Only By Your Touch (30 page)

He began telling her things he’d always wanted to do, getting more graphic as he went along. Terror built within Chloe, so chilling and thought-obliterating that her whole body started to quiver. She strained so hard to move the damned wire that she shuddered.

“Here, let me do that.”

“No, no, almost got it. Don’t stop. Tell me more. I’m getting so”—she shoved with everything she had—“aroused. I’ll have to be aroused to go through with it. Until now, it’s only been a fantasy, never real. I’m afraid I’ll chicken out.” She flicked him a nervous look she didn’t have to fake. “What if you—you know, do things I don’t like? I won’t be able to make you stop.”

He reached out to touch her hair. She felt the wire shift under her thumb.

“You’re going to love it,” he whispered. “I’ll show you a repertoire to blow your socks off, babe. It’ll be so good. The best you’ve ever had.”

She aimed the bottle at his face and fired. The cork
shot from the opening like a bullet and hit him in dead center in the forehead. For a horrible instant, he just gaped at her. Then he grunted as he grabbed for his face.

Chloe skittered out of his way, grasped the neck of the bottle in both hands, swung it high, and brought it crashing down on his head. Champagne spewed all over her. He dropped to his knees. She danced to one side and hit him again, groaning with the force she put into her swing. The bottle connected with the crown of his head, making a loud crack. She expected it to knock him out, but he didn’t go down.

Before she could hit him a third time, he threw up a hand to ward off the blow. “Enough! Enough. Christ Jesus, I can’t see!”

“Get out!” she cried. “
Now!
Or I swear to God, I’ll break this over your head and slit your throat.
Out!
”

He crab-walked toward the door. When it wouldn’t open, he moaned, dropped to his knees, and cradled his head in his hands. “It’s locked.”

“Unlock it!”

“I can’t see. You hit me between the eyes.”

Chloe wasn’t about to fall for that trick. “You’re so damned good at groping, grope to find the lock. And you’d better be fast about it. I’d just as soon kill you as look at you!”

“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” he whined. “I’m armed, for God’s sake. If I really meant you harm, I’d just shoot you.”

No, Chloe thought. The bullet could be traced back to his gun. “Get out,” she said, shaking so hard her voice quivered. “Get
out!
”

She tossed down the bottle and grabbed a kitchen chair. He held up a hand again, which told her he could see just fine. “I’m going.” He pulled himself to his feet, gave his head a hard shake. “Jesus, lady. I
thought you might go for a knife, but a champagne cork?” He fumbled with the dead bolt. “This isn’t finished.” He swung the door wide. “I’ll be back, and next time, your ass is mine. You got it?” He gave her a burning look and staggered outside. Chloe waited until she heard him stumble down the rickety steps. Then she tossed aside the chair and raced across the room. Her heart pounding with fear, she grabbed the door, slammed it shut, and threw her weight against it. Still frantic, she groped for the dead bolt and chain. When she’d finally secured the locks against him, she glanced wildly around. The windows were all closed and locked. She’d been so paranoid since that night when Bobby Lee had phoned while Ben was visiting that she’d been afraid to open them at night, even to let in a breeze. She sobbed and slid down the wood like a pat of butter off a hot biscuit.

She wanted to huddle there on the floor and shake. Her legs and arms were jerking spasmodically, like a puppet’s on strings, and she couldn’t control the movements.
Think.
He was out there, just on the other side of the door. She’d done him no permanent injury. He’d recover in a moment, and when he did, he would be ugly mad.

She sprang to her feet and staggered to the phone. After dialing 911, she cut the connection. Not the cops again. Bobby Lee might intercept the dispatch.
Oh, dear God. He’s out there.
Only glass and thin, hollowed panels of wood protected her. And Jeremy. If he got back inside, what might he do to Jeremy?
Ben. He was only a few minutes away. Ben
.

Chloe knew his number. Nearly mindless with panic, she dialed, clung to the phone, listened to it ring. No answer. “Ben!” she sobbed his name. “Ben.”

