by Meg Tilly
Sixty-five
TRISTAN GUILLORY AWOKE to the sound of footsteps tromping up the porch steps. Heard the jangle of keys, the dead bolt sliding open. Voices. Male and female. Damn. She wasn’t alone. Now what?
He pushed his body to a standing position. His left foot had fallen asleep. Small wonder. He’d crammed himself into the back of her minuscule closet, tucked behind her hanging clothes. He hated being in such close contact with her things, surrounded by the vanilla-cinnamon scent of her clinging to the garments. Disgusting. Unfortunately, it was the only place he could find. Her bed was one of those boxed-in low-slung ones, and the broom closet was by the back door, too far to navigate from in the dark. Behind the sofa had been a possibility. The floor-to-ceiling curtains provided additional coverage, but the damned cat wouldn’t leave him alone, meowing, winding around his legs. He was tempted to slit the creature’s throat, but even if he’d been able to contain the mess, the fact that the cat was missing might have given him away.
He rotated his ankle, trying to encourage the flow of blood to his foot, ease the stinging pins and needles.
Footsteps were approaching.
Shit.
He slunk deeper into the far corner.
“Be just a sec,” he heard her say. He sucked in a deep breath and held it a fraction of a second before the closet door slid open. He had a partial view of her as she flipped through a couple of garments. All she would have had to do was turn her head and their eyes would have locked. The jig would have been up. He had to exert masterful control over his impulses. He wanted to grab her arm, yank her to the floor, and plunge the syringe he had at the ready into her struggling body, watch her sink into unconsciousness, fear in her eyes. But her friend was there. So, unfortunately, he couldn’t indulge in the pleasure of a struggle. He’d have to wait until she was asleep to make his move.
“Ah . . .” Zelia murmured. “This is comfy.” Her arm exited the closet. He could hear her moving around, disrobing, redressing, and then she exited the bedroom. She hadn’t closed the closet door, and from the sounds of it, she had left the bedroom door open as well.
Should I move to a different spot? I could stand behind the door. No. Too risky. Best to stay put.
Sixty-six
“THANK YOU”—ZELIA bent over and brushed her lips across his—“for your help today.”
Gabe shoved his hands deep into his pockets in an effort to keep from reaching up and pulling her to him to claim her mouth and her body. “Does this mean”—his voice came out like gravel striking the undercarriage of a car—“that we’re back on?”
She straightened, her hand rising to her mouth as if to keep the taste of him there. “I’m not sure,” she said, her voice a soft moan. He could tell by the soft undulation of her hips and the flush high on her cheeks that her need for him was probably as intense as what he was experiencing.
“Well, when you’re sure, let me know.”
“Okay.” She took a step back. “Sweet dreams.” Another step.
“Good night,” he said. “Call if you need anything.”
She smiled softly. “I will.” She turned and walked into her bedroom.
“Damn . . .” he muttered.
She turned, resting her cheek against the partially shut door. “Did you say something?”
Yes. Let me strip off your clothes and devour you. “No. Nothing important.”
“Okay, then. Night-night.” She stepped farther into her bedroom and then closed the door behind her.
He exhaled slowly. Sometimes it sucked having a conscience.
Charlie leapt onto the sofa, then made his way to his preferred sleeping spot, nestled in the hollow between Gabe’s arm and his chest, purring softly and kneading the duvet. Gabe tried to settle in, but his mind was racing. He’d felt uneasy all evening, probably on account of the events of the last few days. When they’d arrived at the cottage, they’d done a sweep. The doors and windows were still locked. Everything looked normal, undisturbed.
Gabe exhaled again, trying to disperse the tension in his body. The police have a detailed description of Alexus’s assistant and are on the lookout for him. All will be well. Gabe petted Charlie absentmindedly and listened to the sounds of Zelia getting ready for bed. How he longed to join her. He heard the drone of her electric toothbrush switch off, water running in the sink. Then there were the soft sounds of her returning to her bedroom, disrobing, crawling into bed.
It was torture.
Finally, he made the executive decision to place the soft down pillow over his head instead of under it to tamp down the sounds of her warm body shifting restlessly in her bed.
