Cat's Lair by Christine Feehan

muffled against the mattress. Her hair was everywhere. She couldn’t see him through the masses of strands falling into her eyes so she forced herself to lie still. Her skin itched horribly and panic was close. She couldn’t stop the movement of her hands, trying to find a way out of the cuffs.
    Tuttle caught her arm and yanked her to her feet. “Were you going somewhere?”
    “To visit my mother,” she snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
    “Your mother’s dead,” he snapped back, and shoved her toward the door.
    Catarina deliberately stumbled and went down. She didn’t have hands to break her fall and she landed hard. The side of her face hit so hard that for a moment she saw stars and her cheek felt like she broke something. But her handcuffed hand found the small pen lying on the floor beside her overturned bag. She closed her fist around it.
    “Damn it,” Tuttle said. He crouched beside her. “Are you all right?”
    She didn’t deign to answer. Silence was a powerful weapon, she’d learned that lesson early, and she closed her mouth, refusing to look at him even when he helped her up. His hands were much gentler, but the horrible monster inside her detested his touch and clawed and raked at her belly, demanding she retaliate.
    Catarina kept her eyes on the floor as Tuttle helped her to stand. Retaining possession of her arm, he walked her right out of her safety zone into broad daylight. She could see the police cars around her warehouse. There was no way this wasn’t going to make the papers in one way or the other. Her heart started pounding hard and her mouth went dry. She wasn’t in the least afraid of the police. But the police had drawn attention to her. And attention was bad. Very, very bad.

5

    C ATARINA rubbed at her wrists under the table, keeping her eyes down. Her wrists hurt horribly, as did her face from when she had fallen. The cuffs were off, but she kept the pen hidden for two reasons. It was a weapon if she needed one and she could use it to get out of the cuffs if they put them on her again.
    She’d been patient, not tipping her hand that she could get loose. She was bruised because she couldn’t keep her hands still with her wrists locked so tightly in the metal. Tuttle had deliberately left her sitting alone in the interrogation room for some time. She knew he thought she would become more agitated and frightened. Unfortunately for Tuttle, he didn’t scare her. She knew monsters, and he wasn’t one.
    The door opened and he slipped into the room. She didn’t look up. What was the point? She had nothing to tell him, so as long as this was going to last, and she figured it would be a very long time, she would endure.
    They hadn’t allowed her to grab a sweater and she was cold, and feeling a little exposed, which she figured was also part of the plan.
    “Ms. Benoit? I’m Detective Frank Tuttle. We’re investigating a man named Rafe Cordeau. I believe you know him.”
    Tuttle was dressed in slacks and a jacket and he looked far too slick to be anything but DEA. Not that it surprised her. He carried a folder and set it on the table, making a show of it. The thing was, no matter what he said, he had nothing on her and he would have to make something up, or he would have to let her go.
    She remained silent. There wasn’t a question in his statement.
    “Ms. Benoit?” Frank’s voice had gone sharp.
    “I’m sorry.” She sent him a brief look from under her lashes. “I didn’t know that your statement required any response on my part.”
    “Are you acquainted with Rafe Cordeau?”
    “You obviously think that I am. Enough that you turned the place where I live upside down. I have no idea what you were looking for because no one had the courtesy to tell me.”
    “That isn’t an answer.”
    She shrugged. “As I don’t know what you’re looking for in the way of answers, I can’t help you.”
    “Do you in fact know Rafe Cordeau?” he thundered.
    “Is this