His voice came on the line. “Hi. You’ve reached
the Longtree residence. I’m sorry I’m unable to come to the phone right now, but your call’s important.”

Chloe sank to her knees, holding on to the phone and his voice, because, in her terror, they were all she had.

A
s Ben left for Chloe’s place, he heard the phone ringing. He almost went back to answer it, but then he changed his mind. He rarely received calls this late, and he feared it might be Chloe phoning him to either cancel or postpone their talk.
No way.
He had to get this over with tonight. If he waited and gave himself time to think about it, he might lose his courage.

Juggling the plastic bag that held ice and a bottle of champagne, Ben fumbled in his pocket for his keys. As he withdrew the ring, he lost his grip on it. The metal hit the cement and bounced away into the darkness.
Damn!
He tossed the champagne onto the truck seat and executed a search, bent forward at the waist to see through the shadows. He finally found the keys lying behind the front left tire.

A few minutes later, when he finally pulled in to Chloe’s driveway, he sat for a moment, trying to calm down. He didn’t want to blow this. When his heartbeat had slowed to a fairly normal rhythm, he grabbed the champagne, stepped from the truck into the chill night air, and slammed the door. Here went nothing.

As he strode across Chloe’s lawn to the lighted front
porch, he rehearsed his lines.
I promise not to break a window this time. How’s a hole in the ceiling strike you?
He’d be funny, casual. Then he’d slowly lead up to what he had to say. He’d tell her about his writing first. Given her love of Caldwell’s books, that would be a pretty big shock, in and of itself. When she’d digested that, he’d somehow find the courage to tell her the rest. No more secrets. He was going to make a clean breast of it. No matter how it turned out, at least he’d know that he’d done everything he could to save the relationship. If it was all too much for her and she chose to end things between them, he’d just have to live with it.

He stepped up onto the porch, took a deep breath, and doubled his fist to knock. The lights were on. She was still up. That was good. Not that he would have let darkness stop him. He had to see her. He kept gulping for breath like a man slowly suffocating on low-oxygen air—grabbing, hauling it in, and still feeling on the edge of frantic need.

He rapped his knuckles against the flimsy door, thinking as he did that he could give her solid oak. Up on his ridge, ensconced in his home like a queen, with wolves and cougars as her loyal subjects, she could have anything his money could buy. All she had to do was accept the unbelievable—the unnatural—the unthinkable.

He heard no footsteps approaching the door from the other side. He knocked again. Waited. Where the hell was she? Peering at his watch, he determined that he was arriving well within the time he’d predicted, only forty minutes since they’d spoken on the phone. She should be expecting him. He was about to knock a little harder when he heard her voice, faint and tremulous.

“Who is it?”

He flattened his hand against the door. “It’s me, Ben.”

“Ben?”

He heard rustling sounds. Metal clacked. Scrabbling noises ensued. He pressed closer, willing the door to open.

“Say something.” Her voice sounded taut and quivery. “Anything so I know for sure it’s you.”

What the hell?
“Of course, it’s me. Chloe, are you all right?”

“What’s the skunk’s name?” she asked shrilly.

“Winston. What the—?”

“And the owl?”

“Einstein. What’s with the twenty questions?”

The door nudged open. He had his gaze fixed where he expected her face to be. No Chloe. Movement made him look down. She was kneeling—no, slumped—on the floor, her white face visible in the narrow opening. Her eyes were huge splashes of brown rimmed with red.

“Sweet Christ, what’s wrong?” Ben dropped the champagne. It hit the porch with a loud whack. He pushed the door open, bodily moving her in the process, then fell to one knee on the threshold. Seizing her by the shoulders, he leaned down to better see her face. “Chloe? What in God’s name—?”

She let out a cry—half whimper, half moan—and threw her arms around his neck. Her whole body jerked with sobs. Awful, horrible sobs. He gathered her against him, vaguely registering that there was nothing under the damp, oversize T-shirt but woman, sweet, warm, trembling woman. A citrus scent drifted to his nostrils.

“Sweetheart.” He’d thought the endearment a hundred times, but never uttered it. Somehow it felt
absolutely right to say it now as he tightened his arms around her. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Is it Jeremy? Talk to me.”

