Deadly Obsession

by Jaycee Clark

  "You’re not going anywhere," he bit out.

  She kicked with her other foot until he let go. Then she stood, holding a hand to her ribs.

  The door, she had to get to the door. Her boot heels echoed down the hallway, mixing with his curses and footsteps.

  Hurry. She had to hurry.

  The deadbolt. Why had she thrown the deadbolt? She tried to unlock it, wasting precious seconds. Just as the door cracked, and she reached through it, he slammed against her. She barely had time to jerk her hand with the knife back through. The doorknob bit unmercifully into her aching ribs. His body against hers shut off her exit, knocked the air out of her and trapped her against the door.

  Christian screamed and sliced back with the knife.

  His hand fisted in her hair, the other digging into her jaw.

  He pulled her head back, arching her neck so that she was looking up at him, even as he maneuvered away from her knife.

  "You’re going to pay for that. You’re going to pay for everything, Josephine."

  Her eyes locked with his, saw the twisted and sick intent in them even as he slammed her head against the door.

  The world went hot-white, then black.

  CHAPTER SIX

  He set the empty sedative syringe aside and stared down at Josephine as he held her across his lap.

  They were in her upstairs bathroom. She’d taken so long, there had been plenty of time to prepare for her arrival.

  The scent she wore was nothing like what she should be wearing. Josephine didn’t wear this heavy fragrance. She should have something softer, lighter, more floral.

  Leaning back, he studied her face, the unchanged lines of perfection. So beautiful. In the harsh glare of the bathroom lights, her pale skin was almost translucent. The beat of her pulse jumped in the long column of her throat.

  He glanced at his watch. He needed to hurry. She would be out for a while, but there was still much to do. Carefully, he dabbed the washcloth to the cut on her forehead. She ran. Did she actually think she’d get away? The cuts on his arm and thigh stung, but he’d take care of them later.

  Smiling, he got to work. He hated this dark hair color. Hated it. It was not his Josephine’s. Reaching over, he picked up the pitcher of water he’d set there earlier. Carefully, he wet her hair, making certain her head was draped over the tub. No need to dirty the bathroom floor.

  When it was wet enough, he opened the tube of hair color he’d set on the back of the commode earlier.

  Honey Wheat Blonde. It was the closest thing he could find to her old color--a darker blonde color. It would have to do. He’d memorized the instructions and knew exactly what to do.

  As he slathered the thick tubed cream into her too-short hair, he realized his leather gloves were ruined.

  Good thing he had a second pair. It didn’t take long to comb the dye through the short mop of hair. He snapped the plastic covering on the tube, then stretched over and rinsed the cream off his gloves.

  Her scent taunted him. As he leaned over to rinse his hands, he was so close to her that her breath warmed his neck.

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

  His angel. His angel. After all this time, he had her in his arms again.

  He kissed her brows, finely arched, her closed lids, her cheeks, and finally, finally, her mouth. It was soft and pliant under his. Giving beneath his.

  Her heartbeat pulsed against his fingers on her throat. He gazed on her beautiful face. Eyebrows. He blinked. Her eyebrows were dark.

  He’d almost forgotten them. Carefully, he applied the hair color to those as well.

  While he waited for her hair to change back to its blonde color from that horrid dark brown, he stared around her space, dreamed of the rest of the evening. Or what time he had of it.

  The thought of what was to come excited him, rushed his blood through his veins.

  When twenty minutes were up, he turned on the tap and rinsed the coloring off. It was an awkward job, and he half expected her to awaken, but of course she didn’t. Finally. The wet strands slid through his leather-clad fingers. He imagined them as dampened silk.

  Her hair would be as it should be.

  He grabbed the towel off the back of the toilet and rubbed her hair, drying it.

  Josephine’s head hung limply on his arm, as he turned and carried her into the bedroom. The shades were already lowered, the lights dimmed, the covers removed.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and undressed her, his excitement growing as bit by bit he revealed her skin.

