by Sandra Brown
He stretched out the elastic waistband of his trunks and peered into them. “All parts present and accounted for, sir.”
Todd chuckled. “Judging from the racket, there were times I thought I might have to come down there and rescue you.”
“There were times when I thought you might have to.” He relieved himself over the side of the craft.
Todd asked, “Did she do that thing with her thumb?”
Roark tucked himself back into his trunks, turned, smiled, but said nothing.
“Oh. I forgot. Sir Roark never shares the juicy details. A real gallant.”
Roark was about to bow at the waist but figured that in his present condition that might be a tricky move, so he settled for a clumsy salute.
Todd motioned toward one of the ice chests. “Help yourself to a fresh bottle.”
“Thanks, but I’m still too wasted to stand.”
“And jealous.”
Roark used one arm to brace himself against the exterior wall of the cabin. “Huh?”
“You’re jealous.”
Roark shrugged. “Maybe.” He gave a weak grin. “Okay, a little.”
“More than a little, Roark. More than a little.” Todd raised the rum bottle to his eye like a telescope and peered down the length of it at Roark. “Admit it, you thought you’d be the first to sell.”
Roark’s stomach was queasy. The horizon was seesawing. He was also uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. “Todd, I couldn’t be happier.”
“Oh, yeah, you could. If you’d sold your book today, you’d be a hell of a lot happier. So would Hadley. I think he probably jacks off over your manuscripts. Your work makes him positively giddy, doesn’t it? What was that he said about it being an honor and privilege to review your work?” He took a swig of rum. “Something like that.”
“You read his letter to me?”
“Clever of you to get that post office box, but careless of you to leave his letter in the pocket of your jeans. I was short the cash to pay for a pizza delivery and saw your jeans lying on the floor where you’d stepped out of them. Raided the pockets looking for money, and… pulled out a plum.”
“You shouldn’t have read my mail.”
“You shouldn’t have lied to me about Hadley’s enthusiasm for your work and his lack of it for mine.”
“What do you care what Hadley thinks of your work?”
“I don’t. Last laugh is on him and you. I’ve sold. You haven’t.”
“So fine. Let’s just drop it.”
“No. I don’t believe I will.”
Todd stood up slowly. He was steadier on his feet than he should have been, leaving Roark to question if he had drunk as much as he had pretended to. He moved along the deck with a predatory, malevolent tread.
“What’s eating you, Todd? You won. Hadley was wrong.”
“Maybe about my writing. Not about the other.”
“Other?”
“My character. Remember how flawed I am? Driven by greed and jealousy and envy. Those undesirable character traits about which Hadley waxed poetic.”
Roark’s stomach heaved and he swallowed a throatful of sour bile. “That’s all bullshit. I didn’t pay any attention to it.”
“Well, I did.”
He didn’t see it coming. Moving sinuously only a second before, Todd now lunged at him and took a vicious swing at his head with the liquor bottle. Roark caught it on the temple, and if it had been a sledgehammer, it couldn’t have hurt any worse. He roared in pain and outrage.
But he had enough wits to see the bottle arcing once again above his head. He dodged it just in time to spare himself another concussion. Instead it shattered against the wall of the cabin, showering them with broken glass and rum.
Todd attacked with a fury then, throwing blows one right after the other aimed at Roark’s face and head. Most of them connected, crunching cartilage and splitting skin. Dazed but fueled by anger, Roark struck back. He landed a fist against Todd’s mouth and felt the scrape of teeth against his knuckles. It hurt, but it hurt Todd more. His mouth gushed blood.
The drawing of blood was a primal and powerful exhilaration. At any other time Roark would have been astonished over how much satisfaction he derived from making Todd bleed. Propelled by jealousy, he wanted to see more of Todd’s blood on his hands. He wanted to punish him for succeeding first and making him feel like a failure.
But his hot rage was tepid compared to Todd’s. Todd’s bloodlust had escalated into savagery. With feral growls, he came at Roark, clawing and pounding.
