Читать книгу Out Of Control - Shannon McKenna - Страница 4

San Cataldo, California

A poke in the eye, that’s how it felt.

Mag Callahan curled white-knuckled hands around the mug of lukewarm coffee that she kept forgetting to drink. She stared, blank-eyed, at the Ziploc bag lying on her kitchen table. It contained the evidence that she had extracted from her own unmade bed a half an hour before, with the help of a pair of tweezers.

Item #1—Black lace thong panties. She, Mag, favored pastels that weren’t such a harsh contrast to her fair skin. Item #2—Three strands of long, straight dark hair. She, Mag, had short, curly red hair.

Her mind reeled and fought the unwanted information. Craig, her boyfriend, had been uncommunicative and paranoid lately, but she’d chalked it up to that pesky Y chromosome of his, plus his job stress, and his struggle to start up his own new consulting business. It never occurred to her that he would ever…dear God.

Her own house. Her own bed. That pig.

The blank shock began to tingle and go red around the edges as it transformed inevitably into fury. She’d been so nice to him. Letting him stay in her house rent-free while he bugswept and remodeled his own place. Lending him money, quite a bit of it. Cosigning his business loans. She’d bent over backwards to be supportive, accommodating, womanly. Trying to lighten up on her standard ballbreaker routine, which consisted of scaring boyfriend after boyfriend into hiding with her strong opinions. She’d wanted so badly to make it work this time. She’d tried so hard, and this was what she got for her pains. Shafted. Again.

She bumped the edge of the table as she got up, knocking over her coffee. She leaped back just in time to keep it from splattering over the cream linen outfit she’d changed into for her lunch date with Craig.

She’d come home early from her weekend conference on purpose to pretty herself up for their date, having fooled herself into thinking that Craig was only twitchy because he was about to broach the subject of—drum roll, please—the Future of Their Relationship. She’d even gone so far as to fantasize a sappy Kodak moment: Craig, bashfully passing her a ring box over dessert. Herself, opening it. A gasp of happy awe. Violins swelling as she melted into tears. How stupid.

Fury roared up like gasoline dumped on a fire. She had to do something active, right now. Like blow up his car, maybe. Craig’s favorite coffee mug was the first object to present itself, sitting smugly in the sink beside another dirty mug, from which the mystery tart had no doubt sipped her own coffee this morning. Why, would you look at that. A trace of coral lipstick was smeared along the mug’s edge.

Mag flung them across the room. Crash, tinkle. The noise relieved her feelings, but now she had a coffee splatter on her kitchen wall to remind her of this glorious moment forevermore. Smooth move, Mag.

She rummaged under the sink for a garbage bag, muttering. She was going to delete that lying bastard from her house.

She started with the spare room, which Craig had commandeered as his office. In went his laptop, modem, and mouse, his ergonomic keyboard. Mail, trade magazines, floppy disks, data storage CDs clattered in after it. A sealed box that she found in the back of one of the desk drawers hit the bottom of the bag with a rattling thud.

Onward. She dragged the bag into the hall. It had been stupid to start with the heaviest stuff first, but it was too late now. Next stop, hall closet. Costly suits, dress shirts, belts, ties, shoes, and loafers. On to the bedroom, to the drawers she’d cleared out for his casual wear. His hypoallergenic silicon pillow. His alarm clock. His special dental floss. Every item she tossed made her anger burn hotter. Scum.

That was it. Nothing left to dump. She knotted the top of the bag.

It was now too heavy to lift. She had to drag it, bumpity-thud, out the door, over the deck, down the stairs, across the narrow, pebbly beach of Parson’s Lake. The wooden passageway that led to her floating dock wobbled perilously as she jerked the stone-heavy thing along.

She heaved it over the edge of the dock with a grunt. Glug, glug, some pitiful bubbles, and down it sank, out of sight. Craig could take a bracing November dip and do a salvage job if he so chose.

She could breathe a bit better now, but she knew from experience that the health benefits of childish, vindictive behavior were very short-term. She’d crash and burn again soon if she didn’t stay in constant motion. Work was the only thing that could save her now. She grabbed her purse, jumped into the car, and headed downtown to her office.

Dougie, her receptionist, looked up with startled eyes when she charged through the glass double doors of Callahan Web Weaving. “Wait. Hold on a second. She just walked in the door,” he said into the phone. He pushed a button. “Mag? What are you doing here? I thought you were coming in this afternoon, after you had lunch with—”

“Change of plans,” she said crisply. “I have better things to do.”

