Deceiver

by Robin Lovett

  I can do nothing but move, pound into her again and again. Driving myself into her as she takes me, begs me for more. She’s swallowing all of me, and I lose myself in her until I am her, I am all her needs, all her desires, all she feels and breathes. There is only me in her.

  Slick and hot, wet and burning, the physical sensations are as intense as the emotional.

  She hangs onto me, clinging, as though wanting to be my second skin. Skin. Ah, fuck. Her skin, I wish I had more of it, fewer clothes between us.

  But feeling more would be too much, as consuming as this is, to feel more would be unbearable. It would cross the pleasure into pain.

  As it is, I start to come, the rising intensity breaching my realm of experience. Drowning every sensation I’ve ever known in an unthinkable kind of ecstasy meant to kill.

  She clenches around me, squeezing me—coming and killing me at the same time. I pour myself into her as deep as our bodies will allow, thrusting with bruising force.

  Aftershocks shake me and tremble from her.

  I pull back and, with trepidation, look in her eyes.

  They’re hard with shock, the kind that remakes a person. I watch her gaze change, watch the realization of what we just did sink in.

  “Let go,” she whispers.

  Still too stunned myself, I don’t move, but she pushes me with her hands. “Let go!” She wriggles until I slip out of her and let her feet back onto the ground.

  She wrenches her skirt down, mumbling. “What are you doing to me? What is this . . . how could this happen . . .”

  I close my pants with trembling fingers. I try to say something. But nothing comes out.

  She glares at me. “Get away from me.”

  “Daisy, I—”

  “Get away from me!” she screams, brutal anger contorting her face.

  I want to say I’m sorry. I want to say I didn’t mean to. But it would be a lie. I’d do it again. But the knowledge that she wouldn’t—it’s enough.

  I back away, leaving her there. But the emptiness that cuts through me is so sharp, I’d go back there and hold her if I could.

  * * *

  I sink down to the ground, into the mulch, and stare at the bushes blocking my view.

  Bushes. We literally just had sex in the bushes.

  And yet, if I could call him back here I would.

  What he makes me feel. . . .

  No! It doesn’t matter how he makes me feel. He’s holding me hostage. He’s a lying, manipulative, twisted, very messed up, foul shell of a man. His outlook on life, his goals, his passions are distorted by an anger so irrational, he’ll ruin someone’s life for his revenge.

  But as fucked up as his anger is—I like it. I like seeing him angry. I like feeling him angry. I love what he does to me when he’s angry.

  Which makes me damn near as fucked up as he is. If not more.

  I pull my knees to my chest to sit with my disbelief.

  And that’s when I feel it—seeping onto my inner thigh. My first thought is . . . holy fuck how erotic is that? My second thought . . .

  Oh. My. God.

  How . . . what . . . is . . .

  Did he perform a lobotomy on me while I was asleep? That’s the only logical explanation why I would be so careless as to have sex without a condom!

  I drop my forehead on my knees and grit my teeth. I scream through them.

  What’s going on between us is not normal. It’s not manageable. If this were any other relationship, I would get away from him and be done with him.

  I’ve got an IUD, so I don’t have to worry about birth control. I usually use condoms. But judging by his behavior—he does not.

  So dangerous.

  I lift myself from the ground and trudge over to the main house, keeping my head down so that if he is nearby, I don’t have to look at him.

  I lock myself in the buttercup bedroom—not that it would stop anyone from getting in. I am a prisoner here. I cannot forget.

  I sit in a yellow paisley chair, staring out at the perfect gardens, the sunlight streaming across the lawn.

  “Ms. Nowell?” A feminine knock comes at the door. “I brought you a bit of soup if you’d like.”

  Mrs. Tanner. Such a sweet woman, who has no idea what horrible man her employer is. Or maybe she does. Did she know Blake’s father killed his mother? Is that story even true?

  I wipe the questions from my thoughts. I don’t care about Vandershall drama, but I am hungry.

