Deadly Obsession (11 page)

Brayden paced outside her door, down the hallway and back.

He looked up and regarded the other men in the room. Aiden stared out the window, Quinlan poured another drink at the bar. The cops were on the couches.

A heavy silence cloaked everyone.

This couldn’t be happening. Not to her, not to Christian.

Morris filled them in. Aggravated attempted rape, from preliminary tests, with a deadly weapon. Then there were the drugs in her system. They’d have to wait on lab results to verify, but apparently Gabe had showed up before the bastard had ... had....

Brayden stopped, shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes. But the black images danced behind his eyelids.

Tied to the damn bed, like a fucking animal.

Rage and fury roared through him, beating him into a red haze. Blindly, he swung out and punched the wall. The sheetrock gave with a satisfying thud against his knuckles.

He bit down on his clawing temper and leaned his forehead against the wall.

He’d failed her. Him and his stupid twisted pride, his questioning sense of what was between them. He should have stayed in town. Should have driven by and picked her up. Should have made certain she was okay. While she was beaten and terrorized, he’d been playing with his daughter.

"Bray."

He opened his eyes, straightened and turned. Aiden had come away from the window, and stood not far away.

His gaze locked onto his brother’s. As if to no one in particular, he bit out, "I want this bastard found."

The message passed between them, unspoken yet heard. He saw Aiden’s barely discernible nod.

"Brayden," Aiden said, "he will be. I’m sure the police are doing everything they can."

The police. He looked over to the couch and nodded curtly to Morris.

"Bray, she needs you right now. She needs all of us, but you more than anyone. Don’t let your anger at this bastard scare her into a corner," Quinlan told him.

Why was it, the youngest was the most levelheaded? And Quin was right, but the anger and fury roared within Brayden. It wasn’t often he lost his temper. He’d learned early on that large males and tempers often gave the wrong impression. But, right now he wanted to rip something apart with his bare hands.

Preferably the man who had done this.

Sighing, he rubbed his hands over his face.

"You saw no one, Lieutenant?" Aiden asked Morris.

Morris, to give the man credit, seemed to care more than was professionally necessary. And thank God for that. If he hadn’t....

"Do you think I would be sitting here wanting to talk to her, make her go through it all again, if we had something to go on?" Morris answered, his voice steeled on the edge of anger.

Brayden looked at her door, then at his watch--over an hour. She’d been in there over an hour.

The phone rang.

"Mom," Quinlan said.

He hoped not. Brayden strode to the phone, and answered on the second ring, "Hello?"

"Did you find her?"

How the hell had Quinlan known? Brayden sighed and thought about what to say, what not to say.

He scratched his head. "Yeah, Mom, we-uh-yeah, we found her."

"Oh, thank God. Your father and I are worried sick. Becky said a Lieutenant Morris called here looking for you. Tori and Ryan were asking questions, and Gavin and Taylor are trying to keep us all calm. But I know," his mother’s voiced trailed off. "I know something happened. Tell me she’s okay."

Lie or truth? Closing his eyes, he did something he’d rarely done to his mother. He lied.

"She uh, she will be. There was a bit of an-an accident and...."

"Oh my God! What happened?"

Brayden bit down, ran his bottom lip between his teeth. Quickly he said, "We’re not really sure, Mom."

"We’ll be there...."

"No!" he all but yelled. Then more calmly, "No, we’ll be home later, she wants to come home," he said, not knowing if she did or not. "The police are still asking a few questions."

"The police?"

"Mom, please just stay there. We’re coming home as soon as this is all wrapped up."

She sighed on the other end and he knew she was trying to read what he’d said and what he hadn’t.

"Let me talk to Christian," she said.

He rolled his neck. "She’s in the shower. She had a few scrapes and bruises. When she gets out, there are some questions that need clearing up and then.... Then we’ll head out there."

"What kind of accident?" she carefully asked.

Hell.

"I-It... Oh, Mom, there’s someone at the door." He needed to get off.

Both Aiden and Quinlan knocked. One on a wall, the other on the bar. And a slight smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ll call you back in a bit. Bye, Mom."

With that, he hung up and puffed out a sigh.

"Grown men lying to their mother. Do you boys do this a lot?" Laurence asked.

"No," Aiden answered for them. "But for now, it served its purpose. Mother would worry and descend."

Silence settled again.

Brayden’s gaze landed on the bag from the downstairs boutique. Quinlan had run down and grabbed something. Brayden hadn’t wanted to leave the apartment. He walked to the bag and picked it up.

Maybe she was done and needed her clothes.

He looked back at the door. Was she all right? Well, no, but he was worried about her. At her door, he knocked. No one, nothing.

Again he knocked. "Christian?"

Still nothing, and his feeling that something was wrong grew.

This time he knocked harder.

"I could go in and check on her, if you want me to," Laurence volunteered, standing behind him.

He almost handed her the bag and agreed. But he didn’t. He needed to see Christian, see that she was all right.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the door and drew his master key out of his pocket. The family suites were designed so that the front door key could open any door in that apartment.

On a deep sigh, he slid the key across the lock and opened the door.

The bedroom was dim and silent. Carefully, he shut the door and set the bag on the bed.

"Christian?"

Silence greeted him, or almost silence. He could hear the hum of the built in heater in the bathroom and the spray of water.

