The stove was electric and had turned off with the lights, so the soup wasn’t nearly as hot as she would have liked. But it did the job. Jack screamed, his hands releasing both her hair and the gun as he tried desperately to rip the hot shirt from his scalded flesh. She didn’t take the time to examine the damage, but ran, heart pounding, straight through the utter darkness of the living room to the front door—the one closest to Kevin’s studio. She was fumbling with the lock when Jack caught her around the waist and flung her facedown on the wood floor.
Serena hit the ground hard, but was rolling over to face him even as he leaned over her, screaming obscenities. She kicked her right leg up and out with everything she had and her loafer clad foot connected with the angry skin of his stomach.
He fell backward and she scrambled to her feet, biting back the instinctive screams welling in her throat. Jack was making enough noise to wake the dead—if she added to it, Kevin was sure to hear and come running—a scene she wanted to avoid at all costs.
She turned to run, hoping to hide somewhere in the pitch-blackness of the house, but his hands closed around her left calf. She had a moment’s regret that she wasn’t wearing her favorite pair of dress boots—a hit from them would definitely have slowed him down more than the one from her soft-soled loafers had.
Then he was on her, shoving her to the ground, turning her face up as he straddled her prone body. His hands tangled in her hair and he smacked her head, hard, against the floor, again and again. Things turned fuzzy after the second hit, but Serena refused to give up without a fight.
She bucked against him with her hips, desperately trying to unseat him. Or at least make him loose his balance enough to give her a shot at escape. But his legs were strong, catching her hips in a vice that seemed unbreakable.
Keeping one hand in her hair, he pulled her head tight against the floor and lowered his face to hers. “How does it feel knowing you’re going to die, bitch? How does it feel knowing you’ll never see pretty boy again? That the last dick you’ll ever feel inside you will be mine?”
He tilted his pelvis so that his erection pressed against her stomach and she gagged before she could stop herself. “What’s the matter, baby?” he jeered, fumbling with his wet and slippery zipper. The jeans had obviously protected that part of his anatomy in a way the thin dress shirt had been unable to protect much of the rest. “You like what the laborer does to you. Maybe you’ll like it with me as well.”
She whimpered despite herself, bucking wildly against him as fear swept through her for the first time. She couldn’t let him rape her, couldn’t stand to die with some psychopath inside of her, as Sandra had.
She wiggled her hands between them, forced herself to ignore the way he pushed and tore at her khakis—and the tender skin below it—as she waited for the perfect moment. Her button and zipper gave way and he lifted onto his knees in an attempt to push her pants out of his way.
It was the move she’d been waiting for, the chance to get her arms between them and rake his burned skin with her short, sharp fingernails. Curling her fingers into talons, she dug in, drawing blood with every swipe of her hand.
He bellowed in rage and agony as he crashed his fist into her jaw. Pain exploded through her face and she tasted blood as the world went dark around the edges.
* * *
Kevin hung up the phone after Grayson’s call, uneasiness eating at him.
LaFleur had escaped his police tail, shedding them nearly four hours before in a mall dressing room. Grayson figured it wasn’t deliberate, that the cops had simply gotten distracted and simply missed him.
But Kevin wasn’t so sure. If it had been sheer, dumb luck that had enabled LaFleur to lose them, why hadn’t they found him by now? And if it had been deliberate, what exactly was he up to? He glanced uneasily out the big bay window at the side of his studio, saw his truck once again parked in front of the house. Serena was back from the store, yet hadn’t come by to see him. Which wasn’t totally unheard of behavior, he had to admit, particularly if she had just returned. But it made him nervous enough to want to check.
With narrowed eyes, he headed toward the house. If she was fine, he would warn her about what Grayson had said and they could figure out what she wanted to do about it. The detective had also promised to look into Rawlins, but he thought Kevin was way off track. For Serena’s sake, Kevin hoped the detective was right. She didn’t need another disappointment in her life.
