by Judi Lind
“That’s exactly like you’re supposed to feel.” He beamed like a proud papa.
Elisa raised up on her elbow. “We didn’t learn anything new, did we?”
“Not that I could tell right off, but we’ll listen to the tape later. Maybe between us we can pick out some detail that will help.”
“Sure,” Elisa murmured doubtfully.
Kicking off his shoes, Storm stretched out beside her. He turned on his side, facing her. “Let’s leave that subject alone for a while.”
She nodded. Frankly, she was utterly weary of thinking about Jay’s mysterious death, Heather’s betrayal, and the rest of the dreadful chain of events that had dragged her to this low point.
His finger trailed a squiggly pattern down her arm. A tiny tingle followed in the wake of his touch. Oh, no, Elisa admonished her lusty appetite. Hadn’t last night taught her a lesson?
But the imprint of his touch was still warm on her soul. This morning might not have turned out the way she wanted, but last night…last night had been magical.
Yet she couldn’t forget his casual let’s-still-be-pals attitude this morning. As if their deeply satisfying bond had never happened. His heart hadn’t been transformed like hers, so he couldn’t know how badly he’d wounded her with his bland indifference.
She edged out of reach of his magnetic field.
He inched closer. “I did want to talk about something else, though. Last night.”
Her heart skipped, and she blurted out the first thing that entered her frazzled mind. “I don’t like to talk about sex, I’d rather do it.”
“Okay, if that’s the way you want it.” He nonchalantly reached down and unsnapped his jeans.
“No!” She sat up and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that it makes me uncomfortable to talk about delicate, er, sensitive—”
“I understand completely,” he reassured her, lowering his zipper.
In self-preservation, she rolled off the bed and glared at him. “You’re not listening to me, Storm. I didn’t say that I wanted to—”
“No, you weren’t listening to me.” He grinned and sat upright. “I said I wanted to talk about last—not make love, although that would be a fine alternative. And while I appreciate your…enthusiasm…for our lovemaking, I have to remind you that wasn’t the only thing that occurred last night.”
Elisa frowned and gingerly lowered her hip onto the bed. “Now I’m totally confused.”
He patted the mattress. “That’s what I wanted to do-clear up any confusion. Any misunderstandings.”
A mixture of dread and anticipation filled her as she eased onto her side. “Okay. You go first.”
Tugging his fingers through his hair, Storm paused, as if collecting his thoughts. “I want to know why you seemed so different this morning. So, I don’t know, unfazed by what happened between us last night.”
“Me! You’re the one who was whistling around the kitchen like Joe College right after he scored with a hot chick. Not a kiss, a hug, or even a warm glance.”
“I made you breakfast!”
Elisa raised up and glowered. “I didn’t want eggs. I wanted to hear that I mattered. I wanted a little emotional intimacy.”
Storm blew out a deep, frustrated breath. “Life sure has a way of turning around and kicking you in the butt when you’re not expecting it.”
Elisa shook her head, confounded by his apparent subject change. “What?”
“You said ’emotional intimacy.’ Do you know how many times I tried to explain that concept to Karen? A hundred—maybe a million. But she believed that sex was sex and love was love. If I wanted to show her love, I could fix a meal. Buy a small gift. Take her out to dinner. But sex was for the bedroom.”
Her heart lurched in sympathy. What a cold, empty marriage he’d had. A despondent wife who couldn’t make decisions or adjust to change. Who compartmentalized the pieces of their life as if she were storing buttons. The love button in this box. The sex button in this one. The financial button goes over here.
No wonder he hadn’t known how to react to a woman’s emotional needs. He’d been programmed not to recognize them. Nor was it any wonder that he found sanctuary in helping children. They were so open, so free, so willing to show their love and affection on all levels.
Elisa reached over and cupped his face in her hands. Slowly, with infinite tenderness, she kissed his lips. Then each eyelid, and finally the scratchy stubble on his chin. Drawing back, she whispered, “I’m not Karen, and you’re certainly not like any man I’ve ever known. So we need to find our own comfort zone, make our own rules.”
