by Jacksons Way
“Hello, Ben,” she said. “I didn't hear you come in. Was it a successful auction?”
His lips moved, but she didn't hear a thing. Perplexed, she came around the desk, saying, “You'll have to speak up, Ben. I can't hear a word you're saying.”
He lifted his gaze, slowly focused it on her, and then drew a long, deep breath. “I said that I'm going to kill you,” he said softly as he removed his hands from his pockets. In his right one, he held a pistol.
Her blood went cold. Ben? Ben wanted to kill her? “Why?” she asked, her mind racing.
“You really are the stupidest woman God ever thought to put on the face of the earth.”
Her own pistol was in her reticule. Her reticule was on her vanity upstairs. It was of no use to her up there. Was Ben any better a shot than she was? Primrose and Emile were at the market. But Abigail was somewhere in the house. So was Lucy. Did she want them involved in this?
No. No, she didn't want them hurt. But if they were to hear and go for help … God, her mind was going in too many directions at once. She needed time, she needed to focus on something so that she could think straight. “Since I am so stupid,” she said with all the calm she could muster, “would you mind explaining why you're doing this? It seems to me that if I'm going to die, I ought to a least know why you think it's necessary.”
“You're a wealthy woman because of all that I've done for you over the years. I deserve to be wealthy too.”
“Richard acknowledged you as his son and left you a considerable sum of money. Haven't you seen his Will?” she asked, trying desperately to find a way out of the nightmare.
“No, Otis Vanderhagen hasn't deigned to share the details yet. But he doesn't have to. My father was ever so honest about what he intended to do. There'll be a bone tossed my way, what's left, I'm sure he'll say, of the ineritance I've already spent. But I want more than a bone. I deserve more.”
“Then I'll write you a bank draft,” she offered. If she could put the huge desk between her and Ben's apparent madness … “How much do you want?”
“I want it all and I'm going to get it.”
“Fine,” she agreed, edging backward and gesturing to the books lying open on the desk. “Tell me what to write and it's yours.”
“Stop right where you are,” he commanded, lifting the pistol to shoulder height and aiming the muzzle at the center of her forehead.
Lindsay froze, suddenly and absolutely certain that he was indeed capable of shooting—and with great accuracy.
“It's not that simple,” he went on. “Thanks to Mr. Stennett's tenacity and Otis Vanderhagen's mouth, you now know how the game is played. You could write me a draft and then go to the authorities and tell them everything. I'd be arrested and imprisoned and you could have it all back.” He shook his head slightly. “No, the only way is for me to kill you. Henry and Agatha will inherit and then I can go on with the scheme my father and Otis Vanderhagen so kindly put into place for me. I can have it all, and without either of them ever knowing that I'm stripping the assets.”
“For yourself.”
“Absolutely. Why share if you don't have to?”
“I can see the logic,” she offered, her heart pounding furiously. “Very sound, actually. But why have you picked today to carry out your brilliant plan? Wouldn't tomorrow or some day next week work just as well? I'd prefer to wait, if it's all the same to you.”
“I understand why you would. Unfortunately, if we waited, you'd have time to change your Will and leave all your pretty money to Stennett. He wouldn't be as easy to lead as Henry and Agatha will be. And then there's the fact that Stennett will be gone tomorrow. No, I think it's best and easiest if you die today.”
He stomach slid down, leaden and cold, to rest on the soles of her feet. “You're going to say that Jack killed me?”
“Of course not. God, you're so stupid,” he sneered. “I'd have to arrange for him to have no alibi, and it's such an unnecessary amount of effort. As for why today… It's a perfect opportunity. I might have to wait years for another one as perfect. Now kindly gather your skirts and get up the stairs to your room.”
Relieved to know that Jack wasn't going to be blamed for whatever Ben planned, Lindsay exhaled and marshaled her thoughts. “Why upstairs?” she asked, knowing instinctively that she shouldn't go.
“A spurned lover doesn't normally kill herself in a study. She does it in her bedroom, the place of her humiliation and shame.”
