Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay

by Iguana Bay [SIM-339] (lit)

  She gave a forced laugh. "What about you? Are you saying you're any better? And what difference does it make what I do?" she demanded. "It's none of your business."

  She was right. It wasn't. He'd been down this road before. He should know better.

  Years ago, there had been kids he'd tried to help, but no matter what he did, most of them ended up back on the street.

  Now he found himself wanting to help Elise. And she might even let him. He could help her get a decent job, help her break her connection with Sebastian. From experience, he knew that it might work for a while. But she wasn't a kid; she wouldn't be as susceptible to change. Pretty soon she'd get bored and go back to her old way of life, a more exciting way of life.

  No, from experience he'd learned it was better to mind your own business. Getting involved meant getting hurt.

  "You're right. It doesn't make any difference to me."

  He let go of her arms and moved off the bed and across the room, pausing at the door. He looked back at her, thinking that her hair was really something. He didn't know if he'd ever seen anybody with her combination of dark hair and that color eyes. It was striking. In fact, it just about took his breath away.

  "By the way," he told her, "in case you're plotting another breakout, you might as well know that I've hidden den the boat and handcuff keys and locked up all the weapons. So why don't you just concentrate on getting a good night's sleep?"

  He turned and shut the door after him, the memory of her blue eyes vivid in his mind.

  Much later, when Elise finally got to sleep, her dreams were full of a man who wore a long black cape and walked alone across dark moors.

  But instead of running, she did the strangest thing; she called out to him. And when he turned to look at her, his eyes were accusing, but behind the accusation she saw hurt and pain, pain as deep as the ocean.

  Then, instead of being afraid, she went to him. In the dream he smiled and wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her in his cloak. His smile was soft and full of love and such sweetness that it made her heart ache, made her cry in her sleep, made her awaken to the sound of her own soft weeping.

  The rest of the night passed fitfully. Elise developed a headache, which seemed to intensify with the passing of hours. Now the rhythmic pounding of the surf reverberated in her skull, and the briny scent of the ocean that she had quickly come to love-a smell that had once delighted her-now pulsed through her sinuses like a knife blade.

  A little later she discovered the reason for at least some of her misery. She'd started her period. What else could possibly happen?

  Chapter 8

  Dylan lay sprawled on the couch, hands behind his head, watching the uppermost curve of the sun break over the horizon.

  He'd dozed off and on through the night, sleeping lightly, listening for any sound of movement from the bedroom. He'd felt pretty safe in assuming Elise wouldn't try anything violent. She'd had her chance, but had handcuffed him to the bed instead. A pretty passive thing to do, considering the circumstances.

  He swung his bare feet to the floor and reached for his cutoffs. They were stiff from salt water, but they'd soften up.

  He slipped them on, stretched, rubbed a hand across his bare chest, then headed for Elise's room. Not bothering to knock, he pushed open the bedroom door, his eyes going to the curled up lump under the blanket.

  "Come on out and I'll fix you some breakfast."

  No answer.

  "If you aren't hungry, go ahead and swim or lie around on the beach-whatever you want."

  The blanket shifted, but she still didn't answer.

  She was probably used to sleeping till noon.

  He stood in the doorway, his thoughts once again flowing to how good she'd felt under him, how her nipples had hardened, her legs opened for him.

  A half-formed oath escaped him. He was doing it again.

  A swim. A swim was in order. For him.

  On the way to the beach he stopped long enough to pour some cat food into a plastic bowl. Scag heard the sound and came bounding up the porch, tail high. He took a couple of suspicious nibbles, then looked up at Dylan with an expression that seemed to say, Hey, what gives?

  "So what if it's chicken flavor instead of ocean fish?" Dylan said. "Big deal."

  Scag meowed, humped his back and rubbed against Dylan's leg.

  "Don't be so damn picky. I'm beginning to think I should have left you at the animal shelter."

  Dylan bent to pet the cat, then moved down the porch steps to the pigeon cage.

