‘My father would die for me.’

‘Ah, but would he kill for you, Tara? You think Leo went to that hotel and topped James Caine?’

‘My father pleaded guilty.’

I bought the ticket, Daddy.

But you paid the bill.

‘Because he loves his little girl,’ Spike said. ‘And because he was afraid her happy home was going to fall apart if her husband got collared.’

He slipped his hands around my waist.

I tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me.

He was far stronger than me. And what scared me was that Spike looked like a man who believed he was collecting a debt.

‘Ginger’s my friend,’ I said.

‘That didn’t stop her with your dad.’

The field behind the house was empty. I listened for a car on the drive. But there was no car on the drive. Nobody was coming.

‘Your father’s not a killer, Tara, and neither is Christian – whatever that old copper may think. They put him away, didn’t they? How long did he get?’

‘Five years.’

Five years for DCI Stoner, which meant he would be out in less than three. Would a few years be enough to stop him torturing a woman he didn’t know how to let go of? In my experience, that kind of man never leaves you alone. They think they own you. Maybe they would have to lock him up again. Maybe somebody would have to teach him a lesson he would never forget.

‘Look – your dad’s a good guy, Tara. And Christian is a sensitive bloke. He’s my friend. But I’m not like them.’

‘You’re not good or sensitive?’

‘That’s right, Tara. I am neither good nor sensitive. I’m a rough boy. I put ketchup on my pasta. Remember?’

He pulled me closer and I felt him harden against me. His mouth was against my neck, nuzzling me as if he had waited years for this moment. His hands were in my jeans, inside my pants, on my buttocks, squeezing too hard, digging in his fingernails, his arms locked around me.

‘Get the fuck off me, Spike!’

‘Ah, you could make a dead man come, Tara.’

And I felt a wave of pure panic. Would he rape me? Would he really do that to me?

‘I’m not going to force myself on you,’ he said. ‘What kind of man do you think I am? But I want you to want me. And don’t you want to thank me, Tara?’

‘What – stop! – what should I be thanking you for?’

‘What do you think?’

Then he was pushing up my top with one hand, batting off my hands with the other, much too strong for me, and he pulled up my bra, releasing my breasts, and he was bending over, his mouth was on them as he began yanking at my trousers, struggling with the brass button on my jeans, wrenching at it with all his strength until the brass button of my Wranglers went across the room like a spent bullet. Then he had the zip of my trousers open, and he was pulling them down, over my thighs, murmuring with pleasure against my ear when he caught a glimpse of my pants.