But, just like Harry, he could be taken care of.
The newscaster's voice droned from the small speaker. White puffy clouds drifted overhead. Waves lapped against the boat, occasionally causing the hull to bump the rubber pads that edged the dock of Iguana Bay.
Dylan lay sprawled on his back across the two front seats, elbow resting on the steering wheel, bare feet propped on the chrome siderail. He reached down and flicked the key, turning the ignition switch from Auxiliary to Off, silencing the news broadcast in midstory.
Didn't matter. He'd heard all he needed to hear. Sebastian was free. No big surprise..
Dylan tilted his head back and finished off the last swallow of whiskey, then tossed the bottle in the corner, scattering empty beer cans.
He'd planned on taking the boat for a little spin, but he hadn't made it any farther than the dock. Maybe later. After dark. When the stars were out...
He ran a hand over his rough, stubbled chin. The past few days were a blur. How long had it been since he'd slept? Or eaten? Or taken a shower? Days. He knew it had been days. Since Elise had defected, as he so bitterly called it.
But if he were honest with himself, if he analyzed the whole thing, Elise hadn't owed him anything. And he'd known who and what she was from the very beginning.
So why did he feel like a volcano about to blow? Why did he have this irrepressible urge to do something reckless?
A shower. That was what he'd do. He would go in and take a shower. Try to drag himself back to the land of the living.
He shoved himself to his feet and somehow managed to negotiate the way from the boat to the dock-not an easy task under the most sober of circumstances. As he climbed the steps to the house the ground seemed to shift underfoot. He reached for the railing, caught it, then lurched forward as a piece of rotten wood came off in his hand.
Gonna have to fix that one of these days....
He tossed the wood on the porch floor, fed the cat, then headed for the shower. As he passed the bathroom sink he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
Jeez. He looked like somebody whose face should be hanging on the wall of a post office.
With one of those strange flashes of insight that often came to him when he'd gone too long without sleep, he saw with complete and total clarity that he was going to kill himself if he kept on at this rate.
With arms straight, hands braced against cold porcelain, he leaned over the sink.
Three days.
For three days he'd been tormented with thoughts of Elise and Sebastian.
Three days...
How was he going to make it through the rest of his life?
The afternoon sun beat down, and the ocean wind stung Elise's face as she sat in the passenger seat of the little charter boat, watching the shore of Iguana Bay loom closer.
Last time she'd seen Dylan, he had looked at her with loathing, and now she couldn't leave Florida; she couldn't go back home knowing he hated her. She had to try to explain.
"Here we are," Enrico announced, guiding the craft to the dock. The teenager jammed the gearshift into neutral and grabbed the stationary ladder nailed to the side of the dock in order to steady the decrepit boat so Elise could disembark. Dylan's boat was tied off on the other side.
Gusting wind tugged at her hair, whipping her jacket open, molding her navy-blue skirt to her legs, her blouse to her breasts.
Enrico eyed her with appreciation, white teeth flashing in his dark-skinned, handsome face.
Elise was too preoccupied to feel annoyance. And anyway, if it hadn't been for the youth, she never would have gotten to Iguana Bay at all.
When she'd entered the bait shack to inquire about chartering a boat, the men had laughed at her offer of twenty dollars. She'd discovered that most charter boats charged at least a hundred for a single hour. A twenty was all she had, and no one there took credit cards.
The young Enrico had taken pity on her and volunteered the services of his father's fishing boat. Later, while avoiding a couple of his clumsy attempts to get romantic, Elise realized why he'd volunteered. Enrico hoped to be paid in something other than cash. But he'd taken her rejection good-naturedly.
Now she handed him the twenty-dollar bill.
Enrico ignored it. "I better wait." His dark Cuban eyes went from her to the beach house. "Looks pretty quiet around here. You better check and see if anybody's home."
"He's home."
She didn't want Enrico to wait. She didn't want to have a way off the island. She wanted Dylan to be forced to face her, to listen to her.
She tried to press the money into Enrico's hand, but he smiled and shook his head. Elise wondered how many hearts he'd already broken in his young life.
"Keep your money, if you ever need another ride, just ask for Enrico. So long."
He waved and roared away, leaving a haze of blue smoke and the smell of gas and oil lingering in the air.
Elise slung her purse strap over one shoulder and turned, casting a glance around. The beach area was deserted except for the pigeons strutting back and forth in their wire cages. There was no sign of Dylan.
She took the opportunity to board his boat, almost tripping when her instep made contact with an empty beer can. There were several of them, she saw, along with an empty whiskey bottle. Careful to keep her back to the beach house, she slipped the boat keys from the ignition and was ready to drop them into her purse when she recalled Dylan's penchant for going through other people's things.
She lifted the lid on one of the bench seats and tucked the keys under a life jacket. That accomplished, she stepped from the boat and headed for the beach house.
Enrico had been right. There was a sense of abandonment here. Sometime over the past three days a storm must have blown in. Chairs were strewn across the porch, and part of the railing was broken, a piece dangling, ready to drop. Scag's bowl was overturned, and dry cat food littered the porch.
