rigid spine snapped a bit straighter. “Fitzmoore’s daughter? She did grow up here, after all. What about Tink’s mother? Is she home?”
Ignoring his question, Jeeves slid open a pair of doors and waved Brock into a massive room with dark paneled walls. An elaborately carved desk held a place of honor before several tall bookcases. He had a hard time imagining a little girl growing up surrounded by all the expensive look-but-don’t-touch knickknacks filling what was obviously a status symbol, not a home.
“Please, have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.” The servant’s stern expression clearly expressed what he didn’t say. And don’t touch anything.
After spending the entire day sitting, he restlessly paced the room. Over a massive fireplace hung the portrait of a frighteningly hard man. He stood behind a seated woman—his hands on her shoulders gave the impression he held her down in the chair. Physically, she looked so much like Tink it was spooky. But the woman lacked Tink’s bold, take-the-world-by-the-balls attitude. An engraved plate on the frame identified them as Lawrence and Cynthia St. Claire-Fitzmoore.
He moved toward the desk, glancing at a wall covered with photos. Each picture featured Lawrence Fitzmoore with people Brock recognized from the newspaper. An A-list actor, several high-ranking politicians, a golf pro, a four-star general, even two members of the Kennedy clan. From the looks of things, Lawrence married Cynthia for the financial gain and prestige.
An unfavorable impression of Tink’s childhood was forming in Brock’s mind and the pieces were already coming together before Lawrence Fitzmoore strode into the room. Turning, Brock held out a hand and watched the man walk past without even acknowledging his presence.
Fitzmoore moved behind the desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat in a massive leather chair. Brock called on all the patience he’d learned when practicing to be a Dom and waited Tink’s father out.
Once settled behind the desk, Fitzmoore turned his expressionless face toward Brock. Since he was not offered a chair, he remained standing.
“Why exactly are you here?”
“Your daughter, Tin—uh, Prunella.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
The ice-cold statement had Brock fighting the impulse to deck the bastard. “Prunella Lucretia St. Claire-Fitzmoore is not your daughter?”
“My wife had a female child, a spineless creature similar to her in many ways. Thankfully the child ran off many years ago, never to be heard from again.”
“Your wife’s daughter? But not yours?” Anger swelled and his hands fisted at his sides.
“There was never any e
vidence to indicate the child came from my seed.”
“Perhaps I should be having this conversation with your wife then.”
“That won’t be possible. Cynthia was always very weak, mentally as well as physically. For her safety, it became necessary she be institutionalized.”
Jesus, not only had Fitzmoore refused to acknowledge his daughter, but he also had his wife put in a mental facility? Did he have no morality, no conscience or compassion?
Fitzmoore grabbed a pen and opened a folder, acting as if Brock were no longer in the room.
“How old was Tink”—he refused to use the name Fitzmoore had given her—“when she left?”
Placing his pen precisely on the desk, Fitzmoore glanced at him for several long moments before speaking. “Honestly, I do not remember. It was some time during the dramatic teen years, I suppose.” He sighed but his face remained deadpan. “I did my best to raise the child properly, rid her of her mother’s weaknesses. Nothing worked and I was relieved when she left.”
Holy shit! The social-climbing ass marries Cynthia for her money and status, drops her name and locks her up in the loony bin so he can spend the cash at his leisure? No wonder he drove Tink out. The prick didn’t want to share any of his hard-earned wealth with her.
Fitzmoore pushed a button on the phone and glanced over as the servant opened the door. “I have a great deal of work to accomplish. William will show you out.”
Oh, hell no! He was not going to be dismissed without another thought as Tink must have been. Placing his palms on the center of the desk, Brock leaned over the polished surface, got right in Fitzmoore’s face and stared into his empty eyes. “You cold, sadistic bastard! How could you treat an innocent child—your daughter—like an unwanted burden?”
Fitzmoore rose slowly and moved around the desk. Brock turned to face him. When they stood less than an arm’s length apart, Fitzmoore spoke in a soft but harsh tone. “I have no more time for you than I did for that weak-willed brat and her mother.”
Before the impulse registered in his consciousness, Brock’s fist connected with Fitzmoore’s jaw, producing a satisfyingly loud crack. His hand would hurt later but that had felt so fucking good it was worth any amount of pain.
He didn’t stick around to see if he’d knocked the bastard out. Didn’t bother to speak knowing nothing he said would penetrate a lifetime of warped logic. He walked right past the stunned servant and never looked back.
Anger still rode him hard after walking out of the high-rent neighborhood and flagging down a cab. He kept waiting for cops to show up and arrest him, sure the prick would press charges, but no one stopped him. He ignored the ringing of his borrowed cell phone until he stood at the entrance of the airport hotel and snarled, “What?”
“Hey, B-man. You have to come back.”
He had no patience left for the prankster and his games. “I’m flying to Denver tomorrow night. I’ll be home Sunday.”
“No. You have to come back now. Van had a vision.”
He held stock-still and waited, even his heart had come to a stop.
Riley blew out a hard breath before continuing. “It’s Tink. She’s not in Denver. We found her rental car parked off to the side of the house, tucked in behind that huge cypress. She didn’t run home.” He paused as if reluctant to tell the rest.
“Spit it out,” Brock demanded.
“She didn’t leave the ranch on her own. Van says Wyatt is somehow involved.”
“Wyatt?” he bellowed, ignoring the wary glances of a couple entering the hotel. “That sick fuck is rotting away in prison.”
“Hey,” Riley complained. “Don’t kill the messenger.”
