Storm Warnings

by Judi Lind

  “I think it’s sweet,” Elisa murmured. “He still thinks his wife is a fragile little thing who couldn’t get by without his broad shoulders to lean on.”

  Storm wheeled around and placed his hands flat on either side of Elisa’s body. Leaning forward until he was only a breath away, he murmured, “And what about you, fair ballerina? Are you a fragile little thing who needs a pair of strong arms to protect you from the storm?”

  Her heart thumping like a runaway train, Elisa drew shallow breaths, then licked her lips to dispel the sudden dryness in her mouth. When she found her voice, she was chagrined to hear a croaking whisper. “There’s at least one Storm that I might need protection from.”

  The generator whined and fizzled out, and once more they were plunged into the blackness of midnight. In the dark, Storm seemed much closer. Too close for comfort. Everything had changed, and the expectant tension was palpable. She reached out and poked his chest, meaning the gesture to be playful and diverting. But her hand lingered on his chambray shirt, and she felt the strong beat of his heart pulsing against her palm.

  He moved one hand, tangling his fingers in a length of her midnight-black hair. “You have the sexiest hair in the world. It’s like…raw silk, soft, but still strong and healthy.”

  Elisa felt that same tingling in her lower abdomen, that delicious sensation of butterflies tickling her insides and fluttering up to encircle her heart. “And you, señor, are a sweet-talking Southern gigolo.”

  A husky chuckle rasped from his throat. “Oh, no, sweet ballerina, I’m not a gigolo. I’d never charge you. My shoulders are yours to do with as you please.”

  Elisa turned her head away, embarrassed by having chosen the wrong word and given him more ammunition for this…seductive game he’d started. This was insane, completely irresponsible. She barely knew this man, and she wasn’t given to casual affairs. Drawing a deep breath, she tried so very hard to push him away. To tell him she wasn’t interested.

  But his very nearness was too compelling, too coercive, and she knew in her heart she would be lying. Elisa was definitely interested. Foolishly. Devastatingly.

  Her entire life had been devoted to dance. Every moment had been controlled, scheduled and regimented. For once, she wanted to give up her control, to live for this moment. To let this madness consume her.

  Unable to do otherwise, she twisted her head to face him again. Instantly impaled by the hypnotic spell of his jewelgreen eyes, she gave up any pretense of indifference.

  She waited breathlessly for his next provocative gambit, but apparently Storm had no further desire to talk. Slowly, a scant fraction of an inch at a time, he lowered his head, until his lips were all but touching hers.

  The butterflies in her midsection soared and flitted madly, as if to escape from an encroaching net. But she had no such desire for escape. In fact, she was no longer aware of conscious thought; her every instinct was taken up with his tantalizing nearness. Finally, a breathless lifetime later, his dark lashes fluttered closed as his mouth pressed against hers.

  Her blood racing through her body like the maelstrom whirling outdoors, Elisa’s lips parted gently to receive his probing tongue.

  Then, a tremendous crash reverberated through the quiet building. A sound so great it dwarfed the hurricane’s yowling shriek.

  “What the hell was that?” Storm swore as he whirled toward the thunderous noise.

  “It sounded like it came from downstairs.”

  He grabbed her hand. “We’d better check it out. If a tree limb or utility pole came through a window, someone could be hurt.”

  Her breath still coming in hard gasps, as if she’d just completed a vigorous solo performance, Elisa willed her rubbery legs to hold her upright as they raced down the staircase. When they reached the second-floor landing, the other guests were already milling in the hallway. Several of them carried candles, as if they were part of a ghostly funeral procession in the night.

  While Storm shone his torch around the small assemblage, Elisa mentally called the roll. Heather and Carey were huddled by Elisa’s door. David Welton was, as usual, off by himself, looking bored. The Bowmans were by the staircase, obviously roused from their sleep, both appearing dazed and confused.

  As she expected, Storm quickly took control of the situation. “Was anyone hurt?”

  Getting no one response, he turned to Carey Howard. “What happened?”

