a Touch of Ice (27 page)

“I’m not complaining.”

“Me either. Later, Sunshine.”

Life wasn’t boring anymore. I had an hour to do the bath, shave, pluck, moisturize, and spritz regime. Oh, and I had to find something to wear. I started the water in the tub, added lavender bath salts, scanned my closet for possibilities. Since I was on lockdown I settled on jeans, a skimpy top, and bare feet. No reason to put on shoes.

The doorbell rang and I sailed downstairs to let Mitch in, came to a screeching halt in front of the door when I realized I had no idea who was on the other side.

I didn’t hear the pizza delivery van, and Mitch’s car wasn’t in the driveway.

Way to go, El.

Pierce and Annie would have called first, given me a heads-up.

Glass shattered. I froze. Fear holding me immobile, raw energy skittering down my spine.

Sounded like the window in my storage room, better known as the closet in my office.

Bloody, bloody hell.

The edges of my vision turned gray and my heart was pounding loud enough to be heard three counties over. I pressed sweaty palms tight against the sides of the staircase and backed up one step. Two. I was giving serious consideration to passing out until the banging on my front door got my feet moving.

I turned, sprinted upstairs, and yanked the back door open. Panting, I skidded to a halt, grabbed the doorjamb, and slivers cut into my palms. Pain burned the surface of my skin, and I fought the need to let go. To stop the pain. Two stories down. No shoes.
Hold on, El.

Panic pushed a wave of dizzy through my head, and spasm of fear through my muscles. There was a narrow ledge, maybe ten inches, where the new deck would eventually be attached, not wide enough to walk on, but I could make my way hand-over-hand. Maybe. Construction stuff all over the ground. A board was leaning against the house about eight feet from the door. There was enough of a slant that if I made it there, I could maybe slide down. Another wave of the dizzies. Heights are
so
not my thing.

Dropping to my knees, I tested the strength of the ledge. No creaks, no give. No choice. The bad guys were yelling at each other and their voices were getting louder, closer. I eased over the edge, fingertips digging into the wood. No images. I inched along, extending my leg, searching for the board. There. Got it. I eased my body onto the slanted surface, let go of the ledge and slid, palms slippery with sweat.

Ouch! The pain of landing knifed through my legs. The back door banged open with enough force to shake the house.

Bloody, bloody hell.

You’d think in a nice, quiet, neighborhood like mine there’d be a designated nosy neighbor, someone responsible for calling the police to report a scantily clad, barefoot woman sliding down the side of her house, looking like a deranged mental patient. But no. And where
the hell
was that patrol car?

I crawled behind a stack of lumber, trying to decide which direction to run, wishing I’d opted for shoes instead of bare feet—my last coherent thought before a sharp zing hit my shoulder, excruciating pain slammed through my body, and a wild animal scream shot from my mouth as I crumpled to the ground.

Down, but not out…until a fist connected with the side of my head, rattled my jaw, and sent a shaft of pain searing through my brain. Consciousness seeped back slowly, the pain not as intense, but hanging on enough to keep me from sucking in a full breath. My entire body was a mass of buzzing nerve endings, a dozen monkeys were playing ping pong in my head—with steel balls.

Those pesky gray areas pushed at the edge of my vision.
Stay awake, El. You have to fight them. Escape.
I tried to lick my lips, realized my mouth was covered with duct tape. Tried to pull it off. Couldn’t move my hands. More duct tape. My ankles were free, indicating that whoever captured me wasn’t very smart, or they were distracted by the Keys to My Karma polish on my toes, or, and this is the big one, they knew I was in no condition to run.

It would work in my favor if the first two options were true, because both of those could be used to my advantage. The last option—definitely true. Running wasn’t going to happen any time soon, not with the buzzing nerve endings and throbbing muscles I had going on.

And then there was the minor inconvenience of not being able to hold my eyes open for more than a few seconds.

Hard to run with your eyes closed.

Somewhere in the back of my very foggy mind, I realized I must have been hit with a stun gun. I swallowed a hysterical giggle. I don’t even own pepper spray. Hair spray, yes. Pepper spray, no. Stun gun—also no. Although, if I kept hanging out with Super Spy types, that’d have to corrected at the earliest opportunity.

Don’t know how long it was before I finally pried my eyes open. It was like a déjà vu of Mitch’s experience. Shaved Head towered over me. I had to agree with Mitch, not the first thing you want to see when you open your eyes.

