"Not true." She sniffled and mumbled into his chest, "You're a wonderful kidnapper."
His arms tightened around her, and he laughed again, but this time the laugh was real. He rocked her against him. "What am I going to do about you?"
“Hold me.”
Instead he set her an arm's length away. Then he crossed his arms in front of him, grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and peeled it over his head. With his face intent and serious, he used the shirt, warm from his body, to smooth the smudges from her cheeks.
"Not your shirt..."
"Doesn't matter." He finished her face. "Now give me your hands."
She held them out to him. Head bent, he cleaned the smudges from them. "Why tears? There've been at least half a dozen times in the past few days when most women would have bawled their eyes out, but you didn't as much as whimper. Why are you crying now?"
He'd been a cop. He'd saved people's lives. A broken hero...
"I-I'm crying ... because of you."
He grew very still. Then, in an old-fashioned gesture that wrenched her heart, he bent at the waist, carried her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips gently, oh, so gently, to the tender skin of her inner wrist where the bruise from the handcuff had turned an ugly yellow.
When he looked back up at her, his eyes were full of compassion and regret and sadness. And it was the sadness that hurt the most.
"You, more than anyone, should know that I'm not worth a single one of your tears."
She couldn't help it. Her eyes swam with them. She blinked and felt a tear catch in her bottom lashes, then escape to trail slowly down her cheek:
He dropped the shirt to the ground and tenderly cupped her face in his hands. She could feel the pads of his palms and fingertips on each side of her face. With his thumbs, he wiped the tears from her cheeks. His gaze roamed to her eyes, her parted lips. Then his head came down very, very slowly.
His lips, when they finally touched hers, were soft and slow, and as sad as his eyes had been. Her own hands moved across the smooth rippling muscles of his arms, the hard curve of his shoulders.
His kiss deepened.
His tongue moved across her lips, gently nudging them open, and when it slid over hers, she could taste the saltiness of her own tears.
Her senses were full of him. The way he smelled, like the wild ocean wind. The way he felt, so hard, so smooth, so warm and strong. The way he tasted, of sadness and darkness. There was a roaring in her head, as if shells-those harbors of the ocean's secrets-were being held to her ears.
One of his hands moved down her spine to splay across her lower back, pressing her thighs into him. The fingers of his other hand threaded through her hair to cup the back of her head.
And the kiss deepened.
His wet, warm tongue slid across hers, slowly, erotically, teasing, coaxing. Elise felt a heaviness somewhere deep within her, and her knees would have buckled if he hadn't been holding her.
But then the kiss slowed until he brushed his lips lightly across hers, until he stopped kissing her completely and buried his face in her hair. She felt the shuddering sigh that coursed through him as he held her.
Before she knew what was happening, before her bemused brain could even begin to function normally again, he set her away from him, hands on her shoulders.
Stunned. That was the only way to describe his expression. Then it changed, replaced by the gentle-sad quality she'd seen in his face earlier. Finally, as if he'd only just realized he was still holding her, he loosened his hold completely.
"Dylan ..."
She didn't know what to say, didn't know what to do. She dragged her eyes from his and frantically searched the yard. She spotted the box and took a step toward it.
Dylan reached out and stopped her. "I'll get it."
Her heart was still thundering in her chest, in her head, her senses full of him.
He reached out and touched her cheek, where her tears had been. "Don't ever cry for me. I'm not worth a single one of your tears."
Not true.
"When I was little, my grandmother used to tell me a fairy tale about a girl who had special tears. Everywhere a tear fell, a flower would grow." She frowned up at him. "Maybe you've heard this story."
He shook his head.
"Well, when the king's young son died, the girl picked one of her tear flowers and placed it on the prince's chest, and he came back to life."
"That's a nice story," Dylan told her with a sad smile. "But it's too late for me. My heart's been cold for too long."
Chapter 12
The sun was barely up when Dylan climbed the curved, narrow flight of stairs that led to the second story of the beach house.
He hadn't slept at all last night…
He hadn't slept because he'd been doing something he usually tried to avoid: soul-searching. He'd learned a long time ago that it was safer to look outward rather than inward, but last night he'd looked inward and come to a decision.
He was taking her back.
She had cried-for him. For the guy who had jumped her in a dark alley, who had wrapped her in tape and tossed her into a trunk. God, how could anybody be that forgiving? Angels weren't that forgiving.
The guilt he felt was overwhelming. Guilt and something else, something he couldn't identify, or maybe didn't want to identify. But one thing he did know was that taking her back was going to be one of the hardest things he'd ever done.
He reached the top of the stairs and stopped. It had been months since he'd been up here, but the big, open room looked pretty much the same. It still smelled of paint thinner, varnish and sawdust.
In the center of the room was the skeletal hull of the sailboat he'd started a couple of years ago. His high-powered telescope was in the far corner, covered with a fine layer of dust.
He moved across the room and cranked open two of the metal frame green enameled windows that covered the entire west wall. Morning air rushed in, stirring up the sawdust.
