Wounded Heroes Boxed Set

by Judith Arnold

  "Do you think you’d ever want to be my dad?"

  Quinn nearly broke his neck doing a double-take. He noted Josh standing in the doorway, laughing silently.

  "Uh…well, Grant…uh—what about Josh?"

  Grant’s eyes were almost closed as he lay on Quinn’s bed. "Josh is really cool, but Mom says he’s like a kid brother, so I don’t think he could be my dad."

  Quinn’s gaze darted up to his brother’s, expecting to see hurt there. Josh surprised him by shrugging his shoulders and grinning broadly. Why didn’t that bother him?

  "Quinn?" Grant queried. "Would you?"

  Josh seemed as fascinated as Grant by the question. Quinn saw that he would get no help from that quarter.

  "Well, if I had a son, I’d sure want him to be just like you." Quinn paused, hoping that would satisfy the boy.

  Grant’s eyes popped open. "You would?"

  "Sure. Can you think of anyone better than you?"

  "Well, Jeremy’s taller than me."

  Quinn sat on the bed beside him. "Being tall or short has nothing to do with what’s important. What’s important is what’s inside here," he said, tapping Grant’s chest over his heart, "and here," placing a finger on the boy’s forehead.

  "Yeah, that’s what Mom says, too." He closed his eyes again, drifting slowly into sleep. "Quinn?"

  "Yes?"

  "Would you lie down here for just a minute?" He sounded embarrassed.

  Quinn remembered Josh as a child, needing a bulwark against the fears of nighttime. Hell, he remembered needing it himself. "Sure, no problem." He’d stay there a few minutes, then go call Lorie when Grant fell asleep. Josh gave him a thumbs up before he turned off the lights and left the room. Quinn pulled off his boots and lay down beside the boy.

  "‘Night, Quinn. Sweet dreams." Grant snuggled next to him.

  Quinn put an arm around the boy and pulled him close, thinking that life sure had its moments. "‘Night, Grant. Sweet dreams to you, too." He closed his eyes…just for a minute.

  ***

  "EVENING, MRS. CHANDLER." The doorman tipped his hat. "Need any help with those groceries?"

  She smiled gratefully. "No, but thank you, Frank. How’s your daughter doing?"

  He beamed. "She graduates in December from Columbia. I’m very proud of her."

  "You have every reason to be, Frank. She’s a lovely young woman."

  "That she is. Just wish the wife were here to see it'' He cleared his throat. "Say, where’s the young mister this evening?"

  "He spent the night with Josh and Josh’s brother Quinn, who’s visiting from Texas."

  "A real cowboy, eh?"

  She couldn’t help but grin. "If you promise not to say anything to Quinn, I’ll tell you that Grant calls him the Super Cowboy. It embarrasses Quinn half to death, but I think it’s sweet."

  They shared a laugh over the name. "Sounds like a new cartoon hero."

  She smiled. "It does, doesn’t it? Well, I guess I’d better get this milk in the fridge. Good evening, Frank."

  "Good evening, Mrs. Chandler."

  In the elevator going up, she was conscious of a pleasant soreness in her muscles. Dance class had been good this evening—a welcome respite from thinking about anything but movement and the music. Her dancewear was drenched with sweat. She could hardly wait for the delicious hot bath she’d take as soon as she put up the groceries. Grant hadn’t thought the bath sounded like much fun, but it seemed like heaven to her.

  She missed Grant, but he'd been thrilled at the invitation, and he could have no better protection than being with Quinn and Josh. She could afford to relax for one night from any concerns over his welfare.

  She leaned back against the wall of the elevator, imagining a tub full of bubbles…a glass of wine and candlelight…a pair of topaz eyes framed by long, dark hair. She hadn’t felt like this in…ever, she realized. Tom had been a wonderful man, a considerate lover, a caring father, but they’d sort of grown up together.

  Quinn was different—boldly, blatantly masculine. Exotic and smoldering, yet capable of such gentleness, such…comfort. She felt safe with him as with no other, but there was more…so much more. She’d spent years surrounded by handsome men, but none of them—not one—had delved inside her defenses as he had within a heartbeat of their first encounter.

