by Brenda Joyce
She didn’t know when the nation’s oh-so-clever press had first coined the phrase pleasure crime, but it had been around for as long as she could remember. Social commentators, psychiatrists, liberals and conservatives alike all claimed that society was in a state of anarchy. Eighty percent of all murders were now sexually related, and every year it was getting worse. Lorie had died like a thousand others. She’d had sex. Bodily fluids had shown that she had been very aroused and that the perpetrator had climaxed several times. There had been no struggle, and to this day, the police had no clue as to who Lorie had been with. A witness had seen Lorie leaving the theater with a young, handsome, athletic-looking man. She had seemed happy, even smitten. A police sketch had been circulated but no one recognized him and, as usual, there was no match in the FBI’s criminal database.
But that was why pleasure crimes were so shocking and disturbing. These perverted murderers always seemed to be complete strangers, yet they somehow seduced their victims, and to this day, no one knew how. There were all kinds of theories. Cult theory claimed that the perps belonged to a secret society and used hypnotism to entrance the victims. Sociologists called the deaths a pathological trend and blamed it on everything from video games, rap and the culture of violence, to broken homes, drugs and even blended families. Claire knew it was bull. No one knew how and no one knew why.
It almost didn’t matter. Every victim was young and attractive and died in the same way. Their hearts simply stopped beating, as if overcome by the excitement and arousal.
Ever since her cousin’s murder, Claire had made certain she was strong enough to do some damage should one of the city’s criminally perverted think to assault her. Amy had decided to take martial arts, too. In fact, Amy had been the one to suggest the self-defense course and she had encouraged Claire to learn to shoot. Both young women kept guns in their homes. Claire was glad that Amy’s husband was in the FBI, even if he sat behind a desk. She felt certain he did have some inside information, because Amy was always talking about how evil the crimes were. She never said more and Claire suspected she wasn’t allowed to. That was okay. Pleasure crimes were evil. Maybe there was a sick cult after all. Claire kept her gun loaded in her bedside night table. No one was ever going to hurt her, not if she could help it.
Her packing almost concluded, she decided to make herself a light supper. She smiled at the cat, who was curled up on the pillow she slept with. “Rascal, not my pillow, please! C’mon. You can have some catnip while I eat. A glass of wine is definitely in order.”
As if he understood her perfectly, the black cat leaped from the bed and approached.
Claire bent to stroke him. “Maybe I should keep you. You are such a handsome thing.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when the motion detectors chimed and someone began banging on the front door of her shop.
Claire jumped a foot and then froze, instantly flooded with adrenaline. The pounding continued. She glanced at the clock by her bed. It was half past nine. This was either an emergency or a loon. And she damn well wasn’t opening the door to a crazy. There were too many madmen on the loose.
Claire ran to the nightstand, taking her Beretta from the drawer. Sweat gathered between her breasts. Her two neighbors had her number, just in case there ever was an emergency. This had to be a stranger. She started barefoot down the stairs.
She tried not to think about all the heinous crimes being committed in the city.
She tried not to think about her neighbor, Lorie or her mother.
“Claire! I know you’re in there,” a woman cried, sounding pissed off.
Claire faltered. Who the hell was that? She didn’t recognize the voice. The person who was so impatient to get in that she was rattling the door, as if to break it off its hinges. That, of course, was impossible. The door was thick as all hell and the hinges were cast iron.
There was a small hall with a console table at the bottom of the stairs where she always kept a single desk lamp lit. Her office was across the hall. To the left of the stairs was her kitchen, with its breakfast area, and to the right, the large room that served as her store. Claire entered the store, hitting the light switch and flooding the shop as she did so.
The black Venetian blinds were drawn. “Who is it?” Claire demanded, not going to the door.
The banging and rattling stopped. “Claire, it’s me, Sibylla.”
