Without a Flaw - Sample Chapter
Chapter 1
Isabelle Dalton's stomach knotted with fear. Glancing at the clock, she calculated how much time she had left before her husband, James, got home from work. Turning down the vegetables to let them simmer, she gave the gravy one last stir. She still needed to change her clothes, put drinks on the table, and light the candles. She'd have to hurry. The last thing she wanted to do was keep him waiting.
Racing up to her room, she quickly took off her jeans and sweater, hung them up, then pulled on the clingy black jersey dress that her husband liked so much. She hurried to the bathroom, where she brushed her mane of long blonde hair, then twisted it onto her head and fastened it with several glittering rhinestone clips.
She touched up the bruise on her right cheek with some base makeup and glossed on a light coat of lipstick. Checking her watch, she realized she only had ten minutes to get back downstairs and have everything ready in time.
Shoving her feet into her shoes, she scurried downstairs and filled James's crystal goblet with wine and hers with ice and water, set them on the table, then lit the candles. She wasn't much of a drinker, preferring to keep her mind and reflexes sharp, especially when James was home.
The timer on the oven buzzed, letting her know that the dinner rolls were finished and that James would be pulling into the driveway anytime now. Her stomach lurched as she poked the vegetables with a fork, hoping they weren't overdone. He hated it when the carrots were too soft.
A flash of headlights passed the kitchen window, telling her James was home. As she always did before he came through the door, she prayed he would be in a good mood and that she wouldn't do anything to set him off. She'd made his favorite: pork roast with mushroom gravy and new potatoes along with steamed broccoli and carrots, and her delicious dinner rolls.
Taking their dinner plates, she began dishing up their food. James liked to have his meal on the table, waiting and ready, when he got home. After five years of marriage, Isabelle finally had the routine down, but having things just the way James liked them, all the time, was no easy task. And when she disappointed him or didn't measure up, the price was too painful to have to endure very often.
Her nerves tensed and she froze when she heard the doorknob turn and click. Pasting a smile on her face, she waited for James to enter the room before she greeted him, because that was how he liked it.
"Good evening," she said when he finally appeared. She anxiously searched his expression to determine what kind of mood he was in.
"Good evening, Isabelle," he replied.
She walked to him immediately and gave him a kiss, then stepped away. "I hope you're hungry," she said cheerfully, trying to keep the mood light. "I made your favorite."
He glanced over at the stove then back at her. "I thought we'd decided to have lasagne tonight," he reminded her.
"I know, but, . . ." she swallowed, hoping with all her heart that he didn't get angry, ". . . I was hoping-"
"Isabelle," his voice was impatient. "I give you a menu at the beginning of every week. I expect you to follow it."
"I'm sorry, James," she apologized quickly. "I won't let it happen again."
He nodded sharply, setting his briefcase and the mail-which he insisted on collecting himself every night-on the counter.
"Did anything come for me today?" He looked at her with a piercing gaze that made her stomach curdle.
"No." Her tone was even.
His gaze penetrated deeper. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead, and her palms grew clammy.
Without a word, James spun on his heel and left the room to wash his hands.
Isabelle pulled in several deep breaths to calm her jumbled nerves. James received packages from Federal Express at least once, if not twice, a week. She didn't know what was in the packages; she never asked. She didn't care. But sometimes when something he expected didn't arrive, he made her feel as though it was her fault it hadn't.
With the plates of steaming food on the table, Isabelle stood by her chair, waiting for him to join her, which he did moments later.
He helped her into her chair, then sat in his own chair.
Placing the linen napkins on their laps, they picked up their forks. Isabelle waited for him to take the first bite before she began. This was their routine, night after night. This was how James liked things. He was happier when things went as he wanted them to, and Isabelle was much happier when he was happy. It wasn't worth trying to change the way he liked things.
He nodded after taking a bite of the tender, juicy pork roast. "Very good," he said.
Isabelle relaxed a little and smiled. "I'm glad you like it." She took a small bite of her own slice of meat. Under James's encouragement and tutelage, she had become an exceptional cook. There were few things he allowed her to do, but cooking was one of them. He liked having a wife who could prepare gourmet dinners, especially when he entertained people from his law office.
"So, how was your day?" She asked the same question she'd asked every night for the past five years.
"Fine," he said, taking a sip of wine. He told her about a couple of his clients, and how brilliant he'd been in court that day. She smiled approvingly and said the appropriate words at the appropriate times.
She didn't have much of an appetite; she usually didn't at dinnertime, but she managed to take a few bites of the food on her plate. When James was finished, he placed his napkin beside his plate and told her he'd be in the den watching the evening news while she cleaned up the dishes.
Putting the last pot in the dishwasher, she shut the door and turned the knob for the cycle to begin. Giving the sink a quick scouring, she rinsed the sponge and wiped everything with a paper towel, so the chrome faucet sparkled and the porcelain sink glistened.
She was just about to hang the dishtowel to dry when she jumped. James was standing in the doorway, watching her.
Holding her hand on her chest, her heart beating wildly beneath her fingers, she said with a laugh, "You startled me."
His eyes narrowed in an intent gaze.
"Did you need something?" she asked nervously. She hated it when he stared at her like this. This was a look that frightened her. She scanned her mind quickly for something she might not have done to his liking or how in any way she might have angered him.
"I was looking for my evening paper . . ." he said, eyeing her.
Her heart stopped beating. She'd forgotten to get the paper. He liked having it beside his leather recliner in the den. She'd been so busy getting dinner she'd forgotten to get it off the porch. She was just about to apologize when the phone rang.
She jumped to get it, but James answered it. Grateful it was for him, she rushed to the front door. Grabbing the paper off the porch she took it inside and took it to the den, hoping James would forget it wasn't there earlier.
Picking up a novel, she tried to read as she waited for James to return. But it was impossible to comprehend anything she was reading, she was too nervous worrying about what he would say to her about not having the paper next to his chair.
Finally, she heard footsteps coming her direction.
"That was Mother," he said. "She wants us to come over for dinner on Sunday." He sat in his chair and picked up the paper.
The only thing worse than trying to please James was trying to please his mother. Mrs. Dalton was as nitpicky and critical as a person could get. "How nice of her to invite us," Isabelle lied, watching closely for a muscle to twitch in his cheek, or his hand to clench, to indicate he was going to flip out about the paper. "Did she mention if she'd like me to bring anything?"
He always read the business section first. "No," he replied, getting lost in his reading. "We just need to be there promptly at six."
