by Sarah Abbot
Ryan grabbed her to him, kissed her tenderly, wildly. His kiss felt like coming home. It washed through her being with the relentless, sweet intensity of wine against a summer’s thirst. The sound of his groan spiraled downward, wrapped her heart in tendrils of desire—made it purely, achingly, his.
Her hands entangled in the thickness of his hair. It slipped like silk through her fingers, filling them with a lushness that she gripped in urgency, drawing his mouth yet closer to her.
“Ryan,” she said, inching her mouth toward his, “I don’t want to let you go. I love you.”
The fever of needing him was stronger than anything she’d ever known. Abby abandoned every fear she harbored and trusted only in the truth of the moment. She took him, without question, to the rich soils of her heart, and laid her soul bare to his tender gaze.
“I love you,” he promised back, touching her body in a way that defied the gravity of his hands. They were weightless, yet somehow all consuming. Their coaxing strokes shaped her body to his will, touched her every place at once, seemed to transcend flesh, and caress her very soul.
The full, lush pressure of his lips stirred an inextinguishable fire in her veins, consuming her with a passion so intense that she cried out beneath him. Every breath was his name and every heartbeat begged for more.
He kissed one eyelid, then the other, then kissed her mouth again, this time longer, drawing the essence of her to the surface.
Abby felt an unfathomable stillness in the core of her being while around it smoldered the burgeoning need for him—all of him. Not just his body, but a revelation of him—as he had coaxed from her.
“Ryan,” she finally whispered, “how is it that you have this power over me?”
He drew her close into his embrace. “I could ask you the same.”
“Don’t let me go,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around him, memorizing his scent, his taste, breathing him in. For even when you do, I’ll be yours, said her heart, but soundlessly—for her voice was drowned in the flood of impossible remembrance that surged from her blood, her bones, the part of her that always was and ever would be.
His eyes held hers as his finger traced the outline of her cheek, his touch seeing so much more than vision would allow. He followed the curves of her face, her neck, the shape of her head through the tousle of hair. He traced her arm and lifted her hands into the light that fell across his eyes. Gently, he turned her hand, watching the light cast beams through her fingers. Then, without speaking, he brought her fingers to his face.
She knew instinctively how to touch him, knew what the curve of his lips would feel like beneath her searching thumb, knew the rasp of his unshaven chin.
She closed her eyes to feel him completely, to let his warmth, his breath, be hers. He filled her every fiber of being with his presence; something of him would always be inside her—had always been inside her—secreted in the very most tender corner of her heart.
“I don’t want this to be over. We’ve only just started things.”
Ryan touched his lips to her mouth, drank her in. “I’ll give you more,” he said quietly. “The day will come when I take you home with me. Keep you warm, keep you safe.”
Abandon Bluff seeped into her bones, peeled the blindness from her eyes, let her see the man—the real man—who looked into her face with such bare, unrelenting honesty.
She held his gaze as if clinging to a lifeline, felt the cord sing with acute and marvelous tension, felt their mingled breath strum it, felt its bone-deep vibration, and felt changed because of it.
She closed her eyes against the intensity of it, opened them a moment later to see his, softer now.
He brushed his lips against hers, eyes squeezing with an unutterable emotion. “That day will come, Abby, I promise. But for now…you have to go.”
Tears flowed in earnest down her cheeks. The quiet of the cottage was a blanket, cloistering and warm around them in the twilight hour. Abby felt an extraordinary sadness settle around her, bloom within her. She took his face in her hands. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
He kissed her, then—an unmistakable kiss good-bye— and broke her heart with his tenderness.
Chapter Thirty-three
The Lover rewound the surveillance tape again, staring at the grainy image of his love…in the arms of Ryan Brannigan.
It couldn’t be true—yet here it was, in black and white. She was in love with the artist’s son. She was seducing the artist’s son!
He rubbed at the scabbed flesh that burned like an ember in his palm, that foretold the embrace of brimstone awaiting the woman whose initial was seared into his cupped hand. Oh, she would burn for this, would pay for her sins and her mother’s!
The tape played on, displaying the two lovers, closer now, curled into the depths of the couch.
Was no one able to learn from the sins of the past other than he? Was everyone so blind, so innately stupid, that they would cheerfully hurtle down the path of destruction, willing to trade their everlasting souls for a moment of earthly satisfaction?
Well, he would mete out punishment, as he had done so many years ago.
Still, he remembered that night with satisfaction— the night he had punished the artist and sent his soul to the damnation that awaited him.
That night, so many years ago, he had followed the pitiful, staggering drunk artist up the road, through the cemetery, and up, up, up to Cragan Cliff—the place where he had once laid his filthy hands on lovely Celeste, the place she had groaned beneath him under the full moon as The Lover watched, seething, in the shelter of the bracken.
The earth was blanketed with snow, sparkling beneath the moonlight, and the artist had sat on a boulder, looked out to sea, muttered incomprehensibly into the still night air. The gauzy plumes of breath were the only indication that he did, in fact, speak, and the ripe, oval tears on his cheek hinted that old Douglas missed Celeste almost as much as he did.
