The Heart Has Reasons

by Martine Marchand

  If his intention was to rape — and possibly kill her — why hadn’t he simply done so in her house? Concern over leaving his DNA there? Or was he was taking her somewhere that he could take his time with her. This horrid notion caused an icy fist to clamp her heart and squeeze it with painful force. Chills shivered through her bowels and stomach.

  Still groggy and disoriented, she lay there for what seemed like ages, the arms stretched over her head going numb. Her mouth had long since gone dry and her tongue scraped around, searching for a trace of moisture. Despite her overwhelming fear, the drug in her system soon had her drifting back into an uneasy, disjointed slumber.

  The next time she awoke, she swallowed the bitter taste of panic and grunted, “Mmmph,” in frustration around the ball gag. “Mmmph! Mmmph!”

  At the sound of a deep, masculine voice from somewhere ahead of her, her heart knocked against her ribs. “Just relax,” the voice said. “We’ll be there in a little while.”

  Be where in a little while? And what was going to happen once they arrived?

  The vehicle slowed and turned sharply right, inertia shifting her body to the left, making cold steel bite painfully into her wrists. Wheels crunched over a rough and uneven surface she assumed was gravel, and then the vehicle braked to a stop. The engine shut off and, in the sudden silence, the pounding of her heart echoed in her ears.

  Loud music began blaring, there was movement and shifting somewhere ahead of her, and then a hand was touching the gag, evidently checking to make sure it was still secure. His mouth close to her ear, he said, “I'll be back shortly.” There was the sound of a car door opening, then it thumped closed again, and she was alone.

  While frantically struggling to free her hands from the cuffs, she screamed repeatedly. The gag, however, muted the sound to the point that, even if someone were standing directly beside the vehicle, they’d never hear her over the blaring music.

  * * * * *

  Chase pulled into a motor court with a flashing neon sign that boasted kitchenettes. A dozen run-down cabins that had seen better days squatted back off the highway among a grove of bedraggled trees. The dearth of cars in the lot made him feel somewhat better about leaving his target in the vehicle unattended while he checked in.

  In the office, the red-haired clerk could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty. She looked used-up, your basic white trash with makeup that appeared to have been applied with a trowel. As he strode to the counter, she eyed him appreciatively. He gave her a friendly smile while resisting the urge to fan his hands at the thick miasma of cigarette smoke and perfume that hung between them. “Do you have a vacancy at the far end?”

  She leaned over the counter, flashing him a generous view of heart-tattooed cleavage and, in a two-pack-a-day voice, drawled, “Darlin’, all we got is vacancies. Will it be just you?”

  He handed over his fake ID. “My wife’s with me.”

  The smile ratcheted down several notches. “Oh. Well, that’s too bad.”

  After he’d filled out the necessary paperwork, she handed him a room key. “My name’s Louella. If you need anything, anything at all, you just let me know.”

  “Thanks, Louella. I’ll do that.”

  He moved the vehicle to the cabin at the very end, just beyond the neon’s ruby glow. Ignoring his target for the moment, he quickly unloaded the two coolers, the cardboard box full of non-perishables, his duffle bag, and the two trash bags containing her belongings, and carried them inside.

  * * * * *

  From the sounds and movements around her, Larissa could tell her kidnapper was unloading the vehicle, but unloading what? The vehicle shifted beneath his weight as he climbed inside, and then he was fumbling with the rope securing her ankles. When her feet were free, he shifted position and removed the handcuffs from her wrists.

  Pain flamed down her arms when she lowered them. Pulse thundering in her head, she rolled onto her back and reached up to uncover her eyes. He grabbed her wrists. “Don’t touch the blindfold. I’m going to help you out of the vehicle. There’s no one around, but if you do anything stupid like struggling with me, I’m going to hurt you. If you understand, nod your head.”

  She nodded. Following his lead, she scooted to the door. He swung her legs out and pulled her to her feet. Cinching an arm about her shoulders, he escorted her inside a building.