From where he stood, Dylan could see the backyard, which amounted to little more than some sand dunes, a wooden picnic table and chairs, and the patch of garden where he'd attempted to grow a few vegetables. Where the tomatoes had withered on the vine. Where the beans and cucumbers had gotten two leaves on them before they'd taken the big trip. The rest of the stuff hadn't even bothered to come up at all.
Yesterday morning Elise had taken one look at his garden and burst out laughing. He had to admit, it was a pretty pathetic sight.
Maybe he'd needed more fertilizer? Less fertilizer? A rudimentary knowledge of gardening?
To the left of the disaster area was the trash barrel-which brought with it thoughts of last night. Why should she care about his plaques and badge? They shouldn't have meant anything to her.
But they had.
That made him feel good. And it made him feel bad.
And now that the decision to take her back had been made, and even though he knew with complete certainty that he was doing the right thing, he felt a deep sense of loss.
Even though he'd only known her a week, he was going to miss her. Miss her like hell. He'd gotten used to having her around, liked showing her the island, taking her fishing. . .
Holding her. Wanting her... Imagining how it could be with them ...
Ironic. He was going to miss Sebastian's-his mind closed over the rest of the sentence. He couldn't finish it. He wasn't the one to judge her. He couldn't understand why she was involved with somebody like Sebastian, but it was said that everyone had some good in them. Maybe Elise had found some shred of it in him.
Taking her back would mean Sebastian would get off and Melissa would go unavenged. It would mean that Dylan would have to start over. But, strangely enough, he really didn't care anymore. Revenge didn't burn in him the way it had before.
Before he'd met Elise.
And he couldn't stop the glimmer of hope that was growing in him-hope that she might want to come back: after all this was over.
To
be safe, he would take her to the mainland tonight. Darkness would be their cover. He didn't want anybody associating her with him, didn't want Sebastian to know that she'd ever heard of a bounty hunter named Dylan Davis.
But for now, he had today to get through.
He ran his hand across the boat's struts, testing the smoothness of the wood. He called it a boat. He'd called it a boat before he'd ever put a saw to the first piece of wood, called it a boat when it had been nothing but a roll of blueprints.
And even though this wasn't the time to be thinking about tomorrow or the next day, he couldn't help but picture the boat finished. Sleek and long, the foremast touching the sky, a tiller in the ocean. He could feel how smoothly it would cut through the water....
For years he'd had the same dream. But before he'd always been the only one in the boat. Not anymore...
But now wasn't the time to think about the future. It wasn't the time to think at all.
He picked up a sanding block, curling his fingers around the wood. He tore off a rectangular piece of sandpaper and wrapped it around the block. Then, with long, even strokes, he began sanding.
He lost track of time. He didn't know how much later it was when he felt Elise's presence. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway, and he felt a strange sensation in his chest.
"Let me guess," she said. "A boat."
"Yep."
She frowned and looked around the room. "How will you get it out when you're finished?"
He jerked his head in the direction of the windows. "Those all come out. I'll just lever the boat down on skids and pulleys."
"Oh..."
She had that fascinated, genuinely interested look on. her face again, like the one she'd had when he'd shown her how to send messages by pigeon.
"The wood's from a South American tree. Never suppose to rot or warp. It should last as long as fiberglass." He tore off a square of sandpaper and wrapped it around another wood block. "Here." He held it out to her. "Give it a try."
She didn't hesitate. She came over and took the wrapped block from him.
"You don't want to press too hard," he told her. "Just a smooth, steady stroke. Like this."
She watched, then tried it herself. Her straight hair fell forward, and she reached up and tucked a smooth, shiny strand behind her ear.
"You've got it. You're a natural."-
She smiled at him, and for a second his heart seemed to stop.
He had it bad, real bad. As bad as some sappy high-school kid. So bad that he was beginning to imagine things. For a second her expression had reminded him of the way Anne and Skeeter looked at each other when they thought nobody else was watching, or when their kids surprised them by doing something gushy and sentimental. But Dylan sure as hell hadn't done anything gushy and sentimental. He hadn't done anything at all.
It was nuts to think that Elise would be looking at him that way.
For a second he'd even had the same feeling he'd had yesterday when they'd gone fishing. He couldn't quite put a finger on it, but he knew it had something to do with a quiet sense of companionship. But more than that, it had to do with a ... rightness.
You're thinking again, Dylan. That can only get you in trouble. And anyway, you're wrong, wrong, wrong.
He willed his mind to go blank. The rhythmic sound of sanding worked as a balm, pacifying him. Almost. "Dylan ... we need to talk." His hand stilled. "Okay." "About Sebastian's trial."
He felt her hesitation, sensed that she was groping for words.
"Dylan ... you know if I don't testify, and if Adrian Sebastian goes to death row, I'll have to live with that for the rest of my life."
His thoughts exactly. He couldn't do that to her. Not to Elise.
He looked into her vivid blue eyes. He noticed that they seemed to reflect more light than most eyes. "I know."
She stopped sanding. "You've got to take me back. Can't you see that?" she said desperately, words suddenly pouring out. "How do you think I'm going to feel, knowing that I'm to blame for someone's imprisonment-or, worse, someone's death?" She made an imploring gesture with both hands. "Tell me, how am I supposed to handle that? Can you imagine what that will do to me? Can you understand? I don't think I'd be able to live with myself."
