Peter hesitated before clearing his throat. “You know—” he poked at his notepad, “—I think I’m all set here.”
Did Peter even know he was running from grief? He had to. People always knew. Consciously or not, somewhere inside, they knew. Isabelle was an expert on that. She could compartmentalize with the best of them.
“Right,” she said. “I need to get back to the office anyway.”
She rose from the table and pushed in the chair, but he didn’t move. He just sat, watching her.
“Yes,” he finally said. “We were close.”
He and Tiny.
A burst of sympathy propelled her forward and she touched his hand. The warmth of his skin wrapped around her, and gave her comfort when all she intended was to offer it. “I could tell. I’m sorry.”
He nodded, one solid jerk of his head. “Yeah. Me too.”
The silence lingered and with that one moment of hidden weakness, Peter Jessup bulldozed his way under her skin.
Yes. Definitely attracted to him. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. After all, he lived in Chicago. In a few weeks he’d be gone. Maybe they’d have a fling, he’d go home and Isabelle would go back to her life of solitude. No emotional complications to deal with on his end, and she had learned to separate the physical from the emotional. Isabelle never worried about becoming attached. She didn’t have it in her.
Sex was a way to pass time, something to do and, until a few years ago, she did it a lot and with different partners. A desperate attempt to find a man who would make her feel something other than total numbness. She finally gave up on the useless quest. Now she chose her sexual partners with care.
Peter Jessup would do nicely. And he was probably a great fuck. She didn’t call it making love. Making love meant something else, something more intimate and cherished. Two people coming together and losing sight of where one began and the other ended. At least that’s what Isabelle imagined, but how could she know? She’d never experienced it. Emotional intimacy would cause the bottom to drop out of her carefully crafted life. She just called it what it was.
Fucking.
That’s what they’d be together. A good fuck.
Chapter Five
Isabelle slouched over her kitchen table reading the response to the motion to dismiss for the Parker hearing. Her right shoulder nagged at her. She dropped her pen and stood to stretch.
The clock chimed 1:00 a.m. Another late night where her gritty eyes begged for sleep. And she didn’t need Kendrick’s presence distracting her. The jerk couldn’t wait to show up until after her first shot at second chair? Just her luck.
Coffee. The jolt of caffeine would keep her focused during the remaining hour of preparation for the hearing. She stared out the French doors into the blackness of the Atlantic Ocean. If she opened the door, she’d hear the waves of low tide breaking against the shoreline. A sound that always pleased her.
But smart women didn’t unlock their doors in the middle of the night.
She set the pot to brew and sat again. Back to work. Maybe she’d start on the list of discovery needs. She probably wouldn’t finish, but it would be a start. The repetitive sound of the coffee dripping soothed her overactive brain, and she yawned.
“Oh, Isabelle. You need to get it together, honey,” she said, tugging on the bottoms of her favorite boxer shorts.
Maybe she’d just close her eyes for a second. Yes. Stellar idea. Just a minute to refocus. She folded her arms on the table and rested her forehead against them. Her body almost sighed.
Don’t fall asleep. Too much to do.
“Wake up sleepy head,” a low, breathy voice said against her ear.
“Hmmm?”
“I said wake up!”
A sudden and fierce pain blasted the back of Isabelle’s head.
“Ow!” Her sleepy body roared to an instant state of alert.
What the hell?
Someone was in her house. The force of someone pulling her hair snarled her thoughts.
“That got your attention.” The man, his fingers brutally clenched around her hair, yanked her from the chair and dragged her toward the living room while ice picks of pain shot down her neck.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. That voice. The one that had haunted her for years. She hacked at his arm to free herself. “Kendrick, let go. You’re hurting me.”
With a grunt, he shoved her to the floor, and she landed on her side, the sting rocketing through her hip. Scrambling her sock-clad feet into action proved futile as they slipped against the hardwood and thwarted her escape.
Kendrick, in a panther-quick move, jumped on her, forcing her to her back and straddling her. She slammed her eyes shut and her body sent conflicting signals to her brain.
Fight.
The clanging in her head began.
No. Not again. Don’t let him do this.
She threw a punch. He leaned left and the punch skittered off his shoulder.
Dammit!
The relentless adrenaline pounding her system sparked her instincts and she bucked her hips, thrashed her legs. Anything to get him off her.
“No!”
Kendrick laughed that sick little laugh he used when he knew he could control her.
Not tonight. Never again.
“Shhh.” He leaned forward, pinning her arms and bending his face close to her ear. “Easy, Isabelle.”
His disgusting weight pressed her into the floor as she tried to yank her arms free.
“Just like old times, sweetheart,” he said. “You know you want me.”
A sob crawled up her throat.
No crying. Focus. You know what to do.
She stopped thrashing. Relaxed her body. She needed him to sit up. Then his little fucked-up world would quickly change.
Still holding her, Kendrick lifted his face from her ear. Now nose to nose, his hateful gaze scorched hers.
Bile replaced the sob in her throat and she closed her eyes to quiet her ravaged mind. She went still.
“That’s my girl.”
He sat up, released her arms and kneaded her breasts with his filthy hands. “Now, let’s have a look at you. It’s been so long and you’ve grown.”