She made a gulping “huh-huh-huh” sound, her nails scoring the back of his neck. “B-Ben? H-he c-came. The p-police. I c-ca-called the police, and h-he came.”

He stopped trying to make sense of it and hauled her more tightly against him. “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.” He threw a worried glance into the house. A kitchen chair lay on its side in the living room.
Jeremy.
Snaking a hand under her butt, he braced his shoulder against the door frame to get leverage and shoved himself erect with her sagging in his arms. He got one foot over the threshold, braced, and bent at the knees to lift her off her feet. He kicked the door shut behind him. “Chloe, where’s your son?”

She said something, but the garbled utterance made no sense. Ben knocked a magazine off the sofa and laid her on the cushions. He had to peel her off of him.

“Let me go check on Jeremy. Okay? I’ll be right back.”

He strode through the house, his heart cracking against his ribs like the fist of a giant. When he opened the child’s bedroom door, his legs went weak. Jeremy lay curled up in bed, Rowdy sleeping beside him. Both boy and dog were perfectly fine. Ben was surprised that all the racket in the living room hadn’t awakened Rowdy. He decided puppies, like little boys, played so hard that they could sleep through almost anything.

Ben slumped against the door frame. He’d been afraid—so afraid that something had happened to the child. It wasn’t like Chloe to fall apart like this.

As he retraced his steps across the living room, he saw that she was shaking as though with chills, her bare legs drawn to her chest, her arms locked around
her knees. He grabbed up a bedspread lying on the floor and shook it over her as he knelt on one knee beside the sofa.
Shock?
Fear for her filled him. He had no idea what had happened, only that it had been something really bad.

“Chloe?”

She opened her eyes. In the light from the lamp on the end table, he could see tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. He smoothed her curly hair back from her face, every line of which had been engraved on his heart. After giving her a quick once-over, he could detect no physical injuries, but when he looked into her eyes, they told a different story.

“What happened? Tell me what happened.” Ben cupped his hand to her cheek, trailing his thumb over the wet streaks. He loved her. Just the thought of someone frightening her or harming her made him shake with rage. “Who did this to you? Who did this?”

“Bobby Lee,” she whispered. “He tried to break in. A trick. When I called the police, he took the c-call. Oh, God, Ben. It was so awful.”

He made her repeat the story, interrupting to ask questions. When he’d finally dragged all of it out of her, he said, “You shot him with a cork?”

“It worked on the window.”

Ben might have laughed, but her eyes—oh, God, her eyes. She’d just come through a nightmare. If not for the champagne cork, the bastard might have raped her.

“That miserable son of a bitch. I’ll kill him.”

“No! Just—” She gulped, shivered, and clutched his arm. “Don’t leave us. Please, don’t leave us. I’m afraid of him. He said he’ll be back.”

“We’ll see about that.” Ben smoothed her wildly tangled hair and kissed her forehead. “I won’t leave
you, Chloe. Count on that. I won’t leave you. But I am going to call the police.”

“No! No!” She grabbed his shirt. “He’ll hear the dispatch.”

She rushed on to tell him about all the visits Bobby Lee had made to the Christmas Village, and how he’d parked outside to stare at her as she walked to and from her car. “He’s been stalking me. He thinks he’s above the law—that he can do anything, and no one can touch him.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Because.” Her face crumpled. “You put up such a wall between us. I didn’t feel right, dumping all my problems on you when you refused to share anything with me.”

Dump on him? Ben wanted to give her a good shake, but the urge no sooner struck than a heartfelt regret took its place. This was his fault, entirely his. She was right; he had erected a wall between them. When she’d needed him as a friend, he hadn’t been there for her.

“Ah, sweetheart.” Ben gathered her into his arms and just held her for a while. “I’m so sorry. No more secrets. Okay? I swear, I’ll tell you everything.”