  She heard the door close behind them, and then he led her to sit on the side of what felt like a bed. The room was hot and the musty odor threatened to choke her. Mindful of his threat to hurt her, she sat unmoving, terror sharp and acrid in her mouth. He moved away from her and then what was clearly an air conditioner coughed to life. A moment later, a television blared, presumably to muffle their sounds to anyone passing by.

  The mattress depressed as he took a seat at her side, and then he was removing the blindfold. She blinked and squinted against the sudden light. As soon as her eyes adjusted, she could see he was the masked man she’d shot — had tried to shoot — in her kitchen. The sight of the ski mask sent a measure of relief trickling through her. If he were taking pains to keep her from seeing his face, maybe he wasn’t planning to kill her. She might actually survive this ordeal.

  When she tried to shift away from him, he circled an arm around her shoulders. Piercing blue eyes gazed impassively through the ski mask’s eyeholes. “As you can see, we’re in a motel. The other rooms are unoccupied and we’re too far from the office for the clerk to hear anything. The rules are very simple. Do as I say, and I won’t hurt you. Do something stupid, and I will. Do you understand?”

  She could read plainly in the eyes behind the ski mask that he was a man who could be ruthless and that a person would have to be either an idiot or suicidal to cross him. Since she was neither, she nodded.

  “You should know that I’m an expert in administering pain. Shall I explain in detail what I could do to you?” As tears welled up in her eyes, she shuddered and shook her head. “I’m going to remove the gag. Scream and it goes back on, and then I’ll hurt you.”

  She quickly shook her head. He reached behind her neck, there was the sound of Velcro ripping apart, and he eased the ball from her mouth. She groaned as she closed her aching jaws. Hearing the slur in her voice, she croaked, “Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”

  “All you need to know is that as long as you do exactly as I say, you have nothing to fear from me. Are you thirsty?”

  Thirsty didn’t even begin to describe it. Her throat was so parched it felt as if she’d been eating sand. At her nod, he fished a bottled water from one of two coolers, screwed off the cap, and held it out to her. Accepting it, she held it up to the light. No obvious residue floated on the bottom. Sniffing revealed no suspicious odor, but then, there’d been nothing suspect about her wine, either.

  When she continued to hesitate, he took the bottle from her and took several swallows from it. “See? Not drugged.” Reassured, she took the bottle back from him and guzzled so greedily that water dribbled from the corners of her mouth.

  * * * * *

  Chase watched her as she drained the bottle. So far, things were going well. She wasn’t crying or hysterical, and hadn’t yet attempted to scream.

  He exchanged the empty bottle for a full one. “Go over and sit at the table.” She obediently complied, with him following close behind. Once seated at the small, fifties-vintage table, hands tightly clenched in her lap, she gazed at the water bottle, entranced by a rivulet of condensation that rolled down the plastic’s smooth surface to puddle on the Formica-covered tabletop. He armored his heart against the despondence clouding her eyes.

  The kitchenette boasted a battered two-burner stove and a three-foot-tall refrigerator. He scrounged until he found some cheap, mismatched silverware in a drawer next to the sink. While the television blared in the background, he selected a steak knife, cut two generous chunks from a loaf of French bread, split them lengthwise, arranged slices of ham on two halves, then topped the ham with Swiss ch
eese. Placing one sandwich on a chipped plate, he sat it before her.

  Keeping a close eye on her, he transferred the rest of the food from the cooler into the small refrigerator, then seated himself across from her and took a bite of his sandwich. Ignoring her own, she occasionally took a sip of water, while her eyes constantly flicked from the scarred tabletop to the room’s solitary bed. Realizing the implications, he sought to allay her apprehension. “I’m not a rapist, so you needn’t worry about that.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Then why am I here?”

  He took another bite of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “I was hired to deliver you somewhere.”

  “Hired by Brian Sparrow?”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Then who?”

  If he replied that he wasn’t at liberty to divulge that information, it would simply lead to more questions. “I never met the person.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll find that out when we get there.”

  “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve kidnapped the wrong person.”

