Читать книгу Man with the Muscle - Julie Miller - Страница 5

The acrid stench of fear and burnt flesh tainted her expensive perfume and quickened his pulse as he put out his cigarette on her sculpted cheekbone.

Her silent scream spasmed through her and she gurgled beneath his hand on her throat, sputtering words with no sound. Her eyes pleaded, wept, their vain tilt not so pronounced as they’d been out on the terrace yesterday evening, laughing at him in the moonlight.

His gloved hand was dark against her alabaster skin.He carefully tucked the cigarette butt into his pocket. It was a lousy, disgusting habit, but tonight had called for something special. He brought both hands to her neck, squeezing a little harder, then easing his grip before closing off her airway again—teasing her, tormenting her with the false promise of freedom.

Just as she had tormented him with her promises.

No more. He was the one with the power over her now. He was the one in control of their destinies. He couldn’t be hurt. He couldn’t be used. He wouldn’t be denied. Strength surged through him. Dominance. Superiority. His hands jerked around her throat as the anger consumed and cleansed him.

His breath came deeper, stronger as hers constricted. He straddled her chest and sat, feeling her writhe helplessly, weakly, futilely beneath him.

“You’re not so high and mighty now, are you, Gretchen?” He pulled up his stocking mask, wanting her to see his eyes, to know he was the one who’d put her in her place. “You want to rethink saying no to me?”

She nodded.

Tears and desperation and the blood on her cheek made her look vulnerable, more human than the icy beauty who’d led him on for so many months—smiling at him, sharing conversations, accepting his gifts—yet ultimately dismissing him as if he was of no more importance than a piece of furniture. For a moment, he paused to tenderly brush aside the damp golden hair that stuck to her forehead. She looked beautiful, stretched out beneath him, begging to do his bidding. This was how it could have been between them—how it should have been. He wanted to kiss her. He nearly did. But no, he wouldn’t leave even that little trace of DNA. He was too smart for that.

Too smart for all of them.

Stupid bitches.

“Too late.” With a snap, he crushed her windpipe. In a matter of seconds, she was dead.

When the spark faded from her eyes, it took his rage and need with him and he breathed a sigh of relief. He reached for his bag.

Precisely three minutes later, he set about the tasks of cleaning her wounds, untying her wrists and ankles and rewinding the electrical cords before returning them to their storage compartment inside the bag. He wrapped her in her pink silk robe and carried her into the adjoining room where he laid her on the bed and arranged her just so, crossing her hands over her heart in sweet repose, draping her hair over her damaged cheek, carefully removing one of her diamond earrings and closing her eyes.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

He returned to the opulent, oversize bathroom where he’d surprised her and quickly rolled up the drop cloth he’d used and cleaned any other signs of his presence there. Finally, he stripped off the tan coveralls he wore, packing them and his gloves inside his bag. When he was certain the upstairs hallway was clear, he hurried down the back steps and locked the bag in his vehicle outside. The music from the violins, viola and cello filtered through the crisp night air and masked his footsteps as he flicked the cigarette butt into the storm drain at the curb.

Then he straightened his jacket and jogged around to join the others at the mansion’s front drive, ready to be shocked and outraged when some poor unlucky soul discovered Gretchen’s body.

And the message he’d tucked beneath the covers beside her.