The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

Padding barefoot across the wooden floor, I stopped when I reached the threshold of the guestroom.

There was someone sitting on the edge of my bed.

I jumped backward, resisting the urge to yelp and draw attention.

Frank.

Turning back on my heel, I raced down the stairway, heading back to the landing to fetch the gun inside my bag. He grabbed me around my shoulders and pulled me back. My feet were up in the air. My back slammed against his chest. He wrapped an arm around my neck in a chokehold and squeezed, cutting off my air supply. My fingers dug into his arm, clawing to get him to let go. I tried to scream, but all my mouth produced was a low, pained hiss.

Baby Whitehall, I thought frantically. I have to save my baby.

Putting my Krav Maga lessons to good use, I reached behind to try and get ahold of his opposite arm, but he was quicker, gathering my hands and squeezing them together behind my back.

“I don’t think so. You ruined my life. It’s high time I ruin yours.”

His breath skated over the side of my neck. It reeked of tobacco and sugary soda. I tried to sink my teeth into his arm, but he pulled back quickly, readjusting his grip on my neck with one arm and cradling my pregnant belly in the other.

“Shhh.” His teeth grazed the shell of my ear. “Don’t make me do something I’ll regret.”

And then I felt it.

The cold, sharp metal grazing the bottom of my belly.

I froze like a statue. Closed my eyes, the air rattling in my lungs.

He was going to give me a premature C-section if I didn’t do as he said.

Baby Whitehall fluttered in my belly excitedly, awake and aware of the commotion.

I’m sorry, Baby Whitehall. I’m so, so, so sorry.

“Are you going to be a good girl?” Frank’s breath fanned against the side of my neck.

I nodded, the bitter taste of bile exploding in my mouth. My mother wasn’t due to be home for another two hours, and Dad could spend the entire day at the lake. Persy wouldn’t drop by without letting us know first.

I was officially, completely, and royally screwed.

“Now we’re talking.” Frank shoved me forward, making me stumble down the first stair. We went down the stairs silently, my knees bumping together with fear. He sat me down in front of the fireplace, grabbed a roll of heavy-duty tape from the back of his jeans, and taped my wrists and feet so I was immobile on the couch. He ripped the shirt off of my body, the fabric slicing through my skin, leaving red marks in its wake. I was wearing nothing but my underwear and bra.

“Stay here.” He wiggled his index finger in my face then proceeded to stomp around the house, barricading the doors. He didn’t have to do more than push a few chairs against the front and backyard doors. Dad had a the-enemy-is-upon-us mentality and made the house World War proof.

I knew there was no way in and no way out of this place without dismantling him first.

Frank tossed the keys I’d used to double-lock the door into his pocket, moving toward one of the windows, rapping it with his knuckles.

“Triple-glazed.” He whistled, raising his eyebrows and nodding at me approvingly. “Nicely done, John Penrose. Those are expensive as fuck.”

He knew my dad’s name. I bet the bastard knew a lot about my life since he’d found out I was here.

I scanned my surroundings. It was time to get creative. The only way out for me was through the central air duct work. It was big enough for me to fit, but I’d still have to tear down the vent, which was basically impossible, since my hands and legs were bound.

Frank’s eyes traveled to the same air vent I was looking at. He chuckled. “Don’t even think about it. Now let’s talk.”

He strode to the recliner opposite from the couch I was sitting on and took a seat. By the open Dorito bags and cracked soda cans littering the coffee table, I gathered he’d made himself at home before my arrival.

If nothing else, at least now I knew who was responsible for making my life a living hell for the past few months.

I was waiting for Jesus to come to me and tell me “Now’s not your time, child,” because all other indicators pretty much pointed to my early and tragic demise.

Ugh. Getting offed by a disgruntled ex-employee was such an embarrassing way to die.

“How can I help you, Frank?” I asked, businesslike, which was hard, considering the circumstances.

Baby Whitehall fluttered like crazy in my stomach, and I thought, with a mixture of devastation and exhilaration, how much I wanted this to continue. The flutter. The kicks. And what came after. For the first time in my life, I had something to fight for.