Man with
the Muscle
Julie Miller
MILLS & BOON
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Table of Contents
About the Author
JULIE MILLER attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.
Prologue
The acrid stench of fear and burnt flesh tainted her expensive perfume and quickened his pulse as he put out his cigarette on her sculpted cheekbone.
Her silent scream spasmed through her and she gurgled beneath his hand on her throat, sputtering words with no sound. Her eyes pleaded, wept, their vain tilt not so pronounced as they’d been out on the terrace yesterday evening, laughing at him in the moonlight.
His gloved hand was dark against her alabaster skin.He carefully tucked the cigarette butt into his pocket. It was a lousy, disgusting habit, but tonight had called for something special. He brought both hands to her neck, squeezing a little harder, then easing his grip before closing off her airway again—teasing her, tormenting her with the false promise of freedom.
Just as she had tormented him with her promises.
No more. He was the one with the power over her now. He was the one in control of their destinies. He couldn’t be hurt. He couldn’t be used. He wouldn’t be denied. Strength surged through him. Dominance. Superiority. His hands jerked around her throat as the anger consumed and cleansed him.
His breath came deeper, stronger as hers constricted. He straddled her chest and sat, feeling her writhe helplessly, weakly, futilely beneath him.
“You’re not so high and mighty now, are you, Gretchen?” He pulled up his stocking mask, wanting her to see his eyes, to know he was the one who’d put her in her place. “You want to rethink saying no to me?”
She nodded.
Tears and desperation and the blood on her cheek made her look vulnerable, more human than the icy beauty who’d led him on for so many months—smiling at him, sharing conversations, accepting his gifts—yet ultimately dismissing him as if he was of no more importance than a piece of furniture. For a moment, he paused to tenderly brush aside the damp golden hair that stuck to her forehead. She looked beautiful, stretched out beneath him, begging to do his bidding. This was how it could have been between them—how it should have been. He wanted to kiss her. He nearly did. But no, he wouldn’t leave even that little trace of DNA. He was too smart for that.
Too smart for all of them.
Stupid bitches.
“Too late.” With a snap, he crushed her windpipe. In a matter of seconds, she was dead.
When the spark faded from her eyes, it took his rage and need with him and he breathed a sigh of relief. He reached for his bag.
Precisely three minutes later, he set about the tasks of cleaning her wounds, untying her wrists and ankles and rewinding the electrical cords before returning them to their storage compartment inside the bag.
