Theresa Weir - Iguana Bay

by Iguana Bay [SIM-339] (lit)

  But a person can't always remain on the sidelines of life, Elise silently reasoned. You can't spend your life cheering everyone else on, never participating. Sometimes you have to jump in and be a part of what's going on, even if it means getting hurt.

  And when it's time to go, you don't cry foul. You get up, put yourself back together and go.

  Like whistling in the dark.

  The air was damp. Everything, including their clothes, was covered with the fine mist that had fallen from the sky, that had come with the night, swirling around them while they slept.

  After they were dressed, Dylan draped the cotton blanket around Elise's shoulders, pulling it snugly to her chin. "It's going to be a cold ride," he explained.

  Then he kissed her again, the way he had before. Quickly. Gently. Softly.

  Goodbye.

  He pulled away, his hands still on her arms. Through the blanket, she could feel the imprint of his fingers. She looked up at him-a dark shape against the lightening sky, sea wind tugging and teasing his thick hair. For a moment she saw him as she had that first night when he'd made her pulse race with both fear and a strange excitement. The only thing missing was a billowing black cape and a rugged coastline to frame his wind-tossed hair and wild wolf eyes, eyes that seemed to hold dark, untold secrets-dark, untold pain.

  What was he thinking?

  It was impossible to tell. He'd been a cop, a professional. He'd learned to keep his emotions in check, learned to hide all his deep, jagged scars.

  But last night some of that control had slipped. Last night he'd trembled for her. Last night he'd whispered her name. Words had tumbled from his lips, disjointed phrases breathed in the heat of passion.

  Night words.

  Her own passion had equaled his, creating a thrumming in her head, a roar that had drowned out his words, had so fogged her mind that there had been no real clarity to the things he had said, nothing she could cling to but the way she had felt when he'd held her.

  It seemed to Elise that his eyes, his guarded, wary eyes, were no longer quite so guarded. She could almost swear, almost hope, that in their depths lay quiet concern.

  No, she told herself. It was merely an illusion created by the shifting shadows. And yet...

  Ah, Dylan.

  The words were a heavy sigh in her mind, in her heart.

  I could love you. I could love you so very, very much. And you could break my heart.

  She felt hot tears gathering behind her eyes and blinked, then swallowed. Control. That was the key word here. She mustn't lose control.

  She was an adult, solely responsible for her actions-and reactions. She knew better than to expect some declaration of love from Dylan. This wasn't a fairy tale, wasn't a story where people lived happily ever after. This was real life. And now that their shared night was over, it was time to go.

  If only it didn't hurt so much.

  "Are you okay?" Dylan asked, voicing the very question she thought she'd detected in his eyes. She nodded, because she couldn't speak.

  Leave me alone. Don't press me for an answer. Please.

  "Are you sure?"

  She managed to dredge up a tremulous smile, followed by another nod.

  Hold me.

  But instead of acting on her silent plea, Dylan turned away, his hands busying themselves with the rope as he pulled up the anchor.

  That was how it was with men. They just pulled up anchor, cast off and never looked back. Grandma Max had been right.

  Elise took her place in the passenger seat, clasped her hands in her lap while she stared toward the horizon, searching the sky for the Southern Cross.

  It was gone.

  The night was over.

  And then the boat was cutting through the water, Dylan's sure hands guiding it toward the mainland, taking Elise back to her old life, back to the real world, a world where there was no Southern Cross, where there was no one to make her melt inside, no one to make her pulse race, her heart ache.

  She had to tell him who she really was. And then maybe, when all this was over...

  What? He might want her?

  Suddenly Elise was more afraid than she'd ever been in her life, more afraid than she'd been that night in the alley when Dylan had grabbed her, when she'd felt the outline of a gun jabbing against her rib cage. That night she'd been afraid of dying. Now she was afraid of losing someone she'd never had.

  The earth continued its slow rotation. The last of the stars had faded. The sun would soon be up. Time was ticking, ticking away....