And if she wasn’t okay, well, then he would figure out a way to deal with whatever was wrong.
But the closer he got to the house, the more uneasy he became. Something felt different, wrong. Even the bayou animals were quiet, as if sensing danger. Then it hit him—the lights were out and there was no way Serena had turned them out voluntarily. He broke into a run, and heard the scream of an animal in pain as he hit the porch full force. Every instinct he had told him to push through the open door, to rush in and save the woman he loved.
But he had just enough sense left to stop and look through the window, to try to find out what he was up against. The room was black and he couldn’t see anything. But he heard Serena moan, the sound quickly followed by a high-pitched masculine giggle.
With a bellow of rage, Kevin crashed through the open door and launched himself at where he thought Damien was. His hands connected with warm flesh and then he was dragging the bastard off Serena like a man possessed. He grabbed him by the front of his soaking wet shirt and held him in place as he plowed his fist into his stomach again and again.
LaFleur sagged against him, retching, and Kevin let him sink to the floor. Serena hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t moved since he roared into the room, and fear was wild and torturously alive inside of him. He turned to her motionless body, desperate to know if she was breathing. He couldn’t see well enough to tell if she was bleeding, but when he put his hand on her, he felt the rise and fall of her chest. Relief so acute that it was painful swept through him.
Crouching down beside her, he smoothed her hair from her face, murmuring, “Bebe? Serena? Cher, are you okay?” His hand came away sticky and his blood ran cold.
Serena’s body jerked, her eyes opening even as she pushed feebly against him. “Jack,” she said, her hands clutching at him even as she wiped her bloody nose against her shoulder.
“What?” He glanced behind him in shocked reflex.
“You were right. It was Jack all along.” She sobbed before she could stop herself.
“It’s fine, bebe. He won’t hurt you.” He glanced at Jack’s shadowy form, wanting to be sure that the sniveling, retching mess was still no threat.
“He’s got a gun, Kevin.” Her hands clutched desperately at his. “He dropped it in the kitchen when we fought. I think it’s still there.”
A surge of admiration for her swept through him for this strong, sexy woman who refused to give up no matter how badly life battered her. He brushed his lips over the top of her head before jumping to his feet. “I’ll get it and be right back.”
He bent over Jack, wanting to make sure the guy was no longer a threat to Serena. He felt him move abruptly at the last second, turned so that the knife sliced his upper arm instead of plunging through his heart as the attorney had intended.
Cursing he drew back and eyed Jack with disgust. He wanted to yell for Serena to run, but he was afraid she was too badly injured to go very far. If that was the case, he didn’t want to draw Jack’s attention away from him and onto her.
Warily, he circled the man, looking for an opportunity to strike. His arm hurt like hell and he wanted to get Serena to a hospital. But the situation they were in now was his fault—if he’d killed the guy earlier, when he’d had the chance, Serena would be safe. It wasn’t a mistake he would make a second time.
Jack feinted left and lunged right, his knife cutting quickly through the air. Kevin threw himself to the left, narrowly avoiding the blade, searching for an opening to make his move.
Serena pulled herself
laboriously to her feet, ignoring the pain—her entire being focused on Kevin and the danger he was in. Hysteria welled in her throat, but she fought it down. She looked desperately around for a something, anything she could use to help Kevin end this thing once and for all. But the darkness was blinding and she didn’t know which of the big men was which.
Feeling her way to the built in cabinets against the left wall of the room, she crouched and pulled out the flashlight Kevin had shown her after the blackout weeks before. Afraid of blinding Kevin, she pointed the flashlight at the ground before turning it on.
She turned the light toward the men in time to see Jack lunge at Kevin with the knife again. Kevin blocked him and used Jack’s own momentum against him, flinging him to the ground and kicking him in the ribs as the knife clattered across the floor.
