Behind the Mask (MIRA)

by Metsy Hingle

  “You’re scaring him. Let me go!” She fought wildly to break free and get to her son, but her efforts proved useless. “Please, Adam, he’s crying.”

  “Let him cry. You’re making a ninny out of that kid fussing over him the way you do,” he said, and began dragging her from the room. “I’ve been patient long enough, Elisabeth. Your days of coddling that kid are over. Tomorrow I’m hiring a nanny to take care of him, and you’re going to be a real wife to me again. Beginning now,” he told her.

  As Adam pulled the door closed on Timmy’s heart-wrenching sobs, and forced her up the stairs to the bedroom, something broke inside her. She knew then that she had to escape.

  So when he kicked the door shut behind them and she recognized the lustful glint in his eyes, she shut off her mind and her heart, telling herself she would get through this. She would bide her time and she and Timmy would escape.

  “Take it off,” Adam told her.

  Not wanting to enrage him any further and risk hurting Timmy, she began to unbutton the peignoir. By the time she’d removed the robe and started on the buttons of the low-cut nightgown, Adam had already shed his own clothes and now stood naked and fully aroused. He was a handsome man. He worked hard to keep his six-foot frame trim, and showed not an ounce of flab. With his dark hair and year-round tan, Adam had reminded her of movie-star George Hamilton the first time she’d seen him. On the surface, he’d been a perfect gentleman. But behind the mask he wore, she now knew there lurked a monster—a dangerous monster.

  “Come here,” he commanded.

  Elisabeth did as he said. And when she stood before him in the flimsy gown, his eyes darkened. “So beautiful. So perfect,” he said as he reached for the bodice of the gown. He lifted his eyes to hers and she caught the flash of triumph just before he ripped the delicate fabric in two. “And mine.”

  Adam filled his big hands with her breasts, squeezed them so hard that she whimpered with pain. “Adam, please. You’re hurting me.”

  But her pain only seemed to excite him. He shoved her down to her knees in front of him. Knowing what he expected, how he’d trained her to pleasure him since that first night when he’d married her on her eighteenth birthday, Elisabeth took him in her mouth.

  She wanted to gag, but she thought of her baby downstairs, and knew that if she did so, it would only enrage Adam. So she blocked out the feel of his fingers digging into her scalp, the sound of the grunting noises that came from him. Suddenly he jerked her up, pushed her onto the bed.

  “Adam, wait—”

  But he was already shoving himself inside her. Unprepared, she gasped at the painful invasion. Heedless of her discomfort, he continued to thrust himself into her. “You were made for this,” he told her, his voice a guttural pant, his dark eyes gleaming madly. “For me,” he said as he slammed into her again. And again. And again. Finally, when she thought he might never stop, his body went rigid and he shouted out in triumph before he collapsed on top of her.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there, crushed beneath Adam’s heavier weight. Not until she thought he was asleep did she begin to ease out from under him, intent on slipping away to go check on Timmy. She’d almost made it to the edge of the bed when Adam demanded, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I was just going to see—”

  “No.” He yanked her by the hair and pulled her back down to the bed. She scrambled to sit up, but he shoved her back down and straddled her. “I told you, this is what you were made for. Not to take care of some squalling brat. I’m through sharing you, Elisabeth. You and I are going back to the way things were before you got yourself knocked up. Understand?”

  “Adam, please. I realize now that I’ve been neglecting you,” she hedged, trying to bide her time. “I promise to be a better wife in the future, but please, I don’t want a nanny. I’m Timmy’s mother, I—”

  He shoved his hard shaft into her again. “It’s a nanny until I can find a boarding school to take him. This mother fantasy of yours is over, Elisabeth. Accept it, or I’ll get rid of him permanently.”

  His words sent a chill through her because she knew he meant it. She could no longer delude herself. Adam was insane, and unless she got Timmy away, he would kill her son. Even as he mauled her body, and poured his seed into her, she began planning their escape…

  They had escaped, Lily reminded herself as she sat huddled on the floor of the shower, shivering beneath the spray of water that had long since turned cold. While Adam had come close to finding them twice now, she had managed to get away. For now at least, her son was safe.

  “Thank you Chantal,” Webster told the statuesque secretary who ushered Michael into his office.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Sullivan,” Webster told him from behind the massive marble desk that gleamed like a black diamond. After shaking hands, he gestured to the pair of chairs positioned in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

  Michael sat down in the cushy leather chair. With the same swiftness he’d employed as a cop to size up a suspect, he took in the other man’s two-hundred-dollar haircut, the manicured nails, the pricey Italian suit. Rich. Powerful. Sophisticated. A well-connected player. And according to his sources, a dangerous enemy.

  “May I offer you something to drink?”

  “No thanks. I’m fine,” Michael replied.

  “Very well. Chantel, have a check cut for the congressman’s campaign fund and include this note with it,” he instructed the secretary as he handed her an envelope. “That’ll be all for now.”

  “Yes, sir,” the woman said, and then quickly exited the room.

  Michael didn’t doubt for a minute that the reference to the congressman, as well as the hour he’d been left to cool his heels in the reception area, was Webster’s way of showing him that he was the one in control.