Roark’s temper was soon spent. He was ready to back off, cool down, and call a truce.
Todd was beyond that. He didn’t let up, not even when Roark stopped being aggressive and only deflected blows in order to protect himself.
“Goddammit, enough!”
“Never enough.” Todd’s clenched teeth were smeared with blood. Bubbles of it foamed over his lips. “Never enough.”
And he launched a fresh attack.
“Wha’sgoin’on?” Mary Catherine appeared in the open doorway of the cabin, naked except for a golden ankle bracelet. Ignored, she drunkenly staggered onto the deck and stepped on a piece of broken glass. “Ow! What the fuck is going on?”
“Shut up!”
Todd rounded on her and struck a blow that caught her at waist level. Favoring her bleeding foot, she was already off balance. His blow sent her reeling backward. The chrome side railing caught her in the back of her knees. Arms windmilling, she went overboard with a scream that died as soon as she hit the water.
Roark stared at the empty space she’d left at the boat’s railing and sobered instantly. “She’s too drunk to swim!”
He executed a shallow dive into the water. The salt water seared the open wounds on his face and he came up gasping. He was fighting nausea from too much liquor and what he knew must be a concussion where he’d been hit with the bottle.
But all this hardly registered. Treading water, he blinked his eyes as clear as he could get them and frantically searched the surface of the dark water for a sign of Mary Catherine.
“Do you see her?” he yelled up at Todd, who was standing on the deck looking down at him, blood dripping from his chin onto his smooth chest. “Todd? Christ, did you hear me? Do you see her?”
“No.”
“Turn on the lights.”
Todd just stood there staring into the water, apparently shocked into immobility.
“Shit.”
Heart pounding, head bursting, Roark jackknifed beneath the surface. Although it stung like crazy, he kept his eyes open. But it didn’t matter. He might just as well have been swimming through a bottle of ink. He couldn’t even see his own hands as he waved them about, searching blindly, hoping to make contact with a limb, skin, hair.
He stayed under until he couldn’t stand the burning in his lungs an instant longer. Breaking the surface, he took a huge gulp of air. He was surprised to see how far he had swum away from the boat. At least Todd had shaken off his stupor and turned on the underwater lights. They cast an eerie green glow around the craft, but they didn’t penetrate nearly far enough.
Although his arms and legs felt like lead and his brain seemed to have relinquished control of them, Roark began swimming toward the boat. Todd was doing something on the port side. Hope surged inside Roark’s chest. He shouted, “Did you find her? Is she over there?”
Todd returned to the starboard side. “No luck?”
Luck? This wasn’t a fishing trip. What was the matter with him? “Call the Coast Guard. I can’t find her. Oh, Jesus.” He sobbed when the full impact of the situation hit him. She might be dead already. Mary Catherine—Sheila—might have drowned because of his inability to save her.
“Call the Coast Guard,” he repeated before diving beneath the surface again.
Knowing it was futile, he pushed himself through the seawater, eyes open but seeing nothing, hands groping but feeling nothing. Still, he was unw
illing to give up. If there was the slimmest chance that she was hanging on, clinging to life, desperate for help…
Again and again he went down, coming up only long enough to take a breath before going down again, diving so deep it made his ears hurt.
He struggled to the surface one last time, fearing that he wouldn’t make it, afraid that he had made one foray too many. At last he tasted air. Greedily he sucked it into his lungs. He couldn’t survive another submersion. He was too tired even to swim the distance between him and the boat. Weakly he treaded water, barely able to keep himself afloat.
“Todd,” he called hoarsely. “Todd.”
Todd appeared at the rail. Roark’s eyes had been scoured by the salt water. His vision was cloudy. “I can’t find her. I can’t look anymore. Throw me the preserver.”
Todd left to get the preserver, and Roark wondered vaguely why he hadn’t had it ready.
