Dead Bled Ringer

Chapter 1

Chapter One

ANGELISE

I was curled up on the couch watching true crime documentaries when I heard a motorcycle rev in the distance.

Why was I so obsessed with these? Was it because even though my husband was a chronic cheater and workaholic, at least he wasn’t, like, a psychopath?

My husband provides a good life for me, I reminded myself gloomily.

Henry Santerre was the CEO of a very successful family business and had given me everything.

This massively chic and modern house in the best neighborhood in town. Numerous expensive overseas trips every year. An unlimited spending account for jewelry or clothing. Any luxury I could ever imagine.

I was 32 years old and I’d been a pampered housewife for seven years. I’d never had to lift a finger since my wedding day. Never worked a day since marrying this man.

But.

I wasn’t the only woman my husband had eyes for.

The lacy panties that weren’t mine in the glove compartment.

The earring that wasn’t mine behind our headboard.

The bitten lips when I went to the company Christmas party. The eyes that shone as they lusted for my tall, dark-haired, handsome husband.

Their eyes said fuck me again.

Then there were all the pitying glances from my friends.

Because everyone knew Henry was a serial cheater. Whenever I caught him, he’d stop. For a while. Then there would be a new secretary in the building. A hot bartender at a work event. A married woman in his spin class.

And it would begin again, me trying to ignore the signs, deep in denial, hoping against hope that he would change, until I couldn’t ignore it and I’d be forced to confront the shameful, humiliating evidence.

These aren’t my panties, Henry.

Whose are they?

And so it went.

Over and over.

And over.

I put my glass of wine down on the side table as the noisy motorcycle drew closer, breaking through my brooding thoughts.

Whoever was on that bike was big, a dark body wreathed in shadow.

Motorcycles didn’t ever come down this street, and a shiver of fear went through me.

After all, I was home alone and it was almost midnight.

Henry was working late again. A merger. Something that was going to mean a lot of money for Santerre, Inc. That’s what he was doing instead of working on our marriage like the therapist had told us to do.

The motorcycle passed by, and my ears strained to hear it leave. It had passed by the house and gone down the next street. Hadn’t it? My fingers with the pretty pink fingernails tightened on the sofa cushion as the grandfather clock ticked the seconds out slowly.

Tick

Tick

Tick

My nails were done, my golden blonde curls a lush fall down my back, my skin singing with nightly diamond cream, the luxurious feeling of my silky pajamas soft against my skin.

I was a pampered, wealthy housewife, but I was still here at midnight in my massive home without my husband.

There was a flicker of movement in the backyard, beyond those big French doors.

But the motion detectors didn't turn on.

For a moment I was frozen, hands clutching the sofa.

The motion detector must be broken.

That’s all this was.

Then I saw it again. Another flicker, another shadowy movement.

And then through the glass, I saw him.

The rider from the motorcycle. And if he had any innocent reason for being at my back door, he wouldn’t be dressed all in black—black leather jacket, black jeans, big black boots, with a ski mask over his face.

I stumbled up and across the room.

My phone was plugged in on the table, but could I get to it in time. . .

Ripping desperately at the cord, I whirled around as the French doors exploded in a million splinters of glass.

And for a moment, I was scared absolutely shitless at the hulking dark figure who stepped into my house, crunching through the shards of glass with massive shitkicker boots. He was at least 6’5 with broad shoulders and powerful arms.

And then those dark eyes met mine through the ski mask. One a deep, rich chestnut color, and the other an unusual amber, with swirls of gold and copper. My spine instantly relaxed.

It was my husband

He had come after all!

When the therapist suggested spicing up our sex life, Henry had scoffed at the suggestion that we do more role-playing.

And then he said he was too busy with the merger and would be home late all week.

But for once I had put my foot down.

For once, I had said the d word.

Divorce

The fact that he was here meant he really cared. Our marriage was salvageable after all!

Excitement sliced through me and I turned and ran.

I shot down the hallway and into the kitchen, already feeling my nipples tightening with excitement at the crunching sounds behind me as he gave chase.

Skittering under a long table, I crawled beneath the tablecloth and waited, my heart pounding.

Then I heard steps in the kitchen, slow and deliberate.

My thighs were trembling and I squeezed them together as I curled into a little ball, making sure my pink toes weren’t peeking out, hardly daring to breathe.