There was a scuffle, Riley yelped, then Tamara’s voice filled his ear. “Get the fuck home now! All her stuff is upstairs in the guest bedroom—purse, keys, money, credit cards…everything. Dakota couldn’t find any tracks because the fresh snow this morning covered everything. Sheriff Monroe called the police in Denver. Tink’s apartment is locked up tight as a drum and there’s no sign of her.”
“I’ll call once I have flight details.”
* * * * *
Awareness arrived along with excruciating pain slicing her skull in half, leaving Tink breathless and nauseous. She had suffered from a handful of migraines in her life but nothing compared to what she was experiencing now.
Breathing in through her nose and out slightly parted lips, she opened her eyelids a fraction at a time to find herself surrounded by a wall of impenetrable darkness. She searched her mind but had no recollection of where she was or what had happened. She lay in an awkward position on a hard, cold surface with her arms pinned behind her back.
Okay, definitely not at home in bed.
She shifted and attempted to move her arms. They wouldn’t budge. Talk about déjà vu. But this was different. Something was wrong with her. Had she been drugged?
The brief effort to move left her exhausted and her hazy brain wouldn’t wrap around the situation. As her heavy eyelids drooped, she heard a door open and played dead.
“I am tired of waitin’. The bitch has been out cold for almost two hours.”
The plaintive male voice had every hair on her body standing on end.
“Maybe you hit her too hard,” another man said. “Who cares if she’s passed out or dead. At least she won’t put up a fight.”
Tink didn’t recognize either voice.
“Shut the fuck up, moron,” the first one bellowed. “I can’t think with your yap runnin’ like diarrhea. And who wants to fuck a cold, lifeless corpse? That’s just sick.”
“Yeah, it’s better when they fight.”
The lump in her throat kept her shocked gasp from escaping. Christ, she was in deep trouble. She had no idea where she was and these strangers were intent on raping her. If she’d only been gone a few hours there probably wasn’t anyone looking for her.
Rough hands grasped her shoulder and shook her like a rag doll. Tink relaxed her body and continued to play dead.
“Still out cold,” one of them grumbled. “Come on. Help me get her on the bed then we can head on into town, maybe have some fun at Smiley’s.”
“Oooh, maybe Bobbi Lee’ll be there.”
“Bobbi Lee ain’t ever gonna give your sorry ass the time of day.”
She was shoved onto her side and one of them cut the rope from her wrists. Even once the rope was removed she had no feeling in her arms. One set of hands grabbed her by the armpits and the other grabbed her legs as they lifted her.
“Fuck, she weighs a ton.”
“Yeah, try carting her fat ass through the woods.”
Yeah, and you two fugly rednecks belong on the cover of GQ. Not!
With the return of blood flow to her arms came a shitload of pain. Tink ground her teeth and fought down a scream as she was dropped onto a thin mattress.
“I bet those big tits are purty.”
Her sweater was shoved up her body and large hands fastened on to her breasts, squeezing hard. At least they hadn’t removed her bra and the thin layer of material separated her skin from his hands.
“Them are big enough to fuck.”
Channeling the pain to the back of her mind, Tink focused on staying relaxed and prayed silently. Her boots were yanked off then her legs shoved wide apart. Something cold pressed against her belly and slid beneath the waistband of her wool skirt.
“Been dyin’ to see what she’s hidin’ under here.”
A knife. Oh Jesus, they had a knife.
The material fell away with a soft whoosh and cold wafted over her lower body. No matter how hard she tried, she wasn’t able to suppress a shiver. Thankfully her captives were too busy pawing at her lace garters and panties to notice.
The knife made quick work of cutting through her undergarments. Now their horrible touch was directly against her skin as her knees were pushed farther apart.
A shrill whistle cut through her aching head.
“Now would you look at that
. She done cut off all the hair.”
“Ain’t never seen nothing like that.”
Bile rose in her throat as they poked and prodded the folds of her sex.
“I can’t wait to fuck that.”
The fingers left her body and she heard a smacking sound. “Not yet. Wyatt said she had to know what’s going on so she suffers. He wants Savannah Black to know she’s paying for what she done to him.”
“Then let’s get out of here and go to the bar. I need to fuck someone.” She heard a grunt and the shuffle of feet. A door shut with a solid thud and she was once again alone in the endless darkness.
* * * * *
The walkie-talkie hooked to his belt crackled and squeaked. “Hey, B-man. What’s your twenty?”
He shook his head. Riley always turned into a special-ops wannabe whenever he got one of the radios in his hand. Brock had no patience for the idiot’s antics. He grabbed the radio, pressed the button and barked out, “Why? Has she been found?”
More than half the county had showed up first thing Friday morning to help search. They’d started at Tink’s rental car and headed out in all directions on foot, horseback, snowmobile and ATVs, stopping only to take infrequent breaks or when it got too dark.
Brock hadn’t let the darkness stop him. He’d been searching now for more than twenty-four hours. He hadn’t slept or showered in more than two days and didn’t plan on stopping until she was found.
“Negative. The girls want you to come home.”
“No. I’m all the way out at the base of Shadow Mountain.” He shivered just saying the name.
They all kept waiting for Van to have another one of her visions and find Tink, but since seeing the hellion unconscious and in a dark place there had been nothing. What scared him the most was that Van couldn’t sense Tink at all.
He prayed she wasn’t outside somewhere exposed to the elements, because the temperature had dropped dangerously low during the night.
Please, dear God. Sure could use some help right about now!
Scanning the countryside, he took a good long look at the Bar B, Bodine’s land. The unmistakable signs of neglect showed in downed fences and overgrown pastures. It was a sad sight but not one he had time to dwell on.
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