The Gunny & The Jazz Singer (Birchwood Falls #1) (15 page)

He'd come home for a purpose, and
that had to be paramount, as much as it hurt. Distractions were not good on a
mission. He gave her a gentle kiss, no pressure and no tongue, trying to
memorize the feel of her soft lips against his, wanting to remember the
delicacy of her body pressed to his hard one.

"I'm going to take you home."
He needed to think.

"Why don't you talk to Moira
again?"

"I just don't have any hard
evidence."

"We can tell her what we heard."

"I will, but I don't want you
involved in this. Just watch out for Butch. Stay away from him," he
cautioned.

Chapter Fourteen

After dropping her off, Marc went
to meet Moira. Phoebe circled around the house, checking all the new locks on
the windows and doors. She shivered. Obviously from what they heard, Butch hadn't
given up his interest in her. He was a jerk. And scary.

Plopping down on her bed, she lay
on her back, her arm draped over her eyes. Her body held Marc's scent and the
essence of their lovemaking. It had been really wild sex. Sex standing up, her
back against the wall. He'd protected her from injury but had pounded into her.

She curled up into a ball on her
side. She'd never forget him and had a feeling he'd forever be the gold standard
of erotic memories for her. He had a way of embracing her, kissing her, making
her feel things she'd never felt before with a man. She loved his house and had
sensed a strong family dynamic. Her adoptive parents loved her—she couldn't
deny that. She had them. Marc didn't have his. His emptiness was her emptiness.
She understood it.

But they had no future together. He
was only home on leave. She intended to be in a larger entertainment market.
Their destinies didn't mesh.

As a performer, she'd have to travel
on tour. He wouldn't want to tromp around after her. Striving for a career in
the music business made her realize some of the relationships she'd be giving
up. But success was the one goal she'd wanted her whole life, and she was
confident she'd achieve it. It was right around the corner. Singing was her
destiny. Wasn't it? She'd never seen herself as depending on a man to give her
life meaning.
No family. No children.

A tear trailed down her cheek. What
was the point of crying? A performer's life was a lonely one. She'd miss Moira
and Davey. And Marc.

Damn
it! Get off the bed, and do something constructive. Go after what you've always
wanted.

She had a show tonight to get
through, but now she could make plans to move to Chicago and work on breaking into
the clubs.

***

Three hours later, Phoebe strolled
through the back door of Marietty's. For tonight's performance, she'd donned a
black satin pencil skirt that fell just below her kneecaps and a lacy red
bustier topped by a black-sequined bolero jacket.

Checking her makeup in the bathroom
mirror, she added a bit more lip gloss, fluffed her hair, and waited for her
musical cue.

She hoped Marc wouldn't be out
there tonight. She didn't think she could concentrate. The sight of him, the
memory of what they'd done that afternoon, would be too clear in her mind. The
flutterings of sexual arousal had already begun. She had to redirect them to
enhance her performance.

After the first show was over, she
tottered backstage in her sky-high black pumps. She just wanted to sit down for
a few minutes. She hadn't realized how emotionally exhausted she was.

Before she could lower herself to a
chair, something came over her head and all the way down to her waist, hemming
in her arms. An arm around her middle held her still, a hand over her mouth
kept her from screaming. But she could kick and wriggle. It did her no good.
She was also hampered by her tight skirt, but she felt the seams give in her
struggles to use every part of her body for freedom.

It did her no good.

She couldn't breathe. The cloth
over her face terrified her. One minute she fought like a crazy person, the
next she woke up in a confined black space.
Car
engine. Smell of gasoline. Movement.

Then she became aware of pain in
her knees and her shoulder. She lay on her side, her hands bound behind her
back. Trying to move her feet, she realized her ankles were restrained too. She
was trapped in the trunk of a car.

The motion of the car made her
sick, her stomach roiling and pitching. Bouncing around, she had no way of protecting
her head or her body.

I'm
going to die.

She'd do whatever it took to not
let that happen. Not knowing who had her or where they were going didn't help,
though.

