Forster, Suzanne (9 page)

The soft malice in his tone seemed to ignite something frightening within him. Gus felt an impulse to clutch her arms, but resisted it. He'd already reduced her to a gibbering idiot with that snake business, and she wasn't anxious to give him another opening. On the other hand, she wasn't crazy enough to provoke him, either. At least not any more than she already had.

"I'm going to clean it up, " she assured him. "Don't work yourself into a state. "

She started for the sink, but she'd barely taken a step when she felt a sharp tug on the back of her T-shirt. It had to be him. Knowing that for a dead certainty, she kept moving, stretching the shirt's material as far as it would go.

"Going somewhere, Gus?"

"Yeah, maybe Paris—right after I do the dishes. "

He yanked firmly, bringing her to a halt midstride.

"I said I'd clean it up!" she insisted.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that."

He reeled her in like a hooked fish, dragging insistently on the shirt until he'd hauled her all the way back to where he stood. She skidded part of the way, then lost her balance and crash-landed in his arms. A sliver from the rough wood floor stung her foot and fiery anger stung her pride.

"I'm
already
in a state," he warned her, roping his arm around her middle and pulling her close. "I'm so worked up, I may go fucking crazy, Gus. "

There
was
a crazy edge to his voice, which told her this was no idle threat. He meant it this time. She could feel his hipbone nudging her backside and his hot breath riffling her hair. His heartbeat, heavy against her shoulder blade, was pumping out a message all its own.

Gooseflesh crept up the front of her thighs. An uneasy glance down there told her why. Her T-shirt had hiked up when he'd pulled her back, and now it was flashing
Hustler
magazine glimpses of her private parts. "Would you mind?" she asked.

"Probably... mind what?"

"Could you release my shirt? It's—"

She hesitated too long in search of a safe way to explain.

The hand he'd wrapped around her waist had already begun a reconnaissance journey of its own, patting searchingly down her belly to her thigh and grazing the dark silky thatch of pubic hair on the way. "You're not wearing anything under this shirt?" He looked over her shoulder to peer down her body.

"What the hell?" He stepped back and lifted the back of the shirt, exposing her buttocks to whichever of the myriad lizards, flies, and rattlesnakes might be interested. "Where's the rest of your bathing suit?"

"It was wet."

"Jesus," he breathed. "What are you? An exhibitionist? Somebody should paddle your bare ass!"

"I wouldn't
be
bare-assed if you'd let go of the T-shirt. "

"You're cruising, " he warned. He released the shirt and caught hold of her arm as she stumbled forward, ostensibly to steady her, but she could tell he had other things in mind. Evil things by the look of him. She ducked, dodged, and danced like a boxer, but before she could get clear of him, he'd scooped her up in his arms and was carrying her toward the cot.

"What are you doing?" she demanded to know. "If you've got any crazy ideas about my bare— Oh, God, no! You
wouldn't—"

The grim flex of his jaw told her he was getting ready to claim his pound of flesh, literally. His grip was like iron, but then so was Gus's will. And if she had anything to say about it, he wasn't going to lay a hand on her ass, bare or otherwise!

She heaved up, pushing and straining against him to get free. An elbow accidentally jammed in his ribs did the trick. It also got her unceremoniously dumped. Fortunately the cot was there to break her fall.

As soon as she hit the lumpy mattress, she reared up, fists flying. "You're the one who's cruising, mister!"

He did three things then, three simple, seemingly reflexive moves that set the stage for the showdown that followed. She would never know if they were calculated or spontaneous, but she did know one thing.
She should have listened to her little voice.
First, he infuriated her by laughing, then he blocked the punch she swung at him, and last, with an amazing economy of effort, he flipped her over on her stomach and pinned her to the mattress with an arm-lock.

"You bastard!" Her moan of pain was more for effect than anything else. She was facing the wall and couldn't see what he was doing, but she could feel his knee on her bottom, holding her down. He was also up to something further south, in the vicinity of her legs. He was trying to get them apart!

