Authors: Kylie Brant
Waking Evil 02 (28 page)
Her words underscored a suspicion Ramsey had had about the man all along. Everybody devised defenses. And living down his father’s past in this town couldn’t have been easy.
The other woman barely took a breath. “But I know him well ’nough to recognize when he’s smitten. He’s taken with you, there’s no denyin’ it. Can’t say you’re his usual type, either. You should try this on.” Quick reflexes had Ramsey catching a jade green top in a slinky material, hanger and all, as Leanne tossed it to her. “It’ll make your eyes look more green than hazel.”
Ramsey couldn’t say which she found more baffling, the fashion advice or Leanne’s casual talk of Dev’s feelings toward her. “I’m not . . . neither of us are looking for anything serious.”
Leanne gave her a droll look before heading over to another rack. “Honey, no man is ever
lookin
’ for it. ‘Serious’ sort of has to sneak up on ’em. Whack ’em over the head before they know what hit ’em.”
lookin
’ for it. ‘Serious’ sort of has to sneak up on ’em. Whack ’em over the head before they know what hit ’em.”
“Now
that’s
a sentiment I’ve often had around Stryker.”
that’s
a sentiment I’ve often had around Stryker.”
“That’s why you’ll be good for him.” Leanne’s voice was muffled as she flipped rapidly through a rack of shorts and pants. “You’re not wantin’ to hogtie him and drag him to the altar. That novelty alone was sure to intrigue him. Did you ever shoot anybody with that gun you wear?”
The non sequiturs were enough to make her head spin. But she didn’t bother to dissemble. “Yes.”
Rather than shocking the other woman, Ramsey’s answer seemed to satisfy her. “I knew it. I told Dev I saw a piece on The Mindhunters last year on TV. What’s Adam Raiker like to work for?”
“Intimidating. Demanding. Brilliant.” Brutally honest with a keen insight that Ramsey found nothing less than terrifying when it was turned on her. Failure was more than just difficult to contemplate knowing it would have to be explained to Raiker. It wasn’t an option.
“He half scared me to death just watching the interview. He’s so . . .” The woman cocked her head for a moment, searching for the word. “. . .
intense
.”
intense
.”
“He is that.” Surreptitiously, Ramsey tried to shove the shirt she was holding onto the rack before her, but Leanne turned at that moment and held up a pair of pencil-slim long black shorts. “Try these with the top. By sticking with black, you probably can wear shoes you already have. The dressing room is right over there.” She practically shooed Ramsey into it, whisking the curtain shut behind her.
It was a bit like getting caught in a hurricane, Ramsey considered, stripping off her clothes with grim purpose. Getting blown this way and that only to find herself landing in a foreign place wondering what the hell just happened.
She heard Leanne speaking with the clerk outside the dressing room. Something about chunky jewelry, whatever that was. Dragging on the clothes and straightening them, Ramsey was struck when she looked in the mirror that the woman outside the room, blast her, had been right. The outfit looked like something Ramsey would pick out, and it fit her exactly.
Without taking much time to consider her reflection, she stripped swiftly again. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have similar outfits in her closet at home, she reminded herself. Regardless of Dev’s cracks about her wardrobe, she did have regular clothes.
Even if she didn’t want to think about how long it had been since she’d worn anything that wasn’t work-related.
And there was no way to blame Stryker for that.
Scooping up the garments, she opened the curtain to the dressing room again. She may be buying the things Leanne had picked out, but only because she had nothing else appropriate to wear. It certainly wasn’t because she was dressing up for the man.
“I picked out a necklace and earrings that will be just the thing for . . .” Leanne looked up at Ramsey’s re-entry disappointedly. “Didn’t the outfit work?”
“It’s fine.” Ramsey lifted her arm, which she had the clothes draped over. “I’m getting it.”
“I knew it.” Satisfaction laced her words. “You’re goin’ to have him trippin’ over his tongue. Serve him right, too. That man is entirely too sure of himself when it comes to women. Don’t know one personally he can’t wrap ’round his finger, with the exception of his mama. But that woman’s got glaciers in her veins, so she doesn’t count.”
She shouldn’t ask. Ramsey definitely didn’t want to get any further entwined in Devlin Stryker’s life. But her tongue worked at odds with her brain.
“He and his mother aren’t close?”
Leanne tilted her head, with its dark cap of hair, and sent Ramsey a sly look. “If I tell you, will you tell me who you shot and why?”
“No.”
The other woman made a moue of disappointment. “Well, it’s more ancient history than gossip, but it’s no secret in these parts that Celia Ann Stryker couldn’t wait to put road between her and Buffalo Springs after Dev’s daddy was accused of murder. Got rid of his last name mighty quick, too. Guess I can see how hard it would have been on her,” she allowed, as she trailed behind Ramsey to the counter. Laying the jewelry on top of the clothes, she continued, “From all accounts, Lucas Rollins was a lot like Dev. Easy to get along with and not much for gettin’ liquored up and carousin’. Which seems sorta ironic. Woman like that would drive most men to drink.”
Ramsey listened with half an ear while contemplating the jewelry—which was definitely chunky, and the same jade green as the top. It was unlike anything she’d choose, but she’d be the first to admit that her taste tended toward the functional.
“Listen to me rattle on.” Leanne’s rueful tone had Ramsey’s attention jerking back to the woman. “You’re goin’ to think I’m a terrible tongue wagger. I’m biased, I’ll admit it. I just think there’s a special place in hell for a woman who puts her second husband before the welfare her own child, don’t you?”
“Some women weren’t meant to be mothers,” Ramsey agreed as she handed the clerk her charge card. Although as mothers went, she figured her own would make Celia Ann look like Mother of the Year.
