Ophelia Read online

  Lucas opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, hesitated, then let his mouth shut with an audible click. He set his jaw in a firm line. “Then I meet this outsider first. If I don’t like him, he goes.”

  At that moment, she would have agreed to anything.

  Mack Turner wasn’t just an outsider. He was a New Yorker. From Staten Island, to be exact.

  And he was. It seemed very important to him to make that distinction.

  Even if he hadn’t made sure to announce that within minutes of arriving at Ophelia, she would’ve had to ask where he was from. His harsh, nasally accent was noticeably different from any other voice in Hamlet.

  He looked different, too. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was about it him, though. She supposed he was handsome enough. Broad in the shoulders, a muscular build, nice summer tan. He wore his dark brown hair long in the front, short in the back. His eyes were just as dark. He had a small dip in his chin, and a smile showed off perfect teeth. A pair of expensive sunglasses kept his hair out of his face.

  When he stood next to Lucas, Turner was a few inches shorter than her brother. Maria made a mental note to wear flats around her guest.

  To Lucas’s annoyance, he couldn’t find any reason to turn the outsider away. Turner was polite, the perfect gentleman. Despite his odious accent, he said all the right things. Maria chose to give him the Blue Room—an upstairs guest room which showed her brother that she had some sense—and he turned in while Lucas was still at Ophelia.

  He even paid in advance for the five days he planned to be in town.

  Lucas offered to stay over, just in case. Maria laughed off his concerns. Then, when she realized how serious her brother was, she dragged him to the front door and shoved him out. He never spent the night when she had other guests. So what if Turner was an outsider?

  She would be fine. And she was. For the first three days that he was staying at Ophelia.

  On the third night, everything changed.

  6

  Strictly speaking, Ophelia was a bed and breakfast. Maria’s aim was to provide a warm and cozy bed, plus a hearty breakfast for her guests.

  With the arrival of Mack Turner, she added something new: the outsider special. She couldn’t help herself. For no added fee, she offered a home-cooked meal for supper as well. She thought it would be a nice touch, something that might set her apart from other B&B’s.

  And, okay, she secretly wanted to spend a little time with the outsider. His accent still grated on her nerves and, once or twice, she caught him looking at her in a strange way, but he was a model guest who humored her when it came to her questions about what life was like outside of Hamlet.

  Turner did a lot of traveling. He never really came out and said what he did for a living, choosing to call himself a glorified delivery boy. Someone hired him when they had something they needed transported all over the country and wanted more of a personal touch.

  She could appreciate that.

  That was how he found his way into Hamlet. His truck was running down after being on the road so many days in a row. When it started to hiccup and belch black smoke, he got off at the first exit he saw. It was narrow and bumpy and he told Maria he was worried he was going to end up somewhere with backwoods hillbillies who tried to eat him or something. He was pleasantly surprised when he found Hamlet instead.

  So surprised and impressed, he explained to Maria, that he decided to treat himself to the five-day stay in her bed and breakfast. He’d already made his last delivery for this trip and was on his way back to New York. Why not take a vacation where there was such beautiful scenery?

  He punctuated that comment with a pointed look that made Maria more than a little uncomfortable.

  On that third night, he thanked her for the cavatelli and broccoli she made for them for supper. A taste of home, he said after he told her it was some of the best Italian food he’d ever had. Coming from Staten Island, that was saying something, he explained.

  She smiled at his compliments, cleaning up the kitchen around him. The looks were getting more frequent, more searching. When he broached the topic of paying for a couple more nights, she made a non-committal sound in reply.

  She would never admit it to Lucas but, the longer the outsider stayed, the more she wanted him gone.

  It seemed as if Turner would never go to sleep. He hung out in the kitchen later than he had the previous two nights. By the time he finally went upstairs to the Blue Room, it was well past ten.

  Normally, Maria read by the light of her nightstand lamp until she was sleepy. That night, after playing hostess the last few hours left her drained, she changed into her nightclothes—an oversized t-shirt and a pair of summer shorts—and went right to sleep.

  Maria wasn’t sure what woke her up. The movement of the blanket being pulled back from the bed. The rustle of her sheet. The dip in the mattress as someone climbed into her bed.

  Someone was climbing into her bed!

  Her eyes sprang open. She had just enough time to see the silhouette of a broad-shouldered man looming over her.

  “Mr. Turner! What—”

  He clamped his hand over her mouth. He brushed his body against hers before resting most of his weight on her side, pinning her to the bed. Maria lashed out with her left hand, trying to shove him away from her.

  Turner was unmoveable. Frantically, she pushed. Her hand slid against his flesh. Beneath his palm, she moaned in fright. He was shirtless. And he was climbing on top of her.

  “Shh, Maria. It’s okay. I know you want this.”

  She moved her head back and forth. No, no, no! Her terror gave her strength. One quick shove and there was enough room for her to scratch at his chest with her nails.

  He clucked his tongue, making a grab for her wrist with his free hand. He jerked her arm over her head, pinning her hand to her pillow. “That wasn’t nice,” he scolded. “I’m doing something nice for you. You don’t want to scratch me again, or maybe this won’t be as good for you as it’ll be for me.”