He knew how it felt. He knew very well how it felt.
He dragged his eyes from hers and turned away, moving slowly, like an old man. When he reached the window he gripped the molding in both hands and stared out with unseeing eyes. Her words brought it all back to him. The pain, the despair, the guilt.
Once again he heard the sound of shattering glass. Once again he was kneeling on the cold bathroom floor, cradling Melissa's lifeless body in his arms, dazed, in shock. He hadn't wanted to believe it, hadn't wanted to let her go. Somebody-one of the cops-had phoned Skeeter. And Skeeter had come and talked Dylan into letting her go, letting the ambulance attendants take her. After that everything had gotten hazy. Black. Bleak.
"Dylan ... ?"
Elise.
Like a lifeline, her voice reached out to him. "Dylan ... ?"
Her concern penetrated the painful memories. He felt her hand on his arm.
Warm.
Real.
By force of will, he pulled himself together. The haze faded, and he saw Elise standing beside him, her brow creased with worry.
He had the urge to pull her into his arms and hold her tightly, to bury his face in her soft hair. Instead he took a deep shuddering breath and pulled his gaze back to the window, trying to stabilize himself.
He could see Scag down below, sunning himself on a lawn chair.
"I'm taking you back," he said quietly.
"What?"
"I'm taking you back," he repeated. "Tonight."
Silence.
"That's what you want, isn't it?"
"I just hadn't expected... It's so sudden.... I-I'm surprised, that's all."
He turned to her. "I never should have involved you in this. I'm sorry."
"Dylan..."
He read concern on her face, and it warmed him.
"What did Sebastian do to make you hate him so much?" she asked.
She looked so innocent, so untouched. He wanted to protect her from the evils in the world, protect her from Sebastian.
"You don't need to know."
"I think I have a right."
"It would be better if you didn't know, Elise. For your own good, for your own peace of mind. Believe me." Her hair shone in the sunlight. He reached out and stroked it. "Go back to Miami. Give your testimony. Tell the truth. Tell what really happened. That's what it's all about. That's what's right. You have to do what's right."
She suddenly looked ready to cry, and he felt a pain deep inside.
Where had all these emotions sprung from? He didn't understand..
"Yes," she whispered. "I have to do what's right."
Elise sat on the end of the dock, her back against the piling, arms locked around her knees, hugging them to her chest. She'd felt on the verge of tears all day, and it had nothing to do with the time of the month. Anyway, that was all over and done with. No, it had to do with leaving Iguana Bay. More than that, it had to do with leaving Dylan.
The brisk salt breeze tugged her hair back from her face. She stared out at the ocean, where the water met the sky. So vast, so blue...
Such a long, long way from Wisconsin. And the distance was more than geographical. Much more ... "You're going to get sunburned
With a hand shading her eyes, Elise squinted up at Dylan. Her vision was hazy orange from the sun. "You're awfully good at that."
"What?"
"Sneaking up on people."
He shrugged and settled down beside her. "When you're a bounty hunter, you learn to move quietly." A bounty hunter. From detective to bounty hunter?
"Maybe you should go in and try to get some sleep. You won't get much of a chance tonight."
She shook her head. "It would be useless. And anyway, I want to enjoy the last
few hours of my vacation."
They sat in silence until Dylan finally got to his feet, squinted his eyes and made a study of the sun. "Three o'clock. You just missed the shuttlebus island tour."
"That's okay. I didn't feel like being jostled by all those people anyway."
He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and nodded. "Yeah, I hate crowds."
She glanced around, her gaze taking in the deserted beach, the sky, the vast ocean. "So I noticed."
When she'd gone upstairs this morning, she'd been prepared to tell him who she really was. But then he'd surprised and shocked her with his abrupt plans and she'd forgotten about everything else.
What would his reaction be? Would he be angry that she hadn't told him earlier? She decided she would tell him later, when they got to the mainland. She didn't want to take a chance on spoiling these last few hours.
That night Elise spread Dylan's Dark Sky T-shirt out on the bed and carefully folded it. When she was done, she placed it on the foot of the bed, so the lettering faced up.
Earlier she'd thought about trying to wear her suit, but had quickly given up on that idea. It was beyond repair. So she was going back to the mainland barefoot, wearing cutoffs and Dylan's black T-shirt.
The ticking of the clock filled the room, marking the final minutes.
Elise didn't want to leave.
How had it happened? When had it happened?
Not right away, certainly not right away. But it had started long before she'd found the badge. It had been gradual, so gradual that she hadn't seen it coming.
A rapid knock, then the door opened and Dylan stuck his head in. "Ready?"
She looked at the clock. It was only 11:30. He'd said after midnight.
He saw the direction of her gaze and explained. "I thought we might as well leave earlier."
"Okay."
She understood. Now that he'd decided to take her back, he was anxious to get it over with.
Dylan's gaze flicked to the shirt on the bed. "You could have kept that."
"That's okay."
She'd wanted to keep it because it was a part of him. By that same token, she hadn't wanted to take it because she felt he needed those things that were a part of him so he wouldn't lose track of who he was.
Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay Page 12