She clenched her thighs and linked her ankles, then craned around to get a look at what he was doing. The first thing she spotted was the pair of blue jeans he'd given her earlier. They'd been lying across the bottom of the bed where she'd tossed them. Now he had them clamped under his arm, and he was working furiously at the hammerlock of her crossed legs.

She might as well have been naked for all the help her T-shirt was. The damn thing was twisted up around her midriff.

"Let go of me!"

"If I did," he muttered, "I couldn't live with myself."

"I'm a grown woman, you pervert! You lay a hand on me and it qualifies as sexual assault. "

"It should qualify me for sainthood."

"All right, then, go ahead, beat me! Do it!"

"Beat you?" His head snapped up and he scowled at her. "I'm trying to get you dressed, you little slut. "

"Slut?"
The word fairly shot out of her. It wasn't the first time Gus had been insulted with a pejorative like that, and it wouldn't be the last. Models were fair game, and with her reputation, she might as well have been wearing a bull's-eye on her forehead. But coming from him, it felt like an open-handed slap, and it hurt like hell.

Stung, she jackknifed around and slapped him back. Her open palm made a sharp, popping sound against his cheek and left a bright crimson handprint on his skin. Tears sprung to his eyes, and she could hardly believe she'd hit him that hard.

"Okay, you're on, " he warned savagely. "You want a pervert, you got one. "

Gus thrashed and kicked for all she was worth, but he hauled her up by her hips, clearly determined to wrestle her into the time-honored position of prep school corporal punishment. When at last he had her prone and bent over his lap, he clamped an arm over her shoulder blades.

"You degenerate!" she wailed, astounded by his unspeakable crudeness. "You're proving my theory about men and frontal intelligence!"

"What theory?"

"That you don't have any!" She flinched in anticipation of the first whack, but instead she felt the pressure lift from her shoulder blades. He was letting her up? She twisted around to look at him. "You're not going to do it?"

He shrugged it off. "What's the point. "

But Gus was too angry to let it go that easily. In fact, she was outraged. "Oh, no—you're not getting away with that, " she snapped. "You do it! You just go right ahead and do it. Give vent to all those animal urges, humiliate me! You know you want to. "

"I do
not
want to. "

"Of course you do! It's a power thing with men like you. "

"Go on, get up, " he said wearily. "The party's over. "

"No way! Not until you prove exactly how primitive you are! I want to be able to remember this moment for the rest of my life—and hate you for it. You've robbed me of my dignity. You will not rob me of my anger!"

"All right, for chrissake!"

His hand arced up and Gus shrieked. "No! Don't you touch me! If you touch me, I'll—
Ouuuch!"

Another quick crack of his palm forced a gasp out of her. God, it stung like nettles! The third stroke brought a litany of swear words so obscene even she couldn't believe she'd said them.

"You have a license to carry that mouth?" Disgust in his voice, he dropped his legs and let her slide to the floor. With a sidelong glance at her smoldering fury, he shook his head. "I'm not into cheap thrills, " he said, rising from the cot. "Let somebody else teach you manners. "

The man who had sex with the dead wasn't into cheap thrills?

Gus glared at his scarred back as he crossed the room and wished she had a knife. A gun would be too neat, too quick. She wanted him to suffer. She didn't care how terribly he must have suffered once, considering the wounds he already had. Yanking her stretched-out T-shirt, she pulled it into place, and when finally she'd restored herself to her former pitiful condition, she scooped up the overcoat, returned to her perch on the cot, and wrapped the coat around her.

There would be time, she told herself.
Plenty
of time to deal with this man. When her fiancé finally found them, he would exact some sweet justice. All she had to do was get to the phone in the Blazer and let him know where she was. Her darling Rob would come for her. She had boundless faith.

Shifting around to avoid the tender spot on her backside, she began to examine the damage to the soles of her feet.

There turned out to be only one sliver, but it was a nasty one. She would probably need first aid. The man was a Neanderthal, dragging women around. Fortunately or not, restraint had never been one of Gus's virtues, and as she dug out the tiny shard and winced at the pain, she couldn't resist having the last word.

