by A. C. Mason
Good to know, he’d managed to scare some sense into her. He succeeded in avoiding checking on the blonde a third time. The self-help books weren’t a waste of time after all. Bonus points for him. He was making progress with his OCD.
This assignment didn’t bode well for him. If things got complicated with Ms. Waltz, it might jeopardize everything he’d worked for. The sooner he could get this over with, the better for the both of them. Vaihan folded the photo, tucked it inside his jacket pocket and stepped out into the cool night.
Chapter 2
As a siren chirped, blue-and-red lights flashed in Leera’s rearview mirror from the unmarked car tailing her. She hadn’t been speeding. Her car was new so the lights shouldn’t be out. She was within the demilitarized zone of Washington DC–a police state with no weapons. So what then? Two black armored vehicles with CPD on them–Check Point Defense–blocked both lanes ahead. She signaled to indicate she was pulling over, brought the vehicle to a complete stop and turned off the engine. What could the feds want with her? Growing up, she remembered her father being pulled over because of racial profiling, but compared to zombies, African Americans had nothing to worry about these days. And she’d certainly never had a run in with the authorities.
A tall black man in a charcoal-gray suit stepped out of the car and strode toward her. He tapped on her window with his knuckles. Credentials flashed–Homeland Security. She didn’t catch the name, as he flipped it closed. Good-looking, young, professional. His skin was quite a few shades darker than hers. Reflective sunglasses covered his eyes.
Leera pressed the button, lowering her car window.
“Step out of the vehicle, Ms. Waltz.” His tone was smooth with a hint of a British accent. One of his upper front teeth had a gold cap at the edge. He stepped back.
After unfastening her seatbelt, she opened the door and rose. The frosty air chilled her exposed legs. She pressed her thighs together for warmth and held her jacket closed.
He had broad shoulders and a few inches on her, and the man had something sweet, even innocent, about his smile. Those were the men a woman had to be wary of...much like her father.
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” His mirror-shaded gaze traveled up her figure. The corner of his mouth quirked upward. He licked his full lips.
What? He was going to arrest her. On what grounds? “Have I done something illegal, sir?”
He grabbed her forearm and twisted.
“Ouch.” Pain shot up her arm, causing her to flip around. If he was trying to scare her, he’d succeeded. Cold metal snapped onto her wrist and pinched her skin. “That hurt.” She jerked back, right into him.
“Resisting arrest?” He forced her against the vehicle, crushing her.
“No, sir.” She wasn’t about to give him legal grounds to arrest her if he didn’t have any yet.
He cuffed her other hand, opened the door, pulled the key out and locked her car. “You and I are going to take a ride together.”
A ride? That didn’t sound official. “Am I under arrest?”
He pressed his lips to her ear. “Maybe. Depends on my mood when I’m done with you.”
After he’d done what with her? There was nothing more that could be done to her. Losing her husband had already killed her.
The hatch of the armored vehicles opened. A blond man in a CPD uniform with a crew cut and light eyes popped up from the one closest to them. A real military jarhead. “Feisty little thing. Need a hand?” He signaled to his twin in the other vehicle.
“Thanks, Reid, but I can take it from here.” The man who’d cuffed her tilted his face toward her, eyes fixed on the soldier. “You don’t want to find out what he’d do to a pretty thing like you.”
Wasn’t he the one taking her for some type of ride?
With a roar, the military rovers rotated and headed in the opposite direction.
What on earth was going on? Just wait until she called Peter. “I have rights. My brother is a lawyer.”
“I’m aware, Ms. Waltz.” His eyebrows shot up. A deep rumble rose from him as he grabbed her arm and shoved her toward his vehicle.
Taking side streets didn’t seem as clever now, did it? Not a car or civilian in sight to witness her mistreatment.
“You had rights. You see, when national security is at risk, the rights of the many outweigh the rights of the individual.”
