Chapter 13

Wyatt sat down on the bed across from Isabella, his face drawn tight, his eyes glittering with anger.

"You have to be honest with me. You need to give me some reason why I should believe anything you say. Why should I trust you or believe you?" he said, as though talking to a small child, firm but gentle.

When he released a long, deep pent-up sigh Isabella realized his waning patience. He didn't appear to be the sort of man to play games. Good thing!

When he looked at her, she felt that he could see through her, into her, read her thoughts, know her feelings. He left her tongue-tied and weak. A no-nonsense kind of man, Wyatt expected a straight and honest answer for a direct question.

Isabella answered with trembling lips, her voice shaking as she tried to get her breath, gulping big swallows of air.

"I'm the victim here, okay? I've told you the truth, everything. I'm a second-grade teacher, for God's sake. I'm not out for some ill-gotten money or any notoriety." She paused, catching her taking a deep breath to relieve some of the anger.

"I live in Cameron Lakes, a suburb of Denver, Colorado. My street address is Thirteen Twenty-one Cameron Lake Dr, Apartment One-oh-one. I work nearby at Lakes Elementary School. Check me out anyway you want. It's all true," she shouted, pulling the comforter with her as she stood.

"If all you say is true, how in the world did you get here? How? Why? And who? Why would someone bring you all this way, and for what purpose?" Wyatt asked, looking down the end of his nose at her, tilting his head backward.

His condescending tone set her off. She lost control of her trying-to-be-stalwart front and started to cry in earnest, choking between sobs. "I've been asking myself the same questions. I don't know why or how or even when I got here, but I swear I'm telling you the truth. I have no reason, no reason at all, to lie to you."

Wyatt examined her face for a few more minutes, and then walked into the bathroom. He came back with a box of tissues and handed them to her.

She looked up at him. "Please, will you help me try to figure this out?" She took the tissues from him and loudly blew her nose. "I swear, on my father's grave, I'm telling you the truth."

He began pacing again, back and forth at the foot of the bed, his fingers strumming on his lips, his eyes looking at the floor in front of his feet, deep in thought.

He turned toward her suddenly, making her jump. "Okay, I'll help you but you have to play by my rules. I'm in charge. You follow my directions at all times and all places, no ifs, ands or buts."

She started to protest, but he put up his hand, halting her by giving her a look that said "any objections would not be considered."

"It's the only way I work. Otherwise, I call the cops and I'll let them handle it however they choose. So, which is it, them or me?"

She sat on the bed, her arms locked across her chest, her mouth in a pout, thinking of her choices and any alternatives she might have. Did this mean he would help her? Duh! Not that I have any choice in the matter. She could always agree with him now, but at the first opportunity, she could make a break for it and be out of here.

Nodding her head in agreement, she said, "Okay, we play by your rules, but only for as long as I like. I control my own life. Nobody else does."

"Fine. I wouldn't have it any other way. First, I think you need to get dressed. I'll see if I can find something for you to wear," he said as he walked out of the room. She heard him open a door down the hall, open and close a couple of drawers.

He came back into the room carrying some clothes. He laid them on her lap. "These are some of my sister's things. You're both about the same size so they should fit you. Why don't you get dressed while I see what I can rustle up for breakfast?"

Without waiting for a response, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

****

Dave Miller had always been an early riser and had his daily workout finished usually before daylight. He was at the gym when he heard his cell phone ring under the towel, he tossed down nearby. He received calls at all hours of the day and night but decided to ignore this one, early Sunday morning, at least until he was done with his workout. He soon heard the beep indicating a new voice message.

After a quick shower, he checked his messages while he dressed. Wyatt had called. That's odd! I was just thinking about him. I hope he doesn't want to get together to work out. If he does, he's on his own. Ha! Ha!

He hadn't talked to him in a few days so as soon as he got into his car he dialed Wyatt's cell number. After a lengthy conversation, he backed out of his parking space and set off toward Wyatt's house.

****

Isabella sat on the bed running her hands up and down her arms wrapped around herself seeking comfort, staring straight ahead. She ran her fingers over the clothes in her lap. When she finally looked at the clothes Wyatt had given her to wear, she saw a pair of blue jeans, a pair of not-what-she-wore-at-home sexy-looking bikini underwear and a long-sleeve T-shirt-no bra. She looked through the stack again, still no bra. She always wore a bra. Always! She needed to confine her large breasts, and she felt more comfortable with less jiggle and wiggle. Damn these big boobs!

She walked to the bathroom, tightening the robe around her waist taking the clothes with her. She washed her face, dressed, and returned the robe to the back of the door where she found it. She did a quick perusal of the bathroom to make sure everything was in order, poking around for the clothes she left there during the night to find her worn-out, now-wireless-but-better-than-nothing bra, but she didn't see anything remaining.

She glanced in the mirror and noticed her hair standing up every which way. She wet her hands and ran them through her hair to fluff and straighten where needed. The jeans fit rather well in the waist and hips but needed shortened about two inches so she rolled them up to avoid tripping. The top wouldn't work at all. It fit well enough, a little tight across her breasts, revealing her nipples and the darker areolas through the lightweight fabric.

She held her arms across her chest as she left the bathroom to tidy up the bed. She picked up the pillow when she saw the indentation from Wyatt's head. Sitting on the bed sniffing the pillow, his scent of man and woodsy, exotic cologne sent a chill down her spine, a quickening in her stomach, even lower. Her knees began quivering. Her heart lurched in her chest as if missing a beat. She remembered his scent, his intense heat, as he hid her from her captors, and felt a tingling deep within the pit of her being. Something she had never felt before.

What's wrong with me? These emotions, feelings had never been stirred before, not even with Michael, whom she had planned to marry. She and Michael had known each other since high school. They had hung out with the same group of friends, even though he was about ten years older. While in college, she heard from a mutual friend that Michael traveled often and was even out of the country for a few years.

Shortly after returning to the States from Central America, he had ran into her at a coffee bar near the school where she worked. He had made her laugh. They started to see each other on a regular basis, and their relationship soon had become serious. He invited her to move into his townhouse with him. She happily accepted.

They shared all their dreams and lifetime desires. She thought they were in love with each other. A marriage she had dreamed of all her life could be the next step in their relationship.

They'd been happy living together for the first few months, but then Michael changed, taking on an unfamiliar persona she didn't like. Out of the blue, with no notice or discussion with her, he quit his job, which made a hardship for her to support them both on her teaching salary. He started leaving early in the morning and staying out late at night. He stopped talking to her the few hours he was home. When she asked him about this change, "I'm working," was his only explanation, and that "it isn't any of your business." He wouldn't talk to her about his job, telling her very clearly that her responsibilities did not include "keeping tabs on him every minute of the day or night." Paying the bills and servicing all his needs, especially sexually, were what she needed to be concerned about. And it didn't matter whether day or night, tired, in the mood or not. He basically had become a sex addict with perversions beyond her greatest imaginations.

She despaired over what to do, not sure she had the strength to walk away from her lifetime dreams. Then she came home from work that night. She remembered it as if it were yesterday.