"I'd better go write that down so I don't forget," Isabelle said. Relieved that her forgetting the newspaper hadn't turned into a big deal, she went to her planner and wrote down their dinner appointment. It was bad enough to suffer James's wrath, but adding his mother's to it was the truest form of hell on earth.
The evening was quiet, and as usual Isabelle was grateful to climb into bed that night. Most nights James stayed up late doing work he'd brought home from the office. She was grateful she could slip into the privacy and safety of her dreams. There she was happy and carefree again, as she had been before she'd married James.
Lying in her bed, Isabelle waited for her dreams to overtake her as she considered that her marriage was nothing like she'd imagined it would be. James had a side to him that she hadn't seen before they were married. A dark side. And sometimes, a violent side. He'd been attentive, protective and involved in her life, when they were dating. For a girl whose parents were both now gone and whose older brother had left home when she was a young girl and hadn't been seen or heard from since, she liked having someone to protect her, take care of her.
In the beginning James had swept her off her feet with all his attention and devotion. She'd been flattered by his near obsession to be with her or know where she was at all times. She hadn't understood what his demands really represented. She didn't realize the extent to which his "obsession" would grow.
James's love was anything but gentle and nurturing. It was controlling and dominating and robbed her of her freedom: freedom to associate with others, to pursue her dreams, to be herself. He told her how to dress and wear her hair, whom to associate with, what to do each day, where to go, what to buy, and even whom to talk to on the phone. She knew she'd grown paranoid about his obsession, but she honestly wondered if the occasional reverberation she heard on the phone meant the phone lines were bugged.
With each year they were married, his control seemed to grow stronger, more obsessive. At times she caught him staring at her, as he'd done earlier that night, with a look in his eye that rattled her nerves. And she wondered what exactly that look in his dark, pensive eyes meant.
The next day Isabelle woke to find it raining. She'd hoped to have sunshine so she could work out in the yard, but the drizzle kept up well into the afternoon. March had been a particularly wet month with sudden downpours, even blinding ice storms. When the weather was bad she spent her time indoors, playing the piano, losing herself in nocturnes by Chopin or concertos by Mozart. James didn't like her leaving the house unless she had specific errands to run or unless she worked out in the yard. She longed to go for walks in the woods behind their house, or down to the local gym and exercise. But he didn't like her going alone. So she didn't.
Finally, the storm broke and sun peeked through the clouds. Grabbing her windbreaker Isabelle went outside. She needed a breath of fresh air, so she walked down the lane toward the main road, thrilled to see the tips of crocuses and daffodils peeking through the soil. She kept the cordless phone with her in case James called, as he sometimes did at odd times during the day, just to check on her.
Turning back to the house, she stopped to look up at the beautiful Tudor-style home she lived in, but that strangely didn't feel like home. To her it was just a house where she lived. She had no sense of peace or love there. In a way it was like a prison. A beautiful, five-hundred-thousand-dollar prison. For anyone outside looking in, Isabelle appeared to have a life of luxury. James was a partner in the law firm of Harper, Calhoun, and Dalton, a prestigious firm in Boston. He was highly regarded in his field and well known and respected by every attorney on the East coast. He dressed impeccably, was incredibly handsome with smooth dark hair, and deep, dark brown, mysterious eyes. His tall, six-foot-three good looks, Harvard law degree, and wealth and power made him a community icon. The Dalton name dated back to the city's founding fathers and represented both money and power. Isabelle was considered the beautiful, devoted, dutiful wife. She was poised, gracious, quiet spoken, and always at his side.
But no one in the community knew what happened behind closed doors.
"Isabelle," a voice called to her. "Oh, Isabelle."
Isabelle turned to see their neighbor, Cynthia Twitchell, calling her. Cynthia had come outside to get her mail.
"Mrs. Twitchell," Isabelle waved. "How are you feeling?" Mrs. Twitchell had been recovering from a bout with bronchitis.
"Much better, thank you. I haven't seen you all winter. How have you been?" The woman walked toward her, smiling her sweet, warm smile.
From the few conversations she'd had with her neighbor, Isabelle gathered that the Twitchells had two children. One of them was grown and married with a baby; the other one had been living in the U.K. for a while. Cynthia didn't look old enough to have a grandchild.
"I've been well," Isabelle said with a friendly nod. "I'm glad spring is here. I've missed working in the yard."
Mrs. Twitchell looked at Isabelle with interest. Isabelle always got the impression that her neighbor somehow knew what it was like for her at home with James. The woman never pried or asked, but her eyes held such great understanding and sympathy that Isabelle couldn't help but wonder.
The sound of a car coming down the street caused both of the women to turn and see who it was. To Isabelle's complete horror, it was James.
The stone-cold look he gave her as he pulled into the driveway turned Isabelle's blood to ice. Had he thought she was getting the mail?
"I have to go-" Isabelle left Mrs. Twitchell behind and ran back to the house. She got inside before James did and quickly hung up her coat.
"Isabelle!" James yelled as he came through the back door.
She jumped when she heard her name and raced to meet him.
"I was just asking Mrs. Twitchell how she was feeling after her bron-"
"I need to drop off the car at the shop so they can repair the dent in the door," he told her.
Relieved that he didn't reprimand her for being outside talking to the neighbor, she said, "Do you need me to follow you in my car?"
He looked at her as though she were a complete idiot. "Of course I do!"
She flinched but steeled herself. "Would you like me to change my clothes first?" She knew that whenever she went out in public he liked her to look her best. She was in jeans and a button-down oxford shirt.
"You won't be getting out. You're fine," he told her.
The ride to town took about fifteen minutes. Isabelle didn't mind the drive though; she enjoyed having a chance to get out of the house for any reason.
She waited in the car while James went into the shop to take care of business. She remembered how livid he'd been when he'd discovered the ding in the door of his Jaguar after work one day. He'd threatened to sue the parking attendant and the garage, but no one knew anything about who could have done it. James kept his Jaguar in immaculate condition, and any defect or damage was intolerable. The dent had happened on Tuesday, today was Thursday.
James emerged from the repair shop and approached the car. Isabelle jumped out to allow him to drive.
"You drive," he ordered. "I've got to call the office."
It made her nervous to drive when James was in the car with her. But today he was so busy talking on the phone and writing in his Palm Pilot, he wasn't paying attention to what she was doing.
The road to their house followed a river which had become swollen with early spring rain. She followed the twists and turns in the road, but as she came around a sharp bend, she had to brake quickly to avoiding running into the tail end of the car in front of her that was moving too slowly.
"Isabelle, you know how dangerous this road is!" James exploded. "Every year people die on this turn because they drive too fast. What are you thinking?"
