Diamond Bay (9 page)

A grim look entered Rachel's eyes. He would have to be determined
indeed to get to the bottom of her cart.
Wheeling around, she headed for the
drug-and-health section. Intimate female items, some of which she never used
but chose now for their conspicuous packaging, were thrown into the cart. If he
dared reach for anything she would accuse him of being a pervert in a voice
loud enough to bring every store security guard at a run.

He was closing in again. Rachel chose her moment, then turned her
cart and all but rammed it into his knee.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm sorry!" she gasped in apology.
"I didn't see you – oh," she said again, startled recognition in her
voice. "Ag – " She stopped, looked around, then lowered her voice to
little more than a whisper. "Agent Lowell."

It was an Academy Award-winning
performance, but it might have been wasted on Agent Lowell, who was preoccupied
with rubbing his knee.
He straightened, a look of
pain still in his eyes. "Hello again, Ms….I don't believe I got your name
yesterday."

"Jones," she said, holding out her hand. "Rachel Jones."

His hand was hard, but his palm was a little moist. Agent Lowell
wasn't quite as relaxed as he appeared.

"You're out early," he commented.

"With the heat the way it is, it's best to either get out
early or wait until after sundown.
You really should wear a hat if you're going to be walking around today
the way
you were yesterday."
His face was already sunburned, so her advice was too late.

His expressionless eyes drifted down to the contents of the cart,
then jerked back up abruptly. Rachel felt a moment's grim satisfaction at her
choices. His presence could be pure coincidence, or it could be deliberate, but
he was automatically curious; it was part of his job. She sensed that he had
been less disarmed by her studied nonchalance and innocence than the other
agent had been.

"You, uh, may have to float a loan to pay for all that,"
he said after a slight pause.

She ruefully examined the cart. "You may be right. Every time
I go off on a trip it seems as if I never have what I need."

His eyes sharpened with interest. "You're going on a
trip?"

"In a couple of weeks. I'm doing some research on the Keys,
and it always helps to see an area firsthand."

"Research?"

She shrugged. "I dabble in several things. I have my souvenir
shops. I do a little writing, teach a few night courses. It keeps me from
getting bored with myself." Looking at the checkout counters, where the
lines were growing, she said blithely, "I'd better get in line before
everyone in the store gets ahead of me. Oh – did you find anything
yesterday?"

His face was a blank mask, though his eyes were once again peering
at her cart. "No, nothing. It may have been a false lead."

"Well, good luck. Remember to get a cap or something while
you're here."

"Sure. Thanks."

She joined one of the lines at the
row of checkout counters and selected a magazine to flip through while she
waited, gradually nudging the cart forward.
He had moved to the side and was looking at paperback books. Damn,
would he never leave? When it came her time, she unloaded the cart and tried to
keep her body between Lowell and the counter. The clerk picked up the package
of undershorts and held them in front of her while she punched in the code
number on the computerized cash register. Rachel shifted to that side, and when
the clerk set the package down she pushed a shirt over it. Lowell was moving
closer.

"One-forty-six eighteen," the clerk said, reaching for a
large bag.

Rachel checked her wallet, inwardly grimacing. She seldom carried
that much cash, and this was no exception. Disgruntled, she plunked down a
plastic credit card and the clerk ran it through the imprinting machine, then
called to get an okay on the amount. Lowell had walked around to the front of
the store and was coming down in front of the checkout counters. Rachel grabbed
the bag the clerk had laid on the counter and began shoving her purchases into
it.

"Sign here," the clerk said, pushing the credit slip
toward her. Rachel scribbled her name and a moment later the bag was stapled
shut. She loaded it in the cart and began wheeling it out of the store.

"Need any help?" Lowell asked, falling into step beside
her.

"No, rolling it in the cart is easier than carrying it.
Thanks, anyway."