  They pulled into a broken-down marina, Dylan's small speedboat dwarfed by huge clamming vessels and dry-docked ships, their towering masts silhouetted against the orange-streaked blush of dawn.

  He cut the engine and guided the silent boat toward the dock, quickly tying it to one of the barnacled pylons.

  Elise stood and let the blanket slip from her shoulders to the seat.

  As if from somewhere outside herself, she reached up and felt her tangled, wind-whipped hair. It was hanging around her face in ropelike coils. She must look like some homeless waif. n

  But her outer appearance was trivial compared to inside. Inside, she was falling apart.

  But Dylan didn't look any different. Why didn't he look any different?

  His faded jeans still fit snugly over his lean hips. His T-shirt had been wrinkled before. The additional creases just added to his charm, his rough roguishness.

  What had she expected?

  Come on, Elise. This is the real world.

  For Dylan, last night had been nothing but a pleasant diversion. Just another day at the beach.

  She had to do something, so she pretended a sudden preoccupation with the rumpled state of her clothing, trying to smooth some of the wrinkles from the black T-shirt, running her hands down its length, over and over. The wrinkles just came back. They wouldn't go away. She wanted them to go away, wanted everything to go back to the way it had been before she'd come to Florida.

  Didn't she?

  She'd been content with her life. Satisfied with her quiet, orderly existence. But now Dylan had gone and ruined everything.

  Now, if-when, she quickly corrected-she went back to her cabin on the river, the joy would be gone. She would no longer feel the pleasure of watching the barges go by, of watching the sun rise over the Mississippi. Her thoughts would be elsewhere. She would be thinking about the ocean smell in Dylan's hair, thinking about all the ways he had touched her. The dark ways, the sad ways, the funny ways. The ways a man touches a woman. Gentle, wonderful ways ...

  "Elise..."

  She froze, then looked up.

  Dylan was standing directly in front of her. Through a haze, a frantic, heart-thumping confused haze, she saw that he held a yellow comb. A comb? She frowned, puzzled.

  "Sit down."

  He shuffled her sideways, then pressed her shoulders. Her knees bent, and she sat.

  Using his fingers and the comb, he began working the tangles from her hair. He was being very careful, very gentle. She hadn't known a man could be so careful, so gentle. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe lightly, hoping to God she didn't make a complete fool of herself by falling apart now.

  Later she could scatter into a million pieces like some gone-to-seed dandelion, but now she must cling desperately to her pride, her self-control.

  But she was so scared.

  Scared of never seeing Dylan again. Scared that he wouldn't care. Scared of what he would think, what he would say, when soon, very soon, she gathered enough strength, enough nerve, to tell him the truth, to confess everything. Maybe, just maybe...

  A fear she'd been evading for the past several days surfaced. Would he even believe her? Wasn't it possible that the person he thought she was would lie in order to be with him?

  Yes.

  When Dylan finished with her hair he pulled her to her feet. Then he straightened her shirt and tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear, his fingers skimming her sca
lp.

  Somehow-she would never know how-she'd managed to get through all his careful ministrations without coming undone.

  Now, if she could just hang on a little longer. Make it through the next five minutes. The next hour... the next day...

  She took his hand as he helped her from the boat. When they reached the end of the dock Dylan swung her into his arms and carried her across the gravel and broken shells, putting her down beside his car, where her bare feet could rest on smooth blacktop.

  This wasn't the same car they had arrived in several days ago. She had a vague recollection of parking beside this one, but at the time she'd been too scared to notice very much of anything.

  Now she saw things with a crystalline clarity. The car was black-obviously one of Dylan's favorite colors. It had round fenders, a long low hood that looked as if it covered a powerful engine. It was streamlined. Something made to go fast.

  She waited while he dug for the keys in the front pocket of his jeans. She watched as he stuck the key into the lock, and as he did so, she was surprised to see his strong, steady hands tremble.

  Dylan? Shaking?