"I'm sorry," Isabelle replied. "I was going the speed limit." She checked the gauge often, especially with James in the car. She wasn't speeding.
He didn't reply but she dropped her speed considerably, not wanting to push her luck any further.
The next day Isabelle was grateful a warm sun was shining. She looked forward to spending the day outside, cleaning out flower beds and working in the soil. Being outside gave her a sense of freedom she rarely felt. It also gave her a nurturing, caring feeling which she longed for. A feeling that often made her think of how much she wanted a family, children of her own. But James was opposed to having children. She'd never expected they would have a large family, probably only two children, but James had told her in no uncertain terms that he didn't want any children, or pets, for that matter.
It was probably for the best, she reasoned, as she fastened a rubber band around the end of her braid, which hung down her back between her shoulder blades. James wasn't her idea of an ideal father. He wasn't exactly tender and loving. But her life seemed so empty and meaningless. Her days were filled with mindless housework, cooking, and cleaning, but even that wouldn't fill up all the empty hours of every day. She had more time on her hands than she knew what to do with. James was adamantly opposed to her getting a job, even though she had a degree in early childhood education. He didn't like the thought of her being around strangers, especially men, when he wasn't around. Not that Isabelle had ever given him any reason to mistrust her. But that didn't matter.
There was still a cool nip in the air, so Isabelle slipped on her windbreaker before going outside. With the cordless phone in one hand, she headed for the garden shed where she kept all her tools. The rosebushes needed a good pruning, so she decided to start there first.
As she clipped and pruned she felt the calming effect of being outside: the warmth of the sun on her back, the freshness of the breeze on her face. Her sheltered life left her little to find pleasure in, and she had learned to find happiness in small delights.
"Yoo-hoo," a voice called to her from the side of the house.
"Mrs. Twitchell, I'm in the back," Isabelle replied, pushing herself to her feet. She removed her gloves and smiled warmly at her neighbor.
"Hello," Mrs. Twitchell said. "I had an inkling you'd be outside on such a lovely day." She handed Isabelle a plate of cookies. "I made a batch of applesauce cookies, thought you and your husband would enjoy some."
Isabelle was touched. How thoughtful of her neighbor to bother. Isabelle lifted the plate and smelled the spicy, appley scent of the warm cookies. "They smell wonderful. Thank you."
"Oh," Mrs. Twitchell remembered something else. "I almost forgot. The mailman put this letter in my mailbox by mistake."
Isabelle took the letter and thanked her.
"Well, I guess I'd best get going." She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but didn't. "By the way, I have a gardening book you might enjoy looking at. It has some wonderful ideas and tips in it."
"I'd like that," Isabelle told her. "And thanks again for the cookies." Ever since her own mother died shortly after Isabelle and James got married, Isabelle had missed having someone to talk to, someone who would listen to her, counsel her, support and strengthen her, much like a mother would. In a way Mrs. Twitchell was the closest thing she had, but Isabelle didn't dare confide in her or anyone else. If James found out she'd said anything to anyone, she was certain he would beat her within an inch of her life.
"We ought to go out to lunch one day," Mrs. Twitchell suggested. "Since we're both home all day, we could go to the country club for lunch, then go shopping for the afternoon."
Isabelle would've liked nothing more than to spend an afternoon with her neighbor. But she knew it would never happen. With a smile she said, "I'll have to check my schedule and get back to you."
The woman bid her farewell and headed home. Sadness filled Isabelle's heart as she watched her leave. She appreciated Mrs. Twitchell's offer of friendship, and would have loved to have a friend. Someone, anyone, to fill the emptiness in her life, an emptiness that sometimes felt as though it would consume her entire being.
Her stomach growled. It was past lunchtime, and she hadn't eaten breakfast. Taking the plate of cookies inside with her, she poured herself a tall glass of cold milk and sat down at the counter to sample Mrs. Twitchell's baking.
Out of curiosity, she turned the letter over that Mrs. Twitchell had brought to her and gasped. It was addressed to her.
Chapter 2
Isabelle stared at the letter. She rarely ever got mail anymore. Any letters she did get James usually intercepted and read first before he gave them to her.
She noticed the return address was from S. MacGregor, in Westmoor, England. A surge of excitement sent her heart racing. She had a great-aunt in England, her grandmother's sister. Was this letter from her Aunt Sophie?
Her father had been born in America, but his family went to England when he was a young boy and he'd grown up there. Her mother had been Irish and English.
Ripping open the envelope, she read the contents.
My dearest Isabelle,
After the countless letters I've written to you without receiving any reply, I suppose I should assume you wish to have no contact with me. But I just can't seem to forget those beautiful green eyes of yours, like your mother's, and that gorgeous head of curly red hair. Of course, that was many years ago when you were just a child, but still, you are my grand niece and I have not forgotten you.
I am therefore making one last attempt to contact you, in hopes that you will drop me a short note to let me know how you're getting on. Your grandmother and your mother were all the family I had, and you and your brother are all I have left. I am growing old and I am hoping that before I pass on, I can bestow upon you what is left of their legacy.
I would love to hear from you, but even more, I would love to see you, and your beautiful smiling face again. Perhaps you could come to England on holiday. You would be welcome to stay as long as you wish. My home is your home.
I must get this in the post, but I enclose with it my love, prayers, and best wishes to you.
With love,
Aunt Sophie
Isabelle stared at the letter, her breath coming in short, quick gasps. Her Aunt Sophie had been sending letters to her and she didn't even know it. But why hadn't she received them?
James. There was no doubt in her mind. Because she was forbidden to collect the mail, he could have easily intercepted the letters and gotten rid of them as part of his need to keep a tight rein on her.
A warm feeling in her stomach quickly filled her entire body. Her great-aunt still loved her and cared about her. The woman thought about her and wanted to see her.
To know that someone, an actual family member, wanted to have contact with her, even spend time with her, lifted her spirits. She'd been so isolated, so imprisoned by James, that she'd forgotten she did have at least one relative left in her family. A relative who loved her and wanted to see her.
By the sound of the letter, Isabelle gathered that at one time she must have been to her Aunt Sophie's home. But for the life of her Isabelle couldn't remember being there, nor could she put a face to the name.
Isabelle thought of her brother, Ryan. She hadn't heard from him since she was a teenager. How she wished he'd contact her. Since he chose to stay away from her, it was out of her hands. But her Aunt Sophie cared. Knowing someone was thinking of her made her feel warm and wonderful inside.