He raised his fist to knock on the bathroom door then lowered it, shoving his hand into his pocket.

Perhaps she needed the time alone. But he’d left her alone before, stepped back, and look what he’d allowed to happen.

The water sprayed in a constant uninterrupted stream.

He frowned at the door, ran a hand through his hair.

If she were in the shower, wouldn’t he hear the change in the water?

Pausing, he raised his hand, then took a deep breath and knocked. "Christian?"

Nothing.

He tried the knob, it was locked.

"Baby, are you...." He trailed off. Of course she wasn’t okay. "Do you need anything?" he asked against the door.

Not a muted sound drifted from within.

He didn’t want to invade her privacy. One last time he tried knocking. "Your clothes are out here."

Still not a single sound.

He stared at the door, then turned to go, but stopped. She might hate him, but be damned, he had to know she was all right in there.

He pulled his key out again, unlocked the bathroom door, and pushed it open. "Chris..."

Thick hot steam rolled out, engulfing him. It was hotter than a sauna in here. The room was a muted wall of heated mist, most of it escaped out the open door.

"Christian?"

Still no answer. His heart slammed in his chest. The water ran ceaselessly. The bathroom was empty.

"Christian?" he asked louder, striding to the shower stall.

She wasn’t in there. Fear shot through him and he jerked the door open. Hot stinging spray splattered out on him.

She was curled on the bottom of the tiled floor. Mumbling a curse, he reached in through the scalding water and shut it off.

Her skin was bright pink and heated as he touched her.

She didn’t even flinch as he stepped into the shower and scooped her up against him.

"Oh, baby. Come on. It’s going to be all right. You’re safe now."

The heat and water from her soaked through his shirt. She slumped in his arms, boneless. Holding her close to him, he reached out and grabbed her robe hanging by the shower.

For a moment he looked around, then sat on the toilet, with Christian on his lap.

He leaned her head back, her eyes were closed. Fear slammed through him. Didn’t she have a concussion?

"Christian?" Reaching to the side, he grabbed a washcloth and soaked it with cold water. Gently, he feathered it over her face, careful of the bump on her head, her swollen, already blackening eye. He bit down at the sight of her abused face.

Still she didn’t stir.

"Christian, baby, talk to me." He placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "You’re scaring me here. Come on."

She was hot, too hot. He kept up his nonsensical words. "I bet you just got overheated."

A moan drifted passed her lips and her eyelids fluttered, though only one rose. He rubbed the cool cloth over her neck.

Her eye stared at him, but she didn’t stiffen as he expected her too.

He sat the cloth on the counter and gathered her robe up. "Can you stand, just for a second? I want to put this on you."

That gray stare was blank. As easily as possible, he shifted her so that they were both standing. He held her up with one arm and tried to put the robe on with the other.

His gaze ran over her, that body that haunted his dreams, a body he loved. One that should be cherished, cared for ... protected.

Now, bruises darkly contrasted against her pale skin. Some part of him catalogued the damage someone had inflicted on her, but a red haze threatened the edge of his vision, blacked the border of his sanity and temper.

Christian didn’t need his rage.

Taking a long breath through his nose, he studied her. The entire right side of her ribcage was shadowed, one large bruise covering several ribs. He gently reached out and ran a hand over them, her stomach muscles tightened under his fingers.

"Sorry." He took his hand away, but looked at her. "Are they broken?"

Her eyes looked away and she shook her head.

Round purple marks marred her upper arm, just above a cut. He’d seen the cuts on her thigh, the blackened stitches obscene against her pale skin.

Biting down, he shoved the air out of his lungs. As carefully as possible, he helped her put the robe on.

He tied it gently, mindful of her bruised ribs. Then he noticed the marks at the collar of the robe. He traced the violet contusions along her jaw and neck, the reddened cuts on both sides, heavier at the back. What the hell was that from?

She didn’t move, didn’t look at him. With every new mark, bruise and laceration he discovered, fury roiled his blood.

Finally, he dropped his hands away from her and turned so that she sat on the toilet. She swayed for a moment, but then leaned back. He stood there, staring at her.

What the hell did he do to help her? How could he.... What was there... Did she even...

On a silent curse, he flicked the water back on and filled a glass. He held it up to her lips. "You need some liquids in you."

She drank the entire glass down.

When she lowered her hands, a hiss escaped her. Brayden knelt beside her.

"What? What is it?" he asked quietly.

Christian shook her head, but mumbled, "My wrists. The robe hurts my...." She trailed off.

Brayden reached out and took her fine boned hand. Carefully, he pushed the cuff of her terry robe up.

The abraded and peeling skin was scabbed in places, purples mixing with blues, reds and molted yellows. A glance down showed him her ankles with the same violent marks.

"Christ." All he could see when he looked at those wounds was her tethered and struggling, trying to escape.

On another curse he rose, all but ripped a drawer out of the vanity.

He shoved things out of the way and tried the next drawer. There was a box of bandages and a tube of antibacterial ointment.

Again he knelt in front of her.

His hands shook as he applied the clear cream to the bandage. Then, he wrapped the white gauze around her wrists. When they were taped, he stared at her hands.

Ankles. He reached for one ankle, but she pulled it back.

"I can do it," she whispered.

The control on his emotions almost snapped. "Let me--" Biting down, he held his hands palms out to her and slowly rose. Looking at her bent head, he said, "I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, or anything like that."