by Lisa Jackson
“It’s filthy. No way. We’d need a blanket.”
“Well, what’s in your backpack?” she asked.
“A hammer. Some gloves.”
“A hammer?” she repeated. “What for?”
“A little extracurricular activity.” She could hear the suppressed laughter in his voice, though she couldn’t read his expression.
“No blanket? Nothing?” she asked.
“Nope.”
There was another note in his voice, one she hadn’t heard before, one of excitement, anticipation. Well, good. Unlike most of the women she knew who moaned about their boyfriends getting right to the wham, bam, thank you, ma’am with barely a kiss, she was sick of foreplay.
“We’re gonna have ourselves a gooooood time,” he said, suddenly unbuttoning his pants and freeing a woody that sprang straight up, cocked and ready. Well, all right! She broke into a smile and ran a tentative hand over it. She’d felt him before, but he’d never been quite this hard. “What are you gonna do with the hammer, big boy?” she teased, catching his excitement.
“Smash a few windows.” He laughed beneath his breath. “Beat you to death.”
Teri’s heart lurched. He was the one who’d broken the windows? But then he was pulling down her pants and panties, stepping closer to wedge his cock between her legs. She tried to bend over to free her feet from her pants—her best ones, that she’d gotten on sale at Nordstrom but still cost a fortune—but he wouldn’t let her. He lifted her upward and settled her upon him, her knees bent outward, her feet still caught by the pants.
“Oh, my God, give me a break. I’ll get them off,” she whispered, giggling.
“Nah.” He pushed his cock hard up inside her, hurting her a little because it was such an awkward position. “It’s good, baby, huh.”
“Real good,” she lied. If he’d just give her a minute . . .
But then he began lifting her up and down on his cock, slowly, excruciatingly slowly, and she forgot her worries, her hands clinging to his shoulders. He held her with his arms, suspending her in the air, up and down, until she was squirming for him to go faster, harder. She wasn’t a big woman, but she marveled at his strength. “You must work out,” she panted.
“Some . . .” He spoke through gritted teeth, concentrating.
Before long she was close to coming. She tried to hold back, wanted the moment to continue, but he was strong, sure, and slamming into her in a way that sent her wild.
“You . . . you . . . oh . . . ohhhh . . . oh, God!” Her arms were wrapped around his shoulders, her eyes squeezed shut. She opened them, looked at the white orb in the sky, threw back her head, and wailed like a banshee.
He came on a groan right after she did. Moments later he pulled out and set her down on shaky legs. “Wow . . .” she whispered.
“No shit,” he agreed, sounding as happy as she felt. He tucked his cock away and bent down to his backpack as she pulled up her pants and panties. The claw hammer appeared in his hand and she saw him swing it around, testing it. It whistled by her ear and she ducked away.
“Hey!” she cried fearfully.
“Don’t worry. I got one for you, too.” He pulled another hammer out of the pack and handed it to her.
“I’m not sure I want to destroy stuff,” she said.
“I love destroying stuff.”
He grabbed her by the hand and took her back down a flight. They walked to the windows. One was already cracked and he swung the hammer and smashed the still intact window next to it. The crash was deafening. Somewhere a dog started barking.
“You said to be quiet! Oh, my God.” She was both horrified and thrilled.
“Here, you smash one and we’ll get the hell out.”
“O . . . kay.” She aimed the hammer at the window with the spider cracks. Lifted the hammer.
“Wait,” he ordered.
She stopped and looked at him. To her surprise, he yanked the hammer out of her hand.
“Change of plans,” he said, and then he swung the hammer at her head, dropping her with one hit.
Pain exploded in her brain and dully, she cried out, heard him . . . oh, God, whistling. Her mind was disjointed. Pain screaming and slashing at her. Her body convulsing as she felt her aching body being lifted. Then he threw her, hard, slamming her back into the broken window, sharp shards tearing at her flesh.