But how would she ever be able to visit her aunt? James would never take her to England, nor would he let her go alone. In fact, judging by the way he'd kept her aunt's letters from her, she wasn't sure he would allow any contact with her.
Isabelle glanced around the room as if to check to make sure she was still alone. James had her so spooked and nervous that she felt as though she were being watched constantly by some unknowing eye.
The doorbell rang, scaring Isabelle out of her skin. Cautiously she crept toward the front door, wondering who it could be. She never had visitors during the day.
When she looked through the window no one was there. She went to the door and opened it. On the porch was a package delivered by Federal Express.
Bringing the package inside, she shut the door and locked it. The letter from her aunt was still clutched in her hand. She had to keep the letter from James. He couldn't know she had it. She would put it away in her special hiding spot where she kept a few pictures of her parents and brother and all the money she had in the world. Money she'd saved over the years, from grocery money and other spare change she'd acquired. Why she hoarded it, she didn't know, but she liked knowing it was there and that it was hers alone.
Walking up the stairs to her bedroom, she thought about how wonderful it would be to visit her aunt in England. To talk to someone who knew her mother and father, and had a connection to her. James shouldn't keep her away from her family. It wasn't right. Yet she knew, right or wrong, he still would. And to bring it up, to even ask, was an invitation for his anger, something she never triggered intentionally. Despite her constant vigilance, she still managed occasionally to do things that upset him. She wasn't about to bring up the subject of her aunt or all her missing letters.
Still, she longed to see her Aunt Sophie. She had a vague recollection of her aunt, but that was all. Her past, especially her childhood, seemed to have slipped into a thick fog in her mind. Perhaps it was because it took every ounce of willpower, strength, and conscious effort to cope with the life she now had. Dwelling on the past only made her discouraged and frustrated.
Inside the walk-in closet in her bedroom, she pulled out a suitcase that was tucked back in a corner, behind racks of shoes and handbags. Fishing the suitcase key out of the bottom drawer of her jewelry case, she opened the suitcase, pulled out a carry-on bag she had stored inside, and pulled out a shoe box from the bag.
Inside were pictures of her brother and parents, her passport showing dual nationality, English and American, and money. The box was full of bills: ones, fives, tens, and twenties. She made piles with the money and began counting, curious to see how much she had saved. By the time she finished counting, she could see that she had close to seven hundred dollars. After five years of saving, she was amazed she had so much.
At first, when she began saving the extra cash, she'd intended to use the money to buy a special gift for James. But she'd never found the right time or right item to spend it on, so she'd just kept saving.
She put the money back in the box, then looked at the pictures of her parents. Her father had been killed in an automobile accident by a drunk driver when she was nine. Then her older brother had run away from home when she was sixteen, breaking her mother's heart.
Isabelle had met James after she graduated from college. Her mother hadn't cared much for James from the very beginning. She didn't trust him, even if he did drive an expensive car, was darkly handsome, and lavished them both with gifts. There was something about him she didn't trust. Isabelle had imagined herself to be truly in love for the first time and had paid no attention. She regretted not following her mother's instinct.
Isabelle and James had been married barely a year when her mother had died. Isabelle was already realizing the full extent of James's obsessive and controlling behavior, and her mother's death had hit Isabelle hard.
But this letter from her aunt gave her new hope. She still had someone who loved her and cared about her. And maybe, somehow, it might prove to be a link to her brother. The chances were slim, she knew, but she didn't want to let go of the possiblity.
Reading the letter one last time, she placed it inside the box and put everything away, just as it was before. She then went to the computer and logged on to the Internet. She was curious to see how much airline tickets to England were.
After some scouting around, she located a fare for three hundred and seventy-nine dollars one way, out of Boston.
An idea flickered across her mind, but she quickly banished the thought. She knew she would never dare go to England by herself. Not unless she was willing to leave James for good. She'd thought of leaving James, many times. Especially after the times he'd beaten her. But where would she go? Seven hundred dollars wasn't enough to start a new life.
Besides that, she was afraid of him. Not only of what he did to her when she was with him, but what he'd do to her if she ever left him and he found her again.
No, she thought sadly as she disconnected from the outside world and turned off the computer. The only way she'd ever be free of James would be in death. He'd told her many times that the thought of her being with anyone else nearly drove him mad. He claimed he loved her passionately, but his way of showing his love and devotion was through his possessive control. It wasn't normal, and it wasn't healthy, Isabelle knew that. She just couldn't do anything about it.
Her thoughts continued as she began to prepare dinner. Tonight James had scheduled grilled salmon. She would make baked potatoes and a green salad to go with it. A nice evening meal was important to James. And if it made him happy, Isabelle was willing to do it.
A colleague had given James a ride to and from work that day, and as usual Isabelle's stomach was in knots when he arrived home, but dinner went well and James actually seemed to be in good spirits. He'd won a big case in court that day and even promised Isabelle that he would take some time off this summer and they would go on a vacation, perhaps to a secluded island getaway in the Caribbean.
While Isabelle cleared the dishes, James went to the den to read his newspaper. Everything seemed to be going well until she heard him call her name.
Chewing her bottom lip nervously, she went to the den. James was standing, holding the Federal Express package in his hand.
"What is it, James?" she asked.
"This package," he lifted it for her to see better. "It came today?"
"Yes," she said, wondering what the problem was. "This afternoon."
"Tell me about the delivery man, Isabelle." He stepped closer to her, the muscles in his jaw clenching.
"The delivery man?" She was confused. "I didn't see the delivery man. He just left the package on the porch."
"Of course he did." James lowered his voice, reaching out for her arm, but she pulled it away.
"I'm telling you the truth. I didn't even see who delivered it." She tried to speak convincingly.
"Why don't I believe you?" He grabbed at her arm again, this time latching onto her elbow. He dug his fingers into her flesh, his manicured nails biting into her skin.
"James, please." she pulled her arm back, but he gripped it even tighter. "You're hurting me."
"Oh, I am, am I?" His eyes narrowed and he smiled cruelly. With a sudden jerk, he threw the package across the room and grabbed her other elbow, taking Isabelle completely by surprise.
Isabelle whimpered, dreading what was coming. She'd never, ever given him reason to doubt her fidelity to him, but he became so insanely jealous over the most ridiculously innocent things. Isabelle had learned that there was no convincing him otherwise.
Pulling her closer to him, he held her tightly, his eyes burning into hers. Just then, the doorbell rang.
James swore. "Who could that be?"
Peeking through the curtains, he saw who was on the porch. "It's that pesky Mrs. Twitchell," he told Isabelle. "Get rid of her."