  Oh God. Oh God.

  Turner moved his lower body, pressing closer to Maria. She felt his erection digging into her hip and went motionless. She couldn’t pretend that this wasn’t happening. Which mean that, if she was going to stop him, she had to stop him.

  When she didn’t continue to fight him, he took that as a sign that she was accepting him. Accepting what he was going to do to her. Letting go of her wrist, he ran his hand down the side of her face. Stroking her. Petting her.

  “That’s a good girl. I could tell that you were waiting for me to make a move. Nice innocent girl like you, you wouldn’t come out and ask for it. Don’t worry. You don’t have to. Lie back and relax. You’ll love this.”

  She’d rather die first.

  But maybe she wouldn’t have to. Just because she never actually believed thought that she was in danger in Hamlet, it didn’t mean she was a complete idiot. She was a young woman who lived alone in a big house. So what if the only people in Hamlet who had firearms were Caitlin and her deputies? Maria had a different sort of protective weapon.

  And she only had one shot.

  Bucking her body, she surprised Turner enough that he pulled away from her. She immediately reached out with her right arm, throwing all of her weight towards that side of her bed, aimlessly grasping along the floor.

  Where is it? Where is it? Where— Yes!

  With an angry curse, he grabbed her arm, threw her bodily back onto the bed. “You’re not gonna get away from me!” he sneered, squeezing both of her cheeks roughly as he turned her head to face him.

  He was grinding her teeth together. It hurt like hell but she still managed to shoot back, “Wanna bet?”

  Then, with as much strength as she could summon, Maria took the bat she kept stored under her bed and whacked him wherever she could hit.

  The instant the wood cracked against the back of his leg, his grip on her cheek went slack. Maria took advantage of his lapse by turning
her head and biting down on the fleshy part of his palm.

  Turner’s shriek was deafening. And yet it seemed like a dull roar compared to the thunder of her beating heart and the blood rushing to her head.

  He yanked his hand back wildly, slapping her in the face hard. Once. Twice. Slap. Slap. Maria barely felt the sting. But when he jammed the thumb on his other hand into the fleshy underside of her chin, he got her to release her teeth.

  Blood filled her mouth. It tasted like rusty metal smelled, foul and hot, and only fueled her animalistic drive to get out of this as the victor, not the victim. As quick as she could, she scrambled back in her bed, bumping up against the headboard. She clutched the handle of the bat between her fingers, ready to strike again.

  Turner cradled his hand, looking down at it in disbelief. This close, she could see the teeth marks and the well of dark red that filled them.

  “You bitch,” he snarled. “You took a chunk out of my hand! What the hell is wrong with you— hey! What did you do that for?”

  She spat the blood at his face. It hit him right in the eye. He immediately lifted his good hand to wipe at it.

  And made the mistake of looking away.

  Now!

  The bat whooshed, slicing through the air as Maria aimed for Turner’s head and missed it only by inches.

  Turner fell on his back, his features twisted in a look of oh, shit. One part terror, one part lust, he licked his lips and scrambled back. She still had the bat, her chest heaving in a way that drew his eye.

  But then she reared back again, preparing to swing, and Turner realized that, no matter how much he wanted this woman—and, oh, did he want her—he really, really misread the signals she was sending him. Because Maria De Angelis wasn’t glaring at him like she wanted him anything other than dead.

  Too bad.

  It didn’t matter that she said no. The second he got inside of her, she’d be screaming yes.

  He just had to get the bat away from her first.

  Her fighting turned him on. From the other side of the bed, he leered at Maria. Her nightshirt slipped during the struggle, revealing her tan shoulder and enough skin to have him lick his lips again. Her long hair was mussed from sleep; he couldn’t wait to see it wild and untamed after he tugged it through his hands as he took her. He’d been fantasizing about her hair for days now.

  “Don’t make this hard on yourself, baby.” Turner panted as he spoke, his dark eyes glazed over in perverse desire. “You’ll enjoy it more.”

  “Touch me again,” she warned in a low voice, “and I’ll kill you.”

  Ignoring her warning, he walked towards her on his knees.

  Maria choked up on the bat. With two hands on it, she could really swing.

  Turner dove just in time to miss getting his head bashed in.

  “You mean it,” he said, almost amazed. “You crazy, fucking bitch. You’re really trying to kill me!”

  He climbed quickly, awkwardly out of the bed. Her blanket tangled around his foot as he stepped back, dragging it with him. He kicked it aside, leaving it on the floor, before taking a few hesitant steps backward.

  She followed after him, stalking him like a lioness. “Get out now or, so help me God, I will.”

  Turner took one moment to gauge his odds. Maria was slender, delicate, but she was nearly his height. She might even be taller than him. He had the muscle, the strength. She had a fucking bat and an untapped fury he never would’ve expected from her.

  Holy shit. She would kill him.

  He held up his hands. The tent in his boxers started to go down as his excitement deflated. He slid his gaze to his left, trying to see how far he was from the door. In his arrogance and his haste, he left the door open. Afraid to give her his back but aware he had no choice, Mack Turner cursed out loud, turned for the door and ran.

