Bruce was back on duty at the gate while Steve did a perimeter check, walking the long fence line that enclosed the ten-acre property. He knew Virginia was still inside, having spoken to the boss on his way out just after dawn.

It was turning into a beautiful day, still and warm, an indication that spring was just around the corner. He tilted his head to the sun, appreciating the peaceful quiet while trying to clear some of the cobwebs from the previous night's drinking.

Steve's voice on his two-way broke the morning calm. "There's something on the wall back here, looks like . . ." A beep severed the connection.

Bruce held his breath, now agitated by the silence.

Another beep. Then, "Rubber!"

Bruce spun on his heels to look at the house. The concrete fence was eight feet tall and had an electrified cord running across the top of it. Rubber could be used as an insulator.

Someone had come over the wall.

Movement caught his eye. The drapes in Mark's bedroom window were closing. Further in, a shadowed figure walked past the shrinking opening.

It wasn't her.

He hauled the radio to his mouth as he ran to the gatehouse. "Someone's in the house," he shouted.

Inside, he slammed his palm on the button and threw down the hand-held before bursting out the back door and tearing off toward the house as fast as his legs would carry him.

)l(

Virginia stepped out of the shower, feeling rejuvenated after lingering under the warm spray. She wrapped herself up in one of Mark's large bath towels and headed toward his bedroom. As she passed under the archway separating the two rooms, she looked up, sensing a—

Walt was standing stock-still in the middle of the room, feet shoulder width apart, hands on hips. Waiting for her.

"Walt?" Her eyes scanned the rest of the room. "What are you doing here?"

She pulled the towel tighter. He was oddly disheveled, dirty even, wearing work clothes that looked slept in. His eyes were unreadable, shadowed by the ball cap pulled low on his forehead.

"You disappoint me, Virginia," he said in a dark voice. "I knew I would find you here." He wagged his finger at her.

That was when she noticed the latex gloves.

A flicker of dread shot up her spine. "I was still shaken up from yesterday and—"

"Shut up!" he yelled, making her jump. "I don't want to hear your excuses anymore!" He crossed the distance between them and walked behind her, taking hold of her wrist. Concentrating on keeping the towel on, she didn't have a chance to react before he grabbed the other and—

The feel of hard metal and a soft click told her what he had done.

He leaned into her shoulder and whispered, "How does it feel to be locked in your own handcuffs?" Seizing her jaw in a rough grip, he pushed his face into her hair and inhaled. "God, you smell good," he murmured, his hot breath hitting her ear.

"Walt . . . wh—what are you doing?" She strained against the handcuffs even though she knew it was futile.

He stayed silent for a moment before moving around in front of her again. "You know I tried being the nice guy." His head tilted from side-to-side in time with, "Sweet. Obedient. Walt." He sighed. "For years I sat there, hoping you would notice me. Do you know how many women I've fucked over the last few years?"

Jesus, no, why would she. "Wha . . . I—"

"Of course you don't." He shrugged. "Hell, I don't even know. I've lost count. But I can tell you this . . ." He suddenly moved closer, and she jerked her head back. Picking up a section of her hair, he rolled it between his fingers. "Every one of them was a brunette."

Her gaze shifted across the room. The bedroom door seemed miles away but it was the only choice. The bathroom behind her was an open archway, so barricading herself inside was not an—

"Look at me!" Dropping the strands, he clamped his hand over her jaw again, squeezing until her teeth hurt. "Ah, yes. A man could get lost in those eyes. Do you know how hard it is to find a brunette with green eyes?"

Fear washed over her. She shook her head as much as his tight grip would allow.

His smile was bitter. "Sometimes I had to improvise . . . I made them shut theirs while I fucked them."

Her blood ran cold. Oh, God.

"Or I blindfolded them." He let her go and stepped away. "They'd been willing, most of them anyway, thinking I was into the kinky stuff. It was all too fucking easy. They were all too fucking easy."

Her muscles twitched as she waited for the perfect moment to run. She needed to distract him, keep him talking until he let his guard down. Desperate, she tried to take advantage of his admitted obsession. "Enzo was going to kill me yesterday."

"Yeah, I know. My phone, remember?" he muttered as his gaze moved down her body.

She squeezed her arms tight against the towel, willing it to stay put. "I . . . you said it was stolen."

His focus snapped back to her face. "I thought the whole contract thing was excessive—I told Gus that—but it forced us together so I couldn't complain too much. I was willing to wait, to protect you, even when you told me there had been someone else."

"That's over." The lie tasted like bile as it rolled out of her mouth. "I told Mark about us, that we've been seeing each other. He wasn't pleased, but took pity on me and let me stay overnight. It was only for safety—"

"Liar!" He stepped closer, his bloodshot eyes bulging wide. "I know you had sex with him. I can smell it in the air." He turned up his nose. "All the dates we went on where you could barely stand to kiss me, but you spread your legs wide for a man who has already dumped you once at the first sign of adversity."

