Escape Out of Darkness (9 page)

“Nope. But I think we stand a good chance. There are lots of birds around, not just gulls, and I don’t think they’d be too far out at sea. There’s a strong current, and with any luck it will pull us in to shore.”

“I wouldn’t trust our luck,” said Maggie. “The current could just as easily carry us out to sea. Do you suppose there are any great white sharks around?” She looked over her shoulder nervously.

“Afraid of sharks too?”

“No. Afraid of Hollywood movies,” she snapped back. “Do you think we should kick?”

“I doubt it. We’re being pulled along at a good rate. We’ll either end up safe or dead, and at this point I think it’s out of our hands.”

“As long as nothing comes along and nibbles my toes, I can survive for a while. What about you?”

“Well, personally I’d like to be the one to nibble your toes,” he said, “but I can wait till we reach shore.”

“Pulaski, now is not the time for sexual banter.”

“Maggie, I can’t think of a better time,” he shot back. “The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and it’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we enjoy it?”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You are absolutely demented,” she breathed. “You are certifiably insane and—”

“I’m a survivor, Maggie. And so are you. We’ve got a rough time ahead of us, and we may as well do what we can to make it more bearable. Why don’t you tell me what it was like growing up in Hollywood?” He reached out and put his cold, wet, strong hand on top of hers as she clung to the wing. The human warmth sank through her chilled skin, and Maggie relaxed.

He was right. The sun was shining overhead, the sky was blue, and the ocean, now that she was used to it, wasn’t as numbing as she’d been afraid it would be. And if she and Mack were going to die, she at least didn’t want it to be with a whine on her lips.

“Actually, it was pretty entertaining. Did you know that Deke Robinson was bisexual?”

“The heart throb of the fifties? Wasn’t he married to your mother?”

“Her third husband,” she said. “I was twelve when they got married. They had the strangest parties. …”

It kept them going for a long time. The sun moved through the skies as she kept him entertained with the most scurrilous gossip she could think of, most of it outdated but still fascinating. When she ran out of stories he told her of life on the road with a rock ’n’ roll band in the sixties and seventies, of the psychedelic and sexual excesses that sounded amusing now that it was all over.

When she grew sleepy he tickled her, when she grew snappish he made her laugh. And when she thought she couldn’t hold on
any longer, when the sun was beginning to sink ahead of them, he gave her hope.

“I hope you’ve noticed which way the sun is moving,” he said.

“The sun isn’t moving, the earth is,” she mumbled.

“Now isn’t the time to be a pedant, Maggie. It’s setting directly in front of us. Which is the west, unless life has changed dramatically in the last four hours. Which means we’re moving in the right direction.”

“But for how long?” She knew her voice sounded querulous, but she couldn’t help it.

“Not too much longer now, I would think. Unless there are palm trees growing in the ocean.”

“What?” she shrieked, and let go of the wing. The ocean was cold and black as it closed over her head, and she shot back up, sputtering and clawing for the wing.

Mack’s hand caught her wrist and yanked her up. “No need to get so excited, Maggie. I told you we’d make it. There are palm trees over there.”

Not only could they see palm trees through the twilight, they could see land, and a beach, and tangled underbrush. And before long the blessed, unbelievable feel of sand beneath their feet rushed up to meet them.

With a cry of gladness, Maggie abandoned the wing, staggering in to shore and collapsing on the beach. Mack was beside her, the knapsack looped around his wrist, and together they lay there on the beach, panting in exhaustion and relief.

It was an odd feeling, she thought, lying on her back and looking at the darkening sky, to come so close to death and then leap back. When they were hurtling toward the sea she’d had no time to panic, during the long hours clinging to that icy piece of flotsam she’d been too busy trying to convince both Mack and herself that she wasn’t afraid to die. And the memory of Lonesome Fred, somewhere beneath the Caribbean Sea, feeding fishes, while they were safe and whole, came back to haunt
her. She lay there in the gathering dusk and shivered, safe in the knowledge that Mack couldn’t see her reaction.

When she finally accustomed herself to the feel of solid ground beneath her, she rolled over in the sand, coating her soaking jumpsuit in a layer of the gritty stuff, and stared at Mack. He was lying on his back, his breath coming easily enough, staring up at the twilight sky.

“How long do you think we were in the water?” she asked, and was relieved to discover her voice was calm and steady.

He stopped looking at the sky long enough to turn to her. “I don’t know, Maggie. All I know is it’s getting dark, and we’re going to have to get moving before long if we want shelter for the night.”

“Maybe there’s a village nearby? Maybe even a town, with a Holiday Inn and a comfortable bed …”

“Dream on, Maggie. I think we’re going to be spending the night on the beach. And if I don’t do something about it right now, we’ll be spending the night in the dark.” He pulled himself upright, and Maggie could see the weariness in his big, strong body.

Reluctantly, she followed suit, staggering slightly as she tried to stand on the motionless sand. “I’ll find some kindling.”

“I don’t suppose moonlight will do?” He asked it gently enough, but a chill ran across her.

“I’ll take care of the fire. Why don’t you see if there’s something to eat? A banana tree or something.”

“I bet we’ll have to make do with salty chocolate bars and Jack Daniel’s, if they’re still in the knapsack. Don’t worry, Maggie. We’ll keep a light going.” His concern was soft and gentle in his raspy voice, and Maggie wanted to tell him it didn’t matter. A fire might draw unwanted attention—it would be a warm enough night and they’d be much better off without it. She opened her mouth to tell him so, then closed it again, hating her weakness.

