Only by Your Touch

  Chloe could only stare at him.

  “The dispatcher heard me tell you good night and leave the house. All by the book, no hint of a problem. If you start making wild accusations now, no one’s going to buy it.” He winked at her. “If you’re thinking of fighting me, please reconsider. You don’t want your little boy to get hurt, do you, Chloe?”

  Jeremy. Oh, dear God. Chloe was too frightened now to speak. She shook her head.

  “There’s my girl.” He took another step closer. “My sensible Chloe.”

  He stopped just far enough away that she couldn’t kick him or knee him in the groin. “So,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s start this little party off right, shall we? Drop the bedspread and take off the shirt. I’ve been dying to get a look at that body. You’ve got gorgeous tits. Has anyone told you that?”

  Chloe’s head went dizzy. For a horrible moment, she thought she might faint. “I won’t do this,” she said weakly.

  “Sure you will. Ever the good little mother. You’re going to do this, sweet cheeks. If you don’t, I’ll bash your son’s brains in. Then I’ll have you the way I’d really like to. We all have our sexual fantasies, don’t we? My secret fantasy has always been to take a woman—no holds barred, no limits, doing anything I want. Afterwards, I’ll strangle you. I’ll be extremely careful to leave no DNA evidence to incriminate me, of course.

  “Tomorrow when I hear the news, I’ll go white and shake. ‘I was there just a few minutes before it happened,’ I’ll say. ‘Dear God, the intruder must have been lurking outside.” ’ He shrugged. “Easy. So very easy, Chloe. I have a spotless record. I’ve been a deputy for almost twenty years. Who’s going to suspect me? You’ve been seeing Ben Longtree, who’s already killed once. He’ll be the prime suspect. If it comes down to that, I’ll plant evidence to make sure they nail him. Nice and tidy, no trouble for me.”

  He really is insane, she thought stupidly. She could try to scratch him, she thought—if he gave her a chance. He was trained to overpower people effortlessly. She’d seen him squeeze a drunk’s neck once, paralyzing the man by merely pressing on a nerve.

  “Your choice,” he went on softly. “Cooperation and plenty of foreplay, followed by civilized sex. We can have a nice evening between two consenting adults, with you going out of your way to please me. Or we can go the other route—no cooperation and plenty of foreplay, followed by extremely uncivilized sex. Either way, I’m going to have you. Call it a score to settle—or unfinished business. I’ve wanted you ever since we first met. I always get what I want.”

  “Do you?” She dampened her lips, her stomach rolling with fear. “Always?”

  “Always, one way or another. And I will get away with it, Chloe. I’m a cop. I know all the little tricks, and I’ve covered myself.”

  For all of two heartbeats, Chloe sent up silent prayers that Ben would show up. But then cold reality settled in. He wouldn’t come until his mother was asleep, and there was no telling how long that might take. She was on her own.

  “I much prefer the civilized version,” she managed to say. Then she forced a smile. “It’s sort of—exciting, actually. I’ve never known a man who refused to take no for an answer.”

  It wasn’t what he expected her to say. She saw the surprise in his expression—and an awful, sick delight.

  “It’s going on midnight. Are you off duty now? I just happen to have some champagne. If we’re going to do this, we may as well go the whole nine yards and have fun.” Dropping the bedspread was the hardest thing Chloe had ever done in her life, but she unclenched her hand and let it slip to the floor. With a swing of her hips, she went to the kitchen, showing off her legs to best advantage en route. As she opened the refrigerator, she made sure to bend over just far enough to tantalize him. “You amaze me, Bobby Lee. I figured with you being a cop—well, you know—that the missionary position with a few unimaginative variations would be your entire repertoire.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw that he’d followed her into the room—and that he was ogling the backs of her thighs.

  “Most men today are so—” She frowned, then shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know. Tame, I suppose is the word. I’d heard so many stories about Ben Longtree being dangerous that I hoped he might be different. He turned out to be the biggest dud of all.”

  She pulled out the unopened bottle of champagne that Ben had left at her house. “Can you get the glasses? Top shelf, to your right.”