  I keep one ounce of caution, though. “Is Blake with you?” I ask through the door.

  “No, dear. He doesn’t come in the house.”

  I open the door. “What do you mean he doesn’t come in the house?”

  She tilts her head with concern. “I just mean he prefers to keep to himself. That’s all. Would you like some?” She nods at the tray in her hands.

  “Yes. Please. Sorry.” I back away so she can walk in.

  She gives me a grateful smile, like me opening the door has made her day. “Wonderful.” She sets it on the breakfast table by the window. “There now. Blake said, you’re staying with us?”

  I don’t want to dash the pride in her voice by telling her Blake is keeping me here under threat of my father’s life. “He’s decided I’m staying, yeah.”

  “Is everything okay? Blake said I should—well, he wanted me to delicately ask—do you need anything from the pharmacy?” She hesitates enough that it’s clear she’s only doing as she’s been told.

  “Pharmacy?”

  She shrugs. “That’s what he told me to ask.”

  I laugh. He figured out he forgot a condom. And now he feels bad. “Please tell him I have no need of a doctor.”

  But that answer isn’t enough for him. Mrs. Tanner leaves me to my gazpacho, but she isn’t gone five minutes before Blake is at the French door into the garden, knocking.

  I recoil at the sight of him, the mere shadow of his silhouette sending me into a spiral of anxiety.

  “I won’t come in. I promise,” he says, voice muffled through the glass.

  “I don’t trust you.”

  “I don’t trust me either,” he mumbles, but holds up his hands, innocent. “I just want to ask you one question.”

  “Ask me from there.” If I open that door, if there’s nothing but air between us again, with a bed nearby—or a shower, a wall, or a even bush—I don’t trust us.

  He looks around as though hoping he has no one is listening.

  “It’s a little late to be worried about an audience.” God, I hope the Tanners didn’t see us fucking like rabbits against the side of the house.

  “Fine.” He groans and steps closer, the interior light illuminating his face. He looks at me—even through the glass, shivers cascade over my skin. Those eyes are a force of nature. I’m going to need serious help when I get through this.

  But his gaze changes, it almost—softens. That can’t be right. There’s nothing soft about that man. “I’m sorry,” he huffs.

  I snort. “About what? Kidnapping me? Wishing my father dead? Deceiving me into thinking this could be some sort of a relationship? Be specific!”

  He growls and his hands fist.

  I add, “Oh wait, I know. It’s for fucking your prisoner outside against your house where your servants could see.”

  “No! I’m sorry for none of those things.”

  “My mistake. I thought you used the words ‘I’m’ and ‘sorry’ in the same sentence. I should’ve known I was hearing things.”

  “I’m sorry about not using a condom!” He shouts loud enough for the whole county to hear. There’s no way the Tanners didn’t hear that.

  I nod. “Me too.”

  He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Do you—uh—need to go get something? Or need me to—”

  “No.”

  “No?” He tries and fails to hide the relief on his face.

  “I’m on birth control.” Nothing like having this conversation too late. “Br
eathe easy.”

  He nods and rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t do this sort of thing.”

  “Kidnap women? I certainly hope not, or I should’ve seen you on America’s Most Wanted.”

  “Daisy. I meant . . . the sex.” He lowers his voice again. “I’ve never had unsafe sex before. You should know that.”

  “So it’s for me you make a special exception. Great. I feel so much better.”

  He stares at the ground, his shoulders folding. “I just wanted you to know, I’m clean and you have nothing to worry about. That’s all.”

  “I appreciate that peace of mind. You’ll understand if I still want to get tested in six weeks. Your track record for honesty being what it is.”

  “Right. Okay then.” He awkwardly backs away from the door, almost embarrassed.

  “Are you afraid of your own house?”

  “What?” He snaps like a whip crack. His anger resurfaces, and I wonder for a moment if I provoked it because I missed it.

