Sea Haven 02 - Spirit Bound

he’d gone back to that cold, emotionless man who had no moral compass whatsoever.
    “I’m not going to argue with you, Judith, not when you’re being unreasonable. Where’s our painting?”
    The question caught her off guard. That was so like Jean-Claude. She had never realized all the times he’d abruptly ended a conversation and made her feel young and stupid, just how often he manipulated her to get his way.
    “Painting?”
    “You took our painting. The one of our meeting. I loved that painting and so did you. It was the only thing you took. Even your clothes were left behind.”
    For a moment that horrible realization came back, that moment of truth. She was in love with a killer. She had taken the painting because she was young and silly and so in love with such a wealthy, sophisticated Frenchman. The tragic end to her love affair would always be remembered when she looked at the painting—and then he’d had her brother murdered. That painting had become her nemesis. She poured her hatred and anger and sorrow onto that canvas over the last five years.
    “I painted over it. I couldn’t stand to look at it.”
    “You heartless bitch. That painting meant something to me.” He slapped her hard, sending her sprawling on the floor.
    The attack was so fast and so unexpected Judith almost didn’t understand what happened, and then her cheek seemed to explode, a blossoming pain that wrenched her teeth and eye, and she realized he’d hit her. Fury burst through her, shaking her to her very core. She kicked at him as he bent over her. Her foot connected with his shin and he spat out curses. Judith rolled, trying to get under the protection of the table, but he swung his booted foot at her, slamming into her ribs and driving the breath from her body. Before she could recover, he gripped the back of her hair in his hands and yanked her up.
    “Stop it, Judith,” he hissed. “Do you understand me? You stop or I’ll beat you senseless, and then tear this house apart until I find that painting. Regardless, conscious or unconscious, I’m taking you with me anyway. You can choose.”
    She nodded, fighting for air. Judith forced her body under control. “Tell me what’s so important about that painting, Jean-Claude.”
    “I put something there and I need it back. Something very important. Where the hell is the painting?”
    Judith closed her eyes briefly. She knew exactly what he was talking about. Even when Stefan had mentioned a microchip, it hadn’t clicked, but now she knew. Her brother had been the one to stretch that canvas for her. He’d been the first person to ever show her how and she’d taken the canvas with her when she went to Paris intending to give him her very first painting as a tribute.
    She’d met Jean-Claude, had fallen hard for the handsome Frenchman and had painted their portraits, one of the few she’d ever done. She’d put all a young girl’s love of the fantasy handsome prince, into that painting. Jean-Claude had hung it on the wall of his bedroom. She’d grabbed the painting and at the first opportunity, Paul had helped her ship what little she had home so they could make their way across Europe, hoping to stay under Jean-Claude’s radar until they could get to Greece where a friend of Paul’s was waiting to take them back to the United States on his ship.
    “I told you, I painted over it, but it’s in my other studio. You’ll have to let me get it. Going in there is dangerous.”
    She honestly didn’t know how dangerous, but Jean-Claude had already shown he was very susceptible to her emotions and anything violent would be extremely strong. The buildup of five years of pent-up rage lay in that room, just waiting to find a way out.
    “I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Jean-Claude declared, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking her toward the door. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
    She kept her feet under her somehow, as he dragged her down the hall.
    “Where is it?” he demanded, turning around and around, looking at the various doors.
    “It’s that one. It’s locked.” Should she lie and say the key was upstairs? Stefan might not have left. Did she want Stefan brought into this?
    Her heart fluttered and then went still as realization dawned. Stefan was the perfect killing machine. He’d been raised to be a killer. Jean-Claude was a criminal and coldblooded, but if she called Stefan back, she had no doubt that Stefan could do exactly the things