Twice Burned

by Pamela Burford

  “I don’t drink Chablis.” Her tongue got in the way of the words.

  “I’m a martini man myself. Drink.” He wagged the bottle.

  She stared languidly at the golden’ liquid sloshing in the bottle. “Don’t I get a glass?”

  Logan sat on the arm of the chair, facing her. He tilted her chin, studied her eyes. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached cruising altitude.” He slipped a palm behind her head to hold her steady as he tipped the bottle to her lips.

  She resisted briefly, but too soon the woolly part of her mind, the part that wanted nothing more than to curl up and take a nap, won out. The cold wine went down like acid. She coughed and sputtered and he gave her a respite.

  “Okay?” he asked after a moment, and wiped her chin with his gloved fingers. His expression, his tone of voice, were solicitous.

  She nodded.

  He brought the bottle to her lips several more times, until it was empty, until her eyes drooped and he had to prop her up with an arm around her shoulders.

  “Come on, Zara. Time for a swim.” He pulled her up and she slumped against him.

  She giggled. “I’m too drunk to go swimming.”

  “That’s the point.”

  She staggered with him through the disheveled house toward the back door. A corner of her mind was aware that the next few moments would be critical to her existence. Her life hung in the balance, but she couldn’t rouse herself to do anything about it.

  He said, “Life has become too much for you, Zara. Your failed marriage. Your money problems. Your strained relationship with your sister. She was always Daddy’s favorite. You never were able to please him, were you?”

  “You’re a good listener,” she mumbled, and tripped over the remains of a potted spider plant. He steadied her.

  “These things have you very depressed,” he said. “You’ve decided the pain isn’t worth it. You’ve given up.”

  “No I haven’t,” she said.

  “Yes.” He opened the back door. “You have.”

  She planted her feet and they both skidded to a halt in the doorway. The cool night breeze arrowed through the fuzz in her brain to impart one last moment of lucidity. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? And make it look like I killed myself.”

  He shrugged. “Could be seen as an accidental drowning, too. Too much booze, too many pills. Watch your step, now.” He guided her out the door, over the cracked cement patio and the small patch of lawn.

  “I thought you were one of the good guys. I’m very disappointed in you, Logan.”

  She felt the vibrations of his harsh chuckle in the arm supporting her. “Imagine that,” he mused. “Logan Byrne disappointing someone.”

  Byrne? Didn’t he know his own name?

  “Now, Logan’s brother.” He shook his head regretfully. “Talk about a disappointment. Definitely not one of your good guys, Zara.”

  “You don’t have a brother.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  In the dark she could just make out a tall stockade fence running the perimeter of the property, and in the center, an aboveground pool taking up most of the small yard. It was oblong, about five feet deep and eighteen feet long.

  He stood still a moment, listening, alert for nosy neighbors, she assumed, though the tall fence af- forded privacy. He looked down at her “Not much farther. How’re you holding up?”

  “Okay,” she said on a yawn.

  At the pool, he boosted her up the aluminum ladder and followed her. She stood unsteadily on the metal deck perched over one end of the pool. The water looked inky, silver moonlight spilling over the tranquil surface.

  She had to lean against Logan for support, his warmth a shocking contrast to the cool night air. She shivered.

  He whispered in her ear, “In you go.”

  Sweet unconsciousness beckoned. She struggled to stay awake, to engage her mind, to recall where this bizarre scenario was leading.

  She said, “Nobody will believe I killed myself, Logan. I’m a fighter, I don’t give up.”

  “You’re a fighter? Let’s see you fight.”

  The icy water jolted her brain. She hadn’t felt him push her, and now his strong hands held her under. Her frenzied mind and starved lungs screamed for air, but her body was sluggish, unresponsive.

  The fight left her too soon. The last thing she saw was Logan’s face through the veil of water, those pale, dispassionate eyes watching her die.

  Chapter Six

  The lights were on. Logan knew then that his hunch had paid off. He’d suspected as much, after her shrill insistence on talking to Emma.