Almost, but not quite.
The Lover had stepped into the wash of moonlight that pooled on the new-fallen snow.
Douglas had turned, hadn’t even bothered to wipe away his tears, weakling that he was. He had greeted The Lover with a small nod, as if finding him here were the most natural thing on earth…as if he didn’t fear meeting Celeste’s avenger here, in the dark, far from anyone who would hear his cries. Douglas trusted him—as did everyone else—never imagining that he held life and death in his hands.
Fool.
It had taken very little effort to overpower Douglas, and The Lover had enjoyed his helpless struggle down to every last twitch, had gloried in the long-awaited revenge of watching the life fade from the artist’s bulging eyes as he squeezed the man’s surprisingly fragile throat.
Dead fool.
After, he had dragged the body far off the path, buried it in a shallow grave of frozen leaves, twigs, and finally, snow.
He had sat on the same boulder the artist sat upon, looking out over the wintry sea, watching his breath stir the still, night air, dreaming of his lovely Celeste.
He let the memory of that night fade; he thought, instead of the night he’d first made love to Celeste. He had explained to her in no uncertain terms that if she stayed with the artist, he would be forced to destroy the man. She had left the artist shortly thereafter; then, she left the island.
His heart squeezed painfully at the memory. He looked back up to see that the television screen was blank, the film of Abrielle and Ryan—the two sinners—played out to its horrible end.
The Lover seethed. He would make the artist’s son pay, and he would cleanse beauty as only love could. She would be his…if not in this life, then surely in the next.
The Lover lifted his gun and peered into the barrel. It was pristinely clean. He placed it on the table beside a glinting, sharpened knife. Both fitting instruments for the offering of sacrifice.
He smiled grimly.
Sometimes, only sacrifice would impart the cleansing needed. He t
hought of Abby’s face, thought of the word sacrifice, thought of its root in the word sacred.
It was his duty, as The Lover, to sanctify Abrielle by this act of ultimate love, to send her to her maker before she sinned against the love he had offered her yet again.
Foolish girl. Just like her mother, she was. Just like his mother.
Well, this time, there would be no weakness on his part. He would cleanse her by the act of sacrifice, even if it meant breaking his own heart.
He would save her; he would scour her soul with the pains of sacrifice; he would cleanse it in the flow of crimson blood.
This was love, he thought fiercely, as a tear for his imminent loss trickled over his cheek. This was sacrifice.
This was also something else, something dark and vengeful and filled with the indignation he’d felt when his mother had abandoned him, leaving him to an unknown fate. Even after she’d gone, she still called him her lovey-boy, still teased him with her promises, with her assurances that good things come to those who wait.
He had been a child, unable to execute the dreamed-of revenge of every scorned saint and lover. If he’d been able, he would have punished her as he was now forced to punish Abrielle.
Only Celeste had been true to the end. He remembered the first time he saw her, looking so much like his long-dead mother that it brought his breath up short. Yes, she had lost her way with Douglas McAllister for a time, but eventually she had sent her daughter to him as an offering of her regret.
But like his mother, Abrielle had failed him.
Soon, both she and Ryan would know that if he couldn’t have her, no one would.
He sat down slowly into the depths of his armchair, his hand resting on a small plaque his mother had given his father back in the days when she was still faithful and true.
It said:
“Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge…where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”
Was he ready to die when Abrielle did? Was he ready to go down in a blaze of sacrificial flames?
He breathed in the certainty offered by his mother’s pledge.
Yes. He was ready. This was his destiny.
Chapter Thirty-four
Abby was standing in Cora’s living room, knee-deep in luggage.
Since yesterday, Ryan had left her only long enough to sign a lease agreement for the packing facility in Marriott’s Bay, and had insisted that Cora stay with her the entire time he was gone.
At any other time, Abby would have thought the entire thing overkill, but today she was glad of the company. The note that Ryan had received had frightened her more than she cared to admit.
She was also devastated to be leaving the island without an answer to her quest.
The entire thing had been a fool’s errand. She had learned a few things about her mother, but had failed to produce the key to her tragic end. She had learned how to love at last, but in a bitter twist of irony, had had love snatched from her grasp.
She glanced at her watch. Her plane was leaving in the morning—less than ten hours away, now.
Where was Ryan? He’d been gone long enough, and she wanted him home, with his arms around her.
Distractedly, she picked up her cell phone. She had to see Ronnie before she left, but Ronnie hadn’t been answering her phone. This time, Abby tried her at the restaurant.
Rose, the hostess at the Surfside, answered her call. “I only saw Ronnie once today,” she replied when questioned, “and that was when she rushed in to grab her paperwork. She said she was going back out to the cottage to talk to you about something, but that was over three hours ago.”
Abby frowned into the phone. “Did she seem upset?”
“No, just anxious to see you. She heard from Cora that you were leaving the island, and she wanted to put things right between the two of you.”
“Thank you, Rose. If you hear from her, please let her know I really need to talk to her. I’m going back home— just for a while—and I really, really want to say good-bye.”
“Oh? Well, we’ll be sad to see you leave, Abby. I’ll be sure to let Ronnie know when I see her.”