Isabelle flipped the switch in her head. The one that made her go numb. She barely heard the sound of her shirt tearing.
“Oh, yes,” Kendrick said, rocking forward so his erection rubbed against her belly.
Her stomach pitched, but she forced herself to study him and analyze her surroundings.
His gaze remained locked on her breasts. “You have definitely grown, my Isabelle.”
Rage swarmed her, and she focused on gathering all that virulence into a ball.
Kendrick leaned forward.
The eyes.
Now.
She jabbed her thumbs into his eyes, digging in hard before he got too close to her face.
Kendrick howled. He reeled backward and she shoved him onto his back.
She darted to her feet as he struggled from the floor, swiping at his blistering red eyes. He blinked a couple of times and came at her swinging, but she sidestepped out of his reach.
Focus.
The balls.
With straining lungs, she stepped toward him and drove her knee into his groin. He doubled over and grabbed his crotch. She raised an arm high and thrust her elbow deep into his shoulder blades.
He went down, rolled for a second and slowly got to his feet.
Shit.
She blasted him with a palm strike to the nose. A hideous crunch, blood splattering over his cheeks. Broken. Good. Somehow he found the energy to remain standing, but staggered back and covered his nose with his hands.
Isabelle was too far gone to stop. She had to put him out of commission. She nailed him with a roundhouse kick to the ribs, sending him to one knee.
“You don’t have enough hands to defend yourself.”
Hate burned in his eyes. At one time, she would have cared, but now, almost eleven years later, it m
eant nothing. For insurance, she popped him with a hammer fist on the sweet spot at his temple and watched him hit the floor.
The Vic Special she called it, but had never had the opportunity to use it.
Kendrick didn’t move. Not an inch. She squinted at him, blinked a couple of times, as the rush subsided and the reality of her situation settled in.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
Her legs turned liquid and, panting, she dropped to her knees. Kendrick remained motionless.
Could she have killed him?
It would serve him right, but wouldn’t that be some irony? She’d go to jail for murder, the life she’d built blown, all because of Kendrick and the evil he brought. A cry escaped and she sucked in a breath as her arms began to shake. Drool slid down her chin and she swiped at it.
She scrambled to him, pressed two fingers to his neck. Please. Please. Don’t be dead you son of a bitch. The rhythmic bumping of his pulse hit her fingers.
She should call 9-1-1. Boosting herself off the floor, her feet struggling for traction, she ran to the kitchen for the phone.
No.
The police would come. She’d have to tell them and, after all this time, she didn’t want the secret out. She’d left that life behind and wanted it to stay there. The scandal would be disastrous. She had a promising career ahead of her.
If you need anything, just call. Doesn’t matter what time.
That’s what Peter had said. Somehow he knew.
With trembling fingers, she grabbed her purse and dug the scrap of paper from her wallet.
Her mind raced as she ran for the front door. She began dialing, but stopped before pressing the final button. Should she involve him? Maybe she should call her uncle? He would never take her side though.
The last number being pressed made a sharp, piercing sound in the silent house.
Peter would help her.
Hopefully.
A harassing sound brought Peter out of one honey of a dream and he fought to pry his eyes open. The image of Izzy riding him like a rodeo queen disappeared and he swore he’d annihilate whoever dared to wake him. Dammit. He shot a look at the digital clock. Two-fourteen.
He grabbed his cell phone and checked the ID. Isabelle DeRosa.
“Get outta here,” he said with a big-ass smile on his face. Maybe his dream might come true after all. His raging hard-on hoped so.
“Hello?”
“P-P-Peter? I’m—I’m sorry to—”
Crying. Blood rushed from his head—the one on his shoulders—and he vaulted out of bed, grabbing clothes wherever he could find them.
“Izzy, what’s wrong?”
“I—I need help. Can you come? Quick? My h-house.”
“Are you hurt?”
He shoved his legs into a pair of tighty-whities.
“No. Kendrick is. He’s unconscious.”
Oh, shit. Basketball shorts were next along with flip-flops. “Is he alive?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Okay.”
“Peter, please hurry.”
“Ten minutes. Get out of the house. Get away from him.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Izzy?”
“I’ll wait on the porch. Can’t talk now. Hurry.”
She hung up.
What the hell was up with her and Kendrick? Did she shoot him? Hell, Peter didn’t even know if she owned a gun. And what was he going to do when he got there? He’d figure it out later. He just needed to get there. He grabbed a T-shirt and flew out the door.
Peter pulled his Explorer into Isabelle’s driveway, his headlights lighting up the darkened porch and the woman sitting on it. Izzy squinted against the glare. Her face resembled a starched tablecloth, stiff and white. She shoved her hair away from her eyes and stood.
He killed the engine and jumped out. With the cool wind coming off the ocean she must be freezing in a tank top and boxers. The tank top was tied at her waist, clearly torn from the front. He didn’t want to think about that right now. A sick feeling made him a little dizzy. He held out his hands and she grabbed them in a shivering grip.
She jerked her head sideways. “He…He’s in there. I just checked him and he’s still out, but I think he’s waking up. I nudged him with my foot and he groaned. I don’t know what to do. I can’t call 9-1-1. I don’t want the police involved if I can avoid it. My family will freak.”
