He leaned toward her. “I love you. I never fell out of love with you. Maybe what I did was wrong, but I did it to protect you.” He frowned, rubbing his forehead. “Look, you have to start trusting me. That’s the way it has to be. Take me, or leave me.”
She looked at him a long time. “Did you know that your clothes are still soaking wet?” she asked.
He shrugged. “It’s warm enough and the cops gave me a blanket.”
“Could you, um, get up?”
He did so, watching her suspiciously. She rose as well, smiling. “I’ll get you a towel. You’re salty as well.”
He just stared at her.
“You know where the shower is. Should I make you some coffee, or tea, something hot? I think I have chicken soup—”
“God, no, I don’t want chicken soup.”
Chicken soup? What the hell did that mean, what was she thinking? He’d laid his damn heart on the line, and she was suddenly turning into a nursemaid.
He went into the shower. Strange, he hadn’t felt the salt on his skin until now. There was actually a piece of seaweed down his shirt. He shed his clothing, and turned the water on very hot for the second time that day. No, it was Saturday now. Dawn would be coming soon enough.
He turned off the steaming water, stepped out of the shower, and toweled himself dry. Going from the light of the bathroom to the darkness of the bedroom, he was momentarily blinded.
Then he saw her.
The soft blue thing she had been wearing was gone.
She was standing in the center of the room, waiting for him. She walked toward him, a feast for the senses, soft, warm, her hair perfumed, her flesh delicious.
She came against him, high on her toes. Kissed his lips. Whispered against them. “I love you. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you…”
“Forgive me,” she repeated. Her lips found his once again. Her tongue moved over them. Her breasts pressed softly, teasingly, against his chest.
“Why?” he asked softly.
“I didn’t trust you. Believe in you enough. And trust is…”
“The most important thing.”
“But I doubted you, too.”
“You tried to protect me. From you. You succeeded too well.”
He held her away from him for a minute, studying her eyes. “Thank God we’ve got a second chance.”
She smiled. “Thank God.”
“I really would die for you, you know.”
“Don’t say that!”
“But it’s true.”
Her eyes remained on his, and she told him, “I think I would die without you now.”
She moved against him, a trail of kisses covering his chest. He feathered his fingers through her hair. Felt the softness, inhaled her scent. Hunger flared within him. He felt himself against her, wanting. He waited. Let it build. What an agony. Waiting.
What an ecstasy.
Her body was silk and magic, moving against his. Her lips were sweet, fiery titillation, each kiss a peppering of molten lava against his flesh, his desire. She moved, caressed, cradled, hands and mouth upon him.
Touched.
Feathered kisses…
She moved down. So fluid. So sensual. Her touch, her caress…
He could have died happy at that very moment…
A sound exploded from him and she was in his arms. He was within her, and he knew he had always loved her, wanted her. Their bodies were slick with sweat, movements were urgent, everything within him was focused on one part of his own anatomy, and still, he knew…
He would, simply, die for her. And perhaps she was right—he would die without her.
Lacey Henley sighed softly, shaking her head as she looked at Thayer Newcastle.
She’d missed her plane, but it was all right. She’d get the crack-of-dawn flight out. She had called the girls, explained that she would be late.
She and Thayer had talked and talked, and the more they did, the more she thought they were kindred spirits. He spoke with an artist’s heart. He was older and wiser, but still, that artistic wonder was him; he understood the dream. He didn’t condemn what she had done. He just made her see that her talents far exceeded what she had been doing.
“I don’t know how you’ve survived. I’ve heard my folks talk, my mother… Sam. You had a terrible childhood. And your sister can be so mean—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s all right. My sister can be mean.”
He was so handsome. Lean, but so strong. And his eyes… beautiful.
“And your father… well, I’ve heard about him, too. He could really hurt you—”
“He could, but…” Thayer paused, then shrugged. “He’s dying. He’s known for a while that his liver is eaten to shreds. They gave him a few months, tops. And do you know what he did when they told him?”
“No, what?”
“Went out and bought himself a new bottle of whiskey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know what I feel. He’s my father, but…”
“I know he hurt you, but he doesn’t still… do… things…” she finished lamely.
Thayer shook his head. He grinned at her. “Hey, I became strong at a very young age. The worst hurt is that I don’t love my father. He never loved us, and I don’t love him. Everyone should have love.”
“Oh, Thayer,” she said softly. She looked at her watch. Nearly four in the morning. “I have to get to the airport. Or I’ll miss the next flight, and my cheapie airline fills up on the flights at normal hours.”
“Sure,” he said, looking at her. Then he reached for her, pulling her toward him.
“Thayer…” she protested.
But he had told her the truth. He was strong, very strong.
Rene Deeter was the nurse on duty that night when the lights began going crazy from Room 6308. She tore down the corridor. Her patient, the coma victim, Beth Bellamy, was flatlining.
“Shit!” she swore to herself and hit the code button.
Within minutes, her colleagues were rushing in.
“A coma victim, what the hell…?” demanded Terry Larson, the doctor on red-eye duty. “Clear!” he snapped.
