Snatched

by Pamela Burford

Vaguely, in the far recesses of Lucy’s mind, she knew her sister was right. She was reverting to the old Lucy, the Stepford Lucy who questioned her worth as a spouse every day of her life.

  But it hurt. Frank’s betrayal was a giant fist twisting her insides, condemning her. She clung to Ethel, bawling shamelessly, not even caring that the better wife sat there watching. Finally the tears wound down. A hand appeared, holding a wad of tissues. Lucy looked up. It was Anne Marie, standing before her.

  “It was a shitty thing he did,” Anne Marie said. “To both of us. No way to sugarcoat it. But I’ve had some time to think about it, and I love him anyway.”

  “You’re welcome to him.” Lucy honked into the tissues. “But that man is not getting off scot-free.”

  “I have a few ideas about that.” Anne Marie settled back into her chair. “You go first.”

  Chapter 19

  THE BERMUDA FARMERS MARKET was a riot of colors and scents, sprawling across a parking lot off Canal Road. The bustling bazaar was, ironically, a balm for Judith’s nerves, which had been stretched to the snapping point during what was supposed to have been a romantic, relaxing getaway with her significant other. She and Roger would have a week to really get to know each other, she’d assumed, a week to nurture their relationship and find the passion. After all, how could two people spend seven days together in this balmy paradise and not find romance and passion?

  How? The key lay in that together part. Every morning after breakfast, Roger gave her a peck on the lips and took off for one of the island’s fabled golf courses, hauling his obscenely expensive Honma clubs and the ever-present jug of sunblock. Judith was welcome to accompany him, of course, but they were in Bermuda, for crying out loud. Land of pink-sand beaches and men in necktie and bare knees. She had not come all this way to do what she and Roger could, and did, do with tedious regularity at their country club back home: namely, whack a little ball around the grass. So during daylight hours, she opted to find her own amusements.

  Roger always reappeared by dinnertime. Invariably they dined at the hotel restaurant where they were staying. The best porterhouse on the island, according to Roger’s unimpeachable sources. Why go anywhere else? After dinner they adjourned to the hotel’s lounge for cabaret-style entertainment and the obligatory rum swizzle, and were in bed—correction, beds—by eleven.

  The Farmers Market comprised dozens of display tables, shielded from the sun by large, colorful umbrellas. Judith happily blended in with the horde of locals and tourists scrutinizing farm produce, seedlings, fresh-caught fish, and locally made preserves and handicrafts. She’d already purchased several jars of honey and jam, three sand-molded candles, and a quart of mixed berries to share with Roger later. Perhaps in their room, with a frosty bottle of champagne?

  She struggled to forge the mental image: their hotel room, romantically lit, redolent with the mingled perfumes of candles, fruit, and fine champagne; her, reclining on one of the two queen-size beds in the black silk teddy she’d crammed into the bottom of her garment bag, just in case; Roger, overcome by the sights and smells of seduction, tossing aside his golf bag and tearing out of his Crayola-hued polo shirt and pants as he succumbed to the raging lust he could no longer hold in check.

  Lust? Roger? This was the man who’d packed eight sets of crisp Brooks Brothers pajamas for this trip, one for each night plus an extra: his version of just in case. The man who’d accepted, without the slightest moue of disappointment, her assertion that she wasn’t ready for intimacy. The man with whom Judith had shared a room for seven days and still didn’t know whether he wore boxers or briefs.

  Maybe she’d eat the berries during the bus ride back to the hotel.

  As she strolled and shopped, she found herself scanning her surroundings, wondering when—not if—Fergus would make his appearance. Every day since last Monday when he’d materialized by the pool, he’d just happened to show up wherever she was, to join in whatever she was doing. Horseback riding. Cave exploring. Kayaking. At first she’d been disconcerted, even indignant. How dare he follow her, stalk her. If he didn’t leave her alone, she’d tell Roger. To his credit, Fergus managed not to laugh at the ludicrous threat. She couldn’t even imagine Roger Milton, M.D., five feet seven and a half inches of slope-shouldered tapioca, mixing it up with the sinewy Irish giant.

