Don't Cry. Beverly BartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
way this woman did.
“Nice to see you again, Tam,” J.D. said, but he was looking at Audrey. “And you, too, Dr. Sherrod.” Without taking his eyes off Audrey, he introduced the woman at his side. “You both know Holly Johnston, don’t you?”
“Ms. Johnston and I have met,” Tam replied.
Before Audrey could mention that she didn’t know Ms. Johnston, Porter reappeared with their champagne. When he saw the other couple, he smiled at the voluptuous blonde in the slinky red dress. The dress barely reached the woman’s knees, revealed a great deal of cleavage, and dipped to her waist in the back.
“You’re looking beautiful, as always, Counselor,” Porter said, his glance blatantly enjoying the scenery. “Holly, have you met my date, Dr. Audrey Sherrod?” He placed his arm possessively around Audrey’s waist. “Sweetheart, you’ve heard me mention Holly. We work together.”
“We were just getting around to introductions.” Audrey did her best to smile. She had learned over the years how to put on a pleasant face and act agreeable regardless of how she actually felt.
So, Holly, the blond goddess, was an assistant district attorney, just as Porter was. She vaguely remembered him mentioning this drop-dead-gorgeous woman in the DA’s office who was a real barracuda in the courtroom. Audrey suspected that J.D. Cass’s date was a barracuda in the bedroom, too.
“Y’all will have to excuse me,” Tam said. “I see my husband motioning for me. I think it’s almost time to bring out Dad’s birthday cake.”
Within minutes of Tam’s departure, DA Everett Harrelson joined them and the conversation quickly turned into shop talk with Porter, Holly, and their boss. Audrey took several discreet steps back and away from the foursome, hoping she could inconspicuously slip away so that she could wish Willie a happy birthday before they presented him with his cake. Audrey thought she wouldn’t be missed for several minutes and was about to make her escape when Special Agent Cass smoothly maneuvered himself away from Holly, who didn’t seem to notice that she was losing her date. At least temporarily.
J.D. came up beside Audrey. “Looks like our dates are ignoring us.” He held out his hand. “Would you care to dance, Dr. Sherrod?’
Audrey hesitated for half a second. “I…uh…”
“It’s just a dance, not a lifetime commitment,” he said jokingly.
“Thank you, Special Agent Cass, I’d love to dance.”
She took his hand and he led her onto the dance floor.
“My name’s J.D.,” he told her as he slipped his arm around her.
“I’m Audrey.”
“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“What?” She eyed him quizzically.
“Our getting on a first-name basis.”
“Are we playing some sort of game, J.D.? If we are, clue me in.”
He chuckled, and damn it, she liked the sound. Deep and robust and genuine.
“You have a nice smile,” he told her.
She hadn’t even been aware that she was smiling. “Do you always flirt with every woman you meet?”
“Who says I’m flirting?”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing, flirting with me because you’re aggravated that your date is distracted by her boss and coworker?”
He chuckled again, as if he found her comment highly amusing.
Audrey felt a flush of heat warm her from head to toes. She hoped her sudden awareness of just how close her dance partner was holding her didn’t show on her face.
“You’re an open book,” Tam had once told her. “Everything you’re feeling shows on your face.”
“Holly and I don’t have that kind of relationship,” J.D. said.
“What kind is that?”
“The kind where I’d be aggravated or jealous that she’s ignoring me in favor of spending time with her boss and her coworker.”
“Then you two aren’t seriously involved?”
“I’m never seriously involved. Not since my divorce six years ago. What about you—are you and Beau Brummell engaged, going steady, or just sleeping together?”
Audrey laughed spontaneously, thoroughly amused by J.D. dubbing the fastidious Porter with the name of the best-known dandy of all time.
“Porter and I are not engaged,” she said. “And we’re a little too old to go steady. Besides, I think that term is passé, but I have no idea what teenagers call it these days.” She gave her last statement several moments of consideration before saying, “And whether or not we’re sleeping together is none of your business.”
J.D. grinned.
Damn if the man wasn’t dangerously sexy. And he probably knew it. Guys like that always did, didn’t they?
“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “It would be my business only if you and I were—”
“And we are not!” Audrey, Audrey, why did you finish the man’s sentence for him? Why such an adamant statement of fact?
With that damn sexy smile unwavering, he agreed. “No, we aren’t.”
As if on cue the music stopped, the dance ended, and J.D. led her off the dance floor. She pulled away from him.
“I’m going to find Willie and wish—”
Too late. The waiters wheeled out an enormous six-tier cake placed in the center of a serving cart and the band played “Happy Birthday.” The partygoers, including Audrey and J.D., joined in the song. As the well-wishers crowded together around the guest of honor, J.D. eased his arm around Audrey’s waist. Ambivalent feelings toward the man warred inside her and a damn army of butterflies did a war dance in her belly.
Debra didn’t know if it was daylight or dark outside in the real world. Here in the macabre otherworld in which she existed, it was always night. It could be twelve noon or twelve midnight for all she knew. It could be Monday or Friday. Perhaps she had been here for a week, or it could have been a month.
What did it matter?
“Rock him to sleep,” the voice told her. “Lovingly. Tenderly. He needs a mother’s gentle touch.”
She held the bundle in her arms and immediately began crooning the lullaby she knew he expected her to sing to the object wrapped in the soft blue blanket. How many times had they repeated this ritual? Dozens? Hundreds? She had lost count. Odd how rocking and singing to the skeleton of a small child had become a routine, one she no longer viewed with utter horror. Her entire world was now confined to this small space, an area with hard floors and walls too distant to see in the semidarkness in which she now lived. As far as she knew, the rocking chair where she was confined was the only piece of furniture in the room.
He had not harmed her, at least not physically. He kept her feet loosely bound so that even when she was allowed to move around, she had to hobble. And whenever he left her, he tied her wrists to the chair arms. He brought her food and water. He allowed her to wash herself and even brush her hair; and he provided an old-fashioned slop jar for her to use. But the indignity of having to bathe in front of him and even relieve herself with him standing nearby had added to the emotional trauma she had endured every moment of her captivity.
In the beginning, she had been afraid that he would rape her, but it soon became apparent that his reasons for abducting her and holding her prisoner had nothing to do with sex. Then she’d wondered if he would eventually torture her. He hadn’t. But the psychological torment was just as bad as physical torture would have been, perhaps worse.
She felt