The emergency team worked frantically. Then… a wave in the line. She was alive. She might make it.
Dr. Larson put a hand on Rene’s shoulder. “Good work, kid. Your speed might have saved her. These cases… well, usually, you know, if she makes it out in the next few days… they’re so curious…”
“Yeah, so is this,” said Connie Flannery, another nurse. Larson and Rene both looked where she was pointing. Someone had pulled the plug on Beth Bellamy.
“I did not do that!” Rene said passionately.
“You didn’t trip on a wire—”
“No! I did not.”
“Maybe the LPN—”
“Sherry took her break. It’s four-thirty a.m.—the hospital isn’t teeming with people.”
Larson stared at Rene for a long moment. She was very certain. She’d been nursing for twenty-five years. She was a good nurse, efficient, dedicated to her patients.
Dr. Larson made a decision. “Someone call the cops. Hell, this girl needs protection.”
“There was no official guard, but that homicide guy, Ted Henley, was here late. He went down to the machine for coffee a while ago,” Rene said.
“Call security. Get him back up here. And Rene, keep a tight eye on her yourself all night, huh?”
“Yes, Doctor. I certainly will.”
Sam slept very late. She rolled over quickly to see if Rowan remained beside her, but he was gone. She rose, showered, and came downstairs. Laura was making French toast. Rowan was sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. Laura was talking; Sam wasn’t sure that Rowan was listening. He frowned, staring at the paper. He had been home, she thought. He was in denim cutoffs and a green polo shirt.
“Sam, hey, you’re up. A quick rundown—no change in things. Beth Bellamy remains in a coma—”
“Tell her the rest,” Rowan said.
“Someone pulled a plug on her machines,” Laura said. “At four-thirty a.m.”
“Well, you were here—”
He smiled at her. “You were sleeping. Are you positive I was here?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “But Beth survived the attack?”
“She’s still in a coma.”
“And she now has a police guard,” Rowan said. “And I’m glad that you have faith in me. Trust me, the police would still question my whereabouts.”
“Oh!” Laura exclaimed, “and Teddy asked Rolf Lunden to bring Thayer Newcastle in for questioning because of the painting, but no one has seen hide nor hair of him. This is getting very frightening. Rowan and Teddy and the divers found extra body parts yesterday—”
“Extra body parts?” Sam said, pouring herself coffee.
“She means parts to a second body,” Rowan said, refolding the paper.
“Could the extra parts be…” Sam began, fear gripping her, her voice trailing off.
“Marnie? No.”
“But it does seem then that someone is killing women and dumping their bodies in the swamp,” Sam said. She sipped her coffee, leaning on the counter. “It was definitely Chloe Lowenstein that we found? How did everyone know so quickly?”
“They identified her by her medical history—a fracture of her hip when she was about eighteen. A riding accident,” Rowan explained.
“Did you know when we found her?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “Not for certain. But when I got home, I admit, I knew. We, um, well, one of the things we found yesterday was a bracelet. I remembered seeing it on Chloe in Thayer’s picture.”
“I always thought the boy was a little weird,” Laura said.
“You can’t hang him yet,” Rowan warned.
“Let’s see, he painted a picture of a naked woman in the swamp and that same woman wound up in that same swamp, dead?”
“It’s his sister who is missing now,” Sam reminded her.
“Yes, and doesn’t he gain the world if she turns up dead?” Laura asked.
“Not while their father is alive,” Rowan said.
“Yes, but that old sot could drop dead any minute. He drinks like a fish. He can’t have a liver left,” Laura said.
“Ah, but he may be pickled,” Sam said bitterly. “Preserved for all time.”
“Let’s pray not. Horrors!” Laura exclaimed. She shook her head. “All right, I care about Marnie, I’m worried about Marnie, but I can’t do anything about Marnie. And yes, we’re in the middle of a very nerve-wracking and worrisome time, but we are living. The world is going on. Sam, I don’t mean to be a pest, but will you start calling people about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Aidan is playing in the Grove, remember?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Rowan has said that he’ll sit in for a few numbers with the group.”
Sam slowly arched a brow at Rowan. He grimaced in return. “I told her I’d do what I could. They may be better off without me, though.”
“Why?”
He turned the paper around, showing her the local headline, PRYING REPORTER GOES TOO FAR? ACCIDENT OR FOUL PLAY IN THE CASE OF BETH BELLAMY?
She took the paper from him. The article was about Rowan. Beth would have been proud. His past was rehashed. The disappearance of his next-door neighbor was brought up. It ended: “Is there a serial killer loose in our midst? How long has he been murdering women? Who is he?” The implication, although not written, was there. Could this killer be Rowan Dillon?
“I’m so sorry—” Sam began.
“You shouldn’t be. You should be glad to realize that you weren’t the only one suspicious of me.” He sounded worn and somewhat bitter. “I think I’m going home for a while—practice some for tomorrow. I haven’t played anything in front of a crowd for a long time. Laura, stay here, and keep your gun handy.”
