Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  He'd made the calls. Why else would he be there at this hour, wide awake and watching in the dark to see her reac­tions?

  * * *

  "Who the hell is Sam?"

  Quentin Kincaid dropped the telephone into its cradle and screwed up his face with irritation. He didn't waste much time worrying over the question, though. Just a few more days and it wouldn't matter. He would be there to take credit for his own work. And this was going to be an incompara­ble piece of it. "Mama will be proud."

  Damn, he was good. With the others—well, except for that award-stealing bitch Denise Barton—he'd only made one call each. One preliminary call to "invite" them to star in his masterpiece. One little-bitty conversation so they would remember—"Oh, yes, you're the one who called about the who's-who book?" they'd all said—and doors had opened wide before they even finished the sentence.

  Goddamn right! He was the one. And stupid Jonna Sanders was going to credit his genius to some idiot named Sam. He wondered vaguely if it was the guy who had been riding around her farm the day he'd made his visit.

  He sped to his grungy one-room apartment, anxious to look at her one more time. His fingers caught the flap of the small envelope of pictures beside it as he lifted The Record from the table and photos scattered across the horrible green shag rug.

  He ought to get another book. He grinned, studying them one by one as he picked them up. He could call it, A Visit to the Farm. The living room after he finished with it. That was where he would put her. Right there in front of those win­dows, for all the world to see. Her office. He frowned as he looked again at her stairs, cluttered in the picture with de­bris. That would be a good place for her, too. One leg out like that, one leg over here, showing for all the world to see, exactly how she'd ripped off some other guy's award.

  How would he decide? He just might have to experiment until he found exactly the right one. And in that desolate place, he would have all the time in the world.

  Well, maybe, he cautioned himself. He'd been surprised to see the man and the other house there. It looked de­serted. He looked at that photo again. Until he'd checked it out and made certain, he shouldn't get so goddamn cocky. Pride goes before a fall.

  The old lady'd been quoting that one for years. And her fall was coming. As sure as he had only four more spaces to fill before it was her turn to enter into The Record.

  He didn't let himself linger too long over each page. He only had half an hour before he had to head for work. For once, he was almost anxious to get there. Another few days, Jonna Sanders would be permanently enshrined here and he hadn't yet chosen another candidate. The thought made him itchy.

  Of course if he wasn't so picky...

  But dammit, being picky paid off. He reached for the pictures of Jonna he'd taken. He was almost awestruck by how good he really was. Jonna in the distance, her body curved into the pale horse, her hair fanned out and up be­hind her like some bizarre flower's bloom.

  At first, he'd nearly swooned with distress. She was go­ing to see him. What would he do then? But he'd changed the lens on the camera, saw her close up and figured he'd know the appropriate thing to do when the time arrived. Getting these pictures had been worth taking a bit of a risk.

  These were gems. Jonna frowning into the wind. Jonna and the horse, in silhouette against the sky.

  But this one was the prize. Alone after tying the horse to the porch, she'd been striding toward that little truck she drove, and she'd looked back over her shoulder. He'd snapped the shot as her eyes had swept past him. But in the picture, it looked as if she was staring right at him. Her hair, the color of honey in the sun, was windswept and wild, and her cheeks were flushed with exertion. But it was her spar­kling hazel eyes, wide-eyed and terrified, that drew the viewer in.

  Wait till his mother saw this one. How could she possibly say he didn't have an eye for art? Denise Barton had stolen his award and ended his graphic arts career, but here was real proof of his barely scratched artistic potential. In pho­tography. He would probably be famous.

  Jonna Sanders should consider herself very lucky to be his first official model.

  * * *

  She freaked! Sam saw her drop the binoculars and scream.

  The curtains swayed with her frantic movements, then closed, blocking his view.

  Damn! How was he supposed to know she had binocu­lars of her own? He'd watched her night after night, wan­dering waiflike through that open and always lit-up-like-a- Christmas-tree house.

  He didn't think about his decision, he just moved, taking the stairs two and three at a time. He grabbed the top shirt from the folded stack in the corner of the room he occu­pied. Jerking it over his head and automatically tucking the tail in, he stopped beside the window and glanced up at the house on the hill as he refastened his jeans.

  He debated only a second about whether to take his car. She'd see his lights, know he was coming. That would probably send her right over the edge.

  The wind was cold, and he ran back inside to get his coat—and his keys. He relocked the back door behind him.

  Her house was quiet when he reached it, and he hadn't seen her moving about. That meant she was still either in one of the bedrooms where she could close out the night, or in the kitchen. There, behind the stairs that separated the dining area from the rest of the room, she could hide from the world.

  He took a deep breath and knocked.

  She shrieked, but that immediately mutated to a terrified whimper.