Exhausted, he longed to close his burning eyes but was afraid that if he did he would slip beneath the surface and drown before he could garner the energy to save himself. But his eyes must have closed on their own. He must have been only a heartbeat away from losing consciousness, because he was startled awake when the boat’s motor roared to life.
Todd shouldn’t be starting the motor. He should be throwing him a life preserver. If the Coast Guard had been given the coordinates of their location, they should stay in that spot until help arrived. It was damn stupid to start up an outboard with Mary Catherine and him in the water this close to the boat.
These thoughts flashed through his mind in a nanosecond, not in individual words, but as fully formed and intact conclusions. “Todd, what are you doing?”
He kicked his legs and feebly moved his arms in a parody of swim strokes, but it was like trying to push Jell-O through quicksand. But there was no need to try and swim after all. Look. Todd was bringing the boat to him.
Only thing, he was running it too hot and too fast for safety.
“Hey!”
It was a nightmare’s yell, when you open your mouth and try to scream but you can’t utter a sound and that intensifies the horror of the nightmare. He tried to wave his arms, but they weighed a thousand pounds apiece. He couldn’t even lift them out of the water.
“Todd,” he croaked. “Turn to port! I’m here! Can’t you see me?”
He could see him. He was looking straight at him through the plastic windshield that protected the cockpit. Control panel lights were making a Halloween mask of his bruised and swelling face. His eyes glowed red. Torches of hell.
Roark screamed one last time before fear sent him plunging beneath the surface. In seconds he was engulfed in churning, strangling waters. Then the terror gripped him. Undiluted terror. The kind that few men ever have the misfortune of experiencing. Terror so absolute that death seems a blessing.
Terror championed only by pain. Excruciating and immeasurable.
Pain that splinters the body but slays the soul.
Chapter 32
Nadia arrived at the martini bar wearing a snug black dress with a deceptively demure neckline and a cocktail hat, one of those saucy numbers with a veil that covered half her face. A black feathered handbag hung from her shoulder on a slender gold chain. Very fetching. Very femme fatale.
Heads turned as she made her way through the bar. It was packed with Manhattan’s in crowd and wannabes. People spoke to her as she passed by. She waved to a party of three seated at a corner table.
When she reached Noah’s table, he was inflated with pride that the most exquisite woman in the room was joining him. He embraced her warmly but circumspectly. Pecking a friendly kiss on her cheek, he whispered, “I could fuck you right here.”
“Ever the romantic.” She slid into the banquette beside him.
“Martini?”
“By all means.”
He placed their order with the waiter who had rushed to the table within seconds of Nadia’s arrival, then turned to her with a smile. “You’re known here.”
“I’m known everywhere.”
He laughed at her conceit. “I’ve missed your sharp comebacks. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you.”
“That silly quarrel.”
“Ancient history now.” He inhaled deeply. “Ahh. Your provocative scent.”
“Chanel.”
He shook his head and grinned slyly. “Sex. Too bad you can’t bottle it. You’d make a fortune.” His adoring gaze moved over her face. “You look sensational. I like the veil.”
“Thank you.”
“It lends you a mysterious air that’s incredibly sexy.” Beneath the table, he pressed her thigh with his.
“You’re coming on awfully strong tonight. You haven’t been getting any, have you?”
“I’ve been otherwise occupied.”
“Yes, you have.” She seemed to become fascinated with the layered arrangement of the feathers on her handbag. She ran her finger over the smooth, iridescent plumes. “You’ve been busy laying your father-in-law to rest.”
“What a lot of folderol.”
“I thought the eulogies were rather moving.”
“It was the kind of send-off Daniel Matherly merited, I suppose. I’m just glad it’s over. Now the rest of us can stop applauding his life and resume living our own.”
“Ordinarily you enjoy being in the limelight. I thought the role of loyal and bereaved son-in-law would have appealed to you.”
He laid his hand over his heart. “I did my best.” Their martinis arrived. They clinked glasses, sipped. “Actually, it wasn’t all that bad, except for having to keep Maris’s hysteria at bay.”