She saw him smile in satisfaction at the tinkling of glass far below. One extra push and she was outside, in the air, gravity pulling at her as she free-fell through the night. She opened her mouth to scream and bam! Her body hit hard. Jolting. Bones breaking. She blinked in one last moment of consciousness, saw him staring down at her, grinning like the devil, as if he reveled in the image of blood mixing with her red hair.
Then his head disappeared back inside the building, his footsteps clamoring down the stairs, as gratefully the blackness swallowed her on this, her last, warm summer night.
Chapter 12
Liam’s cell buzzed and rattled on his nightstand. He reached for it, opening one eye, seeing the lightening July sky outside the floor-to-ceiling window in his master bedroom, read the time: 5:37 a.m.
He saw the number: Jacoby.
He groaned inside. He was through chasing after Rory.
“Whad is it?” Bethany mumbled from her side of his bed as he picked up the phone and answered. Her hair was a tumbled mass on the extra pillow, and from beneath its curtain she opened an eye to stare at him.
He hadn’t asked her to come over. She just had. And he hadn’t said no. He’d half expected her to bring up the plans to move in with him in September, but she hadn’t. She’d always been good at strategy and seemed to realize this was not the time to push him about their future.
“It’s Jacoby,” the private investigator identified himself as soon as Liam unplugged the phone from its charger and clicked it on. “Called you three times last night and you didn’t answer.”
“Phone was dead. I didn’t start charging it till late.”
“I’ve got some news for you about your wife.”
Your wife. The words were a splash of cold water, bringing him fully awake. “Yeah?”
“She’s here. In Portland. At Laurelton General with a sick child.”
“Here?”
“Yessirree. Big as life.”
“You saw her?”
“That’s what you pay me for,” the PI said, self-satisfied. “You shoulda picked up last night. I damn near called you at two a.m.”
Bethany had lifted herself up on one elbow, staring at him. She brushed her hair from her face and Liam wished to high heaven he’d turned her down the night before.
“Was there an accident?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Is the kid okay?”
“Not sure.” That sent a bolt of panic through him. “Okay, I’m heading there now,” he growled, adding before he clicked off, “Thirty minutes, max.”
“Where are you going?” Beth asked, her eyes wide as Liam headed for the connecting bathroom and kicked off his boxers. “You’re getting up? Now? It’s not even six yet.” Then, worried, “What happened?”
He wanted to lie. To keep what he knew to himself, but Beth was already rising from the bed, stripping off her lacy nightgown, and as he opened the shower door and twisted on the taps, stepping beneath hot, sharp spray, she met him in the bathroom, naked. She reached for the shower door handle, but he grabbed it from his side, holding it in place so that it couldn’t swing either way.
“No, wait. I have to get going,” he said as steam began to rise.
“You don’t want me to shower with you?” she asked in disbelief. “You’re stopping me?” Her thin body, too thin, really, was stiff with outrage.
Sharp needles of hot water were bouncing off his skin, running down his face, plastering his hair to his head. He just wanted Bethany to disappear, didn’t want this inevitable argument, then felt a guilty pang when he remembered the pain of having a lover really disap
pear. Still, Beth, if he didn’t really want her to vanish, should at least go home.
She was staring through the rapidly fogging glass, “That was Jacoby, wasn’t it?” she charged, her eyes wide, her color high. “You asked if he’d seen her, meaning Rory, right? That’s what you asked him. You said, ‘You saw her’?”
“Yes . . .” Liam admitted, swiping at the water on his face as she glared at him, her face almost ghostlike through the film.
“Great, Liam. Just . . . great!” Her jaw was tighter than he’d ever seen it, her lipstick-free lips compressed.
He almost explained that he needed to see Rory to get her signature on the divorce papers he’d had drawn up months earlier, but it felt too much like an excuse. Rory was a topic he and Bethany both avoided. She hadn’t even asked him about his trip north, which led him to believe she must know something about it, possibly from Derek, or someone else in his family.
“What about a kid and an accident?” she demanded.
“Don’t know.”
“Does she have a child?”
He repeated: “Don’t know.”
“But you’re racing to be with her. A hero.”