The humid heat settled on them
like a suffocating blanket as soon as they left the cool confines of the store,
and Rachel squinted her eyes against the almost painful brightness. After
opening the trunk of the car she dumped the bag in and slammed the lid shut,
agonizingly aware of
Lowell
's acute interest.

She pushed the cart to a buggy-return stand, then walked back to
the car. "Goodbye," she said casually.

He was still watching as she drove out of the lot. Rachel wiped
the perspiration off her face, aware that her heart was thudding in a panicky
rhythm. She was out of practice for this! She only hoped he hadn't been too
suspicious.

The dreams were still so vivid
that it was several minutes before he realized he was awake, but awareness did
not necessarily bring understanding.
He lay
quietly, looking around the cool, dim, unfamiliar room and groping for any
details in his mind that would give him a hint of what was going on and where
he was. There seemed to be no connection between his only memories and this
silent room. But were they memories, or dreams? He had dreamed of a woman, a
warm and pliant woman, with eyes as clear and gray as a highland lake under
cloudy skies, her hands tender as she caressed him, her velvety breasts
swelling against his palms. His fingers twitched on the sheets; the dream was
so real he almost ached to feel her under his hands.

Still, that had been only a dream, and he had to deal with
reality. He lay there until certain things began to return, and he knew that
they
weren't dreams. The attack on his boat; the endless, agonizing swim in the
dark, driven on by his own sheer inability to give up. Then, after that…
nothing. Not even a glimmer of what had happened.

Where was he? Had he been captured? They would give almost
anything, risk almost anything, to take him alive.

He moved cautiously, his mouth setting grimly at the amount of
effort it took. There was pain in his left shoulder and lacing through his left
thigh, and he had a dull headache, but both his leg and arm obeyed his mental
command to move.
Awkwardly
using his right hand, he threw the
sheet back and struggled to a
sitting position.
Dizziness assailed him, but
he gripped the side of the bed until the feeling subsided, then he took stock
once again. A pristine bandage was wrapped around his thigh, thickly padded
over the wounds. The same treatment had been given to his shoulder; gauze had
been wrapped around it, then anchored around his chest. He was totally naked,
but that didn't bother him. His first priority was to establish his mobility;
his second was to find out where the hell he was.

He stood, the wounded muscle in his thigh quivering in outrage at
being forced into motion. He wavered, but didn't fall, merely stood there until
the room stopped swaying and his leg was steady under him. Despite the coolness
of the room a fine sheen of sweat began to form on his body.

There was no sound except for the gentle whir of a ceiling fan
that hung over the bed and the distant mechanized sound of an air conditioner.
He listened intently, but could detect nothing else. Keeping his right hand
braced against the bed, he took a step toward the window, grinding his teeth
together at the searing pain in his leg. The closed slats of the old-fashioned
blinds drew him. Reaching the window, he used one finger to lift a slat and
peer through the crack. A yard, a vegetable garden. Nothing unusual, but
nothing in sight, either, human or animal.

An open door was in front of him, revealing a bathroom. Slowly he
moved to the doorway, his black eyes taking note of the items on the vanity.
Hair spray, lotions, cosmetics. A woman's bathroom, then. Perhaps the
red-haired woman who had been on the boat? Everything was neat, impeccably
clean, and there was a certain spare luxury to both the bath and bedroom, as if
everything had been chosen for maximum comfort while still leaving a lot of
what was simply bare space. The next door over was a closet. He pushed racks
aside and checked sizes.
Again, everything
was for a woman, or a small, very
slender man of undecided sexuality.
The clothes
ranged from remarkably ragged to sleekly sophisticated. A disguise?

Cautiously he opened the next door slightly, putting his eye to
the small crack to make certain there was no one out there. The small hallway
was empty, as was the room he could see beyond it. He eased the door open,
balancing himself with a hand on the frame. Nothing. No one. He was alone, and
that made no sense at all.

