Storm's Cage by Mary Stone (uplifting novels .TXT) 📕

The fires of unbridled rage roared to life in his pale eyes. “Don’t try to flip this around on me. You came here.” He pointed to the floor for emphasis. “Why the hell would you have done that if you didn’t want me to fuck you?”

She held up a hand. “Excuse me, what? You practically told me to come over here!” Though she wanted her retort to be more articulate, her stress-addled brain was doing well just to keep up with the dialogue without succumbing to Joseph’s newest manipulative tactic.

He tilted his head back and let out a derisive chuckle. “No, no, I see what you did. I see what you’re doing.” He tapped his temple as his dangerous stare shifted back to her. “You know that I’m the only one who saw you blow Alton Dalessio away, so you figured you’d come over here and spread your legs for me to make sure I kept my story straight, isn’t that right?”

Amelia’s heart hammered against her ribs like the bass line to one of the angry metal songs that were always in Zane’s playlists. Her breath came in labored gasps, but she inhaled through her nose to hide the display of weakness. She could have a panic attack when she was out of this damn apartment. For now, she had to hold herself together.

Licking her dry lips, Amelia waited until she was sure her voice wouldn’t crack before she replied. “You’re full of shit. You know that’s not true.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? Because I was just fine being your work friend. You’re the one who came on to me, remember? You know what.” He pinned her with a vicious glare. “I’m starting to see who you really are, Storm. I see beneath that nice-girl façade you fool everyone else with. You didn’t kill Dalessio because you thought he was about to shoot you, did you? You killed him because you wanted him dead. Which, honestly, who didn’t? But you thought you’d hide behind your badge and get away with murder, didn’t you?”

Her blood turned to ice, and she froze mid-step.

Did she?

She remembered thinking of how Brian Kolthoff, known as The Shark, was living in the lap of luxury after he’d come within an inch of buying a sixteen-year-old sex slave. Of how Emilio Leóne, the prick who’d forced women to turn tricks in the street, had only been slapped with a nickel.

Maybe she had wanted Dalessio dead. Maybe Joseph was right.

When she swallowed, her tongue felt like sandpaper. “That’s not…I didn’t do—”

“Don’t lie to me. You’ve done enough of that already.” He scanned up and down her body. “I see what you really are now. If this is how you’re going to treat me, if you’re going to be a cock tease because you want to make sure I don’t rat you out, then maybe I ought to just tell the truth. Maybe I ought to tell SAC Keaton what really happened in that warehouse.”

Amelia’s feet were unsteady, but at least she was at the doorway. She glanced to the edge of the breakfast bar and then back to Joseph.

Reality slammed into her like a charging bull. This had never been a one-time ordeal. Not even two or three.

If she let him have this, have her, if she surrendered control to him now, she’d never find a way out from under his thumb. Sure, she could backpedal and assure him she wanted him, could drop down to her knees and beg for his forgiveness, but then he’d own her.

She’d rather spend the rest of her life in an eight-by-ten cell than grovel at Joseph Larson’s feet.

Even though she wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and disappear, she squared her shoulders. “Don’t bother. I’ll tell SAC Keaton myself.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and grabbed her handbag. Though she was prepared for Joseph to block her exit, he merely stood there with both arms crossed over his chest.

Amelia didn’t bother to offer him so much as a look. She stepped into her shoes, flung open the door, and took off for the elevator.

Joseph might have thought she was bluffing, but he’d be wrong.

One way or another, his control over her ended now.

28

Clenching and unclenching the fingers of one hand, Joseph squinted at the video display on his tablet.

Amelia had arrived at home two hours earlier, and she’d spent a full forty-five minutes in the shower. Most of that time had consisted of her standing with her head down as the water cascaded along her back, but he hadn’t missed the tinge of red in her eyes when she straightened.

He’d been so close. So damn close.

As he watched Amelia turn to face the cat that had just leapt onto her bed, he gritted his teeth and leaned back against the couch.

The night wasn’t over. He’d downed a couple fingers of bourbon after a visit to a nearby liquor store, but the buzz was receding. If he waited for Amelia to fall asleep, he could drive to her apartment, pick the lock, and have a knife to her throat before she even knew he was there.

His eyes drifted to the pillow beside her head.

A half hour ago, she’d stuffed a handgun under that pillow.

Amelia Storm was a combat veteran. He couldn’t forget that. Though she’d never specified, he was almost certain her time in the military had been spent working with Special Forces. Even snipers in the Special Forces knew how to fight.

If he carried out his plan to break in after she’d drifted off, there was a distinct possibility she’d snap awake at the sound of the deadbolt. In the unlikely event she didn’t, there was still no way he’d be able to separate her from the handgun she’d hidden.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he tilted his head to look at the exposed beams running the length of the ceiling.

He shouldn’t have let her go. He should have