Wake up.
“Wake up, Leesie. Don’t be lazy. Don’t be a slugabed.”
Grandma Max. Safety. Security. Home.
Elise realized she should wake up. She had something important to do, but what? School? Shopping? Was someone coming over?
Wake up.
Her grandmother was close. Elise could hear her slow, even breathing.
Elise knew she was dreaming, because Grandma Max was dead. Yet Elise didn’t want to let go. She wanted to hang on to her grandmother for as long as possible. In the dream she was with Elise again. So real. Her smile, her voice, the way she smelled –like camphor and soap and wood smoke…
For some strange reason she became aware that the breathing she heard was coming from outside her dream. The knowledge jarred her, brought her back to a sense of hazy wakefulness, the nostalgic mood of her dream lying heavily in her mind, leaving her with a warm feeling of comfort, of home, of Grandma Max.
In the gray semidarkness Elise could feel the softness of a mattress beneath her. She shifted her weight and felt a tugging on her wrist. Reality hit her with a jolt.
Elise was no longer a child. And Grandma Max, sweet, sweet Grandma Max, had been gone for over a year.
And Elise was lying in bed, handcuffed to a man named Dylan.
Oh, God.
She squeezed her eyes shut while an overwhelming flood of homesickness washed over her. The dream had brought her grandmother so close, the way dreams do, leaving Elise with a bittersweet pain. She allowed herself to remember the dream, to wish for the safety of it, to feel its comfort, its familiarity.
And for a second Elise wished she were a child again, living with Grandma Max again in their cabin on the river.
Be careful, Leesie.
Elise opened her eyes. Yes. That was it. The important thing she had to do : get away.
Earlier, after going inside the bungalow, Dylan had offered her a glass of ice water, even offered to fix her something to eat, but she’d declined. He’d allowed her to use the bathroom by herself. Once there, she’d managed to wash most of the mud from her face and arms.
When she’d come out Dylan had slapped the handcuffs on them both and dragged her to his bed, explaining that he didn’t want to have to worry about being knifed, shot or knocked over the head while his eyes were closed.
A most gracious host.
Then, to Elise’s enormous relief, he’d fallen asleep almost immediately. She’d promised herself that she would try to get away as soon as he was asleep, but her own eyelids had drooped, and she’d given in to the overwhelming urge to close her eyes, swearing that she would only rest a few minutes. Just a few minutes…
Now, judging from the shadows in the room, it would soon be light. Time was running out.
And she had one major problem to overcome. To get away, she needed the keys to the handcuffs and the keys to the boat. And Dylan had them both.
She could only pray that he was a deep sleeper.
Elise rolled to her side, careful not to jar the bed, very careful not to touch the man beside her. In the gray predawn she could make out his dark shape well enough to know that he was sprawled on his back.
She put out her hand, reaching for him, then stopped, her fingers curling, nails jabbing into the palm of her hand.
She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t touch him, couldn’t risk waking him.
But she had to. This might be her only chance to get away.
There was nothing to do but scoot closer so that his right hip was practically cupped by her thighs. Their handcuffed hands, her left, his right, lay between them. No more than an inch separated their bodies. She could feel the heat of him. She could smell the ocean in his hair and on his skin, hear his steady breathing. She could sense his dormant strength.
She steeled herself for what she had to do and reached for him. With her right hand she searched for his pocket. Her fingers brushed across a flat copper rivet, then a curved seam. She moved her hand lower, running her fingers lightly across denim, feeling the vague outline of keys beneath the soft, worn fabric.
Now to get them without waking him up…
He groaned.
Her hand stilled; her breath caught.
She strained her ears. Above the mad thudding of her heart she could just make out the sound of Dylan’s rhythmic breathing.
It took all her willpower to keep from thrusting her hand into his pocket and just grabbing the keys.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she forced herself to slip her fingers partway inside. She hesitated, the muscles in her arm twitching. Perspiration broke out on her brow, and she could feel a dewy dampness on her upper lip. A bead of sweat trickled down one side of her face.
Slow. Easy. Don’t wake up. Please don’t wake up.
She wriggled her fingers past a fold, working her hand deeper, feeling his hipbone just beneath her fingertips.
Come on. Come on.
She clamped her jaw together and felt deeper…
Don’t wake up, don’t wake up…
Her fingers made contact with the keys, warm from his body.
Okay. Gently now. Slow-ly… Slip them out… Almost home. We’re almost home.
Hard fingers clamped down over her wrist.
Before her paralyzed brain could begin functioning once more, Dylan mumbled something unintelligible, released her wrist and brought his free hand up to cup her breast.
She froze.
Almost sleepily, his hand began a gentle, massaging motion. Every sense Elise had was riveted on his touch. She could feel every fingertip, feel her nipple pressing against his slowly rotating palm.
Elise’s body flushed with heat, and a strange sensation that seemed half pleasure, half ache pulsed through her.
Then he was nuzzling his face against her neck, his breath warm against her skin, his unshaven jaw abrasive against her overheated flesh. She thought her heart had been racing before, but now, now, it was one loud roar between her ears, like the way her voice used to sound as a kid whenever she’d lie down and hum in front of a fan.