It felt like they were driving
uphill. She was thrown against the opening of the trunk. She couldn't even
begin to imagine where they might be. She had no way of knowing how long she'd
been out cold.

Finally they came to a stop. She
stilled and waited. This was it. Whoever it was intended to kill her. Why else
would they kidnap her and treat her so roughly?

Down deep inside, she feared death,
but she also had to face the reality that he or they would rape her. There was
no way of knowing how many there were.

The trunk opened. She looked up
desperately at the outline of a man. Just one, it looked like. He reached in
and hauled her out, roughly scraping her legs in the process. She felt the hot
sting of skin opening and blood trickling out.

"You don't look so good right
now, do you bitch?"

That voice. Her head felt wooly,
but she recognized the voice. "Butch," she whispered brokenly. Where
were they? She heard the roar of rushing water. Birch Falls?

He brutally yanked her arms,
dragging her up higher over the rocks, up the side of the falls. At the very
top he shoved her onto the ground. She cracked her elbow and sobbed.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Let me go. Why are you doing
this, Butch?"

He leaned over her prone body and
slapped her. "You thought you were too good to marry me, did you? Well
when I'm through with you, you'll be begging me. For your life. I wouldn't
marry you now, no matter how you beg me."

"Butch, let me go. I won't
tell anyone about this." It probably wouldn't work, but she had to try
everything.

"You'll be sorry you didn't
accept my proposal. I'll be rich, and our company will run the town."

"Is your dad here?" She
frantically looked around for another person. Surely Mr. Wilcox wouldn't have
anything to do with this.

"I'll get rid of him one of
these days, and then the company will belong only to me. I've been helping him
for years. He just doesn't know it." Butch paced in circles around her.

She couldn't keep him in her field
of vision. He stopped talking for a moment, and all she heard was the
thundering sound of the water. She was all alone with a madman who was going to
kill her.

He thrust his face over hers. There
was more than enough moonlight to see him clearly, see the vicious baring of
his teeth as if he were a predatory animal. His eyes were wide but blinking
rapidly. She was witnessing insanity.

"Butch, please let me go."
She had to try something, even begging.

He grabbed her face and squeezed it
between his thumb and fingers. "I don't care about you anymore. You're
just a hindrance to me. Just like those fucking Rahns."

She stared at him in horror. What
had he done?

"I got rid of them. For my
dad. A fat lot of good it did me. He still thinks I'm a worthless idiot."

He held her so tightly, shook her
so hard she was afraid her jaw would crack and her brains would splatter out.
As if that would matter. She was sure he meant to kill her and in as painful a
way as possible.

He let go but jerked her to her
feet. Dragging her toward the edge of the falls, he growled, "If I can't
have you no one will, you cunt." He halted and pushed her onto the ground
again. "I didn't get more than a lousy kiss. I deserve more than that just
to pay you back for teasing me. You probably willingly gave that fucker Rahn
your snatch."

"No, no, Butch. Please don't
do this."
Rape.
As much as it
hurt since her hands were bound behind her back and she was flat on the ground,
she continued to struggle to fight him off. Her shoulders felt like they were
being pulled out of their sockets. Sharp rocks dug into her back.

She rolled onto her stomach. He
came down hard, sitting on her, and knocking the wind out of her.

"No you don't. I'll ass-fuck
you later. I want to see your tits." He sat up and rolled her over again.

Fighting and squirming to keep him
from ripping off her bustier, she dug her heels in, pushing her body away until
she felt herself sliding over the cliff edge. "No—!"

***

Phoebe was nowhere in the club.
Marc had checked backstage in that ridiculous bathroom-dressing room. He'd
checked the tables, Nelson's office. No one had seen her since she'd gone
offstage.

As he paced the perimeter of the
building, Marc saw a car race out of the parking lot, gravel flying. The driver
looked like Butch Wilcox.
No sign of
Phoebe. Butch speeding away from the club?

His gut tightened in suspicion. The
guy had sounded crazy that afternoon. What if he hurt Phoebe? He checked the
car's direction, ran to his, and headed out. It was a small town, and he was
confident he wouldn't lose the trail.