  She didn't understand herself or this instant connection, this longing that slid between her ribs and encircled her heart—to say nothing of the shimmering heat that kept her aching and unsettled.

  The deep well of his sorrow drew her. The mystery of him intrigued her. His bedrock strength issued a siren call. The way he’d held her when they’d discovered the perfume bottle broken… the sense of union she’d felt. Surely he’d felt it, too, so why did he maintain such a distance? Why did push her away, however gently?

  And why did she care? Her life was Grant and her work.

  Not questions she could answer now, but for now, just this one night, Lorie the dutiful, Lorie the responsible, gave herself permission to put such concerns away. Tonight, if only in her dreams, she would let herself range free—free of ghosts, free of obligations…free in fantasy. He wasn’t for her—she knew that. He would leave soon, but that was okay.

  He’d be a memory for savoring on many a lonely night.

  As the elevator doors opened, she scrambled in her purse for her keys, balancing the bags of groceries as she walked down the hall. As she fished for them, she dislodged one of the bags and had to catch it at an angle with her body.

  She fumbled with the key ring, finally slipping the right one into the lock as she leaned against the door to keep the bag in place. The door swung open.

  "My only love…" said a voice behind her.

  She dropped the bag. Her head whipped around. She tried to leap inside the door, but the fallen bag was in her way. A shape materialized behind her in the dark and shoved her. She screamed and fought to regain her balance.

  A gloved hand clapped over her mouth.

  "Don’t scream, pretty Lorie. I won’t hurt you."

  Her heart pumped so loudly she could barely hear him.

  "Now use your foot to pull the bag out of the way and close the door." He held her with surprising strength for someone not much taller than she.

  She tried to wriggle loose, but her struggles only made him press closer, an unmistakable erection making her shudder in revulsion.

  "Don’t make me hurt you. I love you." His voice was almost a plea. "Do as I said."

  Oh, God. Oh, please—

  Be smart. Pay attention for your opportunity. Play along with him for right now , she thought. Thank God Grant’s with Quinn. She kicked at the bag to move it out of the door’s path.

  "Good girl." He moved them closer. "Now close the door."

  She complied.

  Then she aimed a kick at his knee.

  He shoved her against the wood. "You shouldn't have done that. I didn't want to hurt you, but now you've forced me." He trapped her arms between her body and the wood, mashing her in place while he yanked a rag from his pocket and jammed it into her mouth.

  She tried to spit it out.

  He cuffed the side of her head hard enough that she saw stars. In seconds he had tied a strip of cloth to bind the gag in place.

  Her breasts hurt from the pressure he exerted, yet she kept trying to shrink away to keep him from touching her. Instead he covered her like a blanket, breathing heavily, fetid breath wafting over her shoulder.

  When at last he gave her a little room, it was only to grasp one of her wrists and pull it behind her while he tied a rope around it. "This rope is silk. We can't have your tender skin marked by anything harsh. My plans will be ruined." He sounded pleased with himself as he secured her other hand to the first. Against her palms she felt the leap of his erection. Nausea rose.

  Then her gaze settled upon the door, and she remembered that it wasn’t locked. If she could manage to alert someone, they wouldn’t have any trouble gaining en
trance.

  He reached past her and turned the locks, killing that hope. As he led her away, she stumbled. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he righted her. "Are you all right, my only love?"

  A bitter laugh stung her throat.

  "It's your fault, you know. I wouldn't have to do this if you hadn't snubbed me. If only you'd paid attention to my messages."

  She looked at him, sickened at the confirmation that this was the one. He should be bigger, she thought. How can someone who’s done so much damage look so…ordinary?

  Ordinary, at least, until she saw the unholy gleam in his eyes. Those eyes chilled her to the bone with their mélange of madness and emptiness. They scared her worse than anything had so far.

  "Do you know me, pretty Lorie? When you look at me, do you understand that I’m the one? The only one meant for you?"

