Bobby Ray Shatney lit a cigarette, cupping it in his hand to keep the wind away from the match. It was late, pitch-dark outside, and if anyone bothered to look out a window they’d see the glow of his cigarette, and they’d go running to Luke like self-righteous little snitches.
He didn’t think Luke would be surprised. He knew everything. All he had to do was turn his eyes on Bobby Ray, and his soul was naked before him. Luke knew his weaknesses, for cigarettes and pussy, for pain and for redemption. He knew Bobby Ray would die for him. Would kill for him.
It was a special bond.
He didn’t even need Luke’s words—there was a magical thread of communication between the two of them. Bobby Ray knew when Luke wanted him to punish someone, for the sake of the community. Everything Bobby Ray did was for Luke. Every drag on his cigarette, every woman he fucked, every person he killed, he did it for Luke, on Luke’s unspoken orders. And in return he had Luke’s unspoken gratitude and approval. Which was reward enough for Bobby Ray.
That new one, though. He wasn’t sure what Luke wanted done with her. That little gnome Calvin had almost gotten her killed, a stupid move, but then, what could you expect from a midget ex-con? If he’d been trying to anticipate Luke’s needs he’d blown it, for all of them.
She was a complication, a danger, and had been since Alfred had finished with Stella. Stella had hated her own child, something Bobby Ray understood only too well. Bringing her here, luring her here, was the least he could do. He did what he was told, to a point, and Catherine had told him to do this, for Stella, and for Luke.
Rachel reminded him of his older sister Melanie, with her spoiled mouth and her attitude. He’d killed Melanie first, before the others got home, taking his time with her.
He sucked the smoke deep in his lungs, then blew it out, peering through it with half-closed eyes. It danced in front of him, shifting and drifting, taking form slowly. He watched it, waiting for a sign. Which way should he go?
The smoke dispersed, drifting into the New Mexico night, and there were no answers. Bobby Ray cursed, stubbing out his cigarette. He’d have to wait for a sign, and he didn’t like waiting.
Maybe she’d know the answer. She could guide him. He pushed away from the stucco wall and headed for the west wing of the rehabilitation center. He knew he’d find her there.
Luke waited until she opened her eyes, watching as she frowned, trying to focus, trying to remember where the hell she was, and how she’d got there.
It would be interesting if she remembered what happened afterward, Luke thought wryly, leaning back and watching her, his legs crossed. She already hated him with an almost murderous passion—if she remembered what he’d done to her restless, responsive body her rage would know no bounds.
She turned her head, her eyes narrowing as they focused on him. He was half in the shadows, but she wouldn’t mistake him for anyone else. With a sudden nervous gesture she clutched at her chest, but the tunic was neatly fastened once more, covering her securely.
“What am I doing here?” she demanded, her voice still scratchy.
“Being healed.”
“Bullshit.”
“A couple of hours ago your throat was so bruised you couldn’t speak. Bruising doesn’t heal that fast without special help.”
“Bullshit,” she said again.
“I wonder if we can reverse the process,” he murmured, half to himself. “I think I liked you better mute.”
“I’m sure you did.” She rolled onto her side, gingerly, and he could see she was still stiff and sore. “You like all your women silent and obedient.”
“All my women? Are you one of my women?” he taunted softly.
She sat up at that, as he knew she would, trying to stifle a groan of pain. “I thought you were celibate.”
He watched her, deliberating how best to handle her. His casual taunts were keeping her off balance—if the others heard him they’d be shocked by their saintly messiah.
But he was tired of being a saint. And he liked the way she jumped every time he poked at her.
Besides, the brief, wicked taste of her body had only whetted his appetite. He wasn’t going to be satisfied with a moral and spiritual seduction, as he was with the rest of his followers. He needed total capitulation in her case, and nothing less would do.
“You don’t really believe that, do you, Rachel?” he said.
Her reaction was priceless, her eyes widening. “You’re admitting you aren’t the saint everyone here thinks you are?”
“No one is a saint, particularly those who think they are. What do you think?”
“I think you’re a con artist who preys on neurotic people and rips them off. I think you seduced my mother, got her to leave all her money to you, and then …” Something, some vestige of restraint, stopped her.
“And then?” he prodded. “What did I do then? Have her killed?”
“Did you?”
He laughed, knowing the sound would irritate her. “You’ve got a hell of an imagination, Rachel.”
“I thought the Foundation of Being disapproved of profanity,” she shot back.
“Rules don’t apply to me.”
“Did you?”
“Did I what? Seduce your mother? You must not have known Stella very well if you think she needed seduction. Part of her therapy was to confess her character defects, and sexual voraciousness was one of her major ones. She wasn’t the kind to wait for a man to make a move.”
“So she seduced you?”
“Why are you so passionately obsessed with my sex life, Rachel?” he asked softly. “Don’t you have one of your own to keep you busy?”
“We’re not talking about me,” she said. “We’re talking about your sins.”
“Not a concept we agree on, remember?”
“You’re not going to deny you’re a con man?”
“I’m not going to deny anything.”
“Including that you cheated my mother out of her money?”
“Your mother’s dead, Rachel. She has no need of money where she’s going.”
