Like a drowning person, Taylor began struggling again, kicking and flinging her body as hard as she
could.
From out in the hall, the intercom sounded.
"Gordon?" Steph's voice, tinny since it came from the lobby, drifted to their ears. "I'm back. Harry says you're still up there. Hurry down. I can't wait to see your yacht."
Freezing, Taylor watched Gordon's face, wondering if he was going to stop, wondering if Steph's voice had even registered in his passion-clouded mind.
"My cousin... ," she whispered. She couldn't risk setting him off again. "She's waiting for you."
A muscle worked in his jaw. "It seems that way."
"So this isn't the right time for us after all."
"Perhaps not."
Taylor felt her first real surge of hope. "You'd better go."
Her hope was dashed as his lips thinned into a grim line and his palm clamped back down on her windpipe. "I hope that's not an order."
"Not an order ... A suggestion ... A ... request..."
"Good." He didn't release his hold. Keeping his hand locked around her throat, he groped in his pocket
for something. Taylor saw him pull out a dangling silver object that glinted in the late-afternoon sunlight. Then the pressure on her windpipe intensified as he strengthened his chokehold. "We'll finish this, Taylor," he vowed. "You have my word. I'll be back. Next time, we'll have all the time we need. Be patient. Be good. Be mindful."
He squeezed down harder, until the room began to fade, black spots dancing before Taylor's eyes.
Leaning over, Gordon brushed her lips with his. "Until then," he whispered just before she lost consciousness, "I'll be watching you."
CHAPTER 2
Taylor came to, coughing and rasping as she brought oxygen back into her lungs.
It hadn't been a nightmare. It had happened. Her disheveled clothing was a glaring reminder, as was the pain in her throat.
Swiftly, she scanned her room. She was alone. Gordon was gone.
The beechwood pendulum wall clock said it was three twenty-five. Gordon must have met Steph downstairs. They were on their way to the heliport.
She jerked upright, only to be dragged back down, a cutting pain in her wrist. She twisted around,
peering up to figure out its cause.
She was handcuffed to the brass headboard. And the night table telephone was missing. Gordon had obviously removed it, anticipating that she'd try to alert Steph, or the cops, about what had happened.
He wanted to buy himself time—and he'd succeeded. Even her damned cell phone was out of reach, buried in her purse in the living room.
She was trapped.
She had no intention of staying that way.
She tried to scream. Nothing emerged but a hoarse croak.
Frantically, Taylor tugged at the handcuffs. As expected, they were locked. Okay, she'd free herself another way. She began working at the headboard, trying to loosen it, using her free hand to add leverage. The brass spindles were tubular; the weakest part of the bed. Breaking the spindle she was handcuffed to would be time-consuming but not impossible. She'd rip the damned thing out if it took all night.
She worked for nearly two hours before she felt the spindle start to crease. Redoubling her efforts, she jerked back and forth with all her might until, with a snap, the spindle broke in the middle.
She slid the handcuffs between the two severed pieces and scrambled off the bed.
At first, her legs nearly gave out. Between the physical exertion, the emotional strain, and the throbbing
of her bruises—not to mention her now-blinding headache—she was a mess. She steadied herself,
waiting until her legs stopped wobbling. Her gaze fell on the clock. Five-fifteen. Long enough for Gordon to sail off with her cousin.
Maybe.
Taylor made her way into the kitchen, grabbed the phone, and dialed Steph's cell number. Voice mail. Damn. That meant she was on her way and didn't want to be bothered.
Fine. Steph and Gordon were partying the night away with about twenty other people. There was safety in numbers. Gordon sure as hell wasn't going to spill his guts to Steph, no matter how drunk he got. So there was no immediate fallout.
But if Gordon thought he was getting away with this, he would soon find out otherwise. Even if he managed to pull off his overnight yachting party, Taylor planned to make sure he'd have a welcoming committee on hand when he got back.
Her next call was to the police.
She dialed 911.
"Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"
"I want to report an assault." Taylor's voice was raspy, and her throat and neck hurt like hell. "It's 123 West Seventy-second Street, Apartment 5F
."
"You're the victim?"
"Yes."
"And the perpetrator—is he still on the premises?"
"No. He's gone." The irritation in Taylor's throat won out, and she dissolved into a spasm of coughing.
"Ma'am, are you all right?" the dispatcher asked quickly. "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," Taylor assured her. "Just shaken." She went on to provide the necessary information, assuring the dispatcher that she hadn't been raped and that her injuries didn't require an ambulance. Gratefully,
she received the confirmation that two police officers were on their way.
They arrived soon after, identifying themselves as Officers Slatter and Hillman of the Twentieth Precinct. They then perched on the edge of Taylor's living-room sofa to take her statement—after unlocking and removing the handcuffs that were still dangling from her wrist.