But she’d survived Hilda Hawkins. Had, in fact, survived her childhood, and Cripolo, Mississippi. No one passed through life completely unscathed. She was honest enough to admit snippets from her past still had the power to haunt her.
Ramsey couldn’t help wondering just how much his past haunted Dev.
Behindthe gag, her breath came in sharp muffled gasps. Her bound wrists were slick with blood. But Kathleen Sebern continued to rub them against the sharp edge of stone her naked body was propped against, terror fueling her desperation.
The pain from her wrists paled in comparison to what she’d already been subjected to. What awaited her still, if she didn’t find a way to escape.
Had she been here one day? Two? Time had ceased to exist. There had only been the hours
before
, when
he
had been here. And the hours since, shrouded in darkness. Praying that somehow she could get away before he came back.
before
, when
he
had been here. And the hours since, shrouded in darkness. Praying that somehow she could get away before he came back.
A shudder racked her body and her efforts redoubled. Were the binds loosening? She worked her wrists more furiously, uncaring of the searing pain as stone tore at flesh.
In the next moment she was free.
Disoriented, she clawed at the tape over her mouth first. The need for air, to fill her lungs and scream her fear and anguish, rose up inside her in a powerful surge. Her fingers were numb, though. Clumsy. The seconds ticked by interminably before she could tear the tape from her mouth, from lips already cracked and swollen.
The first inhalation of air was sweet, a greedy swallow. With the second came a small sound. Everything inside her stilled.
She heard the footstep first. Boot scraping against stone. Panic sprinted up her spine, fueled by desperation. She tried to rise, but her bound feet were numb, and she stumbled forward only a few steps before falling to her knees. Then she crawled. Blindly. Into the shadows, uncaring of obstacles she hit in her path. She had to get away. Had to. Had to. Had to . . .
A sliver of light stabbed through the shadows, and the wail of despair welled up in her and burst out, a wild piercing note of desolation.
“Well, well. You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”
That voice. That hated voice. Kathleen scrabbled farther, not even trying to rise, heading for the darkest corners. No longer even thinking of escape. Her instinct was to hide.
“Do you read the Bible, Kathleen?” The light shone around the dark cavelike area, catching her in its gleam like a spotlight.
She crawled rapidly out of its beam, struck her head on something solid with enough force to have stars dancing before her eyes. A moment later he was there, above her, his hand in her hair, yanking her head back.
“Of course you don’t. That’s why you’re here. ‘And if ye will not yet for all this hearken unto me, then I will punish you seven times more for your sins.’ Leviticus chapter twenty-six, verse eighteen.”
She tried to swing at him, but he was crouched behind her now, one hand forcing her head nearly to the ground. He slipped some sort of thin noose over her head. Tightened it around her throat.
“You’ve more penance to do. And you’re in the perfect position already.”
Her scream was strangled as he rammed himself into her from behind, the sound ricocheting off the stone walls. Shrieking through her brain. The agony knifed through her, pain and fear colliding, engulfing her. The noose tightened, and spots danced before her eyes as her lungs heaved for oxygen. Then it loosened, allowed her a short gasping breath. Then tightened again. Over and over.
But through it all there was still his voice. In her ear. In her head. Ragged and panting as he thrust.
“Atonement is your path to salvation, Kathleen. Because the wages of sin are death.”
Chapter 14
It was ten minutes to six when Ramsey checked the caller ID on her ringing cell phone. A moment later, she considered not responding. A Mississippi area code. She almost always let calls from home go right to voice mail. Then tortured herself for hours or days afterward until she worked up the fortitude to return the call.
But this number, though originating in Cripolo, was unfamiliar.
Even knowing she’d regret it, she hit connect and answered with a short, “Ramsey Clark.”
There was a moment of silence. Then tentatively, “Ms. Clark?”
“Who is this?” She could see Dev pulling in to one of the slots outside her cabin. Of course he’d be early. No surprise there.
“Ms. Clark, this is Curtis Feckler, of Feckler Realty in Cripolo, Mississippi.” A nervous laugh. “I admit, I wasn’t ’spectin’ you to answer. You must be feelin’ a whole lot better. Congratulations on your recovery.”
She went to the door and opened it, waving Dev inside. “I think you’ve been misinformed,” she told the Realtor. “I haven’t had any health issues. What’s the purpose of your call?”
Another hesitation, during which her attention was diverted by Dev’s low wolf whistle. Ridiculous to feel a flush of pleasure by the admiration in his expression as he gave her a long once over. So she was wearing different clothes. Clothes were clothes, weren’t they? And these gave her nowhere to hide her weapon. She felt naked without it.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what’s goin’ on here.” Feckler’s voice was confused. “Your brother brought me a notarized statement that you were at death’s door. He said you needed to sell your house in Cripolo to pay the medical costs, and I’ve found a buyer. Your number was on the copy of the deed he showed me, but this contact was mostly a formality. We’re required to follow up on things like this. I’m afraid I don’t understand. Your brother assured me . . .”
A familiar sense of fatality filled her. “I’m sure he did. Unfortunately my brother is an ex-con precisely because he’s a conscienceless liar and thief. The house isn’t his to sell, Mr. Feckler, and since I’m not interested in unloading it, you’ve narrowly avoided landing yourself in a lawsuit. Next time, you’d best get a better idea of who you’re dealing with before you take them on as a client.”
The man began to sputter. “Well . . . I’ve never seen such a thing. I assure you, Ms. Clark, I’m an honest businessman. I just moved to Cripolo a few months ago to open a new branch of my realty company. Granted, I don’t know the townspeople well yet, but . . .”
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