  “Cigar?” Webster offered, opening the ornate box and sliding it toward Michael. “They’re Cuban.”

  “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  “How wise of you. These are one of my vices, I’m afraid.” He chose one for himself, sniffed it appreciatively. And before he could put the thing in his mouth, the hired muscle at the door was beside him with a light.

  The guy must be one hell of a poker player, Michael thought as he observed the ritual. Despite Webster’s pleasant expression, Michael had no doubts that the man was still pissed at him for not jumping at his offer a week ago. Unfortunately, Webster had caught him fresh on the heels of an argument with Pete’s widow over the money he’d had deposited into her bank account for the kids. On his best day, he didn’t go out of his way to charm a potential client. On that particular day he’d made no attempt to sugarcoat his feelings about the million-dollar carrot that Webster had dangled in front of his nose. Of course, he’d spent the better part of the next four days kicking himself for his short temper and stupidity. Not until he’d interrupted that perp in the convenience store had he cut himself some slack. While he might hate losing a shot at that million-dollar fee, he didn’t regret that he’d been able to help that girl.

  After several puffs on the cigar, Webster sat back in his chair. “I must say that I was rather surprised to hear from you, Sullivan. When we spoke on the phone, you didn’t seem particularly interested in my offer.”

  “I was interested. But like I told you, I had another commitment.”

  He took another puff of the cigar, blew out a ring of smoke. “So you said. I understand you proved to be quite the hero, saving that young woman’s life and apprehending an escaped felon.”

  Since the incident had occurred in a small town and both he and the FBI had made sure that his name was not listed in the press, Michael couldn’t help wondering about Webster’s contacts. “You’re well informed.”

  “I make it my business to know who I’m dealing with,” Webster replied.

  Which meant Webster probably also knew that he’d walked away from his job as a cop after Pete had been killed. What Webster didn’t know�
�what few people knew—was that he had been the one responsible for Pete’s death just as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger, because he’d been the one to introduce his friend to Giselle.

  “I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

  Michael shrugged. “It’s your business.”

  “Yes, it is. And I’m sure you can understand the need for a man in my position to be careful.”

  “Of course.” He understood all right. Besides, he had done some checking, as well. He’d learned that the fifty-six-year-old self-made millionaire had made a killing with a string of high-end restaurants and nightclubs across Florida. Seven years ago he had married his ward, the former Elisabeth Jeffries, with whom he had one child, a son named Timothy. The man was touted as a generous patron of the arts and, reportedly, gave huge sums of money to charity. He also supported the current regime of politicians in office. The lavish parties he hosted were legendary for attracting Florida’s business, political and social powerhouses. And, according to Michael’s sources, not all of Webster’s millions had been attained by legal means.

  “I’m glad we agree on the importance of being careful because, if I hire you, you’ll find that I don’t tolerate mistakes,” Webster said.

  Not liking the veiled warning, Michael told him, “And if I take the job, you’ll find that I don’t make mistakes.”

  Webster’s eyes went flat for a heartbeat. “Then we should have no problems.”

  Deciding he’d had enough of the pleasantries and veiled warnings, Michael said, “You mentioned on the phone that your wife and son had been missing for about six months.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I assume the first detective you hired failed to find her.”

  A look of annoyance crossed the other man’s face. “You assume correctly. They found Elisabeth, but she managed to give them the slip before I could get there. A mistake on the agency’s part, which led to their dismissal. That’s why I contacted you.”

  “Speaking of contacting me,” Michael began. “I’m curious why you did. I mean I’m a one-man agency, and there are any number of bigger agencies with more manpower. So why me?”

  Webster smiled, and there was something about that sly twist of the man’s lips that had the hair on the back of Michael’s neck lifting. “Most men in your business would simply be grateful that I called them.”

  “I’m not most men.”

  Webster laughed. “Obviously. But in answer to your question, you came highly recommended by my chief of security, Bernie Pavlovich. I understand the two of you once worked together.”

  It had been ten years since Bernie had been booted off the Houston P.D. on charges of police brutality. Big, brawny and a bully, it didn’t come as a surprise to find out that Bernie was Webster’s hired muscle. What did surprise him was that Bernie would recommend him to Webster, since they hadn’t exactly been friends.

  “Bernie told me you earned quite a reputation for yourself with the Houston Police Department, and that you were their ‘go to’ guy in tough situations.”

  “I was lucky to have good people working with me,” Michael told him.

  “Come now, Sullivan. There’s no reason to be modest. I know you were the unnamed private agent who led the authorities through the swamps in Louisiana a few months ago, enabling them to recapture that trio of escaped convicts.”

  Michael didn’t bother denying it. But he couldn’t help wondering again how Webster had obtained the information, since no one outside the police departments and several federal agents involved knew of his role in the affair. It had been a black eye to both the law enforcement agencies and the FBI that the cons had not only managed to escape a high-security prison facility, but that they had been able to take a prominent businessman hostage in the process. His participation in the venture had been on a need-to-know basis only. Even his fee had been paid out of a private fund. The fact that Webster knew about his role in defusing the incident spoke volumes about the man’s connections.

