I'll Be Watching You

  full bottle of Scotch sitting there. That might be the weapon she needed—if she could break away

  from him long enough to get her hands on it.

  That wasn't in the cards right now, not with him backing her toward the master suite.

  "You're shaking," he observed. "Is that fear or passion?"

  "Fear," she answered frankly.

  "Because you don't want me," he taunted.

  "No. Because I don't want to die."

  One brow rose. "More candor. Brava." He continued pushing her toward the bedroom, his weight

  solid and unrelenting.

  Taylor gripped the door frame, her breath coming in quick, frightened pants. "Would begging help?"

  she asked in desperation. "I'm sure that's something Adrienne would never do."

  "You're right. It wasn't her style." A muscle worked in Gordon's jaw.

  "It's not really yours either. But I'd love to hear you do it. As for whether it would help, I assume

  you mean, would it convince me to spare your life? The answer is no. This is more complex than just ridding myself of Adrienne. I need to rid myself of you as well. You're in my blood. I can't have that.

  So I have to have you. And then I have to snuff you out, just as I did her."

  His hands slid beneath her sweater, gliding up her back to unhook her bra. "Back to the idea of your begging. It's a tempting offer. I think I'd enjoy hearing you do it. In fact, I want to hear it twice. Once, when you're frantic for me to bring you to climax, and once, when I'm ending your life. That might help me wipe out the image of Reed Weston taking what's mine—even after I ordered you to sleep alone.

  You infuriated and disappointed me, Taylor. I assumed you were different. You're not."

  Taylor could barely hear him over the pounding of her heart. She averted her face as he bent to kiss

  her, flinching in pain as his mouth moved down her throat in hard, bruising motions—her punishment

  for turning away. She prayed to God she'd find the strength to do what she had to. She couldn't give in

  to the urge to fight him. Not yet. Retaliation would mean torture for her, and a surge of adrenaline for

  him as he reasserted his dominance. She had to go along with this sick delusion of his. Make it seem as close to a mutual sexual encounter as she could. Play into his desire for her until he was really into it.

  And when his mind was dulled by his hormones, then she'd attack.

  Gordon shoved her the rest of the distance toward the bed, toppling her onto it. "Stay there," he

  ordered, shedding his clothes in a few quick, practiced motions—including the shoes with the lifts.

  Then he popped out his contact lenses. "See? It's really me."

  He held out his arms and pivoted around so she could admire his naked body. Then he came down

  over her, bracing one arm on either side of her and effectively pinning her to the bed. "Actually, it's

  an even better me. Maybe not my face. That needs work. It'll get done when all this is over. But my

  body is harder, more controlled, than you remember it." He slipped his hands under her sweater and

  bra, cupped her breasts. "Then again, last time you only got a brief taste. This time, you'll get the full effect. Who knows? You might just thank Adrienne after all."

  Taylor forced her mind to disconnect from her body. She had to, in order to make this work.

  "What happens afterward?" she managed.

  He paused, propped himself on one elbow. "After what?"

  "After I'm dead."

  A shrug. "Just what you'd expect. Dennis Kincaid will continue on at WVNY. He'll be assigned to a new show, of course, since Taylor Halstead will have vanished into thin air. He'll feel terrible about it. But

  he'll survive. After all, he's a newlywed. So he'll pull himself together, and blend in with the woodwork until Jonathan's convicted and Ally's named sole beneficiary. Then Mr. and Mrs. Dennis Kincaid will

  get wanderlust and bid our good-byes, taking off for parts unknown."

  "That much I guessed. I meant, what happens to me?" Taylor's voice quavered. "What are you going

  to do with my ... with me?"

  He looked intrigued. "You want the details?"

  "I want to live. But, since that's not an option, yes. I want the details."

  Another shrug. "Suit yourself. I'll dump your body in shark-infested waters off the coast. Not too close

  to here, and not too close to Montauk, where my yacht exploded. No pattern that could link my previous crimes to your death, just in case a piece of you surfaces before the sharks finish you off. I doubt it will. They're pretty quick. But things happen. So if any part of you does wash up on shore, it'll be because your mystery stalker is a rank amateur, and did a sloppy job. Enough details for you?"

  "More than enough." Taylor forced herself to sound vulnerable rather than repulsed. "I guess I'm not

  as stoic as I thought."

  "Maybe not." He buried his lips in her throat, his hands curving around her breasts. "But you're even more of a turn-on than I remembered." His thumb rasped across one nipple—hard.

  Taylor fought the urge to recoil—at the pain, at the very idea of his hands on her. Detach, Taylor,

  she ordered herself. Be a psychologist, not a victim. Don't let him win. Think.

  Her mind took over.