  He hesitated. Then, after glancing around, undoubtedly to check the nearby surfaces for anything she might use as a weapon, he opened the cupboard door, grabbed two goblets, and set them on the counter.

  When he faced her again, he said, “Lose the shirt.”

  Chloe assumed what she hoped was a sultry smile. “But it’ll be so much better with some anticipation.” She inched up the hem of the T-shirt, stopping just short of anything really interesting. “After all your work and planning to make this happen, you should enjoy it.”

  He smoothed a hand over his fly, and she knew she had him. “Do that again, only higher,” he said softly.

  “No rush.” She managed another smile. “I’ve surprised you, haven’t I? You had me pegged as the straight and narrow type. Shame, shame, Bobby Lee. You never know what a woman’s capable of until you really get to know her.” Or have her cornered. “Take me, for instance.” She dug at the foil with a fingernail and walked toward him, keeping her eyes fixed on his. “You’ve told me your fantasy. Can I tell you mine?”

  His eyes darkened. “Sure,” he said gruffly.

  “I’ve always—” She pushed out a laugh. “I can’t. It’s too embarrassing.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed. Fantasies are perfectly normal.”

  His wasn’t. Chloe scratched frantically at the stupid foil. The edge clung to the glass as if it had been glued down. “I, um—well. Oh, no, I really can’t. It’s just too, too wild.”

  “Tell me.”

  She changed the angle of her attack on the foil and finally managed to tear it a bit. A fantasy. Please, God, she needed a ready-made fantasy—something imaginative and erotic enough to excite him. She glimpsed the table behind him. “I’ve always fantasized about—” What? Her brain went blank. “Well, you know, about being taken. And not just anywhere. I imagine it happening on a table. No rules, no stops, just being devoured by a man. A sexy smorgasbord, of sorts, and I’m the main course.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “That sounds promising.”

  She worked to catch the tuft of foil between her fingers and finally ripped it away. She dropped the wrapping on the floor. Close. She needed to be very close. “Well, there’s the catch, you see. You want me to please you tonight, and in my fantasy, I have to be utterly helpless.” She laughed and bent her head, pretending to be mortified while she examined the wire doohickey to figure out how it worked. Roger had always opened the champagne. “I could never just—do all the stuff I imagine of my own free will, so I fantasize that he ties me down and gags me. That way I’m completely at his mercy. He just—you know—does whatever he wants, and I can enjoy it with no sense of guilt.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  Yeah, I just bet it can. Chloe pressed her thumb against the wire release, then glanced up with what she prayed was a completely incredulous expression on her face. “You’d do that?” Why wouldn’t the wire come free? “With bonds and everything?”

  “Sure.” His voice had gone gravelly and thick. “It’s my fantasy, too, in a way. I never thought about doing it on a table, but what the hell? It works.”

  “Oh, Bobby Lee,” she said in a breathy voice. “Just thinking about it turns me on. I can’t believe you’ll really do it for me. What’ll you tie me up with? I don’t have any rope.”

  “Belts will work. You’ve got several. I’ve seen you wear them at work.”

  She pushed frantically on the wire. Please, God. “Belts?”

  “I can loop them around your wrists and
ankles, then knot the ends around the legs of the table. You’ll be snubbed down so tight all you’ll be able to move is your head.”

  Chloe’s stomach lurched, but she managed to keep smiling. She aimed the neck of the bottle at his face and pushed on the wire with all her might. Nothing happened. Sweat trickled down her spine. Ben had made this look so easy. “When I’m tied up, what’s the first thing you’ll do?” She stepped a little closer. “Tell me,” she whispered. “I want details.”

  “I’ll do anything I want,” he said throatily. “That’s your fantasy, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “And I’ll do it as long as I want. You’ll be spread-eagle and naked. I’ll gag you with a kitchen towel so you can’t scream, and I’ll do absolutely anything I want. Everything you ever imagined, and a lot more.”

  He began telling her things he’d always wanted to do, getting more graphic as he went along. Terror built within Chloe, so chilling and thought-obliterating that her whole body started to quiver. She strained so hard to move the damned wire that she shuddered.

