And as Dylan watched her walk away, he once again felt the same strange, aching need he'd felt on the boat. And this time she wasn't touching him. This time she wasn't even looking at him.
He watched her go. Sebastian's woman.
Chapter 7
After getting back from her bungled escape attempt, Elise walked straight through the living room to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She half expected Dylan to follow, but thankfully he didn't. Exhaustion overtaking her, she threw herself facedown on the bed that was now jammed against the dresser. As she lay there, she tried not to think about what had almost happened out there, about what she would be doing right now if she hadn't come to her senses.
Making love.
She immediately blocked out the mental image that flashed into her brain. She was incredibly lucky that Dylan had such a low opinion of her. That was the only thing that had saved her from his lovemaking. Above all, she must make sure he kept that low opinion intact.
From the other side of the door came Dylan's voice. "You want anything to eat?"
"No!"
Eating would have taken effort. Eating would probably have taken place in the same room as Dylan, and she didn't want to be near him.
And she was too exhausted to guard her words. In her present state she was afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing, of giving herself away.
Five minutes later, Dylan barged into the room.
She quickly closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep. Watching through her eyelashes, her face partially hidden in the crook of one arm, she forced herself to breathe evenly and shallowly.
He moved across the starkly furnished room, lifting the shoulder holster from the bedpost and looping it over one arm.
She tensed, then relaxed as he ignored her and moved past. He opened the top dresser drawer, taking out a revolver and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.
Something small and cylindrical fell and rolled across the floor. He cursed under his breath, then threw an armload of stuff back into the drawer. He ended up pulling out two drawers and carrying them both from the room, kicking the door shut behind him. Two minutes later he was back. He picked up the extra pillow beside her and left.
Just before falling asleep, in that strange, subconscious, half-dreaming state, Elise was once again on the boat with Dylan, but this time she didn't mention Sebastian's name.
At first Elise thought she was home in her own bed. But then she opened her eyes and saw the sunlight streaming in through the single, curtainless window and remembered where she was. And who she was. And who Dylan thought she was-someone she had to continue to be.
The clock on the dresser read 7:30. Even though she must have slept most of the day, her head still ached, and she still felt exhausted.
She sat up and rubbed her temples, her bleary gaze falling on a stack of clothes at the foot of the bed. She reached for them, finding a man's chambray work shirt, a pair of men's well-worn gray jogging pants, white socks and a pair of faded jeans-the jeans were the only thing that looked as if they might come close to fitting her.
In the bathroom, Elise discovered everything she needed, including shampoo and a toothbrush. But what surprised her even more was the hot water. All the comforts of home, she noted wryly.
After showering, she found that the jeans fit almost perfectly except for being a little too loose at the waist.
Because of what had passed this morning, not only the kissing, but the handcuffs and her stealing Dylan's boat, she wasn't thrilled at the thought of another encounter with him, but she was hungry. Starving.
With her wet hair soaking through the shoulders of the blue shirt, she moved barefoot across the room, expecting to find herself locked in. Under her hand, the knob turned and the door swung open.
Earlier, when she'd sneaked away, the living room had been dark. Now the shadows were gone, chased away by the sunshine.
The room would have appeared stark if not for the huge curtainless windows that opened to the turquoise bay, seeming to invite the sun and ocean indoors. She hadn't expected a room so open, so light and airy-not of Dylan.
Day one of her captivity was almost over.
Low evening sunlight spilled in across the varnished wood floor. The ocean breeze rushed through welcoming windows, bringing with it the balmy smell of sand and sun and salt water. Fresh air flowed across the surface of her skin where she'd rolled up the sleeves of the oversize shirt. She could hear the ceaseless rumble of the Atlantic, lying out there like a slumbering giant.
And through the window, framed in the same picture as the sun and sea, was Dylan. He was sitting on the porch, bare feet propped on a bamboo table, his gaze turned away toward the ocean, a gray tabby cat on his lap.
The picture he presented was one of false serenity-especially with the cat, which was totally incongruous with his dark, criminal persona.
He'd changed clothes. His jeans were dry, his black T-shirt exchanged for a navy-blue one. His hair was dry, too. Now she could see that it wasn't black, as she had first thought, but a dark, rich brown. Thick, incredibly thick, and slightly wavy.
Apparently he'd been waiting for her.
Even though she'd hardly made a sound, he must have heard her, because he lifted the cat from his lap, got up and came inside, the screen door slamming behind him. His eyes flitted briefly over her, and in that millisecond she knew he'd taken note of her clothes and wet hair.
"Those jeans were left here by a buddy's son. I thought they might fit you."
His attitude was casual, but slightly remote.
Good. She certainly didn't want him getting chummy again.
"Sit down and I'll fix you a sandwich." He waved a hand in the direction of a table and four chairs.
The table had a Formica top that probably had been red at one time, but was now pink. It was edged with a strip of screwed-on metal. Grandma Max had kept a table like that on her porch. Elise could even swear the red plastic chair pads were cracked in the same places.
Dylan disappeared through a narrow doorway. She could hear a refrigerator open and close, hear jars rattling.
