Page 51 of Finding Eve
For the thirdtime in as many days, Roland paused the section of video showing Eve mid-lunge. Every woman to fall victim to Bryan’s obsessive-compulsive paraphilia had responded differently to her circumstances. Some lost hope immediately. Some fought to the end. None had ever managed to reach the knife, and none had ever come so close to putting a stop to his son’s reign of terror.
Eve was the exception. She’d always been the exception. Tenacious from the day she arrived at the manor, she had pursued her objectives with single-minded determination. Whether it be integrating herself into a family she knew very little, excelling in her chosen field of study, or establishing herself as a highly respected and sought-after physical therapist, Eve had been relentless in realizing her goals.
Roland had long admired her strength of character and unfailing perseverance. She was everything a father could hope for in a child, and many times, he’d wished she were his. If she had been, choosing between her and Bryan would be much less difficult.
Arguably, a parent should never have to make such a decision. But what if one child was the personification of all that was good, and the other…well, the other was lost, confused in mind and body, a danger to himself, and most certainly to others.
What choice would a parent make then?
Bryan was his flesh and blood.
How could he not do everything within his power to protect his son?
His knobby knuckles ached as he retrieved his Montblanc pen, the age spots marring the thin skin on the back of his hand a reminder of his advancing age. At seventy-three, he should be reaping the benefits of a life dedicated to public service, his retirement years spent in the peaceful and loving embrace of family and friends.
Instead, here he sat in the manor’s cold library once again perverting the laws of justice he’d sworn to uphold. May God forgive him for what he was about to do. The witness statement had been typed. The words clipped. Efficient. Damaging to Eve’s personal and professional reputation.
Lies.
Every single word.
With a twist of his wrist, he removed the engraved cap from the last gift his wife had given him and signed his name. The Honorable Roland T. Matthew. A permanent stain in black ink, and an indicator of how far he’d fallen from grace.
Regret choked him, and remorse blurred his vision as he replaced the gold-plated symbol of his counterfeit stature back in its satin-lined case. On the corner of his desk, Beverly’s picture drew his gaze. Better perhaps, that she hadn’t lived to bear witness to his failures as a father and a man.
Eleven years his junior when they married, she’d been the love of his life. The mother of his child. Her death a tragedy from which he never recovered. An accident according to Bryan, the only other person in the manor at the time of her tumble down the grand staircase.
Roland had always wondered.
What role had Bryan played in Beverly’s death?
Even now, all these years later, the truth lay buried along with his wife.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE
The darknessoutside the window was a plush blanket draped over the warm cabin. Inside, the lights were low and the atmosphere intimate. The comforting sounds of home and hearth lulled, a soothing symphony serving as a background for Eve’s meandering thoughts.
Muscles loose after a hot shower, she had the structural integrity of an amoeba and the mental capacity of a horny teenager. She took a slow steadying breath, and her mouth watered.
Maybe it was the hamburger patties sizzling in the cast-iron pan, the aroma of onion and garlic making her stomach growl. Maybe it was the luscious taste of the red wine, teasing her palate with dark cherry and a hint of spice.
Maybe it was the man.
Adam in motion was a pleasure to watch.
Adam in motion in the kitchen was borderline orgasmic.
He moved with effortless grace and exact precision, the chef’s knife in his hand no longer a weapon he was skilled at using, but a tool he used with great skill. Sleeves rolled to the elbows as he diced and sliced, Eve’s eyes tracked his movements, a starved animal desperate for its next meal.
Already feeling the effects of her first glass of pinot noir, she sipped her second slowly while her brain took a left turn into restricted territory.
Forearm porn.
She didn’t know she had a thing for forearms. Until now. Hands too. She liked Adam’s hands. A lot. Liked them even better when they were on her, but hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and if they weren’t on her, the next best thing was having them be put to good use in the culinary department, the rewards of which she would also reap.
“Quit lusting after my cheddar.”
Busted—not that she’d been trying to hide her obvious hunger for cheese—or man. Her appetite for both had returned with a vengeance. Lucky for him, she sat on a stool on the opposite side of the high table, or she might have made an attempt on one or the other. “Well, if you gave me a taste, I wouldn’t have to lust.”