Claire tried to think. She was almost certain she did not know anyone named Sibylla. She was about to tell her to get lost—in a polite way, of course—when the woman spoke. “I know you have the page, Claire. Let me in.”
Claire wasn’t curious, not now, not with a loony stranger banging down her door, not when it was black as Hades out. “I have twelve thousand books in stock,” she said tersely. “At four hundred pages on average, there’s a lot of pages in here.”
“It’s the page from the book of healing.” Sibylla was sounding very annoyed, dangerously so. “It’s from the Cladich and you know it.” She pushed the door open and stepped inside, something snapping as she did so.
For one second, Claire was in shock. Only the Terminator could break her door open that way, and the red-haired woman stepping determinedly into her shop was not the Terminator, not by any stretch. She was of medium height and frame, no more than five foot six, probably not much more than a hundred and ten pounds. Claire realized she was dressed all in black, like a cat burglar, and that she had clearly picked her state-of-the-art locks.
Tomorrow she was installing a new security system.
Claire pointed the gun right between her eyes. “Stop right there. I don’t know you and this doesn’t feel like a bad joke. Get out.” Her hand wasn’t shaking and Claire was amazed, because she was afraid. She had never looked into such cold, soulless eyes before.
Sibylla smiled at her without any mirth and it transformed her beauty into a mask of malice. Her smile spoke of threats. For one moment, Claire’s heart went wild as she realized this strange woman wasn’t going to listen. But the woman did not appear to be armed and Claire had at least twenty pounds on her.
And then Sibylla laughed. “Oh, my gods! You don’t know me…You haven’t gone back yet, have you?”
Claire never wavered, keeping the gun trained on the middle of the woman’s forehead. “Get out.”
“Not until you give me the page,” Sibylla said, striding directly to her.
“I don’t have any page!” Claire cried in disbelief. Her hand began to shake. Claire started to squeeze the trigger, lowering the gun to point it at Sibylla’s shoulder, but she was too late. Sibylla took the gun from her with the speed of a striking snake. Then she raised her fist.
Claire saw the blow and tried to block it, but the other woman was amazingly strong and her braced forearm fell away. The fist felt like brass knuckles as it slammed into the side of her head. Pain exploded and Claire saw shooting stars. Then there was only blackness.
CLAIRE CAME TO SLOWLY, layers of blackness receding, replaced with thick gray shadows. Her head hurt like hell. That was her first coherent thought. Then she realized she lay on the wood floor. Instantly, she remembered everything.
A woman had broken into her shop and assaulted her. For one moment, Claire lay still, pretending to be unconscious, listening acutely to the night. But all she heard were the cars passing and horns blaring on the street outside.
Slowly, Claire opened her eyes, realizing she had been moved. She now lay in the area between the kitchen and the shop, not far from her office. The desk lamp remained on. Claire slowly turned her head to gaze into the store. She almost cried out. It was empty, the front door thankfully closed, but it looked as if every single book had been thrown onto the floor. Her store had been ransacked.
Claire sat up, rigid with dismay and disbelief. The woman had most definitely been looking for a page from that book she had mentioned. She touched the side of her head, finding a huge lump behind her ear, and hoped against all odds that her most valuable inven
tory hadn’t been stolen. She needed to call the police, but she also needed to know what Sibylla had taken.
She had never heard of the Cladich. But in medieval times, there had been references to books and manuscripts which contemporaries had believed had various restorative and healing powers. In spite of her aching head, she became excited. She would do a Google search on the Cladich as soon as she got her bearings. But why would that intruder think that a page from that book was in her store?
The intruder could be a simple nutcase, but Claire was uneasy. Sibylla had seemed to know her and she hadn’t seemed crazy, not at all. She had seemed vicious, ruthless and determined. Claire reached up and clasped the pendant she wore, taking a moment to recover her composure. Of all the nights for a burglary and an assault! But she wasn’t really hurt. If she was lucky, the woman hadn’t found what she wanted. If she was really lucky, that page was actually in her possession!