"This guy broke into your home?" Slatter began, once Taylor had provided him with the facts.
"No." Taylor settled back in her overstuffed wingback chair, wincing as she rubbed feeling back into her arm. "He had a key. My cousin, who's also my roommate, gave it to him."
"He's obviously not a stranger."
"His name is Gordon Mallory. He's"—an uncomfortable pause—"a friend of my cousin's."
"A friend." Slatter repeated the word skeptically. "Is he also a friend of yours?"
"Definitely not."
"Okay, we've established that there was no breaking and entering. What about a weapon—did he have one?"
"If you mean a knife or a gun, no. He just used bodily force."
"You said you weren't incapacitated by your injuries," Hillman pointed out. "So why did it take you two hours to report the crime?"
"Because of those." Taylor pointed at the handcuffs, now in Slatter's possession. "Gordon choked me unconscious and handcuffed me to the bed. He also removed the bedroom telephone so I couldn't call
for help. It took me quite a while to work myself free so I could get out and call 911."
"The handcuffs—they were on your right arm. That explains why your right wrist is cut up. But you've got some impressive bruises on your left wrist, too."
"He held me down."
"Right." Hillman exchanged a quick glance with his partner. "That would explain it."
"Yes, it would," Taylor returned tightly. "And the choking would explain my hoarseness and the bruises on my throat."
"Sure would," Hillman agreed in a tone that made Taylor's teeth grit. His insinuation was coming through loud and clear.
"You said he'd been drinking," Hillman continued.
"Scotch. According to him, he'd only had two."
"Did he act drunk?"
"Not really. He acted delusional."
"Delusional. In other words, he got the wrong signals from you."
"I didn't send any signals."
"So the guy's an egomaniac. You said the attack was sexual. Yet there was no rape involved."
"That was pure luck on my part. My cousin buzzed from downstairs. That changed Gordon's plans.
He stopped."
"He choked you—but only until you were unconscious."
"He wanted me out, not dead. He plans to finish this. He told me so."
/> "He threatened you? What exactly did he say?"
"That he'd be back. That we'd have all the time we needed. And that he'd be watching me." Taylor
was at the end of her rope, physically and emotionally. She leaned forward, putting a halt to the unpleasant interrogation. "Look, Officer Hillman. Let's cut the double-talk. This wasn't some kinky
sexual encounter that went south. It was assault. Gordon Mallory attacked me. Period. Now, are you going to arrest him or aren't you?"
Hillman stopped writing and looked up at her. "We're going to file your complaint, Ms. Halstead. A detective will follow up with you—and with Mr. Mallory. He'll be questioned. We'll do a background check. Whether or not he's arrested depends on what we find."
Taylor gave another painful cough. "I doubt he has a criminal record. So what you're saying is, it'll
come down to his word against mine."
"I can't answer that—not until the investigation is complete." Hillman rose, and Slatter immediately followed suit. "If you're concerned for your safety, you can spend the next few nights with family or friends. You can request an order of protection, if it'll make you feel better. From what you've told us, this guy's no threat to you tonight. He's somewhere out on the Atlantic. If I were you, I'd treat those
cuts and bruises, pour yourself a stiff drink, and go to bed. One of the precinct detectives will call you tomorrow, either here or on your cell phone."
"Fine." There wasn't an inch of her that didn't ache or throb, and her nerves were frayed to snapping. Officer Hillman was right. Tonight there was nothing else to be done. And she desperately needed some sleep. "Thank you, Officers." She rose, gripping the back of the chair for support. "I appreciate your coming. I'll show you out."
* * *
Thirty minutes later—after a cup of tea, two Excedrin, and a shower— Taylor wriggled into her nightshirt, double-checked the chain and the dead bolt on the front door, and crawled into bed.
She fell asleep the instant her head hit the pillow.
The ringing of the telephone awakened her. It was shrill. Persistent. Far away.
Taylor leaned over, groping around on her beveled cherry nightstand. The sharp sting in her wrist and
the aching of her muscles brought back vivid memories of what she'd been through that afternoon. She also remembered that she'd never reconnected the bedroom phone.
Swearing under her breath, she staggered out to the kitchen, tripping over a stool as she fumbled for a light switch. The apartment was dark. Then again, it was obviously the dead of night. And the kitchen clock, when she finally managed to flick on the light and see it, said four-ten. Who the hell was calling
at this hour?
Gordon.
Taylor's guts twisted, and adrenaline shot through her. She was instantly and totally awake.
She stared at the phone, checked the caller ID. It said "private." That told her nothing. But to assume it was Gordon? Even if he could break away from his party long enough to make a personal call, why would he call her?