Jack wrapped himself around Kevin’s leg, pulling him down with him. The two big men rolled across the floor, punching and kicking, struggling for supremacy. At one point Kevin was on top, but Jack twisted and pinned him beneath him. His hands wrapped around Jack’s throat and squeezed, even as Kevin plowed his fists repeatedly into Jack’s stomach.
Refusing to give in to her terror, Serena searched the room, desperate to find something she could use to help Kevin. Normally he wouldn’t need her help, but Jack was fighting with a strength and desperation born from insanity. He took whatever hit Kevin threw at him and kept coming, despite the damage Kevin was inflicting.
Her eyes fell on the fireplace set Kevin kept on his hearth. Slowly—too slowly—she dragged herself toward it, desperate to get it before Jack got a clean shot at him. Her hand closed around the sharp iron poker and she nearly wept with relief.
Across the room, Jack screamed and lost his grip on Kevin’s throat long enough for him to drag in a few, ragged breaths. At the last minute, Jack regained his balance and his grip tightened once again.
Desperate, worried, terrified of hitting Kevin by mistake, Serena waited until she had a clear shot of Jack’s back. Then, with a muttered prayer, she pulled back her arm and thrust the poker into Jack’s upper back with every ounce of her waning strength.
Jack’s fingers dropped from Kevin’s throat as his high-pitched screams once again filled the room. Kevin pushed him backward, following Jack as he hit the ground on his left side. Like a man possessed, he plunged his fists into Jack again and again—hitting his stomach, his face, anywhere he could reach.
Jack rolled over, screaming as the poker pushed deeper into his body, burying itself so deeply that the tip finally cut clean through, protruding from his chest as blood dripped continuously from the wounds.
Kevin pressed his advantage, his massive fists making contact again and again. In the grip of a killing rage, he wanted nothing more than to destroy this man, ensuring that he would never threaten Serena again. His fist plunged into Rawlins’s face and he felt the satisfying crunch of bone as his hand connected solidly with his nose.
He pulled back his hand again, fully prepared to beat the unconscious man to death. Then Serena rested her hand on his arm, her touch calming him as nothing else could have.
“Kevin, stop,” she murmured quietly. “He’s not worth it. He’s just not worth it.”
He turned his head, looked into the warm chocolate of Serena’s eyes illuminated by the flashlight and the rage receded. Not completely, but enough to let him climb off Rawlins and gather Serena in his arms.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his hands running desperately over her as he searched for any wounds.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was gentle. “You’re the one who was stabbed.”
“I’ve done worse to myself in the studio.” He shrugged. “It’s nothing. But we need to call the police.”
“I already did. Once I realized you had things under control. They’re on their way.”
“Once you realized I had things under control?” he repeated incredulously. “Is this before or after you plunged an iron poker through the man?”
“After.” It was her turn to shrug. “You looked like you needed help.”
Sirens sounded in the distance and Kevin wrapped a hand around the back of her head, pulling her in for a gentle kiss, despite the blood liberally coating her lower face. “I thought women were supposed to scream in situations like this. That’s what they do in books and movies.”
She raised an eyebrow, managing to look imperious despite the bruises, blood, and ripped clothing. “Forget that.”
He laughed, ignoring the pain in his bruised throat. “I love you.”
She surveyed the mess that now comprised his kitchen and living room. “I don’t know why.”
Pulling her out of the house, he settled both of them on the porch steps with the flashlight as they waited for the police to arrive, yet again. “There is one thing that’s been bugging me,” he said, loving the way she fit into the curve of his arm. “Why was he wet? It isn’t raining.”
She met his eyes. “I dumped the pot of gumbo I was making on him.”
“Was it hot?”
She grinned, a poor, lopsided smile that made his heart ache. “Close to boiling.”
“Hot damn. You really are my kind of woman, Serena Macafee.”
“How twisted does that make you?”