Claire stood, beginning to calm, the throbbing receding to a dull ache, while a familiar excitement tingled in her veins. Her instinct was to rush into the store and take inventory, but she knew she ought to ice her head first and then call the cops. And she also wanted to check to see if a book called the Cladich had ever existed at all.
But security came first. Claire went into the shop to lock the front door. As she crossed the store, carefully stepping over books and manuscripts, she retrieved the Beretta from the floor. The door had a double lock. Tomorrow, when she had triple locks put on, she’d also add a bolt. As she turned the lock, the reassuring click sounded, but when she tested the door, it opened.
Her heart leaped with dismay. If her locks no longer worked, she was going to a hotel. Claire hesitated and opened the door a crack to look at the lock. Her eyes widened as she stared at the gouges in the wood door frame. It almost looked as if Sibylla had pushed the locked door open, ripping the teeth of the locks through the wooden jamb to do so.
But that was impossible.
She slammed the door closed, refusing to panic. The street outside had been relatively quiet except for some passing cars, but she had no security now. Every night, dozens of pleasure crimes occurred. She had made it her business to know.
She hurried to her desk, skipping over piles of books, grabbed the chair and put it under the doorknob. When the police came, she’d ask them to help her move a bookcase in front of the door. That should add enough security for the moment.
But how could she leave town tomorrow, as planned? Her trip would have to be postponed, Claire realized. She was going to have to take inventory of her stock. The police would demand it. And what if someone had put a valuable page in one of the volumes?
The lure of her vacation and Dunroch warred with her excitement over the possibility of making such a huge discovery. Claire ran into her office, not even turning the lights on. She tapped the space bar on her laptop to bring it out of hibernation, her pulse pounding now. She raced into the kitchen, hitting lights, and began filling a Ziploc bag with ice. The pain in her head had dulled to an unpleasant headache. Maybe she would skip the hospital after all.
From the store, she heard the chair scraping across the floor just as she heard a man curse.
Claire was in disbelief. It could not be another intruder! And then the fear began. She moved, grabbing the gun from the counter, checking wildly to see if it was loaded and then slamming off the kitchen lights. She faded into the wall behind the open kitchen door. Trying not to panic, she listened intently for the man again but heard nothing.
Yet it hadn’t been her imagination. She had heard a curse, nearly inaudible. Claire’s heart pounded with frightening force. Had he left? Or was he even now ransacking her store? Was she going to be assaulted again?
Was he looking for that page from the Cladich? Because this could not be a coincidence. She hadn’t been burglarized in the entire four years she had been open for business.
The phone was on the other side of the kitchen. She knew she should call 911 but she was afraid the intruder would hear her and turn his attentions on her. She gripped the gun so hard her fingers ached, her palms sweaty now. Anger began. This was her store, damn it. But the fear was consuming and no amount of righteous anger could chase it away.
Afraid her shallow breathing was audible and would expose her, Claire began creeping into the hall. The damn desk lamp remained on, making her feel horribly exposed. She could see across the store to the front door, but no one stood in there.
As she passed the stairs, she was seized from behind.
Claire cried out as a powerful arm locked her in place against what felt like a stone wall. Panic made it impossible to think. She became aware of being held, viselike, against a huge, obviously male body.
Her heart was thundering, but suddenly it slowed and Claire had a shocking sense of familiarity. In that moment, fear vanished, replaced only by her acute awareness of stunning male power and strength.
He spoke.
Claire did not understand a single word he said. Her heart raced and fear clawed at her again. Her instinct was to struggle and she began to squirm, grasping his arms to wrench them off. She wished she had spike heels on so she could jam one into his booted foot. Her bare legs came into contact with his thighs and she froze. His legs were absolutely bare, as well. Claire inhaled harshly.
He spoke, jerking on her with his thick arm, and she did not have to understand his language to know he was telling her to be still. And as he pulled her closer, she felt him stiffen against her backside.
