Chapter 3
AMY
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I stumble on the mat outside my front door and clutch the door handle in an attempt to regain my balance.
“One too many Dom Pedros for you,” says an amused voice behind me. Darren’s voice. Oh, yes, he’d followed me home.
I don’t normally indulge in Dom Pedros. Too many calories, all that ice cream and whiskey, but I needed some liquid help to survive Darren’s post-movie analysis. Why can’t people watch a movie without feeling compelled to dissect it for hours afterward?
He moves closer, his breath hot on my neck. “Hmm, your hair smells nice.”
“Thanks.” I angle my head away from the blast of popcorn-flavored breath. Why did I invite him back to my place? What was I thinking? “Where are my keys?” I mutter, scrounging in my handbag.
“Need any help?” Darren asks.
“I got it.” I attempt to insert the front door key into the lock.
Darren stretches out his hand as if to take the key from me.
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Is this your house?”
He drops his hand. “Just trying to be the gentleman.”
“Don’t pout,” I admonish him, suppressing a sigh. “Perhaps I don’t feel like being a lady right now.”
He smiles, appeased, and I think how malleable most men are. How boring. “Coffee?” I ask, stepping into the entrance hall.
Darren follows me inside. “Yes, please.”
“Help yourself.” I wave a hand in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ll have chamomile tea. No milk, no sugar.”
Darren wanders into my kitchen, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Must be my helpful nature.”
I slide onto a bar stool and watch him open and close cupboard doors, looking for mugs.
I toy with offering him some directional tips but decide it’s more fun this way.
This is Darren’s first time in my house and it’s looking to be his last. The red roses on Friday were the clincher.
I expected more creativity from a whitewater rafting guide, but it appears the package only has room for a tanned, muscled body and an easy-going, flirtatious air.
Although Darren is harmless, I’m feeling moody and restless. Such a pity the warm Dom Pedro glow is wearing off.
While Darren fills the kettle with water, he launches into a lengthy monologue on last weekend’s rafting expedition, flashing me multiple grins as he elaborates on class fives and monster hydraulics.
I have no idea what he’s going on about, but I notice his dentist has done a far better bleaching job than mine.
I must get the name from him, I think absently.
“I’m going to freshen up,” I interrupt, handing Darren an assortment of cookies on a serving platter in the hope that chewing will take priority over talking.
I head toward the staircase, intending to use my en-suite bathroom to do the necessaries.
The staircase is my home’s showpiece. It serves not only an aesthetic purpose, but also a practical one—it keeps away all acquaintances with small children.
But now, confronted with the steeply spiraling steps, I look at my killer heels and decide instead to use the guest bathroom downstairs.
There’s no way I want to risk falling down the stairs and giving River Man an excuse to show off his CPR skills.
After using the toilet, I wash my hands and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I look and feel tired. Tired of pretending.
Tired of men wanting to mold my chairs to their shape.
Trying to stoke up some enthusiasm, I make my way back to Darren.
He’s sprawled on my leather couch, cup in hand, chomping a cookie and looking irritatingly at home.
Spotting me, he pats the seat next to him.
I ignore the invitation and settle on the opposite couch.
“You look stunning,” he says, his gaze lingering on my face.
“Thank you.”
“Your tea okay?” he asks after I take a sip.
“A little cold,” I admit. “It needs heating up.”
Darren doesn’t volunteer to do it. I’m impressed. At least there are some hoops he won’t jump through.
“So how about it?” he asks.
“How about what?”
“You want to go river rafting next weekend with me?”
I shoot him a horrified glance. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“You haven’t given it a try.”
“For obvious reasons.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“Skiing in Austria is fun. Getting bashed around on some rocks is not.”
Darren frowns. “This is my job, Amy. You realize I’m away nearly every weekend?”
“Enjoy,” I say dismissively.
“This weekend is an exception.”
“Lucky me.”
The frown deepens. Leaning forward, he begins explaining to me the ins and outs of gallivanting down a river, as if earnestly presented facts will win me over.
When he starts likening the whole thing to a pilgrimage, I cut the conversation short by setting down my cup with a decisive click. “Thanks for the tea.”
