Killing Secrets (8 page)

Out of the corner of his eye Patrick saw half a dozen of his crew, left cooling their heels in his parlor, conference room, walk around the front corner of his house. His brother-in-law and assistant, Skip Davis, called across the yard. “Jane called the cops, Patrick.”

John Branson, one of Patrick’s foremen, crossed his arms over his two hundred and eighty-pound linebacker frame and planted his feet wide. “I told her not to bother. We all know how to take care of pansy-asses who beat on defenseless women.”

Patrick wondered which alarmed “Preppy” more, the massive wall of construction workers ranged alongside them in an intimidating line or the threat of imminent police intervention. With a vicious curse, he turned on his silver-tipped cowboy boots and fled. He was seated in a swanky, smoky gray Lincoln pickup parked at the curb and squealing tires in thirty seconds flat. He left behind the smell of burnt rubber, the last wafts of some noxious cologne, and a peaceful hush broken only by the squabbling of two squirrels in a nearby cottonwood tree.

Nodding his thanks to his crew, Patrick turned to the woman they’d just rescued. “He’ll think twice before bothering you again now that he knows we’re here and you’re protected.”

He expected to see relief, a little gratitude, maybe, but Rachel just stood there and stared at him with wide, horrified eyes. Her head still shook back and forth. “If you believe that,” her husky voice burned along his nerve endings, “I’ve got two thousand acres of dry farmland in the Louisiana Bayou to sell you.”

Before he had time to respond, her angel-soft brown eyes rolled up and she crumpled into a faint at his feet. That’s when he saw the glistening trail of blood. It trickled from the base of her skull down the vulnerable curve of her neck and back to soak into the fabric of the form-fitting, tangerine T-shirt he’d been admiring earlier that morning like a bull in heat.