Isabelle Dalton's stomach knotted with fear. Glancing at the clock, she calculated how much time she had left before her husband, James, got home from work. Turning down the vegetables to let them simmer, she gave the gravy one last stir. She still needed to change her clothes, put drinks on the table, and light the candles. She'd have to hurry. The last thing she wanted to do was keep him waiting.
Racing up to her room, she quickly took off her jeans and sweater, hung them up, then pulled on the clingy black jersey dress that her husband liked so much. She hurried to the bathroom, where she brushed her mane of long blonde hair, then twisted it onto her head and fastened it with several glittering rhinestone clips.
She touched up the bruise on her right cheek with some base makeup and glossed on a light coat of lipstick. Checking her watch, she realized she only had ten minutes to get back downstairs and have everything ready in time.
Shoving her feet into her shoes, she scurried downstairs and filled James's crystal goblet with wine and hers with ice and water, set them on the table, then lit the candles. She wasn't much of a drinker, preferring to keep her mind and reflexes sharp, especially when James was home.
The timer on the oven buzzed, letting her know that the dinner rolls were finished and that James would be pulling into the driveway anytime now. Her stomach lurched as she poked the vegetables with a fork, hoping they weren't overdone. He hated it when the carrots were too soft.
A flash of headlights passed the kitchen window, telling her James was home. As she always did before he came through the door, she prayed he would be in a good mood and that she wouldn't do anything to set him off. She'd made his favorite: pork roast with mushroom gravy and new potatoes along with steamed broccoli and carrots, and her delicious dinner rolls.
Taking their dinner plates, she began dishing up their food. James liked to have his meal on the table, waiting and ready, when he got home. After five years of marriage, Isabelle finally had the routine down, but having things just the way James liked them, all the time, was no easy task. And when she disappointed him or didn't measure up, the price was too painful to have to endure very often.
Her nerves tensed and she froze when she heard the doorknob turn and click. Pasting a smile on her face, she waited for James to enter the room before she greeted him, because that was how he liked it.
"Good evening," she said when he finally appeared. She anxiously searched his expression to determine what kind of mood he was in.
"Good evening, Isabelle," he replied.
She walked to him immediately and gave him a kiss, then stepped away. "I hope you're hungry," she said cheerfully, trying to keep the mood light. "I made your favorite."
He glanced over at the stove then back at her. "I thought we'd decided to have lasagne tonight," he reminded her.
"I know, but, . . ." she swallowed, hoping with all her heart that he didn't get angry, ". . . I was hoping-"
"Isabelle," his voice was impatient. "I give you a menu at the beginning of every week. I expect you to follow it."
"I'm sorry, James," she apologized quickly. "I won't let it happen again."
He nodded sharply, setting his briefcase and the mail-which he insisted on collecting himself every night-on the counter.
"Did anything come for me today?" He looked at her with a piercing gaze that made her stomach curdle.
"No." Her tone was even.
His gaze penetrated deeper. Beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead, and her palms grew clammy.
Without a word, James spun on his heel and left the room to wash his hands.
Isabelle pulled in several deep breaths to calm her jumbled nerves. James received packages from Federal Express at least once, if not twice, a week. She didn't know what was in the packages; she never asked. She didn't care. But sometimes when something he expected didn't arrive, he made her feel as though it was her fault it hadn't.
With the plates of steaming food on the table, Isabelle stood by her chair, waiting for him to join her, which he did moments later.
He helped her into her chair, then sat in his own chair.
Placing the linen napkins on their laps, they picked up their forks. Isabelle waited for him to take the first bite before she began. This was their routine, night after night. This was how James liked things. He was happier when things went as he wanted them to, and Isabelle was much happier when he was happy. It wasn't worth trying to change the way he liked things.
He nodded after taking a bite of the tender, juicy pork roast. "Very good," he said.
Isabelle relaxed a little and smiled. "I'm glad you like it." She took a small bite of her own slice of meat. Under James's encouragement and tutelage, she had become an exceptional cook. There were few things he allowed her to do, but cooking was one of them. He liked having a wife who could prepare gourmet dinners, especially when he entertained people from his law office.
"So, how was your day?" She asked the same question she'd asked every night for the past five years.
"Fine," he said, taking a sip of wine. He told her about a couple of his clients, and how brilliant he'd been in court that day. She smiled approvingly and said the appropriate words at the appropriate times.
She didn't have much of an appetite; she usually didn't at dinnertime, but she managed to take a few bites of the food on her plate. When James was finished, he placed his napkin beside his plate and told her he'd be in the den watching the evening news while she cleaned up the dishes.
Putting the last pot in the dishwasher, she shut the door and turned the knob for the cycle to begin. Giving the sink a quick scouring, she rinsed the sponge and wiped everything with a paper towel, so the chrome faucet sparkled and the porcelain sink glistened.
She was just about to hang the dishtowel to dry when she jumped. James was standing in the doorway, watching her.
Holding her hand on her chest, her heart beating wildly beneath her fingers, she said with a laugh, "You startled me."
His eyes narrowed in an intent gaze.
"Did you need something?" she asked nervously. She hated it when he stared at her like this. This was a look that frightened her. She scanned her mind quickly for something she might not have done to his liking or how in any way she might have angered him.
"I was looking for my evening paper . . ." he said, eyeing her.
Her heart stopped beating. She'd forgotten to get the paper. He liked having it beside his leather recliner in the den. She'd been so busy getting dinner she'd forgotten to get it off the porch. She was just about to apologize when the phone rang.
She jumped to get it, but James answered it. Grateful it was for him, she rushed to the front door. Grabbing the paper off the porch she took it inside and took it to the den, hoping James would forget it wasn't there earlier.
Picking up a novel, she tried to read as she waited for James to return. But it was impossible to comprehend anything she was reading, she was too nervous worrying about what he would say to her about not having the paper next to his chair.
Finally, she heard footsteps coming her direction.
"That was Mother," he said. "She wants us to come over for dinner on Sunday." He sat in his chair and picked up the paper.
The only thing worse than trying to please James was trying to please his mother. Mrs. Dalton was as nitpicky and critical as a person could get. "How nice of her to invite us," Isabelle lied, watching closely for a muscle to twitch in his cheek, or his hand to clench, to indicate he was going to flip out about the paper. "Did she mention if she'd like me to bring anything?"
He always read the business section first. "No," he replied, getting lost in his reading. "We just need to be there promptly at six."