Before he could even think about explaining, Beth turned on her heel and headed back into the bedroom. Liam, pissed and frustrated, just went through the motions of showering. His mind raced as he turned off the taps, wrapped a towel around his waist, and padded back into the master bedroom of his top floor condominium on Portland’s west side. He had a view much like his parents’, straight up the Willamette toward the Fremont Bridge, its arched span glowing heavenly white, touched by morning sunlight.
Beth was sitting on the bed, dressed in the white blouse, black skirt, and black wedge sandals she’d appeared in the night before. She’d even added the string of pearls, a gift from him, and they lay like a white promise at her throat. She’d pulled a brush from her purse and was slowly dragging it through her hair, not meeting his eyes. She was, in fact, staring at the green plastic Yoda ring lying forgotten on his dresser.
“I’ll call you as soon as I know if it’s Rory,” he said.
“Thank you.”
Her tone was serious, her words clipped. He sensed she’d regained control of herself and was once again holding her emotions in, as she always did. Beth was careful, a characteristic he’d thought he valued, but right now he wished she would just lose it. Yell and scream and make an ugly scene. Show some gumption. Anger. He’d witnessed just a glimpse of it in the shower, thought she might break down the damned glass, but here she was, pretending to be unperturbed. Fake.
He spent less than five minutes back in the bathroom, stepping into clean clothes and running a brush through his hair, not bothering to shave. He felt as if time was slipping through his fingers.
If you don’t get there soon, she’ll vanish. And the sick child. What was that all about?
Back in the bedroom, he buttoned his shirt and scanned the carpet for his shoes. Beth was still sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting, her gaze now on him. Her mouth was turned down at the corners, her lips newly glossed. For the first time in months, he felt no urge to kiss her, not even goodbye, and he felt a jab of guilt pierce his brain. The truth was, he was focused on finally facing off with Rory. And what about the sick child? Her baby, most likely. So where was the father? With her? In absentia?
“Okay?” he asked Beth, still feeling as if sand were slipping through an unseen hourglass. If he didn’t get to Laurelton, and soon, Rory would vanish again.
Beth slowly rose, collected her clutch bag, shoved the brush inside. She’d managed some light makeup, but was paler than her usual self.
“Okay,” she answered, which could mean anything, he thought. Nothing good, it seemed. She hesitated by his dresser and then deliberately picked up the Yoda ring, slipping it into her purse before preceding him out of the apartment. A strange gesture of repressed anger. It was all he could do not to run to his Tahoe.
But when he reached his rig, he caught a glimpse of Beth in a nearby parking spot. Steadfastly not looking at him, she was checking out her face in her mirror, touching the edge of her lips as if her lipstick had smeared, then messing with her cell phone.
Fine. Let her dawdle.
He couldn’t wait. He backed out of his spot in the underground garage, drove to the exit, scanned the street for vehicles and pedestrians, then hit the gas.
Jaw set, he drove like a madman, speeding down the highway, disbelieving that he was actually going to see his wife face-to-face after all these years. Traffic was light as it was still early, the sun rising over Mount Hood on the eastern horizon. It was all he could do to stay within ten miles of the speed limit and his heart was beating like the proverbial drum. Dozens of questions, the same old queries, sped through his mind as the Tahoe’s engine raced and its tires hummed over the pavement.
What happened?
Where did you go?
Why didn’t you contact me?
What about your family?
How’d you end up with the kid?
Jesus, why did you leave? Were you forced? Or . . .
He rolled down the window to clear his mind, taking a page from Beth’s book and forcing his raging emotions under control again. He didn’t completely believe that after all these years he’d finally see her again.
There were too many almosts, too many dead ends.
But if the fates were with him and she was here, in Portland, in the flesh, he wanted to be ready, so he forced himself to be sharp, clear and calm. He wanted a clean divorce from her. Needed to cut all ties from her. But first, of course, he had to have some answers to his questions, the foremost being: Why did she run?
