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She shot him a dirty look, and kept her back to him when she slipped the robe off her shoulders and squeezed her breasts into the bra.
“Come here.”
She paused, considering her options. She could say no or stay where she was and get hit with the belt, or she could walk over there to him. Either way he’d get what he wanted. She gritted her teeth and walked over to where he sat smugly in the rocking chair, his legs spread as wide as possible in such a chair.
He pulled her close so that she was standing between them, then he ran his hands over her, over the lines of the panties and over and around the bra, cupping each breast. She looked away as his rough fingers slipped under the lace.
“It’s a little snug. What size are you?”
“36C.”
She shuddered against him as he leaned in and trailed his tongue over the tops of her breasts. He pulled the cups of the bra back and rubbed the newly exposed flesh.
“You’ve got lovely nipples.”
“Can I get dressed now? Please?” she said, trying to block out the feelings of arousal.
“Pleasesircan I get dressed now,” he corrected.
She parroted back the phrase he wanted to hear only because it was the quickest route to getting clothes on. She wouldn’t let him control her body like this.
He took his hands off her and nodded, and she scurried back to the bed and slipped the dress over her head. It was a better fit. She took a step back as he stood and moved toward her. He pointed at the door.
“Now go. Make breakfast. We’re starving.”
She turned toward the door and jumped when he landed a playful swat against her bottom.
* * *
The kitchen’slong counter was lined with brown eggs that weren’t quite the pristine quality of the grocery store and sliced bacon that stayed cold in a bowl of ice.
“There’s biscuit dough in the fridge. I’ll teach you how to make it, but what’s chilling right now is ready to go. Just roll it into balls and put it on baking sheets,” Luke said as he came up behind her. “Come.” He took her hand and led her to the back patio, which was covered with trellis work and grapes. On the patio was a long wooden table with six chairs. “Right before the eggs are done, you can ring this bell for us. We like them scrambled.” He pointed to indicate a sturdy wooden beam in the ground with a large bell with a rope attached.
“And if I refuse to be your house slave?”
“I’ll whip you with the belt until you’re more agreeable. And I’ll do it in front of the ranch hands. You want to test me on that? I can ring the bell and bring them all in for a show. They’d be eager to watch that pert little ass get whipped.”
Veronica shook her head quickly, knowing he’d do it. If he’d gotten away with doing this once before, she didn’t want to think about the kind of men he employed, or how they might get off on her pain and humiliation. It was easier to just make breakfast.
“That’s what I thought. You’ll be making two meals a day for all of us, but the evening meal will just be the two of us. I’ll show you the garden after breakfast.”
Oh yes, the garden. She’d forgotten about her gardening duty. The joke was on him. She couldn’t even keep a potted fern alive.
Standing on the back patio barefoot in a sundress, getting ready to make them all breakfast was the old-fashioned stereotype, minus one element. “I hope you don’t plan on getting me pregnant.”
“Don’t be silly. You’d be next to useless to me pregnant.”
A horrifying thought hit her and she couldn’t stop the question from flying out of her mouth. “Did Trish get pregnant?”
“Yes.”
Before she could ask anything else, he’d turned and headed out toward the cows, that ominousyeshanging in the air. What did that mean? She’d gotten pregnant, and he’d killed her? Veronica took a couple of tentative steps into the backyard trying to get her breath to come normally. She couldn’t get pregnant; that risk was gone. But that wasn’t the problem; it was the idea he’d kill a woman over something like that.
The grass was soft and well-manicured. She jumped at a low whistle, and turned to see a man that looked maybe fifty, a touch of gray starting at his temples. He was good-looking, but nothing like Luke. She mentally berated herself for that thought. For either of those thoughts.
“Well, ain’t you a pretty thing? I coulda swore you was Trish for a minute. You like that grass? It’s sod. We put it in for her. She was the damnedest woman. Couldn’t get her to wear shoes for nothin’ hardly.” So Lukehadn’tstolen her shoes? Or was that just the story he’d sold the ranch hands when he’d broken her down too far to protest the lie?
Veronica took a step back when the guy walked toward her, his hand outstretched.
