Guilty Pleasures

by Stella Cameron

  He leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles. “If I am the reason, it’ll become clear before too long. I thought about leaving—leaving town. Just in case I was putting you in danger, but—”

  “No! You aren’t.” She stopped, with her lips parted, and stared at him. “Don’t go.”

  He gave her a quizzical stare. “Not even if I’m bringing you the kind of attention no one wants?”

  “You aren’t.”

  “You’re going to have to make up your mind what you want,” he told her quietly. “First you’re worried in case you’re taking advantage of me, and you want to sort things out on your own. Then you’re afraid I’ll go away. What’s it to be, Polly? What do you really want?”

  “I’m muddled up.” More muddled up than he could imagine. “I just wanted you to know that I’m not sure what I feel.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “I ought to get back. Dusty may not notice I’ve been gone if I’m quick. He’s pretty taken with my mother.”

  “He’ll notice.”

  She tingled under his gaze. “I’ll go back.”

  “You won’t go anywhere without me.”

  A few words shouldn’t have such power to thrill, not when spoken in circumstances like these.

  “I put a heavy flashlight on the table in the saloon. Take that—and the box beside it—while I finish packing this.”

  She slipped past him, pausing when he caressed her cheek. He dropped his hand, and she sped into the saloon. The flashlight and a heavy, black plastic box were exactly where he’d said they would be.

  Anxiety over Dusty’s reaction made her jumpy. And she wanted to be near Bobby again. She waited at the bottom of the steps and heard Nasty sliding doors in the lockers over his bunk.

  Polly went up the steps and opened the hatch. The night was still windy, but warm. Stars winked in a sky banded with wisps of cloud.

  On the deck the sounds of the boat’s hull rubbing against fenders grew louder—no doubt because the wind had freshened even more.

  With the big, black rubber-coated flashlight under her arm, Polly climbed to the dock and peered down at the luminous orange fenders wedged between the April and the wooden moorage.

  “Polly!” Nasty’s voice rose in a bellow from belowdecks.

  Her stomach flipped. He could be so angry, so easily. “Here,” she called back. “I’m here, Nasty.”

  She heard the scuffling behind her only seconds before she was knocked down. There was no time to cry out. An arm that felt like a steel hawser wrapped around her waist and picked her up. Whoever it was had waited in the darkness for her to make the right mistake, and she had—she’d left the April alone.

  Another instant and she was airborne, airborne in the grip of whoever owned the arm.

  They burst downward through the surface of the lake, ripped through water so dark it had texture.

  Cold texture.

  Down, he drew her, down, and down. The roaring blackness spun around her.

  Pressure assaulted her eardrums.

  Polly tore at the arm that held her, and kicked at the legs behind hers. Her lungs burned, and her nose and eyes stung.

  Water pressed in on her chest and forced a way into her mouth.

  She drew in a breath and flailed. Never again, she would never breathe again.

  Twelve

  The flashlight. Nasty regained his balance and realized what had tripped him. He turned to lean over the water between the dock and the hull of the April.

  Polly had made it to the dock and dropped the flashlight.

  Seconds ago.

  And he’d heard heavy impact on the water. Even now a faint swell made the bow of the boat buck. He peered more closely at the surface—and saw bubbles.

  Pausing only to kick off his deck shoes, Nasty dived into the lake and shot downward. Damn the darkness. Damn his carelessness for letting her out of his sight for even a second.

  How long? A minute? Maybe a minute, but not much longer. Surely no more time than that had elapsed since he heard the splash.

  He worked his legs, spun around, searched the opaque depths. Piles beneath the dock sent wavering shadows through the water. He heard the soft shush against the April’s bottom and the muted squeal of compressed fenders. The shape of a fish flipped past, and another, and another.

  Thank God he could last so long between breaths.

  His lungs expanded.

  Again he twitched his legs, reversed directions, and struck out with his arms this time.