  Scag followed, eyeing the pigeons hungrily.

  "Amscray. You had your chance to eat." Dylan put clean water in the long cage. "If these birds were loose, they'd whip your scrawny hide."

  When he was done tending to the pigeons, he headed for the dock, the wood rough and uneven beneath his bare feet. Once there, he dived into the water, salt stinging his eyes and skin.

  Swimming was one thing Dylan hadn't lost interest in. It cleared his head, perked up his brain cells. He swam the width of the bay, then back again.

  Afterward he changed into a pair of dry jeans and a clean T-shirt, then checked to see if his guest was up yet.

  With one hand resting on his hip, he lowered his head and listened for any sounds from, the other side of the door.

  Nothing.

  He decided to knock this time. He raised a hand and rapped his knuckles against the wood.

  The bed creaked.

  "You want some breakfast?"

  "Leave me alone!" The words came out slightly muffled.

  'He shrugged. It didn't make any difference to him. Let her pout. "Suit yourself."

  But by noon she still hadn't come out. Against his better judgment, Dylan found himself at the door again. He knocked. "Hungry yet?"

  "No."

  He decided to try some reverse psychology. "It's no

  skin off my back if you go on a hunger strike."

  "I'm not on a hunger strike. I just want to be left alone!"

  "Go ahead. Be stubborn. Think I give a rip? Well, I don't. It doesn't make any difference to me. You're not hurting anyone but yourself."

  Jeez.

  He was sounding like his old man. His dad used to use that same line whenever Dylan got in any kind of trouble-which had been fairly often.

  "I'd rather be in here alone than out there with you."

  This was nuts. Patience was second nature to him. He'd learned to sit for days, weeks, on stakeouts, fighting boredom and heat and sleep. But waiting for Elise Ramsey was getting on his nerves.

  With the flat of his hand, he shoved the door open wide.

  He'd expected to find her angrily pacing the floor, or sitting stiffly in a chair, arms crossed at her waist, staring out the window. What he hadn't expected was to find her still in bed, curled up on her side, the beige cotton blanket pulled up over her shoulder, face buried against the covers. The only part of her he could see was the top of her head.

  What the... ?

  He took a couple of steps, then stopped, suspicion overcoming his initial worry.

  A trick. This was a trick. By now he was familiar with her tricks. When he got close enough, she'd kick him, or hit him with something.

  He couldn't deny that he'd felt a reluctant admiration for her guts and persistence. Problem was, she just didn't know when to give up.

  "I hate to tell you, but this kind of thing doesn't usually work twice," he said with tolerant amusement. "You may as well know that right now. I'm not going to fall for that playing possum routine again."

  The curved bump under the blanket didn't move. "Leave ... me ... alone." Her words came- out in a broken, rasping whisper.

  Dylan frowned and approached the bed, his suspicions vanishing.

  "Hey. You sick?"

  "No."

  Even though she'd spoken but one syllable, that single word carried with it a message, and that message was pain.

  If she was faking, then she was in the wrong profession. A sea
soned actress couldn't carry out a performance like hers. No, he didn't think she could fake that note of pain in her voice.

  "You're silk."

  "I'm sick of you."

  Her stubborn pride truly amazed him. He crouched beside the bed and tried to pull the blanket back, but she had the edge clasped in a death grip, her knuckles showing white. Instead he pulled her hand down in order to see her face.

  "Go away." The words were forced through dry, unmoving lips.

  Her eyes were tightly closed, as if trying to shut out everything. There were lines between her eyebrows, fur-rowed lines across her forehead. Under his palm, her brow felt warm and clammy.

  "Elise-"

  She shoved his hand away, opened her eyes and turned to face him.

  Shock ran through him. There were dark, bruised circles under her pain-glazed eyes. Her hair seemed to have dulled overnight. It was lying in limp tendrils on either side of her face.

  "You think you know me," she whispered hoarsely, "but you don't. You don't know anything about me. Nothing. And I'm glad."

