The Tycoon's Socialite Bride (Entangled Indulgence) (13 page)

He pushed himself to his feet. “That’s so boring, and we promised today would be about fun.”

He stepped onto the platform and placed a hand on her waist. Gazing into her widened eyes, he bent down and kissed her. He shivered, the feel of her in his arms heady. Her lips moved against his and he teased them. She sighed and grabbed his shoulders. With one last lingering caress, he stepped back.

“
That’s
how I feel about the dress.”

She breathed heavily, a flush on her cheeks. “Okay, I’ll try on the next one.”

He sat on the sofa, shifting to adjust to a more comfortable position. He imagined her sliding the silky fabric down her long legs and standing there, practically naked, while she figured out which dress to try on next.

“Carter is causing quite a stir,” she called from the changing room. “I’ve already received e-mails from a couple of women asking for information about him.”

He winced. “Stay out of that. It never ends well.”

“Thanks for the warning. Dress number two.”

This one was purple and only covered one shoulder. It fell in a shiny, satiny material to the floor.

“What do you think of this one?”

Her eyes were bright. She watched him join her on the platform and she wet her lips, her lids sliding closed. He placed his hand against her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the dewy softness of her skin. He touched his lips to hers. Then let her go.

Her lashes flew up, confusion swirling in her eyes.

“That’s it?”

He shrugged. “That dress is okay. The first dress was better.”

She lifted the skirt and stepped off the platform mumbling, “Apparently.”

When she was back in the dressing room, he walked over and studied the black-and-white framed photographs on the wall. “You mentioned the Holcombes earlier?”

“Mm-hmm,” she mumbled in the affirmative.

“Was Vivian Holcombe always that way? With the drinking?”

He heard her movement cease behind the door. “Now that you mention it, she has been acting differently. Vivian was always a social drinker, but this past year, she turned into a teetotaler. When I saw her at functions she’d been limiting herself to club soda, with a twist of lime. Something must’ve happened, because it appears she’s back on the champagne train.”

“I wonder why,” he mused. Would knowing give him insight into why the Holcombes were selling the hotel?

She resumed moving. “I don’t know, but then, according to the Senator, I’ve been neglectful of my usual social duties.”

“Is he right?”

“Yes. But I was bored. And the shelter is more fun, more interesting. I like the work I’m doing there and I can see the effect I’m having. I don’t have that immediate feedback with the charity balls and galas.” She opened the door and stepped out. “What about this one?”

It was bright blue, it was lace, and it lovingly hugged every curve of her body.

His heart pounded in his chest and his nerve endings roused to life. He pulled her to him and kissed her. He wanted her close, needed to touch and explore her. His tongue swept past her parted lips and sank inside her mouth. She moaned and he tangled his fingers in her hair, wanting to get closer, go deeper.

The sound of someone clearing their throat broke through the fog. He raised his head, his breath harsh, and saw Hannah standing in the doorway of the private sitting area, a to-go coffee cup in her hand.

Pamela stepped out of his arms and smoothed her hair from her forehead.

“I’m going to take this one. Would you have any shoes to go with it?”

Chapter Thirteen

Two days later, Pamela offered to stay late and cover the front desk after learning the daytime receptionist had to leave early for a dental appointment. She picked up the blocks in the kids’ corner, watered the plants, and straightened the pamphlets on the bookshelf.

She knew Marcus had a late meeting about the Holcombe hotel sale. He’d be at the office until midnight, at least. She smiled, remembering the fun they’d had on their shopping trip. Maybe she should drop by his office with a quick dinner. So long as she wasn’t interrupting his meeting, that is. She was considering what to bring when the front door swung open and a man rushed in. Pamela took one look at his flushed, sweating face, disheveled clothing, and flat expression, and her instincts went off like the Congress Bells.

His heavy ripped jacket displayed a collection of stains and was at least two sizes too big for his short, wiry frame. Since most people refrained from outerwear in ninety-degree weather, Pamela heeded the clanging of her instincts and moved to put the front counter between them.

“May I help you?” she asked in what she hoped was a nonthreatening manner.

He glared at her with cold, dead eyes partially hidden by the oily curtain of his hair. His lips moved, but he made no sound as his gaze skittered around the room as if searching for something.

Or someone.

“Can I help you, sir?” she repeated, praying she was mistaken and could dispatch him quickly and cleanly from the building.

Who was here?

Most residents were gone. There was a free concert on the Mall.

Shelly?

In the back with everyone else.

Her breath caught in her throat when the man pulled his hand out of his pocket and aimed a gun at her head.

Acid churned in her gut and her eyes refused to stray from the glistening black steel. She was no stranger to guns. Her father kept shotguns at the estate for hunting and skeet shooting. But this weapon, with its short barrel, wooden grip, and revolving chambers, screamed of a violence she’d never experienced.

“Where is my wife? Is that bitch here?”

