Then he pulled Brionney into his arms, kissing her. Brionney responded, loving the feel of her husband’s touch, both the passion and security he offered, until a loud slap jolted them both.
“What?” Jesse searched the darkness, eyes going first to Forest’s crib since he was usually the most difficult, but both boys slept soundly.
“It’s a notebook.” Brionney picked it up from the rocking chair cushion where it had landed after hitting the bare wood of the armrest. “It’s what I came to talk to you about.”
With another glance at the twins, Jesse took her hand and they left the room. As soon as they were in the hall Brionney began explaining the situation. “I was going to wait for Mickelle—she should be here any minute now—but I feel . . . unsettled about it all.”
“Let me see the notebook.” Jesse accepted it from her hand. He seated himself at the kitchen table and began to thumb through it. “Man, this is creepy,” he said, his brown eyes troubled. “Like a stalker or something.”
“That’s what I thought. What should we do?”
Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know. I really don’t. I guess it really isn’t up to us anyway. It’s Mickelle who needs to make a decision.”
“Yeah, I guess, but I just feel so . . . anxious.” Brionney snapped her fingers. “I know, let’s call Damon.”
“Damon? What’s he got to do with this?”
“Mickelle told me earlier that he’s having this guy checked out, and she got mad at him, and then they kissed . . . Well none of that really matters, but maybe Damon knows something.” Brionney felt a warm relief seep through her body, as though the Spirit testified of her decision.
“By all means, let’s call him then.” Jesse reached for the phone on the table where Brionney had left it, but she grabbed it first.
“I’ll do it.” She pushed the button where Damon’s number was preset, and waited for the dial. “Hi, Belle,” she said after a few minutes. “Aren’t you in bed yet?”
“Oh, Brionney, it’s so wonderful. Daddy and Mickelle are getting married!”
“They are? Why that’s great. Really great!” She covered the lower part of the phone and said to Jesse, “Belle says Damon and Mickelle are getting married!”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Wonder when that happened. Didn’t you say she’s been at the church?”
Brionney had been thinking the exact same thing. She shrugged and uncovered the mouthpiece. “Hey, Belle, can I speak to your daddy? It’s kind of important.”
“Okay, but then can I tell Camille about Daddy and Mickelle?”
“Sure.”
After a brief lapse, Damon was on the phone. “Calling to offer congratulations already?” he said. “How do you keep tabs on everything, Bri? I swear you must read minds.”
“Congratulations,” Brionney offered. “Actually, I didn’t know. Belle just told me. I was calling for something else. But this is amazing news, and I’m glad to hear it. When did it all happen?”
“Just tonight. I went to Kelle’s to show the repair guy the cabinet, like I told you, only she was home. Apparently, she’d had a run-in with Mr. Cover Boy and didn’t feel like going to the church for her meeting. So we talked.”
Brionney laughed aloud at his name for Colton Scofield, but her uneasy feeling returned in force. “Well, she must have decided to go after you left. I just called her and there was no answer. I’ve been waiting for her to come pick up the boys, and then I found Colton’s notebook, and I just got so worried.”
“What notebook?” Damon demanded. “And she should be there. She said she was leaving to get the boys.”
“Maybe that’s why she didn’t answer. She could be on her way.”
“Tell him about the notebook,” Jesse urged. Sometime during the conversation he had disappeared and returned with the other portable phone, which he held to his ear. Between them, Brionney and Jesse explained.
Damon made angry noises, but when he spoke, he was calm. “Look, I called the attorney who’s on Colton’s case, and he’s going to call me right back. He was on another line. He has some information for us. When Mickelle gets there, keep her there, and I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.”
“Okay.” Brionney felt distinctly better, even knowing that most likely her plan of a long hot soak was evaporating into the realm of dreams.
At least they would be getting to the bottom of this mystery.
Chapter Fifteen
Mickelle had planned to pick up the boys immediately after Damon left, but somehow she found herself sitting on a stool and leaning over the counter, admiring the heart-shaped diamond Damon had given her. Outside, night had fallen, but the diamond picked up the overhead light and reflected it back at her.