No one who knew her would believe she would commit suicide. “Wouldn't it be more believable for me to wait to kill myself after Jack's gone?” she proposed, trying to shake his confidence and buy herself some time to think. And perhaps just the tiniest piece of luck. “There is hope until Jack actually sails, you know.”
Jack, I need you. Please help me. Please.
Ben snorted. “There is no hope of a reconciliation. I heard about him railing at you outside Vanderhagen's office yesterday. The whole city knows about it, about your failed affair. Given your past, no one will be the least bit surprised to learn that you couldn't bear the thought of being publicly embarrassed a second time. Now be a good little girl and get up the stairs to your room.”
Oh, God help her. It made sense. It was entirely believe-able. “No,” she declared, inching backward again. “You'll have to shoot me right here and figure out how to explain my obvious murder to the authorities. I won't play into your hands.”
“You stupid—”
An enraged screech reverberated through the room in the same instant that a flash of movement came from the doorway behind Benjamin Tipton. Lindsay's brain barely had time to recognize her housekeeper before Ben whirled about and swung his arm across Abigail's face.
“Abigail!” Lindsay screamed, darting forward as her friend dropped the closed umbrella and crumpled to the carpet.
“Stay, Lindsay,” Ben snapped, stepping into her path and pointing the pistol at her head again.
Abigail moaned and Lindsay froze in her tracks. “Don't hurt her,” Lindsay pleaded. “Please, don't hurt her. She was only trying to protect me.”
“Do as you're told and I'll try to think of some way she can keep breathing.”
Lindsay nodded and watched as Ben backed toward the weakly struggling woman. His eyes never left Lindsay as he bent down, grabbed a fistful of gray hair, and used it to haul a whimpering Abigail to her feet. “Thank you,” he said mockingly, “you're just what I needed.”
In one smooth, quick movement he jerked Abigail in front of him, put an arm around her waist, and pulled her back against him. For a split second the pistol shifted away from Lindsay, but before she could blink, the muzzle came to rest against Abigail's temple.
Lindsay clenched her teeth. Never in her life had she hated a human being as much as she did this vicious monster. If she got even half a chance, she'd kill him. Jack had been right; when you were pushed hard enough, you could do things you never imagined that you could. And you could do them with a smile.
“Now, upstairs, little Miss Lindsay,” Ben said, “or I'll put a bullet in her brain.”
Lindsay went because she had no other choice and because he wanted her to go where her pistol was. Never turning her back on him, she stepped into the foyer, across it to the base of the stairs, and started up. Abigail started to struggle when it came her turn to start up the stairs. Ben growled and pressed the muzzle harder against her head.
“Don't fight him, Abigail,” Lindsay cried. “It'll be all right. Don't make him angry. Just do what he wants.”
Abigail looked up at her. One eye was swollen closed, the other was awash in tears.
“It'll be all right,” Lindsay assured her again, resuming her backward climb up the stairs. “Just come up the stairs without fighting him.”
Abigail gathered her skirts in her one hand and obeyed woodenly, tears streaming down her cheeks. Lindsay continued to the top, mentally judging the distance between herself and Ben, herself and the door to her bedroom, the doo
r to the vanity. Her heart thundered with the realization that she wasn't going to be able to dash ahead and grab her own pistol without endangering Abigail. The attempt to save them both would have to wait until they were all in the room together. Meager as it was, it was the only hope they had.
Once Ben had maneuvered his captive to the top of the stairs, he pushed her forward, quickly closing the distance between them and Lindsay. She backed into her bedroom only a few feet ahead of them.
Even as she started for the vanity, Ben snarled, “Wrong way, Lindsay. Step over to the bed and pull off the sheet.”
She hesitated, knowing that if she obeyed, their one chance might well be gone forever. There was a slow, metallic click as Ben cocked the pistol. Abigail choked back a sob and Lindsay instantly darted toward the bed. She flung away the comforter and with trembling hands yanked off the linen sheet as she'd been instructed.
“Very good,” Ben congratulated her snidely. “Now, tear off a long, fairly wide strip, if you would. Use your teeth to begin the tear if you have to.”
