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I’ve moved into another world, like climbing up from the depths of Hell. It was musty and damp down there. Up here, it smells crisp and clean, with a faint, sweet floral aroma in the air. We go left. I’m walked down another hallway. Forty-five steps. I’m steered to the right. Through a doorway. She tugs impatiently at my arm, and I stumble over the carpet edge and almost fall.
“Slow down, Elizabeth.” Joshua’s voice cracks through the air, and I feel the temperature plummet, making me shiver. Elizabeth, the bitch who has her hands on me, freezes instantly, and then very slowly, carefully, guides me over the carpet and another twenty-two steps.
Then she stops.
“You may leave now, Elizabeth.”
I hear her footsteps thudding dutifully away, and then they fade and she’s gone.
Elizabeth must be terrified of him. That’s why she won’t help me. Aside from hacking half her tongue off, what else must this monster have done to her?
And yet I don’t feel sorry for her. If ever there comes a day when he kidnaps another woman, I won’t help keep her prisoner. I’d rather die.
As I stand there, I hear wooden floorboards creak, then the hood is snatched from my head. Bright light floods my vision, and I stand there, my eyes watering, blinking in the bright light. Joshua towers over me, close enough that I can smell a faint whiff of cologne.
I’m painfully aware my hands are still cuffed behind my back.
“Hello, Tamara.”
I tip my head back, reluctantly meeting his eyes. His smile is like a tub of ice water dumped on my head, making me shudder. How could I ever have fantasized about this man? Now I know what he is, I can see all the signs I missed before. His cold, calculating gaze, the falseness of his smile, the hard cruelty in his eyes.
He’s wearing a white Oxford shirt but no tie. Black slacks. Shiny black loafers.
A long moment stretches out between us as his gaze roves over me. My heart beats so wildly that I half expect it to make my body vibrate in tune.
He kidnapped me. He murdered a man, then drugged and kidnapped me.
Unexpectedly, he reaches out and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. It’s slow and sensual and calls up unwelcome feelings, a warmth that forces its way through my body. Startled by the strength of my arousal, I gasp and jerk away, stumbling back a step.
He’s watching me with a curious look on his face, examining me, judging me.
“So that’s how you’re going to play it.” He takes another step forward and strokes my face again, and this time his hand drifts down south, caressing my throat, then gently skimming my left breast, making his point. He’ll touch me where and how he wants to. And if I resist, he’ll just do what he was going to do anyway—and more.
As he caresses my breast, my nipples swell, and heat pools in my lower belly.
It means nothing. It’s a physical response to stimulus.I stand rigid, muscles locked, staring at the wall behind him. There’s no point in trying to get away from him. Even if I weren’t handcuffed, I’m hopelessly outmatched. He’s almost a foot taller than me, and lethal as a cobra. There’s no escaping this, so I just endure it, hating the warmth that flows from his hand and heats my skin. He gently squeezes my swollen nipple between two fingers, making it clear that my physical arousal hasn’t escaped his notice.
Finally, he drops his hand to his side, but the gleam of triumph in his eyes makes me burn with shame.
“Why?” I demand bitterly. “You never even liked me. You never even looked at me. I disgusted you so much that you fired me for talking to you.”
At that, anger flares in his eyes. It’s so intense that I can feel it prickling in the air, sharp and thorny. I tense, bracing myself for a blow.
“Don’t ever tell me how I feel.”
“Duly noted,” I snap. And in that brief moment, I’m incredibly proud of myself. I just sassed back to a serial killer. I’m keeping the promise I made in my cell. Going down swinging.
But when he smiles gently at me, my pride evaporates like morning mist, and it’s replaced by fear.
He spins me around and does something to my handcuffs, then they fall off me and my hands are free.
I shake my arms and rub my wrists as I look around.
We’re in an enormous dining room, with a bright chandelier overheard and a rich, plush carpet in tones of light blue, dark blue, and black running down the center of the room. A table with a lace runner down the center sits under a sparkling chandelier, and impressionist paintings in thick gilded frames adorn the walls. The windows, which take up an entire wall across the room from us, are covered with pale ivory blinds, which completely swallow any light, and there are thick blue velvet curtains that sweep the floor.
The table is set with silver platters. There’s prime rib, tiny red potatoes, Brussels sprouts, salad, bowls and gravy boats filled with various dressings and dips. Two places have been set, one at the head of the table and one to the right. The china is decorated with gold leaf.
The surroundings are incongruously, startlingly beautiful. I feel a surge of anger. This room is a lie, just like Joshua’s beautiful face. Joshua doesn’t deserve to live in such lush, elegant surroundings. Everything here should be as dank and ugly as my prison cell—as Joshua’s black, black heart.
