Читать книгу The Inquisitor - Gayle Wilson - Страница 7

She had been a gift. Something that had fallen into his lap without any effort on his part. Surprisingly, she’d proven to be more satisfying than most of the others, all of whom had been carefully selected after weeks of study.

It hadn’t been time to begin thinking about the next one. By now he was conscious of the smallest sign of that, even those he had once thought bore no relationship to his needs.

A sense of anxiety that increased day by day until it became an urgency he could no longer ignore. The sensation that something wasn’t right in the pleasant world he inhabited. Those were inevitably followed by an indefinable feeling that things were slipping out of control. Then finally came the rage that still shocked him with its intensity.

None of that had occurred. Not this time.

Yet when he’d seen her standing on the street corner in the rain, strands of dark hair plastered against those alabaster cheeks, the compulsion to take her and make her his had been overwhelming. Irresistible.

This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be done. Not his normal attention to detail. But in this instance, he had no regrets that he had given in. His impulsive decision seemed to have worked out. And apparently no one was even looking for her.

Which meant there was no need to hurry, he thought with a degree of anticipation beyond any he could remember. He literally had all the time in the world.

Time for him. And for her.

A gift, he thought again, brushing a stray tendril of hair off her cheek.

When it was dry, her hair had demonstrated an unexpected tendency to curl. Something he would never have guessed from the way it had appeared that afternoon.

He smiled at the memory. She had looked like a bedraggled puppy, lost in the storm. Her face had lit up when he’d stopped the car, opened the passenger-side window, and leaned across the seat.

Do you need any help?

There had been no hesitation on her part. No fear. She had immediately stuck her head and shoulders inside the vehicle in response.

Only directions.

By then, despite what his intellect screamed at him, it had been far too late to provide those and drive away. He’d seen her smile. He’d seen those big, brown eyes and under them the mascara she’d applied to her lower lashes smudged from the rain.

He’d taken care of that imperfection, of course. As soon as he’d gotten her to a safe place, he had painstakingly cleaned off her makeup, leaving her skin smooth and bare as a baby’s.

Innocent.

Except she wasn’t. None of them were. No matter what they said, none of them were free from the stain. None were pure. Especially not the ones who pretended to be once they understood.

She hadn’t pretended. She’d been defiant. Angry. Profane.

He had found he liked her that way. It had broken the monotony of fear and pleading.

In contrast to the others she’d been…Sassy, as his grandmother would have said.

Sassy. He liked the word, too, now that he’d remembered it. He tasted the syllables in his mouth as he whispered them against her ear.

The perfect word. Perfect for her. And she, in turn, was perfect for him. His lovely, defiant unexpected gift.

“Time to wake up.”

Although he hated it, he had to keep her drugged on the chance that she might, by some miracle, free herself and get away. That had never happened before—and it never would. Not as careful as he was.

That was his nightmare, however. That one of them might escape and tell everyone about the things he’d done.

Those were only for the two of them. For them to share. As they would share this.

Her lashes fluttered, telling him she was almost awake. He had timed it to the minute. All he had to do was to wait while the drug wore off. And when it had…

Although he had not been conscious of his needs when he’d taken her, he knew them now. They surged through his body with an inexorable force, driving the ebb and flow of his emotions.

He touched her face, again relishing its smoothness. Devoid of the foundation she’d been wearing, her skin was that of a child. Even to the faint sweep of color that now overlay those perfect cheekbones. Another sign, if he had needed one, that she was conscious.

“I know you’re awake,” he said, bending close again to whisper the words into her ear.

Her hair moved against his lips, its softness stirred by his breath. Without raising his head, he turned, so that her face was in profile, as he watched the slow, sleepy lift of her lashes.

With the drug, she would be confused. They always were, no matter how many times he’d come to them.

He had watched the sequence of that confusion perhaps a hundred times and never tired of it. First, she would try to think where she was. To separate dream from reality. Nightmare from truth.

Then, in one fell swoop, it would happen. She would remember. She would remember everything.

And she would know.

The knowledge would suddenly be there in those wide, dark eyes. If he weren’t careful, he would miss it.

He straightened to smile down on her. Her eyes, slightly glazed, appeared to be focused on the ceiling above her head. She had probably memorized its every crack and imperfection. They, too, would help clear her disorientation. And in a few seconds—

She turned, her head rolling on the hard mattress until she was at last looking at him. Although he was smiling, it didn’t reassure her. But of course, they were too far along for her to have any delusions left.

Not his sweet, sassy drowning puppy.

She knew. She knew exactly what he was. And she knew what was going to happen to her. It was all there in the beautiful dark orbs locked on his face.

Her eyes widened, even as they stared up into his. They were no longer defiant, however. He had seen to that.

The only thing in them now were the questions neither of them yet had answers for.

When will this be over?

When will you let me go?

When, dear God, will you finally let me die?