Danger and Desire: Ten Full-Length Steamy Romantic Suspense Novels

by Pamela Clare

  “Well done.” He looked around as though considering his options. “The kitchen, I think. It has all the tools.” He gestured with his handgun, as though she had any choice with the grip he had on her arm.

  Tools. Terror made her feet clumsy, but he half hauled, half frog-marched her to the kitchen, where he produced a set of handcuffs and cuffed her to a chair. Out of sheer reflex, she tested the bonds. Cold steel and solid oak. She’d never break free. Dear Lord, she was going to die. No one would ride to the rescue this time. She’d sent John away. Regret, sharp as the fear, pierced her.

  If she died now, he’d think she really had used him and discarded him. His transgression seemed so insignificant now, her hurt so overblown, her need to save face so petty. Less than an hour ago, she’d been thanking God she’d never told him she loved him. Now, she’d do anything to have the chance.

  Then do it. The thought cut through the numbing terror. Stay alive so you can tell him. You’re your only advocate here. Be smart. Think.

  She lifted her gaze and studied her captor as he closed the room’s window blinds. Who was he?

  Not a reporter, that’s for sure. God, how had she missed it? As abrasive as ‘Renee’ had been in their contacts, Suzannah had never read any invective in the press. Why hadn’t it occurred to her that the reporter never reported?

  Because you were too cool to read your own press, came the answer.

  She forced her focus back to his face, which was hairless enough to be a woman’s, if somewhat square featured.

  He returned to the table. “So, have you figured it out, Ms. Phelps? Do you remember me?”

  “I will.”

  “Yes, you will.” He opened her utensil drawer and picked up a black-handled knife. “Else what’s the point?”

  Her heart battered her ribs as he fingered the point of the blade. Every muscle stiffened as he passed behind her, but he merely pulled out another chair and sat.

  Keep your wits about you, she counseled herself, willing her panic down. Keep him talking. You must survive.

  “Do you think I make an attractive woman, Ms. Phelps?”

  Oh, dear Lord, how to answer that one! She swallowed. “Better with the wig on.”

  He laughed. “Yes, better with the wig,” he agreed. “Since the surgery, my skin has gotten smoother, but I just can’t seem to do anything with this hair.”

  Surgery? Had he had a sex change? He turned to rifle through her utensil drawer again, and she took the opportunity to examine his face in profile. Dammit, who was he?

  “Ah, these should do.”

  To her horror, she saw that he’d selected six bone-handled steak knives. A spurt of relief when he walked right past her with them, followed by a surge of sickness when he turned on one of her gas burners. Carefully, meticulously, he arranged the knives in a fan shape, steel blades resting in the blue flame, cool handles lying on the enamel range top.

  Dear God, he was going to burn her.

  She almost lost it then. It took every last shred of willpower she could muster not to panic. Her stomach wanted to revolt, her bowels to loosen, and her mind … oh, God, her mind just wanted to take itself elsewhere. But if she succumbed to panic, she was as good as dead. She knew it.

  Keep him talking. “Surgery.” She caught at the subject like a drowning woman might grasp at a piece of flotsam. “You wanted to become a woman?”

  He smiled, and she got a tantalizing flash of the same features, but more masculine. Think, Suzannah. Frantically, she tried to picture his lean, dark face stubbled by five-o’clock shadow.

  “Become a woman? No, I can’t say that was my aim.”

  “I don’t understand. What kind of surgery do you mean?”

  “A most unconventional surgery, and without benefit of anesthesia. More of a mutilation, I guess you’d say.” He picked up one of the knives, tested it on the pad of his thumb without flinching, and put it back into the flame. “Castration.”

  Her mind was still reeling from the sight of him burning himself, her nostrils filled with the stench of singed flesh, but somehow the meaning of his words penetrated. Sex crime, her mind screamed. He must have committed a sex crime and the victim’s husband or father availed himself of rough justice. “Someone castrated you?”

  “Ah, I see where that clever mind of yours is going. Vigilante justice. But you’re wrong.” Another smile. “Or maybe not so far off the mark after all.”