  Gordon wanted her. Not just to violate. And not just to add as another redheaded notch on the side of

  his bed. What made her different from all the other women he'd had since Adrienne, poor Steph

  included, was that she was a challenge. And Gordon loved a challenge. It fired his blood and his intellect.

  She represented a worthy opponent. A woman who didn't fall at his feet like all his previous Adrienne substitutes. He wanted to win her over, to make her want him as much as he did her. He wanted her

  so aroused that she'd beg for her climax, beg for him. If he couldn't have her that way, he wanted her fighting. Fueling his rage with her struggles.

  Last time, she'd given him that. Big mistake. Steph and the others had bored him. Different kind of mistake.

  She could make neither. Nor could she just lie there, placid and unresponsive. That would drive him

  over the edge.

  She needed to offer him something more. A challenge that piqued his mind as well as aroused his body.

  So be it.

  As if to confirm her thought process, Gordon shifted irritably, his thumb scraping her other nipple, this motion even rougher than the last. "Relax," he ordered. "You're stiff as a board. Stop worrying about afterward. Afterward doesn't matter. You'll be dead. You won't feel anything. So put it out of your

  mind. Just relish these last wisps of sheer physical pleasure."

  Last wisps... wisps...

  Now, that triggered a memory. An ugly memory. But a hell of a good start.

  "Smoke," Taylor murmured.

  "Hmm?"

  "That's what you called me the last time. You said I was smoke. Elusive. Intangible. Hard to capture."

  His hand paused. "You remembered. I'm flattered."

  She felt his touch gentle. Her reward, no doubt.

  That was the lead-in she'd been looking for.

  She sucked in her breath. "Gordon—wait." She flattened her palms against his shoulders. "Please."

  He raised his head slightly. "Why? More stalling?"

  "No. More candor." She licked her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Look, I get it. I know what the end result's going to be. But may I at least have some say about what happens in between?"

  He looked a little surprised, and a lot wary. "Go on."

  "You say you want me. That I'm in your blood. You also keep telling me what an amazing lover you

  are. Well, if I'm about to die, I'd like to do it with minimum pain preceded by maximum pleasure.

  Would you consider going that route rather than a brutal one?"

  His eyes narrowe
d. "What kind of game are you playing?"

  "No game. Just two last requests."

  "I'm listening."

  "First, I'm asking if this can be mutual instead of rape. I'd like you to make this good for me. Use

  your skill rather than your strength."

  "And the second request?"

  "I'm asking that you kill me as quickly and painlessly as possible. You had an amazing degree of

  control last September. You used just enough pressure on my windpipe to make me black out, but

  not die. Since then, you've had advanced martial-arts training. What I'm asking would be a piece of

  cake for you—if you chose to do it. I'm hoping you will. In fact, I'm begging you. Please."

  There was that cutting stare she remembered all too well—a stare that sent prickles of fear up her

  spine. He was assessing her, deciding what she hoped to gain, and what he stood to lose.

  Please, she prayed. Let it have worked. She'd pulled out all the stops. Played into his ego. His intellect. His lust. His craving to dominate.

  "Let me get this straight," he said at last. "You're planning to respond to me—just like that?"

  "No, not just like that." Taylor didn't have to fake the tears that filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. "Right now, I can't imagine responding at all. Right now, all I can think about is suffering and dying. So I guess it's up to you."

  A subtle gleam. "Throwing down the gauntlet, are we?"

  "If that's the way you want to view it, yes."

  "How do you view it?"

  As a last-ditch effort to save my life, she thought silently. "As a plea for leniency and a final indulgence."

  "A plea. You're begging me to seduce you?"

  "I'm begging you to try."

  Gordon smiled, an ugly, triumphant smile that was so him, Taylor could no longer see a shred of

  Dennis, different face or not. "If I try, I'll succeed. As long as you go with it."

  She gave a shaky nod, her eyes sliding shut. She forced her muscles to relax, to sink into the bed.

  She wanted her body language to convey that she was prepared to be won over.

  He bent down, capturing her tears with his tongue. "Now this is the way it should be. You. Me.

  Heaven and hell. Together for one perfect, frozen moment in time. All I dreamed of. The fitting end

  we both deserve." He covered her mouth with his, coaxing her lips apart.

  She kept her mind and body separate. Her mind watched, dictated her movements. And her body complied.

  Gradually. She gave in to him gradually. Anything less would set him off. Anything more would

  arouse his suspicions.

  He kept kissing her, deepening the kisses until she could feel him shuddering with desire, his erection throbbing against her belly. But he made no move to tear off her clothes and thrust into her. He was exercising the control he'd gloated about.

  Good. Very good. The longer she was dressed, the better.

  She didn't give a damn about her modesty.

  She gave a damn about her shoes.