“Sounds fine to me,” he breathed, his voice heavy with bubbling passion.
“Here’s my first rule—I want, no, need, to be intimate on all levels. Can you handle that?”
He thought it over for a moment. “You may have to help me.”
“My pleasure.”
His left arm snaked around her waist, drawing her softness against him. “So let’s start with a clean slate. Right now.” Storm tangled his fingers in her hair and pulled her face to his, and kissed her. A long, slow, shuddering kiss of tantalizing promise.
When they parted for air, she whispered, “You have quite a bedside manner, Doctor. Teach me some more.”
And so he did.
WHEN THEY PARKED behind the hotel, Elisa was ready to face down a man-eating tiger.
This was her favorite time of day. Although the sun had lost its sting, it hadn’t yet sacrificed its place to nightfall. Even the blazing-hot wind had melted into a balmy breeze, drifting like silk over her bare arms. She was wearing the flowered sundress that Storm liked so well, and had left her hair free to drift down her back. The early evening was marvelous, and Elisa thought smugly that she looked and felt pretty marvelous herself.
Thanks to Storm, and his double dose of “therapy.”
“Hey, kids, glad you could make it.” Hank’s voice floated down to greet them.
Elisa looked up and waved. Hank and Brian McPherson were on the back-porch roof, replacing shingles that were ripped loose during the hurricane. Brian was like that, Elisa thought. Always ready to jump in and lend a hand. He’d even helped Heather rework her stock portfolio after some of her investments took a nosedive.
Despite the dreadful events of the past few days, there were a lot of nice, decent and caring people on the island. Her head cocked to take in Storm’s firm, stalwart profile. Some exceptional people, in fact.
“Need some help?” he called.
Hank poked two nails between his teeth and waved aside the offer. “Nah. We’ve about got it. You look like you’re dressed for an ice cream social, anyway.”
Glancing down at his aqua striped cotton shirt and white duck Bermudas, Storm grinned sheepishly. “Been taking fashion tips from that lawyer. We’re going to work on accessorizing next.”
“He just wants to show off his legs,” Brian muttered, his grim expression not showing a hint of humor.
“You guys are just jealous. To show my goodwill, I’ll buy you both a drink when you come inside.”
Hank raised his hammer in a salute. “And we just might take you up on it.”
Storm clasped Elisa’s elbow as they climbed the rickety porch steps. “It’s show time,” he whispered in her ear as they stepped into the kitchen. “Ready?”
“Mmm.” She squared her shoulders, but her confidence in their plan was already evaporating. When they first came up with the scheme, she’d thought it had a fair chance at success. Now that the time for implementation was at hand, she couldn’t believe the killer wouldn’t see right through the tissue-thin ploy.
But they had no other options. Only twelve hours remained before the first ferry arrived. If they hadn’t uncovered his identity by then, they’d never have another chance.
As expected, Miriam was at the stove. The mouthwatering aroma of sauteeing onions filled the air. Her head swung around when they crossed the room. “E
lisa! You look wonderful, honey. You must have gotten plenty of rest, or something.”
“Or something,” Storm uttered under his breath.
Poking him with her elbow, Elisa peeked over Miriam’s shoulder. “I feel a lot better, thanks. I know you’re going to refuse, but can’t I help with something?”
The back door opened, and Hank and Brian trudged in and headed directly for the stainless-steel sink. Miriam evidently had everyone on the island well trained.
Lathering his hands with a grainy bar of industrial soap, Hank called over his shoulder, “That ornery woman don’t think nobody else is fit to mess around in her palace, Elisa. No sense wasting your breath trying.”
Storm broke in, saving them all from the Danzigers’ warmhearted but long-winded version of “The Bickersons.” “Where’s everybody else?”
Miriam grabbed a carrot and started scraping it clean. “Reckon they’re all in the parlor. I told them drinks were on the house tonight.”