  Jesus, that southern accent was sexy. Rather than the motel clerk’s backwoods twang of trailer trash, his target had the elegant, modulated voice of a southern belle. “Are you Larissa Santos? Before you answer, keep in mind that I have your driver’s license.”

  She raised green eyes to his. “Well, someone’s made a mistake. I have neither money nor family to ransom me.”

  “Not all kidnappings are about ransom.”

  “Then what’s this one about?”

  He shrugged. “Not my concern.”

  “When I don’t show up for work tomorrow, my coworkers will know something’s wrong. Someone will go to my house to investigate. One of my neighbors will have seen your vehicle, and the police will put an APB on it.”

  “You watch too many cop shows. Anyway, my vehicle was never at your house. I guarantee you, no one saw anything.”

  Apparently realizing she wasn’t going to get any useful information from him, she returned her gaze to the table. When he finished his sandwich, hers was still untouched. “You should eat.”

  “I can’t.”

  “All right. We’ll save it for later.” While he shoved the untouched sandwich into a plastic sandwich bag, she sat there gazing dully at the table, hands clasped in her lap. He turned away for a mere instant to put the sandwich into the battered refrigerator. When he turned back, she was still sitting in the exact same position, but the steak knife had vanished.

  His muscles tensed instinctively. “Put the knife back on the table.”

  She slowly raised her eyes to his, all wide-eyed innocence. “What?”

  “Put the fucking knife back!”

  Her chair scraped back as she got to her feet, steak knife clutched in one hand. As if they were two gunslingers about to draw down on each other, she squared off with him, body rigid and coiled for action. “I don’t think so.” Brandishing the knife, she backed toward the door. “I’ll be leaving now.”

  When he started toward her, she quickly reversed it in her grip and raised it over her shoulder, ready to throw. When he came to an abrupt halt, she taunted, “Come on, you bastard. I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  Still backing away, she made it to the door. Not taking her eyes from him, she reached her free hand behind her and fumbled with the lock. When she turned the knob, the door opened several inches before catching up short on the security chain. Anger and frustration flashed in her eyes as she closed it again. Stepping slightly to the side, her glance flicked to the door.

  The soft snick of a safety going off jerked her eyes back to him and her pupils dilated wildly at seeing the Colt .45 aimed at her chest. “Touch that fucking chain and I’ll put a round in you.”

  Her throat worked hard to swallow. “If you shoot me, someone will hear.”

  “They probably will,” he agreed. “But you’ll be dead and, before anyone has time to investigate, I’ll be gone.”

  When he took a cautious step toward her, her entire body tensed as she prepared to hurl the knife. He kept his voice calm and steady. “The blade’s dull and the knife itself doesn’t have the weight required for sufficient penetration. Even if you actually manage to draw my blood, all it’s going to do is piss me off. But in the meantime this forty-five will have blown a great big hole in you.” He slowly continued toward her, his eyes locked on her throwing arm, his muscles tense and ready to dodge the instant she threw. When he was nearly within arm’s reach of her, he slowly extended his left hand. “Are you that eager to die?”

  Losing her resolve, she reluctantly lowered her arm and placed the wooden haft on his palm. Pitching the knife onto the table, he returned the .45 to his waistband in the small of his back, backed her against the door, and relocked it. Leaning one forearm on the battered wood, he loomed over her. “Never bring a knife to a gun fight.”

  Simmering fury brought a flash of color to her cheeks. Up close, he could see that her eyes weren’t the solid green he’d originally assumed. The background color was green, but twin starbursts of luminous golden rays ringed her pupils, extending almost to the iris rims, which were a darker blue-green. Her spirit and courage were so goddamned sexy that he had the sudden urge to press her against the door and taste those sexy lips.

  Then a pair of tears spilled over to trickle down her cheeks, dousing his ardor. Jesus, what the hell was he thinking? Not only was this woman his prisoner, she was Keswick’s wife. Slightly chagrined, he took a step back and slipped a hand under the ski mask to rub his jaw, hearing the rasp of whiskers against his calloused palm. “Don’t cry.”

