The bedroom with plaid blankets: nothing.
The office with overflowing bookshelves: no one.
The side living room with an ancient video cassette player and TV: empty.
Moving toward the front porch again, I forced myself to remain calm even while I fought panic.
Joe gave me this address.
Greg’s car was here.
Yet him and Elle were gone.
Fuck!
Leaping off the stoop to continue my hunt, my eyes caught the displacement of gravel.
Footsteps.
One big with boot tracks.
One small with no tracks.
Was Elle barefoot?
Like me?
My feet had not appreciated the jog down gravel or looked forward to the pokes and pinches from more twigs in the forest. Knowing she’d felt the same discomfort didn’t make me happy—it made me fucking furious.
Clutching my phone, I followed the prints into the trees, willing the sun to wake up completely and chase away the remaining shadows. I hadn’t had quality sleep, I’d been beaten awake as my alarm clock, and twitched on an overload of adrenaline and rage, but my hands were steady (if not bloody), and my eyes were narrowed (if not blood-shot).
I was ready to attack.
No mercy.
Breaking into a jog, I followed the small path, hoping against fucking hope that Greg hadn’t marched her into the undergrowth to shoot and bury her. Images of finding her corpse haunted me in ways I couldn’t admit.
I thought I’d protected myself from her this past month. I thought I’d steeled myself against feeling anything.
I’d done a shitty job with the way my heart pounded with terror. I’d wasted so long, fantasizing about her being mine. And she’d been mine—for a brief moment. If I couldn’t have her again...what the fuck would I do?
Leave?
Say goodbye?
How could I?
I forced my mind back to facts rather than idiotic matters of the heart. If Greg had wanted to kill her, why not just do it at Belle Elle—somewhere her father would see and destroy the company from the inside out?
He’s an asshole, but he’s not mentally disturbed.
Why would he kill her where he could be questioned? Much better to do it where no one would see, and he had a better chance of denying his involvement.
Even if this is his father’s cabin.
Breaking through the tree line, my heart sank as a shed with open doors and an empty interior beckoned me closer.
Tire marks led from the gloomy cobwebbed shack, footprints in the dust showing Greg had been here with Elle.
And now, they were gone.
Chapter Seven
Elle
“YOU KNOW HOW to cook, right?” Greg asked, twirling the steak knife tip on the countertop.
For the thirtieth time, I tugged on the gold negligée he’d made me slip into. Where he’d gotten it from, I had no idea—it wasn’t a Belle Elle brand, and the satin slipped over my nakedness in the most awful way—but he’d been extremely incessant I wear it.
I hate you, Greg.
The spaghetti straps barely held the material over my nipples while the hem skimmed my ass cheeks, leaving so much of me nude and available for his ogling attention.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen glaring at the knife, wanting so much to pluck it from his hand and plunge it into his leg.
I didn’t want to kill him—just incapacitate him until I could get free, call David to come and break me out of here, and then press charges like a sane person would.
Greg is not sane.
You have full reason to join him in that insanity and kill him.
I didn’t doubt I would if it came down to his life or mine. But call me old fashioned, I couldn’t kill someone I’d known all my life. I couldn’t switch off like that.
He slammed the knife down. “Better answer me, Elle. I’ve been kind and gentle, but if you don’t start talking to me, I’ll have to show a different side of me, got it?”
I planted my hands on the counter, bracing myself. “It’s not a different side to you. I know that side better than you think. I’ve seen it in your eyes for years.”
He grinned. “Great, so you know I’m telling the truth.”
I swallowed as he moved toward me and stroked my cheek, his eyes dropping to my chest. “I showered you, dressed you, and now the least you can do is cook us a lovely meal to celebrate our new future together.”
I cringed, stepping away from his touch.
His face shadowed. “I almost forgot.” Clicking his fingers, he turned and disappeared into the living room where a duffel bag sat on the couch. Placing the knife on the coffee table—away from my eager fingers—he unzipped the bag and checked the contents.
Greg had many faults, but I’d never known him as so meticulous.
He’d planned my abduction flawlessly.
Clothes for me hung in the wardrobe right alongside clothes for him. The kitchen was stocked with delicacies and staple requirements, and hygiene products such as toothbrushes and toilet paper were in ample supply.
The bathroom had been bare when we’d arrived, but that was before he’d returned to the Dodge and emptied the trunk.
How long had he been concocting this?
How long is he planning to keep me here?
Greg returned with the bag, placing it with a loud clunk on the kitchen counter.
My hair was still damp from the shower, my skin still warm despite the lack of thermal properties of the skimpy negligée. Once he’d turned off the water, he’d dried me (despite my fight and refusal), then dragged me into the bedroom where he’d shoved the gold satin over my head.