Lovers and Liars (62 page)

C
ontrary to what one might think, she admired some of the pictures.

Especially the one in
Playgirl
.

Jack was a beautiful male animal.

The photos in
Hard Times
she found arousing.

Not just sexually. They made her angry as well.

Belinda called her father, but found he was in Las Vegas. Damn him! She knew he was behind those pictures—
he had to be. How dare he! How dare he attack Jack. Even if she hated him—which she knew she didn’t—even though the pretense of hatred was comforting, attacking her husband was a direct challenge. It was a frontal assault. It was an attack upon herself. She was ready to do battle.

It wasn’t fair.

Jack did not deserve this.

And it proved that all those hateful things he had said about her father were true. What was Abe, some kind of megalomaniac? Worse. There was a term for a person without morals, completely self-serving, and she knew the term from one of her college psychology courses.
Sociopath.
A synonym for antisocial personality disorder. Of all psychoses, it was the one that was incurable, because the sociopath never thought he was doing wrong, and was therefore closed to anyone’s attempts to help him make behavioral changes. Sociopaths felt anything they did was justifiable.

Even beating up a young man to within an inch of his life.

Even destroying that same man professionally seventeen years later—for the same grudge.

God!

What should she do?

And—how was Jack?

Belinda paced her home, close to tears. She looked at the phone and wanted to call Jack. Her husband. Didn’t she have the right? But she couldn’t do it. Pride. She had so much of it.

Well, it wasn’t as if she wanted a reconciliation.

Or did she? She missed him terribly.

No. She would simply ask—in a casual, friendly way—if he was all right.

But he was so arrogant, he would think she was weakening.

Well, face it—she was.

Oh, Jack.

124

S
he had let the dog out, and he was roaming the beach or she would have heard the doorbell sooner, because of his barking. She went to get it reluctantly. A visitor was the last thing she was in the mood for.

She opened the door to face Adam Gordon.

She stared at him in surprise.

He stared at her in fury.

Belinda stepped back. “Adam?”

She wasn’t prepared for the blow. Or its violence. He backhanded her across the face, knocking her off her feet and onto her backside in the foyer. Blood trickled from her nose.

“Cunt!”

She rolled to her knees to get up and flee. He yanked her to her feet by the hair, hurting her terribly, almost yanking her scalp off. He pulled her against his body. Belinda threw a weak punch at his face, but it glanced off his jaw.

He grabbed her face with his hand, his fingers digging in painfully. “Rich-bitch cunt.”

She clawed his face, drawing blood.

He grabbed her wrists, forcing them behind her back, pressing her against him. She felt a hard-on. She was terrified. “Adam, please! I don’t understand.” She didn’t even recognize her own voice, a whimper of fear.

His face was close. “Me! It was supposed to be me!”

Keep him talking. “You? What was supposed to be you?”

He forced her hands up higher behind her back, making her gasp. She closed her eyes, the pain coming in a black wave. He was going to break her arms …

“You were supposed to marry me.”

She fought unconsciousness. She blinked. Focused. So much hatred. “B-but A-Adam. We—we were only dating. Please!”

“Your father and I had it all planned. I was to be the son-in-law.
Me!
Not that prick Ford!”

“You’re hurting me,” she managed.

“Good!”

“Adam, Jack and I are separated. The marriage was a mistake. Surely you know we’re separated!”

“Lying cunt,” he said, and he dragged her onto the floor.

Belinda bucked as he came down on her. No. This could not be happening. He transferred her wrists to one hand, with the other he unsnapped her jeans. She twisted wildly. He was too strong. “No! No! You fucker!” The last became a sob.

“Cunt. Whore. Slut.” He hit her again, but she saw the fisted blow coming and turned her face to the side. The impact took her on the cheek. She felt terror.

Her jeans were skintight. He started cursing when he couldn’t get them off her writhing legs with one hand. He released her wrists to pull them down. She went for his eyes with her fingers pointed like talons.

And missed when he ducked.

Her jeans were around her ankles.

And then thrown aside.

She lifted her knee as hard as she could as he was throwing the jeans, catching him on the underside of his chin. There was a crack. He grunted. She rolled onto her hands and knees, scrambling across the pine floor. And then he had her by both ankles and he yanked them up, causing her chin to hit the floor with a thud. He ripped off her panties.

He had both her wrists again, clenched in a bone-breaking grip over the small of her back. She felt the head of his hard penis on the cheeks of her ass. Then she felt his hand, riding between those cheeks, fingers penetrating anally.