Elise thought about the beer cans and the whiskey bottle. And she thought about the strange thing Dylan had said that first night, out there in the rainstorm. Sometimes I drink too much.
Maybe Dylan was the storm.
With a feeling of trepidation that was steadily mounting, she knocked on the screen door. There was no answer, so she stepped inside.
Her high heels clicked across the wooden floor. "Dylan ... ?" Her voice echoed off the bare walls.
She had rehearsed this moment, the moment when she would confront him, over and over in her mind. But she had always imagined coming face-to-face with him at the door, or on the dock. She hadn't imagined him not being here. Or, worse yet, she hadn't imagined finding him drunk.
Her gaze fell to the table.
A pistol.
A rifle.
She was no weapons expert, but to her inexperienced eye the rifle looked as if it could be military. Scattered around it were long, pointed, brass bullets.
Her heart thudded erratically in her chest. What did it mean? What did he need guns for? Was he planning to go after Sebastian? Or could it be, after all that had happened, that he harbored a death wish?
Oh, God.
Panic welled.
"Dylan!"
She looked in the bedroom. He wasn't on the bed. She ran to the kitchen. Empty.
"Dylan!"
She hurried up the curved narrow steps that led to the second story. Once upstairs, she could smell sawdust and varnish, mildew and the ocean.
In the middle of the room, supported by wooden framework, stood the skeletal hull of the sailboat, Dylan's sailboat, his dream. The room appeared exactly as it had four days ago. And standing here now, Elise wished for the innocence of that day:
But it was gone.
As a small child, Elise had loved for her grandmother to take her to the zoo. But by the time she reached the age of eight, the joy was gone. Before, she'd been too young to notice how small the cages were. Too young to notice the sadness in the animal's eyes.
Even though everything
was the same, everything was different. Elise was older and, therefore, wiser. Wise enough to see past the surface, past the innocence, to the pain.
Before, when she'd been in this room, she hadn't known about Melissa, she hadn't understood the seriousness of Dylan's connection with Sebastian. She hadn't known he loved someone else. Someone who had died because of him.
She turned and hurried down the steps, hands groping along the rough surface of the wooden walls. He had to be here. She would search the entire island until she found him.
But there was no need. When she reached the bottom of the steps, she froze.
Leaning in the bedroom doorway was Dylan. He was dressed in nothing but faded jeans, arms crossed over his chest. His hair was wet and dripping, water running down his neck onto his arms. He looked as if he'd been swimming, or had just stepped out of the shower.
"Dylan."
Sunlight poured through the porch windows, illuminating hating one side of his face, casting the other in shadow. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw unshaven. He looked dangerous. More dangerous than she'd ever seen him.
Arms still crossed, he shoved himself away from the door frame. "What's the matter?" His voice was cold and distant. Colder and more distant than she'd ever heard it.
She knew that to him, she was a whore. The person who had turned her back on him. Used him. And, heaven help her, she was also the person who had helped to set Sebastian free.
He dropped his arms and started walking toward her. "Did Sebastian throw you out now that he's done with you? Well, you may as well go back to where you came from, because I don't take Sebastian's leftovers."
She stepped back, suddenly wishing she hadn't sent Enrico away.
"Dylan, I have to explain." She made an imploring gesture with one hand. There was no time to spend getting her thoughts together. No time to say this right. "Sebastian isn't my lover. He never was."
"You're good, you know that? Really good. Ever think about taking up acting?"
He closed the distance between them. He was close enough that she could smell whiskey on him. Near enough that she could see the lines of exhaustion in his face, the desperation in his eyes. Near enough that she could feel his anger.
"Do us both a favor and get the hell out of here, Elise. Just get the hell out of here."
"I can't."
'What do you mean, you can't?"
"My ride... I sent the boat back...."
His eyes narrowed. He turned, strode to the window and looked out, cursing under his breath when he saw she was telling the truth.
He swung around, covering the distance between them in a few long strides. "What do you want?" His hand lashed out, and he grabbed her by the arm. "Why are you here?"
One thought, and one thought only, had taken up residence in her brain, creating a wound deep inside, hurting like nothing had ever hurt before. It hadn't occurred to her that he would hate her too much to listen.
"What do you want, Elise?"
"I want to talk to you. To tell you the truth. I'm not who you think I am. I'm a teacher. I live in Wisconsin. I came to Florida on a vaca-"
He threw his head back and laughed, a sarcastic sound that cut all the way to her heart. "Couldn't you think of anything better than that? A teacher? That's a good one."
She had to admit that, after all that had happened, all that had passed between then, the truth sounded flimsy, even to her ears. But what else could she tell him?
"I swear it's the truth!" she cried, her words suddenly rushing out, one on top of the other. "I'm a teacher. I didn't even know Sebastian until I met him at the party here and I only pretended to be his woman so you'd keep your distance. And you want to know what else? Before I met you, I was a virgin. It's true! Those condoms-they were a gag gift. The birth control pills-for cramps!"
"No more lies, Elise." He hauled her up against him. "No more lies," he whispered urgently, his face only inches from hers. "I don't want to hear any more of your lies."
