Fatal Burn (West Coast 2) - Page 95

What good would it do to get herself k

illed now?

What good would it do to refuse him?

Maybe her natural mother was really, really rich and the recording was some kind of ransom demand.

She took the recorder from him and tried to come up with a subversive way to tell whoever received this tape her location, but she didn’t know where she was. This was all happening too quickly. She didn’t have time to come up with a signal, or some kind of secret message to let whoever received the tape know anything other than yes, she was alive…or had been when the message was recorded.

He stood in front of her, his arms folded over his broad chest, the fingers of his right hand curled over the handle of the knife. There was no way out. She had to do what he wanted.

For now.

Soon she’d escape anyway.

The nail was just about out of the board in the closet.

She clicked on the recorder and as a squirrel scampered over the roof of this dilapidated shack, she started reading. “Mommy, help me. Please, Mommy. I’m scared—”

Angrily he reached forward, snapped off the recorder and rewound the tape in a whir of noise. “Stupid bitch!” His face suffused with color and his laser-blue eyes narrowed on her furiously. “I know you’re not that dumb, so no more game playing. Now, do it again and this time, don’t just read it like you were in fuckin’ English class, okay? Make it sound good. Real. Like you’re scared.”

“But I don’t know how to—”

Suddenly, he bent down, squatting next to her, one arm around her middle, the other with the knife next to her face.

She nearly peed her pants.

His lips so close to her they brushed the shell of her ear, he whispered, “You just need some motivation, a little incentive.” The blade pressed against her cheek and it was all she could do not to squeal in fear.

She was quaking, the cool metal of the flat side of the knife pressing against her skin so that she hardly dared draw a breath. Fear slammed through her body and she felt his heat as he pressed his muscular frame against hers. Sweat rose on her skin. Dread curled in her stomach. The fire crackled and popped.

“Okay, now,” he suggested, his voice low and nearly sensual as he seemed to have regained some of his calm, “Let’s try it again…”

Khan gave a quick bark.

Shannon watched as Travis Settler parked near the garage, then unfolded himself from the cab of the truck. He appeared as intense as he had last night. His features were set and hard, his eyes shaded by aviator sunglasses, his hair less mussed, a few blond strands catching in the sunlight. He wore what looked like the same jeans as the night before, beat-up running shoes, a T-shirt that had seen better days fitting taut across his shoulders, and a take-no-prisoners attitude. He slammed shut the door of his truck and stretched, his T-shirt riding up enough to show off a tanned, flat washboard of an abdomen with a trail of dark hairs disappearing beneath the waistband of his low-slung jeans.

Shannon wrenched her gaze away. She told herself that the sudden heat stealing through her body had more to do with the warm morning than any glimpse of Travis’s bare skin.

Muttering at how silly she was, especially given the grim circumstances surrounding her life, she gave herself a swift mental kick, then headed out of the kitchen and away from the window.

Pull yourself together, she silently chided herself as she opened the front door just as he stepped onto the porch.

“Mornin’,” he drawled and again her stupid pulse raced.

“Back atcha.” She managed a smile and held the door open. Khan shot through and wiggled energetically around Travis’s legs.

“Not much of a watchdog,” Travis observed.

“Maybe he trusts you.”

“Maybe he trusts everyone.”

“Nah, Settler, it’s just your winning personality. Dogs can sense these things, you know.”

His eyes narrowed skeptically. “And dog trainers really know how to peddle BS.”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, feeling the corners of her lips twitch a bit. After all the stress of the past few days a little bit of levity helped. “So, before we get started, how about some coffee?”

Tags: Lisa Jackson West Coast Mystery
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