Sins of the Undead Patriot. a.c. Mason
Leera?”
The way he said her name caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.
“Hasn’t it?” He raised his voice.
Since her husband’s death nearly ten months ago, she couldn’t imagine wanting another man. “It has.” She lowered her face.
“This arrangement could have other perks.”
What arrangement?
He traced her lip with his thumb.
She yanked her face away from his inappropriate touch.
He moved in closer, encroaching with his hand along her jaw, down to her collarbone. “Think about it.”
She backed away, hindered by the table. Physical companionship wasn’t high on her list, and his offer didn’t elicit appealing thoughts of any such acts.
Lifting his shades, he met her gaze with his hazel eyes. “I’d be lying if I said watching you get off with your toys hasn’t relieved me too. You’re nightstand drawer is impressive. My interest in exploring you is piqued.”
He’d watched her. She shivered with disgust, avoiding his stare. Photos of her were tacked to the corkboard on her left. On the other side, her brother, Peter.
“That’s a look of familiarity I see gleaming in those pretty black eyes.” He stepped back.
Not even close to charming.
He spun her and lowered her upper body to the surface of the table. “Slowly.” He guided her down. “I wouldn’t want to leave any signs of abuse.” He removed two latex gloves from the box next to her. “Nor physical. DNA.”
Evidence, was what she called it. If he was worried about leaving proof, what else was he planning on doing to her? Oh God, he wouldn’t! Would he?
“What a view.” He kneeled behind her. “Step out of your heels.”
“And what if I don’t?”
“If you test me...I’ll make you wish I’d shot you.”
What an outstanding example of her tax dollars at work. She removed one foot then the other from her shoes.
The board in front of her was covered in photos of Rowley. Short black hair framed the ivory skin of his face. His intense navy blue eyes stared off in the distance.
“Good girl.” He lifted up her dress.
Cool air chilled the exposed area. “My God.”
“Do you have a concealed weapon on you?”
“No.” She squeezed her eyes closed.
“Good. How about drugs or something I could cut myself on?” He probed along the edge of her panties with his gloved fingers.
She jerked away from his touch. “No.”
He slid his hand around the front of her thigh, preventing her retreat. “I wouldn’t want you to bruise.” His voice lowered an octave. “White lace suits you.”
The hairs on the back of her arms stood with fear.
With a large gloved hand, he examined up her leg, groped her ankle to her knee, onto her inner thigh and tucked his fingers in the seat of her panties then fondled her ass. “You do take good care of yourself. Fit. I especially enjoy when you run around the house in your panties and bra.”
Her stomach lurched. There were cameras hidden in her house, or he wouldn’t have known that. How long had her home been invaded in this way?
He descended her other thigh, past her knee to her ankle.
She needed to dissolve into nothingness like she did when she was a kid. When her parents were fighting or her father beat them. It was better to be anywhere but there.
She focused on the pictures before her. Anything but his hands. Where was the photo of Rowley taken? The image struck her as familiar. The trees in the background and water. Down by the river. He enjoyed sitting by the shore’s edge. Just the wind, birds, and them. She’d seen him in that shirt and slacks at the restaurant recently.
The Fed yanked her upright, reached around front, untied the belt of her coat and slid the fabric down her arms, resting the weight of the garment against the handcuffs.
Her muscles tensed. “Ouch.” She gritted her teeth.
The gap between them narrowed and his erection pressed into her palm. He patted up her ass and back. “Nothing so far.” He exhaled deeply.
She couldn’t deal with this–with him. She needed to find her way out of herself. The restaurant was the only thing keeping her sane since her husband’s death. Had she remembered to double the order of turnips? The soup of the day was going to be a puree of turnip soup, a fall favorite of the restaurant’s patrons.
He smoothed his hand over her exposed collarbone to her chest, then slipped his fingers beneath the top of her gown, inspecting her areolas. “Magnificent breasts. Are you cold, Leera?”
He pawed the peak of one of her breasts.
She cringed. “What?”
He groaned. “Are you cold or enjoying yourself?” His hard thing twitched against her palm.
Her extremities were numb. Please God, this had to end.
Extra carrots wouldn’t hurt either, as garnish with the parsley for a dash of color. She should make sure she added more of those to her order as well.
“Bear with me. I’m nearly done...” His breath blew on her neck. He gathered up the front of her dress and slid his hand beneath the waist of her pantyhose. Then he pressed his fingers under the material. With his knee, he knocked the inside of her thigh, forcing her legs further apart.
“Please don’t.” She was out of practice and struggling to shut him out. Tears formed in her eyes.
“Shh, if you relax you might enjoy this.” Hunger laced his tone. “All part of my duties, as unpleasant as this may seem.” He reached down there and parted her.
Oh God. Her breath hitched in her throat. She fisted her hands, determined get through this. Was the sunflower bread roll the best accent to go with the earthy turnip? Maybe a stronger flavor would work better. What about a pumpernickel roll? That was a much better companion for the turnip.
“So beautiful.” He probed down below.
She jerked as far as she could away from him. Her hip bones knocked the table.
“Careful. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself. Don’t be alarmed.” Between her legs, he pressed back and forth. “Done. But if you’d like me to continue, Leera?”
“Huh?”
“Should I continue?”
Was he giving her an out, or was this another part of his twisted game? Either way, she wouldn’t consent. She shook her head, slumping to the table.
He huffed as he withdrew his hand. The cuffs loosened then released from her wrists. “Leera.”
Where was she? In a warehouse with a warped Federal agent, who was employed by Homeland Security. She massaged the sore skin of her wrists. Her fingernails had turned blue.
“Sit.” He pointed to the chair next to her.
As instructed, she sat, pulled her jacket closed to cover up and crossed her arms. In front of her on the table was a pile of photos with one flipped facedown and a laptop.
What on earth did this disturbed agent want with her? “Why am I here?”
“Do you know what brought two of the men on the boards together?” He sat across from her.
Behind her, one of the photos was of an Ancient. At least, that was what the zombies over a hundred years old called themselves...or