  She tried to look away, but he captured her chin. "We’re meant to be together, you see. I knew it the first time I saw you through the viewfinder."

  Viewfinder? Was he…oh, God, she thought she recognized him now.

  He was one of the paparazzi who dogged her steps.

  "Do you know me now? If only you'd understood my love, my devotion. Why, Lorie, I’d die for you." He uttered a sigh. "I'd kill for you." An eerie giggle. "Oh, wait…I already did."

  Her breath stalled. A man with a camera had told them what happened, the police had said. An accident, someone brushing past Tom and knocking him off-balance at the wrong time…

  A man with a camera…

  Not a witness, as the police believed.

  The man who'd murdered her husband. Grief swamped her. Then rage roared in. She struck out with her foot, aiming at his groin.

  He swept the other leg out from under her. She dropped to the floor with a thud.

  "Why would you want to hurt me, Lorie? I only want us to be together, as we should be." He bent and picked her up, carrying her to the dining room.

  His strength was out of proportion to his size, his logic that of a madman. She wanted to close her eyes and retreat from the scene, but she knew her only chance was to stay alert, to push back the terror.

  When his hand slipped between her arm and her breast, loathing filled her.

  He laid her down gently on the long wooden table on which she’d entertained many times. The second he released her, she levered herself up, tried to scramble away.

  A gleaming blade flashed in her face.

  He shoved her back to the table. "Now, Lorie," he chided. "You'd do well to quit fighting me. This blade is very, very sharp."

  Her heart stuttered as the danger ratcheted up.

  He trailed the blade over her skin, its needle-sharp tip scraping over her breast, her belly…inside her thigh. He stripped off her shoe and sock, cradling her foot with his latex-clad hand.

  Her skin crawled. She eyed the table's edge, contemplating rolling off in a bid for escape.

  The blade pricked her instep, and she gasped.

  One flick of the wrist, and he would cripple her.

  She was afraid to close her eyes, yet the sight of the shining sharp point was terrifying.

  She fought for calm.

  "Such a lovely, elegant foot. I've photographed every inch of you, you know, but however I tried, I couldn't see it all." His gaze paused its leisurely perusal and locked on hers, the menace palpable. "Now I will."

  Oh, God, what did he—

  A quick loop around her ankle, a jolt as he yanked the rope downward and trapped that leg. When he reached for the other foot, it was all she could do not to cry out.

  But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

  He spread her legs, binding the second ankle to the table. Then he strolled back toward her head, humming.

  Sour sickness rose, but she battled it back. With only one thin layer of spandex on, she felt unbearably exposed and vulnerable. She breathed deeply, searching for that place Quinn had shown her, before she lost her composure completely and yielded to the screams building in her head.

  The man rolled her upper torso to one side and unbound her hands.

  She lashed out and struck his jaw.

  He slapped her.

  "You shouldn't have done that." He bound her wrists together in front of her body. Past her fear, she forced herself to look closely at him, to commit his appearance to memory. She would survive this somehow, and she needed to be able to identify him. As he yanked her bound wrists above her head, she didn't let herself close her eyes but instead stared at him, wanting him to see that she wasn't intimidated.

  No, you're only terrified out of your mind .

  But she would not break. She had Grant to live for. She would not make her child an orphan.

  His clothes. Look at his clothes . When she did, she understood how he got in. He wore the navy uniform of the building maintenance crew. Was the name Ray stitched over the pocket even his? What a sick, cruel joke that she’d been so blithely confident to Quinn about how safe she'd be.

  Quinn . Dear God, how she wished for him here.

  Choking back a sob, she forced herself to continue her appraisal. The man’s hair was thin and pale. She couldn’t make out the exact color in the faint light, nor could she be sure about his eyes. The pupils were so enlarged, the gleam of insanity so strong, that she couldn’t be sure about the color.

  He tightened the rope, nearly jerking her arms from the sockets. She wanted to sob at the sick joke that the long, sturdy cherry table she’d so wanted to own would be the setting for her defilement.

