False Hope (McKay-Tucker Men Book 2)

by Marianne Rice

  Her thoughts traveled back to Mason and the electrifying times they had in his bedroom. Other than that, there really wasn’t much to their relationship. He escorted her to Massachusetts twice, but the car ride there and back had been fairly silent. In fact, she knew so little about him, she didn’t think she could call what they had a relationship. What was his favorite color, music, food, movie, book? He was in excellent shape, and she knew he had a gym in his basement, but what other activities did he like to do?

  It wasn’t a relationship. It was…sex with a roommate. Did the other stuff matter? Emma had no idea. But she felt like she knew Mason, despite him not saying much with words. He was dedicated to a fault. Honest and trustworthy. He put others before himself, even when it made him uncomfortable. Maybe words weren’t necessary to fall in love.

  “Hey, shortstuff,” George called.

  “Hey, Bumpa,” she said and smiled as she got out of her car.

  “You gonna sit out here all day? Betsy’s got a few loaves of zucchini bread she just took out of the oven. I couldn’t do it, but I bet you could convince her to cut up a few slices for us.”

  “Sounds delicious. I don’t know how you two aren’t overweight with her cooking,” she teased.

  George put his arm around her waist and guided her inside.

  “Well look what the cat dragged in! What a welcome surprise.” Betsy embraced Emma with a hug which showed no signs of an aging woman. “My zucchini bread is fresh out of the oven. Would you like a slice?”

  George winked at Emma from behind his wife’s back. “That sounds heavenly.”

  She sat at the butcher-block island and did her diabetes routine. Her blood sugar was on the low side so she didn’t give herself any insulin—to compensate for the workout she’d have later while riding Lady.

  “I suppose you came here to take your girl for a ride,” George said.

  “Yeah, I did. I could use some time to myself.”

  “Is Mason hovering? He’s like that, you know. Always the caretaker. George, do you remember when the boys were nine and they both got the chicken pox?”

  George nodded but didn’t take his attention off his giant slab of zucchini bread.

  “The poor boys. Annie was busy with Paige, she was a handful as a toddler, and Connor was in Texas, so the boys didn’t have their big brother or sister to help anymore. George and I were always so busy with the animals, giving lessons and such.” Betsy picked up a towel and cleaned up the trail of crumbs George left on the counter. “Cole was as much of a handful at nine as Paige was at two. He wouldn’t sit still for a minute and scratched and scratched and scratched until he bled. Mason, always the sensible one, warned his brother over and over to stop scratching and lay still, but Cole would have nothing of it.

  “Mason healed faster and then he spent the next week caring for his brother,” she said as she poured three glasses of water. “He’d help wash him, rub chamomile lotion on his back, brought him every meal and snack on a little tray, hovered over him, and ran to get whatever Cole asked for. After two days of being doted on, Cole flipped out at his brother and yelled at him to stop acting like a sissy girl. I found Mason in the closet crying. He said he wanted his brother to be healthy, and he felt guilty for not having chicken pox as bad as his brother.”

  George chuckled. “Cole said he was afraid his twin was turning into a girl, so as soon as he got better he tackled Mason and gave him a fat lip. Said it made him into a man.”

  “That is not funny, George. Mason has always had a sensitive side to him especially since…well since his problem.”

  Emma sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “What problem?”

  Betsy quirked an eyebrow and turned to George. He nodded knowingly and Betsy continued. “His stuttering.”

  “Well, when he gets nervous he stutters, yeah, but a lot of people do,” Emma said defensively.

  “Do you ever hear him stutter when he’s talking about his job or anything to do with technology?”

  Emma thought about it and drank her water. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Betsy rubbed her hand across her face and turned around to look out the window over the sink, keeping her back to Emma. “He’s not going to be happy at me for telling you this.” She paused for effect. Emma knew Betsy was hedging.

  “When he was little he used to stutter. He got picked on pretty bad in school. By the time he was in second or third grade, he stopped talking altogether. They called it selective mutism. We brought him to a speech therapist. Dr. Gregory had Mason do all sorts of exercises to help with his stuttering. By the time he got to high school, everyone forgot he stuttered, mostly because he didn’t really say much anymore, but he was still shy.

