"One of these days, I'll take you away from here. I swear I will."

He wouldn't. He couldn't. No more than Jaron could. Both men loved her. Both promised to take her away from Booth Fortier. Neither would ever be able to fulfill that promise. The only thing that would ever free her from her husband was death. She knew that as surely as she knew cats had kittens. There were some things in this life that were inescapable.

Jaron stood on the front porch, rocking nervously back and forth on his heels. What the hell was wrong with her brother? He'd been acting like a whore in Sunday school lately. Fidgety. Nervous. He was up to something and hiding it from her. But what?

When Jaron saw them drive up, he came running. "Booth's home and something's wrong. Something big." The words flew from Jaron's mouth in a breathless rush. "He's building up to a fine rage. He's calling a meeting. Everybody's on their way in, including Ollie Neville." Jaron looked at Ronnie. "Stay out here with me, do you hear?" He glanced at Charmaine. "He wants to see you. Alone."

"No!" When Ronnie reached for Charmaine, Jaron stepped between them.

"It's all right," she said quietly. "Nothing will happen that hasn't happened before. I'll be all right. Just don't give us away by saying or doing anything to make Booth suspicious."

Jaron blocked Ronnie's path until after Charmaine entered the house. Once inside, she took a deep breath and hurried down the hall toward her husband's office. She knocked.

"Enter," he said gruffly.

She eased open the door. He sat behind the massive, elaborate antique desk, his head bent over as he snorted coke. In the past several years, Booth Fortier had become a drug addict. He couldn't make it through a day without his fix.

She closed the door, crossed the room and stood in front of the desk. "Welcome home."

He sniffed several times, lifted his head and grinned lasciviously. A shudder of apprehension fluttered along her nerve endings.

"Did you miss me, baby?"

"What do you think?"

His smile vanished. "I didn't miss you. I've been having me a real good time with some of the best trained whores in Louisiana. They know when to scream, when to cry, when to beg for mercy. It's your own fault that I have to hurt you more. You make it harder on yourself by being silent."

She knew. And that's the very reason she tried so hard to stay as quiet as possible, no matter what he did to her. Crying out in pain would give him too much satisfaction. And always in the back of her mind was one thought-if I scream and beg for mercy, Jaron might hear me. Now she had to worry about Ronnie, too.

"Come here." Booth waved his hand in a beckoning gesture.

Charmaine swallowed hard, then went to him, stopping when she was within arm's reach. He grasped her wrist tightly and tugged. The pain shot up her arm as his fingers bit into her flesh and he jerked her down onto his lap. He grabbed her face, his fingers digging into her cheeks; then his bleary black eyes focused on her.

"Have you been a good girl while I was away?"

"Aren't I always?"

His fierce grip on her face loosened. He slid his hand down her neck and tightened his fingers around her throat. "I got business to take care of this evening, but once that's done, I'll be free to spend some time with my loving wife. How does that sound to you?"

She knew how Booth loved to intimidate people, how he got his jollies from frightening others, but even more so from inflicting pain. Her husband was a sick-a very sick-bastard. A monster with the power of a god.

When he eased his ferocious grip on her throat, Charmaine gasped in air. She wasn't afraid he'd kill her, at least not quickly; slow torture was Booth's trademark.

As she sat on his lap, showing no sign of fear or pain, he ran his hands over her breasts. "These are mine." His palm skimmed her belly and moved downward to cup her mound. "This is mine." She managed to keep the shudder of revulsion inside her. "Every damn ounce of this luscious hundred and ten pounds is all mine. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, that's right."

He laughed. She waited. He shoved her off his lap, sending her toppling. Her left hip hit the floor with a hard thud; pain radiated through her hip and down her leg. She clamped her mouth shut to stop herself from crying out. He would ignore her now, as if she were a piece of trash he'd tossed aside. He'd forget she even existed… until later. Until he needed his daily fix of sadism. He was as hooked on cruelty as he was on the cocaine.

Charmaine went up on her knees, then grasped the edge of the desk for leverage so she could stand. Despite the pain in her hip, she didn't favor her left side as she walked across the room, straight and tall, showing no sign that his actions had injured her. She had to make it to her room without limping, without crying, in case Ronnie or Jaron saw her. She had been able to control Jaron's outrage over the years, reminding him that if he confronted Booth, it could cost both him and her their lives. But Ronnie wasn't like Jaron. She had no idea whether or not he would actually try to defend her against her husband; but her feminine instincts told her that he might. No matter what it cost her, she couldn't let Ronnie ever realize the extent of Booth's inhumane abuse.

Tonight when her husband brutalized and humiliated her, she would think of Ronnie and the joy of being in his arms. She would shut out what was happening to her, withdraw into herself, as she always did. To a safe place. But tonight would be different. She wouldn't be alone in that safe place. Ronnie would be there, holding her, comforting her.

Elsa parked her white Honda Civic in front of the first warehouse on the long row of warehouses along the riverfront. Looking the building over as she stood on the cracked sidewalk, she noticed faded lettering above the huge double doors facing the street. Garland Industries. She'd come to the right place. Ordinarily she would never come to this part of town. One, because she'd have no reason to be here; and two, although the crime rate in St. Camille was relatively low, everyone knew East Fifth Street wasn't really safe after dark. But it isn't dark, she reminded herself. It's barely six-thirty. She'd stopped by to see Milly after work, as she did almost every day. The staff at St. Camille Haven often told Elsa how much Milly looked forward to her big sister's daily visits, so no matter how difficult her day had been or how bone-tired she might be, Elsa did her best to not miss their evening visit. Today, she had needed to see Milly for her own sake. She needed to believe in her heart that she'd done something right in caring for her siblings. Sherrie didn't live close by, not close enough to drop in on at a moment's notice. How was it, she asked herself, that she had succeeded so well in mothering her two sisters and had failed so miserably with Troy? He'd been the sweetest little boy; but sometime around puberty, he'd changed, become rebellious and angry. What he'd needed then-and now-was a father. When a boy was coming of age, he needed a man's strong, steady influence. A father's firm hand and loving guidance.

When Jed Tyree had spoken to her today and confirmed her worst fears, she'd been able to think of little else. Troy was working in a warehouse owned by Garland Industries, which was nothing more than a front for one aspect of Booth Fortier's illegal activities. Mr. Tyree had told her to do whatever she had to do to terminate her brother's employment.

"Booth Fortier doesn't give a damn about the guys who work for him," Jed Tyree had said. "He has sacrificed people all his life to protect himself, to punish others or just on an illogical whim. If your brother continues working at the warehouse, he'll wind up either doing time in prison or six feet under."