Gabe had thought sleep wouldn’t come. It had eluded him the previous evening. But the all-encompassing darkness, the sound of the soft wind rustling through the boughs of the ancient Douglas firs outside muffled now by the pillow, and the added comfort of Charlie’s warm body and gentle purring lulled Gabe to sleep. To sleep and to glorious dreams of Zelia opening her arms and her body to him once again.
Sixty-seven
ZELIA WOKE WITH a jolt, her heart pounding in her ears, the metallic tang of fear in her mouth. At first she thought perhaps a bad dream had awoken her, but then she heard it, the soft shhsst of a shoe. A shadowy figure loomed over her bed. Even with the darkness limiting her vision, she knew it wasn’t Gabe. The scent of the intruder, plus an instinctual sense of wrongness, made the air thick and heavy.
She opened her mouth, but before a scream could escape, a hand slammed down to silence her, trapping the cry for help in her throat. He was on her now, straddling her hips, his weight pinning her down. His palm covered her mouth, his thumb and forefinger squeezing her nose tight, cutting off her air supply. Oh dear God, please help me. She clawed his hand, but she couldn’t budge it. Slashed at his face, hoping to strike his eyes and blind him. She was using the force in her hips, twisting, arching in an attempt to buck him off, when she felt a sharp jab in the side of her neck, a burning sensation.
This is bad . . . This is really bad . . .
She could feel the effects of the drug he’d injected her with coursing through her veins, but she continued fighting, her lungs bursting from lack of oxygen. Clawing at his arms, face, neck, any inch of skin she could reach. Determined to do as much damage as she could before unconsciousness claimed her.
Sixty-eight
TRISTAN GLANCED AT the bloated plastic blood bag lying on the bed beside Zelia like a redolent tick lolling after a feast. While he hummed softly to himself, his gaze followed the plastic tubing up to the sixteen-gauge needle he had inserted in her vein earlier that evening.
He trailed his latex-covered fingers gently down her arm, almost like a caress. When he reached her hand, he wrapped his fingers around it, curling her limp fingers inward into a fist. Squeezing as if he were performing CPR on her hand. The blood was coming slower now.
Maneuvering in the dark had added an extra challenge to the proceedings, but he couldn’t risk switching on the overhead light. The illumination spilling under the door might draw unwanted attention.
He transferred the small flashlight he was carrying to his mouth. It was necessary in order to free up his hands. He applied a clamp to the plastic tubing, removed and sealed the blood bag. Then he placed the bag beside its brethren in his Italian leather briefcase, which lay open on the top of the dresser.
The harvest had been extraordinarily good. And there was something about having an unsuspecting witness sleeping just beyond the door that made the whole thing that much more delicious.
Tristan adored the whole ritual of the hunt, the letting of blood, the pomp and ceremony, but this final stage was perhaps his favorite, the pièce de résistance.
Lovingly, he removed the tools he had assembled earlier in his motel room: two test tubes, the spoon, the lighter, the ziplock baggie with the cotton, and last of all, the syringe. He placed
the items on her bedside table. In one of the test tubes was thirty milligrams of heroin, in the other a few droplets of distilled water. The contents would soon be deposited into the center of his silver baby spoon—a gift from the grandparents on his mother’s side—and heated. Such a lovely little spoon, all curlicues and embellishments, the bottom now blackened from his previous adventures.
A frisson of excitement shivered through him. All was ready. What a glorious feeling. Standing over another smug, ball-busting bitch who hadn’t bothered to give his beautiful art its due, with the assembled instruments of her death at hand.
He took a second to remove the flashlight that was slick with saliva and dried it on his slacks. “It’s showtime,” he whispered, smoothing her hair out of her face. She is pretty, in a bovine sort of way, he thought as he replaced the flashlight in his mouth, freeing his hands to prepare the—he couldn’t stop the smile, had to grip the flashlight between his teeth so it wouldn’t fall—showstopper. And who could blame him if he took a moment to indulge in a little “jazz hands” before picking up the test tube containing the heroin? All work and no play would make him a very dull boy indeed.