  She peered down the row of vendor stalls, straining her eyes for any hint of said giant—and spun with a squeak of surprise when a familiar hand settled on her shoulder. “I wish you’d stop doing that,” she said.

  It was a lie, and his lopsided smile said he knew it was a lie. Today Fergus had secured his hair in a braid that hung down his back. He was dressed as close to civilized as she’d ever seen him, in a short-sleeved ivory guayabera shirt, wrinkled cargo shorts, and leather sandals. She turned her attention to the plastic grocery sacks dangling from his fingers. “What did you buy?”

  He held the bags open, revealing a dozen eggs, an assortment of fresh veggies, and something wrapped in white butcher paper. It would appear he had access to a kitchen. She’d never asked where he was staying on the island. Obviously a simple hotel room was too prosaic for the likes of Fergus Dowd, Man of Mystery.

  He poked his nose into her sacks, expressed approval of her purchases, and gallantly took possession of them. Together they strolled the market with the homey familiarity of an old married couple. Fergus paused at a table laden with fragrant baked goods, where he flirted shamelessly with the proprietress, a sturdy, coffee-colored woman with gray dreads tied back with bakery twine. He purchased a half dozen scones and a crusty baguette. Also a chocolate-filled croissant, which he handed to Judith. It was obscenely delicious.

  She couldn’t deny it was exciting to be, well, pursued by this sexy, determined, possibly dangerous male. Make that decidedly dangerous—and not because of his shadowy past. If she lowered her guard even for an instant, if this canny, insightful man managed to worm his way inside her head and find out about her role in Will’s kidnapping, she could forget about keeping it from his boss and bestest buddy. Then what?

  Then Will would be lost to her forever. Tom would no longer have an aunt Judy. He’d grow up knowing the terrible thing she’d done to his dad. Despising her.

  Fergus was studying her. “Why so quiet?”

  She shrugged. “Just wishing I didn’t have to go back home tomorrow.”

  “Who says you have to?”

  “This is a one-week trip. Roger and I are flying home tomorrow.”

  “Flights can be changed,” he said.

  Judith stopped walking. She looked him square in the eye. “What are you saying, Fergus?”

  “Stay here with me.” Just like that.

  Judith opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to tell him he was being absurd. She wanted to tell him she was here in Bermuda with another man and that he had no business making such an offer.

  She wanted to say those things and mean them, but she couldn’t, so she didn’t.

  She started walking again and he joined her, taking one long-legged stride for every two or three of her dainty, womanish ones. She asked, “How can you even suggest something like that?”

  “I wasn’t tryin’ to rile you, lass.”

  “I’m not a lass—will you stop calling me that? Good grief, Fergus, I’m forty-seven years old. Forty-seven. What do you think, that I’m going to just, just dump Roger at the airport, forget about my obligations back home, and, and shack up with you here?”

  “That’s more or less what I had in mind.” His eyes crinkled. “Lass.”

  “Give me that.” Judith started rooting through the pastry bag.

  “Do you always turn to food when you’re conflicted?”

  “What are you, my shrink now?” she groused around a mouthful of scone. “Make up your mind, shrink or lover. You can’t be both.”

  “Oh, lover, definitely. If I must choose.”

  The way Fergus said “lover,” in that Gaelic-flavored baritone, made Judith stuff
half the scone in her mouth. They’d reached the parking area before she realized that was where he was leading her.

  She tried to get her bearings. “Where does the bus stop? A pink bus will take us to Hamilton—”

  “We’re not takin’ a bus.” He kept walking, leaving her no choice but to scurry after him; he had the bags with her purchases.

  “Well, I’m not getting on any damn moped.” Tourists weren’t permitted to rent cars in Bermuda.

  “You’re right about that,” he said, stopping next to a full-size motorcycle. He stowed their sacks in the saddlebags and managed to get his and Judith’s helmets secured, despite her attempts to bat his hands away and retrieve her purchases.