The Dylan’s lips pressed against the place just below her ear –the place where her pulse was jumping so erratically.
The kiss was as languid and lazy as his hand, an openmouthed kiss, sensual and warm and erotic. It drove any remaining breath clean away.
Then, just as suddenly as the storm had begun, it stopped. His lips and hand reluctantly left her body. “Go back to sleep, Melissa.” He released a heavy, bone-weary sigh. “I’m beat, sweetheart.”
He readjusted his position, the bed rocking as he turned his back to her.
She could only lie there, stunned, melting in a river of sexual sensations, shocked and horrified by her behavior.
Logic slowly filtered its way into her consciousness, eventually drowning out the confused heat left by Dylan’s sexy kiss, his sexy caresses.
He was still asleep.
He was asleep, and in his sleep he had thought she was someone else.
That was good. That was wonderful, she told herself.
Then she became aware of a jabbing pain in her palm. The keys. The keys were in her hand.
She took a deep, stabilizing breath.
Okay.
She had the keys. Dylan was asleep. That meant she could still get away.
With her free hand she ran her index finger across the keys, feeling their rough, serrated edges. There were three in all, two large, one small. With trembling fingers she separated the small key from the others.
She found the lock on her handcuff, stuck in the small key and gave it a twist. The mechanism clicked, and the hinges sprang open.
Elise winced, waiting, listening.
But Dylan didn’t move, didn’t make a sound.
She slipped her hand free.
Every instinct was screaming at her, telling her to jump to her feet and run, run, run. But she had one thing left to do.
She backed off the bed, careful not to jar Dylan. T
hen, on feet encased in tattered stockings, she moved silently around to his side.
And looking at him in the gathering light, she suddenly felt an odd sense of something very much like regret.
She must be going crazy. Why should she feel saddened by this? He was the one who had scared her half to death, the one who had attacked her in a dark alley, thrown her in a trunk, kidnapped her. She was the victim, not Dylan. And yet…
She leaned closer.
Asleep, he was far less intimidating, seemed far less dangerous. Oh, he still looked rough and wild, with his unshaven, shadowed jaw, and shaggy, tousled hair. But the dark quality he had about him was tempered by the innocence of sleep. He looked rebellious in a youthful, strangely touching sort of way.
His black T-shirt was molded to his chest, outlining his pectoral muscles, his sinewy arm lying straight, wrist exposed. And on that wrist was the handcuff.
Elise reached down and clamped the other end to the metal framework of the bed.
Turnabout was fair play.
He had done this to her, she told herself. Yet she was being made to go against her nature, being forced to do something cruel to another human being.
But it wasn’t as though she was leaving him here for good. The bed frame wasn’t all that sturdy. He would be able to work a joint loose enough to get free. And as soon as she got back to the coast, to people, she would tell the police what had happened and someone could come for him.
And still she hesitated, finding it hard to turn and make herself walk away. Instead, she stood and watched him.
His muscled chest rose and fell. His breath came out a disturbed sigh through parted lips. She thought of the way his mouth had felt against her skin, the way his hand had felt on her body.
Briefly, since it wasn’t like her to have such cravings, she wondered if he’d cast a spell over her.
Be careful, Leesie.
Yes. She must be very careful.
Before she could change her mind, before he could wake up and pierce her with his hypnotic eyes, she turned, and with the keys clutched tightly in the palm of her hand, she hurried away through the shadowed beach house, hurried away from Dylan and the confused feelings he stirred in her.
From far away came a sound as irritating to Dylan as fingernails scraping across a chalkboard. The sound penetrated the thick fog of dreamless sleep to journey down his nerve endings.
A grinding starter.
Somebody was attempting –unsuccessfully– to start an engine. Dylan groaned and rolled over, intent on wrapping the pillow around his head, covering his ears to drown out the noise, but a tug on his arm stopped him.
There was something around his wrist.
A handcuff.
He came fully awake, three thoughts hitting him at the same time: Elise Ramsey was no longer with him; someone was trying to make off with his boat; and last but certainly not least, he was handcuffed to his own damn bed.
The fact that the thief had to be Elise Ramsey annoyed Dylan more than it worried him. He felt pretty safe in assuming that she’d been born with the typical incompetence most females possessed when faced with a gas engine. Women just weren’t mechanically inclined. It wasn’t in their genes.
And judging from the repetitious noise still coming from outside, she hadn’t discovered the switch that had to be flipped in order for the fuel to feed the engine. And she probably never would.
He’d never known Melissa to attempt to operate anything unless it was clearly marked: On, Off, Drive and Park.
When he was in high school he’d tried to teach his sister Peggy to drive a stick shift, only to wind up with an auto body repair bill and his neck in a brace.
Mumbling some half-formed thoughts that had to do with women in general, he struggled out of bed. Then bracing himself, he dragged the entire bed frame across the floor to the dresser where he kept his spare set of handcuff keys.
With his free hand he rummaged through a litter of bullets, casings, knives, chunks of driftwood and seashells, and his loaded shoulder pistol. Lucky for him she hadn’t taken the notion to put a bullet through his brain before hightailing it.
