Behind The Mask. Metsy Hingle

she’d seen him. On the surface, he’d been a perfect gentleman. But behind the mask he wore, she now knew there lurked a monster—a dangerous monster.

      “Come here,” he commanded.

      Elisabeth did as he said. And when she stood before him in the flimsy gown, his eyes darkened. “So beautiful. So perfect,” he said as he reached for the bodice of the gown. He lifted his eyes to hers and she caught the flash of triumph just before he ripped the delicate fabric in two. “And mine.”

      Adam filled his big hands with her breasts, squeezed them so hard that she whimpered with pain. “Adam, please. You’re hurting me.”

      But her pain only seemed to excite him. He shoved her down to her knees in front of him. Knowing what he expected, how he’d trained her to pleasure him since that first night when he’d married her on her eighteenth birthday, Elisabeth took him in her mouth.

      She wanted to gag, but she thought of her baby downstairs, and knew that if she did so, it would only enrage Adam. So she blocked out the feel of his fingers digging into her scalp, the sound of the grunting noises that came from him. Suddenly he jerked her up, pushed her onto the bed.

      “Adam, wait—”

      But he was already shoving himself inside her. Unprepared, she gasped at the painful invasion. Heedless of her discomfort, he continued to thrust himself into her. “You were made for this,” he told her, his voice a guttural pant, his dark eyes gleaming madly. “For me,” he said as he slammed into her again. And again. And again. Finally, when she thought he might never stop, his body went rigid and he shouted out in triumph before he collapsed on top of her.

      She didn’t know how long she lay there, crushed beneath Adam’s heavier weight. Not until she thought he was asleep did she begin to ease out from under him, intent on slipping away to go check on Timmy. She’d almost made it to the edge of the bed when Adam demanded, “Where do you think you’re going?”

      “I was just going to see—”

      “No.” He yanked her by the hair and pulled her back down to the bed. She scrambled to sit up, but he shoved her back down and straddled her. “I told you, this is what you were made for. Not to take care of some squalling brat. I’m through sharing you, Elisabeth. You and I are going back to the way things were before you got yourself knocked up. Understand?”

      “Adam, please. I realize now that I’ve been neglecting you,” she hedged, trying to bide her time. “I promise to be a better wife in the future, but please, I don’t want a nanny. I’m Timmy’s mother, I—”

      He shoved his hard shaft into her again. “It’s a nanny until I can find a boarding school to take him. This mother fantasy of yours is over, Elisabeth. Accept it, or I’ll get rid of him permanently.”

      His words sent a chill through her because she knew he meant it. She could no longer delude herself. Adam was insane, and unless she got Timmy away, he would kill her son. Even as he mauled her body, and poured his seed into her, she began planning their escape…

      They had escaped, Lily reminded herself as she sat huddled on the floor of the shower, shivering beneath the spray of water that had long since turned cold. While Adam had come close to finding them twice now, she had managed to get away. For now at least, her son was safe.

      “Thank you Chantal,” Webster told the statuesque secretary who ushered Michael into his office.

      “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Sullivan,” Webster told him from behind the massive marble desk that gleamed like a black diamond. After shaking hands, he gestured to the pair of chairs positioned in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

      Michael sat down in the cushy leather chair. With the same swiftness he’d employed as a cop to size up a suspect, he took in the other man’s two-hundred-dollar haircut, the manicured nails, the pricey Italian suit. Rich. Powerful. Sophisticated. A well-connected player. And according to his sources, a dangerous enemy.

      “May I offer you something to drink?”

      “No thanks. I’m fine,” Michael replied.

      “Very well. Chantel, have a check cut for the congressman’s campaign fund and include this note with it,” he instructed the secretary as he handed her an envelope. “That’ll be all for now.”

      “Yes, sir,” the woman said, and then quickly exited the room.

      Michael didn’t doubt for a minute that the reference to the congressman, as well as the hour he’d been left to cool his heels in the reception area, was Webster’s way of showing him that he was the one in control.

      “Cigar?” Webster offered, opening the ornate box and sliding it toward Michael. “They’re Cuban.”

      “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

      “How wise of you. These are one of my vices, I’m afraid.” He chose one for himself, sniffed it appreciatively. And before he could put the thing in his mouth, the hired muscle at the door was beside him with a light.

      The guy must be one hell of a poker player, Michael thought as he observed the ritual. Despite Webster’s pleasant expression, Michael had no doubts that the man was still pissed at him for not jumping at his offer a week ago. Unfortunately, Webster had caught him fresh on the heels of an argument with Pete’s widow over the money he’d had deposited into her bank account for the kids. On his best day, he didn’t go out of his way to charm a potential client. On that particular day he’d made no attempt to sugarcoat his feelings about the million-dollar carrot that Webster had dangled in front of his nose. Of course, he’d spent the better part of the next four days kicking himself for his short temper and stupidity. Not until he’d interrupted that perp in the convenience store had he cut himself some slack. While he might hate losing a shot at that million-dollar fee, he didn’t regret that he’d been able to help that girl.

      After several puffs on the cigar, Webster sat back in his chair. “I must say that I was rather surprised to hear from you, Sullivan. When we spoke on the phone, you didn’t seem particularly interested in my offer.”

      “I was interested. But like I told you, I had another commitment.”

      He took another puff of the cigar, blew out a ring of smoke. “So you said. I understand you proved to be quite the hero, saving that young woman’s life and apprehending an escaped felon.”

      Since the incident had occurred in a small town and both he and the FBI had made sure that his name was not listed in the press, Michael couldn’t help wondering about Webster’s contacts. “You’re well informed.”

      “I make it my business to know who I’m dealing with,” Webster replied.

      Which meant Webster probably also knew that he’d walked away from his job as a cop after Pete had been killed. What Webster didn’t know—what few people knew—was that he had been the one responsible for Pete’s death just as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger, because he’d been the one to introduce his friend to Giselle.

      “I hope that doesn’t offend you.”

      Michael shrugged. “It’s your business.”

      “Yes, it is. And I’m sure you can understand the need for a man in my position to be careful.”

      “Of course.” He understood all right. Besides, he had done some checking, as well. He’d learned that the fifty-six-year-old self-made millionaire had made a killing with a string of high-end restaurants and nightclubs across Florida. Seven years ago he had married his ward, the former Elisabeth Jeffries, with whom he had one child, a son named Timothy. The man was touted as a generous patron of the arts and, reportedly, gave huge sums of money to charity. He also supported the current regime of politicians in office. The lavish parties he hosted were legendary for attracting Florida’s business, political and social powerhouses. And, according to Michael’s sources, not all of Webster’s millions had been attained by legal means.

      “I’m glad we