Present Danger by Susan Andersen Page A

course,” he replied tenderly. “How else could I keep tabs on my wife’s movements?”
    “And is this detective followin’ me still?”
    “No. I paid him off once he showed me those disgusting pictures. I knew then what needed to be done.”
    She took another step out of his reach, but to her horror, he suddenly stood and took a step toward her. “I haven’t slept with any man but you, Wesley,” she informed him in a conciliatory whisper. She hated herself not only for her tone but for her haste in assuring him, but she was not a fool. This was not the time to cling to her pride. Better the humiliation of placating him than to cling obdurately to her rights and possibly—no, probably —get hurt.
    She was not deceived for one moment by that well-bred smile or cultured voice. He looked as if he would very much like to hurt her.
    All of a sudden, he was much too close. His elegantly manicured hand reached out and one finger idly flipped the silver hoop that pierced her left ear. Aunie’s stomach knotted ferociously, and she abruptly suffered a shamefully overwhelming desire to use the bathroom. She pressed her thighs together and tightened all the muscles necessary to prevent herself from doing right there in the kitchen doorway what her body was frantically urging her do.
    “You’re missing the point, Aunie,” he whispered gently. “You see, you’re my pretty little toy.” His fingerslipped into the hoop. “My possession—no one else’s. You don’t make a move unless I give you permission to do so.” Something twisted and sick lurked in the depths of his eyes. “I gave you everything a woman could possibly want.” His finger exerted pressure and her ear began to hurt where the wire pressed against fragile flesh. He shook his head sadly at her. “But you let me down anyway.”
    He yanked the earring with vicious strength.
    Aunie screamed as she felt her ear tear, instinctively placing her hands on his chest and shoving with all her might. Wesley stumbled backward several steps before he caught his balance.
    She didn’t wait around to see how he fared. Pivoting on the ball of her foot, she raced for the stairway.
    She could hear his pursuit of her, but she dared not look back. Oh God, help me, she prayed. Oh God, oh God, he’s so crazy. Please help me. Please.
    He tackled her near the top of the stairs. The wind was knocked out of her, and when he slammed her over onto her back, she hit the stairs at an awkward angle. Pain shot up and down her spine. She kicked out at him feebly, and with a distant feeling of satisfaction, she heard his grunt of pain.
    “Why, you little bitch,” he said in that horrifyingly friendly tone and she saw him cock back his fist. Mistake! her brain screamed. Ah, God, Aunie, don’t try to fight back. He’ll hurt you even worse. But even as her mind tried to warn her, her instincts made her reach weakly for his eyes. It was just not in her nature not to fight back. Not anymore.
    His fist came crashing down and Aunie tried, to scream as she felt her nose break, but blood filled her mouth, her throat, and she gagged weakly.
    She lost track of how many times he hit her afterthat. She was vaguely aware that some of the blows were openhanded. … They were marginally less hurtful than when he used his fist. The only thing that registered fully, however, was the pain, the terror she experienced at the possibility of choking to death on her own blood, and that damned refined voice telling her that if she wouldn’t decorate his arm anymore, well then, he would simply have to see to it that she never decorated anyone else’s either.
    She never heard Geoff’s startled exclamation when he walked unsuspecting through the open front door; neither was she aware of him pounding up the stairs, securing Wesley in a hammerlock, and wresting him off her. She was cognizant of hearing a pathetic whimpering somewhere in the distance, but oblivious that it was from her own split and swollen