Hot Night. Shannon McKenna
it as he stared. He washed it down with wine.
Snacking, while she lay here gasping vainly for breath.
More tears welled up, blocking her nose. She started to choke.
Mark sipped his wine, his eyes moving slowly over her body. Wretched as she was, she was still stupefied at how beautiful he was. Chin-length dark blond hair waving around a Greek god face. That broad chin with the sexy cleft, the cruel sensuality of his full mouth. And his body. So amazingly strong. He could immobilize her with one hand. Had done so, in fact. On many occasions.
“You’re beautiful,” he said. “I bought those sheets because I imagined you glowing like a pearl, black satin as a backdrop. Perfect.”
His voice was dreamy and absent. Elaine writhed and mewled for air. She was starting to panic at her complete inability to communicate with him. She began to flail wildly. His penis had started to lengthen, but as her movements grew more frenzied, his smile faded. He put his glass of wine on the bed stand and climbed onto the bed, straddling her.
He trapped her wrists. “Stop,” he commanded. “You’ll leave marks on your skin. I don’t want that. That’s why I used silk.”
She heaved ineffectually beneath him. He frowned into her wet, staring eyes. “You’re upset,” he observed, his voice puzzled.
No shit, Sherlock, she wanted to shriek, through wads of silk.
Mark peeled the scarf off the bottom of her face and plucked the damp, wadded cloth from her mouth.
She gasped in huge gulps of air, coughing. Mark lifted off her, snagged the wineglass, and held it to her lips, tipping Cabernet into her mouth. What didn’t slosh down over her chin hit her dry windpipe, and she choked and gasped, tears of humiliation streaming down her face.
Mark kissed her tears away. “Why are you crying? You’re beautiful like that.” He licked the wine that dribbled down her chin.
“You left me like this to watch TV. And talk on the phone. Like you’d forgotten me,” she blurted. “I couldn’t breathe. I was scared.”
He frowned. “You can’t expect me to pay attention to you every second of the day, love. Did you buy your ticket today?”
She nodded, docile as a cow. She had to tell him that she’d changed her mind about going, but a nervous little voice inside her whispered that maybe now wasn’t the best time for that announcement, bound hand and foot, with Mark sitting on top of her. He was so heavy.
“First class, for Barcelona.” Her voice was a cracked whisper.
He kissed her eyelids. “My driver will take you to the resort. You wait there, shopping and getting a tan, while I finalize my divorce. Then I come to you a free man. And we start our life together. In paradise.”
She tried to speak, but he continued without noticing.
“You told me you wanted to fly away from it all,” he said. “I’ll send those photographs to my contact in Spain. He’ll arrange for an EU identity card and passport. Spanish citizenship. Your name will be Elena in Spain. Beautiful like you. My sweet Elena.”
“Mark,” she faltered. “I…I—”
“You can forget all of it. Your parents, the hospitals. Everything painful in your past. You’ll be free.”
Yeah, tied hand and foot? She opened her mouth, but he kissed her deeply, his tongue thrusting into her mouth, blocking the words she wanted to say. She jerked away, feeling suffocated.
“Mark, untie me. Please,” she begged.
“No,” he said. “Can’t risk that. You’re mine now.”
“But my arms are asleep,” she protested. “I have pins and needles in my hands. It hurts. And I have to use the toilet. Please, Mark.”
“Should have left you gagged,” he muttered. He yanked open a drawer in the bed stand and took out a small knife. A flick of his wrist, and the blade snicked out. The knife flashed between his dexterous fingers as his gaze moved over her body. As if he were considering…
No. Don’t think it, she told herself frantically. She was imagining things. He would never…no. It was unthinkable, so she just wouldn’t think it. “Please,” she whispered.
He severed the ties with four slashes of his knife. Elaine rolled into a shivering ball, still wearing knotted bracelets and anklets of green silk. “If you need the bathroom, go,” he said. “Don’t make me wait.”
She rolled off the bed and fled down the hall to the bathroom. It was filled with mirrors, a luxury she didn’t appreciate tonight. She looked pale. Bluish, like skim milk. Her eyes looked huge and staring.
Scared half to death by that weird emptiness she’d glimpsed in his eyes while he was holding that wicked looking little knife.
She shoved open the window and leaned out, checking escape routes. Second story. Sheer drop. No porch roof, no drainage pipe, no handy tree. The probability of hurting herself was very high. Besides, she was stark naked. Her clothes were in the bedroom with Mark.
Calm down already, she told herself. She was just dramatizing, like she always did. She could imagine Gloria Clayborne’s reaction if her daughter were found wandering around town naked at night, babbling about a secret sadist lover. Mother had been very clear about how important it was that Elaine not embarrass her again. She had to keep it together, or it would be back to the loony bin for Lainie.
It was hard to say which prospect frightened her more. Her mother’s fury and scorn; the loony bin; or Mark, staring down at her naked, immobilized body. Twirling that knife between deft fingertips.
She splashed cold water on her face. She was imagining things, working herself into a state, as always. She tried to undo the knots, but they’d been pulled too tight. They were as hard as little rocks.
She would go in and assert herself, for once. Thanks, Mark, for the new identity, but she was sticking with her old one. She flung her hair back, straightened her back, and started toward the bedroom.
But the strips of silk tied to her ankles trailed behind her like a dog’s leash.
Abby speared a plump truffle ravioli on her fork, and stared into her plate. The pasta was adorned with a dusting of grated truffle. The elegant decor, the muted clink of silver on china, the discreet, attentive service: it was just right. She sipped her wine and tried to concentrate on what Reginald was saying. Her face felt like a rubber mask.
Reginald stopped in mid-monologue and stroked his goatee. She wondered if the white streaks over his ears had been put there by a hairdresser. They were so improbably symmetrical, suspended in a thick, swept-back scaffolding of hair gel. Like Dracula.
What an ungracious thought. The guy had done nothing wrong, other than be pompous and boring. Since when was that a crime?
“Are you all right?” Reginald’s baritone voice oozed sensitive concern. “You seem distracted.”
“Do I? Gee, I’m sorry.” Abby attempted to wrench her mind into focus. It was like wrestling alligators in a mud pit.
“Intuition is my stock in trade,” he said. “I’m a psychotherapist, as Ludovic must have told you. Nothing escapes my notice.”
“How nice for you.” Abby speared another ravioli with a jab of her fork and put on a bright, interested smile. “Who’s Ludovic?”
Reginald smirked. “You must have known Ludovic for a long time if you still use the nickname ‘Dovey.’”
“Dovey? Good Lord. You mean Dovey’s real name is—”
“Ludovic has decided that he must leave his past behind, and with it, his nickname. A name that represents self-destructiveness.”
Abby searched for a coherent response to that, but Reginald sailed smoothly on.