  “I guess he never outgrew it. If he’s comfortable enough, like with the family or with his work, he doesn’t stutter, but you must make him nervous.” She turned around and smiled. “It’s because he cares about you,” she said.

  “That doesn’t make any sense. He cares about all of you and he doesn’t stutter.” Although she knew exactly what Betsy meant by the comment. And he actually talks to you she wanted to add, but didn’t. Thinking back to every conversation they’ve had, Mason did tend to keep his comments short, and when he actually said something personal, he did stutter. Now she felt guilty as well as confused.

  George helped her saddle the horse, and she thought about Mason while pushing the mare through the trails. So Mason had a speech impediment. Emma grinned. He must have been stinkin’ adorable as a little boy. She pictured his dark hair and deep dimples, his chin wobbling while he forced words out of his little mouth. Poor boy probably got picked on a lot. Kids could be terribly cruel.

  But having Cole and Connor as overprotective brothers must have helped a little. And he sure as hell inherited their protective manner. She stroked Lady’s mane as she slowed the horse and directed her to the lake for a drink. Staring out across the water Emma thought back to Mason’s “rules.” It wasn’t in his nature to be controlling. He wouldn’t smother her under normal circumstances. Like her, Mason wanted—needed—his independence. While he preferred it in solitude, Emma liked her freedom to socialize, exercise, and do what she wanted.

  Turning the horse around, they galloped back to the farmhouse. Feeling better about her overprotective lover-roommate-boyfriend-keeper, Emma whistled while brushing down the horse and putting the riding gear away. She couldn’t wait to get back to the house and jump Mason’s bones. This macho-man caveman thing started feeling pretty darn sexy.

  The sun had set by the time Emma turned her car down Mason’s long driveway. She expected the house to be lit up like a Christmas tree, Mason pacing on the front porch ready to ream her out for being gone all day without leaving a note or sending a text. His car was parked in the driveway as usual, but the house was dark. She also expected to have a dozen messages from him when she turned her phone back on after her ride, but she didn’t.

  Knowing how well the rest of his family communicated with each other, she figured they told him she was fine. But still, it was a little eerie unlocking the front door to a dark home. She felt a little light-headed from the physical activity and knew her blood sugar was dropping.

  “Hello?” she called out even though she knew the house was deserted. Odd. His car was in the driveway. Expecting to find a note on the counter—maybe he went out for a run—Emma turned on the kitchen lights and set her bag on the floor. No note. Her skin prickled and the hairs on the back of her neck went on alert. They never did that before. She’d had no premonition before her brakes went out and she almost drove off the mountainside. There had been no chill as she slept on Paige’s couch while her house burned down. And nothing could have prepared her for the sight of her emancipated father.

  Still, warning bells went off. Slowly, Emma stepped into Mason’s office, but nothing could have prepared her for what she saw when she flipped on the light.

  Chapter 15

  It was unlike her to be gone all d
ay, and it was unlike him to care so much. Not that he wasn’t a caring person, his brother often chided him for being too sensitive over matters, but Mason wasn’t used to caring so much about a woman. Or to being in love.

  His mother called around four to tell him Emma had taken Lady out for a ride. His first instinct was to race to his parents’ farm and chase after her, but his parents reassured him she was perfectly safe. No one knew she had planned on riding this afternoon. According to his parents, it was a spur of the moment decision. Emma wasn’t even dressed appropriately for a ride and had to borrow a pair of his mother’s riding pants and shoes.

  Mason figured her impromptu ride was a way to avoid being with him. He’d really screwed things up, but he had no idea how to make it right. He wanted to open up to her but was afraid of what it would sound like when the words started pouring out. Probably like some lovesick, prepubescent teen.

  What did a gorgeous, funny, athletic, and smart woman want with him? He knew she’d had her share of boyfriends. They probably wined and dined her, carried intelligent conversations, said all the right words to her. He wasn’t one of those guys. And if she liked those kind of guys, maybe he wasn’t the right one for her.