  Within minutes they were on the coast road, going well above the posted speed limit on the wrong side of the road. Rationally she knew they weren’t on the wrong side of the road. Here, you were supposed to drive on the left. But still. Fergus accelerated to pass a Citroen which was itself speeding. Bubble-gum-colored homes were visible beyond exotic vegetation that smelled spicy-sweet, like unburnt incense. He shouted something at her over the roar of the engine, something about cutting off the blood supply to his liver. Only then did she realize how hard she was squeezing his waist. That was the other thing that had her discombobulated, being coerced into close physical proximity with this man she should by all rights avoid like polyester.

  His body was hard and hot under the fluttering guayabera shirt; she felt every twitch of muscle as he negotiated the bike along the winding road. Mostly she felt the motor’s vibrating heat between her legs, a pornographic sensation that spun her back in time to those dangerous, wasted years when she’d followed the band and done every self-destructive thing she could snort, steal, or hump to get Daddy to notice her.

  When he stopped at a light, he placed one of his hands over hers in a gesture of reassurance, whether about the ride or the two of them, Judith couldn’t say. Unaccountably, her eyes stung under the helmet’s clear shield. Whatever Fergus Dowd was—and she’d probably never get a straight answer on that one—what he wasn’t was the kind of sophomoric, self-fixated “wild man” to whom she’d once been fatally addicted. She didn’t bother to ask where he was taking her. Somehow she knew it would be okay.

  As it happened, it was more than okay. “How on earth did you find this place?” She stared awestruck at the secluded cove, a private haven of shrimp-colored sand, turquoise water, and azure skies tucked into a cluster of craggy rock formations. The only sound was the lazy snore of the surf.

  Fergus leaned the motorcycle against a rock wall. “I’ve been doin’ a bit of exploring.”

  She wondered when he’d done this exploring, considering all the time they’d spent together during the past few days. He withdrew a silver pint flask from one of the bike’s saddlebags, along with a lightweight blanket, which he shook out and spread on a shady spot close to the rocks.

  Judith laughed. “Real smooth, Casanova.” All the elements for seduction present and accounted for.

  He kicked off his sandals, stretched out on the blanket, and offered her the flask. She took a tentative sip, then a sturdier belt, of the silkiest cognac she’d ever tasted. She sat cross-legged next to Fergus and they passed the flask back and forth.

  “Okay, I have to ask,” she said. “What are you going to do with those groceries you bought?”

  “Make you dinner.”

  She paused with the flask at her lips. “Where? No, you can’t. I mean, I can’t. I have to have dinner with Roger.”

  “Do you want to have dinner with Roger?”

  “That’s not the issue and you know it.”

  “You’re a grown woman, Judith. When are you going to give yourself permission to do what you want to do?” He took the flask from her.

  “I do do what I want,” she said. “What I don’t want is to hurt a person I care for, a person who thought enough of me to take me to Bermuda.”

  “Will Roger even notice if you’re not sittin’ across from him at the table? The man seems more interested in his porterhouse and his Scotch and soda.”

  “That’s ginger ale.” So Fergus had spied on them in the hotel dining room. Why was she not surprised? By habit she groped inside her purse. Then she remembered and emitted a whine of frustration.

  “What?”

  “I gave them up.” She snapped her bag closed. “Cigarettes.”

  “You quit? When did that happen? You lit up yesterday after we went kayakin’.”

  “I did indeed, even though I was winded from the exercise. Which I wouldn’t have been if I didn’t smoke in the first place.” She made a face, as if struggling to follow her own warped logic. “Anyway, the thing is, Tom has finally stopped asking me to quit. So that’s it. I threw away my last couple of packs last night.”

  “Because he stopped asking you.”

  “He gave up on me.” She shrugged. “Figured Aunt Judy’s a lost cause. I know it makes him sad. This time it has to stick.”

  “Canny little man.”

  “Listen. Fergus.” Judith dragged in a deep, shaky breath. “Can we just have sex now and get it over with?”

  He peered at her from under those heavy eyebrows.

  “Because we both know where all this is leading, okay?” she said. “We’re both grownups, we don’t have to dance around the thing, let’s just do it.”

  “Get it over with.”