  He swung a complete revolution, tracked in place, turned again. He felt the familiar cold concentration, and it comforted him.

  A flash of something pale below him caught his eye. But then it was gone.

  Then he saw it again—nearer this time. A pale, floating mass waving through the current. Nasty propelled himself toward it and grimaced as the mass took shape. Even as he’d forged downward, looking, a small part of him had hoped he was wrong. But it was the stuff of Polly’s dress he saw billowing and flattening. Her hair fanned, then slicked to her head. She seemed to flail, just once, then curve backward, limbs flaccid, like an unconscious diver drawn to the bottom.

  Nasty pumped his legs, and pumped again, and his fingers closed on her ankle. His second hand found her waist, and he didn’t wait to find another purchase. Rather he released her ankle and aimed upward.

  She neither resisted nor helped. His pulse pounded in time with his mounting desperation.

  He broke the surface and gulped air. Shaking his head, blinking to clear his eyes, he hung on to the dock with one hand and used all the force in his body to swing Polly up. Even as he released her, his heart bounded at the sound of her coughing and choking.

  He gripped the edge of the dock with both hands, but never made the first move toward hauling himself up.

  Skillful fingers grabbed and lashed his ankles together swiftly, pulling him down at the same time.

  Nasty heard running footsteps and yelled, “Dust! Dust! Here! ” Then there was just enough time to fill his lungs with air before he submerged.

  Instantly he jackknifed to fight his assailant. The opponent had the advantage. A loop of the same fine twine used on his ankles whipped around his right wrist, effectively tying him doubled over.

  He made out the other swimmer. Black wet suit, including hood and gloves. Single tank. Equipped for speed, not endurance. Nothing was visible through the mask.

  Nasty clung to the cold center of his concentration and waited the second it took for the man to try capturing the remaining free hand. Closing in, the diver pulled his knees to his chest and reached.

  A blow to the man’s throat sent him spiraling backward, clutching his neck. Nasty pointed his unfettered arm toward the surface and began to rise—too slowly—but to rise nevertheless.

  After an endless, lung-crushing climb he felt his hand break the surface, felt air on his skin. The top of his head cleared the water.

  A vicious tug on the line stopped, then held him—just below reprieve.

  Heat clawed at the edges of the still center of his mind.

  So close.

  Heaving, rotating, he wound his body in the twine. Once. Twice. Three times. And paused. He pulled his energy inside, captured his concentration, and got ready for the final effort.

  His chest cavity sank in on itself. He couldn’t hold on.

  Elbows pressed to his sides, Nasty flung himself around in the opposite direction. Miraculously the line didn’t snap taut again. Instead he’d made enough slack to allow him to arch into the clear, clean air, sucking life back into his lungs.

  Triumph pummeled blood at his temples. He’d dealt the bastard a hard enough blow to shake him loose.

  In that moment he saw the April, saw the dock—saw two silhouettes there. “Coming in,” he called. “It’s okay.”

  The line tightened again.

  Automatically, Nasty took a breath.

  This time he didn’t see the other swimmer. This time the t
wine drew taut so quickly there was no time to react. He was dragged through the water, not down, but through—just beneath the surface.

  Towed. He heard the echo of an outboard the engine sound muffled as it reached him. He was tied to a moving boat. A fast-moving boat.

  A slight slackening let him know they were making a turn.

  He felt the blessed balm of air on his face, then the dragging speeded again.

  Twisted son of a bitch. He intended to drown his victim— but slowly.

  The knife was strapped to his left wrist. His one chance could be lost so easily. Already the fingers on his right hand felt useless.

  Flexing his bound hand, he began to position himself to work the knife free.

  Something scraped his back and he peered over his shoulder. A shadow moved just out of sight.

  The net caught him off guard. Two swimmers came into view. The net they towed slipped rapidly over his bent form and closed, purse-seine style.

  They secured their prize and swam swiftly out of sight.