  “Here, let me do that.”

  “No, no, almost got it. Don’t stop. Tell me more. I’m getting so”—she shoved with everything she had—“aroused. I’ll have to be aroused to go through with it. Until now, it’s only been a fantasy, never real. I’m afraid I’ll chicken out.” She flicked him a nervous look she didn’t have to fake. “What if you—you know, do things I don’t like? I won’t be able to make you stop.”

  He reached out to touch her hair. She felt the wire shift under her thumb.

  “You’re going to love it,” he whispered. “I’ll show you a repertoire to blow your socks off, babe. It’ll be so good. The best you’ve ever had.”

  She aimed the bottle at his face and fired. The cork shot from the opening like a bullet and hit him in dead center in the forehead. For a horrible instant, he just gaped at her. Then he grunted as he grabbed for his face.

  Chloe skittered out of his way, grasped the neck of the bottle in both hands, swung it high, and brought it crashing down on his head. Champagne spewed all over her. He dropped to his knees. She danced to one side and hit him again, groaning with the force she put into her swing. The bottle connected with the crown of his head, making a loud crack. She expected it to knock him out, but he didn’t go down.

  Before she could hit him a third time, he threw up a hand to ward off the blow. “Enough! Enough. Christ Jesus, I can’t see!”

  “Get out!” she cried. “Now! Or I swear to God, I’ll break this over your head and slit your throat. Out!”

  He crab-walked toward the door. When it wouldn’t open, he moaned, dropped to his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. “It’s locked.”

  “Unlock it!”

  “I can’t see. You hit me between the eyes.”

  Chloe wasn’t about to fall for that trick. “You’re so damned good at groping, grope to find the lock. And you’d better be fast about it. I’d just as soon kill you as look at you!”

  “I wouldn’t have hurt you,” he whined. “I’m armed, for God’s sake. If I really meant you harm, I’d just shoot you.”

  No, Chloe thought. The bullet could be traced back to his gun. “Get out,” she said, shaking so hard her voice quivered. “Get out!”

  She tossed down the bottle and grabbed a kitchen chair. He held up a hand again, which told her he could see just fine. “I’m going.” He pulled himself to his feet, gave his head a hard shake. “Jesus, lady. I thought you might go for a knife, but a champagne cork?” He fumbled with the dead bolt. “This isn’t finished.” He swung the door wide. “I’ll be back, and next time, your ass is mine. You got it?” He gave her a burning look and staggered outside. Chloe waited until she heard him stumble down the rickety steps. Then she tossed aside the chair and raced across the room. Her heart pounding with fear, she grabbed the door, slammed it shut, and threw her weight against it. Still frantic, she groped for the dead bolt and chain. When she’d finally secured the locks against him, she glanced wildly around. The windows were all closed and locked. She’d been so paranoid since that night when Bobby Lee had phoned while Ben was visiting that she’d been afraid to open them at night, even to let in a breeze. She sobbed and slid down the wood like a pat of butter off a hot biscuit.

  She wanted to huddle there on the floor and shake. Her legs and arms were jerking spasmodically, like a puppet’s on strings, and she couldn’t control the movements. Think. He was out there, just on the other side of the door. She’d done him no permanent injury. He’d recover in a moment, and when he did, he would be ugly mad.

  She sprang to her feet and staggered to the phone. After dialing 911, she cut the connection. Not the cops again. Bobby Lee might intercept the dispatch. Oh, dear God. He’s out there. Only glass and thin, hollowed panels of wood protected her. And Jeremy. If he got back inside, what might he do to Jeremy? Ben. He was only a few minutes away. Ben.

  Chloe knew his number. Nearly mindless with panic, she dialed, clung to the phone, listened to it ring. No answer. “Ben!” she sobbed his name. “Ben.”

  His voice came on the line. “Hi. You’ve reached the Longtree residence. I’m sorry I’m unable to come to the phone right now, but your call’s important.”

  Chloe sank to her knees, holding on to the phone and his voice, because, in her terror, they were all she had.