The hair on the nape of her neck lifted at his coldly furious words. There was a silent alarm. Could she get to it without alerting the gunman? What if he saw her push the button?

“What’s her name?” she asked, the uncontrollable shaking in her fingers making it difficult to press the small button hidden behind the counter, mere inches beyond her reach.

“I told that bitch she couldn’t get away from me. Told her I’d never let her leave me.” The man wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jacket, the movement taking her out of the gun’s crosshair. Knowing she had little time to spare, she edged closer to the silent alarm. Her fingers stabbed at the button. He swung the gun back in her direction.

“What are you doing? Let me see your hands!”

She raised them, palms outward. “Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You’ve done enough. It’s all your fault. Another stuck-up bitch getting involved in something that’s none of your business.”

“Sir, I’m sorry. If you would just calm down and—”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” he screamed.

She flinched and took several steps back.

“You put ideas into her head, made her think she could do better than me.”

His hand shook and Pamela’s eyes locked on his trigger finger. She was going to die. She’d never get a chance to thank Alice for all she’d done after her mother had died. She’d never see her father or get a chance to try to mend their relationship. And Marcus. She’d never see him again, never kiss or touch him again, never figure out this thing between them…

“You should’ve seen her when we first met. Nobody wanted her. I took her in, put a roof over her head. And this is how she repays me?” He stopped suddenly. “What’s back there?” he asked, waving the gun to indicate the door behind her.

The door that led to the residential quarters. Bile filled her throat. No way could she let this man back where the women and children were.

“Nothing important. Just storage.”

“You’re lying.”

She swallowed against the acid rising in her throat. “No, really. Blankets, old files, that sort of thing.”

“Open it.”

Stall. All she could do was stall until the police arrived. “I can’t. It’s locked and I don’t have the key.”

“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

“No, of course not.”

He looked her up and down, his stare making her flesh crawl. “You think you’re better than me?”

She shook her head, working to control her face from betraying her building panic.

“You’re all the same. She wasn’t better than me and neither are you,” he spat out. “Come here.”

Her knees became melted butter. Oh, God. She couldn’t move.

He raised the gun and cocked the hammer, the click turning her blood cold.

“Move your ass or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and she swallowed with difficulty. Placing her hands on the counter, she inched her way around it, each step taking her closer to him. This was it. He was going to kill her.

The faint sound of sirens shrieked in the distance. The man cursed and lunged at her. Before she could move, he’d grabbed her arm and pressed his gun into the small of her back. He pushed her over to the door and peered out onto the street. “Did you call the cops?”

“No. I didn’t, I swear.”

“This ain’t over. I’ll be back for you, Sharon,” he yelled over his shoulder. He pressed the gun so firmly against her, she could feel the muzzle imprint on her spine. He whispered into her ringing ears, “They’ll have to go through you to get to me. Now, let’s go.”

The stench from his breath and sweat-stained clothes filled her nose. She fought her gag reflex.

“Please. I won’t tell them any—”

“Open the damn door!”

She did. He pushed her through it, the oppressive humidity receiving them, just as a police cruiser rounded the corner, its sirens blaring.

“Fuck,” he yelled. His head swiveled between the car in the distance and his escape route in the opposite direction. Shoving her roughly to the ground, he took off. She landed heavily, her left knee and shin scraping painfully against the sidewalk, her palms burning as she tried to brace her fall.

The first car screeched to a halt and both officers jumped out and pursued the gunman on foot. Another car pulled in behind the first and an officer hurried to her side.

“Are there more inside, ma’am?”

She shook her head, or maybe it was her body’s reaction to the events as relief flooded through her in a deluge and she began to tremble uncontrollably. The officer called for the paramedics.

“Ma’am? Can you hear me?”

Pamela nodded and hoped it was perceptible through the shaking. She’d been so close to dying, was sure he would kill her—

They shone a bright light in her eyes and she jerked away, the movement making her dizzy.

“Her pupils are dilated. She’s going into shock. Let’s get her to the hospital.”

“Pamela!” Shelly rushed over, tears streaming down her face. “Ohmigod, are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

She reached for Shelly, and on the third try managed to grab her hand. Coldness swept over her and her body trembled violently. “Marcus—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll call him,” Shelly said as Pamela was helped onto a stretcher.

“No, don’t,” she said, her teeth chattering.

Shelly’s eyebrows drew together. “He’s your husband, he should be at the hospital with you.”

“He has…a meeting…about our…agreement.”

Her friend looked unconvinced. As the paramedic loaded Pamela into the ambulance she cried out, “Don’t…call…Marcus.”

…

Marcus’s receptionist rarely put through personal calls, but she’d insisted he take this one.

“Marcus, it’s Shelly, from the women’s shelter.”

Something about her tone sent a shiver of apprehension down his spine. “What happened? Where’s Pamela?”