“Then you cheated me out of her money!” She was up on her knees, moving closer. All he had to do was sit there, legs outstretched, and lure her closer. It was child’s play. He liked her awake, alive, furious. He wanted to taste her angry mouth when she could fight back. She would, he knew it. But she’d eventually surrender, making it all the sweeter.
“Why do you think you deserve it?” he asked. “You couldn’t have been very close. She never talked about you. You’d think if there was any warmth or affection between the two of you she would have at least asked for you on her deathbed.”
“And you’re telling me she didn’t?”
He could hear the pain in her voice. He’d learned to soothe pain, to heal it, through lies and half lies and even, occasionally, truths. Healing her pain would avail him nothing. Hurting her more would throw her off balance, make her more vulnerable. Vulnerable to him.
“Not a word. You must have let her down very badly in this life.”
For a moment he wondered whether he might have gone too far. He had known Stella Connery very well. He knew the deep, ingrained selfishness that had ruled her life, and he had little doubt that if, in truth, anyone had been abandoned in that tiny, dysfunctional family, it had been the angry young woman staring at him with hurt and denial in her eyes.
She was shaking, he could see it, so furious she was almost beyond speech. She crossed the space that separated them, on her knees, catching his tunic in strong hands and yanking at him in blind rage. “How dare you pass judgment on me? You don’t know anything about me and my mother. You admit she never said anything about me. What makes you think it was my failing, and not hers? Did she strike you as the maternal type? The sweet, caring mother that every child deserves? Did she?” She yanked at him, and he let her, surveying her out of half-closed eyes, fascinated by her passion and sudden fearlessness.
He reached up and covered her hands with h
is. His were much larger, enveloping hers, and she released the soft cloth of his shirt in sudden panic. But he wouldn’t release her, no matter how her fists squirmed in his enveloping hands.
“Let go of me,” she said fiercely.
“Let go of Stella. She’s gone. She can’t be your mother, and all the money in the world won’t make up for it.”
“It’s a start,” she shot back. Her bitter, angry mouth was very close, irresistibly so. Yes, he definitely liked her better this way. Furious with him. He wanted to taste her fury, swallow it.
He didn’t move, keeping her fists captive. She was leaning over him, balanced precariously on her knees, and he could watch the knowledge of her vulnerability dawn in her eyes.
“If you try to pull away,” he said in a deliberately lazy voice, “you’ll lose your balance.”
“Is this the way you treat all your followers?” she demanded.
“But you’re not one of my followers. Are you?” He decided he didn’t want to wait. He tugged, lightly, and she went sprawling across him in a tangle of arms and legs and soft, small breasts.
For a moment she lay absolutely still, straddling him. If she stopped to think about it she’d feel his erection, though how she’d react was a mystery.
She stared up at him, breathless, shocked, so close he could put his mouth against hers before she had time to realize what he was doing. He could feel her heat and anger, vibrating around him. Feel her fear. He never thought a woman’s fear would be erotic. Rachel’s was.
He didn’t move, considering the notion, considering her. She was afraid of him. Afraid of having sex with him. It was small wonder he’d find that obsessive fear fascinating.
“Let go,” he whispered, his voice low and persuasive. “Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”
Uncertainty darkened her eyes. And then she scrambled away, and he released her, reluctantly. A prize worth having was a prize worth waiting for, he reminded himself. And he was beginning to think that Rachel Connery would be a prize indeed.
He could still smell the scent of her on his fingers, and he wanted to bite her. Instead he leaned back, deliberately, infuriatingly at ease.
“You won’t win, Rachel,” he said.
She was leaning against the wall, staring at him like a cornered animal. An apt comparison. But there was still fight in her.
“You think I should give up?” she said. “Forget about the twelve and a half million dollars, go back to New York, and get on with my life?”
“Is that the only reason you’re here?” he said softly. “The money? I thought you were looking for your mother.”
It didn’t quite finish her off, but it came close. Her angry eyes grew bright with unshed tears, and for a moment her full mouth trembled.
And then it hardened again. “Bastard.” She spat the word out succinctly.
“Definitely. In spirit as well as fact.” He’d gotten enough out of her for one night, and he surged to his feet with his usual fluid grace, towering over her in the murky light She wasn’t a large woman, and in her current pose, huddled against the stucco wall, she looked deceptively frail.
He was usually kind and gentle with frail women. Nurturing with those who were suffering from emptiness and loss, filling them with serene, asexual comfort that soothed and healed.
With Rachel Connery all he wanted to do was prod the wound and make her bleed.
He looked at her, the fragile, well-defined bones of her face, her slim body. He knew just how little weight she carried, and it bothered him.
“You don’t eat enough,” he said abruptly.
He’d managed to startle her. “I don’t like the food here.”
“I bet you don’t eat enough at a four-star restaurant either.”
“I don’t see why that concerns you.”
He couldn’t quite see it either, but it did. He suddenly wanted her to be like the others, peaceful and undemanding.
But Rachel wasn’t the kind of woman for easy answers, for blissed-out acceptance of the unacceptable. She couldn’t make peace with herself and her past, and he wasn’t about to help her. She needed to do it for herself.