  When she was only wearing her lingerie, he laid her in the center of her bed.

  Should he remove them? Or wait till she was awake? Still undecided, he pulled one arm up and tied it with the nylon cord that was already there. It worked well that she ran late today; he’d been able to set things up perfectly.

  Leaning over her body, he stretched her other arm up and tied it. The lingerie had to go. It would be nice to see her fear when she awakened, but the terror of not knowing what he’d done, what he could do, would be so much better.

  He tied one of her ankles and reached for the other one. So soft. He slid his hand up her leg. No, not now, wait until she woke up. He stood at the foot of her bed and stared at her, at that beautiful, long curvaceous body that had once been solely his. Only his.

  He demanded perfection and rarity. She hadn’t been his exclusively for a long, long time. Josephine was no longer perfect.

  She was flawed.

  He stopped, frowned, thought. She was flawed. If something of his became imperfect, he destroyed it.

  There was a thought.

  No, he wasn’t ready to destroy this treasure of his yet. Josephine was his angel, even if she was a fallen one. He’d have to think on how to perfect her once again.

  Quickly, he reached again for her other ankle and tied it tight. He picked up another syringe that he’d set on her nightstand. This counteracted the sedative. She should be awake--he slid the needle into the vein on the inside of her right elbow, depressing the fluid into her--any minute. He counted off one minute, halfway through another. She moaned and he smiled.

  A poem danced through is mind.

  The mouse ran to, and the mouse ran fro.

  Crying and squeaking: which way, which way.

  Didn’t matter, and the cat only smiled.

  For it was time for the cat to play.

  Indeed. Time for the cat to play.

  "Come, come, my dear. Wake up."

  Again she moaned, and he jerked on her ropes. No slack. Perfect.

  "You’ve been a bad girl." He straightened and stared down at her, watched as she slowly came to. "It’s time you remembered who you belong to. Unfortunately, our time is limited." He walked to the side of the bed. "Such a pity really. I have a plane to catch." He slapped her thigh, and thought of his own, the sting had faded to more of a throb.

  He’d pay her back for those too.

  Taking one of the silk scarves he’d brought along, he sat beside her and tapped her face.

  Before he gagged her, he leaned down and whispered against her lips. "Wake up my angel.

  Jo-se-phine." He drew her name out. "Josephine. Wake up. It’s time to play."

  * * * *

  "Daddy," Tori asked, "is Chris coming home tonight?"

  Brayden looked up from the board game and into his daughter’s eyes.

  "She said she would be here around dinnertime. She might run a little late because of rehearsals or something." He looked at the clock, surely she wouldn’t be too much longer. At the latest it would be another hour.

  Tori nodded her dark head and studied the game again.

  Brayden hadn’t called Christian all day, though he’d wanted to. He figured she’d left the ringer off her upstairs phone and he assumed she hadn’t had time to get a new one. Again, he looked at the clock. Had she left yet?

  He’d tried to reach Morris today, but that hadn’t worked. He should have just gone over
to the guy’s condo this morning, but he hadn’t known which one belonged to the lieutenant. This afternoon when he’d closed the shop early, he’d gone by the station, but Morris had been out.

  Brayden shook his head and tried to concentrate on the game with his daughter, but his mind kept wondering.

  He should have stayed that morning and forced Christian to tell him what was going on. Another look at the clock told him it was going on six. Like he’d ever been able to force that woman to do anything?

  Well, force or no, willing or no, they were damn well going to get to the bottom of things this weekend.

  He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, wishing he felt at ease where Christian was concerned.

  * * * *

  Christian heard a voice thundering in her ear. The words pierced her brain, but she couldn’t make them out. God her head hurt. Nausea swirled in her stomach.

  Someone moaned.

  Was that her?

  "...It’s time to play." His voice slithered over her, through her. A nightmare.

  Wake up. Wake up.