Water droplets fell from his hair onto her arm. His chest was pressed against her, crushing her breasts. She could feel the dampness of his skin through her blouse. She brought up her hand and grasped his upper arms to steady herself, to ward him off if she had to. She could feel the rip-cord tension in him. Under her palms, she could feel the sinewy muscles covered by smooth skin.
She caught another whiff of whiskey. Not an unpleasant smell, just different, something she hadn't associated with Dylan. It made him seem even more of a stranger.
"You've been drinking."
"No kidding. I've been drinking for three days. Ever since your bodyguard worked me over."
His eyes... They looked so angry....
"You ever been around anybody who's been drinking for three days?"
She blinked.
"No? Well they can't be held accountable for their actions."
Suddenly his mouth came down on hers. There was nothing tender or sensual about his kiss. It was hard and desperate, brutal.
She struggled in his arms, and he tore his mouth away. "Isn't this what you came for?" he rasped.
"Dylan, I-"
"Isn't it?"
She wanted him, but not like this. Not in anger. Not in hate.
"I want you," she whispered.
A deep, animal sound tore from him. Before she knew what was happening, he forced her to the floor and tumbled her backward. Hard hands shoved her skirt up past her thighs.
She heard the harsh rasp of his zipper as he knelt above her and adjusted his clothing without removing it. Then he rolled to his back, dragging her with him, settling her on top of him, her thighs separated by his jean-clad hips, her skirt bunched around her waist. The only thing keeping them from total intimacy were her panties, which he could easily push aside.
With dawning horror she realized that he planned to take her like this. With no preliminaries, no... no love.
She wanted him to stop. Suddenly she felt like the whore he had accused her of being, the whore he thought she was.
She shoved against his shoulders in an attempt to lever herself away.
"Wasn't this what you wanted, Elise?" His voice was tight, breathless.
She balled her fists against his chest, her arms straight. "No, Dylan, please." A sob was working its way up from her diaphragm, moving toward her throat. "I'm not a whore."
The sob she'd been trying to hold back escaped in one choking gasp. She blinked, trying to stop the tears, but instead they squeezed from her eyes to fall somewhere below her, most likely on Dylan's upturned face.
Oh, God.
It was then that she became aware of Dylan's stillness.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Sorry for what, she wasn't sure. There were so many things. Maybe for crying on him. Sorry she'd helped to free Sebastian. Sorry Dylan hated her. Sorry the woman he loved was dead. Sorry something she'd remembered as beautiful had turned so ugly.
Without meeting her eyes, he adjusted both their clothes, then put her gently away from him. Leaving her sitting on the floor, he got up and moved away to stand at the window.
Dylan stared out at the bay where the shallow water met the darker, deeper blue, suddenly feeling incredibly sober. More sober than he'd ever felt in his life.
He wanted to believe every lie she was telling him. He wanted to believe she was some damn schoolteacher from Wisconsin, here on vacation. Wanted to believe that she hardly knew Sebastian.
But he wasn't that big a fool..
He suddenly realized his face was damp-with her tears.
He reached up and wiped them away, then looked down at his wet fingers. One hundred percent acid, he tried to tell himself. Eat right through a guy's skin. Burn a hole all the way to his heart ...
His hand curled into a tight ball. He'd almost taken her in anger, and the thought sickened him. When he'd heard her painful sob and tasted the salty wetness of her tears, shame and self-loathing had filled him.
She was driving him crazy. Driving him to do th
ings that were totally against his nature.
Behind him, he heard the floor creak, heard her rummaging around in her purse. Heard her blowing her nose. I'm sorry.
Everybody was always looking for an answer. A reason for being alive. There wasn't any reason, Dylan decided. As far as he was concerned, the secret was to simply get through it.
Melissa had loved him, but he hadn't loved her. Dylan loved Elise, and she ... well, she was just looking out for herself. Which was the wise thing to do. He wondered if the same two people ever loved each other. Did it ever work that way?
"Don't love anybody," he said, keeping his eyes focused on the beach, where the sand met water. "It hurts too damn much."
He turned and faced her, made himself look at her. She was standing there in the middle of the living room, her mouth red from his rough kisses, purse slung over her shoulder, hands clasped in front of her.
Waiting. Waiting to get away from him.
And the hurt inside him deepened.
I promised I wouldn't hurt you, but I did hurt you.
Her eyes looked huge. Her blue, blue innocent eyes. A guy could drown in those eyes. Get lost in those eyes. Do crazy things because of those eyes.
"Remember," he told her. "Don't ever love anybody."
"I'll remember that," she whispered. "I'll be sure to remember that."
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I didn't mean to..."
Scare you. Or hurt you.
Or fall in love with you.
"I better take you back."
She swallowed and nodded, her eyes brimming with tears.
Chapter 17
Feeling numb, Elise watched Dylan move toward the door of the beach house. He'd thrown on a wrinkled white shirt, cuffs rolled up, buttons unbuttoned, tails out and hanging to his thighs.
He was reaching for the door handle when he stopped, turned, then strode back to the table. He checked both weapons, making sure they were loaded, then jammed the pistol into the waistband of his jeans, scooped up the box of shells and slung the rifle over one shoulder.
Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay Page 17