  He unlocked the door and pocketed the keys. He hesitated.

  No. Tell him now.

  She turned to him. "Dylan, I-"

  "Elise, I-"

  They spoke in unison.

  Dylan smiled. "Go ahead."

  "I have to tell you something. About Sebastian and me."

  Something akin to pain flashed from the amber depths of his eyes, then vanished as his face closed. "I don't want to know about you and Sebastian."

  "But I-"

  He lowered his voice, his hands gripping her arms, giving her a small shake. "I don't want to know."

  She started to argue, to press on, but her words caught on her next breath when she saw the unmistakable anguish in his face. Guarded, self-controlled Dylan.

  And as Dylan looked down into Elise's blue eyes, eyes that seemed to reflect the ocean and all its depths, eyes that seemed somehow to reflect his very soul, he felt the foundation of his life crumbling from under his feet.

  Suddenly everything that had gone before, everything that he'd ever thought important-his island, the boat he wanted to build, being a cop, the ocean, the stars, even his need to revenge Melissa's death-faded into insignificance.

  There was only one thing left.

  Elise.

  He brought his hands slowly up to her face, once again amazed at the softness of her skin beneath his rough palms, amazed at the blueness of her eyes, at the unguarded innocence he saw there. And, more than that, he was amazed that she could make him feel so alive, make him want to live so damn much.

  Her brow furrowed as if she were in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, but before she did he'd glimpsed something he couldn't put a name to, but it was an emotion so strong that it staggered him, drove the air from his lungs.

  Suddenly it was very important that he share something of what he was feeling with her, at least the part he himself understood.

  "Elise, I don't care what you've been, or what you've done. That doesn't matter. Everybody makes mistakes in their life, does things they regret. You can't let the past drag you down. It's who you are now that matters."

  Her eyelids lifted, and he found himself being regarded with solemn eyes. Tears filled them; her lips trembled.

  Witnessing her tears, he fell apart. "Come on," he begged. "Don't cry."

  Dylan had never been fazed by Melissa's tears, but Elise's...

  They were different. They were real.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath.

  "Come on. Don't cry. Please."

  She shook her head and smiled up at him through her tears. "I'm not crying."

  He laughed at that. He couldn't help himself. And the lightness of the sound surprised him. The lightness he felt inside surprised him.

  He hadn't felt this way in a long time. Not for years. Maybe never.

  Sounds filtered through all these strange emotions, emotions that were old and yet completely new, intruding when he was close to grasping and making sense of what he felt.

  Footsteps.

  Crunching across broken shells and gravel.

  The cop in Dylan reacted. He swung around, shielding Elise with his body, one hand on her hip, the other going to where his shoulder holster should be, reaching for a gun that wasn't there. From directly beside him, he caught a flash of movement-sunlight glinting off the butt of a pistol.

  "No, Claude!" Elise screamed.

  Then the pistol crashed against the side of Dylan's head. His ears rang. White shafts of pain pierced his skull. Swirling blackness beckoned.

  Black holes... He was getting a firsthand view of black holes...

  Elise.

  He thought he spoke her name, but maybe he just called to her in his mind, or maybe he just moved his lips; he didn't know.

  His knees buckled. The black hole loomed closer....

  Through the spiraling tunnel he heard Elise cry out his name. He fought the blackness, struggled to stay conscious. He could feel her small hands on his ribs, trying to keep him from falling, trying to support him. He wanted to tell her to forget it, that he was too heavy for her, but the words just wouldn't come.

  Damn poor time to black out. He had to tell her something. Something he'd never told any woman before. He had to tell her that he loved her.

  "Elise..."

  His voice was a pathetic croak. He sounded like some delirious guy begging for water. Before he could say more, before he could make an even bigger fool of himself, the black hole swallowed him, taking him to a place where there was no light, no stars. No Elise.

  Chapter 15

  Dylan slumped against her. Elise staggered under his weight as she tried to ease his unconscious body to the ground. He was too heavy. The best she could manage was to keep his head from striking the asphalt as he went down..

