Obsession (14 page)

Maybe so, but right at the present moment she didn’t feel like a designer-stuff kind of girl.

The shoe rack had been left untouched, and she surveyed it with mounting dismay. Somewhere she must possess sneakers, or even a pair of flats, but they definitely weren’t in sight. Heels were the name of the game. Dozens of heels. They ranged from four-inch leopard-print spikes to three-inch businesslike pumps to maybe an-inch-and-a-half casual sandals. In despair, she tossed a pair of black pumps into the bag and slid her feet into a pair of beaded turquoise sandals with kittenish heels.

They fit.

Letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, she took them off again. The idea of clattering around the house in noisy heels made her skin crawl even though she was almost positive that she was the only one there. Then she tossed the sandals into the bag, to be retrieved before venturing onto the hot pavement outside the house and, bag in hand, headed for the bathroom.

The bathroom was big, beautiful, all black and white tile to match the bedroom, with a marble Jacuzzi tub, a toilet that was set off from the rest in its own little enclosure, and a separate shower stall. She did what she had to do, then headed straight for the gleaming white porcelain sink. Seeing her terrifyingly unfamiliar reflection in the mirror that fronted the medicine cabinet was still a shock, but she didn’t have time to panic, so she kept her eyes averted from it as much as possible. She hastily washed her hands, did her best to wash her face without getting her nose wet, and brushed her teeth. Then she opened the medicine cabinet and scooped the contents into the bag wholesale, pausing only to drag a small brush she found there through her surprisingly stiff-feeling hair and run a tube of tinted ChapStick over her dry lips. Closing the cabinet again, though, she couldn’t help it: She had to look in the mirror. No magical transformation had occurred: However impossible it seemed, she was now a slim, tanned blonde with a bum nose and hair as straight as broom straw.

Could anybody say
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
?

The thought sent icy prickles of horror racing over her skin.

Later,
she reminded herself grimly, and tore her gaze away. A quilted robe lay on top of a hamper behind the door, and she grabbed that, too, and thrust it into the bag. Made of heavy silk, smooth and luxurious, it felt like nothing that could possibly be hers.

The robe was jade green, she registered as she headed out the door.

Because it made her eyes look even greener than they were.

A cheery little voice saying
Hello, moto
to the accompaniment of musical notes stopped her in her tracks just inside the bedroom. A phone, she realized after a few seconds in which her heart leaped for the ceiling. The sound made her cringe; muted as it was, it still seemed scarily, attention-grabbingly loud. It wasn’t the bedside phone, though. That was right beside her, and the singsong voice came from farther away. Tracking down the sound, she discovered a slouchy black leather handbag tucked behind the nightstand on the side of the bed she’d slept on last night. The repeated
Hello, moto
s were coming from the purse.

That was her instinctive reaction as she stared at the obviously expensive purse. But the phone inside kept on keeping on, and after a second she grabbed the purse anyway. The sound was making her frantic. She had to shut it up.

Of course, the annoying summons stopped just as she got the purse unzipped and was reaching for the phone. But even as she paused, on the verge of withdrawing her hand, she saw, along with the phone and various cosmetics and other assorted items including a set of keys, a wallet.

If the purse wasn’t hers, and she felt strongly that it was not, this was her chance to prove it.

The wallet was Gucci. She recognized the distinctive design. Flipping it open, she found a shopaholic’s dream: at least a dozen credit cards, including a black AmEx, in little leather slots; what looked like a substantial amount of cash in the pocket designed for it; and, in the plastic rectangle on the inside flap of the cover, a driver ’s license.

With her picture on it. Or, at least, a picture of the woman she saw when she looked in the mirror. The newly tanned, blond, and glamorous her. Along with her name, date of birth, and this address.

That’s it,
she told herself fiercely even as she dropped the wallet back into the purse, zipped it closed again, and headed toward the door.
You’re you, damn it.

The shoes fit, the robe color was right. The driver’s license matched. Even the photograph on the nightstand that caught her eye as she was rushing out of the room was of her—the new, improved her—standing with a man she instantly recognized as Ed. Earlier, Ed had seemed to recognize her voice; Dan had recognized
her.

She knew her way around inside the house. She had known where to find the spare door key.

There was no mistake: She was Katharine Lawrence, and this was her life.

So why,
she asked herself as she slung the purse over her shoulder and, duffel bag in hand, hotfooted it back down the stairs,
did that just feel wrong?

The caveats hit her even as, aches and pains notwithstanding, she practically leaped the last few steps into the hall. For a moment she paused with one hand on the newel post, eyes widening, as she considered.

Hello, moto
was pretty universal. In fact, she was almost sure that it was the default ringtone for that kind of phone. Probably the phone was new, and she hadn’t personalized the ringtone yet.

And if her purse had been found last night while they were searching the house, the bastards would have either taken it or dumped it and left it where it fell. But clearly the purse had not been found, because it had been tucked neatly out of sight, and nothing in it had been disturbed.

So if it was hers, why didn’t she remember putting it there behind the nightstand?

There were lots of explanations, she assured herself, even as she recovered her wits enough to start moving toward the front door again. (Although the garage was her destination and the kitchen door offered the closest, most convenient access to it, no way was she setting foot in the kitchen again, she decided the instant the thought crossed her mind.) Maybe she was just a forgetful type. Maybe someone else had tucked her purse into that little hidey-hole. Maybe . . .

A whole long list of maybes was starting to unscroll through her head when the soft creak of a floorboard somewhere nearby refocused her attention like no-body ’s business. Her eyes widened. Her breathing suspended. Not just her ears but every fiber of her body strained toward the bone-chilling sound.

