Chapter Twenty Six
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"How did the meeting go?"
Rosie lifted her head from her work in progress, icing one tier of a three tier wedding cake. She held a spatula in one hand and a bowl of snowy icing in the other.
"Fine, but I am seriously pissed off. Someone ran a key right down the side of my car in town and gouged 'bitch' on the bonnet. The garage has quoted me a fortune to fix it," Bronte told her in disgust.
Rosie narrowed her eyes. "Did you report it to the police?"
"Yep, I popped into the station, but I doubt they'll be much use."
"You never know, they might have caught something on CCTV. No wonder you look like dirty dish water."
Bronte tossed her best friend a look as she flopped into a chair.
"Gee, thanks for that." She tried and failed to hide a yawn.
Her nerves were shot. Contact with Nico left her reeling every single time. It was as if he sucked the life blood and energy from her.
Rosie glared and glowered at the same time.
"You need a break. Ten hour days are ridiculous and you know it."
"Please, give it a rest."
"It's a displacement activity."
"Wow, you would give Dr Phil a run for his money."
"Yeah, well Dr Phil would agree with me. At the rate you're going, we're going to need another freezer."
Rosie might be irritated now but she'd thank her one day when there was an emergency to deal with. Perhaps she had gone over the top, but the sense of satisfaction she gained knowing that different cake fillings were ready and waiting made it all worth it. Not to mention the variety of sponges. The coffee mocha with grated walnuts had been a triumph. It gave her a warm glow every time an idea worked.
Bronte topped up her coffee from the pot, took a sip and made a face.
"This coffee's off."
Rosie took the cup, sipped, tasted and sipped again.
"Taste's fine to me."
Bronte sniffed it, shuddered, rose and emptied it down the sink.
"Ugh, there's definitely something wrong with it."
She poured herself a glass of water as Rosie leaned back against the work surface and crossed her ankles.
"You okay? You look a little peaky." Her eyes went narrow and thoughtful as Bronte yawned again. "Your appetite is off and you've lost weight."
"I'm not sleeping. I don't know what's the matter with me."
"Alexander is back tomorrow and I'll be here too to make sure his meeting with Carl goes well. They'll like each other, stop worrying." She took a sip of her coffee and grinned. "I'm surprised Nico didn't mention all the stuff in the gossip columns about you, you slut. The phone has been ringing off the hook with people wanting all the goss."
Bronte stifled another yawn and shook her head, then wished she hadn't as the room spun.
"You would think they'd have something more important to write about. Poor Carl, he doesn't know whether to be furious or flattered. I've no idea how these people manage to find out stuff. You're right, I do need a holiday."
"Everything here will run like clockwork." Rosie wrapped an arm around her.
Bronte let her head drop on her friend's shoulder.
"I'll be glad when it's all over. I'm looking forward to the break."
Rosie dropped into a chair. "Yeah, two weeks in France is a pretty good deal."
Her father had organised a week in Paris and a week at his home in Cap Ferret.
"Paris, I can't wait."
Rosie frowned, drumming her fingers over her lips.
"You need to tell Nico how you feel."
"I don't want to hear it."
Shoulders stiff, ignoring the clutch in her stomach, Bronte sipped her water. A heavy wave of nausea roiled up from her gut and over her cheeks, leaving her shivery and clammy. A headache jabbed a punch behind her right eye.
"You've turned grey."
With a roaring in her ears, her friend's voice seemed to fade into the distance. Bronte found herself pushed into a chair with her head being thrust between her legs.
She took a few deep breaths and sat upright.
"Wow, a head rush." She took another sip of water and closed her eyes.
"This is all my fault," Rosie told her.
"Excuse me?"
"If I hadn't been talked into forcing you out on that date, none of this would have happened."
Bronte wasn't having any of it.
"You're being ridiculous. In many ways I don't regret a thing. I'm not responsible for Nico's behaviour and neither are you."
"Men," Rosie said, looking very fierce. "Are the spawn of Satan."
Bronte caught her eye.
"Ain't that the truth?"
After a warm bath, pink skinned and rosy cheeked, Bronte felt more like herself.
The nap had helped enormously too.
Dressed in pink flannel pj's with white bunnies and thick socks - a fun present from Rosie - she tied up her hair in its usual knot and padded into the kitchen in search of food.
How could a person have three freezers full and nothing to eat? It was a mystery.
She surfed through the fridge, found a pizza past its sell by date and a dozen eggs. Neither floated her boat.
The larder offered up oats, pasta, rice and various tins. No wonder she wasn't hungry. She found a tin of shortbread on the top shelf, a packet of salted peanuts and two bars of milk chocolate. Strangely enough, the mix appealed to her.
On a wooden tray, she assembled the hoard and added in a bottle of Cumberland Ale. Her taste buds appeared to have changed since she didn't drink beer, it was her brother's favourite tipple, but wine didn't taste right at the moment.
With a biscuit between her teeth, the hair on the back of her neck rose as she became aware of a presence behind her.