Except he did lose the trail. A
gaggle of teenagers in rusty buckets turned, tires screeching, onto the street
right in front of him. Laughing and screaming, the kids honked the car horns
and jockeyed around each other, and he couldn't get by.

Finally, he saw his opening,
stomped on the gas, and flew past. Panicking because he'd lost sight of his
quarry, he thought the last time he'd seen the taillights they were heading out
of town on River Road.

He caught a glimpse of rear lights
in his peripheral vision, and he made a quick left into Birch Park. Putting out
his headlights, he followed the asphalt road as best he could in the partial
moonlight.

Then he heard the first screams.
They were coming from above, and he'd have to climb up the rocks lining the
falls. That's when he saw what had to be Phoebe go over the edge and plummet
past him into the pond below, shrieking all the way down.

He dove in. The pond was deep—he
knew that from swimming there as a boy. Splashing into the water seconds later,
he shot to the surface trying to locate her.

"Phoebe! Can you hear me? Shout.
Make a sound."

Treading water, he turned around
and around searching, calling her name. Finally, he heard a weak cry. He turned
toward the sound and spotted her head bobbing in the water. Then she sunk.
Jesus.

Using powerful strokes, he reached
the spot where he'd seen her last and dove down. He bumped into a soft mass.
Phoebe, thank God.

Wrapping an arm around her, he
kicked his legs and used his other arm to propel them both to the surface. He
quickly swam to the pond edge and hoisted her out.
She's tied up. Jesus. She would have drowned.
That amped up his
fury.

He didn't have time to untie her
before he put her on her back and started chest compressions. "Come on,
Phoebs. Breathe, breathe." Over and over he repeated the mantra, begging
her, begging God for her life.

Water dribbled out of her mouth.
That was a good sign. He pumped her chest until she spurted like a water
fountain. Turning her to her side, he held her while she coughed and sputtered
and gasped for breath. "You're okay, honey. You're okay now. Just breathe.
Oh God, Phoebe, you're fine now. I've got you." He fought to get the wet
rope off her wrists then off her ankles.

She was practically naked from the
waist down. The only thing holding her skirt on her was the waistband. She'd
torn the side seams out, showing a teeny thong. The thing on her top looked
tight and made it hard for her to take a deep breath. Taking out his penknife,
he carefully slit the front open to relieve some of the pressure.

She started sobbing.

"Phoebe, you're safe now."

"Marc," she gasped. "Butch.
He was going to rape me—kill me."

He sat on the ground and pulled her
into his arms, rocking her back and forth, needing to calm them both.

"Marc…"

"Shh, honey. He won't get you."

"But Marc, he hurt your
parents. He-he said he got rid of them."

Fuck.
There it was. The bastard admitted it.
"I've got to get him. Are you
all right now, honey? I have to leave you."

"Marc, I'm okay, but let's get
the police. Don't go after him yourself."

"I can handle it." Marc
was horrified. This was what he'd come home to find out, and he'd almost lost
Phoebe because of it.

"I don't want you to get hurt.
I can tell the cops what he said."

"My cell is water-soaked.
Phoebe, there are houses down the road. Try to get to one of them for help. I'll
get Butch." He took off his shirt. "Here." He wrapped it around
her nearly naked body. "This'll cover you up. Now go. Be careful."

"Marc…"

"Go. I'll be fine." He
took a moment to gaze at her. Even wet and bedraggled and wrapped in his shirt,
she was breathtaking. And his.

Wrong time. Wrong place to be hit
with that fact. He had Butch to capture. Urging her toward the road, he took a
deep breath of his own and headed back up the side of the falls. If Butch was
stupid he'd still be there.

He wasn't stupid. Marc reached the
plateau where he'd left his car. Heedless of his sopping clothes, he climbed in
and drove further up the road, hoping but doubting he'd run into Butch. There
was no other car at the highest overlook. No Butch. He'd gotten away.

Fuck!
I left Phoebe alone.