Heartbreaker (20 page)

The car was a big, blue full-size Chevrolet.
She could tell that a man was driving, because the silhouette was so large. It
was only a silhouette, because he had something black pulled over his head,
like a ski mask.

The coldness was back. She acted
instinctively, jamming her foot onto the gas pedal, and the sporty little
Mercedes leaped forward. The Chevrolet swerved toward her again, and she swung
wildly to the side. She almost missed it… almost. The Chevrolet clipped
her rear bumper, and the smaller, lighter car spun in a nauseating circle
before sliding off the road, across the wide sandy shoulder, and scraping
against an enormous pine before it bogged down in the soft dirt and weeds.

She heard herself screaming, but the hard
jolt that stopped the car stopped her screams, too. Dazed, her head lolled
against the broken side window for a moment before terror drove the fogginess
away. She groped for the handle, but couldn't budge the door. The pine tree
blocked it. She tried to scramble across the seat to the other door, and only
then realized she was still buckled into her seat Fumbling, looking around
wildly for the Chevrolet, she released the buckle and threw herself to the
other side of the car. She pushed the door open and tumbled out in the same
motion, her breath wheezing in and out of her lungs.

Numbly she crouched by the fender and tried
to listen, but she could hear nothing over her tortuous breathing and the
thunder of her heart. Old habits took over, and she used a trick she'd often
used before to calm herself after one of Roger's insane rages, taking a deep
breath and holding it. The maneuver slowed her heartbeat almost immediately,
and the roar faded out of her ears.

She couldn't hear anything. Oh, God, had he
stopped? Cautiously she peered over the car, but she couldn't see the blue
Chevrolet

Slowly she realized it had gone. He hadn't
stopped. She stumbled to the road and looked in both directions, but the road
was empty.

She couldn't believe it had happened. He had
deliberately run her off the road, not once, but twice. If the small Mercedes
had hit one of the huge pines that thickly lined the road head-on, she could
easily have been killed. Whoever the man was, he must have figured the heavier
Chevrolet could muscle her off the road without any great risk to himself.

He'd tried to kill her.

It was five minutes before another car came
down the road; it was blue, and for a horrible moment she panicked, thinking
the Chevrolet was returning, but as it came closer she could tell this car was
much older and wasn't even a Chevrolet. She stumbled to the middle of the road,
waving her arms to flag it down.

All she could think of was John. She wanted
John. She wanted him to hold her close and shut the terror away with his
strength and possessiveness. Her voice shook as she leaned in the window and
told the young boy, "Please—call John Rafferty. Tell him I've
been…I've had an accident. Tell him I'm all right."

"Sure, lady," the boy said.
"What's your name?"

"Michelle," she said. "My
name's Michelle."

The boy looked at the car lodged against the
pine. "You need a wrecker, too. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm not hurt. Just hurry,
please."

"Sure thing."

Either John called the sheriffs department or
the boy had, because John and a county sheriffs car arrived from opposite
directions almost simultaneously. It hadn't been much more than ten minutes
since the boy had stopped, but in that short length of time it had grown
considerably darker. John threw his door open as the truck ground to a stop and
was out of the vehicle before it had settled back on its wheels, striding
toward her. She couldn't move toward him; she was shaking too violently.
Beneath his mustache his lips were a thin, grim line.

He walked all the way around her, checking
her from head to foot. Only when he didn't see any blood on her did he haul her
against his chest, his arms so tight they almost crushed her. He buried his
hand in her hair and bent his head down until his jaw rested on her temple.
"Are you really all right?" he muttered hoarsely.

Her arms locked around his waist in a death
grip. "I was wearing my seat belt," she whispered. A single tear slid
unnoticed down her cheek.

"God, when I got that phone
call—" He broke off, because there was no way he could describe the
stark terror he'd felt despite the kid's assurance that she was okay. He'd had
to see her for himself, hold her, before he could really let himself believe she
wasn't harmed. If he'd seen blood on her, he would have gone berserk. Only now
was his heartbeat settling down, and he looked over her head at the car.

The deputy approached them, clipboard in
hand. "Can you answer a few questions, ma'am?"

John's arms dropped from around her, but he
remained right beside her as she answered the usual questions about name, age
and driver's license number. When the deputy asked her how it had happened, she
began shaking again.

"A…a car ran me off the
road," she stammered. "A blue Chevrolet"

The deputy looked up, his eyes abruptly
interested as a routine accident investigation became something more. "Ran
you off the road? How?"

"He sideswiped me." Fiercely she
clenched her fingers together in an effort to still their trembling. "He
pushed me off the road."

"He didn't just come too close, and you
panicked and ran off the road?" John asked, his brows drawing together.

"No! He pushed me off the road. I
slammed on my brakes and he went on past, then turned around and came
back."

"He came back? Did you get his
name?" The deputy made a notation on his pad. Leaving the scene of an
accident was a crime.