Instead of sitting down, she wandered around the room. There wasn't much to reveal anything about its owner, the very absence of personal items seeming to tell a story all its own. And anyway, she reminded herself, there couldn't possibly be a thing about Dylan she would be interested in knowing-except maybe where his weaknesses lay.
Even so, she found herself moving to the wall opposite the bay. On shelves constructed of unfinished pine there were a few hardback books. To her surprise she saw that nearly all of them had to do with astronomy.
He was interested in stars. So what? But it just didn't add up. Dreamers were interested in stars. Maybe the books weren't his.
The rest of the shelf space contained what to her unprofessional eye appeared to be genuine artifacts from sunken ships. Big rusty chunks of metal, some coins that looked as if they'd melted together, a cylindrical piece of metal that could have been the barrel of a gun.
Was Dylan a diver? Had he found these things himself? That would certainly explain how he'd managed to stay underwater for so long.
To the right of the bookshelf were steep curved steps leading to the second story. Judging from the undisturbed dust on the steps, it had been a long time since anyone had been up there.
Near the steps was a large framed poster that she almost dismissed, thinking it was something that had been .left over from the hippie era. But on closer inspection she saw that it wasn't a poster but a collage of photographs, some black-and-white, some color. They were juxtaposed with pen-and-ink sketches and brightly painted designs, giving the entire composition the feel of an album cover from the sixties.
From the kitchen came Dylan's voice. "What do you want on your sandwich? Mayonnaise and mustard, or ketchup and pickle?"
She was surprised that he'd bothered to ask. "Just mayonnaise," she answered, continuing to study the collage.
One of the pictures, a blac
k-and-white, was of a man and a proud-looking boy-father and son, she assumed. They were showing off their catch, a huge sailfish hanging from a dock scale. The boy, wearing cuffed jeans and a striped T-shirt, looked to be around twelve.
Another was of a baby boy grabbing a fistful of birthday cake; others were of a boy in a baseball uniform, a boy hanging upside down from a tree limb. There were a lot of pictures of the same dark-haired woman. The boy's mother? Several were of the same two girls. Sisters?
It was then she realized the collage was an artistic account of Dylan's past.
There were more pictures, lots more pictures. In one Elise was able to recognize a teenaged Dylan. He was standing next to a freckle-faced boy who looked about the same age. Both of them were leaning against a red Chevy Impala, arms crossed in front of white T-shirts, eyes squinted against the smoke from the cigarettes dangling from the corners of their stern mouths.
Another picture, obviously taken the same day, had both youths flexing their muscles for the camera. A couple of real hoods.
The corners of Elise's mouth threatened to turn up, and she forced herself to suppress the urge to smile.
Some of the pictures were more recent.
In one Dylan looked pretty much the same as he did now, except that his hair was shorter and neater. He was wearing a tuxedo, standing next to a sophisticated-looking woman, sophisticated in a way Elise could never be. The woman had pale blond hair, a flawless complexion and full, pouty lips.
Dylan's girlfriend? Wife? The mysterious Melissa?
Elise felt a strange sensation, as if a heavy stone had plummeted to the pit of her stomach. She hadn't thought of Dylan as someone with a normal past. Someone with a family. Friends. A girlfriend. Maybe even a wife ...
How strange.... Dylan had turned into a criminal. Elise, on the other hand, had what some people termed a rather odd upbringing, never knowing her father and .losing her mother at an early age, so early that she hardly remembered her.
She noticed a signature in the lower right-hand corner and leaned closer.
To Dylan, with all my love. Melissa.
Melissa. The composition had been lovingly put together by Melissa. The name Dylan had whispered this morning. The name he'd spoken with part exasperation, part tenderness.
Elise's eyes flew back to the picture of the woman standing next to Dylan.
She was still staring at it when Dylan came in carrying a bowed white paper plate and a glass of milk. He set them on the table.
Apparently he'd already eaten, because instead of sitting down he sprawled out on the couch, locking the fingers of both hands behind his head. He propped his bare feet up on the armrest, crossing them at the ankles. From her vantage point, she could see the soles of both feet. Neither had a cut.
She took a bite of her sandwich.
He just lay there, watching her, eyes never wavering. The expression on his face was one of curiosity, as if he couldn't quite figure her out. And she didn't want him to.
"Where'd you learn to drive a boat?"
She didn't want to share any of her life with him, didn't want to risk saying the wrong thing. She shrugged. "I've driven boats since I was little."
"In Wisconsin?"
"I grew up on the Mississippi."
He nodded, as if that explained everything. "Never fished the muddy Mississippi. Always wanted to take a trip all the way to its source."
It was blatantly obvious he was trying to make conversation, but she wouldn't allow herself to be drawn in, not even small talk. She didn't want to encourage him or make him think she approved of what he was doing.
She took another bite of the sandwich.
He continued to stare. She was tempted to grab her plate and retreat to the bedroom, but she didn't want him to know that -he intimidated her. And he didn't. No, sir. Not in the least.
She twisted slightly away from him, the plastic seat squeaking. Facing nothing but blank wall, she continued eating.
