Julie Miller - Man with the Muscle

Man with

the Muscle

Julie Miller

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Cover

Title Page Man with the Muscle Julie Miller www.millsandboon.co.uk

About the Author About the Author JULIE MILLER attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance. Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Copyright

JULIE MILLERattributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.

The acrid stench of fear and burnt flesh tainted her expensive perfume and quickened his pulse as he put out his cigarette on her sculpted cheekbone.

Her silent scream spasmed through her and she gurgled beneath his hand on her throat, sputtering words with no sound. Her eyes pleaded, wept, their vain tilt not so pronounced as they’d been out on the terrace yesterday evening, laughing at him in the moonlight.

His gloved hand was dark against her alabaster skin.He carefully tucked the cigarette butt into his pocket. It was a lousy, disgusting habit, but tonight had called for something special. He brought both hands to her neck, squeezing a little harder, then easing his grip before closing off her airway again—teasing her, tormenting her with the false promise of freedom.

Just as she had tormented him with her promises.

No more. He was the one with the power over her now. He was the one in control of their destinies. He couldn’t be hurt. He couldn’t be used. He wouldn’t be denied. Strength surged through him. Dominance. Superiority. His hands jerked around her throat as the anger consumed and cleansed him.

His breath came deeper, stronger as hers constricted. He straddled her chest and sat, feeling her writhe helplessly, weakly, futilely beneath him.

“You’re not so high and mighty now, are you, Gretchen?” He pulled up his stocking mask, wanting her to see his eyes, to know he was the one who’d put her in her place. “You want to rethink saying no to me?”

She nodded.

Tears and desperation and the blood on her cheek made her look vulnerable, more human than the icy beauty who’d led him on for so many months—smiling at him, sharing conversations, accepting his gifts—yet ultimately dismissing him as if he was of no more importance than a piece of furniture. For a moment, he paused to tenderly brush aside the damp golden hair that stuck to her forehead. She looked beautiful, stretched out beneath him, begging to do his bidding. This was how it could have been between them—how it should have been. He wanted to kiss her. He nearly did. But no, he wouldn’t leave even that little trace of DNA. He was too smart for that.

Too smart for all of them.

Stupid bitches.

“Too late.” With a snap, he crushed her windpipe. In a matter of seconds, she was dead.

When the spark faded from her eyes, it took his rage and need with him and he breathed a sigh of relief. He reached for his bag.

Precisely three minutes later, he set about the tasks of cleaning her wounds, untying her wrists and ankles and rewinding the electrical cords before returning them to their storage compartment inside the bag. He wrapped her in her pink silk robe and carried her into the adjoining room where he laid her on the bed and arranged her just so, crossing her hands over her heart in sweet repose, draping her hair over her damaged cheek, carefully removing one of her diamond earrings and closing her eyes.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

He returned to the opulent, oversize bathroom where he’d surprised her and quickly rolled up the drop cloth he’d used and cleaned any other signs of his presence there. Finally, he stripped off the tan coveralls he wore, packing them and his gloves inside his bag. When he was certain the upstairs hallway was clear, he hurried down the back steps and locked the bag in his vehicle outside. The music from the violins, viola and cello filtered through the crisp night air and masked his footsteps as he flicked the cigarette butt into the storm drain at the curb.

Then he straightened his jacket and jogged around to join the others at the mansion’s front drive, ready to be shocked and outraged when some poor unlucky soul discovered Gretchen’s body.

And the message he’d tucked beneath the covers beside her.

“You’re the saddest bunch of heroes I’ve ever seen.” The chiding female voice cut through the buzz of lively conversations, three different television broadcasts and the chattering clacks of pool balls breaking across a table behind Alex Taylor. “You got the guy. The D.A. will put him away.”

“Let’s hope.” Alex slid onto the green vinyl seat in front of the Shamrock’s polished walnut bar and pulled some cash from the front pocket of his jeans. Not even the bright blue eyes and sympathetic smile of Josie Nichols standing on the other side could shake him from the mood he was in. “I need to order some beers.”

“Hello?” The bartender slapped her washrag on top of the bar with a purpose, demanding his full attention before glancing over at the flat-screen TV hanging in the corner behind her. “You hope? KCPD’s standoff with that gangbanger Demetrius Smith is all over the news. Getting him and his lieutenants off the streets just made Kansas City a hell of a lot safer. If I can walk out to my car at night and not have to worry about getting mugged or raped or caught in the cross fire between his gang and someone else, then I’d say you got the job done. You should be celebrating. Not bringing down the mood of the bar.”

“Smith’s gotten out with nothing more than a slap on the wrist more than once. Evidence disappears. A witness decides not to testify.” Alex closed his eyes and shook his head, seeing the gangly body of a ten-year-old boy cradled in Sergeant Delgado’s arms as he crouched down behind an alley fence, waiting for their commanding officer’s all-clear order. He’d have thought the kid was sleeping if it hadn’t been for all the blood on Delgado’s uniform. Two bullets in such a tiny body—and there’d been nothing they could do. Alex opened his eyes, sharing a bit of the grim truth that was forever etched in his memory. “Smith was laughing when we brought him out of that house. An innocent boy died today, and he was laughing. Like he wasn’t even accountable for what happened. He’s got connections we can only guess at. If the D.A. doesn’t make the charges stick—”