  My God, I've scared her to death.

  He knocked again. "Jonna."

  She was maybe fifteen paces away, beyond the door. He could hear her there, practically dancing with fright. A frantic guilt smothered him. He'd never intended—

  "Jonna, let me in." He waited. "We've got to talk." He tried the door but the knob didn't turn. "Jonna? Please."

  No answer.

  "Please let me in. Let me—"

  "Go away." The second word was muffled beneath a hysterical sob. "I'm... calling... the police."

  He heard her move, heard a chair or something overturn, heard her muted curse. He could picture her desperate scramble toward the phone.

  Damn! He had no choice. He knew he was hammering another nail of suspicion into his coffin, but he took the keys from the pocket of his jeans and let himself in. The inner door banged against the wall as he crossed through the kitchen.

  He heard her yelped mixture of fright and frustration as she realized he was coming. The phone crashed to the floor.

  "Jonna, please, listen to me. Think about—"

  The words caught in his throat as he rounded the base of the stairs, and the sight of her clawed at his soul. Jonna stood shivering, half-dressed and petrified, beside the mutilated couch. Tears coursed down her pale face. She held the cordless handset protectively curled against her breast while the phone itself lay at her feet.

  And two yards away, the stark, shaking barrel of a gun was aimed directly at his heart.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “D-d-don't...m-move," she whispered. "I'll sh-sh-oo-t."

  How could she shoot him? She couldn't even see him. She had to stop this ridiculous crying.

  She used the back of the hand holding the phone to wipe at her eyes. She couldn't dial and maintain her concentration on him, so she opened her hand and ignored the clatter as the receiver bounced at her feet.

  She covered the hand gripping the gun with the hand she had just freed, and her violent shaking subsided a little.

  Sam sighed and wearily rearranged his features with his palms, raking his fingers through his hair. He clasped his hands behind his head. The plain white T-shirt he wore hugged his broad chest. The veins in his arms laced his long, tensed muscles as he froze in the classic I-give-up pose she'd seen on a million cop shows on TV. She relaxed a smidgen.

  "Will you listen to me, Jonna?"

  "How did you get in here?" she demanded, but her voice quivered weakly.

  "I took your keys,
had copies made that first morning when we want to town," he explained. "I warned you not to leave them in the truck," he interrupted when she would have replied. "I was preparing for when he came but I'm glad now I did it. We obviously have—"

  "Stop!"

  He'd moved a foot nearer and she almost hadn't noticed. She tentatively backed a couple of steps away.

  "I can't miss you from this close, Sam. Don't try me."

  "Will you please just listen, Jonna?" he pleaded. "I can see why you might be scared—"

  "Why were you up in the middle of the night spying on me?" She swayed and widened her stance to brace her trembling knees.

  "Think about it," he said slowly. "How am I going to keep someone from killing you—''

  "You're the one who wants to kill me."

  He ignored her accusation and went on in his measured voice, "--if I don't watch you?"

  "You said I didn't have to worry about that until I have the award."

  "But I worry. I don't sleep much. And I get up several times a night—every night—just to check on you, just to make sure everything's okay."

  "And you just happened to 'check on me,' right after that phone call?" Her sarcasm couldn't stop the hurt or the horror, and her tears began to flow freely again. "Curious about how your sick phone calls affect me? And I suppose you just happened to be gone when I got the last one?'' She sniffed.

  "What phone calls?" He took another step.

  "And you just happened to not say anything this time because you were afraid I might recognize— I said 'Stop.' I mean it, Sam, if you come one step closer I'm going to shoot you."

  He obeyed. Her hands wavered precariously. The gun felt as if it weighed a ton.

  "What phone calls, Jonna? I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Don't do this to me," she cried. "Don't pretend you don't know and didn't make—"

  His hands closed over hers on the gun and she screamed. She didn't have the strength to resist as he lifted their arms, aiming the gun over his shoulder toward the kitchen.

  "Give it to me, Jonna. Give me the gun. You know you can't shoot me."

  Her hands were stiff as he unwound her fingers and gingerly took the weapon. She gasped as he turned it toward her, but he kept it lowered while he removed the bullets and she crumpled, sobbing, to the floor at his feet.

  He knelt and she jumped at the heavy thud when he placed the gun on the rug beside than. She scrambled on all fours, trying to get away, out of his reach.

  "Jonna, please, Jonna. Come on, sweetheart, don't cry."

  The endearment battered, confused her.

  He followed, hand-walking, grappling with her, crooning comforting sounds. He succeeded in capturing her and pulling her to him when they were stretched nearly full- length across the floor.

  "Please, Jonna, don't cry."

  His thumb flicked away one tear, but they wouldn't seem to quit coming.