"Want another sandwich?" he asked before she'd even finished swallowing the last bite.
She shook her head, chewed, swallowed, wiped her mouth, then swung around to face him. Whatever you do, don't beg, she told herself. Never beg. Don't let him see a weakness. "How long do you plan to keep me here?"
He shifted his hips slightly, readjusting his weight, getting more comfortable. "As long as it takes."
"But you will ... let me go?"
What did she want from him? she asked herself. A promise? A promise from a criminal meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. That would be like taking the word of the devil.
"I'll take you back when the trial is over."
As soon as he let her go, she would report him. Surely he must know that. Which was another reason not to believe him, not to trust him.
She was in this by herself and had to take care of it herself. She would make him think that she was resigned to the situation. He would relax his guard, and she would get away. For good this time.
At least now she felt reasonably safe in assuming that he didn't plan to physically harm her-otherwise he would have done so already.
"Has it occurred to you that the trial might be postponed when I don't show up?" she asked.
"I don't think that'll happen. Too many people want to get Sebastian. This might be the only opportunity to see justice done."
"Justice! How on earth can justice be done if Adrian Sebastian is convicted when he's innocent? Don't you care? You'll be sending an innocent man to jail-possibly death row! Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. "I care. That's what this is all about." His casual attitude was gone, and Elise suddenly wished she'd left well enough alone.
"Sebastian may or may not have killed Harry Zevon. But one thing I do know is that Sebastian isn't innocent."
He spoke with such chilling certainty that Elise found herself once again shutting her mind to the possible reasons Dylan might have for hating Adrian Sebastian. She had to give honest testimony, no matter what the man's previous crimes.
More than that, she didn't want to know because it might be too frightening. She didn't want to know what people like Dylan and Sebastian were involved in. She would rather their dealings remain shadowy, half-formed ideas.
"You know what I can't figure out?" Dylan said, watching her through the twilight that had suddenly filled the room. "I can't figure out how you can let a bastard like Sebastian touch you."
This was where she could blow it. This involved sex, something of which she knew very little.
She managed to execute an easy shrug before getting to her feet, fear and a strange excitement rushing through her. She casually stretched, suddenly wanting to flaunt her fictional affair with Sebastian in Dylan's face. To taunt him.
"It's really not so hard to figure out, not for a woman, anyway." She focused on her open palm, tracing a finger along her lifeline. It was long and well-defined. "Sebastian is the best I ever had." Now she made herself look directly at Dylan. "He knows how to please a woman."
With that statement complete, she glided to the bedroom, head high.
Dylan watched her go, watched the bedroom door close, his jaw rigid, fists clenched.
Damn.
He was mad, but that wasn't all. No, what he felt was frustration, an urge to shake some sense into her, make her see what a waste she was making of her life. What a mistake she was making allowing herself to become so deeply involved with somebody like Sebastian.
But then he caught himself, realizing what he was, doing. What business was it of his what she did with her life?
And he sure wasn't anybody to preach. It wasn't as if his own life had followed the straight and narrow. It wasn't as if his own life wasn't screwed up. And getting more screwed up all the time.
He shoved himself to his feet, strode to the kitchen, jerked open the refrigerator and took out a beer.
She'd almost pulled it off this morning. He admired her for that. But he had to keep remi
nding himself that she'd spent a lot of time around Sebastian. Some of him had to have rubbed off on her.
One thing for sure, she knew how to make a guy crazy. Out there in the boat, she'd fogged his brain. She'd used her body to try to weaken him. They'd almost had sex. Afterward, she would have clung to him, sweetly begging him to take her back.
And the scary thing was, it probably would have worked if Sebastian's name hadn't slipped out.
He folded back the tab on the beer, took a long drink, then went outside to the porch and dropped into one of the wicker chairs, slouching down, his legs stretched out in front of him.
He took another drink and stared out toward the ocean and darkening sky, not really seeing them. Instead he was visualizing Sebastian's hands moving over Elise's body, touching her, kissing her, just as Dylan himself had done only hours ago.
Pale skin ... so unbelievably soft. . . Touched by Sebastian's hands.
He took another drink, then slammed the can down on the table. He got up and strode purposely back inside, to the bedroom.
He shoved the door open so hard it crashed against the wall.
Elise sat up in bed, a hand to her heart, eyes huge.
"How can you let someone touch you who has blood on his hands?" Dylan demanded.
In three quick strides he was across the room. He grasped her by the shoulders, one knee dipping onto the mattress, his eyes probing hers.
Her eyes.
Her driver's license had called them blue. An understatement if ever there was one. They were a color Dylan had never seen before. Right now, in the gathering darkness, they appeared almost navy... and scared.
"Leave me alone."
He was doing it again. He'd tell himself that he was going to be nice, and then he'd just kind of lose it and scare her again. Oh, her voice was steady enough, but there was no denying the fear lurking in the depths of those blue eyes.
He moved his hands up and down her arms-a warming motion, the kind you used when somebody was cold. But she was warm. Warm and soft ...
"I just hate to see you mixed up with a guy like Sebastian, that's all."
Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay Page 8