  But she would endure it because she must.

  "So pretty…your skin is like silk. Oh, you’re going to love the way I show you how much I adore you, Lorie…oh, your pretty body..." He smiled as one hand hovered over her breast.

  Tears of anger and loathing stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

  But she didn't know how she would bear it if he touched her so intimately.

  The hand hovered, fingers fluttering over her flesh.

  She could barely breathe, her skin prickling with horror.

  When he turned away, tears of relief escaped.

  He disappeared from her sightline.

  She lay there, all but naked, exposed on the wooden slab, staked out like a sacrifice. She clung precariously to her control, alternately thanking the heavens that Grant was gone and pleading with all the forces of good to help her find a way out of this nightmare. Her thoughts tumbled over one another as she tried to cope with revulsion, anger, helplessness…and a bone-deep fear that he would kill her as he’d killed Tom.

  Leaving Grant alone. An orphan at the mercy of a dark and cruel world.

  ***

  Screams in his head jerked Quinn gasping out of sleep.

  Oh, Jesus, the blackness—the terror—

  He leapt from the bed, grabbing for his boots and struggling toward the door, banging into a chair on the way.

  His gaze landed on Grant, still sleeping peacefully, and his mind cleared.

  A dream. It was only—

  Sick fear flooded through him, and it wasn't his.

  Screaming. Sharp, sour panic.

  Darkness. Evil. Like the night Clarissa—

  But different.

  Lorie .

  Christ. Blind horror ripped through him. He had to—

  He burst into the hallway.

  "Quinn? You okay?" Josh’s sleepy voice.

  He shoved down the hall.

  Josh appeared. "What the hell?"

  "I have to go."

  "What? No—Quinn, stop. You’re dreaming."

  Oh, God, he wished he were.

  Josh grabbed his arm. "What’s the matter with you?"

  "Lorie." He tore from his brother's grasp.

  "What?" Josh reached for him again. "You're scaring the hell out of me."

  "Don't—" Quinn rounded on him, fists ready.

  Josh stepped back, hands up in surrender. "Just talk to me."

  "No time. It’s Lorie—he's got her. I ha
ve to go."

  "How do you know that? I didn’t hear the phone ring."

  "I just do, okay?" Quinn shook his head. Did he, really? "It doesn’t matter how, but I can’t take a chance."

  "Let’s call the cops."

  "No!" he roared. "Not this time. That guy got scared and killed Clarissa because I called in units. I’ve got to handle it myself."

  "Quinn, that’s crazy."

  "Get out of my way, Josh. He’s going to kill her if I don’t get there."

  "Then let me help."

  "You’ve got to keep Grant safe. I’ll call you as soon as I know." Quinn stopped at the door and turned. "I hope to God I’m just dreaming. Or losing my mind."

  He charged out the door.

  ***

  IF ONLY SHE could speak to him, maybe she could talk him out of whatever he had planned. She struggled against her bonds, against the fear that gripped her harder with every second that passed.

  "Oh dear, you’re not uncomfortable, are you? Here, let me make it better." His hands stroked her face, trailed over her shoulders…drifted lower.

  Behind the gag, she screamed and shrank from him in revulsion.

  He grabbed her throat.

  Tears pooled in those mad eyes. "You shouldn’t fight me, Lorie. I’m only trying to do what’s best for you. You’ll see—we can be so happy together. You'll be my masterpiece."

  This time when he stroked her hair, she steeled herself not to flinch.

  He drifted around the table, lighting candles at each corner. In the eerie glow, his shadow wavered and rippled.

  And he hummed tunelessly.

  At last he stood back, admiring his handiwork. "Ah, yes. It's how I’ve always imagined. An altar to show you my adoration, and you are the centerpiece."

  He brandished the knife.

  "Ah, but now, I must prepare my bride…the lovely Lorie’s pretty skin. I’ve fasted and purified myself, so I’m ready for you, my love. I'm an artist, you know, and you will be my finest work."