  She felt like ice. Sam rubbed her arms slowly up and down, up and down, warming her. Gradually, probably for the first time since she'd seen him peering back at her, her shivering stopped—until his thumb brushed the thin material of her camisole.

  A shudder of a totally different kind swept through her.

  His breath caught. His hands stopped.

  Another tear escaped, and this time he caught it with his lips.

  She opened her eyes and searched his face.

  Suddenly he looked as vulnerable and helpless as she felt. And she wanted his strong arms around her more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

  Shaken outside and in, as in control and coherent as a bowl full of Jell-O, she ordered herself to move away. But telling and doing were two different things. Especially with his hand curved around her bare midriff. His fingers shaped themselves to her, caressed her.

  He cradled her back and gently eased her over, hovering above her. "I wouldn't hurt you, Jonna. Don't you know I wouldn't hurt you for all the world?"

  Her skin tingled and the intense sensation traveled from her head to her feet. She groaned. "Oh, Sam, I wish I could believe you." Resisting the urge to curl herself against him sapped any strength she had left.

  He took the choice from her, pulling her close, into the hard planes of his shoulder. His hand stroked her hair, the length of her back, fanning flames of some primitive desire.

  "Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he asked. "Do you honestly believe I could hurt you when it takes every bit of my energy every day just trying to resist you, trying not to care?"

  He leaned away from her, framing her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. "I'm going to kiss you," he warned in a raw whisper, giving her a chance to refuse.

  Whatever her mind said, she knew her eyes were saying yes.

  The blood in her veins boiled as he drew her weight in to him. His hips moved suggestively against her. The concrete strength of his arousal left her dizzy.

  He lowered his lips to hers tentatively. They were sweet, so sweet. They seemed to draw the very life force out of her with their gentle, undemanding caress. He deepened it gradually, seeming to sip from her every ounce of strength before he generously gave it back. He stopped to kiss her closed eyelids, her tearstained cheeks. Then he returned his attention to her lips.

  At some point in the very near future, she knew she'd have to think lucidly again. But her body itched with emp­tiness and deprivation. And never before had she experi­enced this intense, throbbing, hurting need.

  "Sam," she whispered, "Sam, please make love to me."

  He moaned and tried to pull away. "Don't do this to me, Jonna."

  "Please, Sam." She had to do something about this ach­ing void. Sam was the only one who could fill it.

  "What makes you think I'll be able to turn it off—stop--when you start thinking again and decide you don't want to?" He moved far enough away that their bodies were no longer touching, though the fingertips of one hand lingered on her arm, as if he needed to keep that one connection.

  "I won't want you to stop." Just the introduction of air between them made the hurt return. And this would surely destroy her dangerous, mindless fascination with him. She had to indulge the craving that had been growing and de­vouring her by bits and pieces each day. Once and for all, she had to do whatever it took to think logically when she thought about him.

  "What scared you, Jonna?"

  "Don't you know?"

  "No."

  She lifted his hand to her breast. "Then, please Sam, make love to me now. For a little while, I want to believe."

  He complied.

  His hands flowed over her silken skin. Her tear-washed eyes trusted him, warming him like the sun warmed a rainy afternoon, banishing the hollow cold that had gripped him since Denise's death.

  He slid his arms beneath her, satisfied momentarily with sheltering her from the coarsely woven carpet. He sa­vored the smell of the soft perfume he would recognize anywhere as hers. And for once, he let himself fill his vision to his heart's content with the picture of the warm vi­brant Jonna lying beneath him.

  She closed her eyes. Her hands, which had been compla­cently flat against his chest, began to roam, stroking, touching and kneading him with impatience.

  Then what their hands were doing grew unimportant. No longer capable of thought, he drove into her very core. She clasped him to her as if she never intended to let him go. And they settled into a rhythm as ageless and unrelenting as the wind that had shaped, and then reshaped the rolling plains.

  When she cried out, perched at the precipice of fulfill­ment, he hammered against her then let himself pitch with her, over the edge and into cataclysmic, mind- numbing satiation.

  And when he could breathe again, think sanely, he felt her body mold itself around him.

  And she felt like home.

  * * *

  Morning infused the artificially lit room with warm nat­ural light. Jonna finally moved. Tentatively removing her­self from the quiet embrace Sam had held her in
for the past half hour, she picked up her shreds of clothing and almost stepped on the gun lying at their feet.

  It was a bitter reminder of everything that had happened since Sam had come into her life, and she cringed under the weight of what they had just done.

  She should still be terrified, but she wasn't. She still didn't understand everything or his part in it, but she didn't care.

  She knew as certainly as she knew she'd misplaced her trust a million times before that she shouldn't trust him an inch. But she trusted him with her life.