  Nasty floated upward and made himself relax. He relaxed and breathed deep, willing his heart to slow. His mind darted after clues. He didn’t need clues now. He didn’t have to care about the “why?” now. Only getting the hell out of the net mattered.

  They were swimming back to the boat.

  Getting out of the net could wait. Doing exactly what he’d set out to do before they’d “netted” him was his only chance. Cut the line—before they could throw the gears and shoot off again, dragging him in their macabre game.

  With his knees to his chest, he pressed his left wrist into his right hand and tore his shirt cuff open.

  The fingers on the bound hand didn’t want to work.

  How far had the swimmers gone?

  How long was the line?

  When would he be jerked down, and forward again?

  One breath after another, he kept cleansing his air supply. And he fixed the handle of the knife in the palm of his hand, and wrapped his fingers and thumb around it.

  A single backward jerk of his left elbow and the knife cleared the sheath.

  He must not drop it.

  How far?

  How long?

  When?

  The heat started again. He willed it back.

  All he had to do was transfer the knife to his left hand. The sound of the engine changed, didn’t it? Revved? Forcing himself to concentrate, he took hold of the knife in his left hand and slowly released the fingers of his right. He’d grabbed the blade!

  Pain shot into his left thumb. A cloud spilled, a dark cloud. His blood into the water.

  The engine did rev.

  Slice the mesh at his feet. Slice the line. One, and, two.

  A jolt shot from his heels, along his curved spine. Too late. He’d failed. They were towing him again.

  The point of the blade was already caught in the net. Nasty slashed, tore an opening big enough to bring a mass of nylon flashing into his face.

  But he was through the first barrier.

  One more aching, desperate lunge, and he could be free.

  Thirteen

  Polly kept the flashlight beam trained on the last spot where she’d seen Dusty.

  Dimly she registered that bone cold had become part ache, part complete lack of feeling. Her body was heavy. Her brain refused to follow a single thought.

  Xavier had saved her. She’d known it only dimly until she landed, choking, on the dock and saw him start to pull himself up.

  But then he’d disappeared into the water again. That’s when Dusty came running along the dock. He’d come quietly, and remarkably swiftly for a man of his age. She’d only begun to tell him what had happened before he silenced her and dragged off his shoes and shirt.

  Nasty had shouted then, shouted to Dusty that he was okay.

  She swept the beam back and forth, searching for some sign of either Dusty or Nasty. And she tried not to think of the extra time she’d wasted after Nasty surfaced. When he’d failed to swim in, she panicked and jumped into the water.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. As if she could find and save him. As if she’d forgotten she couldn’t even swim. She had forgotten. And for the second time in half an hour she’d been saved from drowning—by Dusty this time.

  Polly hugged herself. Each second stretched, yet shrank. The moments seemed incredibly long, but they raced away, each one lessening the chances of Nasty and Dusty returning alive.

  Once more she sought the spot, fifty yards or so out, where she’d last seen Dusty surface, then dive again.

  At the most frail rim of her light, Polly saw a motion. She shifted the beam again and clutched the neck of her dress.

  Two swimmers, two strong swimmers side by side, and closing in on the dock.

  She took a single step backward, straining to see. Somewhere, either out there or closer at hand, was the man who had knocked her into the water and tried to drown her.

  The two drew closer, and she saw that one was much longer than the other. His arms cut sleek troughs through the water. She dropped to kneel on planking. Nasty and Dusty. They were safe.

  Nasty’s voice reached her, “Don’t move, Polly. Just sit there.”

  Dusty must have told him how she’d launched herself into the water, only to have to be rescued again. Perhaps now he’d decide he didn’t need the kind of liability she represented. Not only was she on someone’s hit list, but she couldn’t be trusted not to panic in tight situations.

  Dusty made it out of the water first and sank to sit beside Polly. Nasty dragged himself up and stretched flat on his back, with the backs of his hands over his eyes.

  “Hear anything?” Nasty asked.