  Her words reached his ears, but they didn't really soak in. It was the pain in her voice, her face, every line of her body, that was his main concern.

  "Elise, tell me-where do you hurt?" he coaxed.

  "Everywhere." She closed her eyes and brought her knees up higher. "I hurt ... everywhere."

  Panic washed over him.

  He pried the blanket from her clenched fingers, then pulled the cover back. She was wearing his shirt and jogging pants. With her other hand she hugged the pillow to her stomach.

  This wasn't normal. What in God's name was wrong with her? Appendicitis? Food poisoning?

  "Why are you bothering with me? I'm nothing to you. Just a pawn in your little revenge game."

  Everything he'd done to her, everything he'd put her through from the first attack in the alley, came crashing down on his conscience. Twice within a matter of days he'd been accused of not caring. First by Skeeter, now by Elise.

  Maybe it was true.

  All along he'd figured she was hard, used to more rough stuff than he could dish out in a lifetime.

  But she wasn't as tough as she pretended. He was beginning to suspect that she wasn't tough at all.

  His head was full of horror stories. Just last year a writer living in the Keys had had an appendicitis attack and died because he hadn't reached the hospital in time.

  What if that happened to Elise?

  He bent to pick her up, sliding a hand under her bent knees, his right arm around her slight shoulders. He could feel the tightness of her body, as if all her muscles were contracted.

  She cried out, and he froze.

  "Don't touch me!"

  "I'm taking you to a hospital."

  "It hurts to move. Don't make me move!"

  Her words only increased his worry. All along she'd been fighting to get away from him, and now, when he wanted to take her back ...

  "I'm sorry. There's no other way." He lifted her from the bed. She let out a single, sobbing gasp and clutched at the front of his shirt. "Dylan ... please..."

  He felt scared, helpless. "You need a doctor."

  "I'm not sick."

  "The hell you aren't."

  With a pathetic fist, she pounded weakly at his chest, but her words, when they came, seemed pulled from her with great reluctance.

  "Cramps." Pound, pound. "I've got ... cramps, you ... you idiot."

  Chapter 9

  Dylan was holding her as if she might break. Quite a switch from the first time he'd held her in his arms. If Elise hadn't been in so much pain, she would have laughed.

  But beneath the pain, on a far subtler level, she was aware of the strength of Dylan's arms, the hardness of his chest ... the fresh ocean scent that seemed a part of him.

  He carried her back and carefully settled her on the bed. Once there, she turned on her side, hugging the pillow to her stomach while curling into a ball. She shut her eyes, as if in so doing she could block out the pain, block out Dylan.

  She didn't know why it should matter-it shouldn't matter, in fact-but she didn't like him seeing her like this. Didn't like the vulnerability of her position. It had been bad enough before, but now, when she was virtually trapped by her pain ...

  She felt him tug the sheet free from under her bare feet, then pull it up to her shoulder, the simple gesture surprising her as much as his earlier concern had.

  Still, she wanted him to go away.

  But he didn't.

  Even with her eyes tightly closed, she could sense his presence.

  "Leave me alone," she finally said.

  "Those pills I found in your purse-they're for cramps, aren't they?"

  His voice sounded odd, maybe a little contrite. Good. She found it reassuring to know that he had some feelings, that he wasn't as hard as he seemed.

  "They are, aren't they?"

  She nodded, eyes still closed, wishing he would just leave the room. She wanted to suffer alone and in peace. "Have you taken any?"

  She'd thought about it. In fact, last night she'd poured two into her palm. But the pills were fairly strong pain-killers that also had a tranquilizing effect-very potent stuff. Practically guaranteed to knock her out for several hours. And she couldn't afford to be knocked out. Not here. Not now.

  Even if she managed to remain awake, she would be confused, and she didn't want to be confused around Dylan. No, she needed to remain totally alert.

  "You obviously haven't," Dylan said.

  She opened her eyes. He was crouched beside the bed, his face at almost the same level as hers.

  It was like subliminal persuasion. When she looked at him, she could almost forget the pain.

