Dearly Beloved (22 page)

“You’re not going anywhere,” he’d told her. “You’re going to put that gown on, and you’re going to marry me.”

“No . . .” She looked less certain now, taking another step backward and watching him with frightened green eyes.

“Yes, dammit! Today is our wedding day. And we’re going to get married. Now put . . . on . . . the . . . dress.” He’d said it in a deadly quiet tone, locking his eyes on hers.

When she didn’t respond, he reached into his jacket and removed the thing he had brought with him for some reason . . . the ice pick he’d swiped from the caterer’s cart that had been set up in his kitchen. He held it up at her and raised his eyebrows, as if to ask whether she wanted him to do something he’d regret.

She had come to her senses then and, with trembling hands, reached for the dress. As she fumbled to release it from its plastic shroud, he had leaned back against the wall to watch her, his arms folded and his jaw set resolutely, his hand still clutching the ice pick.

She tossed the jacket, sweatshirt, and jeans aside and stood there for a moment wearing only her white-lace bra and matching panties and a look of dread.

“Put it on,” he’d urged her, his eyes fastened on the swell of her breasts in the delicate lace cups, on her flat belly and her long, firm legs. Even in February, her body was tan, thanks to Christmas in Hawaii and their January trip to St. Bart’s.

Lorraine had pulled the dress over her head and it settled around her with a soft
swoosh.
She hesitated for a moment, glancing up at him, and then began to fumble with the row of buttons at her back.

There was a knock at the door then, and she froze, her eyes widening as she glanced in that direction. She opened her mouth; but before she could speak, he was beside her, covering her lips with his hand and muffling the sound of her voice.

Another knock and then he heard the bellman’s voice calling, “Miss LaCroix?”

After a few moments of silent waiting, the footsteps faded down the hall outside the suite.

“Now, Lorraine,” he had said in a reasonable tone, his hand still clamped over her mouth, “I’m going to let go of you and you’re not going to make a peep. If you do, you’ll be sorry. Do you understand?”

She’d nodded, her eyes big and round above his fingers.

“Good.” He’d let go, and she’d instantly opened her mouth to scream.

“Damn you!” he’d hollered, grabbing her and throwing her onto the floor. “I told you to be quiet!”

“I’m sorry. . . . Please, Stephen, I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet. Please, no,” she’d begged as he advanced on her, brandishing the ice pick. “Please, don’t hurt me. Oh, God . . .”

“Don’t hurt me,” the woman at his feet is whimpering now as he stands over her, holding the butcher knife. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Shut your mouth!”

She obliges, staring up at him with frightened eyes, just as Lorraine had.

“Sandy,” he says softly, suddenly remembering.

She only stares at him, waiting.

“You don’t love me. You don’t want to marry me, either. You ran away, just like Lorraine did.”

“No . . .”

“Yes! I bought you this dress, and I made everything beautiful for you downstairs. I got roses . . .” He drifts off, wondering if she likes roses, as Lorraine did.

“Stephen, I’m not Lorraine,” she says, looking somewhat calm though her voice bears a telltale high pitch. “I never said I would marry you.”

“Why not?” he asks abruptly, his eyes snapping back to her.

“Don’t get upset again, Stephen. I didn’t say I would marry you because I was just a kid when I knew you.”

“But you’re not a kid now.”

“No . . .”

“And you’re going to marry me now!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll marry you now.” Her voice is shaky. “I will. Whatever you want.”

“Before we get married, though . . .” He leans over her and, in one swift movement, shoves her so that she goes sprawling onto her back.

“No, please . . .” she says, clearly realizing exactly what his intentions are.

“No?” he asks, hesitating, watching her. His fingers clench around the knife-handle.

She’s shaking. “I just meant . . . not . . . not like this, Stephen.”

“Yes, just like this.” Still holding the knife, he fumbles with the fly on his black tuxedo pants.

“Oh, God no . . .”

He looks down at her and sees that she’s squeezing her eyes closed.

“Look at me!” he commands her.

She doesn’t move, just lets out a little sob.

“I said . . .” He bends over her so that his face is only inches from hers. “Look at me!”