The phone went dead in her ear. Abby folded her phone and placed it on the nearest box. Something didn’t feel right.
She had stopped by Ronnie’s apartment earlier, but the windows had been dark, with her afternoon newspaper still resting, unopened, on the doorstep.
Would she have gone to the cottage and simply waited for Abby?
She glanced at her watch. It was seven o’clock, and very dark. That possibility didn’t seem likely.
So where was she?
Her phone vibrated in her hand—perhaps it was Ronnie? But the text message on the screen was from Ryan.
Meet me at the cottage. Very important. See you soon. Love Ryan
Well, that was strange. Ryan had expressly forbidden her to leave Cora’s house. She tried his phone, but got no answer. Maybe he was in an area with poor reception— perhaps that was why he’d chosen to text instead of call?
She walked into the den. Cora was fast asleep on the big leather chair. She looked so peaceful, it seemed a shame to wake her—and why should she?
Quickly, she snatched a sheet from the pad on the counter, letting out a small yelp as the paper sliced neatly into the flesh of her finger. She frowned at the cut, thankful it was such a clean one. Blood had always troubled her, but she could certainly handle the small amount that the slice produced.
She scrawled a note to Cora explaining where she’d gone and why, jumped into her car, and headed for the cottage.
She pressed aggressively on the gas pedal, and the tires spat out gravel as she rounded turn after turn.
At last, her headlights caught the glint of a vehicle in the driveway. Ronnie’s VW? So Ronnie had come to the cottage to speak with her after all. But Rose had said Ronnie had left to come here over three hours ago. Surely she hadn’t been waiting at the cottage all that time. Abby pulled into the drive, hopped from her car and eyed the Volkswagon.
“Okay,” she said to herself, her stomach tightening involuntarily. “Ronnie’s here, but where’s Ryan?”
Something didn’t feel right. She thought back to Ryan’s adamant insistence that she remain at Cora’s house—that she not be without companionship at any time. Why, then, had he sent her a message to meet him at the cottage?
She dialed his cell phone number again.
“…the person you are trying to reach is out of range. ”.’
Small hairs on the back of her neck were beginning to stand on end. Of course he was out of range. He was in Marriot’s Bay, for crying out loud, and she’d been an idiot to come out here.
But what about Ronnie…Where on earth was she?
Reluctantly, Abby turned back toward the cottage. If somehow Ronnie had found a way inside, she’d ask her to come back with her to Cora’s and they’d have a nice cup of tea—try to work past the Ryan situation. She locked the car, dropped her keys into her purse and started walking.
In the darkness, the path to the verandah was treacherous. Humped tree roots, stones, and tufts of grass made her extra cautious, but caution wasn’t enough.
With a gasp, she sprawled over the ground, sending the contents of her purse flying.
Springing into action, she fumbled around in the dark. She ferreted out a lipstick, a pack of gum, her mirror and a tiny penlight…but no keys.
There was a flashlight in the cottage, but she couldn’t get in without her keys—nor could she get the car going without them!
“Ronnie?” she called, hoping against hope to hear Ronnie’s voice.
Nothing.
To prevent another fall, she turned on the penlight and slid her feet across the ground toward the verandah. Rounding the corner expecting to find Ronnie, she found…
No one.
She rose on her tiptoes and peeked through the
window. The cottage was dark and empty.
Abby squinted into the pitiful beam of light emitted by her penlight. She took a step forward, and paused immediately. There was a slick sort of stickiness beneath her foot: a mild adherent that seemed to fix her shoe to the planks of the deck.
She squatted, shone her flashlight down onto a pool of near-black liquid that spread over the decking.
A surge of adrenaline seized her heart in a viselike grip. She slapped her hand over her gaping mouth to stifle the scream that clawed at her throat.
She was instantly terrified.
Blood…it’s blood!
Was this another attempt of the stalker to frighten her, or was this something much more deadly?
The possibility spread through her veins like an injection of ice water.
Her eyes darted over the shifting boughs of evergreens, knowing that the blackness of their shadows was a perfect place in which the predator might hide. He could be watching her right now, and she’d never know.
As quickly as a lightning strike, she was racing down the length of the verandah, breath coming in gasps, hell-bent on her vehicle. Then, as deafening as a peal of thunder came the realization that her keys were missing, and…
Ronnie’s car is in the driveway, but Ronnie is nowhere to be found.
Her heart was an immovable lump in her throat— constricting her cries, strangling her breath—as the shrillness of theories colliding with instincts sounded in her head. She teetered on her feet, weak-kneed, staring at the two vehicles—one a symbol of her helplessness, the other, a harbinger of doom.
She had to find her keys and get out of here, but she also needed to protect herself.
Without a second’s hesitation, Abby snatched a rock from the ground and threw it at the car window with all her might, wincing at the explosion of shattering glass. She reached in the resulting hole and pulled the trunk release, then raced to the rear of the car. The tire iron— which was standard equipment in her rental car—would be her weapon of protection.
Now, to find her keys.
But what if Ronnie is here somewhere and needs help?