He heaved a sigh. So much for staying on his own side of the property line.

~~~

He’s going to kill you.

Kill you.

Kill….

The litany echoed louder and louder in Rachel’s head with each of her husband’s angry thrusts. But she was helpless to stop him, her wrists caught above her head in his relentless grip. Finally, he shuddered to a stop and glared down at her.

Her punishment over, she allowed her eyelids to close to block out the cruelty in Greg’s gorgeous, blue eyes.

“Open your eyes and look at me,” he snarled, tightening his hold on her wrists until she cried out in pain and did as she was told. “I should kill you for what you’ve done,” he said. “But this,” he twisted her nipple in his free hand, “is mine.” He ground himself into her. “All mine!”

Her insides turned to ice when she realized he hadn’t calmed down like he usually did once he found his release. In fact, his anger was building.

She couldn’t bear the thought of him punishing her through the night! Why had she thought she could get through his arrest and trial without him finding out her part in helping the FBI to put him behind bars? “Greg—”

“When are they coming for me?”

Shocked, he knew his arrest was imminent, her eyes widened. How did he know? The FBI only called an hour before he came home to warn her they would have their warrants in the morning. “I don’t—”

“Don’t!” He grabbed her long hair in his fist and yanked her head back. “When?”

Not soon enough to save her. “I-In…the morning!” she croaked out. A hot tear ran from the corner of her eye across her temple to join the others in her damp hair.

“Plenty of time.” His laugh was thin. “You think you’ve won, don’t you? You think you won’t have to pay for what you’ve done.” His tone was conversational but the rage suffusing his handsome face was ugly. Deadly. “Well, my darlin’, backstabbing wife, you haven’t begun to pay.”

Dear God,
she prayed silently.
Help me!

God didn’t answer. He’d abandoned her to Greg for all her sins. “Greg, please!”

“I love it when you beg,” he said, a smile softening his features. He climbed off her and stood at the side of the bed looking down at her naked body. He didn’t hurry because he knew she didn’t dare move before he told her she could. He reached down and spread her legs to his gaze.

All of the bedroom lights blazed, as they always did when he had sex with her, exposing every inch of her to him the way he liked. She gritted her teeth against her squirming compulsion to cover herself, and watched him reach back to the dresser behind him. She didn’t react until she saw him raise his horsewhip over his head, and then it was too late.

The whip ripped across the flesh of her exposed belly. She screamed. She automatically curled into a fetal ball, but the next blow lashed at her spine. He whipped her and didn’t stop, each blow punctuated with ranting words she could barely hear over her own screams, until black waves of nauseating pain swamped her senses.

Barely conscious, she didn’t realize the beating had stopped until Greg leaned down and whispered harshly. “You’re mine, Felicia, and don’t you ever forget it. You’d better be here when I get back. If you aren’t, I’ll chase you down. And next time, I won’t stop with you. You hear me?”

She moaned but couldn’t push past the agony to respond. He punched her in the ribs and her world began to dim into blessed oblivion.

“’Til death, darlin’,” he spat in her ear. “You’d better get it because, next time, it’ll be your precious brat. And, next time…I…won’t…stop.”

Chapter Six

“Amanda!” Rachel screamed with rage. She flailed her way out of the black abyss and attacked the demon threatening her child. Her fingernails tore into his warm flesh.

“Rachel, stop!” He cursed. “Open your eyes. It’s me. Patrick!”

Her wrists caught in a firm grip, Rachel woke up and looked into Patrick Thorne’s brown eyes. Not a demon. Not quite an angel either, judging by the scowl on his face.

A tormented sound escaped her throat as all of the fight rushed out of her. She collapsed onto her back. Patrick rose from her side and left her lying on the pile of daisy white and yellow pillows that decorated the vintage, black wicker couch on the side porch of the elder Thorne home.

Where she and Amanda had hidden.

From Greg.

He’d found them!

Rachel frantically scanned the yard. Twice. But Greg wasn’t waiting impatiently on the lawn for her to come to her senses, so he could drag her off to her doom. Instead, half a dozen strangers wearing Thorne Enterprises hard-hats and varying degrees of curiosity on their faces stood nearby.

She relaxed. Eyes closed, recent events marched through her mind alongside the throbbing pain in her head. Everyone must think she was insane.

Evidence was on their side.

She’d claimed Patrick as her boyfriend!
Her lover.
What possessed her to say such a stupid, dangerous thing? She knew before they married Greg had a jealous streak a mile wide. Initially, his possessiveness was appealing. For the first time since her mother’s death, she’d felt truly treasured. Loved.

It was on their Caribbean cruise honeymoon that belief was first tested. Greg decked a fellow passenger for simply talking to her at dinner, and then turned on her, accusing her of encouraging him. The incident was dropped when the man’s wife suggested to officials her husband might have had a little too much to drink, and apologized for his actions. Rachel had paid the price. That night, when Greg had sex with her, he didn’t consider her comfort or her feelings. She’d hesitated to call it rape, but that night made her ultra-aware of how she should interact with other men. She hadn’t dared expose anyone else to Greg’s possessiveness.

