M.J. Rodgers - Beauty Vs. The Beast

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This is dedicated to Randall Toye with special thanks for his vote of confidence in its concept.

K.O. (Kay) Kellogg—This attorney’s arguing a dynamite case. With luck it won’t blow up in her face.

Damian Steele—He’s the psychologist who “killed” the nasty personality of a dual-personality patient.

Lee/Roy Nye—Lee is the dual-personality patient; Roy no longer exists. Or does he?

Rodney Croghan—He’s the attorney for the plaintiff, a conniving and ruthless opponent.

Fedora Nye—She’s the woman who’s suing Damian for murdering her husband’s personality.

Tim Haley—He was Damian’s receptionist. Now he’s too angry to work with him.

Priscilla Payton—She’s a lady scorned and maybe a lady out for vengeance.

Larry Nye—He’s the son of the “murdered” man, a chip off the old block.

Bette Boson—She’s another multiple-personality patient with even more severe problems.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Angry sounds rumbled through the walls.

The little boy rocked sleepily awake as the thunderous sounds shook his small body. His eyes blinked open to darkness.

He burrowed his head beneath his covers, cupping his ears with his palms, trying to block out the sounds. But the violent, unrelenting blows pounded ever more fiercely against his eardrums, making them feel sore and beaten.

He grabbed the pillow and dragged it beneath the covers. He wrapped it around his head to muffle his ears. If he could no longer hear the sounds, maybe he could make them go away.

Please.

But the angry sounds kept getting louder, closer.

He threw the pillow aside and snatched the covers off his head. He dived for the edge of the mattress. His feet tangled in the sheet and blanket. He fell to the floor, kicking and squirming, clumsily trying to free himself.

Frantically, he fought with the bedding and with the tears of terror beading onto his cheeks as the precious seconds slipped away.

And the angry pounding came closer, ever closer.

His tiny fingers clawed at the wood-slat floor as he inched himself beneath his bed. The bulky bedding got caught on the bed frame. He pulled his feet free of it just as the pounding stopped right outside his bedroom door.

He flattened himself beneath the bed as panic welled sick in his stomach and the rough wooden planks scored his delicate cheek.

The door to his bedroom banged open. The hallway light blinded him. He raised a shaking hand to shade his eyes, peering through the slits between his small fingers.

He could see the hideous dark hump swaying in the doorway, so immense its shadow pressed against the walls and climbed to the very ceiling. It was the demon from hell, its eyes glowing red, its rancid stench of smoke and acrid alcohol burning the little boy’s sensitive nostrils.

He opened his mouth to scream—great, lung-emptying, panic-packed shrieks that tragically could make no sound at all, except in the deepest and darkest recesses of his mind.

For he knew he could not let the demon hear his screams, or the reasons for them would only get so much worse.

The demon bellowed its angry thunder throughout the boy’s small body as it stomped into the room, lifted the empty mattress off the bed and threw it against the wall. This was just the beginning of its search. And the longer it searched and could not find him, the more furious it would get. And the more terrible the punishment would eventually be.

The little boy knew he was worthless and deserved everything he got. He had been told that often enough. He should come out from under the bed now and submit to his punishment.

But the little boy couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t willingly give up to this angry, hurtful demon. He had to try to escape just one more time.

The demon stomped over to the closet and yanked open the door, growling and kicking and slamming its huge fists against the closet wall when it realized its prey was not there.

The little boy knew his chance had come. He slid out from under the bed and quickly scampered over to the bedroom door.

His heart hammered in his chest as he ran down the hallway as fast as his legs could carry him.

He must hide. But where could he go? He’d been found in the living room behind the couch. He’d been found in the kitchen under the table. He’d even been found in the laundry room at the bottom of the hamper beneath a pile of dirty clothes.

Maybe the demon wouldn’t think to look in that old storage shed behind the garage. The little boy jumped uncontrollably as the next angry bellow shook the hallway walls. It was coming out of the bedroom.

He had to get away. He could think of nowhere else to go. He would head for the shed.

The little boy’s bare feet slapped on the floorboards as he ran for the back door. He grasped the knob and pulled it open. The freezing night air hit him like an icy slap. He held tightly to the rickety banister as he scurried down the porch stairs. But in the panic of his headlong rush, he tripped on the steps and fell face first onto the frozen ground.

He landed hard, the breath knocked from his body. He could hear the demon bellowing once more from inside the house. The little boy gasped for air, forcing himself to lie still against the icy ground, against the chilling terror, until his lungs filled again and his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

He began to make out the faint silhouette of the garage. He got to his hands and knees and crawled beside its rough stucco wall until he reached the old, dilapidated shed behind it. He scrambled to his feet.

His small hands stretched above his head to feel for the rusted iron latch. With all his strength, he pulled the heavy wooden door toward him. He slipped inside the shed and closed the door behind him, hearing the latch click into place.

The shed was absolutely black. The hard earth floor was like ice beneath his bare feet. His knees and palms stung from his fall down the stairs.

The little boy paid no heed to these physical discomforts. He felt his way slowly over the rough-hewn, wood-splintered walls until he had reached the farthermost corner. He leaned his back against it and sunk to the ground.

It took a very long time before his heart stopped pounding against his thin ribs, before his breath stopped wheezing through his small lungs. Finally, he drifted into a blessed numbness, a welcome respite from the ripping terror.

He didn’t know how long he huddled there, but gradually he began to feel very cramped and tired and awfully cold. He shifted his position slightly, only to have his bare toes poked by the stiff bristles of a nearby broom. He longed to be stretched out on his bed beneath a warm blanket.

But he knew there were things much worse than being cramped and tired and cold. Much worse.