Out Of Control. Shannon McKenna
He crept through the darkness to his vantage point, in the middle of the overgrown rhododendron near her kitchen window. He’d hacked out the hollow space in the center and removed the branches that blocked his view two weeks ago. This was not the first time Faris had noticed Davy McCloud. He’d seen the man watching Margaret leave the gym where she taught, his face disfigured by lust.
But Faris couldn’t compromise his anonymity by charging into Margaret’s house and hacking McCloud into bloody pieces. Marcus would never forgive him if he lost control like that.
Besides, McCloud was well connected in the community. Ex-military, a respected private investigator, ties to the local police, brother in the FBI. Discretion was called for. Faris would organize something special for him. Quiet, untraceable, personal. And very, very painful.
Faris watched through the window with hot eyes. He’d been so hurt when she fled the hotel room without waiting for him.
He’d forgiven her, though. In spite of the trouble she’d caused. The mold Caruso had hidden was the key to Marcus’s plan, and stupid Faris had let the one person who could have revealed its location slip away. Marcus had been so angry. Faris still shuddered at the memory.
The situation was delicate now. It had taken a tediously long time to find her, and time had run short. Marcus was impatient. Faris wouldn’t let her play him for a fool again. He loved her, but he could be very stern if he had to be. Very cruel. Marcus had taught him how.
He choked up with emotion when he thought of carrying her unconscious body in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder with childlike trust. He’d heard somewhere that if you saved a person’s life, you were responsible for that person for as long as she lived.
He’d spared Margaret’s life, so it was up to him to shield her from the predators drawn by her exquisite vulnerability. Like sharks to blood.
He could not allow Margaret’s attention be distracted from him now. He was herding her into his trap so gradually that when the time came, she would be exhausted. Grateful and relieved to fall into it.
She didn’t need work, or money, or other people. She didn’t need to drive through dangerous traffic, to be surrounded by dirty-minded men at that graphics firm. She did not need to slave into the night on that computer, straining her beautiful eyes to build a business that had no future anyway. She did not need that worthless, crippled old dog.
He was stripping it away from her, piece by piece. When it was all gone, she would understand. She just had to give herself to him. That was all. He would be her universe, her reason to exist.
The rest was just noise and clutter. She would learn.
Chapter
4
Margot flattened herself against the wall to make room in the narrow corridor as Davy McCloud’s big body overwhelmed her space.
He looked into what doubled as her living room and bedroom, his eyes resting on the folded quilt on the floor that currently served as her bed. Her futon had been slashed to ribbons in the break-in, along with her new couch, both bought with the first paycheck of the short-lived job at the graphics firm. His eloquent silence made her twitch.
“Did you just move in?” he asked cautiously.
She grabbed the bag out of his hand and hefted it as she headed for the kitchen. Mmm, nice and heavy. “Seven months ago,” she told him. “My stuff got wrecked in the burglary.”
“Tell me more about that burglary.”
She spun around, and he stopped short to keep from bumping into her. So close, she could smell his shower soap, feel his body heat.
“I appreciate your interest, but I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “Big fat downer. I want some food, and a beer. Do you mind?”
She forced herself to stare back into his eyes, counting the seconds to center herself; one thousand one, one thousand two, but somewhere along the way she got waylaid and stopped counting.
Wow. That subtle downward slant of his eyelids was so sensual. Almost exotic looking. And how could a blond guy have such dark brows and lashes? It just wasn’t right. There should be a law.
She’d been floating in a gaga, timeless nowhere for who knew how long when he nodded, finally breaking the spell. “OK. Let’s eat first.”
That wasn’t the deal she’d proposed, but she was too rattled to argue the point. She laid containers out on the table as McCloud put away the beers. She turned to see why cold white fridge light was still flooding the kitchen, and found him frowning over his shoulder at her.
“There’s no food in here,” he said. “Nothing but canned dog food.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Whoops! You’ve found me out, McCloud. I love dog food. It’s fab on Triscuits. Try it. Beer from the bottle OK?”
“Fine. Can I give your dog some pork?”
“Just don’t give him anything spicy,” she said.
McCloud crouched down and held out a succulent chunk of pork. Mikey accepted it delicately, his small body quivering with delight.
“Huh,” she said. “So you’re hungry after all.” She took a shrimp out of the pan, drained the butter and knelt down to offer it to Mikey.
He turned his head away, the very image of cool disdain.
“Oh, come off it,” she snapped. “You big poser. You love shrimp.”
Mikey held firm. Margot held the shrimp out to McCloud. “Here,” she muttered. “You give it to him. He’s not speaking to me.”
McCloud proffered the shrimp. Mikey gulped it down and sneaked a sidelong peek at Margot to see how she was taking it.
Being scorned by her dog in front of Davy McCloud took all the stuffing right out of her. She flopped into a chair.
“He hates me now,” she said miserably. “Ever since the dead dog, when I started leaving him at the pet hotel. He thinks I’m punishing him. He won’t eat, just to make me feel bad. He’s already too skinny.”
McCloud offered another chunk of pork to Mikey. “He doesn’t hate you,” he said gently. “He’s just letting you know how he feels. You know he loves you. You’re afraid this stalker’s going to hurt him?”
She shrugged angrily. “If this weirdness escalates, that’s the next logical step any normal sicko maniac would take, right?”
He looked dubious. “Is there such a thing as a normal sicko maniac? And could anything like this be called logical?”
She waved that away. “Don’t be cute,” she said wearily. “I’ve watched way too many horror flicks in my time, and I figure the maniac has probably watched some of the same ones. The only thing that would suck worse than having my own dog hate my guts would be to come home and find Mikey…like that.”
He popped open a beer. “You’re doing the right thing by your dog,” he said. “Once you straighten things out, he’ll forgive you. For now, you need dinner.” He pressed the bottle into her hand. “So let’s eat.”
The food was spectacular. They ate steadily, not bothering with conversation, stuffing empty containers back into the bag until what had originally looked like a ridiculous amount of food was reduced to smears of sauce that they scraped out of the containers with the extra tortillas. Mikey made out like a bandit with the pork and shrimp. Nothing beat pigging out on fat, protein and flavor after a long dry spell.
Margot took a long swallow of beer to wash down the lovely burn of hot pepper in her throat, and sighed. “Delicious. I’m stuffed.”
“Good. Now you can tell me about the break-in. And the dog.”
She tried to think of a way to put him off gently, being