And then it hit. Panic churned in my gut. Gun. Not the electricity-shooting kind; this one came complete with bullets.
No time for panic, El. Get over the phobia. Now
.

Panic morphed into rage. There’s nothing like a good mad when it can only be expressed in incoherent mumbles behind duct tape.

Very frustrating.

All those words that couldn’t come out began to get clogged up in my throat. They seemed to move back down through my body into my feet, and the next thing I knew, my classy red polished toes kicked the gun right out of Shaved Head’s hands. If I’d thought about it, I would’ve missed for sure.

He grappled for his weapon, cussing me out the whole time. Managed to aim in my direction just as Donny Civitelli came up behind him, touched him on the shoulder. Shaved Head jerked around, and rammed the gun into Donny’s stomach. I used the moment to swing my legs around and knock Shaved Head to the ground. He landed on top of me, his weight crushing the breath from my lungs. He didn’t move.

That made it twice in one week.

Focus, El. This is dead serious. So not the time for flippant thought.
They wouldn’t stop. The inane bits of thought kept recycling, a mantra to keep me sane maybe.

Probably I should start keeping a diary.

Twenty-nine

Donny Civitelli’s mouth dropped open, and his eyes darted between me and Shaved Head, settled on me. “What the fuck you doin’ all tied up on the ground?”

He planted his foot on Shaved Head’s hand, fisted the gun, then started kicking him. “You bastard, Carl, you killed Tony. Now I gotta kill you. I hate when Mama says to shoot somebody. Why’d ya hafta hurt my brother?”

Shaved Head rolled just as Donny pulled the trigger. A bullet parted the air next to my cheek, and I shrieked—as best I could with my mouth covered in duct tape.

“What’s goin’ on here?” A new voice came from behind me. “We got a simple job to do, Pestorelli, why’re ya rolling around on the ground with the broad?”

There was a crunch, a thud, and Donny alternately cursed and yelped.

I turned my head and Pudgy came into focus. One arm secured Donny in some kind of wrestling hold, the other hand held a gun. Pudgy looked me up and down, his beady gaze coming to rest on my skimpy top where it had pulled tightly across my breasts. “She ain’t even got much there to play with.”

That did it.

I kicked at him with the full force of my bare feet, got him a good one in the knees and he went down. Next thing I knew, the bite of the Taser hit my back and the pain slamming through my body was too much. The gray areas skirting my vision deepened into the black abyss of unconsciousness.

Next thing I knew, I was lying in the back seat of a car with everything buzzing again. I might add that being stunned once is a miserably painful, unforgettable experience. Twice is a quick trip to hell. It left me drooling around the duct tape, nausea clawing at my belly and with a headache that wouldn’t quit.

Shaved Head drove, and Pudgy was giving him the what-for about not being able to do a simple job.

I wondered, for about a tenth of a second, what happened to Donny, but had other things to worry about. My body felt like hell. There was blood on my shirt, one of my favorites, and blood was hard to wash out.

On the other hand, I could deal with two pedicures in one week. Yes, I did realize it made me appear on the far side of crazy to be thinking about washing clothes and pedicures when my life was balanced on the precarious edge of Shaved Head’s whims. But recently I’d learned that my brain goes into shutdown when my life is in danger, seeks relief in whatever. Denial is an outstanding defense mechanism, and apparently I’m damn good at it.

I tried to be rational. Tried to keep my eyes open long enough to see if the blood belonged to me, and to find a weapon of some kind, but the light sent piercing flashes of pain through my head and I kept losing focus.

Next thing I knew the car was stopped and I was alone. Shaved Head and Pudgy were talking from somewhere outside the vehicle, but I couldn’t make out the words.

How the hell was I going to get out of this?

The car door opened.

Delano West focused those horrible pale blue-gray eyes on me. They were all wrong. The color, the emptiness, the need to kill, all sent spasms of fear hurling through my body. His face started to shift, becoming cat-like. I slammed my eyes shut. Couldn’t erase the image from my mind, so I focused on the horizon. Tried to find that happy place where denial reigns. Purple streaks hung in a soft horizontal pattern in contrast to the darkening sky, and the glow from vapor lights shimmered behind West. The combination cast him in an eerie glow.

