Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay

by Iguana Bay [SIM-339] (lit)

  "I don't want George to bring the limo around. I need some exercise. I need some fresh air."

  "Then I'll come with you."

  Staring up at him, she found it hard to imagine that this hulking giant had ever been a tiny baby, that some woman somewhere had actually given birth to this man, maybe even sung lullabies to him.

  "I want to go by myself." She sounded like a child, and she certainly felt like one, confronted as she was by Claude's towering height.

  "I can't let you leave. It isn't safe. Mr. Sebastian gave me orders."

  She looked past his bulk to the cars cruising past, to the city lights. Freedom calling.

  She could see that he was becoming a little anxious, sensed that he didn't want to have to get tough, and she felt guilty. "I won't run off." She hoped there wasn't a whine in her voice. She hated whiners. "I swear."

  "I'd be in big trouble if I let you go."

  Her guilt doubled. She knew it wasn't rational to like a thug, but she liked Claude. She didn't want to get him into trouble.

  "I just want to go for a little walk. That's all. I'll come back," she promised.

  Claude looked behind him, through the glass door; then, to her surprise, he moved to open it for her. "Have a good evening, Miss Ramsey."

  She flashed him a grateful smile. Even thugs had hearts. "Thank you."

  She stepped outside, warm humid night air and the smell of car exhaust hitting her full in the face. Under any other circumstances she would have felt suffocated by the towering buildings, overpowered by the traffic and cement, choked by the exhaust fumes. But right now the life and feel of the city sang to her, beckoned. Right now her surroundings were as precious as a field of the sweet­est flowers.

  Free at last.

  Then she spotted George.

  He was sitting behind the wheel of the limo, wearing his little blue chauffeur's cap. He maneuvered the car through the traffic and pulled up to the curb.

  Disappointment washed over her, weighting her down.

  George got out, slammed the door and came around to open the passenger side, waiting expectantly. She looked behind her. Claude had followed her outside. He was waiting for her to get into the limo, ready to come along.

  Elise stood there on the sidewalk, days upon days of frustrated boredom fermenting in her. Building, build­ing, building, ready to explode. She was sick of this. Sick of this trapped feeling, sick of her every move being watched. She was mad at Claude, mad at herself, mad at George, mad at Adrian Sebastian, mad at the world. She'd put up with so much lately.

  Well, nobody was going to ruin her evening. She wouldn't allow it.

  Borrowing a gesture often used by one of her more unruly students, she thumbed her nose at the waiting chauffeur, thumbed her nose at Claude, then spun on one high heel and marched belligerently down the wide side­walk, the words in her head keeping time with the click, click of her shoes.

  Free-dom. Free-dom.

  At the corner, the pedestrian light changed from WALK to DON'T WALK. Pausing, Elise glanced back the way she'd come, and her heart sank even more. George was easing the limo along the street while Claude followed on foot from what he would probably describe as a discreet distance.

  The light changed to WALK.

  Flowing toward her en masse was a mixed group of boisterous teenagers decked out for the evening. Feeling like a salmon fighting its way upstream, Elise launched herself into the oncoming wave. From snatches of conversation, she gathered that they were on their way to a concert. City sounds drifted along beside her. Horns honked, rock music blared and faded as cars roared past.

  She finally conquered the opposite curb. Coming up on her side of the street was a narrow red door with a green awning that stretched to the street, the words The Red Door lettered on the side. Formally attired people were stepping from a white Cadillac while a uniformed parking attendant hustled around the front bumper to the driver's side.

  Elise chanced another look over her shoulder. George was caught at the traffic light behind a silver sports car. Claude was weaving his way through the throng of kids, a frantic expression on his usually placid face.

  And he wasn't looking in her direction.

  Moving quickly, Elise tried to blend in with the group of people, following them inside the restaurant, falling in behind as the hostess led them to a table. They passed a dim hallway marked EXIT, and she ducked down the passageway, her shoes silent as she hurried across the plush carpeting. At the end of the hall she cast a quick glance over one shoulder. No one had noticed her. She slipped out the side door.