And whether or not she came to terms with her mother was the least of his worries. He was more interested in whether she would come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to give up one penny of the twelve and a half million dollars Stella had left the Foundation. And whether she was going to let go of that shell of anger and protectiveness long enough to let him get her into a real bed, where she could react, respond, take him deep inside her and …
He shut off the erotic thought with ruthless efficiency. “You need to sleep,” he said, the taunting drawl out of his voice. He could already hear the others, beyond the door, stirring to life as they heard him. He’d grown used to this life, to having a half-dozen people waiting and eager for his slightest whim. He’d grown used to it, and he hated it. There were times when he wanted nothing more than to be back in a tumbledown house in the backwoods of Coffin’s Grove, Alabama, Jackson Bardell passed out on a cot, no food in the house except for a box of oatmeal. But there’d been no one to watch him, no one to worship him. He was getting so damned tired of being worshiped.
Maybe that was why he was so irrevocably drawn to the angry young woman staring up at him. Maybe he just really needed someone to hate him for a change. Maybe he needed the challenge. Or maybe it was a twisted nostalgia for a time when nobody loved him.
She rose too, and the door at the end of the large room opened, with three acolytes silhouetted in the broad entrance. She came up to him, knowing she was safe, knowing he wouldn’t touch her while there were witnesses. “You killed her, didn’t you, Luke?” she whispered, and the certainty was so strong in her voice that it shook him.
She didn’t give him time to answer. She knew that he wouldn’t. She simply walked toward the open door and the waiting helpers, her back straight, her neck oddly vulnerable beneath the close-cropped hair. He’d put his mouth there, on the soft nape of her neck, and then he’d bitten her. He wondered if he’d left teeth marks.
They took her back to her room, the three of them, all solicitude and murmured concern. Catherine was one of them, her face flushed, her silvery hair coming loose from its bun. Leaf was another, her serene face unmoved. The third was a man, a boy really, with a sweet face and the faint whiff of cigarettes about him. Rachel didn’t smoke, but the scent of the forbidden made her warm to the angelic-looking boy.
They lit her oil lamp for her, covered her with a soft blanket, and left her, with that incessant murmur of “blessings” ringing in her ears.
Luke had almost admitted it. There was very little of the saint about him, even if everyone was blinded by his remarkable charisma. He was a user, a manipulator, and for some reason he didn’t mind showing Rachel his true nature. Probably because he knew it would be useless to try to convince her he was anything other than what he was.
Damn him, why did he have to touch her? She didn’t like being touched. She’d never developed the knack for it—there’d been no one to touch her during her childhood, no one to snuggle up with, to hug her and soothe her and tell her she was safe.
Touching meant pain. Shame. Blame and anger. She shivered in the warm room, suddenly chilled, as unwanted memories swamped back over her. Of her mother, screaming in her face, twisting her arm. Of her stepfather, pale, guilty, silent, as he watched the melodrama unfold.
Everything works out for the best, she’d always told herself. They sent her away then, at thirteen, and she’d never come home again. She had no home. But even for the first thirteen years of her life it had been a battle zone, not a haven.
Her only haven was when she was alone. And even that had been defiled by Stella’s greed.
He’d touched her, and she hadn’t liked it, but she couldn’t get it out of her head. His hands closing over hers, enveloping them so that her own smaller ones had disappeared within his. The crown of thorns around each strong wris
t. The feel of his body when she’d tumbled against him, bone and flesh and muscle, warmth and solid strength that was somehow terrifying. The closeness of his mouth.
She didn’t like to be touched.
She didn’t like the way he looked at her either. There was none of the saintly compassion he seemed to emit for the masses. His clear gray-blue eyes watched her with the intensity of a predator. He was very still, scarcely moving, and yet she had no doubt as to what kind of threat he could be. He’d taken her mother, he’d taken her money, he’d even taken from Rachel the illusion that Stella had an ounce of feeling for her. And he would take more, if he could. He would destroy her, and he would do so without a second thought. If she was weak enough to let him.
She lay in the lamplit darkness, tense, angry, confused. Her throat still hurt, though not with the fiery ache of earlier, when she could barely force air through the rawness. Her body felt bruised and aching and the pain in her head had subsided to a dull throbbing.
But there was something else disturbing. Whatever they’d given her, whatever they’d done to her, besides going an astonishing way toward healing her, had also left her feeling strange and restless. Her skin tingled. Her breasts felt tight, sensitive. Her lips stung.
She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the odd sensations, and hateful erotic images danced through her mind. Bodies entwined, hands touching, mouths tasting, hair flowing, strength and a slow, sensual burn that threatened to engulf her in flames.
She heard a muffled noise of protest, and she knew it had come from her own raw throat. Her memory was spotty, disturbing, edgy, and she tried to force something solid to materialize from the gray mist.
Nothing was clear. Just hints and wisps of sensation that made her entire body ache in fear and protest.
What in God’s name had he done to her?
Luke closed the door behind him, sealing the room away from prying eyes, and turned to look at the wall of security monitors. All was as it should be to the untrained eye. The current crop of followers were partway through their two-month stay, and they were going about their appointed tasks with docile obedience.