"I'd better go write that down so I don't forget," Isabelle said. Relieved that her forgetting the newspaper hadn't turned into a big deal, she went to her planner and wrote down their dinner appointment. It was bad enough to suffer James's wrath, but adding his mother's to it was the truest form of hell on earth.
The evening was quiet, and as usual Isabelle was grateful to climb into bed that night. Most nights James stayed up late doing work he'd brought home from the office. She was grateful she could slip into the privacy and safety of her dreams. There she was happy and carefree again, as she had been before she'd married James.
Lying in her bed, Isabelle waited for her dreams to overtake her as she considered that her marriage was nothing like she'd imagined it would be. James had a side to him that she hadn't seen before they were married. A dark side. And sometimes, a violent side. He'd been attentive, protective and involved in her life, when they were dating. For a girl whose parents were both now gone and whose older brother had left home when she was a young girl and hadn't been seen or heard from since, she liked having someone to protect her, take care of her.
In the beginning James had swept her off her feet with all his attention and devotion. She'd been flattered by his near obsession to be with her or know where she was at all times. She hadn't understood what his demands really represented. She didn't realize the extent to which his "obsession" would grow.
James's love was anything but gentle and nurturing. It was controlling and dominating and robbed her of her freedom: freedom to associate with others, to pursue her dreams, to be herself. He told her how to dress and wear her hair, whom to associate with, what to do each day, where to go, what to buy, and even whom to talk to on the phone. She knew she'd grown paranoid about his obsession, but she honestly wondered if the occasional reverberation she heard on the phone meant the phone lines were bugged.
With each year they were married, his control seemed to grow stronger, more obsessive. At times she caught him staring at her, as he'd done earlier that night, with a look in his eye that rattled her nerves. And she wondered what exactly that look in his dark, pensive eyes meant.
The next day Isabelle woke to find it raining. She'd hoped to have sunshine so she could work out in the yard, but the drizzle kept up well into the afternoon. March had been a particularly wet month with sudden downpours, even blinding ice storms. When the weather was bad she spent her time indoors, playing the piano, losing herself in nocturnes by Chopin or concertos by Mozart. James didn't like her leaving the house unless she had specific errands to run or unless she worked out in the yard. She longed to go for walks in the woods behind their house, or down to the local gym and exercise. But he didn't like her going alone. So she didn't.
Finally, the storm broke and sun peeked through the clouds. Grabbing her windbreaker Isabelle went outside. She needed a breath of fresh air, so she walked down the lane toward the main road, thrilled to see the tips of crocuses and daffodils peeking through the soil. She kept the cordless phone with her in case James called, as he sometimes did at odd times during the day, just to check on her.
Turning back to the house, she stopped to look up at the beautiful Tudor-style home she lived in, but that strangely didn't feel like home. To her it was just a house where she lived. She had no sense of peace or love there. In a way it was like a prison. A beautiful, five-hundred-thousand-dollar prison. For anyone outside looking in, Isabelle appeared to have a life of luxury. James was a partner in the law firm of Harper, Calhoun, and Dalton, a prestigious firm in Boston. He was highly regarded in his field and well known and respected by every attorney on the East coast. He dressed impeccably, was incredibly handsome with smooth dark hair, and deep, dark brown, mysterious eyes. His tall, six-foot-three good looks, Harvard law degree, and wealth and power made him a community icon. The Dalton name dated back to the city's founding fathers and represented both money and power. Isabelle was considered the beautiful, devoted, dutiful wife. She was poised, gracious, quiet spoken, and always at his side.
But no one in the community knew what happened behind closed doors.
"Isabelle," a voice called to her. "Oh, Isabelle."
Isabelle turned to see their neighbor, Cynthia Twitchell, calling her. Cynthia had come outside to get her mail.
"Mrs. Twitchell," Isabelle waved. "How are you feeling?" Mrs. Twitchell had been recovering from a bout with bronchitis.
"Much better, thank you. I haven't seen you all winter. How have you been?" The woman walked toward her, smiling her sweet, warm smile.
From the few conversations she'd had with her neighbor, Isabelle gathered that the Twitchells had two children. One of them was grown and married with a baby; the other one had been living in the U.K. for a while. Cynthia didn't look old enough to have a grandchild.
"I've been well," Isabelle said with a friendly nod. "I'm glad spring is here. I've missed working in the yard."
Mrs. Twitchell looked at Isabelle with interest. Isabelle always got the impression that her neighbor somehow knew what it was like for her at home with James. The woman never pried or asked, but her eyes held such great understanding and sympathy that Isabelle couldn't help but wonder.
The sound of a car coming down the street caused both of the women to turn and see who it was. To Isabelle's complete horror, it was James.
The stone-cold look he gave her as he pulled into the driveway turned Isabelle's blood to ice. Had he thought she was getting the mail?
"I have to go-" Isabelle left Mrs. Twitchell behind and ran back to the house. She got inside before James did and quickly hung up her coat.
"Isabelle!" James yelled as he came through the back door.
She jumped when she heard her name and raced to meet him.
"I was just asking Mrs. Twitchell how she was feeling after her bron-"
"I need to drop off the car at the shop so they can repair the dent in the door," he told her.
Relieved that he didn't reprimand her for being outside talking to the neighbor, she said, "Do you need me to follow you in my car?"
He looked at her as though she were a complete idiot. "Of course I do!"
She flinched but steeled herself. "Would you like me to change my clothes first?" She knew that whenever she went out in public he liked her to look her best. She was in jeans and a button-down oxford shirt.
"You won't be getting out. You're fine," he told her.
The ride to town took about fifteen minutes. Isabelle didn't mind the drive though; she enjoyed having a chance to get out of the house for any reason.
She waited in the car while James went into the shop to take care of business. She remembered how livid he'd been when he'd discovered the ding in the door of his Jaguar after work one day. He'd threatened to sue the parking attendant and the garage, but no one knew anything about who could have done it. James kept his Jaguar in immaculate condition, and any defect or damage was intolerable. The dent had happened on Tuesday, today was Thursday.
James emerged from the repair shop and approached the car. Isabelle jumped out to allow him to drive.
"You drive," he ordered. "I've got to call the office."
It made her nervous to drive when James was in the car with her. But today he was so busy talking on the phone and writing in his Palm Pilot, he wasn't paying attention to what she was doing.
The road to their house followed a river which had become swollen with early spring rain. She followed the twists and turns in the road, but as she came around a sharp bend, she had to brake quickly to avoiding running into the tail end of the car in front of her that was moving too slowly.
"Isabelle, you know how dangerous this road is!" James exploded. "Every year people die on this turn because they drive too fast. What are you thinking?"