Sixty-nine
GABE SAT ON the sofa, leaning forward, his hands clasped. He was wound tight. Felt like a boxer waiting to enter the ring. But he couldn’t. He had given Zelia his word. She’d let him sleep on her sofa to keep watch over her, and as much as he wanted a future with her, he needed her to be just as certain she wanted the same things he did.
The sound of her moving around in her room earlier had jolted him awake. It was almost as if she’d tapped him on the shoulder and called his name. He’d shot to his feet, still half asleep but ready for action. Listened, every cell in his body insisting he run to her room, jerk the door open, but he didn’t.
Wouldn’t. Because it was possible his dreams and reality had gotten jumbled into a stew.
He waited for her to appear at her door, to make the choice to invite him to join her. His heart was banging away as if he’d just completed the fifty-meter dash. He could hear her moving, shifting on her bed, then a muffled moan. And that’s when he sank back down to the sofa, his heart suddenly heavy, shoulders bowed.
It was torture to sit there, listening to her. Was she secretly pleasuring herself?
He tried to lie back down, but his body wouldn’t let him. All his senses seemed to be locked in overdrive, aligning themselves to the nightmarish quality he could taste in the air.
Then he noticed Charlie pacing in front of her door, agitated, his tail lashing.
The cat feels it, too. Something is off. The second that thought dropped into his solar plexus, he was on the move. She might hate him for barging in on her, but staying put was no longer an option.
He crossed the room like a rocket, slammed open the door. A beam of light slashed across his face, momentarily blinding him before the light source dropped with a thunk, spun across the floor, and disappeared from view. He sensed someone moving toward him fast.
Gabe veered to the side, swinging in the dark. His first fist went wide, but the second one made contact. He heard a grunt, a soft curse. Could feel the assailant shift toward where the blow had come from, but Gabe was already on the move, silently circling behind, listening hard.
Right there. A barely audible intake of air. The type someone would make as they set their body to charge.
Gabe launched his body low, again making contact, bringing the intruder crashing to the floor. Something sharp scraped across the surface of his bare shoulder. A knife? Gabe felt the assailant’s muscles tense, knew whatever weapon was in the guy’s fist would be coming down fast. He threw his body to the side and rolled to his feet, spreading his hand wide, sweeping it in an arc along the wall by the door.
He snagged the light switch on the second pass—the overhead lights flashed on, almost blinding in the sudden brightness. Tristan, Gabe thought, as the man charged toward him. Son of a bitch. How did he get in here? Blood was dripping down the man’s face. Tristan was wielding a syringe in one hand, a dagger in the other.
Gabe had to make a snap decision. Which weapon posed the greatest threat? He whipped his leg in the air and smashed it down on Tristan’s right collarbone. He heard the bone snap as the dagger in Tristan’s left hand slashed through his pajama bottoms and made contact with his thigh. Gabe pivoted on his standing leg and delivered a bruising side kick to Tristan’s face, snapping pretty-boy’s head back and decimating his nose. Blood splattered as Tristan staggered back with a hard thump against the dresser, the hand holding the syringe hanging limply at Tristan’s side.
Snarling like a rabid dog, Tristan slammed the dagger into the holster on his belt. He grabbed the syringe from his useless right hand as he jerked his body upright. His gaze darted for a millisecond to Zelia sprawled on the bed, pale and still.
Tristan feinted charging Gabe again, but the flicker of his eyes had given his intentions away. Gabe lunged sideways, positioning himself between Tristan and the woman he loved, praying she was okay. Determined to do whatever it took to keep this madman at bay. Throbbing pain burned his left thigh as if a red-hot poker was sizzling his flesh, throwing his balance off. Liquid poured down his leg, his foot skidding in the blood.
He thrust his arms out and managed to snag Tristan’s ankle as he crashed to the floor, bringing Tristan down with him. Half rolling, half dragging, he forced Tristan away from the bed, away from Zelia.
Tristan arched his back, noises coming out of his mouth—wild, animalistic noises—as he twisted his body around. Gabe saw light glinting on the syringe as it slammed downward. No time to roll to the side. His only hope was to change the needle’s intended trajectory. Gabe delivered another punishing blow to Tristan’s face as his other hand slammed to the side in a hard block. He closed his fingers like a vise around Tristan’s wrist, controlling the direction of the syringe as he toppled Tristan backward and landed hard on top of him. Gabe wrapped his free hand around his other one and drove the syringe like a stake deep into Tristan’s neck.