  He was near enough for her to see that he needed to shave. His hair was a little damp, and he smelled like the ocean. And his mouth ... his mouth ...

  "My grandmother warned me about guys like you," she said, surprised that she'd vocalized her thoughts. Why had she said such an absurd thing?

  His eyebrows lifted, and a faint smile played around the lips she'd been so openly staring at.

  "I have to keep my wits about me, you know," she told him soberly.

  "Elise. . .this is crazy. You don't have to lie here in pain because of me."

  Her gaze was drawn from his mouth to his eyes, his wolf eyes. Amber... shot with black.

  Dark hair, dark eyes. Dark soul?

  "I won't hurt you. I swear."

  He seemed so sincere. And she realized that there was more to this than whether or not she decided to take the pills. It was a question of trust. To take them would be the same as saying she trusted him.

  "The pills... I-I don't like to take them. They mess up my head ... knock me out."

  "I know how strong codeine is." His deep voice gentled, became coaxing, intimate. "I won't let anything happen to you, Elise. I swear."

  She felt a pain that had nothing to do with physical discomfort. Where had that feeling come from? Oh, Lord. Why did he have such an effect on her? It made no sense. None at all.

  Her grandmother's words came back to her. Think with your head not with your heart. She suddenly felt unaccountably weepy. But then, she always got weepy at this time of the month.

  "Elise ... ? How about it? You can't lie here and suffer."

  Trust. She wanted to trust this man, believe this man. But he was bad. Why did that knowledge hurt so much?

  "Elise... ?" He was waiting.

  She swallowed, then nodded.

  Dylan disappeared, then reappeared a minute later with a glass of water.

  She ended up taking two pills, a full dose.

  Might as well jump in with both feet.

  Ten minutes later the pain had already begun to lessen. She started feeling groggy. Her eyelids grew heavy and finally drifted shut. She was almost asleep when she forced her eyes open one last time.

  At first she thought Dylan had left the room, but then she saw him standing to the left of the bed, staring
out the window.

  His hands were jammed into the front pockets of his jeans, the light from the window reflecting in his eyes, giving them a distant stare.

  Sad. He looked sad... and alone. Very alone.

  Dylan...

  It occurred to her that she still didn't know his last name, so she asked.

  He turned, obviously surprised to find that she was still awake. "Davis," he said.

  "Davis."

  Her tongue was feeling a little thick, her words coming a little slower. "Dylan Davis. An alliteration.... I like that. Does your middle name begin with a D, too?"

  She was getting punchy. She knew she was, but suddenly it didn't matter. That was the way of it when you got punchy. Nothing mattered.

  He smiled..

  And she thought, Why do you have to have such a nice smile?

  "Yeah. My mother thought it was cute." He rolled his eyes.

  "What's your middle name? Wait. Don't tell me. Let me guess. Let's see.... How about Damien?" "No."

  "Drew?"

  "No."

  "Dean?"

  "No, it's Daniel."

  "Daniel." She liked that. "A biblical name."

  A strong name. For some odd reason, she could almost see Dylan in a lion's den, his back to the wall. "Do you fight lions, Dylan Daniel Davis?"

  She could tell that her question took him by surprise.

  Then his expression grew reflective. "Yeah," he said, as if his answer surprised himself. "Yeah, sometimes I do." She wanted to ask him more about the lions, but she couldn't stay awake any longer. The drug beckoned, dragging her down, coaxing her eyelids shut.

  Quietly, Dylan turned the knob, then pushed the bedroom door open to look in on Elise. She'd been right about the pills. They'd knocked her out. It had been four hours since she'd taken them, and she was still asleep.

  Her face was devoid of color except under her eyes, where the shadowed skin was blue tinged, almost transparent. He felt a tug deep in his gut.

  He couldn't explain the flood of relief he'd felt when he'd finally understood what was wrong with her. She'd almost seemed embarrassed to tell him, but that was crazy. Someone with her background wouldn't be embarrassed about that kind of thing.