Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

She tried to move, to roll away, but her muscles were sluggish, wouldn’t respond. Pain jolted down her shoulder and her gaze was fastened on the bright spot of light.

“I asked you a question.”

He sounded irritated. Good. So was she. “How do you think I feel?”

“Not your best.”

“Like I was in a damned accident that could have been prevented if some jerk-wad hadn’t shot out my tire.” She was glaring up at him, trying to focus, un-78 Lisa Jackson

able to make out his features, the small light ruining her ability to focus. “Who the hell are you?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Let me guess. Not St. Peter, right? We’re not at the pearly gates. And where are my clothes?”

He snorted, but she caught a glimpse of white, a glint from his teeth as if he found her amusing.

“Definitely not St. Peter. And no, I wouldn’t think this was the way to salvation.” There was a smile in his voice. “You’ll get your clothes back.”

“When?”

“When I decide.”

His way of keeping her humble and vulnerable, to make her lie naked and alone in the dark, but she wasn’t going to buckle to that kind of psychological blackmail. “Why did you bring me here?”

“To help you.”

“You fired the damned shot! I wouldn’t call that help.” She was agitated, fear juicing up her aggression. He ran the penlight down the length of her body, again humiliating her, stopping at her breasts where her damned nipples were rock hard from the cold. She heard him suck in his breath and she thought she might be sick.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Regan.” He said it as if he meant it.

“And you’re a damned freak!”

As if he didn’t hear her, he said, “Well-sculpted face, high cheekbones, and a strong chin. And long legs . . . nice breasts with dark nipples . . . flat stomach despite bearing two babies.”

He knew about her kids? Terror swept through her. She wanted to snap at him to leave her children out of it, but she didn’t dare show her Achilles’

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heel, couldn’t let him know that her entire life centered around her kids. Instinctively she knew that if she gave him even the tiniest bit of insight as to how to really terrorize her, Jeremy and Bianca would end up here, imprisoned by him. Fear turned her throat to dust.

“And that boyfriend of yours, the drifter.”

What?

“Does Santana appreciate you? Treat you well?”

Her stomach dropped. How much about her did this animal know?

“Or is he just around for a quick roll in the hay, a hot fuck?” He said it all in a harsh, unrecognizable whisper. As if he thought she might be able to make out his identity. “I bet you’re a hot one, aren’t you? That you like it when some good-looking loser tries to get into your pants. Is that right? You enjoy the ride?”

“You’re sick.”

“Sick?” That seemed to bother him. “You won’t think so for long.”

What she wouldn’t do for a weapon of some kind, a gun or knife or even a baseball bat or nightstick, anything. Weak as she was, she’d haul off and whack him and send his black soul straight to hell. But there was no weapon and she was in no shape to attack anyone, and the beam of his light slid lower on her body, like a laser, trailing a path to the juncture of her legs where the beam paused, illuminating the reddish hair that curled there and feeling as if it burned a hole through her skin.