Damn, he was weak, and so thirsty that the fires of hell seemed to
be in his throat. Limping badly, occasionally staggering, he made his way
through the empty living room. A small, sunlit alcove was next, and the glaring
sun streaming through the windows made him blink as his eyes adjusted to the
sudden excess of light. Next was a kitchen, small and sunny and extremely
modern. A colorful array of fresh vegetables lay on a counter, and there was a
bowl of fresh fruit sitting on the center work island.

Cotton lined his mouth and throat. He groped toward the sink, then
opened cabinet doors until he found the glasses. Turning on the cool tap water,
he filled a glass and turned it up, pouring the water into his mouth so
thirstily that some of it spilled down his chest. With that first terrible
urgency satisfied, he drank another glass of water and this time managed to get
it all in his mouth.

How long had he been here? The blanks in his memory made him
furious. He was vulnerable, uncertain of where he was or what had happened, and
vulnerability was one thing he couldn't afford. But he was starving, too. The
bowl of fresh fruit beckoned, and he wolfed down a banana, then half an apple.
Abruptly he was too full to eat another bite, so he tossed both the banana skin
and the half-eaten apple into the trash.

Okay, he could get around.
Slowly, but he wasn't helpless.
His next priority was to find some means of self-defense. The most
available weapon was a knife, and he examined the kitchen knives before
choosing the one with the sharpest, strongest blade. With that in his hand he
began a slow, methodical search of the house, but there were no other weapons
of any sort to be found.

The outside doors all had extremely strong dead-bolt locks on
them. They weren't fancy, but they would damned sure slow down anyone trying to
get in. He looked at them, trying to remember if he had ever seen any locks
exactly like them, and decided that he hadn't. They were locked, but what sense
did it make to put the locks on the inside, where he could get to them? He
turned the lock, and it opened with a smooth, almost silent movement. Warily he
reached for the knob and opened the door a little, again checking through the
crack to see if anyone was in view. The door was heavy, too heavy to be an
ordinary door. He opened it a little more, running his fingers along the edge.
Steel reinforced, he guessed.

It was a snug little prison, but the locks were on the wrong side
of the doors, and there were no wardens.

He opened the door completely, looking out through a screen door
at a neat little yard, a tall pine thicket and a flock of fat white and gray
geese searching for insects in the grass. The heat coming through the screen
door was thick and heavy, hitting him like a blow. A dog appeared as if by
magic from beneath a bush, leaping up onto the porch and staring at him with
unblinking eyes as its ears went back and snarls twisted the canine muzzle.

Dispassionately he examined the dog, weighing his chances. A trained
attack dog, German shepherd, weighing eighty or ninety pounds. In his weakened
condition he didn't have a chance against a dog like that, even with a knife in
his hand. He was effectively caged, after all.

His leg would barely support his weight. He was naked, weak, and
didn't know where he was. The odds weren't in his favor, but he was alive and
filled with a cold, controlled rage. Now he also had the advantage of surprise,
because whoever had brought him here wouldn't be expecting him to be up and armed.
He closed the door and locked it again, then watched the dog through the window
until it left the porch and resumed its position beneath the bush.

He had to wait.

An enormous, purplish-black thunderhead was looming in the sky
when Rachel turned into the driveway. She eyed it, wondering if it would dump
its load of rain out at sea or hold it until it was over land.
The rain would be torrential, and
the temperature would drop sharply, but as soon as the cloud had passed the
heat would rise again, and the rain would evaporate in a suffocating cloud of
steam. Ebenezer Duck and his flock scattered, honking irritably, as she pulled
the car under the shade of the oak tree where they had been lazily pecking at
the grass.
Joe lifted his head to look at her,
then returned to his snooze. Everything was calm, just as it had been when
she'd left. Only then did she feel an easing of the tight constriction in her
chest.