"If you've got some crazy he-man notion that a spanking was what I needed, " she told him, "just get it out of your head. Corporeal punishment doesn't work, you know. All the experts say that. Not even with children. All it does is enrage them and teach them that hitting is appropriate, which of course, it isn't—"

"Either you shut up and go to sleep instantly, or I'll do it for you. "

"Oh, yeah... how?"

"With this. " He whirled on her, a weapon in his hand—a big weapon. It was definitely not a tranquilizer gun.

Gus watched his thumb depress the hammer.

She heard the click of a bullet being chambered.

Suddenly it was very quiet in the Mojave Desert.

Chapter 6

"Eeeeeek!"
The fiend is after me!
The evil, twisted fiend!!"

Lake Featherstone heard the childlike shrieks just seconds before he saw a bullet of pink come barreling down the formal stairway at him. He'd been in the library, lingering over after-dinner brandy, perhaps longer than he should have, and now he was headed to his room for the evening.

"She's torturing me!" the bullet cried, whizzing down the steps past him. "The wicked kitchen Amazon is torturing me!"

Lake touched the balustrade, steadying himself as he turned to watch his five-year-old niece dart down the remaining few stairs and skate in her ballet slippers across the gleaming black and white tiles of the mansion's foyer. He'd turned thirty-seven his last birthday, but living in close quarters with such a strange little urchin often made him feel twice that old.

"Bridget! Come back here!"

Now Frances Brightly was lumbering down the stairs, a pair of children's cotton pajamas waving in her hand, and the child had begun shrieking again.

"What's the problem, Frances?" Lake asked, straining to be heard over the racket.

"Kid needs her chops busted, that's the problem. " Frances snorted indignantly as she came to a halt a few steps above him. "Can't get her out of those damn tights, not even to go to bed. She wants to eat, drink, sleep in that ballet getup. "

Bridget had stopped shrieking, but she was poised at the end of the hallway, apparently prepared to run out the front door into the night in order to avoid the unthinkable violation that Frances was suggesting.

"Madame Zola says we must live the dance, " Bridget piped up. "We
must
eat, sleep, and drink the dance. How can I sleep the dance if 1 have to wear those blecchy pajamas to bed?"

"Madame Zola needs her pointy French head examined, " Frances mumbled, resuming her efforts to get down the steps. "Too many damn hours in toe shoes, if you ask me. "

Another shriek rose from the child, and Lake threw up his hand to stop both of them. The noise was going to wake Lily, his twin sister, and then he'd have more shrieking women on his hands than he could possibly contend with. Lily had gone up earlier, complaining of a headache, and since she'd seemed tense lately—
brittle
was probably more apt as he thought about it—and surprisingly unpredictable, he didn't want to provoke her any further.

"Frances, why don't you let me talk to Bridget?" he said in soothing, ministerial tones. "I'm sure she'll listen to me. "

"Oh, yeah, right." The housekeeper's monumental disdain said teaching pigs to fly backward would be easier.
"You
can put her to bed then. " She turned herself around and started back up the steps, still grumbling. "It's my day off tomorrow. Getting my things together and going home now. "

And not a moment too soon, Lake thought.

As she made her heavy, unhappy ascent and left, he seated himself in the elegant curve of the mahogany stairs, half of a double staircase that arced up in perfect symmetry from either side of the foyer to the second floor. Hung directly between the stairs, a splendid antique Viennese chandelier dripped silvery light from tier after tier of crystal ice.

Bridget was already gazing at him with interest and hazarding an approach, her fierce blue eyes blinking. He thought about what a prickly little charmer she was, with her fair skin and hair, and how sad it was that none of them had ever been able to love her the way they should have, except perhaps Gus.

There were so many disturbing reasons, not the least of which was the lingering, tragic death of her mother, Lake and Lily's younger sister, Jillian. That had taken an indescribable toll on the family, though perhaps Bridget least of all, since she'd been an infant when it happened. Privately Lake had always felt the child, herself, was part of the problem. She was a unique and difficult creature. Gus had discovered her reading at three, and Bridget had shown other early signs of genius, including an aptitude for math and science. They'd put her in a private preschool for the gifted, and she'd seemed reasonably content with her books and her ballet, until recently.