"No, he didn't stop. He…he tried
to ram me. He hit my bumper, and I spun off the road, then into that pine
tree."

John jerked his head at the deputy and they
walked over to the car, bending down to inspect the damage. They talked
together in low voices; Michelle couldn't make out what they were saying, but
she didn't move closer. She stood by the road, listening to the peaceful sounds
of the deepening
Florida
twilight It was all so out of place. How could the
crickets be chirping so happily when someone had just tried to commit murder?
She felt dazed, as if none of this were real. But the damaged car was real. The
blue Chevrolet had been real, as had the man wearing the black ski mask.

The two men walked back toward her. John
looked at her sharply; her face was deathly white, even in the growing gloom,
and she was shaking. She looked terrified. The Mercedes
was
an
expensive car; did she expect him to tear a strip off her hide because she'd
wrecked it? She'd never had to worry about things like that before, never had
to be accountable for anything. If she'd banged a fender, it hadn't been
important; her father had simply had the car repaired, or bought her a new one.
Hell, he wasn't happy that she'd wrecked the damn car, but he wasn't a fanatic
about cars, no matter how much they cost. It would have been different if she'd
ruined a good horse. He was just thankful she wasn't hurt

"It's all right," he said, trying
to soothe her as he took her arm and walked her to the truck. "I have
insurance on it. You're okay, and that's what matters. Just calm down. I'll
take you home as soon as the deputy's finished with his report and the wrecker
gets here."

Frantically she clutched his arm. "But
what about—"

He kissed her and rubbed her shoulder.
"I said it's all right, baby. I'm not mad. You don't have to make
excuses."

Frozen, Michelle sat in the truck and watched
as he walked back to the deputy. He didn't believe her; neither of them
believed her. It was just like before, when no one would believe handsome,
charming Roger Beckman was capable of hitting his wife, because it was obvious
he adored her. It was just too unbelievable. Even her father had thought she was
exaggerating.

She was so cold, even though the temperature
was still in the nineties. She had begun to trust, to accept that John stood
behind her, as unmoving as a block of granite, his strength available whenever
she needed him. For the first time she hadn't felt alone. He'd been there,
ready to shoulder her burdens. But suddenly it was just like before, and she
was cold and alone again. Her father had given her everything materially, but
had been too weak to face an ugly truth. Roger had showered her with gifts,
pampering her extravagantly to make up for the bruises and terror. John had
given her a place to live, food to eat, mind-shattering physical
pleasure…but now he, too, was turning away from a horribly real threat.
It was too much effort to believe such a tale. Why would anyone try to kill
her?

She didn't know, but someone had. The phone
calls…the phone calls were somehow connected. They'd given her the same
feeling she'd had just before she got in the car, the same sense of menace.
God, had he been watching her at her house? Had he been waiting for her? He
could be anywhere. He knew her, but she didn't know him, and she was alone
again. She'd always been alone, but she hadn't known it. For a while she'd
trusted, hoped, and the contrast with that warm feeling of security made cold
reality just that much more piercing.

The wrecker arrived with its yellow lights
flashing and backed up to the Mercedes. Michelle watched with detached interest
as the car was hauled away from the pine, She didn't even wince at the amount
of damage that had been done to the left side. John thought she'd made up a
wild tale to keep from having to accept blame for wrecking the car. He didn't
believe her. The deputy didn't believe her. There should be blue paint on the
car, but evidently the scrapes left by the big pine had obscured it. Maybe dirt
covered it. Maybe it was too dark for them to see. For whatever reason, they
didn't believe her.

She was utterly silent as John drove home.
Edie came to the door, watching anxiously, then hurried forward as Michelle
slid out of the truck.

"Are you all right? John left here like
a bat out of hell, didn't stop to tell us anything except you'd had an
accident"

"I'm fine," Michelle murmured.
"I just need a bath. I'm freezing."

Frowning, John touched her arm. It was icy,
despite the heat. She wasn't hurt, but she'd had a shock.

"Make some coffee," he instructed
Edie as he turned Michelle toward the stairs. "I'll give her a bath."

Slowly Michelle pulled away from him. Her
face was calm. "No, I'll do it. I'm all right. Just give me a few minutes
by myself."

After a hot but brief shower, she went
downstairs and drank coffee, and even managed to eat a few bites of the meal
Edie had put back when John tore out of the house.

In bed that night, for the first time she
couldn't respond to him. He needed her almost desperately, to reassure himself
once again that she was truly all right He needed to strengthen the bond
between them, to draw her even closer with ties as old as time. But though he
was gentle and stroked her for a long time, she remained tense under his hands.
She was still too quiet, somehow distant from him.

Finally he just held her, stroking her hair
until she slept and her soft body relaxed against him. But he lay awake for hours,
his body burning, his eyes open. God, how close he'd come to losing her!