Poor thing. If there was one thing he understood it was family pressure.
Peter wrapped his hand around the back of her head and pulled her trembling body into his shoulder. After burying her face in his shirt, her body lurched and she began sobbing. Not just crying, but hardcore sobs that should have cracked a rib. “You’re safe now. Let’s see what’s what.” He climbed the two stairs leading to the front door. “What happened?”
“He broke in. Well, he used my uncle’s key.”
He knew it. Dumbass, should have changed those locks right then.
Peter stepped into the house and saw Kendrick on the floor, shadowed by a light from the kitchen. A small side chair had been knocked over, and the coffee table was out of place, but otherwise the room was intact. “What did you hit him with?”
Izzy sniffled and scrubbed at her eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Take a breath and think a minute. What did you knock him out with? A lamp? A hammer? What?”
She shook her head as Peter flipped on the lamp and got his first gander at old Kendrick. Well, he assumed the bloody, swollen face on the floor was Kendrick’s. He kneeled next to him, checked his pulse and breathing. Someone beat the royal fuck out of this asshole.
He looked back at Izzy. “You did this?”
Standing a little taller, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, I did it. What was I supposed to do? He was trying to rape me.”
Rape. Every cell in his body became a seething inferno. He snapped his jaw shut, locked his teeth together and scraped his hands through his hair. Losing his temper wouldn’t help her.
He forced what he hoped would be a reassuring smile. “You beat the shit out of him. I’m proud of you.”
She jerked her head. “What should I do with him? Does…Does he need to go to the hospital?”
“He should probably get checked out, but are you sure you want to be the one to do that? They’ll ask questions.” That got him a big zippo. “What about your uncle? Can you call him? Or we can drive Kendrick over there and dump his sorry ass.”
Her eyes suddenly caught fire. “Yes. Let’s do that. Let my uncle clean up the mess.”
“I’ll carry him out. How did he get here? There’s no car in the driveway.”
She held out her hands. “I have no idea. He must have parked on the street. I don’t even know what he’s driving.”
Peter boosted Kendrick into a fireman’s hold and he groaned. “Shut up, asshole.” He angled back to Izzy and tried not to stare at her chest. “Uh, you might want to put something else on.”
Considering her nipples were standing at full attention and poking at the torn tank top. She glanced down and slapped her arms across her chest. Her obvious embarrassment kept her eyes to the floor. This poor woman was a freaking wreck. Time for a tension buster.
“Hey, listen,” Peter said. “It’s working great for me, but I’m not sure how your uncle will feel about it.”
She offered a scarce smile before she took off to her bedroom. He hefted Kendrick a little higher and stepped toward the front door.
So much for a quiet vacation.
Isabelle pounded until her uncle finally opened his front door. He stood before them in a silk bathrobe, his full head of gray hair rumpled from sleep.
“What happened?” He watched as Peter dumped Kendrick on the floor. “Who are you? What the hell did you do to my son?”
“Not me, chief.” Peter jerked a thumb toward Isabelle.
Uncle Bart spun toward her, his eyes dark and menacing. She’d seen that look in court when he went after a hostile witness.
“Isabelle, what is going on?”
The calming meditations she’d done on the drive over failed miserably because the blood stormed back into her cheeks. She gritted her teeth, wanting to scream at him that his sexual deviant son should be in a cell instead of on the floor. “He broke into the cottage using your key.” She held the key ring up and handed it over. “He’s a menace. Keep him away from me or I’ll kill him.”
“I don’t believe it,” her uncle scoffed.
Isabelle took a step forward. She and her uncle, all five foot eight of him, were the same height, and she stared right into his eyes. “You believe it. You know you do. Just be glad I didn’t call the police and have him arrested. You thought the scandal eleven years ago would have been a disaster. Imagine the mess it would create now that you’re the managing partner of one of the top criminal defense firms in the state. You should be kissing my ass.”
His eyes turned a shade darker. “Isabelle—”
“I’m done here. Let’s go, Peter.”
She turned and, with Peter right behind, marched out.
“Keep him away from me,” she shouted over her shoulder.
Chapter Six
Peter unlocked Isabelle’s front door and stepped in, holding it open as she trudged by. She had tucked her swingy dark hair behind her ears and her normally bright eyes appeared gutted. Hollow.
“Are you sure you won’t come and stay at my place for the rest of the night?”
He’d broached the subject in the car—the only conversation in an otherwise silent ride—but she declined the offer.
Her gaze fixed on the coffee table sitting on its side and she shook her head before turning to him. “I have to be in court at ten. More than that though, I can’t let him put me out of my house. He’s taken too much from me already.”
A quick check of his cell phone told Peter it was nearly 4:00 a.m. He couldn’t leave her alone. Not like this.
He ran a hand over his stubbled chin. “Okay. How about you get some sleep and I hang out here until daylight?”
“I’ll be fine, Peter.”
“The guys are coming to install your alarm anyway, I can let them in. I’m changing the lock on the front door. Is that the only door with the old lock?”
A Just Deception Page 4