Bride Of The Bad Boy

When she opened her eyes again, Ethan Zorn was gazing at her with one eyebrow arched in speculation, as if he would like very much to take her up on her offer.

“Do you want me to tie you up?”

Instead of saying anything else that might make her sound as stupid as she felt, Angie clenched her teeth together hard, to keep her mouth firmly shut. Then she drew in a deep breath and held it, and waited to see what he would do.

“I guess I could scare up some rope from somewhere in the house.” He smiled. “If it means that much to you. Then again,” he added, his smile growing lascivious, “maybe you’d like it better if I used some of my neckties. They’re silk, you know. Much less likely to leave marks.”

Still Angie only continued to stare at him, unable to make a sound.

“Well, maybe some other time,” he said, clearly sorry she hadn’t responded more enthusiastically. He eyed her more intently. “So if you’re not here looking for some cheap thrills—which, incidentally, I’d be happy to provide—then what are you doing in my bedroom?”

Angie didn’t—couldn’t—say anything in response.

“Well?” he asked.

She bit her lip and finally managed to find her voice. It was barely a squeak, granted, but at least she was able to chirp, “Well, what?”

He waggled the gun a little, a silent indication that he thought she should already know what he was talking about.

Angie scrunched up her shoulders and pretended not to understand, hoping for some kind of divine inspiration or medical intervention to offer an opportunity for escape. She was working on a good heart attack as it was. Maybe, if she could just buy herself a few more minutes, it would become a full-fledged coronary arrest, and she’d be saved the messy outcome of a shooting death.

Ethan Zorn eyed her curiously. “I’m waiting for an explanation, Goldilocks.” His voice was low and level and redolent of the blue-collar accent one found so prevalent in the northeastern part of the country. “What are you doing in my house?” he added. “My bed? Your porridge been kind of cold lately? You looking to warm things up a bit?”

For one very brief instant, it occurred to Angie that Ethan Zorn had the most beautiful, bottomless, benevolent brown eyes she’d ever seen. Like Bambi’s mother. Or even Bambi himself. Then she shook the sensation off and reminded herself he was a killer. Well, probably a killer, anyway. And killers didn’t have benevolent Bambi brown eyes.

“Oh, is this your house?” she asked, feigning surprise, still hoping to buy herself some time.

He didn’t look anywhere at all convinced by her phony confusion. “It’s one my employer is renting for me while I have business here, yeah,” he told her.

She glanced quickly around at her surroundings, pretending to see them for the first time, then smacked her palm soundly against her forehead. “Oh, wow, am I embarrassed. I thought this was Bumper Shaugnessy’s house. You know Bumper, of course, don’t you?”

Ethan Zorn continued to study her through narrowed eyes, and didn’t respond at first. Angie kept silent, though, thinking every minute she could stall would bring her one step further away from winding up a tidbit in the Examiner’s obits later in the week.

“Uh, no,” Zorn finally said. “Can’t say as I’ve made Bumper’s acquaintance.”

She pretended to be amazed. “But everyone in Endicott knows Bumper. Ever since that incident with the Indiana Corn Queen at the Madison County Fair. Now, surely you heard about that.”

Again the big man sitting on the bed beside her narrowed his eyes at her. “Um, no, sorry. Missed that one, too.”

Angie waved her hand spiritedly. “Oh, this is a great story. You’re gonna love it. See, what happened was that Boomer was actually dating Dierdre’s twin sister, Daphne—Dierdre being the Indiana Corn Queen, of course—and he didn’t realize—”

“Who are you?”

Angie blinked quickly, and once again found herself pinned to the spot by Ethan Zorn’s espresso gaze. “I’m Angie,” she replied automatically, wondering when she had chosen to speak. “Angie Ellison.”

He shook his head, clearly confused. “Why are you in my house? In the dark? Dressed in black? As if you were trying to …oh, say …rob the place?”

Once more, she shook off the odd sensation that the man sitting beside her—the man holding a gun on her, the man who was a threat to her entire family—was really just a cream puff deep down inside.

“I told you,” she said softly, forcing the words out of a mouth suddenly gone dry. “I thought this was Bumper Shaugnessy’s house.”