  Claude has seemingly come out of nowhere. Why had he hit Dylan? He hadn't had to hit him. Fear and anger surged through her. She had liked Claude. She'd been nice to him. Now she felt as if he'd betrayed her.

  Blood. The fingers of her left hand were sticky with it.

  Oh, God.

  She had to stay calm. Head wounds bled a lot. It didn't necessarily mean he was hurt very badly. Of course not.

  She knew Claude wouldn't hurt her, so she shielded Dylan with her body while casting a glance over one shoulder, catching a glimpse of the bodyguard's perplexed, prize fighter's features.

  "Why'd you hit him?" she demanded, her voice thick with tears and dismay. "You didn't have to hit him! Is that all you men know? Violence?" There was a high note of hysteria edging into her voice. She had to get a grip on herself. She would be no help to Dylan if she came unglued.

  Claude made an apologetic gesture with one big hand, then shrugged his massive shoulders. "I thought it was better than shooting him."

  Looking down, she saw that Dylan's face had lost all color, except for the shadow along his unshaven jaw and the crimson stain at his temple. He looked so helpless, so vulnerable.

  He looked dead.

  With shaking fingers, she quickly found the pulse in his neck. His heartbeat was steady and strong. She parted his hair-his thick, salt-stiffened hair-until she uncovered an oozing cut about three inches long. A lump was already forming around it.

  Dylan moaned, his eyes still closed, brow furrowed in pain..

  She grabbed her purse and dug through it until she found a small packet of tissues. She pulled out the entire contents and pressed it against the cut on Dylan's head. He muttered and lifted one arm, as if to stop her, then let it flop to the ground.

  Seeing Dylan so vulnerable unleashed Elise's anger. In a strangely comforting way, it helped atone for the feelings of helplessness, panic and confusion that were roiling within her. "If you wanted me to come with you, why didn't you just walk up and ask? Would that have been so hard?"

  "But Miss Ramsey-" Claude scratched his head, clearly
confused. "Davis kidnapped you, didn't he?"

  She knew Claude's reasoning made more sense than hers. After all, Dylan had kidnapped her, something she had a tendency to overlook, if not completely forget. It seemed insignificant now.

  "Yes, but he never hurt me," she said stubbornly, feeling like a child trying to defend herself when logic was against her.

  Dylan's hand came up again. This time his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist, as if he thought she might be the enemy, the person who had struck him. His eyes opened, and his groggy, pain-filled gaze searched until it settled on her face. "Elise..."

  His grip immediately relaxed. Relief washed over his features, mirroring her own feelings at his return to consciousness. And the way he said her name, the way he was looking up at her, made her go weak all over, made her heart hammer, made her breath catch.

  Footsteps sounded from behind. She turned.

  Adrian Sebastian was casually strolling across the lot toward them. He was dressed in a baggy white linen suit, his black hair greased and shining.

  "Dylan Davis," Sebastian announced as he approached. "I suspected that you had something to do with Elise's disappearance. You seem to have a knack for not using your head."

  When Elise looked back at Dylan she was relieved to see that the confusion was gone from his eyes, replaced now by wariness, a quiet watchfulness.

  "How could you have known it was me?" Dylan asked, releasing his hold on Elise's wrist. He grabbed the folded, blood-soaked tissues, then levered himself to a sitting position. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his face, and he pressed the tissues back against the wound. "It could have been any one of your many admirers."

  Elise could sense the hate in Dylan, could sense that he was struggling to control it.

  "Dylan," she warned, trying to draw his gaze to hers, not wanting him to do anything to make Sebastian mad. But Dylan kept his eyes on Sebastian.

  "That's okay," Sebastian said with a laugh, no trace of anger in his voice. "Dylan always, was excitable."

  His laugh surprised her. It sounded like a real laugh. As if he and Dylan were friends, or once had been. As if he actually liked Dylan.