Married to Damon, she thought, enjoying the delicious shivers that ran up her arms and down her neck and back. It’s like a fairy tale.
Of course, running a house like Damon’s would be a task. She knew he had a cook for the weekdays, a groundskeeper, and a live-in housekeeper. Mostly, she approved. She couldn’t possibly clean the entire house herself and keep up the yard, but she could do the cooking. In fact, she enjoyed cooking. Then again, if she were going back to school . . .
The possibilities were endless. Sometimes when she thought about it, Damon’s wealth frightened her. However could a woman like her, accustomed to barely scraping by, step into his world? He had assured her that she would do so easily, and yet there was that lingering fear inside that someone might laugh at the poor little pauper turned princess.
Not that Damon moved in snooty circles. During the short time they had dated, she’d learned that he didn’t waste nearly the amount of money on luxuries that many of the people in his income bracket were accustomed to spending. He employed no butler or chauffeur, his garage held only four cars instead of ten—two of which weren’t even his—and his list of charities was almost as long as his investments.
She laughed softly at her thoughts. He’s a good man. A little impatient, a little arrogant even, but he loves me. Mickelle stared at the ring, lost in the joy of her love.
The sound of a breaking window jolted her from her reverie. She listened but heard nothing else.
Had it been her imagination? She rose to her feet and peered out the kitchen window into the night, remembering the time Sasha had been an exuberant, overgrown puppy and had fallen into a window well, breaking a basement window in the process. Luckily the dog hadn’t been hurt.
The darkness told her nothing, and Mickelle decided the sound had been in her imagination. She would grab her jacket and drive over to Brionney’s for the boys. She found her jacket and purse in the closet off the tiny entryway and was reentering the kitchen with them in her hands when something barreled into her, knocking her to the ground. A heavy weight crushed the air from her lungs, and hands roamed over her body as though searching for something.
Fighting the terror that gripped her, Mickelle managed to roll out from under her attacker and put her arms up to defend herself. A figure clad in tight-fitting black sweats and a ski mask lashed out and hit her with a gloved fist. Mickelle dodged the first shot and managed to block another. Desperately, she pushed herself away from this black-clad stranger and fled down the hall toward her room, realizing too late that she should have tried for one of the outside doors.
Shut the door quick! she ordered herself. I can do it, I can do it. Scarcely breathing, she slammed the door, sobbing when the attacker’s foot wedged inside and put an immediate stop to her efforts.
“Go away!” she yelled, throwing all her weight on the door. “I’m calling the police!” In reality, the portable phone was in the kitchen, far out of her reach. In her peripheral vision, she saw that glass from her bedroom window had shattered over the carpet like her newfound peace, and the clothes from her dresser were scattered on the floor, the drawers hanging open haphazardly.
He must have entered here, she thought numbly.
The door groaned under the onslaugh
t of the forces pushing against it. Fear clogged Mickelle’s throat, coating her mouth with a sickening taste that made her want to gag. Still she leaned against the door, praying for release.
With a sudden burst of strength, the attacker flung the door open, tossing Mickelle into a heap on the floor by her bed. Her head cracked against the bottom of the ancient box spring, and her senses whirled. In an instant he was on her, lifting her onto the bed, shoving her down. Hands again searched her body, and Mickelle fought prying fingers, bringing her knees and feet against her opponent. He struck her twice in the face, open-handed, and then again with his fist. Mickelle was helpless to move away from the assault.
She would never give in easily. From what she could see he wasn’t armed and that meant she had a chance.
She fought, using her nails, her feet, her teeth, everything she could enlist. At one point, she shoved Damon’s ring into the eyehole of the ski mask, hoping to do some serious damage, but the assailant only wrenched the jewel from her hand and made it disappear inside a pocket.
