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“I won’t kill him,” Agnes said to Shane, trying to sound calm and reasonable through the red mist. “You can let go.”
“Don’t do it,” Taylor said. “She almost killed her last fiancé.”
“He’s fine now,” Agnes said. “He has a plate in his head. He can’t walk under magnets, but how often does that happen? You can let go.”
“If the police should ever hear of this,” Shane said to Taylor, “she will be the least of your problems.”
“All right,” Taylor said, keeping his eyes on Shane. “Let go of the fork,” Shane said to Agnes. “I want him dead,” she said.
“Eventually, he will be,” Shane said. “Let go of the fork.”
“He lied to me,” Agnes said, her breath coming hard. “I want him dead now.”
“Not your decision. Let go of the fork or I’ll take it.”
She looked into Taylor’s clueless, cheating, lying face, the same dumb, smug, cruel face a million women had probably looked into that day—it wasn’t me, I didn’t do it, it’s your imagination, I can explain, it’s not what it looks like—and thought, If we killed them all when they did it, they’d stop doing it, and tried to lunge, which was when Shane yanked her hand back and almost broke her arm as he dragged her behind him.
Taylor grabbed his throat and turned to run, and Shane hauled him back with his free hand as Agnes clutched her arm and tried to get to Taylor again.
Shane lifted Taylor up off his heels, holding Agnes at arm’s length.
“Remember,” he said calmly. “No police. If the police come asking anything at all about tonight, Agnes and her fork will look like a pat on the back compared to what I will do to you.”
“You don’t scare me,” Taylor said, looking terrified.
“Then you’re dumber than I thought,” Shane said, and threw him into the hall.
Taylor scrambled for the front door, slipping on the black-and-white tile floor and cutting himself on the pieces of broken china there, and Agnes thought, No! and started after him, but Shane still held the arm with the fork and yanked her back, dragging her into the housekeeper’s room and slamming that door behind them while she kicked at him, toppling them both onto the bed.
“Knock it off,” he said, pinning her to the mattress while he tried to take the fork from her, but she held on to it with a death grip, so frustrated she wanted to stab it into a wall, and he finally snaked one arm underneath the hand holding the fork and around her neck, applying pressure to get it away from her. He pressed her down on the comforter, her shoulder and neck hurting as he pried at her fingers. “Let it go, Agnes,” Shane said, and she tried to writhe free and then she heard Taylor’s car engine start, rev up, and then fade away, and she thought, Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT, as Shane yanked the fork away from her, almost breaking her wrist.
“Go to hell!” she said, snarling with rage and frustration and pain, and he said, “Oh, give it up,” and eased back. She rolled under him and struck out savagely, so damn mad at men that she wanted to pound him, and he dropped the fork and grabbed her wrists and jerked them over her head, slamming her back down on the bed, on top and in control again.
“Will you give up?” he said, as if she were just an annoyance, and she tried to knock him off, jerking under him, breathing hard, and watched his eyes change, grow darker and hot as she moved.
Oh, right, she thought, goddamn men, and then she felt the weight of him on top of her, felt all that rage fuse in her body in a need for hard contact, and all her frustrated fantasies about him hit her, all the lust she’d buried because she’d been engaged, damn it, and suddenly she wanted payback, wanted to cheat on Taylor, wanted to pound somebody, wanted to fuck somebody, and her anger kicked into something lower and sharper and a lot more focused.
Physical exercise is a good way of defusing anger, Agnes.
Way ahead of you, Dr. Garvin.
Shane let go of her wrists and straightened away from her, and she reached up and grabbed a handful of his T-shirt and yanked him back down, rolling so that he was under her.
He didn’t fight her much.
She straddled him, holding wads of his T-shirt in her fists. “I’m really mad,” she said, gritting her teeth, her breath coming hard as she smacked his chest on every word. “Really, really FURIOUS.”
“Yeah,” he said cautiously.
She leaned down on her fists, practically growling at him, her teeth clenched. “My court-appointed psychiatrist says I should vent my anger in nonviolent physical exercise.” She smacked him in the chest again, and he winced and caught her wrists.
“You know, Agnes, that’s not the hottest thing any woman has ever said to me.”
She yanked her wrists free and pounded her fists into his chest again, then let go of his shirt to strip off her dress and throw it on the floor.
He stopped frowning. “Course, it’s not the worst thing any woman has ever said to me, either.” He ran his hands up her sides to cup her breasts.
“Don’t take this personally,” she spat. “This is rage, not lust.”