“Nooooo!” Tristan screamed. “Don’t press the plunger! Dear God, please, I’m begging you, don’t!”
The abject terror and panic in Tristan’s eyes caused Gabe to hesitate. Thou shalt not kill . . . drumming through his brain. And yet Zelia wouldn’t be safe as long as Tristan was in the world. Maybe what’s in the needle won’t kill him. Maybe it will just incapacitate. But even as Gabe thought it, he knew he was grasping at straws.
“I’ll be good.” Tristan sobbed. “I won’t be bad anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Gabe choked out, his own eyes wet, too. “It’s too great a risk.” Heartsick, he forced himself to depress the plunger, sending whatever concoction was in the barrel of the syringe into the bloodstream of the man struggling beneath him.
Seventy
ZELIA AWOKE TO a dimly lit room, monitors beeping by the side of her bed.
“You okay?” Gabe’s familiar voice filled her with warmth and a sense of safety. Zelia turned her head. He was sitting in a plastic chair by her bed. He looked haggard and worn, as if he’d been planted there for a long time.
She nodded. Opened her mouth to speak. Wasn’t sure if any words actually made their way out before she drifted into unconsciousness again.
* * *
* * *
“HEY THERE, SLEEPYHEAD,” a woman’s voice chirped.
Zelia opened her eyes to see her next-door neighbor Lori standing by her hospital bed. Big-eyed kittens frolicked across her nurse’s scrub top. She was backlit by bright sunshine streaming through the partially closed plastic blinds across the window.
Zelia pushed onto her elbows. She felt so weak. The sun was high in the sky, so it must be around noon. “Where’s Gabe?”
“Sent him home to take a shower. Hold on there. Let me help.” Lori picked up a controller and pressed a button, raising the head of the bed until Zelia wa
s in a seated position. “That better?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“How’s it feel to be a famous crime-fighting sleuth?”
“A what?”
“Ah . . . that’s right, you’ve been out. Blame my brain fart on a lack of sleep.” Lori stifled a yawn. “We’re short staffed. Again. So I’m pulling another back-to-back. Coffee is my friend.” Lori switched out the depleted saline drip bag for a new one. “At least the excitement factor was off the charts. When things are slow, time seems to limp along. But last night?” Lori whistled through her teeth. “Honey, it’s too bad you were unconscious. Picture this.” Lori waved her spread-out hands in front of her as if they were revealing the sign above a movie marquee. “A smoking-hot guy comes tearing into ER in the middle of the night, you in his arms while he bled on our floor. Needed eighteen stiches. The man stayed by your side all night. Loyal as a dog.” Lori poured ice water into a plastic glass. “Wish I could find me a man like that.” She handed it to Zelia. “Here you go, sweetie.”
“Thanks.” Zelia gulped the water, grateful for the refreshing liquid. Hadn’t realized how dry her mouth was.
“I’ve gotta confess, I’ve read Conaghan’s books,” Lori continued as she refilled Zelia’s cup. “But I had no idea how gorgeous he was in person. Figured his author photo had been airbrushed, but nooooo.” She fanned her face. “I mean . . . Wowza!
“By the way, I’d better give you a heads-up. The media has descended on our sleepy little island. There are reporters camped in the parking lot. One ballsy lady donned nurse scrubs and tried to sneak into your room to take photos. That might have worked in the big city.” Lori chuckled as she smoothed the bed linens. “We run a tighter ship here. Tossed her out on her bony ass. The hospital switchboard has been lit up with inquiries from newspapers around the world. ‘International Bestselling Author in Fatal Conflict with the Heir to the Guillory Fortune.’” Lori shook her head. “All that money must have messed up his mind. All kinds of wild stories flying about, kidnapping, attempted murder, a possible serial killer.” Lori slid a look at her, clearly hoping Zelia would let a few tasty morsels fall, but a wave of weariness was breaking over her. Zelia placed the water cup on the overbed hospital table and sank her head back against the pillow. “I guess it’s true what they say,” Lori continued. “‘Money can’t buy you happiness,’ that’s for sure.