Nothing.

Other than the sounds of the house—the hum of the air-conditioning, the murmur of the appliances—she heard nothing more. Her gaze searched the hallway and as much of the adjoining rooms as she could see: still nothing. As far as she could tell, everything was just as it had been before. If there was anyone else in the house, she could neither see nor hear them. Probably, she told herself, what she had heard was just one of the usual creaks and groans of an old house settling.

But her instincts screamed at her:
Get out, get out, get out.

She was breathing again, shallow and fast. Her heart thudded so loudly that it was like having her own private drumroll crescendoing in her ears. Glancing warily around, with every sense she possessed now on red alert, she got a firm grip on the bag and rushed on whisper-soft feet toward the front door.

Her ears caught it first: footsteps racing across carpet; the rasp of quickened breathing. With her periphery vision, she saw a blur of movement as something big and dark and fast hurtled across the living room toward her.

Whipping around to face whatever it was head-on, Katharine jumped back and crashed into the console table, screaming like death itself was after her.

Which, she confirmed seconds later as her brain registered what her eyes had already perceived, it was.

9

In that split second of shock before he was upon her she saw that the dark blur was actually a tall, muscular man dressed in a dark suit with a black knit ski mask pulled down over his face.

Her heart practically leaped out of her chest. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck catapulted upright. The ski mask had holes cut out in it for the eyes and mouth, just like the ones last night’s attackers had worn. In fact, if he wasn’t one of last night’s attackers, he could have been their twin.

Screaming like a siren, she tried to dodge, but it was too late. The purse slid off her shoulder; the duffel bag hit the floor with a thump. Scrambling sideways, banging into the console table again in her rush to get away, she was stopped by a huge arm hooking her neck in a brutal grab that yanked her back against his chest. Her feet went out from under her. She would have fallen if it hadn’t been for his grip on her and her instinctive grab of his imprisoning arm. Behind her, mail spilled in a slither of paper. Water and flowers pelted her legs as the vase of roses toppled with a thud and a splash. Fortunately, the vase itself, after dumping its contents, came to rest on its side on the table without crashing to the floor and shattering around her bare feet.

“Gotcha.”
There was a wealth of satisfaction in his voice—not a voice she recognized from last night, she registered instantly—as her feet scrabbled on the wet floor to regain their purchase. Terror washed over her in an icy wave as he used his choke hold on her throat to haul her upright. She felt his body heat, the abrasion of his clothes against her skin. He was big, strong, and probably close to twice her weight, she realized with despair, even as she gasped for air and her nails tore uselessly into the smooth cloth of his jacket. Still, she struggled to be free, squirming frantically and kicking back at his kneecaps with desperate force. He jerked his legs back just in time and the blows slammed into his shins, which did nothing more, as far as she could tell, than hurt her feet.

“Help! Help! Let . . .”
me go
was how the scream was going to end, but the words were still forming in her mind when his arm tightened viciously around her throat, choking off the words, choking her. Coughing, wheezing, she fought for air even as it hit her that this time there was no one to help her: She was on her own.

And after last night, she had to assume that he meant to kill her if he could.

Her fight-or-flight response went crazy. Adrenaline shot through her veins. Flight wasn’t happening right now, not with the hold he had on her. But . . .

“Hold still.”

The gun that he pressed to her temple was silver, she saw out of the corner of her eye, just like the one last night. And the cold, terrifying feel of metal against her skin was definitely the same. Talk about déjà vu all over again. She felt dizzy, sick.

Her nails released their death grip on his sleeve and her arms dropped. Heart pumping like a trapped bird’s, terror racing like icy fingers down her spine, she forced herself to go perfectly still.

“Yes. All right.” Her voice was low, hoarse. She had to force the words out past his constriction of her throat. But he clearly understood, because his grip on her eased fractionally.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said. “I thought I was going to have to search all by my lonesome.”

She sucked in air. “For what? What do you want?”

“Don’t give me that.”

The arm around her neck tightened again, suddenly, violently forcing her jaw up and slamming her head back against his collarbone hard. Her feet went out from under her a second time, and he grabbed her around the waist to keep her upright. She barely had time to register that at least his gun was no longer pressed to her temple when he ducked his head so that his mouth was near her ear. The cotton hood felt smooth against her cheek and ear. His breath was warm against her skin. Struggling to breathe with his arm heavy across her throat, scrabbling to get her feet solidly back under her once more, she found herself looking at the ceiling, the wall, the vivid colors of the sunset painting to her left. On her right, she could see a good-sized portion of the living room as well as a sliver of the den, which, like the rest of the place, had been cleaned up. That sliver encompassed the desk, part of the fireplace, and the area above it where a painting of a sandy beach usually took pride of place. The only wrong note was that the painting was missing. In its place, a raw-looking rectangular hole about half the size of the painting gaped in the plaster. It took her a second, but then she realized that she was almost certainly looking at the spot where the safe had been.

If, as she assumed, the thugs last night had dug it out of the wall and taken it with them, then what was this guy looking for?

“Where is it?” There was an angry edge to her captor ’s voice that made her go cold all over.

“Wha-what—” His constriction of her throat made her break off to gasp for air. Her blood seemed to spike in her ears. What made the whole nightmare even more terrifying was the realization that she had absolutely no idea in the world what he was talking about. Her ignorance was not, as he seemed to think, a ruse.

Panic made her suddenly light-headed.
What don’t I know?