  His laughter danced across her face.

  Scattered bits and sharpened pieces, scenes floated through her mind. Why couldn’t she think? Move?

  Then everything fell into place and she remembered.

  Oh God. No!

  She tried to sit up, her eyes flying open and pain radiating through her head.

  Ropes bit into her wrists, held her legs immobile.

  The room was spinning and spinning.

  Her chest tightened.

  Breathe. Breathe.

  It was a dream. Please let it be a dream.

  A sob caught in her throat.

  She focused on the face above her.

  Oh no.

  Richard. He was leaning over her, grinning down at her struggles.

  Oh, please no. Please no. Her chest vised, but she closed her eyes again, prayed and pleaded to not have an asthma attack now. Not now. She fought the tightness back just a bit and opened her eyes.

  She would not beg. She would not. He loved that. What had he given her? She felt light and heavy at the same time.

  The sonofabitch drugged her. She remembered the feeling, the games he liked to play.

  When his lips touched hers, softly, lovingly, bile rose hot in her throat.

  Again she jerked her wrists and the ropes didn’t slacken. Or was she not trying hard enough? Her arms were heavy.

  This was not happening. This was not happening. Not again, please, God, not again.

  He pulled back, and caressed her face. "Still so beautiful."

  Christian jerked from his touch.

  Richard tsked. "Now, now." He tapped his bottom lip. "Remember? Tit for tat, my dear."

  With that, he leaned down and bit hard enough on her lip that she tasted blood.

  She couldn’t keep the whimpered cry locked in her throat.

  "You know my rules," he told her, wiping her blood off her chin. The red liquid glinted in the lights, catching her attention as he rubbed it between his fingers.

  His green eyes flickered as he stared from the drop of blood on his gloved hand to her. Then, his look raked down her body.

  Her clothes! He’d taken her clothes off! What had he done? She was completely and utterly exposed to him. No. No. No. Twisting and tugging did no good, but she didn’t stop. The ropes bit into her wrists.

  "You gave me something. What did you give me?" She twisted her head and saw the syringe by her lamp, by the telephone. "You’re a sick, twisted bastard! A low life sonofabitch!" She spat at him. "I hate you! I hate you!"

  He backhanded her, right beneath her eye. Pain exploded in her cheekbone.

  Richard reached down and grabbed her hair. "Be quiet and be still." The bed gave under his weight. He straddled her, his legs locking around her torso. "I need you quiet."

  She saw the long piece of material he held in his hand. The silk gag pulled the corners of her mouth tight as he tied it roughly behind her head. She smelled him on the material, tasted him, and almost gagged.

  She closed her eyes, not willing to give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

  Again, she worked her wrists, moved her feet, but it did no good. No good. He’d always tied the knots tight.

  He laughed. "You’re shaking, my dear."

  She was. And even though she knew, knew he only fed on her fear, she could no more stop the trembles than the tightening around her chest.

  Please not now. Not now.

  Her head was spinning again. Damn him.

  Carefully, she pulled air in through her nose, even as she heard the swish of silk again. She managed to see his black-leathered hands holding another white scarf before he wrapped it around her eyes.

  This time her whimper turned into a muffled yell.

  She was not going to let him do this to her. Thrashing her head from side to side dislodged his blindfold.

  Again pain burst in her cheek as he hit her in the same spot. "Be still."

  Her chest tightened and she tried to breathe calmly. He tightened the blindfold and she felt her hair pull at her temples.

  "Now, now. Calm down. I don’t want you passing out. That would hardly be enjoyable."

  His hands slid down her stretched arms. To her chest. "And I so want to enjoy this."

  She heard something clatter from the nightstand. What did he get? The syringe again? Something else she hadn’t seen?

  "You cut me," he said, his breath warm on her face.

  She heard him moving around the room.

  "Do you know how long I’ve waited for this, Josephine? How very long I’ve planned our meeting?" His voice arrowed to her, a fine cutting edge evident.