  He turned away to adjust the flame on the burner. Suzannah trembled. “I don’t understand.”

  “I did it to myself, Ms. Phelps. With a butcher knife.”

  Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. She took shallow breaths to steady herself. “But why?”

  “Because I’d become a monster, Ms. Phelps. The creature that inhabits parents’ nightmares. And you helped me become that monster.”

  Oh, God, of course! She’d only defended a handful of men on sex crime charges, and only one on anything remotely pedophilic. “Remy Rosneau.”

  “Congratulations, Ms. Phelps. Move to the top of the class.”

  She searched her memory banks frantically. It hadn’t been anything too horrific. Touching for a sexual purpose, the complainant being his twelve-year-old cousin. Suzannah had never believed her client was guilty. The circumstances were too convenient. The family feud between Remy’s father and the victim’s father, the fact that the victim admitted her testimony had been embroidered and heavily coached by her father, the fact that the victim’s father hoped to gain financially by discrediting his brother’s family to the extent that their ailing father might cut the disgraced branch of the family out of his will.

  The provincial court judge had convicted Rosneau, but Suzannah had managed to persuade the Court of Appeal to overturn what she thought was a bad decision.

  She swallowed. “Did you touch that girl, Remy?”

  “Yes, I touched her.”

  “But you told me you hadn’t, that it was just your uncle trying to smear your father through you.”

  “Of course I denied it.” He looked genuinely insulted. “Everyone denies it.”

  Suzannah blinked. How could this be happening? “I don’t understand. I successfully defended you against a charge you vowed was false, yet here you are blaming me for—wait a minute, what are you blaming me for?”

  “I should have gone to jail. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d just gone to jail.”

  Her mind reeled. “You wouldn’t have … mutilated yourself?”

  “I wouldn’t have molested my niece. She visited that summer, from Montreal. If I’d been locked up, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  Again, she fought down nausea. She had to keep a clear head. “The summer your conviction was overturned? That was over two years ago. I take it she didn’t report your crime?”

  “No.”

  “So you decided to punish yourself?”

  “I had to stop the monster before it gained full control. Don’t you see?”

  “Yes, I see.” She felt a reluctant respect stir in her numbed mind. It was extremely uncommon for a pedophile to seek treatment, let alone entertain a ‘cure’ as drastic as the one he’d opted for. Their pathology usually led them to cultivate victims in such a way as to allow them to continue to indulge their deviant compulsions.

  “You see? Do you really, Ms. Phelps? Do you see that in getting rid of the monster, I created a freak? How am I supposed to live in this world? Where do I fit?”

  “All you need is some help, Remy. You can have a good life, a rewarding life. But not if you harm me. It will only land you in prison, for real this time.”

  “Maybe that’s where I deserve to be.”

  No, he deserved to be confined indefinitely to a mental institution, but she wasn’t about to say that. “Do you really believe that, Remy?” she asked softly.

  He lifted a knife, examined it. “Yes. Prison or worse.”

  “Then let me call the police. You can surrender –”

  “Oh, I’ll surr
ender, Ms. Phelps, but only after I’ve dealt with you.”

  He moved closer, close enough that she felt the heat emanating from the knife blade. “No, please –”

  “I have to. Otherwise, another monster will just move in to take my place, and you’ll help him do it.”

  “I won’t. I promise. You don’t need those knives.”

  “I’m afraid I do. You see, we have to drive the devil out. We have to fight fire with fire.”

  She couldn’t restrain her fear any more. She screamed.

  *

  Beads of sweat sprung up on Quigg’s brow as he squeezed the transmitter button on his radio. “He’s inside the house with her. I repeat, inside the house. A single shot has been fired, but she’s not hurt. He just led her to the kitchen in the south-east quadrant of the house and cuffed her to a chair.” Quigg’s words emerged calmly, dispassionately, even as his emotions threatened to slip the tight leash he’d imposed on them. Habit, he supposed. Training. Discipline. He called on all of those things now. “I’m going in. I have a key, so I should be able to slip in unnoticed. Tell backup to come in quiet. Repeat, no siren or lights. Front door will be open.”

