Raintree. Linda Winstead Jones
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on,” he told Lorna, and she got out of the car. She stared straight ahead as he stepped aside to allow her to precede him into his gleaming kitchen. He punched his code into the security system to stop its warning beep, then paused. He briefly considered taking her back to town after he’d finished talking to her, then discarded that idea. He was tired. She could stay here, and if he had to—as he undoubtedly would—he would use a compulsion to keep her here and out of trouble. If she didn’t like it, tough; the last couple of hours had been a bitch, and he didn’t feel like making the drive.
With that in mind, he reset the alarm and turned to her. She was standing with her back to him, not four feet away, her shoulders stiff and, judging by the angle of her head, her chin up.
Regretting the imminent loss of silence, he said, “Okay, you can talk now.”
She whirled to face him, and he braced himself for a flood of invective as her fists clenched at her sides.
“Bathroom!” she bellowed at him.
Chapter Eight
The change in his expression would have been comical if Lorna had been in any mood to appreciate humor. His eyes rounded with comprehension, and he rapidly pointed to a short hallway. “First door on the right.”
She took one frantic step, and then froze. Damn it, he was still holding her! The searing look she gave him should have accomplished what the casino fire hadn’t, namely singe every hair from his head. “Don’t go far,” he snapped, realizing he hadn’t amended the compulsion.
Lorna ran. She slammed the bathroom door but didn’t take time to lock it. She barely made it in time, and the sense of relief was so acute she shook with involuntary shudders. A Tom Hanks scene from A League of Their Own ran through her mind, and she bit her lip to keep from groaning aloud.
Then she just sat there, eyes closed, trying to calm her jangled nerves. He’d brought her to his home! What did he intend to do? Whatever he was, however, he was controlling her, she was helpless to break free. The entire time he’d been gone, she had been willing herself over and over to take a single step, to speak a word—and she couldn’t. She was scared half out of her mind, traumatized out of the other half, and on top of it all, she was so angry she thought she might have a screaming, out-of-control, foot-stomping temper tantrum just to relieve the pressure.
Opening her eyes, she started to flush, but she heard his voice and went still, straining to hear what he was saying. Was someone else here? Just as she began to relax just a fraction, she realized he was on the phone.
“Sorry to wake you.” He paused briefly, then said, “There was a fire at the casino. Could be worse, but it’s bad enough. I didn’t want you to see it on the morning news and wonder. Call Mercy in a couple of hours and tell her I’m all right. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to have my hands full for the next few days.”
Another pause. “Thanks, but no. You’ve got no business getting on an airplane this week, and everything here is fine. I just wanted to call you before I got so tied up in red tape I couldn’t get to a phone.”
The conversation continued for a minute, and he kept reassuring whoever was on the other end that no, he didn’t need help; everything was fine—well, not fine, but under control. There had been at least one fatality. The casino was a total loss, but the hotel had suffered only minor damage.
He ended the call, and a moment later Lorna heard a savage, muttered curse, then a thud, as if he’d punched the wall.
He didn’t seem like the wall-punching type, she thought. Then again, she didn’t know him. He might be a serial wall-puncher. Or maybe he’d fainted or something, and the thud had been his body hitting the floor.
She liked that idea. She would seize the chance to kick him while he was down. Literally.
The only way to see if he was lying there unconscious was to leave the bathroom. Reluctantly, she flushed, then went to the vanity to wash her hands—a vanity with a dark, goldenbrown granite top and gold fixtures. When she reached out to turn on the water, the contrast between the richness of the vanity and her absolutely filthy, black-sooted hand made her inwardly cringe as she lifted her head.
A grimy nightmare loomed in the mirror in front of her. Her hair was matted to her head with soot and water, and stank of smoke. Her face was so black only her eyes had any real definition, and they were bloodshot. With her red eyes, she looked like some demon from hell.
She shuddered, remembering how close the flames had gotten. Given that, she couldn’t imagine how she had any hair left on her head at all, so she shouldn’t complain about it being matted. Shampoo—a lot of it—would take care of that. The soot would scrub off. Her clothes were ruined, but she had others. She was alive and unharmed, and she didn’t know how.
As she soaped her grimy hands, rinsed, then soaped again, she tried to reconstruct an exact sequence of events. Her headache, which had subsided, roared back so fiercely she had to brace her soapy hands on the edge of the bowl.
Thoughts whirled, trying to connect in a coherent sequence, but then the segments would whirl out of touch again.
—she should have been burned—
—hair singed off—
—bubble—
—no smoke—
—agony—
Whimpering from the pain in her head, she sank to her knees.
Raintree cursing.
Something about that reminded her of something. Of being held in front of him, his arms locked around her, while his curses rang out over her head and his…his—
The memory was gone, eluding her grasp. Pain made her vision swim, and she stared at the soap bubbles on her hands, trying to summon the energy to stand. Was she having a stroke? The pain was so intense, burning, and it filled her head until she thought her skull might explode from the pressure.
Soap bubbles.
The shimmery bubbles…something about them reminded her…there had been something around her…
A shimmering bubble. The memory burst into her aching brain, so clear it brought tears to her eyes. She’d seen it, surrounding them, holding the heat and smoke at bay.
Her head had felt as if it really were exploding then. There had been an impact so huge she couldn’t compare it to anything in her experience, but she imagined the sensation was the same as if she’d been run over by a train—or struck by a meteor. It was as if all the cellular walls in her brain had dissolved, as if everything she had been, was, and would be, had been sucked out, taken over and used. She’d been helpless, as completely helpless as a newborn, to resist the pain or the man who had ruthlessly taken everything.
With a crash, everything fell back into place, as if that memory had been the one piece she needed to put the puzzle together.
She remembered it all: every moment of unspeakable terror, her inability to act, the way he had used her.
Everything.
“You’ve had enough time,” he called from the kitchen. “I heard you flush. Come here, Lorna.”
Like a puppet, she got to her feet and walked out of the bathroom, soap still clinging to her hands and her temper flaring. He looked grim, standing there waiting for her. With every unwilling step she took, her temper soared into another level of the stratosphere.
“You jerk!” she shouted, and kicked his ankle as she walked by. She could go only a couple of steps past him before that invisible wall stopped her, so she whirled around and stalked past him again. “You ass!” She threw an elbow into his ribs.
She must not have hurt him very much because he looked more astonished than pained. That infuriated her even more, and when the wall forced her to turn around yet again, she reached a whole new level of temper as she began marching