  He pulled into the driveway and hopped out of the BMW. His first order of business would be relieving her of the key to the warehouse. He smiled grimly, recalling his earlier words. Never trust anyone and you won’t be disappointed. How he wished he’d heeded his own advice.

  He pounded on the door. “Zara! Open up!”

  He didn’t wait but immediately tried the door. Unlocked. Figures.

  Did the woman have no inkling of the danger she was in? Hadn’t he made it clear enough?

  A cold ball of anxiety settled in his stomach.

  No, he had to admit. He hadn’t made it as clear as he could have. He’d chosen to keep her in the dark about certain details; hell, about almost everything. He had his reasons, but right now, as he contemplated the peril Zara had placed herself in, those reasons didn’t seem quite so compelling.

  He let himself into Emma’s house and again surveyed the damage Mac had done days ago, searching for Candy’s ray gun.

  “Zara!”

  Nothing.

  “Don’t hide from me. I’m going to find you.” And when I do, you’ll wish I hadn’t.

  Swiftly he searched the small house. Could she have stepped out? There were no stores within walking distance. He noticed the empty bottle of Chablis on the floor of the living room. The fact that it was standing upright told him it had been set there after Mac ransacked the house.

  “Have yourself a little party for one, Zara?” he murmured, though he couldn’t picture her sitting here getting quietly sozzled. She had other things on her mind—namely, her sister’s safety. He knew she must have been frantic at finding Emma’s home in this condition.

  He could have told Zara exactly where Emma was, but that would have complicated matters, made her more difficult to handle. If she spoke to her sister, she’d find out about Logan’s connection to Mac Byrne. He recalled how suspicious she’d been of him in the beginning. Once she found out he was the twin brother of the man who wanted her dead, he wouldn’t have a prayer of securing her cooperation.

  At least that’s what he’d told himself. He hadn’t counted on Zara Sutcliffe—by all accounts shallow and self-absorbed—caring enough about her semiestranged sister to defy him like this and put herself at risk. He’d underestimated her level of frustration, and her devotion to Emma.

  Where could she be?

  One place remained to be checked.

  He opened the back door. “Zara!”

  A sudden movement in the moonlit backyard drew his attention. His legs started moving before his rational mind assimilated what he’d seen.

  His own startled eyes staring back at him.

  Mac turned and leapt over the pool railing onto the lawn like some great lithe beast.

  Logan had him! After four long months of obsessive pursuit. Four months of waking each morning wondering if he was too late, if his brother had already crossed the line beyond which there would be no helping him.

  The worst four months of Logan’s life. And here was Mac at last, within his grasp!

  As he rounded the pool he spotted him clambering up the fence. Logan actually grinned, anticipating the next few seconds: the short sprint to the fence, the gut-deep satisfaction he was sure to feel as he dragged his brother to the grass and subdued him.

  Mac couldn’t get away from him. Not this time.

  Something teased at the ed
ge of his vision as he swung around the pool. Something pale on the murky surface of the water.

  His churning legs stopped, stumbled. A sick wave of dread overwhelmed him. He knew before he looked.

  Zara.

  It wasn’t too late to catch Mac. But at what cost? Seconds counted for a drowning victim. He had an impossible choice to make, but some part of him, some fathomless, primordial part, took the decision out of his hands.

  He bounded up the pool ladder even as Mac hoisted himself over the fence. Zara was floating facedown, making barely a ripple on the surface of the pool. He knelt on the deck and leaned out over the water, grasping her cool ankle.

  He hauled her up onto the deck, where she lay limp and unresponsive. He tilted her head back and put his ear close to her mouth, hoping for a ripple of air, the rise and fall of her chest.

  Nothing.

  But she had a pulse. Barely. Placing his fingertips on her throat, he detected the faint ticking of her carotid artery.

  Not allowing another second to lapse, he pinched her nostrils and sealed his mouth over hers, delivering four fast full breaths as a start.

  You’re not going to die, he silently vowed.

  He continued breathing for her every five seconds, waiting, praying for her own lungs to take over.