National security? “You must have me confused with someone else.” She was a chef, for crying out loud. Her skills were in the kitchen where she could make a mean souffle, creme brulee and coq au vin.
“I definitely do not. You are Leera Waltz, widow of Jean Denoix. Daughter of Jerome and Eliza Waltz. The late senator, your father, managed to become the first elected official to the senate from DC and maintain the only area not under martial law. His wife, your mother suffered a great deal of depression, bouts of emotional breakdowns, hospitalization, all written up as mental illness. I suspect it was all the lying your father did, or was it the beatings? I heard he was a vile man with a stern hand, but what do I know.” He smirked. “Poor little Leera didn’t do much better. You were diagnosed with depersonalization disorder. Who do you blame for that? Your father’s rampages or your mother’s inability to protect you?” His hand pressed on her head, then his body forced her into the car on the passenger side.
He had access to her medical records. The only legal option was a subpoena on the grounds she was a threat to national security. As long as he didn’t arrest her, he didn’t have to give her Miranda rights, which meant she was screwed.
He marched around the front with his hand on his gun. The man was prepared to shoot her. My God, for what reason?
“Well, is Mommy dearest or Daddy to blame for your inability to connect with others?” He sat in the driver’s seat, turned the key and peeled onto the road.
Her parents had done the best they could. “Neither.”
“Oh, come now...kids aren’t born as screwed up as you turned out.” A grin parted his lips. “Or was your smarts the issue? An IQ of 131 could make you a difficult know-it-all. None of the other kids wanted anything to do with you. What a disappointment you must be to your late father.”
Nothing she had ever done measured up in her father’s eyes, so why bother trying? She had left that for Peter.
“And yet, I feel sorry for you,” he said, trailing the back of his index finger up her cheek.
She jerked away. The last thing she wanted was for people to feel sorry for her. Not that he appeared to mean it.
“Your husband dies, and you can’t even mourn him. Pathetic. Wouldn’t you say?”
In her own strange way, disconnecting from her emotions was her way of showing how deep the wound of losing him ran. Coldness was all she had.
He turned off the road and pulled up next to a warehouse. The red aluminum siding had a thick coating of dust. On the horizon, the sun grew orange in the distance. He yanked her out of the vehicle.
“Ouch.” For all she knew he wasn’t even a Fed. She couldn’t really picture CPD helping him if he wasn’t, though. “What do you want with me?”
“Are you offering me something?” He leaned in, breathed deep and let out a misty exhalation of stale coffee.
Yuck.
He unlocked the door at the side of the building and pushed her in.
She stumbled forward. At the center of the room was a table with a chair on each side. Four bulletin boards with glossy photos reflecting light thumbtacked in groupings were pressed on the walls.
“You will be by the time I’m done with you tonight.” He shut the door behind him.
Not a chance in hell. She was in the industrial park. Not a soul around, in an abandoned building.
“It’s been a while since you’ve been with a man hasn’t it, Leera?”
The way he said her name caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.
“Hasn’t it?” He raised his voice.
Since her husband’s death
nearly ten months ago, she couldn’t imagine wanting another man. “It has.” She lowered her face.
“This arrangement could have other perks.”
What arrangement?
He traced her lip with his thumb.
She yanked her face away from his inappropriate touch.
He moved in closer, encroaching with his hand along her jaw, down to her collarbone. “Think about it.”
She backed away, hindered by the table. Physical companionship wasn’t high on her list, and his offer didn’t elicit appealing thoughts of any such acts.
Lifting his shades, he met her gaze with his hazel eyes. “I’d be lying if I said watching you get off with your toys hasn’t relieved me too. You’re nightstand drawer is impressive. My interest in exploring you is piqued.”
He’d watched her. She shivered with disgust, avoiding his stare. Photos of her were tacked to the corkboard on her left. On the other side, her brother, Peter.
“That’s a look of familiarity I see gleaming in those pretty black eyes.” He stepped back.