“Wasn’t it natural for her to be upset?”
“Her behavior went beyond normal grief.” She gave up her study of the feathers and looked at him. “My wife got the harebrained notion that I was responsible for her father’s fall.” He peered past the veil into Nadia’s eyes. “Can you imagine that?”
She raised the martini glass to her lips. “Yes. I can.”
The steadiness of her gaze was a bit unnerving. He deliberately mistook her meaning. “Maris has always been excitable and reactionary, but this time she carried it to the extreme.”
“At the funeral, she seemed the picture of composure.”
“True. But once it was over, she lost all reason. She coerced the local police in Massachusetts to reinvestigate the fatal accident.”
“And?”
“Naturally they found nothing to substantiate her suspicions.”
“How lucky for you.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it, Nadia.”
“I’m sure that’s true.” She stared out over the crowd, speaking almost to herself. “If you had pushed the old gentleman down the staircase, you would be shrewd enough not to get caught.”
“I didn’t. But you’re right. I would be shrewd enough not to get caught. And that’s why you like me so well.”
She turned back to him. “True. I would never become involved with a loser. I wouldn’t hitch my wagon to a falling star. Only to one that’s ascending.”
“We’re so much alike it’s frightening.” Leaning closer to her, he added confidentially, “At least it should be frightening to everyone else.” Complacently he took another sip of his martini. “Anyhow, Daniel’s dead and buried. That’s the good news.”
“For God’s sake, Noah.” She glanced around as though fearing that he’d been overheard. “What’s the bad?”
“Not bad, darling. Better. His death was the final nail in the coffin of my marriage. It is now beyond repair.”
She raised her glass to toast him. “Congratulations or condolences?”
“Definitely the former. Because I have even better news than that.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“Are you sure you want me to tell you here and now? It may bring on an orgasm.”
“Have you ever known me to turn down an opportunity like that?”
His smile widened. “Before his accid
ental fall, I persuaded Daniel to sign an important power-of-attorney document. It enables me to sell Matherly Press to WorldView, and Maris can’t do a damn thing about it.”
Nadia’s eyes went wide with bewilderment. “But Matherly Press isn’t yours to sell.”
“Nadia! There you are!” Morris Blume suddenly materialized on the other side of the table.
Noah hadn’t noticed his approach, and he didn’t welcome the intrusion. His plan for this evening had been to wine, dine, and romance Nadia back into his good graces. Before proceeding with WorldView, he wanted her well entrenched in his cheering section. He needed good press, and no one could provide that better than Nadia.
Of all the damn luck, running into Morris Blume. WorldView’s CEO looked as colorless as ever in a gray suit, gray shirt, silver tie. To Noah, even his teeth and gums looked unhealthily gray as he smiled down at them.
“I didn’t see you at first and thought there’d been a mix-up on the time,” he was saying to Nadia.
“Your timing couldn’t be more perfect.”
She scooted from behind the table and, to Noah’s dismay, walked into Blume’s embrace. They locked lips. When the kiss ended, she affectionately patted his necktie back into place.
Blume appraised her from hat to heels. “You look positively gorgeous.”
“I’m glad you think so. I bought the ensemble with you in mind.”
“Sensational.”
His compliment caused her to simper in a coquettish way that was totally unlike Nadia. Blume was stroking her waist with suggestive familiarity. Her pelvis was tilted against his, a specialty of Nadia’s that made a man think of nothing except his dick and planting it inside her.
For all the attention they were paying him, Noah might just as well have been one of the pop art paintings on the wall. His whole body throbbed with anger. And something else, something rare to him—humiliation. People had noticed that Nadia was now snuggling with Blume. He’d lost the most popular girl at the party to a bloodless, bald geek.
“Ready for a drink, darling?” she asked him.
“You read my mind. You always do.”
Nadia signaled the waiter, who scurried over and took Blume’s order. She didn’t return to sit beside Noah on the banquette, but took the chair Blume was holding for her. They now faced him across the table.