Until now.

Why did she blurt that bald-faced lie about Patrick being her boyfriend? The man had only tried to help, and she’d thrown him directly across Greg’s destructive path. “What was I thinking?”

“Since you probably have a concussion that question is certainly up for grabs.”

Her eyelids flew open at the severity in Patrick’s tone. Was he still upset about the confrontation with Greg or with her for setting him up like a brazen hussy? If the blue-bloods in her mother’s family were there to see what she’d done, they’d feel justified in their abandonment of her, at last certain only her father’s bad blood coursed through her veins. Even Great-aunt Amanda, God rest her gracious, forgiving soul, might have raised a silver eyebrow at her goddaughter’s blatant disregard for—

“Amanda!” Familial disapproval meant nothing if Greg got his hands on her great-aunt’s namesake. “Where is she?”

“She’s safe next door with Jane and Suze,” Patrick assured her. When she tried to sit, he placed a hand on her shoulder and stopped her. “Don’t move. You have a head injury.”

Pushing his hand aside, she sat up. Dizziness washed over her, but she ignored it. “I have to see her.”

He shook his head. “That’s not a good idea right now. If the sight of all these strangers doesn’t scare her, seeing her mother covered in blood will.”

She was tempted to tell him what he could do with his orders until she looked down at his hand and saw the bloodstained washcloth he must have been using to clean her injury. The last thing she wanted was to traumatize her further, but…she shook her head, trying to think around the fuzziness in her brain. Her thoughts scattered. For several moments, Patrick’s form undulated in front of her eyes like a horror movie carnival mirror.

Fighting to push the roiling image aside, she looked instead at the dried, reddish-brown smear on her fingertips. “I hit my head,” she said, the weak explanation as much for her benefit as Patrick’s.

“Evidently. Skip,” he nodded toward the group of construction workers standing across the yard, “found blood on one of the stone garden figurines near where you fell.”

She eyed the streaks of blood on Patrick’s work shirt, evidence that he was the one who’d carried her to the porch, her gaze settling on the four angry scratches she’d carved into his muscular neck. “I’m sorry that I, that you—”

Nausea welled up and stopped her apology. “I-I think…I’m going…to be sick.” Could she make this situation any worse than to throw up all over the man’s work boots?

Snapping an order at his men to find the ambulance, Patrick tossed aside the washcloth in his hand and dumped a large bowl of pink-tinged water into a nearby flower bed. Setting the empty bowl on the side table next to her, he took a seat on the couch, cradled her face in his large hands, and examined her pupils.

“Breathe slowly through your nose,” he suggested quietly. “We’ll get a better idea how bad your injury is once the paramedics get here. My brother’s on his way, too.”

His calloused thumbs stroked her temples, a light touch, she felt low in her belly. Only it wasn’t nausea skipping through her stomach now.

Maybe it was the atrocious hammering at the base of her skull or Patrick’s disconcerting proximity that disoriented her. Her head fell forward until it rested on his broad chest. She concentrated on filling her lungs with the thin, mountain air, then letting it escape. Each time, she inhaled more of Patrick’s clean, masculine scent. So different from any other man of her acquaintance, it was a mixture of soap, sweat, fresh-cut pine shavings, and Patrick. No aftershave, no cologne…an honest scent.

When was the last time you were this close to an honest man?

Bewildered by the urge to nuzzle until she found naked skin, she jerked her nose out of his shirt and looked at him. “Your brother,” she murmured, “the doctor is coming?”

“You’re thinking of Sam.” He shook his head and continued to rub her temples, oblivious to the strangely erotic impulses his touch evoked. “No. Jane called Jack.”

Her pulse stuttered at the thought of the detective with the probing green gaze. “I don’t want—”

What she wanted was lost in a cacophony of noise that announced the arrival of what appeared to be the entire available Denver police force, followed by an ambulance. Quickly surrounded by a sea of authority figures, the scene conjured unnerving memories of the day the FBI had cornered her outside a grocery store seven months ago, throwing her life into a tailspin.

She fought a childish impulse to curl into a defensive ball. She had nothing left to hide.

Well, almost nothing.

Patrick rose from the couch as his brother strode through the crowd. Rachel knew exactly when the detective spotted the bloodstains on his brother’s shirt. His jaw tightened. “Dispatch didn’t say you were injured.” He shouted over his shoulder. “Get those paramedics over here!”

“It’s Rachel’s,” Patrick explained. “This isn’t about me, Jack. Not this time.”

One sandy-colored eyebrow quirked as he pointedly examined the ragged welts Rachel’s fingernails had left on Patrick’s tanned neck. She could have sworn the brothers communicated without uttering a word. Something else was going on here.

There was no time to sort it out. One of the paramedics stepped behind her to examine her head injury. From her seat on the couch, she distractedly fielded questions by the second paramedic taking her vitals and, peering over his shoulder, she watched a pair of police officers escort Patrick’s crew back to the neighboring yard to take their statements. Jack spoke to several of the other officers, and they soon returned to their cars and pulled away.