“Except for one,” Hank declared. He reached for a paper towel and handed Brian the soap. “The doc here is buying the first round for us working men.”
“Humph. Working men. Another hour, you’ll be hollering for a heating pad and liniment.”
Giving his indomitable spouse a lusty kiss on the cheek, Hank made his escape, beckoning to Storm and Brian to follow him.
Brian paused in the doorway. “What about you, Elisa? Buy you a drink?”
“Not yet, thanks. You guys go ahead. I’ll join you in a bit.”
She directed a pointed, but covert, glance at Storm. He dipped his head in a fractional nod of understanding and disappeared into the dining room.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time Hank and Brian had finished their drinks, and had had their fill of ragging Storm about his legs, the other hotel guests had settled in for a pleasant evening. The prospect of being able to get on with their real lives seemed to have given their spirits a boost.
As a special treat for their last evening, Hank had used his emergency stash of fuel to fire up the generator. The overhead chandelier twinkled, adding to the cocktail party atmosphere. To an outsider, the group would have appeared to be vacationers, enjoying the bonhomie of like-minded travelers. Their expressions didn’t give away the fact that they’d been living under black and deadly shadows for the past several days.
David Welton was swapping deep-sea-fishing tales with Mark Bowman while Hank entertained the others with his fabled stories of peculiar guests the hotel had housed over the years. Miriam was keeping a sharp watch on how much beer her spouse was imbibing, while talking quietly with Carey Howard.
Only Elisa was missing, but, perhaps being sensitive to Carey’s feelings, no one asked about her.
The stark panic that swept through the hotel after Heather’s death seemed to have subsided. A reserved calmness had replaced strident alarm, although Storm sensed in them an undercurrent of guarded tension, as if they were underlings at the boss’s posh cocktail party. Expecting someone to spill his drink on the carpet—hoping it wouldn’t be them.
Everyone was in place. Not much longer now.
When Hank started spinning yet another outlandish yarn, Storm took advantage of his attention lapse to move quietly to the archway. Blocking the opening to keep anyone from leaving this little gathering was part of his role in the upcoming play.
Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, he reached up and flipped off the light switch.
“Hey! What happened?”
“What the hell?”
“Not again!”
The chorus of voices carried a sharp edge of trepidation.
Storm waited a moment, while their eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. Then he flicked the switch again, and stepped forward, standing just inside the chandelier’s spotlight.
A second later, they all stared at him, blinking against the sudden invasion of light.
“Did you do that, Delaney?” David leaned forward as if to attack.
Storm held up his palm, and the lawyer slowly sank back into his chair. “Just wanted to make sure I had your attention.”
Carey jumped to his feet. “What’s this all about? I’m sick of you and your parlor tricks.”
“You don’t have to put up with me much longer, so just sit down and listen.”
When he had their still and undivided attention, Storm reached into his pocket and pulled out the bright blue computer disk. Holding it above his head, he waggled it between two fingers. “Anybody here interested in this little jewel?”
As he expected, no one stepped forward to stake a claim. “Oh, come on. Someone’s been pretty anxious to get their hands on it. Heather even tried to kill Elisa for this disk.”
Betty Bowman gasped and scooted closer to Mark.
Carey Howard slammed his drink on a side table with an audible clunk. Bourbon sloshed over the side of the cutglass tumbler, its pungent smell pervasive in the confined room. “Now see here, Delaney! What kind of garbage is this? I should’ve known you’d lie, cheat or steal to help your high-and-mighty girlfriend. But I never thought you’d stoop to slandering a dead woman.”
When Storm moved slightly toward him, Carey’s tirade abruptly ended, and he slumped back into his chair.
Storm slowly stared at each face in turn. No one broke eye contact. A sign that they were all innocent? Or did one of them have molten steel running through his veins?
Playing his last card, Storm walked around the room, holding the blue disk in front of him. He watched as each pair of eyes circumspectly stared, mesmerized by its sinister portent.