She winced at his brutal wording. Truth hurts, spouted in her head, the "coach" from the previous day having returned, a little more sullen with its counsel, acting less like a good conscience, more like a guilty one.

"I can tolerate a lot of things, but I am not interested in Spinelli's discards." Walt lifted his hands, rotating them in front of him as if inspecting the gloves for holes. "You know, I actually liked Jack."

Jack. She stopped breathing.

"He was pretty cool . . . until he thought he had a real chance with you." He rolled his eyes. "Then he got so whiny, wanting to quit all the time, had this huge guilt, kept threatening to go to Cap and confess what we were doing." He sighed. "I had to do something. His death was unfortunate, messy, expensive . . . yet necessary."

No! she screamed in her head with a vengeance, the anger clearing away some of the panic and helping her think. "Walt, I don't know what you mean. But it doesn't matter. I'm glad you're—"

He yanked the cap off to scratch an itch, revealing a completely shaved head.

Her voice faltered and she could only whisper, "Walt?"

He pointed a gloved finger at his head. "Oh, you like?" A forced laugh teetered between sanity and madness. "Wouldn't want to leave any DNA—the red hair had to go."

Oh, God, he plans to kill me. She started to shake.

He shrugged as he pulled the cap back on. "I'll have to make up some excuse at work. Maybe I'll take up swimming. It's aerodynamic, you know."

"Please, Walt, I—"

"No more talking!" Walt reached forward and wrenched the towel free, dropping it to the floor. His eyes raked over her. "It's unfortunate it had to end this way, but you only have yourself to blame."

Her shoulders rolled forward, an instinctive attempt to hide from his leer. He seemed to interpret the cowering as submission, closing his eyes to take a deep inhale.

She made a run for the door.

With her hands pinned behind her, she had to turn around to grope for the knob. "No," she cried out, seeing Walt start toward her.

Her hand found metal and she pulled hard, shuffling forward as the door hit into her back. Turning, she went to dart through the opening, but an arm snapped around her waist, lifting and hauling her backward. She screamed as loud as she could out to the living room.

He slammed her back against the bedroom wall, pinning her against it with his hips. "Nobody out there to hear you," he hissed in her ear.

She screamed again.

He stepped back and slapped her hard across the face, spinning her into the wall. She kept her face pressed against its cool surface, taking short panting breaths through the apex of the burn across her cheek. At least the pain had brought the "coach" back to her corner, the voice in her head yelling, You're his boss. Take charge!

She turned to confront him.

Ignoring the fact that she was naked and at his mercy, she concentrated on Jack, picturing him locked inside that burning building. The anger rose, an explosive pressure building against her ribs until it vented through her voice. "Stop it!" she shouted.

His hand came up and she flinched, expecting another hit. Instead, fingers speared into her hair and twisted into a fist, sending a ripping pain along her scalp. "You are in no position to give orders, Lieutenant."

Pulling her by the hair, he crossed the room and tossed her forward onto the unmade bed. She bounced once and scrambled to her knees, hoping to make it to the far side. But he was too fast for her, bound as she was. Grabbing one ankle, he wrenched her body around and tugged her toward the footboard. Then he reached down to his belt, pulled out a disposable restraint, and tied her to the bed rail. She kicked at him with her free foot, but it was to no avail. Capturing it as it thrashed, he tied it up as well, forcing her into a splayed out position. The restraints cut into her ankles when she pulled against them.

"Walt, stop this. I'm begging you to stop." She started to cry, her body shaking.

"Is that what you do when he's inside you? Beg him to stop?" His face was red from the exertion or the rage or both.

She didn't know this man. He was a stranger. A killer.

He moved onto the bed and knelt between her legs. She jerked upward in an awkward attempt to head-butt him in the nose, but he grabbed her by the neck and forced her back down to the mattress.

Paalease," he drew out. "I know you a little too well for that."

He reached back, pulling something from the rear of his belt. The weak glimmer of fight she still had faded away when she saw Mark's knife, the one with the hook. Her eyes shot to the spot just inside the bathroom where their clothes lay. The holster was strewn across the top of the pile—one sheath empty.

She had walked right past it and not even noticed.

"Look familiar?" he asked, his voice soft, almost soothing. He held it up in the air, turning it back and forth, smiling with fascination as it shimmered in the glow of the ceiling lights. He kept his eyes on the blade, twisting it as he spoke, "He will be blamed for your death, of course. His house. His bed. His knife. Everyone knows you two have had irreconcilable differences. It's been a public spectacle for Christ's sake."

"No . . . please . . . don't . . ."

He lowered his head to look at her, a sinister ecstasy radiating in his stare. "It's fucking perfect."

END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

:( Will Bruce make it on time? 

Let me know if you never liked Walt. I know a few of you are out there.