Mickelle fought on, though her strength was weakening. Her blue turtleneck had been viciously torn from her body, though her underclothes were intact. She knew now that this person wanted more from her than just her jewelry or goods. He was going to hurt her—and badly.
Another aching blow landed on her chin; another, less painful, to her stomach. She threw up then in a sudden motion, spraying the remains of her Chinese food onto her attacker. He cringed, but only for an instant. That was all Mickelle needed. Seeing the opening, she shoved her foot between his legs, using all the force she could muster.
With a growl of rage, the assailant, lashed out, pounding his hurt and anger into her body in one violent motion, then mercifully, he fell to the ground in agony. Mickelle knew she should run, knew that she had to get out of the house before he recovered. But every inch of her body ached, and moving made her feel as though fire leaked out of her pores.
Mickelle lay panting on the bed, dragging in much-needed air. She had no concept of how long she lay there, fighting to breathe, telling herself to hurry. Faintly, she heard her phone ringing and ringing, calling plaintively for her to answer. The sound forced her to a sitting position. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she stretched out her feet. There was no reaction from the curled figure, who lay clutching himself in anguish. Encouraged, Mickelle inched forward until her feet touched the floor. She took a step.
An iron wrist closed around her ankle, and Mickelle tripped, sprawling atop her attacker. She heard a chuckle. “What I’ll do to you,” a gravely voice muttered. “You will pay for this.”
“Let me go!”
“I will—eventually.” Hands closed around her throat. She couldn’t even scream.
* * *
Damon hung up the phone with his attorney, feeling sick with the information he’d learned. “I would have called you sooner,” his friend told him, “but I was on the phone with my informant when you rang.”
With hands feeling ridiculously clumsy, Damon dialed Jesse and Brionney’s home phone number. “Hi, it’s me,” he said. “This is more serious than I thought. You’d better keep Mickelle there until I come over.”
“She hasn’t arrived yet,” Brionney told him anxiously. “I even called some of her friends who attended her Relief Society meeting tonight, just to make sure that she hadn’t changed her mind, that maybe she ran on over to the meeting after all. But one of her friends—a woman named Brenda—said that Mickelle never came and, get this, she also said that she witnessed a really odd scene between her and Colton earlier.”
“Yeah, that was the run-in with Mr. Cover Boy I mentioned, the reason she didn’t feel like going to the church in the first place. Look, I’m going over there right now. We can talk about Scofield later.”
“Shouldn’t we call the police?”
“I’d like too, but we have nothing to tell them—yet.”
“I’ll have Jesse meet you there,” Brionney said worriedly. “You still have Mickelle’s spare key, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Damon paused before disconnecting, wanting to say something to comfort Brionney. “Don’t worry too much. Kelle’s tough.”
“Yeah. She probably decided to take a nice hot bubble bath and forgot the time.” Brionney’s laugh sounded forced.
“See you soon.”
Damon hung up the phone, and ran toward the door. He had already talked briefly with Tanner and Belle when he had sent them to bed before his phone conversation with the attorney. They knew that he might have to go out, and they would be fine on their own.
Checking to make sure that his cell phone was in his suit pocket, he hurried to the garage, choosing not his new Lexus, but the trusty dark blue Mercedes instead. He wouldn’t be driving it much longer. In their conversation that evening, Mickelle had mentioned that she much preferred the Mercedes, so he would give it to her. He would need to start becoming accustomed to the Lexus, but tonight he wanted something familiar, something he knew would get him there safely and quickly.
How much time had elapsed since he had left Mickelle’s? Since he had first talked to Brionney? And where was Mickelle? Was she all right? He prayed that she was home safe, that perhaps she had fallen asleep or was taking a bath as Brionney suggested.
It wasn’t like her to forget the boys—ever. And why wasn’t she answering the phone?
Damon’s anxiety mounted until the beating of his heart filled the entire car. Have to get to Mickelle, it pumped. Get to Mickelle.
Jesse was already at Mickelle’s house when Damon arrived in record time. “Wow, you got here fast,” he said. “I didn’t expect you for another ten minutes. By then I would have everything figured out.”