He left by the back. Sam watched him go.
“Well, you deserved that,” Laura said.
Sam swung around. “Laura, it’s good to know you’re always on my side.”
“I am on your side. Don’t be an idiot. Go get him.”
Sam smiled, then followed Rowan out the door. She cut across Marnie’s yard—around the bushes and the police tape—and came to Rowan’s house. She could hear him playing his guitar, working the frets. He must be in a rare mood—he was playing a Jimi Hendrix lick.
She crossed by the pool and walked to the door of the basement level. It was open. She let herself in. He knew that she had come. He ignored her.
She walked to the drams. Her fingers felt itchy. She picked up the sticks, sat. Tested the bass, then the snare.
Then herself.
A drummer’s job was to keep the beat. Any decent drummer could keep the beat. The rest was style.
She had beat. And it was amazing just how quickly touches of her old style returned.
She loved the drums. The sound, the action, the physical pounding and tapping. Her father had taught her to play. She suddenly wondered why she had ever given it up.
Had she been punishing herself?
He played; she played. Then he stopped. He set down his guitar. He walked over to her. She kept on playing.
Pulse and thunder. Passion…
She looked at him. His eyes were golden, his smile was rueful.
“Damn, but you can play!” he told her.
“I’ve missed it,” she admitted softly.
“The drums more than me?”
“Nothing more than you. But I do love the drums.”
“Thunder away,” he told her. But he didn’t mean it. He took the sticks from her hand. Pulled her to her feet. Into his arms. “I just can’t resist a good beat,” he told her.
“Such emotion.”
“Tempest.”
“Passion.”
“Fire!”
He eased her down to the floor. She threaded her fingers through his hair, touched his face. They made love in a bed of towels on the floor by the drums.
Day or night. Night or day. So much darkness. Did it matter anymore?
She closed her eyes, opened them. Hot, cold. Afraid. Wondering. She’d been bitten by so many insects.
The darkness, the fear. She had gotten to where she just stayed still. No. She couldn't do that. What if he didn’t come back? What then? There had to be a way out; there had to be light. She was brave, she was strong, she was who she was, she was going to make it. But she had tried before. Tugged and worried at the rope that held her until her fingers bled. So she thought. She couldn't see them in the darkness…
Then she heard his voice. Her heart went still. She froze.
“Hi, sweetheart!”
He could see in the awful darkness. He was right by her. He ’d been watching her. Did he know what went on in her mind? That she thought constantly about escape, that there had to be a way, that she was strong, that she would figure it out…
He was right by her. His hand was on her head. He hunkered down, touched her chin. “Have you missed me?”
“Bas—” she began.
He hit her hard. She felt the blood in her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes.
“Tell me you’re sorry, sweetheart.”
He was right next to her. Sitting by her now. She thought of some of the other ways he had hurt her. God help her. She wasn’t so strong.
No, no, no, don't say it!
“I’m sorry!” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“Did you miss me?”
“Yes, I missed you. I was afraid and alone without you.”
“But I’m here now.”
“You’ll protect me from the darkness.”
“Yes. I’ll take care of you. You’ll take care of me. That’s the way it works. And of course, if you don’t obey me as a good woman should, you know what happens, right?”
She knew.
“And you know what I want, r
ight?”
Tears filled her eyes again. She knew. And she would do whatever he wanted. No matter how much she wanted to die, no matter how she felt, no matter how horrible… She was a survivor.
Later, she heard him laughing. Felt his hands in her hair. “You are a clever girl. The most clever.”
“Why are you saying that?”
“Because you will do anything to live, won’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean—”
“Yes, you do. Not everyone is so clever.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Yes, you do. I can only keep one woman. Yet you know there are others besides you. Move just a bit to your left…”
She didn't want to. She couldn’t help it.
She touched flesh.
She began to scream. He pulled her back to him, laughing first, then shaking her. “You want to live, right? Let’s see how clever you can be. There will be more again. But only one I can keep. We’ll see, won’t we? You’ll keep doing as I say.”
She would. God help her, she knew that she would. She wanted to live. In tears, she shook her head. He continued to touch her hair in a nauseatingly gentle way. “You’ll do whatever I say, whatever I say.” And he laughed again, as if he could not contain his pleasure. She wanted to die.
But not nearly so much as she wanted to live.
“I can see you. I can always see you.”
“Yes.”
“Touch me…”
And she did.
In the late afternoon, Sam went downtown to police headquarters and gave a deposition on everything that she had seen happen with Beth Bellamy the night before. She didn’t lie, and she was concerned. Though Rowan had pulled Beth out of the water and called emergency, his argument with her made him look guilty. The detectives looked at Sam strangely. Why would a woman be so taken with a man that she was willing to believe in him against the odds? Angry, she went on to tell them about the strip club and the law firm and Lee Chapman. They just told her that it wasn’t illegal to own a strip club with the proper permits in the state of Florida. They were, however, a little aggravated. The cops weren’t happy about Lee Chapman being a free man either.