  He was really into it now, muttering hot phrases against her skin, kissing her neck, her throat, her

  mouth. She returned his kisses, first tentatively, then with a kind of hopeful desperation, like the

  survivor of a shipwreck who'd spotted a life preserver.

  "Put your arms around me," he commanded, his voice rough with passion.

  Taylor wanted to weep with joy. She obeyed, somehow managing to curtail her enthusiasm as her

  arms glided around his neck.

  Her hands were free.

  She sighed into his open mouth, her breath eliciting another hard shudder. His lust was definitely running the show here, all his mental faculties going into maintaining his self-restraint and the careful manipulation of his body. His hands slid down her arms, and for one horrifying moment, Taylor was afraid he planned to hold his grip. But his palms drifted down to her shoulders, his fingers threading through her hair.

  He was definitely far gone enough.

  Now she had to get him to shift positions so she could have the access she needed.

  Her hands unlocked from around his neck, gliding down to explore his shoulders, then easing around

  front and pausing, as if wrestling with the desire to touch him more.

  Sure enough, he shifted his weight to his knees, sitting up and leaning back on his haunches.

  "Go ahead," he urged thickly, grasping her wrists and bringing them around to his chest. "Touch me."

  She licked her lips, which were damp and swollen from his kisses, and kept them parted as if she were transfixed. She didn't have to feign the trembling. She was shaking like a leaf, knowing what lay just ahead.

  She'd have one chance. One. If she screwed it up, the pain he'd inflict on her would make death seem

  like sanctuary.

  No. She couldn't let her mind go there. She had to channel all her mental energies into what she had to accomplish—and how.

  She moved her palms over Gordon's chest, down his torso, wishing like hell he'd let go of her wrists instead of holding them and guiding them along.

  Time to take a risk.

  She wriggled one hand free, tracing a forefinger down his abdomen. Her gaze dropped to his erection, then lifted to meet his, a questioning look on her face.

  His eyes were glazed, wild with anticipation. "Everywhere," he assured her. "Touch me everywhere. Especially there."

  He released her other wrist on his own, his entire body quivering. He was totally lost in the moment,

  his penis jutting toward her as he waited . . . waited . . .

  Taylor acted in the blink of an eye.

  Fingers locked together, knuckles slightly bent, she slashed her fingernails across his eyes in a blinding finger rake that would have made Mitch proud.

  Gordon screamed out in pain, squeezing his eyes shut as he instinctively reached for them. Instantly, Taylor cupped each of her palms and clapped them against his ears in a forceful ear slap she could actually feel vibrate through him.

  He groaned, weaving from side to side, his equilibrium thrown off by the blow. Taylor followed through with the motion of her hands, shoving at his head and using the force of her legs to roll him off her.

  She was on her feet before he recovered, and making a break for the door.

  She was across the berth deck and on the first rung of the ladder, when he grabbed her from behind. "You fucking bitch," he snarled, yanking her down and dragging her back toward the bedroom.

  "You have no idea what that's going to cost you."

  Nor did she intend to find out.

  With all her might, she jabbed her elbow into his solar plexus, then crashed the heel of her shoe down

  on his bare instep.

  He half grunted, half cried out, loosening his grip on her as he bent forward.

  Perfect.

  She slammed her elbow up and into his nose, hearing the cracking sound as it made contact.

  He roared with pain, grabbing his face and releasing her simultaneously.

  She whirled around, slamming a hammer fist into his naked groin.

  With a strangled sound, he fell onto his knees, cursing and clutching himself as he rocked back and

  forth, doubled over in agonizing pain.

  The kitchen counter was two strides away. Taylor took them. She seized the Scotch bottle, rushed

  back, and crashed it down over Gordon's head with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  He crumpled silently on the wooden floor.

  She didn't wait to see if he was stunned, unconscious, or dead. She just took off.

  She made it up the ladder and was scrambling onto the main deck when a pair of hands seized her

  from above.

  "No!" she screamed. Her arms were trapped. Her legs weren't yet firmly planted. She didn't stop to

  think. She just used the only weapon she had left.
br />   Her head.

  Tilting it down, she bent her knees and thrust upward, slamming the top of her head into her assailant's face. She didn't have time to focus on the point of impact, the way Reed had taught her, nor did she

  have the luxury of grabbing her target's arms to increase the force of her blow. But she connected well enough for him to bark out a protest and release her.

  "Jesus Christ." The target, Detective Hadman, clutched his forehead and weaved a bit. "Lady, are you nuts? We're the good guys."

  "Detective Hadman?" Taylor squeaked out.

  "Where's Mallory?" Detective Olin stepped past his partner, pistol raised.

  "Down there." Taylor pointed. "I don't know if he's conscious."