Authors: Mary Burton
“I missed you.” God, she hated baring her soul. “This is the one place I’m whole. You’re the one person that seems to get to me.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“It is. And it isn’t. But I know I don’t want to spend any more time without you.” She smoothed her hands on her jeans, her bravado waning. “That’s if you still want me.”
Finally, a slow smile curled the edges of his lips and he took a step toward her and pulled her into his embrace. For a long moment, they just stood there holding each other. “What the hell took you so long?” he breathed into her hair.
“I’m slow. But I do figure things out eventually.”
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Mary Burton’s next romantic-suspense thriller,
I’LL NEVER LET YOU GO,
coming in November 2015!
January 25, Midnight
Four Years Ago
Nashville, Tennessee
Leah never slept deeply. Her brain, always on alert, skimmed just below consciousness, waiting for him to return. Not a matter of if he’d strike. A matter of when.
When floorboards creaked and a cold wind whispered in the shifting shadows of her first-floor apartment, Leah bolted up in bed. Gripping the sheets, heart slamming, she reached for her phone on the nightstand and waited, her thumb poised over the emergency 9-1-1 speed dial. Seconds passed. Was this another false alarm? Another nightmare? Or had her estranged husband finally come to kill her as he’d promised?
Adrenaline surged and rushed through sinew and bone, pricking the underside of her skin as she listened and waited.
The temptation to call the cops pulled, beckoned, screamed. But she’d cried wolf too often. Too many false alarms had been sounded. The last annoyed officer, his voice rough with frustration, had told her to count to ten before she dialed again.
“One. Two. Three.” Her breathing quick and shallow, she listened, expecting footsteps, but hearing only silence and the
thud, thud, thud
of her heart.
God, she was so tired. She needed sleep. Freedom. Peace. She needed her life back.
During the day, Philip was always there, standing and watching. He sent her flowers. Called her cell at all hours. Left scrawled messages under her windshield wipers.
You can’t escape. I own you
. Months of his relentless pursuit had stretched frayed nerves to breaking. During the day she jumped at every creak, bump, and footfall and at night, terrors jerked her from sleep, leaving her fully awake, tension fisting in her chest and shallow breathing chasing a racing heart.
Holding her breath, she listened as she stared at her locked bedroom door. Again, she heard nothing save for the hum of the heater.
“Four. Five. Six.”
She scrambled for a logical reason to explain this latest scare. It was Tuesday. That meant her roommate, Greta, was working the late shift at the bar. Greta closed on Tuesdays. How many times had Leah awoken, screaming on a Tuesday night when Greta had returned home late? Poor normal Greta, grad student and bartender, now moved slowly and quietly on Tuesday nights, fearful that innocent moves would send her roommate into hysterics.
Leah glanced at the clock. Midnight. Too early for Greta. She listened, heartbeat still racing. No more sounds. Had this been another dream? Another false alarm? Yes. Maybe. “Seven. Eight. Nine.”
Slowly, she lowered back down to her pillow, clutching the phone to her chest, eyes wide open, staring at the swath of shadows slicing across the ceiling. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The day she’d finally fled her marriage had begun as it always did. Fights, a barrage of questions, her promising to come home as soon as she got off work. But that morning, she’d been at her desk when a coworker had asked her about the bruise on her arm. She’d lied, of course, but this time, the words hadn’t tumbled freely, but had soured on her tongue. Sickened, she’d asked for the afternoon off. No matter how much she’d hoped, his contrition always faded and his temper flared, quick and hot, scorching
I’m sorry
to ash.
She had no plan when she’d returned to their apartment and begun cramming clothes into three green trash bags.
Take what you need. The basics.
The words had hummed in her head as her hands trembled.
When she’d twisted off her wedding band and laid it on the kitchen counter, it was exactly three o’clock in the afternoon, just thirty minutes before his shift ended. She’d dragged the bags into the hallway and when the apartment door slammed behind her, she’d actually felt free.
It’s over. It’s over.
But it wasn’t over.
Philip had called her cell seconds after five that same day. Guilt had prompted her to take that first call as she’d sat in the shabby motel room, surrounded by her life in trash bags. He’d begged her to return.
