too strong.
He yanked hard. She fell forward onto the hardwood floor. As he dragged her to him she kicked hard with her free leg and landed a blow to his jaw.
He swore and flung his full weight down on top of her. She grunted at the impact. His right hand clamped around her throat.
“Don’t move,” he growled between clenched teeth.
Tasha stilled. Her breath raged in and out of her lungs, barely hissing past the hold he had on her throat. Part of her screamed inside, urged her to keep fighting, but another part feared for the baby. She couldn’t afford to antagonize him any further. He was too strong.
His fingers all but cut off her airway. He used his right hand to shove her skirt up her thighs. Then he spread her legs and burrowed his way fully between them. His mouth came down on top of hers hard.
She felt him wrench open his jeans. Felt his thick sex spring free and prod against her panties. She closed her eyes and tried to lie still, told herself it would be better this way. Don’t give him any reason to hurt you.
He tore away her panties and shoved into her in one brutal plunge.
She caught her breath, winced against the pleasure of feeling the man she loved inside her and at the same time fearing the demon driving him.
“Now that’s more like it,” he said silkily, tauntingly. He flexed his hips, driving deeper. He kissed her lips, then her jaw. She shivered, afraid to guess what he might do next.
She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to pretend that this was only a nightmare. It couldn’t be real…couldn’t be happening. Not now. Tears seeped past her tightly clenched lids, but she couldn’t hope to stop them.
His lips encountered those salty tears and he stilled.
He drew back from her then and though she couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, she felt the change in his body—the sudden, jagged turn his respiration had taken, the slight tremble of his hands as his grip loosened.
“Oh, God.” The words tore out of his throat on a wounded moan of agony.
He scrambled off her, pulled her onto his lap. “What’ve I done?” He ran his hands over her purposefully, hurriedly, as if searching for injury. “Did I hurt you? God, please tell me I didn’t hurt you, Tasha.”
“I’m all right,” she managed to say, pushing past the emotion lodged in her throat. “I’m okay.”
He cradled her in his arms for a long while. Tasha couldn’t say how long. He kept telling her over and over how sorry he was. How he hadn’t meant to hurt her. And then he carried her to the bathroom and bathed her gently in the deep claw-footed tub. He smoothed the washcloth over her skin lovingly in an attempt to soothe the hurt.
Tasha watched him, her heart too damaged to question the sudden reversal. But her eyes saw clearly the price he’d paid for the lapse.
She only knew that he was behaving like Jim now. Inside, she cried, both thankful and scared out of her mind. Because no matter what her eyes saw, no matter what her ears told her as the man she loved attended to her needs, begged for her forgiveness, nothing he did or said would change the cold, hard truth.
Seth was back.
CHAPTER FIVE
BOUND BY THE CHICAGO RIVER and developed by the industrial working class, Chicago’s Lower West Side was as diverse as it was eclectic.
“Stop here.”
Upon Emily Hastings’s order, the taxi driver braked and eased the cab up to the curb on 18th Street. She paid the fare and got out, lugging the carry-on bag with her. The weight of the hastily packed bag dragged at her shoulder, but she ignored it. She made a quick swipe at her skirt in an attempt to smooth the travel wrinkles.
She was home, for the first time in too long to remember.
She inhaled deeply, drawing in the inviting scents of corn tortillas and spiced peppers from the Mexican restaurants and specialty shops that formed the cultural heart of the neighborhood. She let the sounds of salsa emanating from open windows and doors—and it wasn’t even noon yet—seep into her soul.
Her feet guided her; no thought was required. That was good, since her eyes were too busy taking in the changes since she’d last been here…home.
Nineteenth-century buildings served as stoic, sophisticated backdrops to the vibrancy of the street vendors. Emily felt a smile tilt her lips as she surveyed one of her favorites. Walking to the bus stop everyday for school, she’d watched as the dilapidated structure had been overtaken by artists searching for low-rent digs. Over time, the whole district had been brought to life by murals and dotted by funky galleries, all as a result of the influx of those starving artists. Emily had been too young to really understand the change; she’d simply been enthralled with the evolution.
As she took the turn onto her old street, Emily felt the wonder wane a bit. Other memories, ones not so comfortably recalled, filtered through her mind. The sound of weeping at her brother’s wake…the constant arguing between her parents after the death of her only sibling. The sharp pain of knowing that life would never be the same.
Emily pushed those old hurts aside and strode more briskly toward the house where she’d lived as a child before fate had taken its heavy toll on a typical lower middle class family, breaking it into pieces that would never again fit together.
She stood on the sidewalk for several seconds before stepping up onto the stoop. It looked just the same, only smaller. She stared up at the bow-shaped window on the second floor of the modest house. Her old room. She’d sat at that window many nights and prayed that her parents would stop fighting, that everything would be okay again.
But her prayers had gone unanswered.
Her brother had died, at age sixteen, of a sudden heart attack. His rare, congenital heart defect had gone undiagnosed. Her mother had blamed her father. As a cop, he hadn’t been a good enough provider, in Emily’s mother’s opinion. The loss and pain, all of it, were her father’s fault.
So her mother had left, taking Emily with her. They’d moved all the way to Sacramento, California, in an attempt to escape the memories.
Emily’s father had stayed right here. In this house, living with the memories and somehow surviving.
But now he was gone, too.
She blinked out of the trance the past weaved and reached up to the ledge above the door to retrieve the spare key her father had kept there for as long as she could remember. Her bracelet jingled as the numerous charms clinked together. She still wore it every day, had since the day her father had given it to her more than a dozen years ago, back when life had been normal.
On autopilot, she opened the door and stepped inside. A wave of emotion washed over her, as did the scents she’d associated with her father. Old Spice aftershave and gun oil.
For as long as she could remember, her father had been a cop. She’d sat in his lap many a night as he cleaned his service revolver and explained to her the hazards of not showing proper respect for the weapon. Both Emily and her brother had learned early not to play with guns.
An ache pierced her, and Emily fought for control. How could this have happened?
Her father had been murdered only three months from retirement.
She shuddered and closed the door behind her. Her bag dropped to the floor in the narrow entry hall and she moved deeper into the house.
The call she’d received at five this morning had been surreal, like a dream that couldn’t possibly be related to reality. But it was. It was all too gut-wrenchingly real.
Her father was dead.
Murdered.
The detective who’d called had assured Emily that it would not be necessary for her to identify the body and that the body wouldn’t