Damon didn’t dwell on the miracle of his quick arrival. Didn’t that only mean that Mickelle was in serious trouble? His mind churned with the things he had learned about Colton Scofield, a.k.a., Jonny Garvey and Simon Holm.
“Looks quiet,” he said, walking toward the house.
Jesse shrugged. “I went around to the back and didn’t see anything unusual. There are a few lights on. I was about to knock.”
The men sprinted up the last few steps. Jesse rang the bell, while Damon pounded with his fist.
Nothing.
Damon produced her spare key from his pocket, and within seconds they opened the door.
* * *
Just when Mickelle thought she would lose consciousness, the pressure at her throat lessened.
He was on top of her now, hands biting cruelly into her flesh despite the black gloves. Mickelle’s fear increased. So did her anger. Her thoughts changed from Why, why, why? to How dare he!
His mouth closed on hers and Mickelle bit him hard, tasting blood, but was unsure if it was his or hers. He swore and pummeled her again. She tried to lift her leg, to kick him as she had before, but she was pinned under his heavier form.
Would no one help her?
Everything in her life had boiled down to this one moment. She was alone, and the only one who could save her was herself.
* * *
In moments, Damon and Jesse determined that no one was in the living room or kitchen. Damon strode down the hall, afraid that he would miss something in his hurry. He heard sounds now, coming from Mickelle’s bedroom. Sounds of a struggle.
As he plunged through the door, he saw Mickelle straining under a figure in black. She lifted her head in a sudden motion, slamming her forehead into the face of her attacker. The person moaned and drooped slightly to the side. Mickelle brought up her newly freed foot . . .
“Mickelle!” Damon shouted. The few steps between them seemed like an ocean.
The black-clad figure leapt up and darted toward Damon. Caught unaware, Damon couldn’t grab him as he escaped into the hall.
“Jesse!” Damon yelled. But Jesse was also unprepared as the intruder slipped past him and out into the night.
Damon, torn between needing to go to Mickelle and catching the man, was only sl
ightly behind. He jumped from the porch, tackling the black-clad figure. They rolled once, then twice, as one struggled to get away and the other to hold fast. Out of the corner of his eye, Damon saw the other man reach for a stone frog in Mickelle’s rose garden. Saw, but couldn’t stop him from slamming it into his head. Desperately, Damon grasped at his opponent as his world titled crazily.
In a violent wrench, the intruder was gone, leaving only his black ski mask behind as evidence that he had ever been there at all.
“Did you see him?” Jesse yelled from the porch.
“No. Too dark.”
Jesse helped him to his feet. “Sorry I didn’t get out here sooner. But you were both fast. By the time I got out here, he had that rock. Boy, that must hurt.”
Damon was too angry to reply. He should have managed to keep hold of that punk, to punish him. “Mickelle,” he said, pushing off Jesse’s hands.
Mickelle lay on the floor in her room, unmoving. Her shirt had been torn from her body and the rest of her clothes were ripped or askew. Damon gathered her into his arms. “Get the blanket,” he ordered Jesse.
Tenderly Damon tucked the worn quilt from the bed around Mickelle. It was only then that she began sobbing.
“I thought no one would come. I thought no one would save me.”
“I’m here, Kelle. I’m here now. No one is ever going to hurt you again.”
“How do you know?” her voice was shrill, hysterical.
He tightened his arms around her, trying to make her feel safe. “Because I’ll make sure of it.” It sounded stupid, even to his own ears. Sure, he could quit work and stay with her every second, but would that make either of them happy in the long run? Living with fear wasn’t a life he relished.
“I thought no one would come,” she muttered again, burrowing her face into his chest, not even wincing at the pain of the cuts and bruises on her skin. Blood from her face stained his expensive suit, but that was the least of his worries. He felt like an utter failure.
He rocked her slightly, as he did Belle when she awoke with a nightmare. “I’m sorry, Mickelle, I’m sorry.”
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