“There's a pair of scissors in the drawer of the vanity,” she suggested, her voice quavering with fear and desperate hope.
“Women committing suicide in the throes of despondency don't think about getting scissors from the vanity,” he countered, smiling thinly. “And an intelligent man staging it all doesn't allow her to have anything that might be used as a weapon against him. Use your teeth and be quick about it.”
She accomplished the task slowly, straining to hear beyond the rasping of her own breathing, the shredding of cloth, and the confines of her room. Where was Lucy? Had she gone for help? Please, please let her have gone to get help. Let them come quickly and loudly so that Ben would be thrown into a panic. If he dithered, even for a moment, she could get to her pistol. She could kill him just as surely as he was going to kill her and Abigail.
“Reasonably well done for a stupid woman. Throw the end over the—” Ben frowned up at the area above her bed. “Well, there's a problem. Let me see … We need something high and fairly sturdy.” He looked around the room and then his face brightened. “Ah, the curtain rod will do. Take the footstool over and put it on the window seat.”
“Lindsay, don't do it.”
“If you don't, the last thing you'll see are your beloved housekeeper's brains splattered all over your wallpaper,” he announced with a cold, tight smile. “Get on with it, Lindsay. I don't have all day.”
She retrieved the footstool from in front of the chair and headed toward the window. Could she throw it at him? she wondered. Would he flinch before he thought of pulling the trigger and killing Abigail? She didn't know and she couldn't take the risk with her friend's life. If only she'd asked Jack to pull down her curtains….
Jack. Dear God, she hoped Jack didn't believe she'd actually killed herself. He had regrets enough in his life without adding her death to them. Maybe he'd sail before her body was discovered. Maybe he'd never know. That would be for the best. She loved him so much, she didn't want his heart hurt again.
“That's a good girl,” Ben crooned as she placed the footstool on the cushion of the window seat. “Now climb up and tie the end of the sheet around the curtain rod. And tie it right. We wouldn't want it to slip loose at the wrong moment, would we?”
Lindsay hesitated yet again, considering the window itself and wondering if she'd survive the fall. But in leaping, she'd be leaving Abigail at the madman's mercy.
“Get up there and get the strip tied as you were told or she dies right now!”
Lindsay gathered her skirts and scrambled onto the cushion. As she gained her feet and stepped up onto the precariously balanced footstool, she said, “In case this ends badly, Abigail, I want you to know that it's not your fault. You—”
“In case this ends badly?” Ben chortled. “In case? Who do you think is going to come save you? Certainly not the little slip of a thing that opened the door for me.”
Lindsay's heart lurched. “What did you do to Lucy?”
“The front step was slightly too public to eliminate her permanently, but I do believe I hit her hard enough that she's still lying quietly in the front shrubbery. Were you hoping that she went to summon help?”
Lindsay met her housekeeper's gaze and tried to smile bravely. “Jack will be here any minute,” she promised. Please, Jack, please. If ever there was anything at all between us, please know that I need you. That I love you.
“No, he won't,” Ben corrected. “He's busily cashing his letters of credit. And he told me himself that he has absolutely no intention of seeing you again before he sails. I almost fainted with gratitude when he passed along that bit of information. Oh,” he added, his smile brightening, “just in case you're wondering, Vanderhagen won't be waddling this way either. If he isn't dead yet, he will be in just another few minutes. The man ate enough poison for breakfast to kill a horse.”
Dear God in heaven. How had she never seen Ben's ruthlessness? His obvious greed and insanity. You had to be insane to kill people so callously. Why hadn't she seen that the mask of civility and loyalty hid a monster?
“Get on with tying the end to the rod and be quick about it. I have a luncheon engagement and I don't want to be late.”
“Bastard,” she snarled, hating him with every fiber of her being. “I hope you choke to death on the first bite.”
Ben rammed the muzzle hard against Abigail's head and bellowed, “Do it, Lindsay! Now!”