Claire froze. Her captor was aroused, shockingly so. The sensation of a great, hard length pressed against her was terrifying—and electrifying, too. “Let me go,” she gasped desperately. And two words blazed across her mind: pleasure crime.
She felt his grip tighten in surprise. Then he said, “Put yer weapon down, lass.”
He spoke English, but there was no mistaking the exaggerated Scottish accent. Claire wet her lips, too dazed to even try to consider what that meant. “Please. I won’t run. Let me go. You’re hurting me.”
To her relief, he relaxed his hold. “Put the weapon down, be a good lass.” As he spoke, she felt his stubble against her jaw, his breath feathering her ear.
Her mind went blank, and she could only think of the powerful pulse pounding against her. Something terrible was happening, and Claire didn’t know what to do. Her body had begun to tighten and thrum. Was this how those women died in the middle of the night? Did they become dazed and confused—and aroused? She dropped the gun and it clattered onto the floor but did not go off. “Please.”
“Dinna scream,” he said softly. “I willna hurt ye, lass. I need yer help.”
Claire somehow nodded. When he removed his arm, she ran to the other side of the hall, whirling and slamming her back against the wall to face him. And she cried out.
She had expected anything but the masculine perfection facing her. He was a towering man, at least six inches taller than she was and hugely muscular. His hair was as black as midnight, his skin bronzed, but he had shockingly pale eyes. They were trained upon her with unnerving intensity.
He seemed just as surprised by the sight of her as she was by him.
She shivered. God, he was handsome. A slightly crooked nose, perhaps broken once, achingly high cheekbones and a brutally strong jaw gave him the look of powerful hero. A scar bisected one black brow and another formed a crescent on one cheek. They merely added to the appearance that this man was battle-hardened, experienced and far too strong for anyone’s good.
But he was a loon. He had to be, because he was wearing clothing she instantly recognized—a midthigh, mustard-colored linen tunic, which was belted, and over that, covering one shoulder, a blue-and-black-plaid mantle pinned with a gold brooch. He wore knee-high, heavily worn, cuffed leather boots, and a huge sword was sheathed on his left side, the hilt sparkling with paste jewels. He was costumed as a medieval Highlander!
He looked like the real deal. He had the bulging arms that could have wield
ed a huge broadsword effortlessly in the kind of battle one read about in a history book. And whoever had made his costume had done their research. His leine looked authentic, as if it had been dyed with saffron, and that blue-and-black mantle looked hand-loomed. She had to look at his strong thighs again, where his muscles bulged, thighs that looked rock hard from years of riding horses and running hills. Her gaze crept upward to the short skirt of the leine, where a rigid raised line remained. Claire realized she was ogling him, perspiration running in a stream between her breasts and thighs. She was breathless, but that was because she was afraid of him.
And then she saw that his eyes had lowered to her legs. She blushed.
He lifted his unmistakably heated gaze to hers. “I didna think to see ye again, lass.”
Claire’s eyes widened.
His smile became seductive. “I dinna like me women t’ vanish in the night.”
He was most definitely mad, she thought. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. We haven’t met.”
“I be insulted, lass, that ye didna recall the event.” But his satisfied smile never wavered and he kept glancing at her legs and her tiny, midriff-baring tank top. “What manner o’ dress is that?”
Her color increased and she felt it. She prayed he was not one of those pleasure-seeking murderers. “I could ask you the same thing,” she retorted, shaking. “This is a bookshop. You must be on your way to a costume party. It’s not here!” She had to appease this man at all costs and she had to get him to leave her store.
“Dinna be afraid, lass. Temptation ye may be, but I have other matters on me mind. I need yer help. I need the page.”
She exhaled now loudly, but not in relief. She didn’t want to be alone with this man. Her mind raced. “Come back tomorrow.” She forced a smile and it felt sickly. “We’re closed. I can help you tomorrow.”