Read Online Love You Dead by Peter James - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter James
Tags: Thrillers, Crime, Mystery, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Crime Fiction, Murder, Thrillers & Suspense, Police Procedurals
Ads: Link
neck and sat down beside
her.
Then, without warning, he grabbed the straw from her and sucked up another line, followed by another. Shouting out ‘Whooohaaaaa!’ he hauled her to her feet and began kissing her
wildly. So wildly it alarmed her.
She tried to back off. ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘Hey! Gentle, OK?’
‘Don’t
gentle
me. I know what bitches like you want!’ His voice was slurred. ‘You like it rough, yes?’
‘No.’
He pushed up her skirt and fumbled for her underwear.
‘Hey!’
He shoved her back, violently. She stumbled and crashed into the wall. He was pressing himself against her, pulling her knickers down.
‘Stop!’ she said, increasingly frightened by his sudden mood switch.
He was grinning demonically now, his eyes glazed with alcohol and the drug. ‘You want it, bitch. You want me to fuck you hard, don’t you? You like it rough.’
With one hand he held her against the wall. With the other, he was unbuckling his belt. His eyes were crazed, he was scaring her.
She headbutted him, on the bridge of his nose. He staggered backwards and sank down onto his knees, blood spurting from his nostrils, his face a mask of confusion. Instantly, she lashed out as
hard as she could with her right foot, the pointed toe of her Louboutin catching him beneath his chin, snapping his head sharply up and shooting a loud grunt from deep inside his throat.
His eyes stared, unfocused for an instant, then closed. He fell backwards and lay still.
Shaking, aware she had drunk far too much, she staggered forward and looked down at him. He was out of it, but still breathing. Blood streamed down his cheeks from his busted nose and onto the
carpet. She grabbed her clutch bag from the sofa, rubbed her head which hurt and, glancing at him again, walked quickly over to the door.
Then she stopped, realizing the opportunity she now had. She turned and went through the double doors he had gone through some minutes earlier, into a large bedroom with a walk-in closet leading
off it. She peered around in search of his wallet. There was an open, partially unpacked suitcase on a metal and leather stand close to the bed. She rummaged through it and at the bottom found
another plastic bag full of white powder. It was sealed shut.
Her nerves jangling, she looked over her shoulder.
Might as well take it
, she decided, and put it into her clutch bag. Then – and she had no idea what made her do it – she
dropped to her knees, lifted the vallance of the bed and peered under it.
And saw a large Louis Vuitton suitcase.
She ran back to the doorway. Romeo was still totally out of it. She returned to the bed, pulled out the case, popped the two catches and lifted the lid.
Despite her drunken state, she began to shake with excitement.
It was packed with bundles of new $100 bills wrapped with paper bands.
Shit!
She looked over her shoulder again, closed the lid, snapped the catches shut, then picked up the case and went back cautiously to the doorway.
The Romanian hadn’t moved.
She glanced at the opened bag of cocaine on the table, tempted to take that too. But he had slit it open messily and some of the powder had spilled onto the table and floor. She let herself out
of the door as silently as possible and closed it behind her, then gripping the case tightly, sprinted along the deserted corridor towards the fire exit sign. She hurried, stumbling, down the bare
concrete steps for ten floors until she saw the number on the door of her own floor.
42.
She pushed the fire door open. The corridor was empty. Stepping out, she strode along it as nonchalantly as she could.
Moments later, safely back in her suite, she switched on the lights, closed the door and slipped on the safety chain.
Her heart was hammering, her brain racing.
Music was playing on the television and the curtains were drawn. She looked around warily, her nerves all over the place. The turn-down service had been, she realized.
Hurriedly, she put the
her.
Then, without warning, he grabbed the straw from her and sucked up another line, followed by another. Shouting out ‘Whooohaaaaa!’ he hauled her to her feet and began kissing her
wildly. So wildly it alarmed her.
She tried to back off. ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘Hey! Gentle, OK?’
‘Don’t
gentle
me. I know what bitches like you want!’ His voice was slurred. ‘You like it rough, yes?’
‘No.’
He pushed up her skirt and fumbled for her underwear.
‘Hey!’
He shoved her back, violently. She stumbled and crashed into the wall. He was pressing himself against her, pulling her knickers down.
‘Stop!’ she said, increasingly frightened by his sudden mood switch.
He was grinning demonically now, his eyes glazed with alcohol and the drug. ‘You want it, bitch. You want me to fuck you hard, don’t you? You like it rough.’
With one hand he held her against the wall. With the other, he was unbuckling his belt. His eyes were crazed, he was scaring her.
She headbutted him, on the bridge of his nose. He staggered backwards and sank down onto his knees, blood spurting from his nostrils, his face a mask of confusion. Instantly, she lashed out as
hard as she could with her right foot, the pointed toe of her Louboutin catching him beneath his chin, snapping his head sharply up and shooting a loud grunt from deep inside his throat.
His eyes stared, unfocused for an instant, then closed. He fell backwards and lay still.
Shaking, aware she had drunk far too much, she staggered forward and looked down at him. He was out of it, but still breathing. Blood streamed down his cheeks from his busted nose and onto the
carpet. She grabbed her clutch bag from the sofa, rubbed her head which hurt and, glancing at him again, walked quickly over to the door.
Then she stopped, realizing the opportunity she now had. She turned and went through the double doors he had gone through some minutes earlier, into a large bedroom with a walk-in closet leading
off it. She peered around in search of his wallet. There was an open, partially unpacked suitcase on a metal and leather stand close to the bed. She rummaged through it and at the bottom found
another plastic bag full of white powder. It was sealed shut.
Her nerves jangling, she looked over her shoulder.
Might as well take it
, she decided, and put it into her clutch bag. Then – and she had no idea what made her do it – she
dropped to her knees, lifted the vallance of the bed and peered under it.
And saw a large Louis Vuitton suitcase.
She ran back to the doorway. Romeo was still totally out of it. She returned to the bed, pulled out the case, popped the two catches and lifted the lid.
Despite her drunken state, she began to shake with excitement.
It was packed with bundles of new $100 bills wrapped with paper bands.
Shit!
She looked over her shoulder again, closed the lid, snapped the catches shut, then picked up the case and went back cautiously to the doorway.
The Romanian hadn’t moved.
She glanced at the opened bag of cocaine on the table, tempted to take that too. But he had slit it open messily and some of the powder had spilled onto the table and floor. She let herself out
of the door as silently as possible and closed it behind her, then gripping the case tightly, sprinted along the deserted corridor towards the fire exit sign. She hurried, stumbling, down the bare
concrete steps for ten floors until she saw the number on the door of her own floor.
42.
She pushed the fire door open. The corridor was empty. Stepping out, she strode along it as nonchalantly as she could.
Moments later, safely back in her suite, she switched on the lights, closed the door and slipped on the safety chain.
Her heart was hammering, her brain racing.
Music was playing on the television and the curtains were drawn. She looked around warily, her nerves all over the place. The turn-down service had been, she realized.
Hurriedly, she put the
Similar Books