She opens her eyes. They’re rimmed with smudged mascara and eyeliner, and tears are streaming down her cheeks.

Disgusted, Stephen yanks her dress up around her hips and rips off her panties and stockings, exposing her abundant, ripply white thighs and hips and droopy lower belly.

“Look at you,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re fat.”

She looks up at him hopefully, as though he might have changed his mind now that he sees her.

But he steps calmly out of his pants, then his boxer shorts, and, still holding the knife, sinks to his knees, his mighty erection throbbing as he imagines sinking into all that quivering flesh.

“Stephen, please . . . no!” Her voice explodes into a shrill scream as he forces her legs apart and rips into her.

He pounds away, trying desperately to sate himself. But he can’t . . . not even with his powerful climax, not even as he imagines that he’s pumping her full of himself, possessing her completely.

He collapses on top of her, panting and shuddering all over, but still filled with pent-up urges that have nothing to do with sex.

As soon as he catches his breath, he rolls off her and sees that she’s lying still, eyes closed. The only thing that’s moving is her mouth, and it takes a moment before he realizes what she’s doing.

She’s praying, her voice a mere whisper.

“Stop it,” he orders her, and slaps her face.

She does. Still her eyes are closed.

As he pulls his underwear back on, he calmly says, “Open your eyes.”

She does. Her expression is one of panic. And hate.

She hates me,
he thinks, stepping into his trousers again, and the knowledge doesn’t bother him. Not anymore.

Lorraine hated him, and he took care of her.

Now he’ll take care of Sandy.

He zips his pants, then says, “Get up,” raising the knife in warning.

When she doesn’t move fast enough, he grabs her arm and pulls her to her feet, the white wedding dress falling around her again to hide the blood that’s streaked between her chubby thighs.

She sways as though she’s going to faint, then seems to get hold of herself. She even meets his gaze and lifts her chin.

“I wouldn’t look so defiant if I were you, Sandy,” he says softly, “because I’m the one who’s in control here. And I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re not going to like what I have planned for you next.”

With that, he starts to laugh, a wild, frenzied sound that releases more of his pent-up frustration. . . .

But not nearly enough.

There’s only one way to rid himself of it, only one way to satisfy the intense craving that fills him to the very core.

Clutching the butcher knife, he leads Sandy out of the room and down the dark hall.

“H
ello, Laura, are you there? Laura? Okay, this is Keegan again. Please call me as soon as you get in. 555-4107, just in case you didn’t get the number when I left it before. I’ll be home all night. . . . Make sure you call, Laura. Thanks. Bye.”

Frustrated at having reached the answering machine yet again, he hangs up the phone and taps his fingertips against the arm of the couch in a jittery staccato beat. For all he knows, Laura isn’t planning on coming home at all tonight.

In fact, he’d almost bet that she won’t be back until tomorrow. After all, she’s been known to spend the night with guys on first dates, and this Shawn is someone she’s been seeing since before Keegan and Jennie broke up.

Correction—before Jennie dumped you. No warning, no excuses. She just dumped you, buddy, like a beat-up piece of trash.

Keegan sighs and gets up, moving restlessly into the small kitchen of his one-bedroom apartment. He grabs a Molson from the refrigerator and pops the cap off, tossing it in the general direction of the trash container in the corner. He misses. The cap skitters across the linoleum and disappears into the gap between the refrigerator and the stove.

Normally Keegan, who hates disorder of any kind, would grab a yardstick and fish it out, but tonight he merely shrugs. He’s too distracted to care about anything but Jennie.

Jennie . . .

Forget about her,
he tells himself yet again as he takes a gulp of beer, then stifles a burp.

She doesn’t care about you—why should you worry about her?

But he is worried. So worried that he can’t seem to focus on anything else. For over an hour now, he’s been pacing around the apartment, wondering if Jennie’s okay. There’s no reason, really, to think that she wouldn’t be . . .

Except that the damn sweepstakes was a scam.

Still, that doesn’t necessarily mean Jennie’s in danger.

But Keegan can’t shake the feeling that she is. He’s been a cop for too long, seen too much not to listen to his instinct, especially when it’s this strong.