  Light from distant streets made a feeble attempt to penetrate the deep shadows of the alley. Puddles left from the afternoon rain now looked greasy, and her nose told her that the garbage was long overdue for pickup.

  Her heart pounding-in excitement or fear, she didn't know which-she hurried away, the sound of her click­ing heels echoing eerily off the chipped stucco walls.

  She heard a scuttling behind her and turned.

  Nothing. Not a movement or a shadow. Not a whis­per of a windblown candy wrapper making its way to join the trash that had collected where the building walls met the asphalt.

  A cat, she told herself. Must have been a cat. Or maybe a mouse. Or maybe a rat. She shivered at the thought, then started walking again, the hair on her scalp tin­gling.

  She had gone perhaps a block farther when she heard it again, closer this time.

  She stopped. Turned. And the blood froze in her veins. Before she could gasp for enough air to scream, a hand clamped over her mouth, bringing with it cloth tape and the smell of adhesive. It was pressed to her skin, extend­ing well past the corners of her mouth.

  Her back was jerked up against a hard chest. Through the thin layers of her blouse and suit she could feel the ungiving outline of a holster pressed between her back and the man's chest. Terror caught at her throat, squeezing her vocal chords, smothering her, paralyzing her.

  Claude.

  Where was Claude? Where was. George?

  Like a single image caught by a flash of lightning, Elise was left with the vision of her assailant's intense, hostile eyes and wild dark hair. Eyes that were cold, cruel, chill­ing.

  Predator's eyes.

  Oh, God. Sebastian had been telling the truth.

  For the first time since coming to Florida, Elise feared for her life. For the first time since coming to Florida she wished for the protection of Claude and George, for the safety of The Bastion.

  Her arms were pinned behind her, her wrists deftly wrapped with what felt like the same thick heavy tape that had been used on her mouth. A burst of strength borne from raw terror shot through her, forcing her taut, frozen muscles into action. She struggled, frantically swinging a foot, trying to twist her body free of her captor's steel grip. She felt a firm, steady pressure against the sensitive tendons at the back of her legs, forcing her to her knees. In less than a second, her ankles were taped.

  Panic welled. A trembling whimper began somewhere in her diaphragm, turning into sound when it reached her throat-frightened animal cries she vaguely perceived to be her own.

  "Quiet."

  The single rasped word carried the weight of the most deadly of threats. Her assailant leaned closer. "You shouldn't have been playing hide-and-seek with your baby-sitters," he whispered, his breath warm against her neck, his voice strangely sensual, yet as hard and unre­lenting as his hands and body. "Now there's nobody to protect you."

  Chapter 3

  The tumbledown marina where Dylan's boat lay docked was still a good hour away. He checked the rearview mirror. Behind him, Highway 1 stretched out long and dark and deserted. Ahead was a single set of red tail­lights.

  The car he was driving was a rental. He'd decided on a rental because it would be harder to trace. The cramped interior had obviously been designed by someone much shorter than he was and it smelled of plastic and other man-made materials. But the trunk was adequate. The trunk was the important part.r />
  Dylan slowed to sixty miles per hour in order to let the car in front of him ease away. To his left, in the eastern sky, thunder rumbled and lightning flashed, outlining the bank of cumulus clouds that had been forming above the coastal waters since late afternoon. It had rained earlier, but it had been only a typical Florida afternoon shower. This looked as if it could turn into a real boat swamper.

  A feeling he'd been trying to ignore was fighting for attention again. Earlier he'd recognized it as guilt and tried to push it aside. Now it was back, nagging him.

  He had done this kind of thing a hundred times. The time-honored method of capture he'd used on Elise Ramsey was standard practice among bounty hunters. If a bail jumper doesn't cooperate, doesn't come along willingly, you truss them up like a turkey and toss them into your trunk. That was the way it was done in this business.

