Heartbreaker (23 page)

"I filed charges against him once; his
parents bought him out of it and made it plain I wasn't to do such a thing
again. Then I tried leaving him, but he found me and carried me back.
He…he said he'd have Dad killed if I ever tried to leave him again."

"You believed him?" John asked
harshly, the first words he'd spoken. She didn't flinch from the harshness,
knowing it wasn't for her.

"Oh, yes, I believed him." She
managed a sad little laugh. "I still do. His family has enough money that
he could have it done and it would never be traced back to him."

"But you left him anyway."

"Not until I found a way to control
him."

"How?"

She began trembling a little, and her voice
wavered out of control. "The…the scars on my back. When he did that,
his parents were in Europe; they weren't there to have files destroyed and
witnesses bribed until it was too late. I already had a copy of everything,
enough to press charges against him. I bought my divorce with it, and I made
his parents promise to keep him away from me or I'd use what I had. They were
very conscious of their position and family prestige."

"Screw their prestige," he said
flatly, trying very hard to keep his rage under control.

"It's academic now; they're dead."

He didn't think it was much of a loss. People
who cared more about their family prestige than about a young woman being
brutally beaten and terrorized didn't amount to much in his opinion.

Silence stretched, and he realized she wasn't
going to add anything else. If he let her, she'd leave it at that highly
condensed and edited version, but he needed to know more. It hurt him in ways
he'd never thought he could be hurt, but it was vital to him that he know all
he could about her, or he would never be able to close the distance between
them. He wanted to know where she went in her mind and why she wouldn't let him
follow, what she was thinking, what had happened in the two years since her
divorce.

He touched her back, caressing her with his
fingertips. "Is this why you wouldn't go swimming?"

She stirred against his shoulder, her voice
like gossamer wings in the darkness. "Yes. I know the scars aren't bad;
they've faded a lot But in my mind they're still like they were… I was so
scared someone would see them and ask how I got them."

"That's why you always put your
nightgown back on after we'd made love."

She was silent, but he felt her nod.

"Why didn't you want
me
to
know? I'm not exactly some stranger walking down the street."

No, he was her heart and her heartbreaker,
the only man she'd ever loved, and therefore more important to her than anyone
else in the world. She hadn't wanted him to know the ugliness that had been in
her life.

"I felt dirty," she whispered.
"Ashamed."

"Good God!" he exploded, raising up
on his elbow to lean over her. "Why? It wasn't your fault. You were the
victim, not the villain."

"I know, but sometimes knowledge doesn't
help. The feelings were still there."

He kissed her, long and slow and hot, loving
her with his tongue and letting her know how much he desired her. He kissed her
until she responded, lifting her arms up to his neck and giving him her tongue
in return. Then he settled onto the pillow again, cradling her head on his
shoulder. She was nude; he had gently but firmly refused to let her put on a
gown. That secret wasn't between them any longer, and she was glad. She loved
the feel of his warm, hard-muscled body against her bare skin.

He was still brooding, unable to leave it alone.
She felt his tension and slowly ran her hand over his chest, feeling the curly
hair and small round nipples with their tiny center points. "Relax,"
she murmured, kissing his shoulder. "It's over."

"You said his parents controlled him,
but they're dead. Has he bothered you since?"

She shivered, remembering the phone calls
she'd had from Roger. "He called me a couple of times, at the house. I
haven't seen him. I hope I never have to see him again." The last sentence
was full of desperate sincerity.

"At the house? Your house? How long
ago?"

"Before you brought me here."

"I'd like to meet him," John said
quietly, menacingly.

"I hope you never do. He's…not
sane."

They lay together, the warm, humid night
wrapped around them, and she began to feel sleepy. Then he touched her again,
and she felt the raw anger in him, the savage need to know. "What did he
use?"

She flinched away from him. Swearing softly,
he caught her close. "Tell me."

"There's no point in it."

"I want to know."

"You already know." Tears stung her
eyes. "It isn't original."

"A belt."

Her breath caught in her throat.
"He…he wrapped the leather end around his hand."

John actually snarled, his big body jerking.
He thought of a belt buckle cutting into her soft skin, and it made him sick.
It made him murderous. More than ever, he wanted to get his hands on Roger
Beckman.

He felt her hands on him, clinging.
"Please," she whispered. "Let's go to sleep."

He wanted to know one more thing, something
that struck him as odd. "Why didn't you tell your dad? He had a lot of
contacts; he could have done something. You didn't have to try to protect
him."