Her brain did an emergency stop, as her eyes remained glued to his.
It took her a couple of heartbeats to actually believe what she was seeing.
The sneer on his lips along with the slight tremble of his hands made her break out in a cold sweat as did the realisation that hit her like a truck that she was in desperate trouble.
Wearing black jeans and a black designer puffa jacket over a sweater, he was a stocky big bear of a man with sandy hair that needed a wash and a swarthy complexion. His skin appeared bloated and mottled.
A part of her brain that appeared to be working independently wondered if he'd been drinking or was on something, because his pupils were fully dilated.
?"If you turn around and leave right now, I won't call the police," she told him, keeping her voice firm.
Anthony's cold eyes wandered from the top of her head to her feet and back again. Perspiration beaded on his brow.
Instinct, that had served women throughout time, told Bronte why he was here.
He was going to hurt her. Like a rabbit caught in a trap, her pulse beat too hard and too fast. She knew who'd been phoning the house. She knew who'd been leaving abusive comments on the website. And who'd damaged her car and she knew that if she ran or showed fear, she'd be finished.
"No wonder Jonno dumped you, bitch. Do what you like, the back door was open and I'll say you let me in dressed in your pyjamas. It'll be your word against mine."
His overexcited voice was too high and he licked his lips in a way that made her feel physically ill.
The room spun.
She took a sharp breath.
Think, think, think.
She shook her head, her eyes riveted on his.
"I don't know who Jonno is or what you're talking about."
Keep him talking, talk him down, get him to sit, run for the panic button at the door and get out.
"Your old fianc?, my mate Jonathan! He told me all about you, what a pure bitch you are."
He swaggered over, picked up the bottle of ale with an overdone bravado which would have been comical under other circumstances, but which wound the terror in her belly even tighter.
He s
ucked on the bottle, as his eyes slid over her.
"You owe me for running out on me. That room cost me and I didn't even get to enjoy it. They banned me, can you fucking believe it? And all because of that Italian you spread your legs for. He's not here now though, is he?"
Those eyes narrowed as he finished the bottle, burped and tossed it over his shoulder.
It hit the stone floor and exploded like a gun shot.
Anger battled through panic that he should come into her home and treat her like this.
"Get out!"
"Not before I get what I want."
"What do you want?"
Stupid. She knew it was a stupid question, but she simply could not bring herself to show weakness.
Shrugging off his jacket, Anthony tossed it in the direction of a chair, all the while watching her like a starving wolf staring at a fat lamb.
He grabbed his crotch, gave it a jiggle. And she refused to let her mind go there.
"I want a piece of the action, Bronte baby. You can't keep a man, can you? Jonno, poor fucker, had to put up with you treating him like shit. Imagine telling your fianc? you fancied his friend? And when that friend takes you on a date, you get him hard and blow him off! Then the Italian lasted for what, a week? And now you've got yourself an old sugar daddy?"
He barked a laugh of disbelief.
"You fucking kill me, Bronte. But, you..." He pulled off his sweater, revealing a torso the consistency of fresh tripe and jabbed a finger at her as bile rose into her throat and her heart beat even faster. "You need taught a lesson and I'm just the man to give you one. Take off the kiddie pyjamas. Let's see if you're a natural blonde. Or is that as fake as the goody goody act?"
With absolute clarity Bronte knew he was going to rape her.
A strange calmness washed through her.
Her mind seemed to split into two separate parts.
One part remained petrified, cowering in a corner in disbelief, while the other looked at the situation objectively.
She was going to fight.
Even though she knew that the advice given to women in her situation was to give in, get out of it alive and live to see another day.
His word against hers? No way, if he thought he could prove sex was consensual then it was up to her to make sure there would be plenty of evidence to the contrary.
But by God, she would put up a fight, scratch and claw and bite.
Because even if she died, the world would know who did it.
No way was she going to cower and whimper for him and give him even more power, more control.
But, oh God, she hadn't told Nico she loved him. And now it was too late.
No, she couldn't think like that.
She lifted her chin and took a step towards the door leading to the main part of the house.
"Jonathan lied. But you're too delusional to realise that aren't you? And you need to get high or drunk to get your rocks off. You're a pathetic excuse for a real man!"
The hot flash in his eye alerted her as he lunged.
She spun, grabbing the heavy fruit bowl from the table and threw it with all of her might.
Her aim was off, but luckily he ducked, it caught him on the temple and she raced out the kitchen, through the hall towards the front door.
His howl of outrage followed her. The thud of heavy boots had her screaming at the top of her lungs as she slapped her hand on the alarm. Shocked for a split second by the ear-piercing siren, her frantic fingers fumbled with the deadbolts at the top and bottom of the door.
Christ, why was it locked?
Then his hands were on her, tearing at her pyjamas.
He slapped her across the face and she screamed and screamed and screamed as her nails tore into his hands, his face.
There was a searing pain in her head and she couldn't see, couldn't hear as panic and horror overwhelmed her.
The world went dark.
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