Another question answered. One I never thought to ask. Yes, there are demons, and they walk the earth. For a moment my mind sifted through the stack of paranormal fiction sitting next to my bed, and a flicker of impossibility became reality. Surely he couldn’t be a shape-shifter? A lethal cat, temporarily in human form? I dismissed the thought almost before it solidified and reached the same conclusion I had at the barn the day I was shot. Animals aren’t as vicious as humans. West was a shape-shifter, but all of his forms were human. And all were lethal, without any trace of a conscience.

His energy escaped from the shadows and filled the space around us, making it hard for me to breathe. He reached into the car, yanked the duct tape off my mouth, taking a layer of skin with it. My scream pierced the air, a combination of terror and pain.

West pressed his fingers to my neck, cutting off the scream. “If I press here, it will kill you,” he whispered with a smile. A shudder racked my body, and I bit down on my tongue to hold the scream in. Hot and cold alternately raced along my skin, leaving it damp with sweat and fear. A sharp edge scraped my skin. Like a claw.
No
. Not possible. I had to control my imagination. There was enough evil reality to deal with, without me losing it any more than I already had.

The scent of evil hung heavy in the air, burned my nose and coiled in my belly. Nausea clawed to get free. I swallowed it down. Now was not the time to get sick. Every particle of my being knew I had to be calm, had to show him strength not weakness.

He pressed harder against my neck. A warm, wet drop of liquid trickled down my neck. Blood? Darkness skirted my vision.

His eyes glinted in eager anticipation of killing me. Then he laughed, released me, and motioned to Shaved Head. Hands grabbed me roughly under the arms, dragged me out of the car, and propped me against the trunk. I pushed against the cool metal, trying to support myself. My knees were wobbly as all hell and I didn’t want to land on my ass.

That’d be a sure sign of weakness.

I licked my lips. Hurt. Tried to swallow, to find my voice. Logic was beginning to run neck-and-neck with my fear.

He hadn’t killed me.

Yet.

That meant he wanted something. I lost it. Dry heaves shook my body, attracting too much attention. I fought for control.
Later, El. You can deal with whatever he is and whatever he wants you for later.

Questions began pounding in my brain. Like where in the bloody hell were Annie and Pierce? I looked around, frantic for a sign of someone who could help me. They had to be here someplace. Had he killed them? I started to ask, thought better of it. Then I spotted the Town Car parked off to the side of the tarmac. Empty. Fear clogged my throat and I leaned into my hands, pressing them harder against the car to keep from falling.

My attention came back, front and center, as West moved in close, almost touching me. Then he took a step back, looked me up and down. “Expendable.”

He glanced toward the Town Car. “Shelly is missing,” he hissed, “as is my driver.” He reached out, curled his hand around my neck again. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Everything in me screamed no, but my denial came out in a whisper, caught in my throat as his fingers tightened around my neck.

“All of you are trash. Expendable trash.”

He released my neck, backhanded me across the cheek. “Get her to the plane. Now.” Pain on top of pain. He didn’t break my skin, but the slap left a blazing hot sting behind that brought tears to my eyes. A blurry image of West striding toward the hanger brought me back to my original question: where were Pierce and Annie?

West hadn’t killed them, so probably not dead. I needed to touch the empty Town Car. They had to be here someplace. Now if I could just get a full breath and force my knees to support me.

I started to move toward the empty vehicle, but Shaved Head grabbed my arm. “Hey. The plane’s over here.” He jerked me along behind him.

I wobbled, pulled against his grip. “The car.” My throat hurt and my voice sounded raw, barely a rasp.

“What about it? Showed up while the boss was in a meetin’. Empty.”

I kept pulling against him, losing ground with every step. “Dumb broad.” He cuffed me on the side of the head, the pain bringing me to my knees.

He jerked me to my feet. “Stop fightin’ me or this is gonna go bad. The boss said get you to the plane, and I’m not goin’ near that ghost car no how.”

“Ghost car?” I whispered.

“I jus’ said. Showed up from nowhere, nuthin’ and nobody around. Bitchin’ spooky.”

By the time we got to the plane, my knees had stopped shaking and I could breathe freely—if you can call a racing heart and shallow, gasping breaths breathing.

Shaved Head tried to push me up the stairs, but I shook his hands off and dropped down on the steps leading up to the small, private jet.

No way was I getting on that plane.

I’d rather be shot than confined on a plane with Delano West. Furthermore, Paris was not high on my list of places to visit this evening. Not that anyone listened to my thoughts on the matter. Shaved Head tossed me over his shoulder, jogged up the steps, and dropped me on a carpeted floor. The lock clicked into place.