  “Negative on entering the premises,” came the dispatcher’s voice. “Wait for backup.”

  “Sorry, no can do,” he muttered, but he’d already replaced the radio. He climbed out of his car and eased the door shut. Drawing his 9mm from its holster, he sprinted across Suzannah’s lawn and vaulted over a hedge of lilies, not slowing up until he’d gained the south-west corner of the house. The motion detector lights he’d insisted she install winked on, and he offered a silent thank you that it wasn’t yet dark enough yet for them to attract attention from within.

  He wanted like hell to barge right in her front door, but he had to survey the situation first, make sure they were still in the kitchen. He’d almost blundered into disaster once. Had Suzannah been able to get the door open far enough to escape, she’d have bowled him over on the doorstep. They’d probably both be dead. As it was, he’d nearly died when he heard the gun discharge. Then—oh, praise God—he’d heard Suzannah’s voice again, reasoning with her intruder this time, and he’d known she hadn’t been hit.

  He’d wanted to storm the place then and there, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but he’d restrained the impulse. Any rash action on his part could get her killed. So he’d crept to a window instead, in time to see a tall, slim figure half dragging, half marching Suzannah toward the kitchen. He’d slipped to another window with a view of the south end of her kitchen and dared another quick look. That’s when he’d seen the intruder shackle her to the chair.

  And that’s when it occurred to him he’d better alert backup to roll in quiet. If they came in with lights and sirens, the only way Suzannah was getting out was through heaven’s gates. He knew it in his soul. A man didn’t stalk a woman so assiduously only to let her escape him at the eleventh hour. No, what they needed was stealth, not might.

  Now, heart pounding like it might come right out of his chest, pistol at the ready, he inserted his key in her lock and turned the deadbolt as softly as he could. He held his breath for a few heartbeats, listening for any sound from within. Nothing. Muttering a Hail Mary, he opened the door. It swung inward silently, and he gave thanks for Suzannah’s anal retentive streak. She would never suffer a chair spring to chirp, a floorboard to groan or a door hinge to squeak.

  Then he saw Bandicoot’s body lying in the vestibule amid a puddle of congealing blood.

  The bastard shot Bandy!

  For a few seconds, he literally saw red. Then he reined himself in. He’ll do a lot worse if you don’t get a grip on yourself. Suck it up, Quigley. Do this right.

  Stepping over the threshold, he scanned the room, pistol leveled, but the room was empty. Leaving the door ajar, he skirted Bandy and headed straight for the kitchen. Just in time to hear Suzannah scream. By the time Quigg made the kitchen, the sonofabitch was standing behind her, the knife in his hand a glowing brand. For the second time tonight, his vision took on a distinct red tinge.

  “Stop! Police!”

  *

  For a moment, Suzannah thought her terror-stretched mind had produced the ultimate mirage to comfort her—John crouched in her kitchen doorway, the muzzle of a deadly-looking handgun trained on Rosneau. She took in every detail of him, from the fire in his eyes to the disarray of his shirt; from the steadiness with which he gripped the pistol to the corded muscles standing out in his forearms.

  Then Rosneau grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back, hyper-extending her throat. “Just in time for the show, Detective.”

  “Let her go, buddy. There’s no way out, and backup is on the way. Your situation will only get worse if you don’t put that knife down.”

  He was real, not a figment of her imagination! John was really here.

  Rosneau moved the glowing blade closer to her face. “Worse? How could it get any worse?”

  “Maybe my putting a hollow-point bullet between your eyes?”

  “Yes, but could you do it before I slit her pretty throat?”

  Suzannah couldn’t see Rosneau’s face, but she heard the smile in his voice. What she could see was John’s weapon lowering slightly.

  “Don’t listen to him, John! Don’t surrender your weapon. He’ll kill us both.” Rosneau gave her hair another vicious tug, bringing tears to her eyes.

  John lowered his weapon another inch, his eyes begging her to understand. “It’s too risky. It’s that bases loaded, three-two count again, honey.”