He catches the hint and subsides into silence. I try to smother a yawn, but he notices the attempt and gestures to my cup. “Doesn’t chamomile tea make you sleepy?”
“No, darling, your conversation will do that.”
In the process of reaching for another cookie, his hand halts midway and he looks at me. Really looks at me. All playful pretensions are dropped. I shift uncomfortably.
Quietly, he says, “You know, Amy, one day you’ll meet someone who won’t be cowed by your looks or your father.”
Anger flares at the mention of my father, making it easier to ignore the barb of guilt pricking me. “Leave my father out of this.”
“Why? No one measure up to him?”
“Certainly not you,” I reply coldly.
“Not anyone, I bet.” He stands, shoving his feet into the loafers he slipped off. “The trouble with you, Amy, is that you’re too much hard work.”
“And you’re not willing to put in the effort?”
“Not when the prize is so over-valued.”
I’m so taken aback by his statement I find myself unable to respond.
“I’m out of here,” Darren announces, stalking past me.
I hurry after him, reluctant to let our time together end like this, but I’m still smarting from his comment about my dad. “Darren, wait—”
He yanks open my front door. “Goodbye, Amy. Good luck in finding someone else you can use for target practice.”
“Wait!” I yell at his rapidly retreating back. “Who’s your dentist?”
Turning around, he shoots me a disbelieving look, then he climbs into a fashionably battered Land Cruiser and roars out of my driveway.
I shut and lock my front door, then rest my back against it, closing my eyes.
Well done, Amy. Another evening at home alone.
Guilt stabs me. I’m not usually that nasty. Pushing away from the door, I drift toward the stairs. How many times is this pattern going to repeat itself? Who am I really punishing here?
I wander into my bedroom, unbuttoning my blouse as I go. Abruptly, I stop.
A man is standing in my bedroom. A tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a black ski mask, golf shirt, and chinos.
I stand frozen, my fingers still circling a button on my blouse, my mind failing to comprehend the incongruous fact of a stranger in my room.
Then I see the gloves covering his hands. And the syringe he’s holding.
Shock leaves me dazed.
No, not me, no, please not me.
His voice, when he speaks, is soft. “Don’t bother to run.”
No, I won’t run. I’ve never been a runner. This intruder, however, looks like he can manage a strong sprint. He’s already rocking lightly on the balls of his feet, prepared to counteract any move I make. The trouble is, I don’t know any moves.
I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with air, as if that will prop up my courage. “My purse is downstairs. I don’t have much cash, but you can take my credit card.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“I have jewelry—”
“Not interested.”
“My car. The keys to my car are hanging on a hook in the kitchen.”
“Good to know.”
“You can take whatever you want,” I whisper.
“Oh, I will.”
The syringe. He’s going to jab me with it. Dread skims down my spine as I imagine what’s swimming in that liquid.
“What do you want?” I force myself to croak out.
“You, of course.”
It’s the answer I already guessed. One that chokes me with its terrifying implications. I spin around and bolt for the open doorway.
He’s on me in a second. I fight him furiously, relying on luck rather than skill in my effort to escape him. A litany of warnings pushes through the panic in my head. Don’t let him get you on the floor. Don’t let him knock you unconscious. Don’t stop fighting.
A desperate kick to his shin earns me the satisfaction of a pained grunt, but in a humiliatingly short time he has my arms pinned behind my back as he holds me tight against his chest.
“Calm down, or I’ll land up hurting you.”
I open my mouth to yell, but the intruder hooks his leg behind my ankle and flips me onto my back. I land on the carpet with a thud that knocks the breath from me. Before I can recover from the shock, he’s kneeling over me, his legs trapping my arms at my sides.
I stare up at the covered face looming above me. It requires immense effort not to avert my gaze from the coldness in those gray eyes. “Please don’t do this, please let me go.”
“It’s too late for that.” He holds up the syringe. “You have your father to thank for this.”
Confusion washes over me. My father?
“This will hurt.” There’s no apology in his curt statement, and I cry out when he stabs the needle in my arm.
I try to fight the blackness wrapping around me, but whatever he’s injected into me is too strong. My eyelids grow heavy, my body limp. I’m dimly aware of the stranger lifting me up and carrying me away in his arms.