I love you. I love you. It will never happen again.
Of course, he was sorry. He was always sorry.
He’d sent flowers. Called. Waited outside her office. No matter where she looked, he was there.
Come back to me. God, I love you so much.
Floorboards creaked in her closet, and she bolted back up, clutching her hand to her throat, the pulse drumming under her fingertips. This time, logic couldn’t silence the alarm bells, which clanged louder and louder until reason scurried away like a frightened mouse. The last time she’d seen Philip, he’d been clutching the restraining order, furious.
No piece of paper will separate us!
Her fingers poised over the 9-1-1 direct-dial button, her gaze scanned the darkness. At first glance, nothing was out of place. Her door was closed. Locked.
And then, the faint flutter of movement in the shadows inside her closet. Another cold breeze from a half-open window brushed her skin like a wraith.
“Hello, Leah.” Philip’s deep voice sounded amused as he stepped out of her closet.
Philip! How had he gotten into her room? Mentally, she ran from lock to lock in the apartment, checking.
He clicked on the overhead light, making her wince at the burst of brightness. He was tall, wearing a dark turtleneck, jeans, and boots, and his broad shoulders ate up the tiny space of her room. He stared at her, his long fingers clenching and unclenching at his side. Attached to his waistband was the brown leather holster that cradled a six-inch knife blade. The blade was inches from his right hand.
“Philip.”
“Leah.” His voice lacked concern or fear as it always did when he came to a decision.
Without taking her gaze from him, she hit 9-1-1. A distant, “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” echoed out from the phone.
“My husband’s going to kill me,” Leah said. “I live at 112 Main Street, Apartment Two. Treemont Apartments.” How many times had she practiced this line, imagining this moment over and over?
“Ma’am, repeat what you just said.” The operator’s voice was clean, crisp, and so blissfully free of fear.
Leah’s hand trembled so badly she thought she’d drop the phone. “He’s found me. He’s in my room.”
“Who’s found you, ma’am?”
Philip arched a brow, unconcerned, as he rested his hand on the hilt of the knife.
“My husband. Philip Latimer. He’s going to kill me.” How long would it take for the cops to arrive? Five minutes? Ten? And how long would it take for him to cross the room and stab her? Seconds.
“How do you know he’ll kill you?” The operator’s voice was flat, emotionless.
“He’s in my bedroom. He has a knife.”
Philip knew exactly how long it took the cops to respond. He was a cop. Saving people like her was his job.
“What’s your name?”
“Leah Carson. Leah Latimer.” She rattled off her address again, fearing she’d be dead before they arrived.
“I’ll send a car,” the operator said. “Stay on the line.”
The words were cold comfort. Philip had broken the protective order. He didn’t care about an arrest. He’d crossed an invisible line, knowing his was a one-way trip. His only goal now was to kill her.
Tears filled Leah’s eyes as he slid the knife from its holster, the cold metal catching and glinting in the moonlight.
He moved toward the bed, slowly and unhurried. He’d slicked back his thick, blond hair away from his angled face, now hardened with purpose. Once, she’d considered his face handsome. Once, she’d looked into those vivid blue eyes and seen love. Once, he’d made her feel protected.
“You’re so beautiful.” His deep voice was smooth, silky as if they’d bumped into each other on a street corner on a sunny afternoon. He smelled of fresh, cold night air and whiskey.
During their marriage, she’d learned to fear him most when he wasn’t ranting or raving, but when he was cool and controlled. “Philip, what do you want?”
“I’ve been telling you for weeks. But you won’t listen. I want you back home with me.”
With deliberate slowness, she pulled her covers over her T-shirt that strained the outline of her breasts. “Philip. How’d you get in here?”
Keep him talking. Buy time. How much time did she need? She’d timed the route once or twice. Without traffic, it took ten minutes.
Those long, calloused fingers slid up the blade to the tip. “I’ve missed you.”
“Philip, you shouldn’t be here.” The evenness in her voice belied her fingers tightening into a white-knuckle grip on the comforter.
His thumb circled the knife’s hilt. “Why not? You’re my wife. And this is our wedding anniversary.”
Twelve months ago today, they’d exchanged vows. “You need to leave.”