Her laugh was soft and faintly bitter, not
really a laugh at all. "I did tell him. He didn't believe me. It was
easier for him to think I'd made it all up than to admit my life had gone so
wrong."

She didn't tell him that she'd never loved
Roger, that her life had gone wrong because she'd married one man while loving
another.

"Telephone, Michelle!" Edie called
from the kitchen.

Michelle had just come in, and she was on her
way upstairs to shower; she detoured into the office to take the call there.
Her mind was on her cattle; they were in prime condition, and John had arranged
the sale. She would soon be leaving the ranks of the officially broke and
entering those of the merely needy. John had scowled when she'd told him that.

"Hello," she said absently.

Silence.

The familiar chill went down her spine.
"Hello!" she almost yelled, her fingers turning white from pressure.

"Michelle."

Her name was almost whispered, but she heard
it, recognized it. "No," she said, swallowing convulsively.
"Don't call me again."

"How could you do this to me?"

"Leave me alone!" she screamed, and
slammed the phone down. Her legs were shaking, and she leaned on the desk,
gulping in air. She was frightened. How had Roger found her here? Dear God,
what would John do if he found out Roger was bothering her? He'd be furious…
More than furious. He'd be murderous. But what if Roger called again and John
answered? Would Roger ask for her, or would he remain silent?

The initial silence haunted her, reminding
her of the other phone calls she had received. She'd had the same horrible
feeling from all of them. Then she knew: Roger had made those other phone
calls. She couldn't begin to guess why he hadn't spoken, but suddenly she had
no doubt about who her caller had been. Why hadn't she realized it before? He
had the resources to track her down, and he was sick and obsessive enough to do
so. He knew where she was, knew she was intimately involved with another man.
She felt nauseated, thinking of his jealous rages. He was entirely capable of
coming down here to snatch her away from the man he would consider his rival
and take her back "where she belonged."

More than two years, and she still wasn't
free of him.

She thought about getting an injunction
against him for harassment, but John would have to know, because the telephone
was his. She didn't want him to know; his reaction could be too violent, and
she didn't want him to get in any trouble.

She wasn't given the option of keeping it
from him. He opened the door to the office, a questioning look on his face as
he stepped inside; Edie must have told him Michelle had a call, and that was
unusual enough to make him curious. Michelle didn't have time to compose her
face. He stopped, eyeing her sharply. She knew she looked pale and distraught.
She watched as his eyes went slowly, inevitably, to the telephone. He never
missed a detail, damn him; it was almost impossible to hide anything from him.
She could have done it if she'd had time to deal with the shock, but now all
she could do was stand frozen in her tracks. Why couldn't he have remained in
the stable five minutes longer? She would have been in the shower; she would
have had time to think of something.

"That was him, wasn't it?" he asked
flatly.

Her hand crept toward her throat as she
stared at him like a rabbit in a snare. John crossed the room with swift
strides, catching her shoulders in his big warm hands.

"What did he say? Did he threaten
you?"

Numbly she shook her head. "No. He
didn't threaten me. It wasn't what he said; it's just that I can't stand
hearing—" Her voice broke, and she tried to turn away, afraid to
push her self-control any further.

John caught her more firmly to him, tucking
her in the crook of one arm as he picked up the receiver. "What's his
number?" he snapped.

Frantically Michelle tried to take the phone from
him. "No, don't! That won't solve anything!"

His face grim, he evaded her efforts and
pinned her arms to her sides. "He's good at terrorizing a woman, but it's
time he knows there's someone else he'll have to deal with if he ever calls you
again. Do you still remember his number or not? I can get it, but it'll be
easier if you give it to me."

"It's unlisted," she said,
stalling.

He gave her a long, level look. "I can
get it," he repeated.

She didn't doubt that he could. When he
decided to do something, he did it, and lesser people had better get out of his
way. Defeated, she gave him the number and watched as he punched the buttons.

As close to him as she was, she could hear
the ringing on the other end of the line, then a faint voice as someone answered.
"Get Roger Beckman on the line," he ordered in the hard voice that no
one disobeyed.

His brows snapped together in a scowl as he
listened, then he said "Thanks" and hung up. Still frowning, he held
her to him for a minute before telling her, "The housekeeper said he's on
vacation in the south of France, and she doesn't know when he'll be back."

"But I just talked to him!" she
said, startled. "He wasn't in France!"