She clung to his neck with quivering arms.
Definitely in shock,
he decided. Until she calmed down enough to start thinking straight again, he needed to take control. The first order of business was to call the authorities, just in case the bastard decided to come back. Ben didn’t kid himself. Man to man, with even odds, he’d have no problem holding his own with Bobby Lee, but the deputy wouldn’t hesitate to fight dirty, using any weapon at his disposal to win.

When he stood, Chloe fixed him with a wildly frightened look. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to report this.”

“But—”

“Just trust me. All right? I don’t want him coming back here any more than you do. When I confront the son of a bitch, I don’t want you or Jeremy anywhere around.”

Ben went to the kitchen, located the phone book, and called Frank Bower at home. The deputy answered on the second ring, sounding wide-awake, as only a man accustomed to middle-of-the-night phone calls could.

“Frank, this is Ben Longtree. I’m sorry for waking you up, but I’ve got some trouble on my hands. I need your help.” As briefly as possible, Ben recounted Chloe’s story. “She’s terrified to call the police again, and I can’t blame her. He’s armed. If he comes back, I may not be able to hold him off.”

“I’ll be right there,” Frank said.

The next two hours passed in an awful blur for Chloe. Ben brought her some panties and jeans, then helped her pull them on before Frank Bower arrived. Then he dampened a cloth and dabbed at her face and neck, his touch so gentle and soothing that Chloe wanted to huddle against him.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Mm, much.” It was true. She did feel better, and not because of the coolness of the cloth. She looked into his eyes, and she knew she was safe, that he’d die before he let anything happen to her or her son. “Thank you, Ben. I’m so glad you decided to come over tonight. So glad. I didn’t know what to do.”

He ran a fingertip down the bridge of her nose. “Yeah, well, you’re still not real steady on your feet. Just let me handle it. Okay?”

Her eyes filled with fresh tears, and her mouth twisted. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess. I don’t know why
I’m shaking like this. He didn’t touch me. It was just—I don’t know—the threat of it, I guess, and the horrible things he said. He told me he’d bash Jeremy’s brains in, Ben. I was so scared. I’ve never in all my life been that scared, not even when Roger flew into one of his rages.”

Ben could well imagine the things Bobby Lee had said. Tightening his arms around her, he closed his eyes, thanking God that she’d kept her head and thought of a way to fight back. As weapons went, a champagne cork wasn’t exactly fail proof, but it had worked, and he was proud of her.

He left her to make some coffee. Then he gently guided her to the kitchen table, put a mug into her trembling hands, and sat next to her, rubbing her tense shoulders. When Frank arrived, Ben remained at her side, holding her hand and prompting her when she grew confused while answering the deputy’s questions.

When Frank had heard the entire story, beginning with Bobby Lee’s breaking her Japanese lantern and ending with his attempted attack on her earlier that night, he sat back in his chair, glanced at Ben, and frowned with concern.

“Chloe,” he said softly, “when you and Bobby Lee went out to dinner, are you positive the evening went exactly as you’ve told me?”

Pale and still shaking, she took a moment to reply. “Yes, Frank. Why do you ask?”

Frank scratched his temple. “Bobby Lee tells a different story.”

Ben broke in to say, “Bobby Lee has a story? What version has he been telling?”

Looking uncomfortable, Frank resettled his Stetson on his head. “Well, he says—” He glanced apologetically at Chloe. “Not saying it’s so or anything, but he claims he wanted to head home at eight, and it was
you who insisted on a few dances in the lounge. Afterwards, he says you asked him to drive down to the river. Once there, you came on to him. He turned you down. You grew furious and ran off into the woods. He tried to coax you back to the vehicle, but you refused, saying you’d rather walk.”

“That isn’t how it happened,” Chloe whispered shakily. Her nails dug into Ben’s palm, giving him reason to fear that she’d had all she could take for one evening. “That isn’t how it went at all.” Her voice rose to a shrill, reed-whistle pitch on the last word. “He’s lying.”

“That’s the version he’s told. The next day when he came to work, you’d already cleaned out your desk. You spoke briefly with the sheriff and made some accusations, but you didn’t press any charges. If he really tried to force himself on you, why didn’t you follow through, Chloe?”