  “You sleep in the guest house. You only come into this room through the outside door. With the exception of when you carried me inside with your face buried in my neck—I’m guessing that was so you couldn’t see anything.”

  He doesn’t respond, just stares at me with that beautiful familiar rage that may be my ultimate undoing.

  I smile coyly. “So I’m pretty sure that, for some strange reason, you’re afraid of your own house.”

  He seethes, his nostrils flaring, and I keep hoping he’ll say something. Start shouting. Maybe even pound on the door until the lock breaks and he forces his way inside.

  Our gazes meet, and I can see it—he’s thinking about doing it, what I’ve just imagined, unleashing his anger again and coming after me with it. His chest and shoulders lift with each breath—and my breath syncs with his rhythm. Breathing together, through a glass door.

  I close my eyes. Ludicrous. I refuse to give into this man again today. Three times is enough. It has to be. Too many.

  “Good night, Daisy.” I open my eyes to see his back as he walks away.

  Chapter Twelve

  It must be this place. That has to be it.

  My temper so unmanageable I can’t grasp it. It’s never like this at home in California, near my sister.

  Well, I still have a temper but at least I can control it. Here, it controls me.

  Not using a condom is inexcusable. No matter how much I want revenge on her father and want to keep her from him—I don’t want to hurt her.

  I know I won’t hurt her. In this, I won’t be like him.

  Forgetting the condom—that was like him.

  I walk to the edge of the lake. The sun has gone down, and the water glistens with the stars and the rising moon. The quiet is enormous. This place should bring a person peace.

  It brings none for me. Like the inside of the house, even the lake holds ill memories for me. The kind that I’ll never be rid of.

  But the harder part—there are good memories too. Of my mother teaching me to swim. Of her gentle hands and her calming voice. Of her smile in the sunlight. Of that wide-brimmed hat she used to wear, and the way she would take off her sunglasses whenever she looked at me. Like looking at me through the dark lenses wasn’t good enough. She had to see me with her own eyes.

  But her eyes are gone now. Even the good memories hurt and become ones I want to avoid. Because even when she was alive—it was still horrible. Just in a different way.

  Staying here makes me miserable, it leaves Daisy too close to her father, risks the Tanners helping her escape. We need to go somewhere else.

  If I had the money, I would take us to the other side of the world. But my next best option is the other side of the country.

  * * *

  I wake so comfy in the plush pillows and downy duvet, I forget for a moment this isn’t where I want to be most in the world.

  But eventually I remember. At least this morning I woke in real PJs, even if they were borrowed. I open my eyes and on the other side of the room is a godsend.

  “No way.” I leap from the bed and run to the suitcases piled in the corner. Suitcases that are mine. From my apartment. Inside are my clothes, my toiletries, my makeup.

  I knew Mrs. Tanner was good, but I didn’t know she was a miracle worker.

  Someone went to my house. Someone who had my keys and my address.

  Right.

  Mr. Control Freak himself.

  Whatever. They’re my clothes. I’ll wear them. Taking a shower with my own shampoo is almost enough to make me grateful, and once I’m dressed and ready for breakfast, I’m on my way to thank him.

  I stop.

  I’m singing, I realize. I’m so happy he brought me something of my own.

  Stockholm Syndrome. I get it now.

  I glance out the window and see him walking from the guest house to his car—carrying a suitcase. I step out the front door onto the porch. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Yes.” He continues to the car, puts the suitcase in the trunk.

  “China? Australia? Antarctica?” I rock on my heels, delighted. This is better than opening my own suitcase this morning. “Don’t worry. Mrs. Tanner and I will take care of things. Have a nice trip!”

  He calls out the most hated words I’ve heard yet. “You’re coming along.” So casual. He doesn’t even turn to look at me. Just doling out my fate like it’s a directive for groceries.

  I fist my hands and force myself to stay trivial. “No thanks. I’m good here.”