  But the guilt Dylan was feeling was new. But then, it wasn't really his style to manhandle a woman.

  When he'd planned the abduction, Elise Ramsey had been a nonentity to him, simply a means to an end. A way of getting Sebastian. He hadn't really thought of her as a living, breathing person.

  A scared person.

  But he couldn't have handled things any other way. He couldn't have let her scream, couldn't have taken a chance on one of Sebastian's muscle heads catching sight of her. For a second back there, even though it wasn't the time or the place, he'd almost given in to the unprofes­sional urge to reassure her in some way. That weakness had made him mad at himself, so he'd ended up scaring her even more, doubling his guilt, a guilt that continued to nag him.

  She's Sebastian's woman, he reasoned. That meant she knew all about the ugly side of life. It meant she approved of Sebastian and the things he did. Hell, Dylan decided, she probably manacled herself just for fun.

  But regardless of what he told himself, he couldn't keep from straining to detect any small sound from the trunk.

  All he could hear was the hum of tires on pavement.

  The car in front of him had disappeared. The highway was a black river stretching into infinity. He checked the rearview mirror.

  Darkness.

  He took his foot off the gas pedal and slowed, watch­ing for a side road. When he spotted one, he turned and followed it for approximately half a mile before gunning the little six cylinder up a narrow levee road. This part of the Everglades was uninhabited, at least by people, but - it was only a matter of time. Little by little, more and more of the swampland was being drained for housing.

  When he'd gone far enough that the car couldn't be seen from either the highway or the side road, Dylan pulled to a stop and cut the engine, the world falling to silence except for the occasional rumble of thunder.

  He shoved open the door, hurried to the back and popped open the trunk. Within the dark recess was total silence. He leaned closer, barely able to make out Elise Ramsey's dark shape. She didn't move. Like a blind man depending completely on his sense of touch, he reached for her. As soon as his hand made contact with the warmth of her body, he knew he was touching her hip. In Miami, when he'd watched her walking down the street, he'd been aware of her long, slim legs. And now he re­membered the way the fabric of her skirt had slid against her skin.

  He moved his hand higher, brushing across her shoul­der to her face and finally to her taped mouth. He quickly pulled the tape free.

  She didn't make a sound.

  Now his guilt was giving way to worry. He laid an open palm against the fullness of her lips and felt the reassur­ing stir of her soft breath. She must have passed out.

  He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out his knife. He unfolded the dullest blade and felt for her bound wrists. Then, careful that the blade didn't touch her skin, he cut the tape in one easy mo­tion. With the same precision he removed the tape from her ankles. Using one hand he folded the blade closed against his thigh and pocketed the knife. Then he grasped her by the upper arms and levered her from the trunk, hefting her dead weight over one shoulder.

  With his unconscious burden, he headed toward the passenger door, wondering what the hell he was going to do with­-

  Dylan's world exploded in pain.

  He groaned, let the woman slip from his hands and fell to the ground in a red fog, totally giving in to the waves of debilitating pain, to the agony of the moment.

  Curled on his side, he drew up his knees, moaning and clutching himself where a well-aimed blow had caught him between the legs, "rendering him harmless," as the self-defense classes were wont to call it.

  After what seemed like hours but in all likelihood had probably been but a matter of a minute or two, Dylan looked up and saw that Elise Ramsey was gone.

  Then, from the direction of the low marshy swamp ground, came sloshing. Elise Ramsey, sounding like a damn bull moose. To an alligator, the sound of splash­ing water was like ringing a dinner bell. She was prob­ably attracting every gator in Florida.

  Dumb broad.

  The pain between his legs had dulled to a throbbing ache. Dylan rolled to his knees, then pushed himself to his feet.

  Dylan hated alligators. He'd seen a man eaten by one once. Not a pretty sight. Certainly not the way he wanted to go when he took the big trip.

  For a second he actually considered not going after her. But then, automatically, his hand went to his gun, checking, making sure it was where it should be. Then he sprinted toward the noise.