  He couldn’t change her, and she couldn’t change him. “It is what it is” his mother liked to say. And the problem with troubleshooting is that trouble shoots back. Knowing she was safe for a few hours, and needing to release some tension, he changed into his workout gear, stretched, and went into his basement to sweat off a little DNA.

  He flipped the light switch and caught a glimpse of long, blonde hair right before he fell to the ground, his head banging off the concrete floor like a rubber ball.

  Then everything went black.

  * * * *

  “What are you doing here?” Emma asked, completely stunned to see J.T.’s fiancée armed with a stun gun and in a karate ready-to-take-action position. “Where’s Mason?”

  “You!” Ashley stepped closer, using the Taser as a pointer. “You little bitch. Spoiled little brat, but it’s never good enough is it? You had to come traipsing into his life and ruin everything!”

  Emma walked backward out of the office, inching down the hall toward the kitchen. Her cell phone sat buried in the bottom of her purse, but if she could make her way to the kitchen, she could grab a knife and…what? Stab Ashley? Only in the movies.

  This was real life.

  Emma was in awesome physical shape, and thanks to her mother’s constant paranoia, had taken many self-defense classes in high school and college, but she felt shaky from her low blood sugar. A crazy, psycho blonde with “kill” in her eyes erased all her years of training. “Look, Ashley, I don’t know what this is all about. If you could put that thing down for a minute, we can talk about it.”

  It was more like the Wicked Witch of the West’s cackle than a laugh. “You stupid bitch. I don’t want to talk. I need you out of the picture.”

  Being called a bitch apparently turned you into one. Emma turned on her attack mode and, muscling up all her strength, and kicked the Taser out of Ashley’s hand. It flew across the kitchen floor as Ashley leaped on to Emma’s back. The blonde bimbo was much stronger than she looked. They fell to the floor, clawing, kicking, and biting as girls do best in a fight.

  Emma could see the Taser out of the corner of her eye but couldn’t reach it. She shimmied her body closer and closer, but Ashley’s weight on top of her made the task nearly impossible. They both reached for the weapon at the same time, Ashley having the healthy blood sugar and on-top advantage. Before she could prepare herself, Emma felt a bolt of electricity through her body but was able to swipe away the Taser before she got the full shock.

  “Now listen very carefully. If you do what I tell you, no one else will get hurt,” Trophy Bitch said as Emma fought to open her heavy-laden eyes. Too tired to move her limbs, she sucked in her lip in an attempt to capture the drool she felt run down her chin. If Ashley planned on killing her anyway, there was no reason to do as she said. “If you fight me, I’ll go after your brother and sister next. They’re what, four? Five? The little pukes won’t stand a chance.”

  No way would she allow her family to get hurt. Tired of fighting, Emma let go of her breath and fought back the tears in her eyes. “Just…tell…me why,” she said.

  “Why?” Trophy Bitch cackled. “I’ve fought for two years to get your Daddy to marry me. He’s worth millions, and he’s about to croak. I don’t need you taking my share.”

  “You want to kill me because…you think I’m after his money?” Emma lay on the kitchen tile in complete disbelief. “You can…have it.”

  “Whatever. Stand up. We’re done with our little chat.” Ashley yanked Emma’s hair hauling her to her feet. “Outside. Down by the pond. Now! You’re going for a little swim.”

  Emma’s feet wouldn’t move, but that didn’t stop G.I. Jane. Grabbing her arm and dragging her out the door, Ashley let out a string of curses and shoved her down the deck stairs. Emma’s body was too numb to feel any pain, but her brain still functioned. Where was Mason? He should be hovering or at least sending in his cavalry to hover. She looked back at the house but saw no sign of life anywhere. “Mason…”

  Trophy Bitch cackled again. “Your knight in shining armor is as useless as you. Actually, at least you showed a little fight in you. Must be from your dear dying Daddy’s side. He went down without a fight. I didn’t break a sweat or a nail.”