  What was he trying to tell her? Can’t throw the fastball because Rosneau would be sitting on it. Can’t afford to miss with the breaking ball. Throw him something off-speed. Something that looks like the fastball Rosneau was expecting…

  Of course!

  John held up both hands, then started to lower his gun toward the floor.

  Suzannah lifted one leg, planted a foot on the edge of the table and shoved backward in the chair as hard as she could. She felt Rosneau’s surprise, heard him shout, felt the kiss of hot metal on her neck as she went down with the chair. Then the muzzle flash of John’s gun, twice, so shockingly close, the reports deafening in her tiled kitchen.

  As if in slow motion, she saw two crimson blooms appear dead-center of Rosneau’s chest, one right after another, knocking him backward. She watched him hit her refrigerator. Incredibly, he stayed on his feet for a few seconds, looking as though he might roar right back with the blade he clutched. Why didn’t John shoot him again? Then the knife clattered to the floor, followed a few seconds later by Rosneau. He landed right beside her, his lifeless eyes looking straight into hers.

  Shuddering, she tried to roll away, but with her arms still trapped behind the overturned chair’s back, she was pinned painfully in place.

  “Suzannah, are you all right?” Hastily, he holstered his weapon.

  “Get me up!”

  Even as she spoke the words, he was reaching for her, lifting her chair and all, moving her away from Rosneau. Then his hands were moving over her as though to assure himself she was intact. “Thank God! The knife … I thought he cut you.”

  “Just a burn.”

  He tipped her chin up, swore. “If I thought I could resuscitate the bastard, I think I might do it just so I could kill him again.”

  She shivered. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

  “Two rounds in the chest. Not much question about it, I don’t think.” Abruptly, he stood. She watched him press two fingers to Rosneau’s neck. “Gone,” he confirmed, then proceeded to rifle through the dead man’s pockets.

  “What are you doing?”

  He held up a small key. “I’m gonna get you out of those bracelets before your shoulder sockets pop.”

  A few seconds later, he slid the cuffs off. She stood, rubbing her numbed wrists. Lord, her shoulders ached from going down backwards like that. Her right elbow stung, too, as did the burn on her neck. But she was alive. And R
osneau wasn’t. She forced herself to look at the man.

  “Should we try CPR or something?”

  “The bastard tried to kill you. He killed my dog.”

  Her eyes filled. “I know. I’m sorry. When he came at me, Bandy leapt to my defense. Rosneau shot him point blank.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “I saw.”

  She drew a deep breath, wiped her eyes. “Still, aren’t we supposed to do something?”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t think we’ve got anything to work with. Paramedics will be here in a few minutes anyway.”

  “Backup, too, I suppose?”

  “You know it.”

  “Three times inside of a week I’ve had a visit from you guys.” She smiled. It was a weak, teary thing, but still a smile. “Four times within a month, if you count the time my car was torched. The For Sale signs are going to be sprouting up like dandelions on my neighbors’ lawns.”

  “I’d laugh, but I’m using my remaining resources to combat the shakes.” He exhaled, sounding just as shaky as she felt. “God, if I’d been any slower…” He allowed his words to trail off and sank down on a chair.

  Suzannah remained standing. Not because her own legs weren’t trembling with reaction, but because she couldn’t quite bring herself to sit on one of those chairs yet.

  “Not that I’m complaining about the timing or anything, but why did you come back?” she asked. “I didn’t think … I mean, after what I said…”

  “No injury on Mann’s hands. If he’d been the one you stabbed with your trusty Cross pen, no way could it have healed yet. That’s when I finally tumbled to it—there were two guys, not one split personality. One a harmless admirer, the other, evil stalker guy. Speaking of which, who is our stalker guy?”

  “A former client and mutual acquaintance, Remy Rosneau.”

  “Rosneau?” His voice rose on a note of incredulity. “The guy I popped for getting creepy with a young girl?”

  She nodded, massaging her wrists. “His cousin.”

  He studied Rosneau’s smooth-skinned face, now slack. “Doesn’t look much like the guy I remember.”

  She bit down on lip, lest she give in to the hysterical laughter welling in her chest. “It’s a long story.”