  Minutes passed.

  “Breathe, damn you!” he growled between puffs. “I will not lose you, Zara. Breathe!”

  She lay deathly still. There was no way to tell how long Mac had held her under. Logan never considered stopping the resuscitation. He’d keep it up as long as it took.

  Time seemed suspended. It could have been ten minutes or an hour. At last a faint gurgle sounded from her throat.

  “That’s it, honey. Come on.”

  He delivered another breath, and another.

  A rattling cough shook her and he gently turned her on her side, facing him. Water poured from her lungs. She groaned pitifully, her eyes still closed. He squeezed his own eyes shut for a moment against the storm of unfamiliar emotions assailing him.

  He kept talking, soothingly, as he gently lifted her and carried her down the ladder. “You’re going to be all right, Zara. It’s over. You’re okay.”

  Her labored breathing sounded beautiful to his ears. Shudders racked her. The first order of business was to get her warm and dry.

  He carried her in his arms across the lawn. “Come on, honey. Open your eyes for me.”

  She blinked, straining to focus on his face. With recognition came terror. She cried out, flailing weakly against his hold.

  He stopped in his tracks. “Zara, it’s me. Logan.”

  Her struggles increased. She writhed and struck out at him, depleting her meager strength. He lowered her to the cool grass and held her, turning her face to his.

  “Look at me, Zara. He’s gone. It’s Logan.”

  Her panicked eyes raked his face; they took in his hair tied back in a ponytail, his gray polo shirt.

  “See? It’s me.” His fingers lightly stroked her cheek. She shrank from his touch. She looked impossibly pale in the moonlight, her eyes huge and dark and eloquent. He read confusion, betrayal.

  And then he knew.

  He pretended to be me. He let her think I was doing this to her. In that instant he was glad he hadn’t caught Mac. He’d have killed him on the spot.

  She pushed on his arms and he let her slide out of his embrace. Keeping him in her sights, she scuttled back, then turned and crawled a few shaky feet. She stopped, doubled over, retching violently. He was at her side in an instant.

  She whirled away from him. “Don’t touch me!”

  He sat on his heels, his heart breaking. “Please. Listen to me. I didn’t do this to you, Zara. I’ll explain it all, but I have to get you inside first. You’re in shock.”

  This time he didn’t let her fend him off. He seized her quickly and scooped her into his arms. She collapsed, exhausted, the fight gone out of her. Her breathing was fast and shallow. He held her close to try to still her shivering, but it didn’t help.

  “You’ll be warm soon, I promise.”

  He let himself into the house and strode through the debris to the bedroom. Under the bright light her pallor was frightening, those lush lips blue. Her eyes were open, glazed. He lowered her to the bare mattress and swiftly pulled the sodden swimsuit off her. Under any other circumstances he’d have lingered to appreciate the view, but at the moment voyeurism was the last thing on his mind.

  He lifted a quilt from the floor and swaddled her in it, then quickly grabbed a towel from the bathroom and rubbed her scalp. Her dark hair stood out in spiky tufts, and he smoothed it down.

  He rubbed her arms through the quilt. “Zara.” His tone was gentle, undemanding. “Did he make you drink that wine?”

  Her gaze homed in on his face. He saw confusion, but her fear seemed to have abated. “Wine. And…and pills.”

  His heart kicked. “Pills? What kind of pills?”

  “White,” she whispered, her eyes trying to drift shut.

  He lifted her to a sitting position. “How many?”

  “Don’t,” she whimpered.

  “Zara.” He shook her slightly. “How many pills?”

  “Six.”

  “Where’s the bottle?” He followed her dull gaze to the floor. A quick search of the rubble produced a small prescription vial. “Is this it? These painkillers?”

  She nodded.

  “Come on. We’re going to the hospital.”

  She groaned in protest as he scanned the floor for her clothes. He found the emerald silk blouse she’d worn earlier. The buttons had been torn off.

  Time stopped. He was aware only of the cold rage swelling his chest, his throat, threatening to suffocate him. He drew one shaky breath, then another. Needing to be calm. For Zara.