Dougie looked bewildered. “But Craig’s on line two. He wants to know why you’re late for your lunch date. Says he has to talk to you. Urgently. As soon as possible. A matter of life and death, he says.”

Mag rolled her eyes as she marched into her office. “So what else is new, Dougie? Isn’t everything that has to do with Craig’s precious convenience a matter of life and death?”

Dougie followed her. “He, uh, sounds really flipped out, Mag.”

Come to think of it, it would be more classy, dignified, and above all, final if she looked him in the eye while she dumped him. Plus, she could throw the panties bag right into his face if he had the gall to deny it. That would be satisfying. Closure, and all that good stuff.

She smiled reassuringly into Dougie’s anxious eyes. “Tell Craig I’m on my way. And after this, don’t accept any more calls from him. Don’t even bother to take messages. For Craig Caruso, I am in a meeting, for the rest of eternity. Is that clear?”

Dougie blinked through his glasses, owl-like. “You OK, Mag?”

The smile on her face was a warlike mask. “Fine. I’m great, actually. This won’t take long. I’m certainly not going to eat with him.”

“Want me to order in lunch for you, then? Your usual?”

She hesitated, doubting she’d have much appetite, but poor Dougie was so anxious to help. “Sure, that would be nice.” She patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a sweetie-pie. I don’t deserve you.”

“I’ll order carrot cake and a double skim latte, too. You’re gonna need it,” Dougie said, scurrying back to his beeping phone.

Mag checked the mirror inside her coat closet, freshened her lipstick, and made sure her coppery red ’do was artfully mussed, not wisping dorkily, as it tended to do if she didn’t gel the living bejesus out of it. One should try to look elegant when telling a parasitical user to go to hell and fry. She thought about mascara and decided against it. She cried easily; when she was hurt, when she was pissed, and today she was both. Putting on mascara was like spitting in the face of the gods.

She grabbed her purse, uncomfortably aware, as always, of the 9mm Beretta that shared space with wallet, keys, and lipstick inside. A gift from Craig, after she’d gotten mugged months ago. A pointless gift, since she’d never been able to bring herself to load the thing, and had no license to carry it concealed. Craig had insisted that she keep it in her purse, along with an extra clip of ammunition. And she’d gone along with it, in her efforts to be sweet and grateful and accommodating. Hah.

If she were a different woman, she’d make him regret that gift. She’d wave it around at him, scare him out of his wits. But that kind of tantrum just wasn’t her style. Neither were guns. She’d give it back to him today. It was illegal, it was scary, it made her purse too heavy, and besides, today was all about streamlining, dumping excess baggage.

Emotional feng shui. Sploosh, straight into the lake.

By the time she got to her car, the unseasonable late autumn heat made sweat trickle between her shoulder blades. She felt rumpled, flushed and emotional. Frazzled Working Girl was not the look she wanted for this encounter. Indifferent Ice Queen was more like it. She cranked the air-conditioning to chill down to Ice Queen temperatures and pulled out into traffic, the density of which gave her way too much time to think about what a painful pattern this was in her love life.

Used and shafted by charming jerks. Over and over. She was almost thirty years old, for God’s sake. She should have outgrown this tedious, self-destructive crap by now. She should be hitting her stride.

Maybe she should get her head shrunk. What a joy. Pick out the most icky element of her personality, and pay someone scads of money to help her dwell on it. Bleah. Introspection had never been her thing.

She parked her car outside the newly renovated brick warehouse that housed Craig’s new studio, and braced herself to see Craig’s tech assistant bouncing up to chirp a greeting. Mandi was her name. Probably dotted the i with a heart. Nothing behind those big brown eyes but bubbles and foam. She had long dark hair, too. Fancy that.

There was no one to be seen in the studio. Odd. Maybe Craig and Mandi had been overcome with passion in the office in back. She set her teeth and marched through the place. Her heels clicked loudly on the tile. The silence made the sharp sounds echo and swell.

The door to Craig’s office was ajar. She clicked her heels louder. Go for it. Burn your bridges, Mag, it’s what you’re best at. She slapped the door open, sucked in air and opened her mouth to—

She rocked back with a choked gasp. The panty bag dropped from her hand.

Craig was dangling by his wrists from the pipes in the ceiling, suspended by one of his own ties. Naked. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. Her brain picked out random details to focus on with preternatural clarity. The tie knotted around his wrists, cruelly tight. Beige silk, tasteful accents of gold. One of his favorites.

His bloodshot eyes rolled when he saw her. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Fine hairlike things protruded from his naked body. Needles. He was stuck full of them. They were everywhere.