He finally located the key. He had it in the handcuff lock when he heard a most surprising sound –that of an engine turning over.
Damn.
Elise Ramsey was turning out to be more trouble than all his bounty hunting jobs put together. Nobody drove his boat. Nobody. Especially a woman.
The cuffs sprang open. Dylan spun around and sprinted for the door.
As he raced toward the dock the sun was just beginning to make an appearance, climbing out of the Atlantic –normally one of his favorite sights, but not this morning.
He was almost to the boat when Elise straightened and threw a glance over one shoulder. Then she turned and rammed the throttle home.
Dylan made a lunge for the boat, fully expecting to get a dunking, surprised when he just managed to clear the gunwale and fall to the deck. The sleek craft roared toward open water, the bow jutting skyward, a rooster tail gushing behind.
His boat, wasn’t your regular Sunday afternoon job. It was modified, because Dylan liked to go fast. In the hands of a novice that extra power could be dangerous.
On the pounding, uneven floor Dylan struggled for a foothold, slipping, hands flailing at the air.
“Throttle down!” he shouted –uselessly, because the wind caught his words and whipped them behind him.
Then she did something experienced drivers never did when cruising wide open. She gave the wheel a sharp tug to the right.
For the second time Dylan’s feet left the deck. Wind whooshed past his ears, and a jet-engine roar deafened him as he tumbled backward, smacking into the remarkably painful waters of the Atlantic.
Chapter 6
One second the boat had been going straight, the next the wheel had jerked from Elise's hands, pulling hard to the right. Dylan was knocked off balance, falling into the water.
Now, legs and arms trembling, Elise gripped the wheel tightly in her left hand while throttling down with her right. The motor slowed, and the hull settled back into the water.
No matter who he was, no matter what he had done to her, she had to go back, had to make sure he wasn't hurt.
She put the boat into a smooth, wide turn, rhythmic waves striking the port side as she maneuvered back around.
At first she could see no sign of Dylan, and she felt a stab of fear. She knew how water, like the desert, had a way of distorting a person's perception of place and distance, and she was afraid that maybe she'd come too far, turned too wide and lost track of where she was in relation to where Dylan had fallen overboard. But then, seconds later, she spotted his dark hair.
She had no time to wonder at the relief that surged through her as she guided the boat toward him, stopping a safe distance from where he was effortlessly treading water.
A strong tropical wind whistled past her ears, tugging at her tangled hair, whipping strands of it across her cheek. Now that she had stopped, the boat rolled and pitched, following the rippling surface of the water. She could smell the salt in the air.
Standing at the wheel, Elise braced her legs and curled her toes into the stiff carpet. When she saw that Dylan was swimming toward her, intent on boarding, she pushed the throttle forward slightly, enough to keep out of his reach.
He went back to treading water. The rising sun sparkled off the waves and shimmered off his black hair as it lay wet and slick against his head.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he shouted. He sounded a little out of breath, but not too much. "Stop and let me on my own damn boat!" Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Nobody drives my boat!"
Now that he was no longer swimming toward her, Elise let the boat idle.
"You look strong and healthy."
Her gaze went from him to the island. She could see it lying out there not too far away. She looked back at Dylan. "And you can swim." She shrugged. No need to spell it out for him
.
Comprehension dawned on his face. "My God!" he shouted at her, his voice full of outraged disbelief.
"You're a heartless little bitch, aren't you? And you've been nothing but a royal pain in the butt since we met."
"Met? We never met!"
He apparently chose to ignore that fact.
"First you kick me in the crotch, then I almost end up as gator bait. I just miss getting fried by lightning, and then-" He held one hand high enough for her to see the handcuff dangling from it. "Then you handcuff me to my own bed! And now this-ripping off my boat and leaving me here to drown!"
They were drifting farther apart, and Elise almost had to shriek in order to be heard, but she felt like shrieking, she probably would have shrieked if a mere foot separated them. "I mistreated you? You're crazy, you know that? I would be a fool to let you on this boat. I've got you where I want you-where you can't manhandle me. Where you can't put cuffs on me, or toss me in a trunk, or threaten to shoot me!"
"I never threatened to shoot you!"
She inhaled deeply, drawing enough air into her lungs to continue. "I came back to make sure you were okay, but now I wonder why I bothered."
Elise turned her back on him and reached for the throttle, steeling herself against any urge to take one final look.
From behind her came a shout. "Ramsey! Hey, Ramsey!"
She couldn't help herself. She looked.
"Why don't you stick around? You might enjoy the show."
She fingered the throttle. "What do you mean?"
"Ever see Jaws?"
She wasn't a complete idiot. She knew he was playing for sympathy. "Of course I have." She smiled. "And I loved every minute of it."
"Have you caught any of those specials on TV?" he shouted, his words coming a little more rapidly. "These are shark-infested waters."
Don't listen, she told herself.
Get away.
Leave.
But something uncomfortable tugged at her memory. She recalled a program she'd seen on TV during those long days and nights of incarceration at The Bastion. Something to do with sharks ... about how there were large packs of them somewhere off the coast of... where? She couldn't remember.
Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay Page 6