  “Right.”

  “Then we’ll never have to do it again.” Just the hint of a smile.

  “Come on, Fergus, the suspense is killing me. It’s been killing me for, for I don’t know how long.”

  “See, that just illustrates how different we are.” He cocked his head. “Me, I fancy the suspense. Not bein’ quite sure if it’ll happen, much less when. Keeps the excitement alive.”

  “If the excitement were any more alive, it’d have fangs and claws. The suspense part is over. Finis. It’s time for the other part.”

  “The part where this—” his hand churned he air as he groped for words “—this pesky sex thing that’s been festerin’ between us can finally come to a head and erupt in a white-hot shower of . . .” Still churning. “Help me out here.”

  “No, the exploding-zit analogy works for me.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Once the pressure is released, the healing can begin, is that right? No more inconvenient passion. No more cravin’ those bad boys.” His arms thrust heavenward. “Hallelujah, I’ve been cured!”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re talking about?” he asked. “Takin’ the cure?”

  Of course it is, she thought. “Of course it isn’t,” she said. “Is there some reason you can never take me seriously?”

  “We’ll get all this sex stuff out of our systems and become respectable middle-aged folks who spend whole Sunday afternoons rockin’ on your brother’s porch, never even thinkin’ about each other’s naughty parts.” He nodded in mock approval. “By God, I think it’ll work.”

  “Why are we talking about it? Jesus, all this talking!” She didn’t know her voice could get so shrill. “You are analyzing the hell out of something that should be a simple and straightforward . . . act. Just fuck me, Fergus. Could you just fucking fuck me already?”

  Her words brought a beatific smile to his face. “Ah . . . romance.”

  “That’s it.” She jumped up and stalked to the motorcycle. “Your window of opportunity has officially slammed shut. Take me to my hotel.”

  “Come here.” He patted the blanket. “Let’s talk about this.”

  Judith’s howl of frustration reverberated off the rock formations and freaked out the gulls, who took off in a flurry of flapping wings. She clomped back to the blanket and jammed her sandy feet into her shoes. “I mean it, Fergus. Take me back. Right this instant, or I swear to God I’ll . . .”

  He waited patiently for her to finish the thought.

  “You are such a dick. All this . . .” She spread her
arms, encompassing the blanket, the cognac, the romantic setting. “The purpose of all this was to lower my defenses. To humiliate me. You don’t want me, you just want to know you can have me. The big man. The stud. I’ve known too many men like you—I can’t believe I fell for your horseshit.” She shocked herself by kicking sand on Fergus. So much for the mature forty-seven-year-old.

  He sat up and shook off the grains of sand as if they were random raindrops, the work of a benign higher power: God or Mother Nature, not some shrill, sex-starved harpy who’d gotten her little feelings hurt. “What did he do to you, Judith?”

  “What? Who?”

  “The foot rubber. The bloke doin’ life for murder.”

  Judith’s heart did a dunk shot. She slammed her hands onto her hips and scowled down at him, masking her alarm under a veneer of perplexed indignation. “How did Hal come into this conversation? This has nothing to do with him.”

  “You’re the one who brought up the men in your past.” He shrugged. “I’m just tryin’ to hold up my end of the conversation.”

  “What difference does it make what, if anything, the man may have done to me twenty-five years ago? He’s in Attica because of what he did to that coke dealer. All that matters is that he take his last breath in a maximum-security lockup.”

  “You’ve got yourself pretty worked up over a twenty-five-year-old drug murder.”

  “Would you like me to tell you what, precisely, he did with that blade of his before he finally let the man die?” Judith couldn’t believe they were discussing the crime that put Hal Lynch away for life. She diligently avoided thinking about it, much less talking about it. “I know you’ve been asking yourself what made me take up with a monster like that in the first place.”

  “Not really.” One shoulder lifted in a lazy shrug. “We all do things we’re not proud of when we’re young and stupid.”

  “Cute.” Judith banded her arms around her middle. “Try young and criminally stupid. Is that still cute? When people get hurt?”

  “I wasn’t referring to your foot-rubbin’ monster.”