She lunged forward, a hoarse croak that felt more animal than human jerking out of her throat, and stumbled to an abrupt stop.

Slim legs sprawled wide on the floor, one shoe on, one shoe off. Gartered hose. Bare, pale, skinny bottom. Mandi. She lay terribly still.

Mag’s horrified gaze locked with Craig’s. His desperate eyes flicked to a point behind her, to her left. She slowly turned her head.

A flash of awful pain, fire, and ice combined stabbed into her neck, down into her arm, up into her head, where it proceeded to explode.

Fireworks were overtaken by blackness. The world was gone.

“She has to die, Faris.”

Marcus’s voice on the cell phone Faris clutched to his ear seemed soft with puzzled regret, but he knew the cold steel beneath it very well.

Faris stared at the naked girl lying on the hotel bed. Her coppery hair was snarled against the pillow. He stroked the curve of her belly, the indentation of her navel. Her translucent skin was so soft and fine.

He was so gifted. He deserved this. Her love would fill that hollow ache that tortured him whenever Marcus had no jobs for him to do.

“No,” he whispered.

“This was meant to be a murder-suicide, Faris. You were supposed to recover what Caruso took from us. Not ignore my orders and wander off to indulge yourself.”

“But the scenario is almost exactly what you wanted,” Faris protested. “Caruso’s jealous girlfriend burst in on what will look like kinky sex. She shot him and his lover with her gun, threw it into the nearest Dumpster like the panicked amateur she is, and disappeared.”

“Faris.” Marcus’s voice was ominously soft. “That’s not what we—”

“I know where the mold is,” Faris broke in. “I’ll get it for you now. What difference does it make if she disappears or dies? She’s the obvious suspect. The police have no reason to look any further. Let them waste their energy looking for her. They’ll never find her.”

“Faris.” Marcus’s reproach was palpable. “That’s not the issue. My trust is the issue. I invested a huge amount of energy and money in your training. I made you the best of the best. And like a spoiled child, you say no?” He paused. “Perhaps you’re less worthy than I thought.”

Faris’s fingers traced the poignant hollow beneath her rib cage, where her vital organs lay protected only by smooth muscle, silky skin. Normally, Marcus’s anger would distress him to the point of vomiting, but with his red angel at his side, he felt untouched by it. Almost…free. “I’ve never asked for anything for myself before,” he said, in a dreamy voice. “I always do everything you say. Always.”

Marcus’s sigh was sharp and impatient. “We can’t risk our plans over something so banal. Women are expendable. No one knows this better than we. Be reasonable. I will give you ten of her. A hundred.”

No. There was not another one like her on the face of the earth. His red angel. Faris’s fingers feathered down to circle her hip bones.

“I am shocked at your attitude. The Callahan woman is worthless as anything but a prop. Finish the job. I want to hear the tragic conclusion of the Caruso/Callahan saga on the eleven PM news tonight. Failure is unacceptable. Do we understand each other? Faris?”

Faris broke the connection and turned his attention back to the girl. The cheap synthetic bedspread was not worthy of her. She should be lying on an altar of crimson velvet, draped with cloth of gold.

He checked her pulse, fingers lingering over the tender skin of her wrist. He prepared a dose of a drug that would keep her unconscious for two more hours and slid the needle tenderly into her arm.

He considered tying her to the bed, just in case he was delayed, but he was reluctant to start off their love affair by scaring her.

He wanted to be tender with her. Indulgent. Two hours was plenty of time to recover the mold for Marcus. A few minutes with Faris’s needles, and Caruso had been very forthcoming about where he’d left it.

This was a pathetically easy job, in fact. Almost beneath his dignity. If all went smoothly, he would not even have to torture her.

He hoped not. Faris was a master at the art of torture, but he preferred that she love him. If he had to torture her, things would be much more complicated. Women took things so personally.

Faris lingered by the bed, hating to leave her so soon after he had found her. He groped for his snake pendant, the symbol of his order, and lifted her head to place it around her neck, arranging it carefully between her perfect breasts. His most prized possession. He stroked the soft skin, the lush curves. There. Better. It was tangible proof of his commitment. It would protect her until his return. She looked perfect.

This ecstatic emotion made him giddy. Strong enough to bear even Marcus’s anger. He left the room, imagining how grateful and admiring she would be when he came back to wake her.

She owed her very existence to him. Every moment of her life was now his. She should be grateful to him for every breath she took.

A detailed and highly sensual fantasy of all the ways she would express her gratitude kept him pleasantly entertained as he drove.