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Authors: Jaycee Clark
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second ring sounded.
"Hello?"
Silence.
"Hello?"
Softly in the background music played, and she knew.
"Josephine. Josephine. Josephine," his voice tsked over the phone.
Ice pierced her heart and nausea greased her stomach. She turned her back to Gabe. "My name is Christian. Christian."
His chuckle did an evil dance in her ear. "So many men this time of night? Shame on you. You know I don’t share. I’ve never shared."
"I’m not yours to share or otherwise."
Something clicked through the phone and she imagined him lighting one of those cigars he preferred.
"Leave me alone." She cursed the tremor that was evident even to her, then stabbed the OFF button.
A glance over her shoulder told her Gabe wasn’t ignoring her conversation. Carefully, she set the phone back on its stand, then turned to face him, just as the phone rang again.
It rang again.
The answering machine picked up.
"I don’t like to be ignored," he bit out, his voice filling the air around her.
She’d managed to get to him. When angry, his voice flinted to a fine edge.
"But I suppose it’s all been a bit of a shock tonight." His words, like black oil, slithered from the machine through her kitchen and she started to shake.
"Did you like the painting? Rather good I thought, considering. I know it’s hardly my best, but I think it served its purpose." Silence and a huff. She could imagine him blowing a stream of smoke out. "Those asthma attacks are pesky annoyances, aren’t they?" His gravelly laugh echoed.
Asthma attacks? Her gaze still riveted on the answering machine, darted around the room. How did he know? How?
Was he that close?
His laugh trailed off. "Worried? You should be."
The line went dead. He hung up.
Her chest tightened and she bumped the table. She grabbed her inhaler and took another puff, fighting the constriction back before it started.
Her hands shook and she couldn’t get past the realization that there was no privacy here. None. There never had been with him.
"You should sit down," Gabe told her, walking to the machine and popping out the tape.
The phone rang again, he picked it up. Christian leaned over and grabbed it out of his hand.
She was tired of this. Tired of cowering. She just needed to figure out what to do without telling.
The phone rang again.
Anger and fear warred within her as she threw the phone to the floor. Cursing, she jerked the base away, ripping the cords out of the wall and heaving it across her kitchen. The plastic shattered, chips and wires exposed, like a childhood radio kit.
"Why won’t he just leave me alone!" she whispered furiously.
She covered her face with her hands, rubbing as if to wipe images from her mind. Sliding her hands back through her hair, she looked at the cop leaning against her doorjamb tapping a miniature tape in his palm.
"Tell me," he said, crossing his ankles. "Why haven’t you reported this guy? All the pictures? And if you haven’t reported this, I’m betting the Kinncaids don’t know about any of it. I’m wondering why." He shrugged. "Maybe you think it’s Brayden or one of the others?"
"What?" Christian propped her hands on her hips. Was he for real? His no-nonsense frown said he was.
"This is not Brayden. Or any of the others. It’s not."
"How do you know?"
Shit. "I just do."
"Then you know who it is?"
Praying he didn’t see more than she wanted him to, she held his stare. "No, I don’t who it is."
"Then you have told Kinncaids about the photos? About the phone calls and notes? How long has this guy been calling anyway?"
She only shook her head, and caught his mumbled curse. There was hardly any use in denying it. She had told no one. The only one that even remotely knew anything was standing, calm as you please, in her kitchen. And though the surface was unrippled, she sensed the currents that ran beneath the smooth façade. He wanted answers.
"I’ll take your silence as a no. The question in my mind is that if you really care for
"Hello?"
Silence.
"Hello?"
Softly in the background music played, and she knew.
"Josephine. Josephine. Josephine," his voice tsked over the phone.
Ice pierced her heart and nausea greased her stomach. She turned her back to Gabe. "My name is Christian. Christian."
His chuckle did an evil dance in her ear. "So many men this time of night? Shame on you. You know I don’t share. I’ve never shared."
"I’m not yours to share or otherwise."
Something clicked through the phone and she imagined him lighting one of those cigars he preferred.
"Leave me alone." She cursed the tremor that was evident even to her, then stabbed the OFF button.
A glance over her shoulder told her Gabe wasn’t ignoring her conversation. Carefully, she set the phone back on its stand, then turned to face him, just as the phone rang again.
It rang again.
The answering machine picked up.
"I don’t like to be ignored," he bit out, his voice filling the air around her.
She’d managed to get to him. When angry, his voice flinted to a fine edge.
"But I suppose it’s all been a bit of a shock tonight." His words, like black oil, slithered from the machine through her kitchen and she started to shake.
"Did you like the painting? Rather good I thought, considering. I know it’s hardly my best, but I think it served its purpose." Silence and a huff. She could imagine him blowing a stream of smoke out. "Those asthma attacks are pesky annoyances, aren’t they?" His gravelly laugh echoed.
Asthma attacks? Her gaze still riveted on the answering machine, darted around the room. How did he know? How?
Was he that close?
His laugh trailed off. "Worried? You should be."
The line went dead. He hung up.
Her chest tightened and she bumped the table. She grabbed her inhaler and took another puff, fighting the constriction back before it started.
Her hands shook and she couldn’t get past the realization that there was no privacy here. None. There never had been with him.
"You should sit down," Gabe told her, walking to the machine and popping out the tape.
The phone rang again, he picked it up. Christian leaned over and grabbed it out of his hand.
She was tired of this. Tired of cowering. She just needed to figure out what to do without telling.
The phone rang again.
Anger and fear warred within her as she threw the phone to the floor. Cursing, she jerked the base away, ripping the cords out of the wall and heaving it across her kitchen. The plastic shattered, chips and wires exposed, like a childhood radio kit.
"Why won’t he just leave me alone!" she whispered furiously.
She covered her face with her hands, rubbing as if to wipe images from her mind. Sliding her hands back through her hair, she looked at the cop leaning against her doorjamb tapping a miniature tape in his palm.
"Tell me," he said, crossing his ankles. "Why haven’t you reported this guy? All the pictures? And if you haven’t reported this, I’m betting the Kinncaids don’t know about any of it. I’m wondering why." He shrugged. "Maybe you think it’s Brayden or one of the others?"
"What?" Christian propped her hands on her hips. Was he for real? His no-nonsense frown said he was.
"This is not Brayden. Or any of the others. It’s not."
"How do you know?"
Shit. "I just do."
"Then you know who it is?"
Praying he didn’t see more than she wanted him to, she held his stare. "No, I don’t who it is."
"Then you have told Kinncaids about the photos? About the phone calls and notes? How long has this guy been calling anyway?"
She only shook her head, and caught his mumbled curse. There was hardly any use in denying it. She had told no one. The only one that even remotely knew anything was standing, calm as you please, in her kitchen. And though the surface was unrippled, she sensed the currents that ran beneath the smooth façade. He wanted answers.
"I’ll take your silence as a no. The question in my mind is that if you really care for
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