Rebecca tensed at the pointed reference to Paul. Yes, for a grown man, he had been somewhat naïve and comfortably predictable. It had never occurred to him that a sultry, sexy young woman like D.J. could be interested in an older man like him; his first clue had probably come when he’d found her naked in his bed. And yes, news of their fling had come as a major surprise. She had thought Paul was immune to sweet young things and the games they played.
She had been wrong. She doubted any living, breathing male was immune to D.J.
So Teryl was extending her vacation. Rebecca found it hard to believe. In all her years in business—more than she wanted to count—she had never had an employee more reliable, more dependable, or more conscientious than Teryl Weaver. The girl never came in late, and she’d never taken a sick day without having plenty of aches and miseries to go with it. It would be easier to believe that Simon Tremont was giving up writing to become a garbage collector or that D.J. Howell was giving up men for the church than to imagine the Teryl she knew pulling a stunt like this.
But why—for once—would D.J. lie? Why would she tell a story that Teryl, upon her return, would expose as a lie? Why would she deliberately create a situation that would force her best friend to face the truth about her own untrustworthiness?
“And when did Teryl make this decision?” she asked.
“Last night. She called as I was getting ready to leave for the airport. She said she’s having a wonderful time with a wonderful man, and she asked me to let you know she was staying over a few days.”
“She couldn’t call me herself this morning?”
D.J. crossed one leg over the other, revealing a generous expanse of slender, muscular thigh, and swung her foot languorously from side to side. “I don’t guess she knew exactly what it was she would be doing this morning. Maybe she thought she would be having too good a time to interrupt for business.”
Rebecca smiled faintly. She could relate to that. Leaving Paul’s bed this morning to come to work had certainly been one of the harder choices she’d made recently. It wasn’t until she’d caught herself wondering whether they should give their marriage a second chance that she’d managed to untangle herself, throw back the covers, and get up. Dealing with their divorce and the problems that had caused it had taken her a long time; getting over the hurt and disillusionment had taken even longer. Sure, these little interludes were nice, but they weren’t anything to base a marriage on. Sex, no matter how good, wasn’t a reason to get married.
And while many of her more positive feelings for Paul had survived his infidelity, D.J., and the divorce, she wasn’t sure love was one of them.
She wasn’t sure she wanted it to be.
Abruptly, she forced her thoughts back on track. “When can I expect to see Teryl back in the office?”
D.J. responded with a shrug that made her hair shimmer in the morning light—dark red hair, and so much of it. “She said she would let me know.” She gave a lascivious grin. “I imagine whenever this guy’s given all he’s got to give.”
Disliking her response—disliking her—Rebecca got to her feet, hoping D.J. would have the courtesy to acknowledge that this meeting was over. “I appreciate your coming by to tell me, but, you know, you could have called and saved yourself a trip.”
She was already seating herself behind the desk again when D.J. finally rose from the couch. “Coming by was no problem,” she said, moving with such fluid grace toward the door. There she paused and looked back. “Oh, by the way, I hear Paul’s in town.” Another brief pause, another smile, devious in its innocence. “Give him my best, will you?”
Rebecca felt a surge of anger at the mention of her ex-husband that she concealed only through sheer force of will. Clenching her hands into fists out of sight in her lap, she sat motionless as D.J. walked out of the room, listening until the sound of her heels on the pine flooring had grown too distant to hear. Only then, finally, did she force the tension from her hands, from her neck and her jaw and breathe a sigh of relief.
Why had D.J.’s remark caught her off guard? She knew the woman was predatory, knew she had no class, no morals, no ethics. Debra Jane Howell had a mean streak, a cruelty that hid behind all that blatant sexuality. She took pleasure in taunting others, sometimes brazenly, other times so exquisitely subtly that her poison seeped in, unnoticed and untraceable. Like with Teryl. How many of Teryl’s notions that she wasn’t pretty enough, sexy enough, ambitious enough, et cetera, were legitimate conceptions formed on her own, and how many had been put into her head by her friend?
Rebecca would bet the majority had come from D.J. She had a need for attention, to be the prettiest, the sexiest, the one people looked at first, last, and longest. It was a testament to Teryl’s innate strength that, after a lifetime together, D.J. hadn’t done her more harm.
From the parking lot behind her, Rebecca heard the starting of an engine. She didn’t turn around, but merely sat and listened as D.J. backed out, then drove away. Only when the other woman was gone did she allow herself to respond, softly, vehemently, viciously, to the comment about Paul.
“Bitch.”
* * *
Mornings after were supposed to be awkward. Teryl hadn’t gotten a chance to experience with John the morning after they’d made love, since he’d left her room sometime in the night, but she thought it might not have been so bad. She would have felt a little shy, of course—after all, they would have been strangers waking up in a most intimate situation—but she didn’t think it would have been too awkward or uncomfortable.
But this morning—this morning after nothing had happened, this morning after they’d slept in separate beds on opposite sides of the room—was totally uncomfortable. She couldn’t even look at him, which was all right, since he was doing a pretty good job of avoiding her. He had already been dressed when he’d awakened her; while she’d gotten dressed in her last clean outfit, he had returned the mattress to the bed, piled the covers on it, and stuffed his dirty clothes into his suitcase.
Now he was standing at the foot of the two beds, the telephone cord in his hands. She leaned closer to the mirror, seeking the best light as she applied blush to her cheeks but at the same time watching him, waiting for him to pick up the phone from the night table, to plug the cord into the jack on the back. As he hesitated, toying with the cord, her breathing turned shallow, and a slight tremble developed in her hand. Please put it back, she silently prayed, feeling once more the queasiness that had assaulted her last night when she’d realized what he intended to do with the six-foot length of plastic-encased wire.
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 compac
t 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?
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