CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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DIANE WAS TIED TO A chair in the middle of one of Phelps’s barns. Her upper lip had split, and blood had left a trail down her chin.
She knew a bruise of a man’s fist would appear on her right cheekbone later. It hurt badly, but the ache was one of many and didn’t matter so much.
Phelps sprawled in a chair brought from the house. He indulged in a glass of bourbon, and he looked at her, a satisfied smile fluttered on his lips.
Four other men were standing around her. They all looked at Phelps, waiting for his orders.
“So, Ms. MacLean, we finally meet. You caused me a lot of problems, and I’m afraid you’ll have to pay for that,” he said in a hard tone of voice.
He sipped from his glass again, thinking to let her squirm for a little while. People dreaded the