  She angrily dashed tears away with the back of one hand. “I’m not crying!”

  “Everyone’s entitled to one mistake, so I’ll let this one go unpunished. Don’t do anything else stupid, and everything’ll be fine.” When he reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from her face, she slapped his hand away, pushed past him, and stalked toward the bathroom.

  Unable to suppress a smile, he called after her, “Leave the door open.” When she paused in the doorway, her back to him and shoulders visibly tense, he added, “I won’t watch, but I need to be able to hear if you try to open the window — and I will hear it.”

  Muttering what sounded like aspersions on his character, she disappeared into the bathroom where, in a blatant challenge to his authority, she left the door cracked a mere two inches. Ah, hell. Women were sensitive about such matters, so he decided to let it pass. As he lowered the volume on the television, he thought about how she’d threatened him with the knife. No doubt, if given the chance, she’d have used it.

  Despite her obvious fear, she was handling the situation much better than he would have expected. In a similar predicament, Cheyenne would’ve been in complete and utter hysterics.

  Of course, there was still time for that.

  CHAPTER 6

  Larissa kept her eyes on the door’s narrow opening, expecting her kidnapper’s ski-masked face to slide into view at any moment, but maybe he turned on by watching women urinate. More likely, what turned him on was slicing women into pieces. He didn’t seem like a sadistic murderer, but then, apparently neither had Ted Bundy.

  And what the hell had happened? One moment he was unarmed, she’d glanced away for just an instant, and when she’d looked back, he’d been pointing a big-ass gun at her. After his little speech about knowing how to administer pain, she was surprised he hadn’t hurt her.

  Maybe she should have forced him to shoot her, since a quick death from a bullet might be preferable to whatever lay ahead. He claimed someone had paid him to deliver her. If true, then that someone could only be Sparrow, in which case she’d prefer a bullet. However, she didn’t know for certain it was Sparrow and, until she did, she’d do everything in her power to stay alive.

  As she stood up and flushed, she checked the window. Multiple layers of paint sealed it shut, so she’d have to break out the glass.
Opening the faucet, she glanced toward the open doorway. There was no sign of him so, while water ran into the rust-stained sink, she squinted through the grimy glass at the darkness beyond. Silvery moonlight barely illuminated a brushy field. Trying to run barefoot through it in the dark would be arduous, not to mention painful, while his booted feet would find it much easier. He’d catch her, kill her and, leaving her there for the scavengers, get in his vehicle and drive off.

  In any case, hearing the glass break, he’d be in there before she could scramble out the small opening. She stuck her hands under the running water, shut the faucet off, and dried off on a threadbare towel before returning to the room.

  Two kitchen garbage bags now sat upon the bed. When she cast a questioning glance at her kidnapper, he explained, “Before we left your house, I took the liberty of packing for you.”

  Crossing to the bed, she opened one of the bags. At the sight of her purse lying atop assorted clothing, her heartbeat suddenly accelerated. Might he have overlooked her phone? If so, she’d have to wait for a window of opportunity to use it. With deliberate casualness, she sat the purse aside.

  Almost as if he’d read her mind, he remarked, “I removed your cell. You’ll find it and your two handguns in the drawer next to your kitchen sink.”

  Goddamn the asshole. In the bag, four cotton sport bras lay on top of a stack of cotton panties. In addition to the underclothes, he’d packed multiple pairs of yoga pants and tee shirts. Her athletic shoes were on the bottom. “You went through all my drawers?”

  “Would you have preferred to wear the clothes you have on for the next four days?”

  No, she wouldn’t, but that was beside the freaking point. Well, at least he’d brought comfortable clothing. And the absence of sexy lingerie was marginally reassuring. Of course, he might be saving those as a future surprise.

  In the second bag she found an assortment of toiletries, comb, brush, toothbrush, and blow dryer. A flood of relief made her go weak in the knees. That he’d gone to the trouble of bringing these things was yet another indication that he wasn’t planning to kill her.