I laid there, gasping, tears rolling down my cheeks. Completely gave in to the physical and emotional pain wracking my body. Minutes crawled by while I wallowed in misery, my breathing grew louder and hitched as the sobbing clogged my nose. Finally, I rolled to my knees, unrolled a strip of toilet paper, and pressed it against my nose as best I could. The blowing process was messy, but I could breathe.

Common sense began to push through my meltdown, and I checked out my prison. Not a typical airline bathroom, roomy, plush carpeting, granite countertops. I needed something sharp to slice the duct tape off my wrists, and I needed my lock-picking tools—which were safely at home in my bedside table.

There was an under-the-sink cabinet and some drawers, my only options for finding a sharp edge. I scooted along the floor, caught the knob on the cabinet door between my knuckles, and pulled. Not an elegant move, but it kept my fingertips clear, and I managed to get the door open on the third try. Rolls of toilet paper, liquid soap in designer containers, a stack of hand towels, none of which would cut through duct tape. With enough time, I might be able to use the soap to work my hands free.

I pulled the right hand drawer open, a move that would have been almost impossible if my wrists were tied behind my back. Gratitude, tailored to the situation. Plastic comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. No help there. The left hand drawer yielded a safety razor, sharp, but difficult to maneuver. Weren’t rich guys supposed to use straight razors? Damn, it was my only option, so I’d have to pick it up. I braced myself, palmed it. Images of West spun through my head, gagging me. When the worst of it passed, I sat on the commode and worked away at the duct tape with the edge of the razor. Frustrating, and I was making very little progress. I needed help. Surely the patrol car had noticed my broken front door. And Mitch. He’d be at my house by now, calling in help from wherever.

And where
were
Pierce and Annie? West, the foul excuse for a human being, should have been neatly tucked away hours ago. I had to get off the plane
now
. Couldn’t count on them rescuing me before West was scheduled to takeoff. I scanned the bathroom, taking in any and all possibilities, but deftly avoiding looking in the mirror. The cuts, scrapes, and bruises on my face would not inspire confidence.

If I were locked in my bathroom at home, how would I…the wire gizmo that I kept on the top of the door frame. True I kept it on the
outside
in case someone got locked in the bathroom by accident, but maybe, just maybe…

West entertained women on this flying bedroom of an aircraft. Surely one of them left a bobby pin or hair clip. I went back to the drawers, held my breath, and pulled out the paper lining. The images weren’t so overwhelming this time. An older woman, probably the cleaning lady, had laid the paper. Yes! Three bobby pins. I could work with those.

A click sounded in the lock. Not a key. Breath whooshed from my lungs. Had to be Pierce. Or Annie. Any of West’s thugs would have used a key…unless they were after me. Personally. Pudgy had had that disgusting smirk going on when he ogled my breasts. A shudder hit my muscles, and I backed into the corner behind the door, holding the razor in my fist. With my hands bound, there wasn’t much I could do, but even one slice could give me an advantage.

Several clicks, a soft thunk, and then nothing.

Totally silent. What the hell was the clicking sound I heard? Had to be the lock.

Minutes passed. And then someone pounded on the door. “You okay in there?” A voice I didn’t recognize.

“Let me out. Please, get me out of here.” Desperate. I sounded raw and desperate. When I talked, it pulled on the raw skin around my lips, burned.

“No can do, little lady. The boss has plans for you.” His creepy chuckle shot a bolt of fear into my gut and then faded eerily, the air crawling with menace as he left me alone.

Okay, then. On my own. A myriad of conflicting thoughts knotted my belly. Bottom line: good that Pudgy wasn’t after me, bad that Pierce wasn’t rescuing me. I knelt in front of the door, straightened a bobby pin to use like the gizmo thingamajig. Problem was, my bathroom locks were the twisty type, not the key type. This door needed a key—from both sides.

Calming breath.
Focus on Pierce, El. Focus on what he taught you.
The first bobby pin snapped in half on when I tried to turn it in the lock, a piece lodging in the mechanism. Tears burned, blurred the lock until I couldn’t see a thing. I swiped at them with my forearm, then closed my eyes. When I was doing this with Pierce, my eyes were closed. The second bobby pin bent, almost snapped. One more time.
Easy, El, just be gentle with it. The lock is made of spun glass, no room for fumble fingers.