And he wanted to hear those answers from her, face-to-face, before she started talking to the police or the press or a lawyer . . . God, what a mess!
He squinted, the sun catching in his side mirrors, and out of the blue a memory found him and caught hold. In his mind’s eye he saw Rory, laughing, her red hair tossed by the wind that had rippled across the water as they walked, arm in arm, along the shoreline of a lake in Washington. The sky had been cloud covered, dove gray, reflecting its somber color on the water. She’d snatched at her tresses, trying to corral them with one hand, which she finally succeeded in doing. He’d leaned in to kiss her and she’d pushed him away, only to grab him by his shirt and pull him into a real smacker, her lips hot and slick on the cool day.
“Love you,” she said, then skipped away, teasing him, and hurrying along the lakefront.
His heart had clutched as she’d glanced back with an impish look, silently daring him to chase her. Which he had. Eagerly. Along the shoreline as the water had lapped the shore and a few fishermen had cast their lines.
When he caught up with her she giggled and half screamed. He’d wrapped his arms around her, kissed her soundly, and finally ended the embrace and tugged at her arm, pulling her into a small lakeside café known for its Dutch-baby pancakes, raspberry syrup, and strong coffee. They’d landed at a small table with a checked tablecloth and, while the heavyset waitress had hovered and offered suggestions, they’d been so caught up in each other and the promise of a long weekend alone that they’d barely had time to order. To this day Liam didn’t remember what he’d eaten, only that he’d been completely and foolishly besotted with his bride.
He swore softly under his breath as the memory floated away and he found himself tearing along the highway, driving by rote, passing a semi at a good fifteen miles-an-hour over the speed limit. He slipped into the slower lane, tucking the Tahoe in front of the huge truck, and eased up on the gas pedal. God, what was he thinking?
“You trying to get a ticket?” he muttered, running a hand through his still-damp hair. His heart rate had slowed to a little above normal, but it was accelerating again. He could feel himself start to shift, sensed excitement begin to course through his veins, and he mentally cursed himself for being a fool for a woman who had so publicly spurned him, a woman who had run n
ot only from him, but from tragedy, who had . . . well, he’d gone over the same curse a thousand times over. Yet still, he felt a kind of anticipation mixed with hard anger at the thought of finally confronting her.
He’d thought, no, he’d hoped he might skip that particular feeling, but here it was. Kinda pissed him off. How many times was he supposed to feel this way, only to be slammed down again?
He almost wished for a distraction. Something to throw him off course. Something to stop him from going after Rory one more time.
His cell phone rang at that moment. He’d placed it in the cup holder in the console. “Ask and ye shall receive,” he muttered, glancing down at the phone impatiently. He saw it was his foreman. Les Steele.
He clicked on and pushed the speakerphone button so he didn’t have to put the cell to his ear while driving. “Pretty early at the job site, Les, if that’s where you are.”
“Liam . . . yes . . . Here at Hallifax. I’ve called the police,” Steele said, his voice a tight squeak. “Oh, shit, there’s no easy way to tell you this, but there’s a dead woman on the job site.”
“What?” He swerved slightly. “A dead—?”
Steele was nearly babbling, which wasn’t like him at all. “Ah, Jesus, it . . . it looks like she fell. Maybe from the roof. I don’t know. Redhead. She’s all messed up . . . Holy Christ . . . I mean she must’ve fallen.”
Liam’s heart jolted. His normally taciturn foreman was clearly shaken to his boots. “You’re sure—?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure she’s dead. Holy—”
“I’ll be right there.” Liam was already looking for a spot to pull a one-eighty. “You said you’ve already called the police?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do anything. Just stay there.” He wheeled into the parking lot of a strip mall and rounded a few parked cars, heading back to the highway, where he waited for the same damned semi he’d passed earlier to whip past.
“Damn,” he muttered as soon as he’d clicked off. A dead woman?
A redhead.
Rory!
“No. Shit . . . no . . . it’s not . . . it’s not.” He shook his head, angry for even thinking that. He was consumed by Rory. “Goddammit . . .”