that struck without warning. And never the real enemy—only a far-reaching tentacle that, once removed, just grew back more vicious and tenacious than before.
Damn her. He couldn’t even find peace here. His last remaining refuge gone. Giving in to the inevitable, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed the damn number. “Agent Seaver, it’s Teague four-six-two. I need an immediate transfer outta here.”
* * * *
Chantel couldn’t see for the tears pouring from her eyes. Moving through the house on autopilot, she ran to the bathroom then cried herself out, all the while calling herself every term for fool she could think of. It didn’t help. She could still feel him, smell him. Still wanted his arms wrapped around her.
How pathetic was that? The guy scared the crap out of her, obviously didn’t have any true feelings for her and yet she still wanted him.
Quickly, before the tears could start again, she undressed and got into the shower. Her fingers were prunes and her skin red and blotched by the time she surrendered all hope of scrubbing Reese from her memory. He was deeply entrenched, and a treacherous part of her wanted it that way. When she reached for the towel, her brain finally decided to turn back on.
The towel was wet. Why was the towel wet when she hadn’t been home for days? Panic struck hard. Her knees quivered and threatened to give out. She dropped the towel as if it had burned her and reached for her robe on the back of the door. As soon as she pulled it off the hook, she knew something was wrong. Staring at it, she sank down onto the toilet seat. Someone had cut out the chest section. Had she put it on, her breasts would have been left exposed. Chantel threw it to the floor and covered her face with her hands trying to force air into her burning lungs and calm her pounding heart.
She had to listen for a sound, something to tell her whether she was alone or not, but all she could hear was the frantic beating of her heart and the silent screams inside her head. With a Herculean effort, she pulled herself together. She was not a fainting violet. She could take care of herself.
As quietly as she could, she eased the door open, expecting everything from Jason with his machete to Norman Bates with a shovel, but only silence greeted her. Logically, she knew that if anyone were in her home he would have come after her already, but logic didn’t hold up against fear.
She had to make it to her closet—she had a virtual arsenal in there. A few years back a motorcycle gang had been terrorizing the community. Her father had been beside himself with worry. He wouldn’t rest until she could defend herself against an invading army. Or so she had joked at the time. Right now, she was just grateful. Why hadn’t she listened to him and put a cell phone and weapon in every room? He’d certainly told her enough times.
Steeling herself for anything, she quickly popped her head around the corner. Nothing moved at her so she decided to risk it. Slinking along the wall, she tried to stay out of view from the rest of the house until the bed came into focus. Chantel stopped moving. Or even breathing. She drew her hand defensively to her throat as a strangled sound escaped.
Her doll. Her precious doll, kept forever in a glass case to protect it from dust and sun fading, lay mutilated and tied to her bed. Tied to the bed. Oh God! This couldn’t be Reese. Could it? He’d just been kidding. Hadn’t he?
When he’d left to buy condoms, and she’d cringed at the thought of her wanton behavior, had he come over here? Her keys had been in her purse. He could have taken them and returned them without her knowing it. He had been gone a lot longer than she’d expected.
Chantel surveyed her room. She couldn’t believe it. Her underwear drawer was ajar. Glass from the shattered case littered the hardwood floor. Strips of satin, undoubtedly from her intimates, were strewn amongst the glass shards. How could
Damn her. He couldn’t even find peace here. His last remaining refuge gone. Giving in to the inevitable, he flipped open his cell phone and dialed the damn number. “Agent Seaver, it’s Teague four-six-two. I need an immediate transfer outta here.”
* * * *
Chantel couldn’t see for the tears pouring from her eyes. Moving through the house on autopilot, she ran to the bathroom then cried herself out, all the while calling herself every term for fool she could think of. It didn’t help. She could still feel him, smell him. Still wanted his arms wrapped around her.
How pathetic was that? The guy scared the crap out of her, obviously didn’t have any true feelings for her and yet she still wanted him.
Quickly, before the tears could start again, she undressed and got into the shower. Her fingers were prunes and her skin red and blotched by the time she surrendered all hope of scrubbing Reese from her memory. He was deeply entrenched, and a treacherous part of her wanted it that way. When she reached for the towel, her brain finally decided to turn back on.
The towel was wet. Why was the towel wet when she hadn’t been home for days? Panic struck hard. Her knees quivered and threatened to give out. She dropped the towel as if it had burned her and reached for her robe on the back of the door. As soon as she pulled it off the hook, she knew something was wrong. Staring at it, she sank down onto the toilet seat. Someone had cut out the chest section. Had she put it on, her breasts would have been left exposed. Chantel threw it to the floor and covered her face with her hands trying to force air into her burning lungs and calm her pounding heart.
She had to listen for a sound, something to tell her whether she was alone or not, but all she could hear was the frantic beating of her heart and the silent screams inside her head. With a Herculean effort, she pulled herself together. She was not a fainting violet. She could take care of herself.
As quietly as she could, she eased the door open, expecting everything from Jason with his machete to Norman Bates with a shovel, but only silence greeted her. Logically, she knew that if anyone were in her home he would have come after her already, but logic didn’t hold up against fear.
She had to make it to her closet—she had a virtual arsenal in there. A few years back a motorcycle gang had been terrorizing the community. Her father had been beside himself with worry. He wouldn’t rest until she could defend herself against an invading army. Or so she had joked at the time. Right now, she was just grateful. Why hadn’t she listened to him and put a cell phone and weapon in every room? He’d certainly told her enough times.
Steeling herself for anything, she quickly popped her head around the corner. Nothing moved at her so she decided to risk it. Slinking along the wall, she tried to stay out of view from the rest of the house until the bed came into focus. Chantel stopped moving. Or even breathing. She drew her hand defensively to her throat as a strangled sound escaped.
Her doll. Her precious doll, kept forever in a glass case to protect it from dust and sun fading, lay mutilated and tied to her bed. Tied to the bed. Oh God! This couldn’t be Reese. Could it? He’d just been kidding. Hadn’t he?
When he’d left to buy condoms, and she’d cringed at the thought of her wanton behavior, had he come over here? Her keys had been in her purse. He could have taken them and returned them without her knowing it. He had been gone a lot longer than she’d expected.
Chantel surveyed her room. She couldn’t believe it. Her underwear drawer was ajar. Glass from the shattered case littered the hardwood floor. Strips of satin, undoubtedly from her intimates, were strewn amongst the glass shards. How could
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