Merlin sat up, put his head in her lap, and whined some more. Evangeline gave in. “That’s all right, boy. We’ll wait until he threatens me again. Then you’ll get him.”
“I don’t think so,” Bishop said. Somehow he’d managed to unearth the plates she’d brought with her, and a moment later he’d placed one in front of her, heaped with beans and vegetables and strips of what had to be pork if she knew the contents of her tiny freezer. It smelled divine, even in her current state of fury and something that was uncomfortably close to fear, but she knew if she took one bite, she’d throw up. She’d managed to get her hand beneath the cushion that covered the hinged seat in the back, but the handle of the fry pan wasn’t on top, and she couldn’t very well lean down and get it.
Or could she? He’d turned his back again, presumably to retrieve his half-empty beer, and she dove for the cabinet, yanking the frying pan out with a cry of triumph.
Except it was the smaller one of the set, big enough to fry a couple of eggs over a fire and not much more. She sat there, staring at it in dismay, and then looked up at Bishop.
He was leaning against the counter, perfectly relaxed as he watched her. “You don’t give up easily, do you, Angel?” he said, and the name hardened her resolve.
“I never give up,” she snapped. “And stop calling me that stupid name. You can call me Ms. Morrissey, or Professor Morrissey, or if you really must, Evangeline. I don’t like nicknames.”
“I’m afraid it’s Mrs. Bishop,” he corrected lightly. “And I’ll call you any damned thing I please. You’re forgetting I have the upper hand.”
She weighed the cast iron in her hand. Granted, it wasn’t quite the weapon a full-sized one would be, but she didn’t really want to crush his skull, just knock him out, and this was probably better suited to the task. It was damned heavy. “You don’t have any guns or knives,” she said smugly. “I could break your hand with this thing. Or your face.”
“You think a little thing like a broken hand would stop me?” His voice was soft, musing, at odds with his chilling words.
“Who are you?” she said. “What are you?”
He leaned forward, plucking the frying pan from her hand, twisting it so quickly that she cried out in pain, and shoved it into the cold oven. “You already called it, Angel. Your worst nightmare.”
She threw the plate at him.
He ducked, though the food went everywhere, and a moment later hauled her up from the banquette, his hands rough and impersonal. “I’ve had enough,” he muttered, manhandling her back toward the bed, and her panic increased until she remembered his earlier words. He wasn’t interested in her—he was hungry, not horny.
He shoved her face down on the mattress, putting his knee in the middle of her back, and her struggles were useless. He grabbed one hand, pulling it behind her, paired it with the other, and she heard a ripping sound. A moment later he was wrapping something around her wrists, and the more she struggled, the harder he pressed with his knee, so that she could scarcely breathe. “Merlin,” she tried to cry, but her face was pushed into the mattress and the sound of her voice was muffled beyond recognition.
He moved his knee and flipped her over, with the casual efficiency of a short-order cook flipping burgers. Then he grabbed her ankles, wrapping them as well with her cheerful Mickey Mouse–patterned duct tape. “You son of a bitch,” she spat at him.
“I haven’t decided whether to gag you or not,” he said, looking down at her. “Trust me, it’s even more unpleasant than having your hands and feet bound. It makes it hard to breathe, especially if you start crying.”
True outrage filled her. “I’m not going to cry.”
“Good. Then lie there and be quiet while I eat my dinner. I don’t remember when I last had a real meal, and I’m tired of you annoying me.”
He turned and headed back to the dinette, where he began to eat from the huge plate mounded with food in front of him.
Merlin was beside her, whining. He licked her face, her tear-free face, and made distressed noises, but he’d done nothing to help her.
“Merlin, eat.” Bishop said, and Merlin immediately turned away from her and began clearing up the food that was splattered all over the floor and walls.
Evangeline fell back on the bed, shaking with frustration and fear. The man she’d supposedly married, the lying, cheating bastard, had returned, a stranger now, with the wrong eyes, the wrong hair, the wrong everything.
It was growing dark in the cabin, but he’d turned on the wall lights at the dinette and was looking at a crumpled piece of paper.
Not hers, so she could only suppose it belonged to him.
He turned to glance at her through the gathering shadows. “I don’t suppose you get Internet out here?”
She didn’t answer, but simply turned her face away from him. She wasn’t going to speak to him again, not when everything he said was lies and more lies. She stared at him as he ate with calm efficiency, and fury burned within her.
Calm down, she told herself. Calm down and consider the situation and your alternatives. If you keep fighting him, he’ll overpower you. If you run, he’ll come after you. You need to be reasonable, to appear as if you’re going to cooperate. Otherwise he’ll just keep you trussed like a chicken. He even managed to mesmerize Merlin . . .
She looked up at him. “How did you know my dog’s name?”
Chapter Seven
It was a reasonable question, Bishop thought as he shoveled food into his face. It was a slip, but he was always good at fast responses. “His name is on his collar,” he said, pretending he wasn’t looking at her. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. Five years. Five endless years.