  Elise's foot caught on a tangle of long grass, and she sprawled facedown in the marshy Slough. Water trickled in around her, filling up the indentation made by her body. She'd lost one shoe, and now she kicked off the other. She had a stitch in her side, and her lungs felt raw. Her legs tingled with needles from lying cramped in the trunk for so long. Stinging trails ran from her hips to her ankles.

  For a moment the impossible horror of the situation almost overwhelmed her, but her will to survive was strong, and she managed to push her terror to the back of her mind and concentrate on moving, on getting away.

  She brought one knee forward, then the other, finally pushing herself to her feet, staggering on. She had to get away from the man with the hard, piercing eyes, the man who was going to kill her.

  Thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed, illuminating the dark churning clouds with a strange orange light, casting a hazy, surrealistic glow over the seemingly end­less stretch of flat marshland, land unrelieved except by an occasional clump of broken, stunted trees that reached their jagged fingers to the heavens.

  As Elise ran, rain started falling. The water above the spongy grass was getting deeper, covering her ankles now, making sucking sounds as she pulled her feet out. She had to head for higher ground.

  But there was no higher ground.

  The rain picked up its tempo, gusts of wind propelling it along, making it sting her face and wrists and legs. But behind the deafening noise of the storm, her ears de­tected a sound that failed to blend in with the rhythm of the elements.

  Splashing.

  For a second she hesitated, then stopped, turned. Lightning flashed again, casting its eerie glow on the man who was moving toward her through the storm. His eyes were in shadow-black empty sockets. For a heartbeat she felt like a trapped deer, frozen by a beam of light. Then the flash faded and the man was gone, once more becoming a part of the darkness.

  A sob escaped her, the sound strange and too human in this alien landscape. Trembling, she turned and staggered on, her legs getting heavier with every step.

  Run, run, little gingerbread man, or the fox will catch you if he can.

  She could feel the man's presence behind her, sensed that no matter how fast she moved, he was going to close in on her, going to catch her.

  Once she thought she heard a shout from close be­hind. Her heart and legs pumped harder, faster, her bare feet smacking the water, making it spray out around her.

  Then the inevitable happened-that which she had fa­talistically known would happen. She was tackled and knocked to the groun
d, the air crushed from her lungs. She could feel the man's heavy weight upon her. She struggled for oxygen, sucking in air with a wheezing gasp. She could feel his warm, heaving chest against her shoulder blades, feel the hard muscles of his legs against the backs of her thighs. And even though he'd only touched her twice before, the feel of him was already fa­miliar.

  Confusion clouded her mind.

  Even his hands, as he turned her over, even his hips as he straddled her, were strangely familiar.

  She needed to be reassured, needed to know that he was human and not something supernatural. She needed to hear his voice, a voice she remembered as being deep and slow and sensuous. A voice that was hard, yet hadn't quite seemed to fit the savagery in his eyes.

  Lightning lit the sky, illuminating their wild marshy backdrop. Her vision was blurry. She blinked the water from her eyes.

  Looking up at him, she could see the way his hair was plastered to his neck and forehead, looking blacker than the blackest night. His eyes, his predator's eyes, glowed amber-the color of a wild animal's. Rain was running in rivulets down his face, dripping off his chin onto her throat. His dark T-shirt was molded to his body, the leather holster strap stretched across his rounded pecto­rals. His chest rose and fell as his lungs fought for air just as her own lungs did.

  And even though his hands held her fast, she felt cap­tured by something more than his physical presence. Maybe she was the unwitting victim of some sort of sor­cery or enchantment, bewitched by the unknown, mes­merized by the wildness of the night, the wildness of his eyes. She felt spellbound by something dark and forbidding, sensual.

  Darkness engulfed them again. She was left with an image of strange amber eyes and dripping black hair. She was left with the feel of a man's wet thighs pressed against her sides. Of firm hands on her shoulders.