  He finally looks at me and gives me a full-body up and down appraisal. “You found some clothes you like, I see.” He’s far too proud of himself, expecting a thank you. But he won’t get it.

  “Well, with limited choices and heavy on the beachwear, I made do.”

  He frowns, like he’s concerned—which must be an act. “Did you have everything you needed?”

  I don’t want to admit how completely he managed to get everything I needed. “You forgot my deodorant.”

  He tilts his head, musing. “I didn’t see it.”

  “My sock drawer.”

  “Ah. Yes, I missed that. My sister kept hers in the bathroom.”

  “I see. So you frequently packed your sister’s suitcases?” I don’t believe that for a second.

  “I did, actually.” He walks closer to me, testing with each step as though waiting to see if I’ll run away. “She was leaving home a lot and I was always in a hurry to see her go.”

  I cross my arms and hold my stance. “Why?”

  “None of your business. Go have breakfast. Mr. Tanner will grab your bags for you.” His arrogance is getting worse, not better.

  I grimace. “Again with the orders. Just because you’ve taken my ability to choose my life doesn’t mean you can make me eat.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You’re not hungry?”

  I snort. “Of course I’m hungry, but not because you told me to be.”

  It happens—almost—a small flicker of a smile. A slight curve of his lip, but then it goes back down. “Fine. We’ll pick up something on the way. I just thought you liked Mrs. Tanner’s cooking.”

  I roll my eyes. If it’s her cooking, of course I’ll eat it. He knows that. “Why don’t you go get my suitcases?”

  His gaze flickers to the front door of the mansion and a grimace of repulsion crosses his face. “No.”

  “Why won’t you go in the house?”

  He takes a deep breath, expanding his chest, then rushes up the steps past me. He stops at the open front door, not crossing the threshold but pushing the door wider. “On the staircase, the left-hand banister at the bottom, there’s a crack in the base.” He points but doesn’t go inside.

  I go inside and find the spot.

  “You’ll have to look close,” he adds from the door. “Mr. Tanner worked hard to glue it back together, but it’s there.”

  There’s a slight discoloration, one that you’d only see if you were looking for it, like the corne
r of the base had broken off and been replaced with another piece. “I see it.” I look back at him.

  “That’s where she died.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  I look back at the innocuous crack, trying to imagine how it could’ve killed a person.

  “I was over there.” He points to the piano on the edge of the parlor. “Hiding underneath it. I watched him.” He points to the top of the stairs. “He pushed her down the stairs. She hit her head, there.” He points back at the crack again.

  Shock and horror split my heart in two. “You saw it?”

  “Yes.” The look on his face is an infinite mask, a practiced one that he’s spent his life forming.

  “How old were you?” I whisper, not daring to hope he’ll answer. But he does.

  “Six.” His gaze is fixed, his voice empty, almost like he’s somewhere else.

  I keep my voice low, not wanting to disturb him. “What did—”

  He shakes himself back to attention. “No more questions. Now you know why I don’t go in the house.” He retreats like he’s been stung, and I’m filled with a sense of awe.

  I chase after him. “Thank you for telling me.”

  He stops, but doesn’t look at me, only nods.

  “And Blake.” I brush his arm with my hand, surprised but unable to quash the surge of compassion I have for him and his past pain. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” he snaps, but his voice catches, and he doesn’t push me away.

  “I’m sorry that happened to your mother. I’m sorry your father was a monster. I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry . . .” I realize what’s happened. He’s made me believe him. But I don’t think he did it on purpose.

  I swallow and force the last one out. “I’m sorry he never went to prison for it.”

  The stare he turns on me is so full of anger, I almost wish I hadn’t said it. Almost.

  I think he might say something—something snide about it being my father’s fault—but he doesn’t.

  “Be ready to go in fifteen minutes,” he says. “We have a flight to catch.”

  “Where are we—”

  “You’ll find out. And don’t get any ideas about trying to get away from me. You run, I turn your father in. That’s it. You won’t get another shot.”