Not even close to charming.
He spun her and lowered her upper body to the surface of the table. “Slowly.” He guided her down. “I wouldn’t want to leave any signs of abuse.” He removed two latex gloves from the box next to her. “Nor physical. DNA.”
Evidence, was what she called it. If he was worried about leaving proof, what else was he planning on doing to her? Oh God, he wouldn’t! Would he?
“What a view.” He kneeled behind her. “Step out of your heels.”
“And what if I don’t?”
“If you test me...I’ll make you wish I’d shot you.”
What an outstanding example of her tax dollars at work. She removed one foot then the other from her shoes.
The board in front of her was covered in photos of Rowley. Short black hair framed the ivory skin of his face. His intense navy blue eyes stared off in the distance.
“Good girl.” He lifted up her dress.
Cool air chilled the exposed area. “My God.”
“Do you have a concealed weapon on you?”
“No.” She squeezed her eyes closed.
“Good. How about drugs or something I could cut myself on?” He probed along the edge of her panties with his gloved fingers.
She jerked away from his touch. “No.”
He slid his hand around the front of her thigh, preventing her retreat. “I wouldn’t want you to bruise.” His voice lowered an octave. “White lace suits you.”
The hairs on the back of her arms stood with fear.
With a large gloved hand, he examined up her leg, groped her ankle to her knee, onto her inner thigh and tucked his fingers in the seat of her panties then fondled her ass. “You do take good care of yourself. Fit. I especially enjoy when you run around the house in your panties and bra.”
Her stomach lurched. There were cameras hidden in her house, or he wouldn’t have known that. How long had her home been invaded in this way?
He descended her other thigh, past her knee to her ankle.
She needed to dissolve into nothingness like she did when she was a kid. When her parents were fighting or her father beat them. It was better to be anywhere but there.
She focused on the pictures before her. Anything but his hands. Where was the photo of Rowley taken? The image struck her as familiar. The trees in the background and water. Down by the river. He enjoyed sitting by the shore’s edge. Just the wind, birds, and them. She’d seen him in that shirt and slacks at the restaurant recently.
The Fed yanked her upright, reached around front, untied the belt of her coat and slid the fabric down her arms, resting the weight of the garment against the handcuffs.
Her muscles tensed. “Ouch.” She gritted her teeth.
The gap between them narrowed and his erection pressed into her palm. He patted up her ass and back. “Nothing so far.” He exhaled deeply.
She couldn’t deal with this–with him. She needed to find her way out of herself. The restaurant was the only thing keeping her sane since her husband’s death. Had she remembered to double the order of turnips? The soup of the day was going to be a puree of turnip soup, a fall favorite of the restaurant’s patrons.
He smoothed his hand over her exposed collarbone to her chest, then slipped his fingers beneath the top of her gown, inspecting her areolas. “Magnificent breasts. Are you cold, Leera?”
He pawed the peak of one of her breasts.
She cringed. “What?”
He groaned. “Are you cold or enjoying yourself?” His hard thing twitched against her palm.
Her extremities were numb. Please God, this had to end.
Extra carrots wouldn’t hurt either, as garnish with the parsley for a dash of color. She should make sure she added more of those to her order as well.
“Bear with me. I’m nearly done...” His breath blew on her neck. He gathered up the front of her dress and slid his hand beneath the waist of her pantyhose. Then he pressed his fingers under the material. With his knee, he knocked the inside of her thigh, forcing her legs further apart.
“Please don’t.” She was out of practice and struggling to shut him out. Tears formed in her eyes.
“Shh, if you relax you might enjoy this.” Hunger laced his tone. “All part of my duties, as unpleasant as this may seem.” He reached down there and parted her.
Oh God. Her breath hitched in her throat. She fisted her hands, determined get through this. Was the sunflower bread roll the best accent to go with the earthy turnip? Maybe a stronger flavor would work better. What about a pumpernickel roll? That was a much better companion for the turnip.
