Heartbreaker (19 page)

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.

 

Chapter Ten

“T
ELEPHONE,
M
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!
”
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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?

A
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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 sheriff's 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.

It infuriated him that he couldn't do anything except wait for Andy to get back to him. Even then, it might be a dead end. But if Beckman was anywhere in the area, John intended to pay him a visit and make damned certain he never contacted Michelle again.

M
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in bed, her eyes wide and her face chalky. Beside her, John stirred restlessly and reached for her, but didn't awaken. She lay back down, taking comfort in his nearness, but both her mind and her heart were racing.

It was Roger.

Roger had been driving the blue Chevrolet. Roger had tried to kill her. He wasn't in France at all, but here in Florida, biding his time and waiting to catch her out alone. She remembered the feeling she had had before the accident, as if someone were watching her with vile malice, the same feeling the phone calls had given her. She should have tied it all together before.

He'd found out about John. Michelle even knew how he'd found out. Bitsy Sumner, the woman she and John had met in Tampa when they'd gone down to have the deed drawn up, was the worst gossip in Palm Beach. It wouldn't have taken long for the news to work its way up to Philadelphia that Michelle Cabot was very snuggly with an absolute
hunk
, a gorgeous, macho rancher with bedroom eyes that made Bitsy feel so
warm
. Michelle could almost hear Bitsy on the telephone, embroidering her tale and laughing wickedly as she speculated about the sexy rancher.

Roger had probably convinced himself that Michelle would come back to him; she could still hear him whispering how much he loved her, that he'd make it up to her and show her how good it could be between them. He would have gone into a jealous rage when he found out about John. At last he had known who the other man was, confirming the suspicions he'd had all along.

His mind must have snapped completely. She remembered what he'd said the last time he had called: “How could you do this to me?”

She felt trapped, panicked by the thought that he was out there somewhere, patiently waiting to catch her alone. She couldn't go to the police; she had no evidence, only her intuition, and people weren't arrested on intuition. Besides, she didn't put a lot of faith in the police. Roger's parents had bought them off in Philadelphia, and now Roger controlled all those enormous assets. He had unlimited funds at his disposal; who knew what he could buy? He might even have hired someone, in which case she had no idea who to be on guard against.

Finally she managed to go to sleep, but the knowledge that Roger was nearby ate at her during the next few days, disturbing her rest and stealing her appetite away. Despite the people around her, she felt horribly alone.

She wanted to talk to John about it, but bitter experience made her remain silent. How could she talk to him when he didn't believe her about the phone calls or the accident? He had hooked a tape recorder up to the telephone, but he hadn't discussed it with her, and she hadn't asked any questions. She didn't want to know about it if he were only humoring her. Things had become stilted between them since the last time Roger had called, and she felt even less able to approach him than she had before. Only in bed were things the same; she had begun to fear that he was tiring of her, but he didn't seem tired of her in bed. His lovemaking was still as hungry and frequent as before.