  “Nope.” Dusty patted his buddy’s leg. “They kept on going, though. The engine didn’t cut out suddenly—just went out of range. Something fast.”

  “You okay, Polly?” Nasty turned his head and looked up at her. “We’ve got to get you dry and warm.”

  She shivered, but said, “We’ve all got to get dry and warm. Then we’ve got to talk—and go to the police.”

  “Maybe,” Nasty said.

  Dusty settled a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll do the right things. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Maybe that man drowned.” She didn’t even regret sounding hopeful.

  Nasty’s eyes closed. “He didn’t drown. He’s going to wish he had.”

  Absolutely cold. Polly looked down at the closed eyelids of the man beside her and felt fear different from any she’d felt before.

  She did love him. As surely as she sat trembling from cold and shock on the waterfront of the town she’d thought was her chance for complete happiness, just as surely, she loved Xavier Ferrito. And he was a very dangerous man. Dangerous, but not to her, not ever to her.

  “Did the box I told you to carry go in the drink?”

  It took a moment for her to register that he was talking to her. “No.” She bobbed up and retrieved the container. When she fell, it had slid against a planter. “I’ve got it here.”

  “Good. Emergency provisions, Dust. Just in case.”

  “Yeah. Where’s—”

  “On board. I was pretty sure Polly’d gone in. I left everything.”

  Polly still held the flashlight. She trained it on Nasty and jumped when he flinched and threw an arm over his eyes.

  “You’re bleeding!” She knelt beside him and pulled his left hand into her lap. His blood seeped over her wet skirt. “Dusty, we’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

  Dusty lifted Nasty’s hand and chuckled. “Yeah. Dusty’s emergency room. Been some time since I performed kitchen table surgery, buddy. We’d better get the job done.”

  “I need to think.”

  “You can think while I do some embroidery on you. You’re emptying out pretty good there.”

  “We’ve got to make plans.”

  “French knots and conversation. I’m up for it.”

  Polly didn’t see the humor. She got to her feet
and pulled at Nasty. “Come on. Please, come on.”

  A single tug landed her across his body. Seemingly unconcerned at the blood he distributed on her face and hair, he held her head in his big hands and stared steadily into her eyes. “I cut my hand on the blade of my knife. You know the one. You saw me strap it on. I’m not going to die from this cut.”

  “Well, you two lovebirds,” Dusty said, “I’m going to have to interrupt here. Let me see the damage, buddy.”

  Nasty wouldn’t let her go, but he offered up his hand and Dusty wrapped it in a strip torn from the bottom of his own T-shirt.

  “Okay?” Nasty said, framing Polly’s face again. “Can we quit fussing over a scratch now?”

  Dusty grunted.

  “Couldn’t you allow yourself to be looked after? Just for once?” Polly asked.

  He didn’t as much as blink—or say a word.

  “Let me up,” she said in a small voice.

  Dusty gathered the black box, took the flashlight, and moved apart from them.

  “You don’t understand, do you?” Nasty said, and she wished he still hadn’t spoken. His deep voice had an edge of pure steel. “You see this thing in frames. In episodes. One little piece after another.”

  “No, I—”

  “Yes. Yes, you do because you can’t do anything else. I don’t have the whole picture, but I’ve got a hell of a lot more pieces than you do.”

  “Is this a competition?”

  His sudden smile revealed his strong, even teeth. It didn’t even soften his eyes. “You have spirit, pretty Polly. I like that. But it can only be dangerous now—unless you keep it under control.”

  The warmth of his body slowly seeped into hers. She covered his hands on the sides of her head. “I’m not going to tell you again how much you’re frightening me. I don’t want to be a ninny who can’t look after herself.”

  “You can’t look after yourself. Not this time, baby.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  His smile faded. “No. No, I’m sorry, I won’t. You can’t look after yourself this time. And that’s not because you’re weak. It’s because what’s happening is out of your league. It would be out of almost anyone’s league.”

  “You think you know something about that man? You said he didn’t drown.”