  Webster took another puff on his cigar, then ground out the hot tip in the ashtray. He sat forward. The genial expression disappeared from his face, replaced by something hard and ruthless. “You have an impressive record, Sullivan. Both as a police detective and as a private agent. It’s the reason I agreed to meet with you when you called—despite your attitude last week. I want my wife back, and I think you’re the man who can find her for me.”

  “For one million dollars.”

  “That’s right,” Webster replied.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Michael pointed out. “No offense, Webster, but I find it hard to imagine any woman being worth that kind of money.”

  “But then you don’t know my wife,” Webster informed him in that smooth, cultured voice that went hand in hand with the man’s thousand-dollar suit, gold cuff links and perfect white teeth. He reached for the photo of an attractive blonde that sat on the credenza and handed it to Michael. “Stunning, isn’t she?”

  Michael had noticed the picture when he’d first come into the room. There was no question about what the man had seen in her, Michael concluded. Despite the demure smile and wistful look in her green eyes, everything about Elisabeth Webster screamed ‘hot sex’—from the long blond hair that tumbled past her shoulders, to the figure-hugging black dress that showcased her curves. Michael allowed his gaze to follow the slashing neckline of the dress to an emerald the size of a baby’s fist nestled between her breasts. At his body’s sharp response to the pale, creamy skin, Michael swallowed hard.

  He dragged his gaze away from the photograph, warning himself not to forget how another knockout blonde with an innocent smile had impeded his judgment, wrecking four lives in the process. He shoved the framed picture toward Webster. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, she is,” Webster told him, his eyes going hot as he stared at the photo once more. “And believe me, she’s worth every penny I’m offering and more.”

  “And your son?” Michael countered, still irritated by his own reaction to the woman and unable to resist prodding the other man from his lustful musings. Besides, except during their initial phone conversation, Webster hadn’t mentioned his son again. “I assume you want him found, too.”

  “Of course,” Webster replied, a trace of annoyance in his voice. “I want you to find both Elisabeth and Timothy.”

  Michael was puzzled by the lack of emotion in Webster’s eyes and voice when he spoke of his son. “Tell me what happened on the day she left.”

  Webster told him about his wife’s depression after having the baby, her mood swings, the tiff they’d had the day before she’d left, and how she’d laced his morning coffee with a sleeping pill and then had run away. According to Webster, the woman had had an emotional breakdown—one which had caused his sweet, gentle wife to flee her husband and home.

  Michael reasoned that chances were, Elisabeth Webster was simply a bored young woman who had grown tired of her rich older husband and had run off. But something about the whole scenario, along with Webster’s story, nagged at him like a pesky mosquito bite. While he might have turned in his badge five years ago, his instincts remained strong. And those instincts were sounding alarm bells now.

  Telling himself that it was Webster’s questionable dealings that had set off his sensors, Michael tried to shake off his misgivings. “What about family or friends? Could they be hiding out with them?”

  “Elisabeth has no family. Just me. As for friends, my wife has always been somewhat of a loner.”

  “You said the other detective had managed to locate her.”

  “Yes, about two months ago in a small town in Arkansas.”

  “And since then?” Michael asked.

  “Nothing. It’s almost as though she’s disappeared from the face of the earth. I’m worried about her. About both of them. It’s the reason I’ve set the reward so high. My wife has led a very sheltered life. She’s not used to dealing with things on her own.”

  “You said s
he took a lot of cash and jewelry with her when she left. How much?” Michael asked.

  “Nearly fifty thousand in cash. The jewelry was worth probably ten times that amount.”

  Michael whistled through his teeth. If she managed it wisely, that kind of money could keep the missing Mrs. Webster and her son in Happy Meals and modest digs for a long time. “Has any of the jewelry surfaced?”

  “No. The truth is, I doubt Elisabeth would even know how to go about selling it. As I said, she’s led a sheltered life and, because of that, she’s far more innocent in the ways of the world than most women her age.”

  Michael checked himself from pointing out that while Mrs. Webster may look like a fragile flower, the woman obviously had enough grit to rob her husband’s safe and leave him. But then he knew firsthand how deceptive a beautiful woman with a sob story could be. She’d also had enough savvy to elude his detectives for six months. Either that, or she and her son hadn’t been found for another reason. He lifted his gaze to Webster’s. “You know, there’s always the possibility that no one has seen them for another reason.”

  “I’m not naive, Sullivan. I know what you’re suggesting and you’re wrong. Elisabeth is alive. I know it.”

  “If she is I’ll find her. And your son,” Michael added firmly.

  Webster tipped back his head and laughed. “I’ll say one thing for you, Sullivan. You certainly don’t lack chutzpah.”

  “As you said, there’s no need for false modesty.” And there wasn’t, Michael reasoned. Since leaving the police department, he’d earned more than five times his salary as a cop by working as a bounty hunter, a detective, a bodyguard or whatever the occasion called for. Maybe the jobs weren’t all that satisfying or noble, but the money had been good enough to pay his living expenses and provide him with extra cash to help out Janie and the two boys. And a million bucks would enable him to see to it that Janie and the boys’ futures were secure.

  “I’m going to need copies of everything you have on them—including the other detective’s reports.”