She obeyed, stretching up to stand on her toes, tying the knot as best she could, and then pulling the makeshift rope to test not the strength of the knot, but how well the rod had been anchored into the wall. Jack had pulled down the dining-room curtains with one single tug. She knew she couldn't equal the strength he had in his arms, but perhaps the weight of her body would be enough to accomplish the same end. She thought she heard what might have been a slight cracking of plaster, and she quickly feigned a whimper in the hope of covering the sound and keeping Ben from hearing it, too.
“Good. Tie the other end of the strip around your neck. And don't leave any slack in the sheet, either. We want it nice and taut so there's no having to stop and do it over again.”
Lindsay moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and slowly draped the strip of linen around her neck. Knotting the linen at her nape, she braced herself, focusing only on the feel of the strip leading up the back of her head. If she could grab it with both hands in time—
“Lindsay, no!” Abigail screamed.
“Oh, shut up!” Ben bellowed, slamming the butt of the pistol and then his fist into her face. Abigail crumpled to the floor like a tattered rag doll, silent and deathly still.
“You son of a bitch!” Lindsay screamed, frantically clawing at the knot behind her head, trying to undo it. “You're going to rot in hell!”
“Would you like to knock the stool out from under yourself?” he asked, sidling toward her and pocketing the pistol. “Or would you prefer that I do it for you?”
“You bastard!” She kicked at him, determined to keep him out of his arm's reach.
Ducking beneath the reach of her leg, he grabbed the seat cushion, crying, “And it's a bastard's revenge I want!” and pulled it all from under her.
The world fell away. She couldn't breathe and a scream strangled low in her throat as the world went gray. At the far distant edge of it, she heard someone call her name. The voice was frightened, but there was nothing she could do to reassure it. Then there came, from a long way away, the rumble of thunder, the brush of a sweeping wind against her body, the crack of splintering lightning. And then there was nothing at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TEARS ROLLED DOWN his cheeks. Dear God, anything you want. Let her be alive. Let me have gotten here in time. Please.
“Lindsay!” Jackson called, frantically clawing through the drapery fabric, his pulse thundering, his breathing ragged gasps. She couldn't be dead. She couldn't. He needed her. He loved her with all his heart.
“Lindsay!” Bits of white plaster cascaded down the folds of dark rose velvet, but he was only barely aware of them, heedless of the debris in which he knelt. Name the price. I'll pay it.
A bit of blue brocade skirt, a flutter of lace, and his heart hammered wildly as he jerked the heavier fabric aside to uncover her. She lay sprawled on her back on the carpet, silent and still, her golden hair fanning around her head like an angel's halo, the white noose encircling her neck. Choking back a cry, he scrambled to undo the deadly cord, his fingers fumbling and burning as they slipped on the fabric in his frenzied effort to pull the knot apart.
She moved; a feeble, dazed effort to lift her hand. Hope flared in his heart and soul as he ripped the deadly strip of sheet from around her neck and flung it away.
“Breathe for me, sweetheart,” he begged, gathering her carefully into his arms. Kneeling in the remnants of curtains and plaster wall, cradling her in his arms, Jack looked down at her face and poured his heart into a sobbing plea. “Breathe for me, Lindsay. Love me or hate me; it doesn't matter. Just don't die. Please.”
Her breath shuddered and her chest rose. Jack held his own breath, and tightening his arms around her, willed what remained of his strength into her body. Her eyelids fluttered and then came open. Blue eyes. She had the most beautiful blue eyes he'd ever seen. His heart flooded with relief and he smiled down at her, knowing that he'd remember for the rest of his life the pureness of wonder and hope that he saw in her eyes as she gazed back at him.
“Jack?” she whispered, reaching up to gently touch his cheek. “Jack?”
“I'm here, sweetheart,” he crooned, drawing her closer, desperate to hold her, determined never to let her go. “I've got you. You're safe.”
She collapsed into him, gathering fistfuls of his jacket into her hands as the memories struck her and her entire body began to tremble. He rocked her back and forth, pressing kisses to the top of her head and reveling in the warmth of her pressed against him, in the miracle of her survival.