John let her go and walked around to sit
behind the desk, the frown turning abstracted. "Go on and take a
shower," he said quietly. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

Michelle drew back, feeling cold all over
again. Didn't he believe her? She knew Roger wasn't in the south of France;
that call certainly hadn't been an overseas call. The connection had been too
good, as clear as a local call. No, of course he didn't believe her, just as he
hadn't believed her about the blue Chevrolet. She walked away, her back rigid
and her eyes burning. Roger wasn't in France, even if the housekeeper had said
he was, but why was he trying to keep his location a secret?

After Michelle left, John sat in the study,
pictures running through his mind, and he didn't like any of them. He saw
Michelle's face, so white and pinched, her eyes terrified; he saw the small
white scars on her back, remembered the sick look she got when she talked about
her ex-husband. She'd worn the same look just now. Something wasn't right. He'd
see Roger Beckman in hell before he let the man anywhere near Michelle again.

He needed information, and he was willing to
use any means available to him to get it. Michelle meant more to him than
anything else in the world.

Something had happened the summer before at
his neighbor's house over on Diamond Bay, and his neighbor, Rachel Jones, had
been shot. John had seen pure hell then, in the black eyes of the man who had
held Rachel's wounded body in his arms. The man had looked as if the pain
Rachel had been enduring had been ripping his soul out. At the time John hadn't
truly understood the depths of the man's agony; at the time he'd still been
hiding the truth of his own vulnerability from himself. Rachel had married her
black-eyed warrior this past winter. Now John understood the man's anguish,
because now he had Michelle, and his own life would be worthless without her.

He'd like to have Rachel's husband, Sabin,
with him now, as well as the big blond man who had been helping them. Those two
men had something wild about them, the look of predators, but they would
understand his need to protect Michelle. They would gladly have helped him hunt
Beckman down like the animal he was.

He frowned. They weren't here, but Andy
Phelps was, and Phelps had been involved with that mess at Diamond Bay last
summer. He looked up a number and punched the buttons, feeling the anger build
in him as he thought of Michelle's terrified face. "Andy Phelps,
please."

When the sheriffs deputy answered, John said,

"Andy, this is Rafferty. Can you do some
quiet investigating?"

Andy was a former D.E.A. agent, and, besides
that, he had a few contacts it wasn't safe to know too much about. He said
quietly, "What's up?"

John outlined the situation, then waited
while Andy thought of the possibilities.

"Okay, Michelle says the guy calling her
is her ex-husband, but his housekeeper says he's out of the country,
right?"

"Yeah."

"Is she sure it's her ex?"

"Yes. And she said he wasn't in
France."

"You don't have a lot to go on. You'd
have to prove he was the one doing the calling before you could get an
injunction, and it sounds as if he's got a good alibi."

''Can you find out if he's really out of the
country? I don't think he is, but why would he pretend, unless he's trying to
cover his tracks for some reason?"

"You're a suspicious man,
Rafferty."

"I have reason to be," John said in
a cold, even tone. "I've seen the marks he left on Michelle. I don't want
him anywhere near her."

Andy's voice changed as he digested that
information, anger and disgust entering his tone. "Like that, huh? Do you
think he's in the area?"

"He's certainly not at his home, and we
know he isn't in France. He's calling Michelle, scaring her to death. I'd say
it's a possibility."

"I'll start checking. There are a few
favors I can call in. You might put a tape on your phone, so if he calls back
you'll have proof."

"There's something else," John
said, rubbing his forehead. "Michelle had an accident a few weeks ago. She
said someone ran her off the road, a guy in a blue Chevrolet. I didn't believe
her, damn it, and neither did the deputy. No one saw anything, and we didn't
find any paint on the car, so I thought someone might have gotten a little
close to her and she panicked. But she said he turned around, came back and
tried to hit her again."

"That's not your usual
someone-ran-me-off-the-road tale," Andy said sharply. "Has she said
anything else?"

"No. She hasn't talked about it at
all."

"You're thinking it could be her
ex-husband."

"I don't know. It might not have
anything at all to do with the phone calls, but I don't want to take the
chance."

"Okay, I'll check around. Keep an eye on
her, and hook a tape recorder up to the phone."

John hung up and sat there for a long time,
silently using every curse word he knew. Keeping an eye on her would be easy;
she hadn't been off the ranch since the accident, hadn't even gone to check her
own house. Now he knew why, and he damned himself and Roger Beckman with equal
ferocity. If he'd only paid attention the night of the accident, they might
have been able to track down the Chevrolet, but so much time had passed now
that he doubted it would ever be found. At least Michelle hadn't connected
Beckman with the accident, and John didn't intend to mention the possibility to
her. She was scared enough as it was.