  She wanted him to go. Needed him to get out of Ophelia. But his flight set off some predatory instinct in her. It wasn’t enough for him to dash away. She absolutely needed to race after him.

  Blinded by rage and fear, Maria swung her bat high as she chased him out of her room, down the hall and through the foyer.

  She knew the layout of the house far better than he did. He was still faster than her. Sprinting as if the devil himself was on his tail, he reached the front door seconds in front of Maria. It was enough. He flung the door open and, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, Mack Turner ran out into the cool summer night.

  For one second, she debated continuing the chase. Her sanctuary was already breached—why not follow his path, escape from Ophelia, and make him pay?

  Because, the little voice inside her yelled as it struggled to be heard over the pounding in her skull, she was better than that. Gripping the edge of the front door, Maria slammed it behind him. A full body tremble coursed through her.

  Dio mio. Oh my God.

  What should she do now?

  Call Lucas.

  She returned to her bedroom, pointedly avoiding the sight of the disturbed sheets, the blanket on the floor. Her radio was on her nightstand. Too far away to be any good when she was fighting Turner, but right where she needed it now.

  Her hands were shaking so bad, the communicator slipped right out of her grasp. Not the bat, though. That sucker was all but glued to her palm. Maria didn’t think it was possible to pry her fingers from the death grip they had on the handle. If that figlio di puttana dared to come back, he’d find her ready for him.

  And, this time, she wouldn’t miss.

  Angling her bat so that the top of the barrel was tucked beneath her arm, Maria swooped down, cursed again when the radio slipped through her fingers, then snatched it off of her floor with so much force that she made the heavy-duty plastic groan.

  A twist of one knob, a flick of a switch and then her thumb jammed the button on the side. She didn’t waste time on a page. She had a direct line to Lucas’s private channel and if she could use it when she wanted to tell Lucas about the time she added salt to her snickerdoodles instead of sugar, she could damn well call for her brother when she needed him.

  “Luc? Lucas? Are you there?”

  Please be there, she prayed. Struggling to catch her breath, her chest kept rising and falling as she tried to calm down. The heft of her silver cross lying against the frantic thump of her racing heart was a comforting weight. Please, please, please.

  There was a crackle, then silence, before she heard a slightly rough voice echo through her communicator. “Maria? Is that you? What time is it?”

  He sounded like he’d been sleeping. Her page must have woken him up. The relief caused her to sag against the bed frame. Still, she clung tight to the saving grace that was her Louisville Slugger.

  “Lucas, yes!” Her voice, already so throaty, went thick with unshed tears. “Thank the Lord you answered!”

  “Okay, okay. Wait. You never buzz this late. And you’re never this happy to talk to me.” Lucas swore under his breath—in English, of course—before demanding, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  His sudden panic and utter control reached out, almost like it slapped at her through the radio. Maria took in a deep breath that managed to calm her more than anything up until that point. So focused on simply getting Lucas on the line, it never occurred to her that she’d actually have to admit the reason why she paged him.

  It suddenly struck her that calling her brother might not have been the smartest thing she could’ve done. He’d been watching out for her his entire life. He would blame himself for what Turner tried to do. Of course he would.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  The tears pissed her off because she wasn’t sad. She was furious. Furious at Turner for slipping into her room when she trusted him to spend the night in the Blue Room. Angry and bitter at the fact that she slept soundly without ever expecting that anyone in Hamlet was capable of breaking that trust, outsider or not. Pissed that Lucas could rightly say I told you so and, because she’d been hurt, he never would.<
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  Using the back of her hand, she dashed away the tears. She took a second to compose herself. Right then, it wasn’t about her. Maria chased Turner off—he was the least of her worries.

  No. This was about Lucas. Her heart slowed while her brain whirred. She already set off her brother’s guard dog instincts. She’d have to handle it before a bad situation got worse.

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” she began tentatively, “it’s not as bad as that.”

  “Which means that it’s still bad, Maria Lucia. What. Happened?”

  Maria echoed his earlier oath. Merda. He brought out the big guns. Her middle name.

  “I’ll tell you, I swear, but first you have to promise me something, okay?” She gentled her voice, hoping he couldn’t hear the strain she couldn’t quite hide. Now that Turner was gone and she was safe, her first priority was to keep Lucas calm. She couldn’t say exactly why it was so important, just that it was. Her gut told her so and, after the way it saved her tonight, she would forever listen to her instincts. She gripped her radio tightly. “Can you do that, Luc?”

  “You have three seconds to explain yourself before I head over there to see what happened for myself.”

  “Jesus,” she exploded, both her temper and patience in tattered shreds, “just promise!”

  “Whoa. Okay. Fine. I promise.”

  She exhaled a rough breath. “Don’t get mad.”

  Lucas was holding on by a thread. She heard him sigh, before he said in a strained voice, “I’ll try my best. You’re already pushing it. Now, what’s wrong?”

  How could she make an attempted assault not sound too bad? Taking a deep breath, she tried.

  And, oh boy, did she fail miserably.

  7

  Once the adrenaline faded away into a shocked sort of acceptance that something like that could happen in Hamlet—could happen to her—Maria thought she would cry. Scream.

  Instead, she crawled.