"How?"
She began trembling a little, and her voice wavered out of control. "The...the scars on my back. When he did that, his parents were in Europe; they weren't there to have files destroyed and witnesses bribed until it was too late. I already had a copy of everything, enough to press charges against him. I bought my divorce with it, and I made his parents promise to keep him away from me or I'd use what I had. They were very conscious of their position and family prestige."
"Screw their prestige," he said flatly, trying very hard to keep his rage under control.
"It's academic now; they're dead."
He didn't think it was much of a loss. People who cared more about their family prestige than about a young woman being brutally beaten and terrorized didn't amount to much in his opinion.
Silence stretched, and he realized she wasn't going to add anything else. If he let her, she'd leave it at that highly condensed and edited version, but he needed to know more. It hurt him in ways he'd never thought he could be hurt, but it was vital to him that he know all he could about her, or he would never be able to close the distance between them. He wanted to know where she went in her mind and why she wouldn't let him follow, what she was thinking, what had happened in the two years since her divorce.
He touched her back, caressing her with his fingertips. "Is this why you wouldn't go swimming?"
She stirred against his shoulder, her voice like gossamer wings in the darkness. "Yes. I know the scars aren't bad; they've faded a lot But in my mind they're still like they were... I was so scared someone would see them and ask how I got them."
"That's why you always put your nightgown back on after we'd made love."
She was silent, but he felt her nod.
"Why didn't you want me to know? I'm not exactly some stranger walking down the street."
No, he was her heart and her heartbreaker, the only man she'd ever loved, and therefore more important to her than anyone else in the world. She hadn't wanted him to know the ugliness that had been in her life. "I felt dirty," she whispered. "Ashamed."
"Good God!" he exploded, raising up on his elbow to lean over her. "Why? It wasn't your fault. You were the victim, not the villain."
"I know, but sometimes knowledge doesn't help. The feelings were still there."
He kissed her, long and slow and hot, loving her with his tongue and letting her know how much he desired her. He kissed her until she responded, lifting her arms up to his neck and giving him her tongue in return. Then he settled onto the pillow again, cradling her head on his shoulder. She was nude; he had gently but firmly refused to let her put on a gown. That secret wasn't between them any longer, and she was glad. She loved the feel of his warm, hard-muscled body against her bare skin.
He was still brooding, unable to leave it alone. She felt his tension and slowly ran her hand over his chest, feeling the curly hair and small round nipples with their tiny center points. "Relax," she murmured, kissing his shoulder. "It's over."
"You said his parents controlled him, but they're dead. Has he bothered you since?"
She shivered, remembering the phone calls she'd had from Roger. "He called me a couple of times, at the house. I haven't seen him. I hope I never have to see him again." The last sentence was full of desperate sincerity.
"At the house? Your house? How long ago?"
"Before you brought me here."
"I'd like to meet him," John said quietly, menacingly.
"I hope you never do. He's...not sane."
They lay together, the warm, humid night wrapped around them, and she began to feel sleepy. Then he touched her again, and she felt the raw anger in him, the savage need to know. "What did he use?"
She flinched away from him. Swearing softly, he caught her close. "Tell me."
"There's no point in it."
"I want to know."
"You already know." Tears stung her eyes. "It isn't original."
"A belt."
Her breath caught in her throat. "He...he wrapped the leather end around his hand."
John actually snarled, his big body jerking. He thought of a belt buckle cutting into her soft skin, and it made him sick. It made him murderous. More than ever, he wanted to get his hands on Roger Beckman.
He felt her hands on him, clinging. "Please," she whispered. "Let's go to sleep." He wanted to know one more thing, something that struck him as odd. "Why didn't you tell your dad? He had a lot of contacts; he could have done something. You didn't have to try to protect him."
Her laugh was soft and faintly bitter, not really a laugh at all. "I did tell him. He didn't believe me. It was easier for him to think I'd made it all up than to admit my life had gone so wrong."
She didn't tell him that she'd never loved Roger, that her life had gone wrong because she'd married one man while loving another.
Chapter Ten
"Telephone, Michelle!" Edie called from the kitchen.
Michelle had just come in, and she was on her way upstairs to shower; she detoured into the office to take the call there. Her mind was on her cattle; they were in prime condition, and John had arranged the sale. She would soon be leaving the ranks of the officially broke and entering those of the merely needy. John had scowled when she'd told him that.
"Hello," she said absently.
Silence.
The familiar chill went down her spine. "Hello!" she almost yelled, her fingers turning white from pressure.
"Michelle."
Her name was almost whispered, but she heard it, recognized it. "No," she said, swallowing convulsively. "Don't call me again."