Listen to it, yeah. Make a fool out of yourself over it, no.

He takes another gulp of beer and walks back into the living room, imagining what Laura will think when she gets home and finds that he’s left three messages. And the last one sounded almost frantic.

And over what?

Nothing at all.

He sighs and stares blankly at the television screen, where an episode of “America’s Most Wanted” is drawing to a close with a recap parade of mugshots.

Maybe,
he tells himself
, your anxiety over Jennie is coming from the break-up, and not from anything that has to do with that bogus sweepstakes or her trip to Tide Island.

For a month now, he’s been trying to get to her, but she hasn’t returned his calls. All he wants is an explanation—for her to tell him why she left him like she did.

He’ll never forget the way she did it. They’d been taking a walk on the frozen, deserted beach at Scituate, just the two of them. He had been thinking about how lucky he was to have her, toying with the notion that next year at this time, they might be married, or at least engaged. After all, he’d known from the start that Jennie was the woman for him. It was only a matter of time, as far as he was concerned, before they made a formal commitment.

So there he was, daydreaming about what Jennie would look like in a wedding gown—antique, no doubt, with rich ivory lace and a train—when she’d suddenly pulled her gloved hand from his and stopped walking.

Startled, he’d turned to ask her if something was wrong. And the moment he saw the look on her face, he knew. He hadn’t been expecting it. In fact, if anyone had asked him mere seconds before whether Jennie would ever break up with him, he would have laughed and said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But there it was. A somber, distant look in her lilac eyes that said it all even before she did.

Not that she said much.

Just that she had done some thinking and she couldn’t see him anymore.

He’d asked questions, but she’d refused to answer them, only repeating what she’d already said, as though the lines were from a script she’d over-rehearsed. So he’d protested, then argued—or at least, tried to. Jennie hadn’t argued back, had only closed her mouth resolutely and stared straight ahead.

So that was it. They were through.

And it had happened on New Year’s Day, no less, as though she’d reevaluated her life and made a resolution to get him out of it.

Why, Jennie?
he’d asked her countless times that day, has asked himself countless times since.

Why did you leave?
he wonders again now, peeling the label off the beer bottle and discarding the shreds of sticky paper on the hardwood floor without thinking.

All I want is an explanation.

But that’s not true, he realizes a moment later. He wants much more than that.

He wants Jennie back.

And I’m not going to give up,
he vows, finishing his beer in one long swallow,
until she’s mine again.

M
ore than anything, Danny Cavelli wants Theresa Benedetti to be home tonight. As he dials her phone number, conscious of Cheryl’s frightened eyes on him, he prays for Theresa to be there. But it’s not likely. Not on a Saturday night. She usually hangs out at the Knights of Columbus on weekends. And tonight they’re having their annual pre-Ash Wednesday Mardi Gras Night.

“It’s ringing,” Danny informs Cheryl, who nods and pats his shoulder. He’s perched on the edge of their bed again, just where he was when Sandy called.

It’s been over a half hour since then. He kept waiting for her to call back, not wanting to tie up the line in case she tried. But the phone has been silent, and he finally decided he can’t wait anymore. He has to try and find her.

Please God, let Theresa be home. Please God, let Theresa be home. Please God, let—

“Hello?”

“Theresa?”

“Yeah,” she says in a scratchy voice that doesn’t even sound like her. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Danny, and I’ve got to—”

“Danny who?”

“Cavelli. Sandy’s brother. I’ve—”

“Oh, hi, Danny. What’s up? She’s not sick, is she? Because I just found out I’ve got strep—”

“Theresa,” he interrupts, “listen to me. Do you know the name of the inn where my sister’s staying on Tide Island?”

There’s a pause. “Sandy told you she went to Tide Island?”

“Yeah,” he says impatiently. “And I need—”

“I thought she wasn’t going to tell anyone. She said your father would freak out.”

“He did. Theresa, I mean it, you’ve got to listen to me. I need the name of the place where she’s staying. You’ve got to tell me.”

“Why?” she asks suspiciously. Theresa and Sandy have been best friends since they were toddlers, and Danny realizes that she knows Tony Cavelli too well. Well enough to instinctively want to protect Sandy.