Page 36 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
“Yesterday someone broke into her apartment. She moved to her friend’s house—Rainbow, who was shot when Sheriff Kwinault was shot—and the sheriff slept there. I protected her.”
Merida moved to sign language, trusting that she would be comprehended. “Who broke into her apartment?”
Sean got it. “We don’t know. We think it’s John Terrance, the drug dealer we’re pursuing. But… no fingerprints.”
Merida had spent the last year looking over her shoulder, fearing to see the paparazzi on her trail, or Nauplius Brassard’s children or some specter of her past… it had never occurred to her someone else could be in danger. That her friend Kateri Kwinault could also be looking overhershoulder. Maybe Dawkins and Elsa Cipre were not as bad as she feared. Maybe she needed to think about someone else for a change.
She glanced toward the other men by the mantel. One stood intently watching her and Sean. Intently, coolly, menacingly.
No.No. This wasn’t possible.
Benedict Howard. In the flesh.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The meeting with Kateri had gone so well.
The meeting with the Cipres had been so unfortunate.
This meeting with Benedict was so disastrous.
Maybe that was why Merida lost her temper. Lost her temper in a way she hadn’t since college.
She flew at Benedict. Standing toe to toe, with emphatic gestures she signed, “What are you doing here? Why are you here?”
He took a step away as if she intimidated him and observed her intently. A pause, then he said, “You know why I’m here.”
“Sex? Intercourse?” Her signing was rapid, vulgar and explicit, and drew gasps from the onlookers—and everyone was looking. “Bullshit. Bullshit! No way. All you want is the one beautiful woman you couldn’t have.”
He spoke the words clearly and calmly. “Now I call bullshit. I haven’t seen you in years. You’ve changed. Aged. I could have found a more beautiful and also less resistant woman than you.”
That knocked Merida back on her heels, made her think, made her silently laugh. Her temper marginally cooled. “How did you find me?”
Again a pause that involved his close scrutiny. “Pure luck. I had an investigative firm looking for you. Then my assistant saw you in the airport. She wasn’t sure. She took your picture.”
Merida had a flashback of rushing to catch a plane—she tried never to be early, to be caught standing around—and noticing a young, tall, smartly suited female fumbling with her phone.
Luck. Rotten luck. Damned fate.
And damn him. Benedict Howard. Always him.
Another man who wanted to make a deal. Another man who would use any leverage, no matter how abhorrent, to force her to sign a contract that would give him possession over her: her face, her body, her presence at his side until such time as he no longer wanted her—or, like Nauplius, he dropped dead.
“Go away,” she signed, gesturing wildly.
He caught her wrists.
She didn’t pause. She didn’t think. She head-butted him in the chest. He stumbled backward, yet held on. She stumbled forward. He hit the fireplace utensils. The clang and rattle as they fell over seemed to awaken him and abruptly, he let her go. Seeking balance, one of his hands swept out. He knocked over the tray of delicate crystal goblets.
Purple port splashed. Glass shattered.
Phoebe cried out in distress.
All at once, Merida realized every eye in the room was fixed on her. She was doing the thing she most needed to avoid: she was causing a scene, calling attention to herself.
Turning on her heel, she stalked toward the entry.
Sean caught her arm and swung her around. “Do you want to file a complaint against him?”