Ethan Zorn shook his head. “Uh-uh. No way, sweetheart. I ain’t buyin’ it.”

In one swift, deft move, he pointed the gun toward the ceiling, ejected its clip with a loud ka-thwack, checked it and tucked it back into the grip. Then, when the cacophony of scraping metal fell silent, he trained the ugly weapon on Angie once more.

“Now, then,” he said. “Let’s try this again. Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”

“I’m Angie,” she repeated. “Angie Elli—”

“I got the name down fine the first time, honey. I just don’t recognize it.” He dropped his gaze briefly to her mouth, then brought it quickly back up to her eyes. “Help me out here, or I’m going to have to resort to doing something I don’t wanna have to do.”

She inhaled a deep breath and scrambled for something that might explain her presence in a halfway plausible fashion. “Um…would you believe I’m…uh…delivering some Junebug cosmetics that your housekeeper ordered last week?”

Ethan Zorn shook his head very slowly. “No, I don’t think I believe that. Try again.”

Angie bit her lip. “Um…would you believe I’m working for ‘Bugs’ Burger’s Extermination—at ‘Bugs,’ we think the only good bug is a dead bug—and have reason to believe that a rare breed of night-crawling cucaracha is infesting your walls?”

Again, that slow shake of his head. “Nope.”

Angie gave it one last shot. “Would you believe, um…that I’ve been admiring you from afar for some time now and just wanted to make your acquaintance?”

That, at least, brought forth a smile from the inimitable Mr. Zorn. Unfortunately, it was a decidedly lascivious smile, and Angie began to think maybe that last attempt at explanation might not have been such a good idea after all.

“Although I think I like the idea of being…admired from afar,” he began, “something tells me that’s just not quite it, either. Three strikes, Goldilocks,” he added, lifting the gun that had begun to droop. “Unless you wanna give it one last shot—no pun intended—and tell me the truth this time, then you’re outta there.”

Two

Ethan Zorn had been in the business a long time, and he’d met more than his fair share of characters along the way. Manny “The Meat Hook” Moran, for instance, came quickly to mind. And Two-Fingers Nick. Joey the Knife. Goosey Lucy…or something like that—Ethan could never quite remember that guy’s name. And then there was that South Philly boy whose name had always come out sounding like “Lenny Bagagroceries.”

But he’d never encountered anyone quite like Angie Ellison. Angie “The Angel” Ellison, he decided. Somehow, the name fit her. There was something about her that reeked of a higher existence, a higher standard. In addition to being beautiful in a way that Ethan could only describe as ethereal—yeah, that was a good word for it—there was an innocence and beatitude about her that was unmistakable. And although just about everyone in this hick town seemed naive to a fault, on this woman, it was carried to new heights.

He just wished he knew who the hell she was and what the hell she was up to.

She should be terrified of him, he told himself. He was twice her size, armed, and she was locked in a bedroom with him. For all she knew, he intended to kill her. Any other woman would have been scared speechless. But Angie Ellison was actually flirting with him. Flirting, for God’s sake. That was the only way Ethan could interpret the look on her face, the timbre of her voice, the playfulness behind her words. Yeah, she was trying to save her life—it didn’t take a genius to figure that out. But she was doing it so…so…lightheartedly.

It was giving him the creeps.

Okay, so maybe he could ascribe her relative easiness at being made a hostage to the fact that she was obviously a native of Endicott. One thing Ethan had learned since locating here, the people in this community had clearly been living in some kind of Eisenhower-era vacuum all their lives and didn’t have even the vaguest concept of what real life was all about. They still celebrated Founders’ Day here. They had a pumpkin festival coming up next month wherein they were holding a Sweetheart’s Dance. That’s actually what they were calling it—a Sweetheart’s Dance.

Living in Endicott, he had quickly decided, was like being trapped forever in a Hayley Mills movie.

So, clearly, Angie Ellison couldn’t possibly fully appreciate the precariousness of her situation. Which meant maybe Ethan ought to turn up the steam some.

“Angel,” he began.

“‘Angie,’” she corrected him quickly.

“Angel,” he assured her with a confident nod. “We have a couple of ways we can go here.”