  Carey moved slightly away from Heather and shrugged. “Don’t know. Just heard a crash. On this floor, I think.”

  Storm directed the beam around the small area. “Anyone else have any problem in their room, or know what happened?”

  Betty Bowman nervously stepped forward. “I—I’m not sure, but I think the noise might have come from Elisa’s room. We’re right next door, and it sounded like the wall between us was going to cave in.”

  Elisa’s heart skipped a beat. Her room? But…she was upstairs with Storm; her room should have been empty. An ugly foreboding rippled her body with gooseflesh. Whatever they found inside her bedroom, Elisa was sure she wasn’t going to be pleased.

  Heather padded forward in her fuzzy slippers and wrapped an arm around Elisa’s shoulders. “Honey, what’s happened now? Were you walking in your sleep?”

  For the first time in their brief friendship, Elisa felt her temper flare. She was rapidly tiring of Heather’s constant insinuations that she had brought all her troubles on herself. Just as she opened her mouth to rebut Heather’s comment, Hank’s querulous voice carried up the staircase.

  “What the devil’s going on up there?” A moment later, he thumped into view, looking slightly incongruous in his bathrobe and brogans.

  “We’re just getting ready to check it out,” Storm replied. “Doesn’t look like anyone was hurt, though.”

  “Well, thank the good Lord for small favors,” Hank muttered.

  After Storm explained the situation, Hank sent the others back to bed, and led the way into Elisa’s room. She hung back, grateful for Storm’s firm hand holding hers.

  Before her accident, she’d never been such a coward. But all these unexplained incidents, and the feeling of being watched and followed, combined with the gaping holes in her memory, left her feeling alone and vulnerable. She couldn’t protect herself if she didn’t even know what she was up against.

  Inside the door, they paused while Hank directed his high-powered flashlight into all the nooks and crannies. When the window area was illuminated, she was gratified and yet surprised to find the plywood covering still intact. If the thunderous noise had indeed come from her room, then the hurricane wasn’t the culprit.

  “Looks like everything’s fine in here,” Hank said, the relief evident in his voice.

  “Wait!” Storm said. “Look at the bed.”

  A startled gasp escaped Elisa’s lips as Hank’s spotlight swept the king-size bed. “Dios mio,” she whispered, as she reverted to her childhood habit of making the sign of the cross.

  Releasing her hand, Storm stalked toward the bed. Following him with her eyes, she stood in stunned silence. The ornately carved walnut bed frame was smashed into a hundred useless pieces. The mattress and box spring straddled the splintered wood, all but resting on the floor. The heavy mahogany wardrobe that used to stand against the wall was now lying, kitty-corner, across the top of her pillow. Right where her head should have been.

  Elisa’s hands grew cold and her body trembled as she began to grasp the implication; if she’d been asleep, that armoire could have killed her. Would have killed her.

  She sagged against the door frame. This was too much, the odds were too astronomical, for her to dismiss the incident as another unfortunate mishap. Even discounting her near drowning, she’d had two near-fatal accidents in a single day. Unbelievable. And truly horrifying.

  In the background, she barely noted Storm and Hank quietly discussing the situation. Her mind exploded with shattered images, emotions and fears; it was as if every childhood nightmare
were descending upon her at once. What was happening to her?

  A single tear escaped and trailed down her cheek. She was afraid, yes, but more than that, she was hurt and bewildered. This was no accident. Storm and Hank could make excuses all night, but they all knew that wardrobe hadn’t toppled over of its own volition. The only window was boarded up, so no burst of wind had dislodged the immense cabinet.

  Someone had stolen into her room, believing her asleep in her bed. That same unseen intruder had willfully, maliciously, levered that massive wardrobe onto her bed. Where the would-be killer had thought she was sleeping.

  Elisa’s head ached from the effort as she went over every event, every conversation, every encounter she’d had, since she came to this island. Had she upset or angered anyone? Or did she possess some arcane knowledge that threatened another person? Why, oh, why, would anyone hate her so much?

  She barely sensed Storm taking her into her arms before she broke down and sobbed at the painful truth. Someone in this hotel, one of eight people she’d conversed with, laughed with, was trying to murder her.