“So beautiful.” He probed down below.
She jerked as far as she could away from him. Her hip bones knocked the table.
“Careful. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. Don’t be alarmed.” Between her legs, he pressed back and forth. “Done. But if you’d like me to continue, Leera?”
“Huh?”
“Should I continue?”
Was he giving her an out, or was this another part of his twisted game? Either way, she wouldn’t consent. She shook her head, slumping to the table.
He huffed as he withdrew his hand. The cuffs loosened then released from her wrists. “Leera.”
Where was she? In a warehouse with a warped Federal agent, who was employed by Homeland Security. She massaged the sore skin of her wrists. Her fingernails had turned blue.
“Sit.” He pointed to the chair next to her.
As instructed, she sat, pulled her jacket closed to cover up and crossed her arms. In front of her on the table was a pile of photos with one flipped facedown and a laptop.
What on earth did this disturbed agent want with her? “Why am I here?”
“Do you know what brought two of the men on the boards together?” He sat across from her.
Behind her, one of the photos was of an Ancient. At least, that was what the zombies over a hundred years old called themselves...or so she’d heard. His gaze held sadness. Had she seen him somewhere? TV maybe? Who was this undead, and what did he have to do with her, Peter and Rowley?
She got what he was implying. “Geography and or me. Since I’m here, I’m assuming you mean me.” It wasn’t like she controlled where her family lived. Rowley grew up in the house next door with his uncle, his guardian.
“Very good, Leera.” He pushed back in his seat, shades resting on his head. He removed them and set them on the table. “We should start with Rowley McKie. Isn’t he the reason your parents agreed to ship you to Paris to study cooking?” He chuckled.
Not even. Her parents saw her as the failure. However, said just that way, it would make sense. “No, not exactly. My reckless behavior with him convinced my parents it was in my best interest to study abroad.” She’d spread her legs was how her father had put it.
“As far as I am aware, it takes two to make a baby.” The corner of his eyes narrowed. “It’s unfortunate what happened,
painful and irreversible.”
At eighteen, an ectopic pregnancy in her ovary had nearly killed her. In typical Waltz family style, they covered it up with fake appendicitis. She had lost a baby and an ovary. And all her father, the good senator, cared about was being publically embarrassed. Why she had let them muzzle her from telling Rowley the truth, she couldn’t even rationalize now.
“All that seemed behind you when you met your husband, Jean. He didn’t mind that you were damaged. Bet you never revealed McKie was the reason or father. When your husband died in such an unfortunate accident, McKie’s interest piqued anew. Can’t blame the man.”
She was Jean’s world. He’d given her everything she had asked for and more. Rowley couldn’t live up to how Jean had adored her, and yet she couldn’t keep away from him, even while married. Depraved and sick was the name of the game she had played with Rowley. Jean had given her safety and comfort and she’d craved Rowley’s poison, which hurt her husband. What kind of person did that make her? Not a good one.
“We can’t forget your brother in all this. You and Peter grew up quite adept at lying for your father, covering up his affairs and violent fits to protect him–the Waltz’s public image. You hated it though, wanted nothing to do with it. So poor Peter had to do all the heavy lifting, while you played the free spirit. After you were shipped away for your own good, Peter and McKie grew even tighter. Do you think he did it to keep the man at bay from poor, broken Lee-lee? Whatever his motives were, Peter started to recruit supporters on Capitol Hill to help McKie’s terrorist organization and cover up his illegal activities.”
“Peter would never.” Her brother didn’t like the undead, but he believed in the laws of the country. Could that have all been an act? Was this the reason Peter decided against running for the senate? He always said he would by forty. And yet, nothing. Rowley was always a troubled soul and he never truly answered her questions about what he was up to.
He tossed photos on top of each other of Peter with Rowley. Counting money, handing over thick envelops to senators and a few big-name lobbyists.