  Ashley’s grip on Emma’s wrist burned as she led them both toward the pond. Emma’s head was still fuzzy, and she could feel her blood sugar dropping rapidly. At this rate, she go in a diabetic coma before she had to worry about drowning.

  * * * *

  The sound above his head encouraged his body to move. Emma. He couldn’t make out the conversation, but he knew she was talking. He had no idea how many times Ashley zapped him. It seemed like every time he woke, she was sitting next to him ready to give him another shot of electricity.

  He had the mother of all headaches, but no time to think about it. His hands and feet were bound with his workout bands. Thinking they would be easy to snap—he always thought he’d snap the bands during his arm and shoulder workouts—he grunted as he stretched his arms out as far as they would go. But the band didn’t break; instead they got tighter around his wrists, cutting off his circulation.

  The red band, the looser of the two, bound his ankles together. The p90x routines had worked his flexibility over the past year and he could nearly do a split. After a lot of prodding, the band eventually split. Mason bounded up the stairs two at a time and wrestled with the door handle, but his wrists were sore and bound too tight.

  Tilting his body sideways, he finally managed to open the door but they were gone. “Emma!” he called out but got no response. He ran to his office, turned on his cell phone, and dialed 911. After spitting out his address and yelling at the operator to send the police force now, he stumbled from room to room searching for Emma.

  Turning toward the kitchen window, he looked out and saw her body floating face down in the pond. The next few moments felt like a bad dream. One of those dreams where you’re running and running but not moving anywhere. And yelling and yelling but no sound is coming out of your throat.

  It seemed to take hours before Mason reached the pond, jumped in, and swam out to Emma’s body. It was nearly impossible to stay afloat with his hands tied together, but his adrenaline got him to his destination. He flipped her body over and dragged her to shore and immediately started CPR.

  She didn’t move. She should have. He knew she couldn’t have been in the water for more than a few minutes. If she inhaled water, the CPR should have released it. No, something else was wrong. He managed to scoop her up in his arms and ran back into the house, setting her down on his couch.

  Mason searched the counter where she normally left her purse but didn’t see it. Time was not on his side. If she was in a diabetic coma, she needed a shot of glucagon instantly. He remembere
d her doctor saying she could live for only four minutes without sugar in her body. Luckily he stumbled across her purse on the floor, dropped to his knees, and dumped the contents out.

  The insulin needed to be mixed which was a challenging task when his nerves were on fire and his hands bound. The sound of sirens did little to comfort him, as he knew Emma couldn’t make it another minute. Shaking like a drug addict in withdrawal, he tilted up the insulin and inserted the thick needle into the vial, pulling the glucagon into the syringe. He crawled over to Emma and jabbed the needle into her thigh.

  She didn’t move.

  He waited, stroking her hair. “Please, Emma. Please, wake up. You can do it, baby. Please.”

  Without warning, she turned her head and threw up on him. “That’s my girl. Get it all out.” He didn’t move out of harm’s way but stayed stroking her head until the paramedics showed up.

  “Mason?” she whispered.

  “Yes, sweetheart. I’m right here. You’re going to be okay.”

  Moments later two paramedics knocked on his door. He hollered to them to come in and gave them Emma’s health history and handed over the glucagon he injected into her thigh.

  “We need to take her in. And you need to get checked over too. Why don’t you get cleaned up and meet us there?” one of the paramedics said.

  “Don’t leave me,” Emma choked out.

  Mason looked down at his wet, barfed on shirt and smiled. “I’m going with her, but let me change my shirt first. Can you help me out of these?” He held up his bound wrists to a policeman who had entered the house. Once free, he rubbed his raw skin and ran down the hall to his bedroom. In less than ten seconds, he was by her side again, as was Detective Walker.

  “What happened?” the detective asked.

  “Her name’s Ashley. She’s engaged to Emma’s father, J.T. Spiller. She tried to kill Emma. That’s all I know. Go get her.” Mason rattled off the address in Beverly and told the detective he could ask questions once they got to the hospital.