  "People were constantly asking questions on why you disappeared."

  He was pacing. He’d only paced before when he’d been enraged. And enraged, he was so much worse. So much.

  Oh, God. The bands in her chest tightened, but she held them back. She couldn’t have an attack now.

  Please not now.

  "Your grandparents and brother tried to file murder charges on me. Me! As though I were no one." He continued to mumble and pace, but his words gave her courage. Joshua? Grandmiere? Granddaddy?

  They’d believed in her, even if they’d known nothing, they’d blamed him. If she could have, she would have smiled.

  Christian had no idea how much time passed. He continued to pace and once he went downstairs. What he was doing, she couldn’t begin to guess. Then she heard her piano, the tiny ping as he hit a high note, then the lower base notes following. Chopin. She hated Chopin because the composer was a favorite of his.

  She pulled and jerked and tugged on the ropes, but it did no good. The more she moved, the more she focused, the more she could think. The sluggish feel of the drug was thinning. Her wrists were sticky when the piano silenced and she heard his footsteps coming back.

  What was she going to do? What?

  What about Drayson? Geoffery? Were they at home? No one was here to help her. No one. It would be hours before Brayden came looking. God, she’d been so stupid, so perfectly stupid. All but setting herself up. She should have told Brayden. She wouldn’t be tied to a bed now if she had just talked to him.

  And Gabe?

  Gabe. He was expecting her at six. Six. What time was it?

  Footsteps hushed across the carpet to the bed. Christian stiffened.

  "You’re hair is the wrong color," he whispered furiously. "This can’t be right! What..." he trailed off. She heard a slap. "Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Too red, damn it." Then he yelled, "Blonde. Your hair is supposed to be blonde! Not this trashy tarnished color."

  She jerked at his raised voice and pressed herself into the mattress as she heard him near the bed.

  Something cold slid onto her chest, his hands on either side of her face. He jerked her head up, and she felt the pull of metal along her neck. The locket.

  "You were supposed to have this on. I found it in your purse do
wnstairs." Carefully, he worked the chain around and settled the locket between her breasts. He jerked on her hair, muttering to himself. She felt the mattress rise as he moved away. The squeak of her closet doors filled the air. What did he want in her closet? Who cared. As long as he stayed away from her. Mutters and mumbles lost their way to her.

  Tearing material, the slice of fabric rent the air.

  "I don’t like the looks of your clothes, Josephine, anymore than your hair. Don’t know what happened.

  Red. Cheap. You look cheap." His words were hurried and clipped.

  He was cutting her clothes. He’d done that before too. That last night. He figured if she had nothing to wear, she couldn’t leave. And she wouldn’t have, if Susan hadn’t shown up and helped her. Susan.

  Danny.

  Oh, God.

  Rips and tears mixed with his furious whispers and curses to her. "Whore’s clothes ... trashy ... what were you thinking?"

  Wood moaned on wood. Her dresser. The same ritual happened there. The rustle of material, the jerk of drawers, the slicing click of scissors. Finally, silence settled and it was more terrifying than the sound of bladed objects cutting her things.

  What was he doing? Where was he?

  She could hear his breath, hurried and fast.

  Something sharp poked her chest and she froze.

  "Did you know I was advised you should have an accident?" he told her quietly. "You probably will, you know. Eventually, you’ll have to. You’re rather a liability." His sigh filled the air. "It’s a shame you’re no longer perfect. I have to decide what to do about that, you know. I tried to get you back to you, but I wonder if it’ll ever happen." His fingers ran through her hair. She sensed rather than saw his shrug. "But right now, now I want to have fun with you. I’ve missed you."

  I’ve missed you. Those same words had filled her with hope and longing earlier. Brayden. Oh, please.

  Please. Tears wet the material at the corners of her eyes.

  I’ve missed you. Now they stabbed her heart with terror.

  Something clicked. Clicked again. What was that?