He walked with heavy steps across the beautiful tiled floors, dragging something all across my marble countertops.

A knife

“You better come out, little girl,” my husband growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble that I’d never heard before. “There’s no point in hiding from me. I’ve been watching you through the windows. Stalking you for a while.”

I trembled with excitement.

It felt so special to be called little girl.

Especially after the pounds I’d gained over the years. But maybe he’d finally realized after weeks of couples therapy that it didn’t help our relationship to remind me that I needed to eat healthier, that I had gained weight, that I wasn’t the 120 pound perfect doll wife he had married.

My breath caught as Henry made his way to the other end of the room.

Should I make a run for it?

I breathed in and out carefully, trying to make no noise at all, but hoping my wildly pounding heart couldn’t be heard in the stillness of the dark kitchen.

He started to go down the hallway, and I couldn’t help a wriggle of excitement that maybe I had fooled him.

Then suddenly through the fine damask fabric, I saw my husband’s massive body pause and he turned slowly around. Even through the ski mask, I could swear I knew the expression on his face—eyes narrowed, the harsh lines of his mouth and jaw tightened in concentration.

Henry began to stalk toward me as I tried to scramble backwards, heart pounding and slick wetness soaking my panties.

Then he bent down, the leather of his jacket creaking as he stooped to my level.

And he pounced.

I shrieked as Henry struck like a snake, his big hands biting down on my thigh. He dragged me out by one leg and put both booted feet on either side of my waist as he stared down at me.

He squeezed together, the hard boots digging into the soft skin of my hips.

“Get your goddamn pants down,” my husband growled in a low, menacing tone, and my skin crawled with excitement.

When had he ever used that tone on me? I fucking loved it.

The therapist had said to really commit to playing the part. Even though a few days ago my husband rolled his eyes at the idea of playing out my fantasies, now I could tell that he had been listening way more than I thought he had been, because it was like he was fulfilling my every dream.

“Noooo,” I squeaked, following the script I’d hesitantly laid out with the therapist. “I don’t want to have sex with you!”

I wriggled around, trying to get on my stomach so I could escape him.

Even as I twisted sideways, I hated that my mind automatically went to wondering if my ass looked way too big and jiggly in the silk pajama bottoms, but him grabbing a handful of my curls and yanking made me forget.

“You’ll do what I want,” my husband hissed, and I heard the flick of a knife behind me.

“OK, Henry,” I yelped, “that’s too rough.”

But he only reached down and smacked my ass.

All right, if he was going to be like that. . .

I twisted harshly, even though it burned my stomach, and kicked out at him, my toe just barely managing to brush his heavy balls, but the momentary surprise was enough for me to wriggle out and then scramble away.

I hoped he wouldn’t chase me too fast, because I was enjoying this more than anything we’d ever done.

Panting, I raced for the door to the backyard and flung it open, stumbling down the steps and into the dark night.

But he was so fast, right fucking behind me, and I had to fly across the yard, looking desperately for a place to hide or a weapon, and I was so aroused I wasn’t thinking straight, so thrilled my husband was playing with me just how I wanted.

Finally I was all the way at the other end, and all I saw was a rake on the side of Henry’s big work shed. He had originally made it so he could do woodworking, but it was rarely used.

I swung the rake, connecting with my husband’s shoulder.

He hissed in displeasure.

“Stop that! You are going to hurt yourself.”

“Come stop me then!” I taunted, gripping the rake firmly in my hands.

How long would Henry play with me?

He was such an impatient, cold man, but now his eyes seemed to spark fire at me.

“Angelise.”

The way he said my full name in that deep, gravelly voice, had my skin tingling with excitement.

I swung the rake again, but this time he caught it, ripping it from my hands and breaking it across his knee with a thrilling snap.

My panties were so soaked with heat it was dripping down my legs, and I gasped in shock.

“Get away from me!” I cried in delight, but he only flicked open a sharp knife that glistened in the moonlight.

“Open that door and get in the shed,” he ordered. “Or I’ll slash that pretty little throat of yours.”

I hadn’t been this turned on in a long time as I fumbled for the door and pulled it open.

The shed smelled like clean soap and wood shavings, and I only made it one step in when I felt a prick at the back of my throat and the cold steel of his knife.

“I’m going to fuck this pussy so shut up and take my cock.”