Chapter Eighteen
Hours later, after having his arm stitched up and giving a statement to the police, Kevin found himself hesitating outside the door of Serena’s hospital room. While she had escaped serious injury, she had a mild concussion and enough bumps and bruises that the doctors had decided to keep her overnight for observation. The decision was not sitting well with her.
“Serena, bebe, let the poor people do their jobs.” He held out the flowers he’d bought her at the hospital gift shop. “If you’re a good girl, they’ll let you go home tomorrow.”
Her lower lip poked out in the first pout he’d ever seen from her. “I don’t want to go home tomorrow. I want to leave now. I hate hospitals.”
The nurses shot him an exasperated look, clearly pushed to the limit by this strange and demanding Serena. “You’ve got a concussion, mon amour. They just want to watch you for twenty-four hours.”
She snorted. “I don’t care what they want. I’m going home. Now.”
He shook his head, even as his heart warmed at hearing her refer to his house as home. “Not today you aren’t.”
“Kevin!” Her voice was a wail. “I can’t stay here. You don’t understand. I can’t.”
“Have you given her a sedative?” he asked the nurse closest to him, shocked at how wound up Serena still was.
“Two. And a pain pill.” She shrugged at his incredulous look. “She’s so uptight that they’re not working.”
“I don’t understand. She’s usually so calm. This is totally unlike her.”
“Hey, I’m still here! You don’t need to talk about me like I’m not around.”
Both nurses gave him looks of sympathy before heading rapidly for the door. “Call if you need us,” one said on her way out. “Good luck.”
Good luck? Just how badly behaved had Serena been? He turned back to the bed, warily, the lilies still clutched in his hands. “Serena, cher, what is going on?”
“I told you what’s going on! I’m not staying here.” She pulled at the IV in her arm, nearly succeeding in ripping it out before he could stop her.
“Whoa, whoa.” He dropped the flowers on the bed as he reached for her hands. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t stay here. Nobody will listen to me. I can’t stay here.” Tears swam in her eyes, thickening her voice.
He settled onto the bed next to her. “It’s just for one night, bebe. Then I’ll take you home.”
“No! Kevin, please. The last time I was in the hospital was after Sandra …” Her voice trailed off. “I laid in bed for weeks, staring at the ceiling and reliving my sister’s murder. I can’t do that again. I can’t lay here and remember. Please. Please, don’t make me stay.”
“Mon Di
eu, bebe! I’m sorry—I didn’t think.” He gathered her into his arms, stroked her hair away from her battered face. She held herself stiffly against him, unwilling to sink into the comfort he offered her. “I’ll get you out. But you have to behave. Give me a few minutes, okay?”
She nodded against his chest. “Okay.”
He strode down the hall to the nurse’s station. “Where’s her doctor?” he asked the blond nurse who’d been in Serena’s room a few minutes before.
“He’s doing rounds. He’ll be done in a little while.” Her eyebrows rose inquiringly. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“I need to take her home.”
She sighed impatiently. “I know she’s upset, but the doctor wants her here. She’s pretty badly bruised and she needs to be observed.”
“I understand that. But she’s not going to calm down. Being this agitated can’t be good for her.”
She threw her hands in the air. “There’s her doctor. Take it up with him.” She pointed to a small, balding man in a blue shirt and golfing tie.
“What’s his name?”
“Dr. Alexander.”
“Thanks.” Kevin approached the doctor warily. “Dr. Alexander?”
The man turned. “Yes?”
“My name’s Kevin Riley. I’m with Serena Macafee. Do you have a few minutes?”
The doctor took in his blood spattered clothes and various bandages and sighed, “Of course you are.”
“Can I take her home?”
“No, Mr. Riley, you cannot. While her concussion is relatively mild, I still think she needs to be observed. She’s taken a pretty bad beating.”
“I know. And I’ve tried to calm her down, tried to convince her to stay.” He acknowledged the doctor’s skeptical look. “I have. But look, she’s had it rough.” He explained the situation, watched the doctor’s expression change from impatience to horror and finally to acceptance.