“She’s at Georgetown University Hospital.”

The blood rushed from his body, leaving him a frozen shell. Shelly continued speaking, but Marcus was unable to move, unable to respond.

Something had happened to Pamela? A vise tightened around his heart and fear stole his breath.

Oh God. What if she was…

“Is she—”

“She has a few bumps and bruises but she’ll be okay. She didn’t want me to bother you,” she confided, “but I thought you might want to go and be with her.”

Bother him? She was his wife.

“I do. And thanks for calling me.”

He ended the call and immediately dialed Julia. “Cancel my meeting.”

“The one with the financial auditor?”

“Yes.”

“But, sir, any delays could push back the signing date.”

He knew that, but the meeting could last hours and Pamela needed him now. “We’re only reviewing account receivables and inventory. Call and tell him I was called away on an emergency and reschedule.”

“Couldn’t Mr. Richardson handle it in your absence?”

“That’s fine.”

He hailed a cab outside his office, offering fifty dollars if the cabbie could get him to Georgetown University Hospital in under ten minutes. His mind raced and he wished he’d heard more of what Shelly had told him.

What had happened to Pamela?

Had she been in an accident on the way home?

Had she been hurt?

Handing over the bonus when the cabbie pulled up outside the hospital, he rushed the nursing station, his pounding heart his constant soundtrack.

“I’m here to see my wife.”

“Name?”

“Pamela Pearson.”

He showed his ID and a moment later he tore down the corridor, the bright fluorescent lights and astringent odors assaulting his senses.

First. Second. The third curtain on the left.

He yanked it aside, the friction of metal on metal jarring, even amid the sounds emanating from numerous life-saving machines. The sight of Pamela sitting on the hospital bed sent a tide of relief plunging through his body.

No bandages. No casts. No bruises.

“Marcus! What are you doing here?”

Her hand came up to rest over her heart and her beautiful green eyes widened. She was genuinely surprised to see him. Had she really thought he wouldn’t come? That he’d leave her here alone? He sank onto the side of her bed, uncomfortably unprepared for the sudden emotion that hindered his speech. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, her cheek, and slowly, leisurely, her lips.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

She continued to stare at him. “You had the meeting about the Holcombe.”

“I did.” He captured her chin and tilted her head right and left.

“I told Shelly not to call you.”

He squeezed her hand. “It’s okay. Please, tell me what happened.”

“That’s what we were trying to determine, Mr. Pearson.”

For the first time since entering the room, he noticed the other occupants. Two women stood to the side of the cubicle, their nondescript suits and rigid bearing labeling them as cops. Still holding on to Pamela’s hand, he turned to face them.

“Why are you in my wife’s room?”

“We’re detectives with the District’s Domestic Violence Unit.” He started to speak when one of the detectives held up her hand. “No one here is in any trouble. We’re only interested in the incident at the women’s shelter.”

“Do you mind if I have a few minutes alone with my wife?” Marcus waited until they were completely out of the cubicle before turning to Pamela. “I’ll call Carter.”

She sighed and shook her head. “I
know
my rights. But that’s not the point. You don’t need to call Carter. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“We had a problem at the shelter. One of the husbands showed up.” She paused. “He had a gun.”

The icy grip of fear caught him again.

“A gun?”

He couldn’t escape the image of a nameless man pointing a gun at her, touching her.

The thought of her in mortal danger terrified him more than anything else ever had in his life. What had he been doing when she was threatened? Had he been working on proposals? Had he been in a meeting? What if he’d lost her and he’d been across town none the wiser?

His stomach churned and acid traveled up his throat. “You can’t go back there.”

She leaned against her headboard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lucky,” he corrected. “That might not be the case next time.”

“Nothing like that has ever happened before.”

He was an idiot. He’d never before thought of the shelter as a dangerous place, but a lot of those women were escaping abusive situations.

“This is not up for discussion.”

“Really? You think you’re going to issue orders and I’ll blindly follow them?”

“Yes, if you’re guided by common sense! A man with a gun came into the shelter. You were injured. I don’t care if it’s never happened before, I’m going to make damn sure it doesn’t happen again!”

…

Pamela didn’t relax until she was home and sitting on the sofa in the great room.

“Don’t move,” Marcus said, pointing his finger for emphasis. He came back with her prescription and a glass of water. “The doctor wanted you to take a couple of these and rest.”

“I know. I was there. Thank you,” she said, accepting the drink. She swallowed the two pills and sat back. “I wish I could lie here forever, but I really need to take a shower. I feel gross.”

“You’re supposed to rest.”

“I can’t until I wash the day off me.”

He sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you—”

He headed into the master bedroom, then she heard the sound of running water.

“Where is that stuff you use?” he asked, passing through the great room.

“What stuff?”

“The bath stuff that smells all vanilla-y.”

She laughed. “It’s in my shower.”