“And if I don’t? What’re you going to do?”
“The cops are coming.”
He traced the knife blade’s tip over the comforter, snagging ice-blue fabric. “I don’t care.”
“Philip. Just go. Get away while you can.”
He raised the blade to his thumb and pricked the edge. Crimson blood bloomed, dripped before he raised his thumb to his mouth and sucked the blood dry. “You were so pretty on our wedding day. Such a beautiful white dress. You carried those pretty purple flowers. What were they called? Irises?”
“Just leave me alone, Philip. Go away. I don’t want to see you arrested. It will ruin your career.” Her pulse thrummed against the soft skin of her neck.
“Until death do us part, Leah. I promised. You promised.”
Keep talking. “You love your job. You’re a good cop. Respected.”
“Without you, it doesn’t mean much. You’re mine, Leah. We’re two halves of a whole. Restraining orders and cops can’t keep us apart.”
Chin raised, tears pooled, spilled. Buy time.
Buy time!
False promises of love and devotion danced on her tongue and readied for declaration when the truth stubbornly elbowed past. “We’re over, Philip. I’m not coming back to you.”
He traced his hand over her leg, rough callouses on smooth white skin. Skin prickled, she flinched and rolled her leg away. Gaze darkening, he clenched the blankets in his large hand. An onyx pinky ring marked with the letter
L
winked in the moonlight before he yanked the covering off the bed. She was left half naked, wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. Cold air skimmed her naked legs. Gooseflesh puckered.
“Philip, please—”
For a moment, he sat as still as a statue, his terrible beauty etched in calm repose. And then, like a rattler riled, he struck, moving with lightning speed. He climbed on top of her, the rough fabric of his jeans scraping against her bare waist. He pressed the knife blade to her throat.
Their gazes locked, as he smoothed the steel tip over her chest to her flat belly. She flinched. Braced.
“Philip, don’t. Please.”
This close, his eyes red-rimmed as if he’d been crying, bore into her. “I’ll never let you go. You belong to me. I love you.” His body hummed with need. Need to own her. Need to possess her. Need to hear her words of love.
More tears spilled down the sides of her face. He controlled so much in this moment. Life or death rested in his palms. All she controlled were her words. The truth. If she died tonight, Philip would know her heart. “I don’t love you.”
He flinched as if he’d been slapped. “You’ve been brainwashed. Your mother and your friends filled you with lies. Poisoned you against me.”
“I don’t love you.” Defiance pricked as sharp as the knife’s tip. “You don’t own me.”
Pain deepened the lines of his face, even as his teeth bared into a snarl. He lowered his lips to her ear. Warm breath against her skin raked over her nerves.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you. Why can’t you understand that?”
Out of habit, not love, she raised her hand to his muscled arm, her touch gentle as if soothing a beast. “Philip, this isn’t love.”
He burrowed his face in the crook of her neck. Hot breath brushed the nape of her neck as his hand fisted her blond hair in his hand. “It’s love. It is.”
“No, Philip.” A lie crept from the shadows. “You deserve better.”
A fist pounded on the apartment’s front door. “Ms. Carson! Ms. Carson! This is the police!”
The officer’s voice cut through the door and relief collided with tension. The cops!
He flinched. “Shh. It’s just us, the way it’s supposed to be.”
Her fingers hardened into a grip. “Help me! Please save me.”
Philip rose up, eyed her, disappointment mingling with anger. “Carson. You told the operator your name was Carson. You took your maiden name back.”
The anger-coated words stoked a flicker of guilt. His temper, his abuse was not her fault but even after all the pain, he could so easily press the button that triggered guilt. Her weakness shamed her. “The cops are here. Go! Run while you can, Philip. Leave through the window. Just go! You don’t want to go to jail.”
He pressed the knife’s tip to the hollow of her neck. “That would suit you just fine.”
“I don’t want to see you in jail.” She prayed the directness in her gaze covered the lie. “You don’t deserve jail. You need a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor. I need you!”
“Ms. Carson!” the officer shouted. “Are you in there?”
Nothing would sway Philip. Nothing. “Yes!” she screamed. Philip winced and pressed the tip of the knife to her neck. The tip scraped skin and drew blood.