Terror.

Helplessness.

Pain.

125

A
s Jack pulled into Belinda’s driveway a Mercedes was pulling out. There was no mistaking Adam Gordon behind the wheel.

Jack turned off the ignition and for one moment just sat, making no move to get out. Terrible jealousy assailed him. He started up the car. Fuck her. He threw it into reverse. He hesitated, then put it back in neutral and snapped the key off. He jumped out.

He had every right to talk to her. They were married, weren’t they?

He trotted up the steps. The black dog came running from around the side of the house, barking. “Hey, buddy,” Jack said and reached out a hand. The dog stopped barking. It wagged its tail, waiting at the door. Jack didn’t knock. The door was ajar.

She was lying on her stomach.

On the floor where the living room met the foyer.

Clad only in a shirt and socks.

Jack rushed forward with a cry, dropping down beside her. “Belinda, what—”

He saw the side of her face. It had turned purple and swollen already. The blood had clotted beneath her nose. “Oh, God!” he said, his hand on her teck. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

She moaned and turned her face away.

He knelt and put his arms around her, his face in her
hair. “It’s all right now. Belinda, it’s me—Jack. Belinda? How bad are you hurt? Sweetheart?”

She didn’t answer. But she made a funny, pathetic noise, like a small animal that is frightened or in pain.

Jack leapt to his feet and dialed the police and an ambulance, then grabbed a blanket from the sofa. He dropped down beside Belinda again, tucking the blanket beneath and around her. He saw blood between her legs and was filled with rage. He was going to kill Adam Gordon. “Belinda. It was Adam?”

She looked at him for the first time. She nodded, tried to speak, whimpered instead. She shifted herself upright, into his lap, to cling. He held her, rocked her. He felt the first slight tremor. “It’s all right, darling. It’s all right.” He shushed her as he would a child.

She started shaking violently. “Jack.”

“Yes, yes, sweetheart, I’m here.”

“J-J-Jack.”

“Yes, what is it, darling?”

“Oh, God!” She trembled convulsively, as if she were feverish. He held her as close as he could, saying anything, his voice soft and warm. But a part of his mind was completely detached, watching from a distance. He was going to kill Adam Gordon. Oh, yes. Soon. But not now. Later. He couldn’t leave Belinda now.

“Jack—the baby.”

He knew he had misunderstood.

“Our baby,” she cried. “I don’t want to lose our baby.” She was weeping.

His heart had definitely stopped. When it started again, it was in a mad dash for an Olympic gold. “Belinda, why didn’t you tell me?”

She wept against his chest.

He was overwhelmed. And horrified. He had seen all that blood … Where was that fucking ambulance? What was taking so fucking long? Jesus—Belinda was losing the baby!

It finally came, with two patrol cars. “I think she’s miscarrying,” Jack desperately told the paramedics. They
wouldn’t tell him anything. The police asked questions. Belinda clung to his hand as she was moved to a guerney. “Ride with me.”

Impatient and furious, Jack told the police, “A Los Angeles lawyer named Adam Gordon did this. He works at Benson, Hull Harte Industries.”

He rode with Belinda in the back of the ambulance, holding her hand, thinking about torturing Adam Gordon before he killed him. And praying for the little soul that was their child. The instant Belinda was wheeled into Emergency at South Coast Hospital, she disappeared down a corridor, and he was stopped from following her.

“I want to go with her!” Jack cried to the nurse who had barred his way.

“You can’t go back there, I’m afraid,” the petite nurse said, staring at him with awed recognition.

“Dammit, she’s my wife! I want to be with her! What’s happening?” he demanded furiously.

“You cannot go into Emergency, Mr. Ford,” the nurse said in such calm tones. “Dr. Paige will do everything she can to save your baby.”

Jack cursed.

“Please relax, Mr. Ford,” a detective, Lieutenant Perez, said. “Why don’t you sit down? I have a few questions.”

Suddenly numb, Jack sat down.

“A certain procedure has to be followed in cases of rape. Your wife didn’t bathe, did she?”

Jack cursed. “No! She didn’t bathe, for crissake!” He was on his feet, pacing, cursing fluently, fretting, praying.

“You called the police?” Perez asked.

“Yes.”

“As soon as you found her?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you find her?”

Cursing again, Jack told him, looking past him and down the corridor where Belinda had disappeared.

“Was she alone?”

“Yes,” Jack said.

“Where were you this afternoon?” Perez asked.

“In my office,” Jack said, straining to look down the hall again.