She got the bag out of the trunk, unaware of the sharp black eyes
that followed her every move. Holding the bag in one arm and the keys in the
other hand, she climbed the steps to the porch, paused to shove her sunglasses
on top of her head, then held the screen door open with her hip while she
unlocked the door and pushed it open. The air-conditioned coolness was such a
shocking contrast to the searing heat outside that goose bumps rose on her
flesh, and she shivered. Taking deep breaths, she dropped the bag and her purse
on one of the love seats and went to check on her patient.

Just as her hand touched the doorknob a hard arm circled her
throat and she was jerked backward, her neck arched unnaturally. A brightly
gleaming knife was held in front of her face. She had been too stunned to
react, but now sheer terror flooded her as her gaze locked on the knife. How
had they gotten in? Had they already killed him? The anguish that rose in her
was wild and ferocious, consuming her.

"Don't fight and I won't hurt you," a deep voice
murmured in her ear. "I want some answers, but I won't take any chances.
If you make a wrong move – " He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't
have to. How calm the voice was, as cool and unemotional as stone. It made her
blood congeal.

The arm under her chin was choking her, and she automatically
raised both hands, clutching at him. The knife moved menacingly closer.
"No, none of that," he whispered, his mouth close to her ear.
Rachel shrank from the knife, her
head digging into his shoulder, her body crowding frantically against his in an
attempt to put distance between herself and that shining blade.
Every detail of his body was imprinted against her, and suddenly
her dazed senses realized what she was feeling. He was naked! And if he were
naked, then it had to be…

Sharp, piercing relief, as painful in its own way as the fear and
anguish had been, made her muscles suddenly tremble as the tension left them.
Her hands relaxed on his forearm.

"That's better," the low voice growled. "Who are
you?"

"Rachel Jones," she said, her voice breathless because
of the pressure he was putting on her throat.

"Where am I?"

"In my house.
I pulled you out of the surf and brought
you here."
She could feel him hesitate,
though perhaps it was simply that he was growing weaker. His strength was astonishing
under the circumstances, but he had been very ill, and his stamina must be
wavering. "Please," she whispered. "You shouldn't be out of
bed."

That was the truth, Sabin thought grimly. He was exhausted, as if
he'd run a marathon; his legs felt as if they would give out on him at any
moment. He didn't know her, and he couldn't trust her; he had only this one
chance, and a wrong guess could cost him his life, but he didn't have much
choice. Damn, he was weak! Slowly he relaxed his right arm from around her
throat and let his left hand, the one holding the knife, drop to his side. His
shoulder throbbed, and he doubted that he would be able to lift his arm again.

Rather than jerking away from him, she turned cautiously, as if
afraid of startling him into an attack, and wedged her shoulder under his right
arm, while her arms went around him and supported him. "Lean on me before
you fall," she said, her voice still a little breathless. "It would
be a mess if you tore all those stitches out."

He didn't have much choice except to drape his arm over her
slender shoulders and lean heavily on her. If he didn't either sit down or lie
down – soon – he was going to fall, and he knew it. Slowly she helped him into
the bedroom, supporting him as he virtually collapsed onto the edge of the bed,
then holding his head in the crook of her left arm as she lowered him into a
supine position while she reached around him with her other hand to arrange the
pillow. Sabin drew a deep breath, his senses automatically reacting to her warm
female scent and the softness of her breast against his cheek. He had only to
turn his head to press his mouth against her nipple, and the image teased at
him with a curious urgency.

He lay with his eyes closed, breathing rapidly in exhaustion,
while she lifted his legs onto the bed and pulled the sheet up to his waist.
"There," she said softly. "You can rest now." She stroked
her hand over his chest, as she had done so many times in the past few days, an
action that had become automatic because it seemed to calm his restlessness. He
was much cooler; the fever had finally lost its grip on him. The knife was
still clutched in his left hand, and she reached to take it, but his fingers
tightened at her touch, and his eyes flew open, his gaze black and fierce.

Rachel kept her hand on the knife, levelly meeting his eyes.
"Why do you need it?" she asked. "If I meant you any harm I've
had a lot of opportunities to do something about it before now."