  STORM STOOD in a darkness that was penetrated only by a small, flickering candle on the dresser. Although she was still fretful, tossing and murmuring, Elisa had finally dozed off. The long, silken strands of her pitch-colored hair spread across his pillow like a puddle of shiny black ink on a clean sheet of paper. But her hair was only part of the allure that captivated him. She was a mystery, a puzzle waiting to be solved. She’d piqued his interest—and he hadn’t been interested in anything, even living, for a very long time.

  He remembered when he’d first seen Elisa. Three years ago. Performing at Lincoln Center. She’d been flawlessly graceful, enchanting and serene. Meeting her in person, he’d found her no less enchanting or graceful. But the former ballerina was no longer serene. Something or someone had shattered her spirit, and Storm felt an incomprehensible need to help her regain it.

  She stirred and moaned softly before turning over.

  How long had he been watching her sleep? An hour? Two. He found it incredible that the woman could extract even a moment’s peace from her slumber, after all the emotional upheaval she’d encountered in this single day.

  But what in hell was he doing involving himself in her problems? Okay, she was sexy, with her smoldering dark eyes and exotic bone structure. She was demure, with an intriguing dash of fiery temper. But he’d met lots of sexy women, and he no longer wanted to be intrigued.

  For the past two years, he had found it no hardship to keep himself emotionally insulated. He no longer believed in love, compassion, tenderness or himself. All the facets that made him a complete man had died with Karen.

  Storm had gladly given up his home, his car, his prestigious position at the University Hospital, in his quest for solitude. Ben, his colleague and best friend, had warned that he was punishing himself, donning sackcloth and ashes in his efforts to atone. But Storm knew better. There was no punishment severe enough for his transgression. He wanted isolation from meaningful human contact.

  At least that was what he’d thought until he saw Elisa floundering in the surf. For that split second, he hadn’t thought about the ramifications of involvement, of meddling in another person’s life. He’d only known that she was in danger and he could help her. But it didn’t mean he was becoming involved with her. Cared about her. Hauling her out of the ocean had only been a simple act of kindness. He would do no less for a drowning puppy.

  So why couldn’t he now let go?

  Why did he feel so protective? So dazzled by her snapping black eyes? What was it about Elisa Montoya that made him want her? Not need; he understood physical need. During the past two years, he’d occasionally succumbed to the basic animal instinct for release. But this was the first time he’d wanted, and the intensity of his desire scared the hell out of him.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and ran a fingertip down the smooth plane of her cheek. She was truly beautiful, but the world was full of beautiful women. This deluge of forsaken emotions surging in his chest was more primal than male predation. More exciting than the challenge of the sexual hunt. He desperately wanted to protect her from the evil that seemed to surround her.

  But in order to help, he needed to know more about her. Somehow he had to get her to open up and talk about the trauma of her past that had followed her to the island. But if he did convince her to confide in him, could he bear the responsibility again?

  Storm pulled out his wallet and stared at the stained and frayed business card. He’d abandoned his practice, vowing never again to try to penetrate the treacherous path of the human psyche. It hurt too much when he failed.

  He sighed and shoved his fingers through his unruly hair. This time he couldn’t fail. Couldn’t afford to divert his attention for a single moment. Elisa’s life might well depend on him.

  In any event, there was nothing more he could do tonight. He needed to snag a few hours’ sleep, or he wouldn’t be much help to her in the morning. Carefully lifting the coverlet on the far side of the bed, he slipped off his loafers and eased in beside her. Although he feared sleep would never come, the soft, steady rhythm of her breathing was like a soothing lullaby, and in a matter of minutes, he drifted into a dreamless slumber.

  IT SEEMED only moments later when his respite was shattered by a loud, furious pounding on his door. Opening his eyes, he automatically glanced at the bedside clock and was amazed to discover that it was almost eight in the morning.

  Raising on one elbow, he was further surprised to find Elisa’s side of the bed empty. The hammering on his door continued, even louder than before.