  He sat again and cupped her cheek. “I need to know. Did he rape you?”

  The flash of pain in her eyes sliced him like a knife. “Answer me. Did he?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  He hoped she was telling the truth. He already knew his brother was capable of anything.

  “I was dreaming,” she said thickly. “I thought he was y—” She stopped abruptly, searching his face. “Who is he?”

  “Mac Byrne,” he said gently. “My twin brother.”

  She stiffened, eyes wide with disbelief. She shook her head.

  “You know it’s true,” he said. “You saw him. I wish to God you hadn’t found out this way.” If he could go back in time, he’d do things differently, be more candid with her from the start.

  He wasn’t accustomed to second-guessing his decisions. He wasn’t accustomed to the surge of protectiveness this woman elicited from him—from a place deep within that had lain dormant so long, he’d thought that part of him was dead.

  He didn’t want to think about how close he’d come to apprehending Mac—his raison d’être for the last four months. He couldn’t recall the precise moment when he decided to let him go in the hopes of saving Zara, but he had no doubt that given the same choice, he’d do it again.

  That was something else he didn’t want to think about: the telling shift in his priorities, what this woman had come to mean to him in one short weekend.

  He stood. “Let’s find you something to wear.” He spotted her sexy little underthings on the floor. And pictured some young ER doctor plying his stethoscope over the sheer, forest green va-va-va-voom brassiere. Breathe deeply, now.

  He turned to Emma’s scattered clothes and started sifting through them. “Under the circumstances, I don’t think your sister would mind sharing her things. Here we are.” He held up his find: white cotton bra. Opaque. Full coverage. Ditto on the panties. A prim pink cotton blouse and khaki slacks completed the ensemble. Plus white Keds to replace Zara’s highheeled sling-backs.

  She was still sitting, but appeared ready to topple. He joined her on the bed and started to ease the quilt off her.

  She drew away from him. “I don�
��t want to go to the hospital.”

  “This is nonnegotiable. Your stomach pretty much emptied, it’s true, but don’t forget you almost drowned. You’re going.”

  When he reached for the quilt again she clutched at it. Pointed at the door.

  “Don’t be silly, Zara. Let me help you.” He didn’t bother reminding her it was a little late for modesty. Her bleak expression brought him up short. He imagined her ordeal at Mac’s hands, his eyes drawn again to the buttonless blouse. He stroked her cheek and headed for the door. “I’ll leave the door open a crack, so I can hear you if you call for me, okay?”

  She nodded, and he saw gratitude.

  He paused in the doorway and looked at her. This wasn’t the Zara Sutcliffe featured in People magazine and U.S. News. This wasn’t the feisty, self-assured woman he’d come to know. Not this fragile, bedraggled waif with funky hair and mascara smudges under her bloodshot eyes.

  But to him, she’d lost none of her allure. Each new thing he learned about her added a layer of complexity, a fresh dimension to a woman he’d considered a caricature only three days ago.

  She intrigued him.

  “I’ll be right outside, Zara.” He waited near the door, listening to the creak of the mattress and the rustle of clothing. His knuckles rapped the door. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” After a few minutes she said, “Come on in.”

  He found her sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed, exhausted by her exertions. He squatted in front of her to slip her feet into the canvas sneakers and tie them. He started to lift her and she said, “I can walk.”

  He ignored her protests and carried her out to the car. She sagged in the seat next to him as he drove to the nearest hospital.

  In the emergency room he handed over the prescription vial and described Zara’s near drowning, then was made to cool his heels in the waiting room while a doctor checked her thoroughly. When they finally let him back to see her, she was asleep. At least he thought she was. As if she sensed his presence, her eyelids fluttered open and she reached out for him.

  His heart flipped over. He squeezed her hand and brought it to his lips without thinking.

  The doctor was a middle-aged African-American woman. Her name tag read Gloria Prince, M.D. “I’d like to admit her for a day or two. Just as a precaution. But she refuses.”