"I'm sorry," Isabelle replied. "I was going the speed limit." She checked the gauge often, especially with James in the car. She wasn't speeding.
He didn't reply but she dropped her speed considerably, not wanting to push her luck any further.
The next day Isabelle was grateful a warm sun was shining. She looked forward to spending the day outside, cleaning out flower beds and working in the soil. Being outside gave her a sense of freedom she rarely felt. It also gave her a nurturing, caring feeling which she longed for. A feeling that often made her think of how much she wanted a family, children of her own. But James was opposed to having children. She'd never expected they would have a large family, probably only two children, but James had told her in no uncertain terms that he didn't want any children, or pets, for that matter.
It was probably for the best, she reasoned, as she fastened a rubber band around the end of her braid, which hung down her back between her shoulder blades. James wasn't her idea of an ideal father. He wasn't exactly tender and loving. But her life seemed so empty and meaningless. Her days were filled with mindless housework, cooking, and cleaning, but even that wouldn't fill up all the empty hours of every day. She had more time on her hands than she knew what to do with. James was adamantly opposed to her getting a job, even though she had a degree in early childhood education. He didn't like the thought of her being around strangers, especially men, when he wasn't around. Not that Isabelle had ever given him any reason to mistrust her. But that didn't matter.
There was still a cool nip in the air, so Isabelle slipped on her windbreaker before going outside. With the cordless phone in one hand, she headed for the garden shed where she kept all her tools. The rosebushes needed a good pruning, so she decided to start there first.
As she clipped and pruned she felt the calming effect of being outside: the warmth of the sun on her back, the freshness of the breeze on her face. Her sheltered life left her little to find pleasure in, and she had learned to find happiness in small delights.
"Yoo-hoo," a voice called to her from the side of the house.
"Mrs. Twitchell, I'm in the back," Isabelle replied, pushing herself to her feet. She removed her gloves and smiled warmly at her neighbor.
"Hello," Mrs. Twitchell said. "I had an inkling you'd be outside on such a lovely day." She handed Isabelle a plate of cookies. "I made a batch of applesauce cookies, thought you and your husband would enjoy some."
Isabelle was touched. How thoughtful of her neighbor to bother. Isabelle lifted the plate and smelled the spicy, appley scent of the warm cookies. "They smell wonderful. Thank you."
"Oh," Mrs. Twitchell remembered something else. "I almost forgot. The mailman put this letter in my mailbox by mistake."
Isabelle took the letter and thanked her.
"Well, I guess I'd best get going." She hesitated, as if she wanted to say more, but didn't. "By the way, I have a gardening book you might enjoy looking at. It has some wonderful ideas and tips in it."
"I'd like that," Isabelle told her. "And thanks again for the cookies." Ever since her own mother died shortly after Isabelle and James got married, Isabelle had missed having someone to talk to, someone who would listen to her, counsel her, support and strengthen her, much like a mother would. In a way Mrs. Twitchell was the closest thing she had, but Isabelle didn't dare confide in her or anyone else. If James found out she'd said anything to anyone, she was certain he would beat her within an inch of her life.
"We ought to go out to lunch one day," Mrs. Twitchell suggested. "Since we're both home all day, we could go to the country club for lunch, then go shopping for the afternoon."
Isabelle would've liked nothing more than to spend an afternoon with her neighbor. But she knew it would never happen. With a smile she said, "I'll have to check my schedule and get back to you."
The woman bid her farewell and headed home. Sadness filled Isabelle's heart as she watched her leave. She appreciated Mrs. Twitchell's offer of friendship, and would have loved to have a friend. Someone, anyone, to fill the emptiness in her life, an emptiness that sometimes felt as though it would consume her entire being.
Her stomach growled. It was past lunchtime, and she hadn't eaten breakfast. Taking the plate of cookies inside with her, she poured herself a tall glass of cold milk and sat down at the counter to sample Mrs. Twitchell's baking.
Out of curiosity, she turned the letter over that Mrs. Twitchell had brought to her and gasped. It was addressed to her.
Chapter 2
Isabelle stared at the letter. She rarely ever got mail anymore. Any letters she did get James usually intercepted and read first before he gave them to her.
She noticed the return address was from S. MacGregor, in Westmoor, England. A surge of excitement sent her heart racing. She had a great-aunt in England, her grandmother's sister. Was this letter from her Aunt Sophie?
Her father had been born in America, but his family went to England when he was a young boy and he'd grown up there. Her mother had been Irish and English.
Ripping open the envelope, she read the contents.
My dearest Isabelle,
After the countless letters I've written to you without receiving any reply, I suppose I should assume you wish to have no contact with me. But I just can't seem to forget those beautiful green eyes of yours, like your mother's, and that gorgeous head of curly red hair. Of course, that was many years ago when you were just a child, but still, you are my grand niece and I have not forgotten you.
I am therefore making one last attempt to contact you, in hopes that you will drop me a short note to let me know how you're getting on. Your grandmother and your mother were all the family I had, and you and your brother are all I have left. I am growing old and I am hoping that before I pass on, I can bestow upon you what is left of their legacy.
I would love to hear from you, but even more, I would love to see you, and your beautiful smiling face again. Perhaps you could come to England on holiday. You would be welcome to stay as long as you wish. My home is your home.
I must get this in the post, but I enclose with it my love, prayers, and best wishes to you.
With love,
Aunt Sophie
Isabelle stared at the letter, her breath coming in short, quick gasps. Her Aunt Sophie had been sending letters to her and she didn't even know it. But why hadn't she received them?
James. There was no doubt in her mind. Because she was forbidden to collect the mail, he could have easily intercepted the letters and gotten rid of them as part of his need to keep a tight rein on her.
A warm feeling in her stomach quickly filled her entire body. Her great-aunt still loved her and cared about her. The woman thought about her and wanted to see her.
To know that someone, an actual family member, wanted to have contact with her, even spend time with her, lifted her spirits. She'd been so isolated, so imprisoned by James, that she'd forgotten she did have at least one relative left in her family. A relative who loved her and wanted to see her.
By the sound of the letter, Isabelle gathered that at one time she must have been to her Aunt Sophie's home. But for the life of her Isabelle couldn't remember being there, nor could she put a face to the name.
Isabelle thought of her brother, Ryan. She hadn't heard from him since she was a teenager. How she wished he'd contact her. Since he chose to stay away from her, it was out of her hands. But her Aunt Sophie cared. Knowing someone was thinking of her made her feel warm and wonderful inside.