  Chapter Twenty

  As Ben left for Chloe’s place, he heard the phone ringing. He almost went back to answer it, but then he changed his mind. He rarely received calls this late, and he feared it might be Chloe phoning him to either cancel or postpone their talk. No way. He had to get this over with tonight. If he waited and gave himself time to think about it, he might lose his courage.

  Juggling the plastic bag that held ice and a bottle of champagne, Ben fumbled in his pocket for his keys. As he withdrew the ring, he lost his grip on it. The metal hit the cement and bounced away into the darkness. Damn! He tossed the champagne onto the truck seat and executed a search, bent forward at the waist to see through the shadows. He finally found the keys lying behind the front left tire.

  A few minutes later, when he finally pulled in to Chloe’s driveway, he sat for a moment, trying to calm down. He didn’t want to blow this. When his heartbeat had slowed to a fairly normal rhythm, he grabbed the champagne, stepped from the truck into the chill night air, and slammed the door. Here went nothing.

  As he strode across Chloe’s lawn to the lighted front porch, he rehearsed his lines. I promise not to break a window this time. How’s a hole in the ceiling strike you? He’d be funny, casual. Then he’d slowly lead up to what he had to say. He’d tell her about his writing first. Given her love of Caldwell’s books, that would be a pretty big shock, in and of itself. When she’d digested that, he’d somehow find the courage to tell her the rest. No more secrets. He was going to make a clean breast of it. No matter how it turned out, at least he’d know that he’d done everything he could to save the relationship. If it was all too much for her and she chose to end things between them, he’d just have to live with it.

  He stepped up onto the porch, took a deep breath, and doubled his fist to knock. The lights were on. She was still up. That was good. Not that he would have let darkness stop him. He had to see her. He kept gulping for breath like a man slowly suffocating on low-oxygen air—grabbing, hauling it in, and still feeling on the edge of frantic need.

  He rapped his knuckles against the flimsy door, thinking as he did that he could give her solid oak. Up on his ridge, ensconced in his home like a queen, with wolves and cougars as her loyal subjects, she could have anything his money could buy. All she had to do was accept the unbelievable—the unnatural—the unthinkable.

  He heard no footsteps approaching the door from the other side. He knocked again. Waited. Where the hell was she? Peering at his watch, he determined that he was arriving well within the time he’d predicted, only forty minutes since they’d spoken on the phone. She should be
expecting him. He was about to knock a little harder when he heard her voice, faint and tremulous.

  “Who is it?”

  He flattened his hand against the door. “It’s me, Ben.”

  “Ben?”

  He heard rustling sounds. Metal clacked. Scrabbling noises ensued. He pressed closer, willing the door to open.

  “Say something.” Her voice sounded taut and quivery. “Anything so I know for sure it’s you.”

  What the hell? “Of course, it’s me. Chloe, are you all right?”

  “What’s the skunk’s name?” she asked shrilly.

  “Winston. What the—?”

  “And the owl?”

  “Einstein. What’s with the twenty questions?”

  The door nudged open. He had his gaze fixed where he expected her face to be. No Chloe. Movement made him look down. She was kneeling—no, slumped—on the floor, her white face visible in the narrow opening. Her eyes were huge splashes of brown rimmed with red.

  “Sweet Christ, what’s wrong?” Ben dropped the champagne. It hit the porch with a loud whack. He pushed the door open, bodily moving her in the process, then fell to one knee on the threshold. Seizing her by the shoulders, he leaned down to better see her face. “Chloe? What in God’s name—?”

  She let out a cry—half whimper, half moan—and threw her arms around his neck. Her whole body jerked with sobs. Awful, horrible sobs. He gathered her against him, vaguely registering that there was nothing under the damp, oversize T-shirt but woman, sweet, warm, trembling woman. A citrus scent drifted to his nostrils.

  “Sweetheart.” He’d thought the endearment a hundred times, but never uttered it. Somehow it felt absolutely right to say it now as he tightened his arms around her. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Is it Jeremy? Talk to me.”