Gemma suspected Delia Rothesay engaged in the costly habit of age reversal and, along with her manicured nails and gold jewellery, she spent time and money on her glamorous looks. Red faced and teeth clenched, the woman fumed on her spot in the middle of the room.

The black eyes glared at the intruders. “What the fuck are you people doing in my house?” she snarled.

Chapter 27. Extraction

Three tall, muscular men surrounded Delia Rothesay. Even the lithe figure of Emma Gibson threatened with her hidden martial arts skills. Gemma, a supposedly soft target, straightened her back and found the courage to try to look menacing. Panic descended over Rothesay’s face. She had nowhere to run.

“Where is Emily?” snapped Jason, moving closer to the Rothesay, who started to perspire through the layers of foundation.

Rothesay gawped in feigned surprise. She bluffed with an edgy voice. “Emily? Who the fuck is Emily?”

The pressure around Rothesay closed in, and she shuffled backwards towards the fireplace. Reaching out a trembling hand, she grasped the mantelpiece.

“Search the house. Find her. Find the photos, anything incriminating,” Jason told Johnson and Gibson.

The two ex-police officers set about searching the house with quiet, determined efficiency and with minimal damage. Gemma remained close to Jason, within arm’s reach. He surveyed the room. Looking for clues about her blackmailer. Adrenaline bursts piled on top of each other in rapid succession. She wasn’t afraid. She realised it was excitement that kept her there. The need for vengeance.

Rothesay glared at her. “You! The whore at the dance school. You came, then. You should have come alone! You’ll fucking regret this!” Her voice wavered, in contrast to her threatening words.

Gemma feared Jason might strike the woman. His fists clenched at his sides, and a display of red-faced anger flashed across his cheeks. He kept himself between Gemma and her antagonist. His restraint pleased her. If anything, she wanted to give Rothesay a good slap about her face.

“I think we’ve heard enough of your hollow threats, Rothesay,” Jason took out the gag and handcuffs.

Rothesay shrank in stature, and she backed away from Jason. With Martinson’s help and Jason’s strong arms, it didn’t take long to restrain the repulsive woman. Wrists handcuffed behind her back and mouth stuffed with a ball gag. She started to drool with the effort of trying to cry out. Seeing Jason aggressively

bind another person alarmed Gemma. The speed at which he accomplished the containment and pinned the woman’s crumpled body on the floor was somewhat brutal.

Jason arranged himself in the armchair, legs crossed and face once again impassive. Binding the woman gave him control of the situation. Around the house were the sounds of Gibson and Johnson searching, ransacking the property. Johnson returned to the room, unperturbed by the sight of Rothesay handcuffed and gagged.

“Sir. There appears to be a cellar. The door is locked.”

“Check her handbag and pockets.” Jason waved at Rothesay.

Martinson rifled through a handbag, which had been found on a sideboard, and pulled out a plain key attached to a ring.

Johnson took the ring. A few minutes later, he returned.

“You’d better see this, sir.”

“Stay here with Martinson,” Jason told Gemma.

She remembered not to speak. Tempting as it was to kick and yell at the woman, she kept her cool and gave him a nod. When Jason returned, the look on his face perplexed Gemma. He seemed almost uncertain and disconcerted.

“Emily is back there, in the kitchen” he said to Gemma, waving a thumb over his shoulder. “Go speak to her. There are still photographs to find.”

The pristine kitchen, its dimensions small in comparison to Gemma’s own gigantic ones, had a modern design with a small dining area. There were no pictures on the plain, lime-green walls, nothing to personalise the room except the presence of a few childish drawings stuck to the fridge with magnets. The daughter’s, probably. Given the noises above them, Johnson had returned to searching the house. Emily sat at the small table and nearby, her arms folded across her chest, hovered the watchful Gibson.

“She was locked in the cellar, Mrs Lucas,” explained Gibson.

A prisoner? “The cellar,” said Gemma. “Why?”

“It’s a studio—a photography studio. Rather small and pokey, with the remnants of a darkroom.”

She turned to the pale woman, who tugged on an earlobe, staring at the table. “Emily,” said Gemma. “You do remember me?”

“Of course,” muttered Emily without looking up. “Who are these other people?”

“My husband’s employees.” She gave away nothing else.

Tags: Jaye Peaches Erotic
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