Her hand trembled as she reached for the receiver. "Hello?"
"Ms. Halstead?" an official voice asked.
"Yes?"
"This is Detective Hadman of the Nineteenth Precinct. I'm sorry to call you at this hour. But there's been an accident."
"An accident?" It was the last thing Taylor had expected. Still, her insides went cold, and she gripped the phone more tightly. "What kind of accident?"
"A boat explosion. It took place off Long Island, on a yacht belonging to a Gordon Mallory. The boat
was anchored about twenty miles south of Montauk. The Suffolk County Police Department notified
the Nineteenth and Twentieth Precincts because most of the passengers were residents of the Upper
East or West Side." A weighted pause. "One of those passengers was your cousin Stephanie Halstead."
"Yes. . . that's right." Taylor sank down to the floor, her knees up, her back propped against the wall. "Was Steph . . . was anyone . .. hurt?"
"I'm very sorry. Everyone on board was killed."
God, no. This couldn't be happening. Not to Steph.
"Are you sure?" Taylor managed. "Isn't it possible that some of the passengers were thrown clear of the explosion and—"
"I'm very sure. The accident happened around dusk. The coast guard's been combing the waters since then. They've recovered .. . partial remains and personal property. Trust me, there were no survivors."
Taylor gagged as the image of floating body parts flashed through her mind. No. Not her beautiful, vibrant cousin. So full of life—working her way up to become the Broadway star she'd always dreamed of being. Filled with hopes and dreams. With so much to live for. She couldn't be dead.
"Ms. Halstead?" the detective prompted. "Are you all right?"
"Did the coast guard recover anything that belonged to Steph?" Taylor demanded. She was grasping at straws and she knew it. "Maybe she wasn't on board. Maybe she decided at the last minute not to go. Maybe—"
"She was on board," Detective Hadman confirmed. "Witnesses saw her on deck when the yacht left the dock. They described her—tall, slender, with bright red, shoulder-length hair. Wearing a turquoise silk cocktail dress."
Taylor squeezed her eyes shut. She'd bought Steph that dress for her birthday. Steph had been saving it for a special occasion.
"Your aunt and uncle have been notified. They're out at the scene now. I agreed to call you, since they're not up for conversation. I'm terribly sorry," he added.
"Thank you," Taylor replied tonelessly. She was beyond hearing. Beyond comprehension. Beyond feeling. She was numb.
"If you're up to it, I'd like to come by and speak with you later this morning."
"What?" Taylor couldn't process Detective Hadman's words. She was struggling for rational thought.
She had to call her parents, to reach her aunt and uncle, to make arrangements. No one was as close to Steph as she was. It was up to her.
"I have a few questions for you."
"Questions?" Taylor forced her dazed mind to focus. "About what?"
"Not what, who," the detective corrected. "The owner of the yacht. Gordon Mallory. He's among the deceased. I ran a victomology on him. I understand you filed a complaint against him earlier this evening."
"What difference does that make now? He's dead."
"I'm just doing my job, Ms. Halstead. You called in an assault. Officers Hillman and Slatter of the Twentieth filed a report. I'm helping them out, following up on this so the case can be closed. I'll only take a few minutes of your time."
"Fine." Taylor's control was crumbling. She had to crawl off to her bed, to be atone. "Come by early,
by eight a.m. After that, I have to take care of things. For Steph. She's counting on me."
It was true. Steph always counted on her.
Only this time she'd let her down.
CHAPTER 3
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 19
4:55 P.M.
746 PARK AVENUE, NEW YORK CITY
Taylor Halstead. In counseling.
The whole idea still seemed so ironic to her, even after two months of weekly sessions with Dr. Phillips. As a therapist herself, she knew better than anyone just how essential these visits were, and how very much she needed them.
The holidays were approaching. It had been three months since Steph's death. And still she couldn't
shake the nightmares or the feelings of guilt. If anything, both were getting worse, in frequency and intensity. As a professional, she knew the signs. She needed help.
But the truly ironic part of all this was that it was the first time in her life that she was in the position of being the dependent one, rather than the one who was depended upon. She was always the strong one, the together one, the leader. The one who dealt with her own problems—and everyone else's—without missing a beat. The one who learned since childhood to keep her vulnerabilities under wraps.
With good reason. In all ways th
at mattered, she'd been on her own all her life.
Financially, she'd lived like a princess. Raised in a penthouse on Central Park West, fussed over by a string of nannies. She was an only child, and while money was present in abundant supply, her parents were not. Her mother traveled madly; her father worked obsessively— which suited both of them just fine. They divorced when Taylor was eleven, after which she was shipped off to boarding school and summer camp.