“Take a good look now,” he said. “Because first thing in the morning, this little piece of plastic, and all the information it contains, is going to be turned over to the police. Someone in this room, a man, understands the importance of that information. Because Jay Morrow left the evidence that’s going to put him in prison. For life.”
Still, no one cracked.
David looked bored. Mark Bowman confused. Carey Howard arrogantly disbelieving. Hank stared back, his wrinkled face screwed up in a disturbed frown. Brian McPherson took a sip of beer and set the glass on the mantel, his expression bland and indifferent.
A hushed quiet ruled the tense space until Elisa stepped through the archway. Holding them up like trophies, she carried a large black running shoe in each hand. The light reflected off the sneakers’ Day-Glo metal grommets, like tiny orange moons.
She stood just outside the chandelier’s reach, where the light didn’t touch her face. Her gaze hidden in shadow, Elisa could have been accusing any of them.
Suddenly, she tossed the shoes into the circle of light. “You certainly can’t deny these!”
Heads snapped downward as all eyes were suddenly riveted on the black running shoes.
“I saw them when you chased me through the marsh yesterday. And I saw them the night you killed Jay Morrow. These shoes will convict you.”
Carey rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but those shoes don’t prove anything. They could belong to anyone.”
“But they don’t. They belong to Jay Morrow’s murderer. And lab tests can confirm who wore them. Feet sweat, don’t they? And any body fluid, even sweat, leaves enough DNA for a positive identification. Isn’t that so, Counselor?”
She turned to David Welton.
Fingering his upper lip, he slowly nodded. “Yes. I’m no expert, of course, but I’d say Elisa’s absolutely right. The owner of these shoes could be positively identified.”
Mark Bowman unfurled his arm from his wife’s shoulder. “So one of us owns running shoes—so what?”
Storm cut in from where he’d been quietly standing by the doorway. “These shoes tie in with one more piece of information Elisa hasn’t shared yet.”
“What’s that?” Brian McPherson asked, his tone reflecting only casual interest.
Elisa stepped into the light, but kept her head bowed, so that only the crown of her blue-bl
ack hair was fully illuminated. She wanted the killer to wonder, to squirm. He had to make the first move, or all was lost. “Oh, I forgot to mention that, thanks to Storm’s hypnosis therapy, I have my memory back. You were hoping I didn’t see you, but I did.”
Betty Bowman crossed her legs, and the silky sound of her nylon hosiery sounded like firecrackers in the taut atmosphere. But still the killer’s composure hadn’t cracked. Even though Elisa knew his identity with absolute certainty, she had no tangible evidence. Only a shard of memory. But it was him, and he knew he was guilty.
Fractionally raising her voice, she played her trump card. “Don’t you remember running behind my car while I was driving up the ramp? You ran out of breath and stopped under a light.”
The morbid anticipation was almost palpable. Elisa could feel the breathless expectancy as every eye watched her with rapt interest.
Taking another step forward, she raised an accusing finger. “And that’s when I saw you. Standing there in your black sweatshirt, with those shoes. But you were tired, weren’t you? So you shoved back the hood of your sweatshirt, remember? And you know what? Your red hair really caught the light, Brian McPherson!”
He reacted with more speed than she’d expected from a man his size. In a single movement, like a striking rattler, he leaped from the fireplace and lunged toward Elisa.
Storm was only a split second behind him, but he was too late. McPherson jerked Elisa sideways, pinning her in front of him. His powerful forearm wedged under her chin. He could break her neck with a simple twist of his arm.
Or he could simply pull the trigger of the nine-millimeter Beretta whose barrel was prodding her temple.
Storm backed off, holding his arms out, trying to defuse McPherson. “Take it easy, guy. You don’t want to hurt her. It’s all over.”
His ruddy face bloodred with rage, he snarled, “Not yet it isn’t. Once I’m off this miserable sand dune, no one will find me. Now hand over that disk, Doc, or I’ll turn your girlfriend into a real airhead.”
“There’s no way off this island. A full cadre of police will be stationed on the ferry. It’s too late.”