But how would she ever be able to visit her aunt? James would never take her to England, nor would he let her go alone. In fact, judging by the way he'd kept her aunt's letters from her, she wasn't sure he would allow any contact with her.
Isabelle glanced around the room as if to check to make sure she was still alone. James had her so spooked and nervous that she felt as though she were being watched constantly by some unknowing eye.
The doorbell rang, scaring Isabelle out of her skin. Cautiously she crept toward the front door, wondering who it could be. She never had visitors during the day.
When she looked through the window no one was there. She went to the door and opened it. On the porch was a package delivered by Federal Express.
Bringing the package inside, she shut the door and locked it. The letter from her aunt was still clutched in her hand. She had to keep the letter from James. He couldn't know she had it. She would put it away in her special hiding spot where she kept a few pictures of her parents and brother and all the money she had in the world. Money she'd saved over the years, from grocery money and other spare change she'd acquired. Why she hoarded it, she didn't know, but she liked knowing it was there and that it was hers alone.
Walking up the stairs to her bedroom, she thought about how wonderful it would be to visit her aunt in England. To talk to someone who knew her mother and father, and had a connection to her. James shouldn't keep her away from her family. It wasn't right. Yet she knew, right or wrong, he still would. And to bring it up, to even ask, was an invitation for his anger, something she never triggered intentionally. Despite her constant vigilance, she still managed occasionally to do things that upset him. She wasn't about to bring up the subject of her aunt or all her missing letters.
Still, she longed to see her Aunt Sophie. She had a vague recollection of her aunt, but that was all. Her past, especially her childhood, seemed to have slipped into a thick fog in her mind. Perhaps it was because it took every ounce of willpower, strength, and conscious effort to cope with the life she now had. Dwelling on the past only made her discouraged and frustrated.
Inside the walk-in closet in her bedroom, she pulled out a suitcase that was tucked back in a corner, behind racks of shoes and handbags. Fishing the suitcase key out of the bottom drawer of her jewelry case, she opened the suitcase, pulled out a carry-on bag she had stored inside, and pulled out a shoe box from the bag.
Inside were pictures of her brother and parents, her passport showing dual nationality, English and American, and money. The box was full of bills: ones, fives, tens, and twenties. She made piles with the money and began counting, curious to see how much she had saved. By the time she finished counting, she could see that she had close to seven hundred dollars. After five years of saving, she was amazed she had so much.
At first, when she began saving the extra cash, she'd intended to use the money to buy a special gift for James. But she'd never found the right time or right item to spend it on, so she'd just kept saving.
She put the money back in the box, then looked at the pictures of her parents. Her father had been killed in an automobile accident by a drunk driver when she was nine. Then her older brother had run away from home when she was sixteen, breaking her mother's heart.
Isabelle had met James after she graduated from college. Her mother hadn't cared much for James from the very beginning. She didn't trust him, even if he did drive an expensive car, was darkly handsome, and lavished them both with gifts. There was something about him she didn't trust. Isabelle had imagined herself to be truly in love for the first time and had paid no attention. She regretted not following her mother's instinct.
Isabelle and James had been married barely a year when her mother had died. Isabelle was already realizing the full extent of James's obsessive and controlling behavior, and her mother's death had hit Isabelle hard.
But this letter from her aunt gave her new hope. She still had someone who loved her and cared about her. And maybe, somehow, it might prove to be a link to her brother. The chances were slim, she knew, but she didn't want to let go of the possiblity.
Reading the letter one last time, she placed it inside the box and put everything away, just as it was before. She then went to the computer and logged on to the Internet. She was curious to see how much airline tickets to England were.
After some scouting around, she located a fare for three hundred and seventy-nine dollars one way, out of Boston.
An idea flickered across her mind, but she quickly banished the thought. She knew she would never dare go to England by herself. Not unless she was willing to leave James for good. She'd thought of leaving James, many times. Especially after the times he'd beaten her. But where would she go? Seven hundred dollars wasn't enough to start a new life.
Besides that, she was afraid of him. Not only of what he did to her when she was with him, but what he'd do to her if she ever left him and he found her again.
No, she thought sadly as she disconnected from the outside world and turned off the computer. The only way she'd ever be free of James would be in death. He'd told her many times that the thought of her being with anyone else nearly drove him mad. He claimed he loved her passionately, but his way of showing his love and devotion was through his possessive control. It wasn't normal, and it wasn't healthy, Isabelle knew that. She just couldn't do anything about it.
Her thoughts continued as she began to prepare dinner. Tonight James had scheduled grilled salmon. She would make baked potatoes and a green salad to go with it. A nice evening meal was important to James. And if it made him happy, Isabelle was willing to do it.
A colleague had given James a ride to and from work that day, and as usual Isabelle's stomach was in knots when he arrived home, but dinner went well and James actually seemed to be in good spirits. He'd won a big case in court that day and even promised Isabelle that he would take some time off this summer and they would go on a vacation, perhaps to a secluded island getaway in the Caribbean.
While Isabelle cleared the dishes, James went to the den to read his newspaper. Everything seemed to be going well until she heard him call her name.
Chewing her bottom lip nervously, she went to the den. James was standing, holding the Federal Express package in his hand.
"What is it, James?" she asked.
"This package," he lifted it for her to see better. "It came today?"
"Yes," she said, wondering what the problem was. "This afternoon."
"Tell me about the delivery man, Isabelle." He stepped closer to her, the muscles in his jaw clenching.
"The delivery man?" She was confused. "I didn't see the delivery man. He just left the package on the porch."
"Of course he did." James lowered his voice, reaching out for her arm, but she pulled it away.
"I'm telling you the truth. I didn't even see who delivered it." She tried to speak convincingly.
"Why don't I believe you?" He grabbed at her arm again, this time latching onto her elbow. He dug his fingers into her flesh, his manicured nails biting into her skin.
"James, please." she pulled her arm back, but he gripped it even tighter. "You're hurting me."
"Oh, I am, am I?" His eyes narrowed and he smiled cruelly. With a sudden jerk, he threw the package across the room and grabbed her other elbow, taking Isabelle completely by surprise.
Isabelle whimpered, dreading what was coming. She'd never, ever given him reason to doubt her fidelity to him, but he became so insanely jealous over the most ridiculously innocent things. Isabelle had learned that there was no convincing him otherwise.
Pulling her closer to him, he held her tightly, his eyes burning into hers. Just then, the doorbell rang.
James swore. "Who could that be?"
Peeking through the curtains, he saw who was on the porch. "It's that pesky Mrs. Twitchell," he told Isabelle. "Get rid of her."