  “Dr. Delaney, can you hear me? Someone needs your help. Dr. Delaney!” Storm could hear the hysteria in Hank’s voice. And even took groggy notice that the older man, who always called him by his first name, had suddenly started addressing him by his title.

  He jumped out of bed and thrust his feet into his loafers. “Just a second, Hank! I’m up.”

  “Well, hurry! We got us another emergency. There’s blood spurtin’ everywhere!”

  Elisa! Stricken by a blinding assault of sick fear, Storm hurriedly grabbed the medical bag he’d retrieved from his cabin the day before and raced to the door.

  He yanked at Hank’s arm and growled, “What’s happened? Is it Elisa?”

  Hank shook his nearly bald head. “No, son. She’s fine. But there’s a fella bleeding all over Miriam’s kitchen.”

  As they hurried downstairs, Storm continued to question the older man. “Is he conscious? Where is he hurt? How’d it happen?”

  “Barely. Looks like his arm. Don’t know. Miriam thought she heard something by the back door, and sure enough, this fella was hardly able to stand, what with the wind and all. Anyways, he had a bath towel wrapped around his arm, but the blood was just a-drippin’. Miriam sent me after you, and now you know as much as I do, Doc.”

  Almost running in his haste to reach the injured man, Storm slipped on the hardwood floor as they raced through the dining room. Quickly recovering his balance, he slapped open the swinging door. All four women were gathered around the table, hiding the injured man from view.

  “Step aside,” Storm muttered, as he elbowed his way between Betty and a very pale Heather.

  The ruddy-faced man holding a sopping towel looked vaguely familiar, but Storm’s immediate concern was his injury. “Could you ladies give me some room here? If any of you are queasy, now’s a good time to make your escape.”

  No one moved.

  As Storm began unwrapping the makeshift bandage, the man started trembling. “C-cold. Really cold.”

  Storm looked up and saw that his patient was going into shock. Glad to have the women to help, he barked out his immediate needs. “Miriam, do you have any sterile bandages? I used most of my gauze patching up that boy’s foot the other day.”

  “Should be plenty in our first aid kit.”

  Storm nodded. “Good. Bring everything you’ve got. But first, ge
t a shot of brandy or whiskey—whatever you can find.”

  He turned to Heather. “Go gather up some more towels. Betty, fetch a blanket. No! Make that two. And Elisa, would you boil some water?”

  Wordlessly the women scurried away to their tasks as he finished unwinding the bloodied white towel. The man had lost so much blood, Storm could barely discern the distinctive blue Double Dare Hotel crest embroidered on the towel. An ugly gash ran almost three inches from his wrist up his inner forearm. Sweat popped on his forehead. God, don’t let it be an artery, he breathed. His specialty was psychiatry; he hadn’t practiced physical medicine since his internship. He didn’t have the surgical experience to mend a severed artery.

  Since old Doc Otis passed away in the spring, Storm had been called upon to treat a few mild emergencies. Twisted ankles from surfboard and skateboard injuries, mostly. In all those cases, he’d only had to wrap the injury and send the patient to the mainland for X rays.

  Miriam hurried back, a tumbler of amber liquid sloshing as she ran. “It’s only whiskey, Doc, but I brought the good stuff.”

  “Great.” Storm reached for the glass and held it to the man’s lips. Where had he seen him before?

  He swabbed away as much blood as he could with the soiled towel, and bent over to examine the injury more closely. The heat in the confined hotel was so stifling, he could barely see for the drizzle of perspiration leaking into his eyes. Grimacing at the unsanitary conditions, he swiped at his face with his forearm and looked again.

  The artery was intact. He’d only nicked a vein. The blood was already coagulating. Storm sighed with relief. He wouldn’t lose another patient, at least not today.

  “I have the water on high. It should be boiling soon,” Elisa called from the stove.

  Storm glanced up to thank her and caught a glimpse of Heather still standing motionless behind him. She looked almost as shocky as the injured man. “Heather! Where are the clean towels?”

  She only stared back, her normally tanned face scoured white with bewilderment and fear.