Mack must have read her mind. He crossed the few feet of beach that separated them and brushed some of the sand off her pensive face. “Don’t worry, Maggie May,” he said again. “I don’t like the dark much, either.”

Mack was right, of course. There wasn’t even a run-down village or an abandoned shack anywhere near their beach, much less a Holiday Inn. Fortunately, before the darkness closed around them, Maggie had a decent fire going, keeping the night at bay.

Solemnly they divided and shared the soggy candy bars and the remnants of the bourbon, making the meager feast last. Maggie sat cross-legged on the sand, listening to the steady rush of the outgoing tide, trying vainly to dry out their dwindling supply of cash. She should have felt grateful. If the tide hadn’t been coming in that afternoon, they would have been pulled out to sea, ending up as shark bait or something equally unpleasant.

But even so, given the solid ground beneath her, the warmth of the night, and the salt-laden candy bar that had at least taken the edge off her hunger, she was feeling disturbed and angry over God only knew what.

She was unable to make light conversation, and Mack didn’t push her. He lay back in the sand, apparently at ease, his attention half on the fire in front of them, half on the night around them, and thankfully not at all on her. Or so she thought.

“What’s on tap for tomorrow?” he inquired lazily, his voice cutting through her unhappy self-absorption.

“What?” She roused herself to stare at him across the firelight.

“I said what have you got planned for tomorrow,” he said patiently. “How are you going to get us out of this mess?”

Slowly she pulled herself together, her battered pride and unhappiness pushed out of the way. “First I find us some transportation,” she said, her voice firm in the night air. “And at the same time find out what country we’re in.”

“That might be a good idea,” he said idly, leaning back in the sand.

“You … uh … don’t have any idea where we are, do you?”

“Not a clue. I expect we’re somewhere in Central America—Lonesome Fred was going to keep parallel to the coastline.” He crossed his long legs, peering at the horizon. “Think you’ll have any trouble finding where Van Zandt’s holed up?”

“Maybe. But I’ll find him sooner or later.” She stared at his averted profile for a long, suspicious moment. She’d been sitting there, feeling useless and sorry for herself, and suddenly Mack had given her back her pride. Had he done it on purpose?

She had relied on him too much in the last twenty-four hours. First, to keep the night terrors from destroying her, then to keep her afloat during that interminable afternoon. It had been different when it came to stealing the car. She was perfectly comfortable having Mack rescue them. As long as she asked him to in the first place. She hated like hell having to accept his aid when it was presented unasked.

She had been prepared for him to try to take over the expedition, and in expectation she launched an attack. “That was a great pilot you picked,” she said.

Mack shrugged, unmoved. “So I got a little overzealous,” he drawled. “I didn’t want to leave all the burden on you, Superwoman. I wouldn’t want you to think I couldn’t pull my weight.”

Did he know what she’d been going through? Quite possibly. She had yet to meet a man who’d give up control so easily and yet still remain calm and strong. Apparently Mack was a man who could do it. Maybe. Maggie searched about in her own mind for the right words, gratitude without encouragement,
comradeship without losing the upper hand. If she really had the upper hand at all.

“You pull your weight, Pulaski. I know I can count on you if need be,” she said carefully. “I … I appreciate your help.”

“Sure you do, princess,” he said, much amused. “I’ll keep my place next time.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it again. Her honesty was her major attribute, and she wasn’t about to lie to him to assuage her own neuroses. They were in an extremely tenuous situation, and she needed to feel in control if she was going to get them safely out of it. And if Mack’s feelings were hurt, that was too damned bad.

But he didn’t look like a man suffering from wounded feelings. He lay there in the sand, entirely at ease, as if there was no place else he’d rather be. Maggie could only wish she felt the same way.

Her jumpsuit had long since dried, and she’d made an effort at brushing the sand from it. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night, and having sand ride up her backbone wouldn’t help matters. The sun had long ago withdrawn its warmth from the land, and Maggie shivered.

“Maggie.” His ruined voice floated across the night breeze. “Come here.”

She looked up at him suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because it’s late, we both need sleep. It’s getting chilly, and a little body warmth will come in handy, considering we don’t have anything we can use for blankets.”

“Pulaski …” she said warningly.

“For Christ’s sake, Maggie, I’m not putting the make on you,” he said, irritation finally breaking through his usual calm. “I’m tired and I’m cold and I want to go to sleep. And I’m not going to be able to sleep with you sitting there, miles away, brooding and shivering. Come here, or I’m damned well going to come over there.”

She sat utterly still, glaring at him. It made perfect sense, of course. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t about to rip off her
jumpsuit and have his wicked way with her. Most of the time he barely seemed aware that she was female. Of course there were moments when an odd sort of sexual heat had flared between them, but those moments had been effectively wiped out by her cutting tongue. She’d done it before, she could do it again. And God, she was getting colder by the minute.

She pulled herself to her feet, moving around the small fire and kneeling beside him. “All right,” she muttered wryly. “I’m trusting you to control your animal passions, though I know the temptation is great. Where do you want me?”

There was a light in his hazel eyes that told her he was considering a highly improper answer. She could come up with her own reply, and it was a very inviting position. But she remained kneeling, waiting for him.

Mack restrained himself nobly. “Between me and the fire, since you’re clearly freezing to death,” he said. “I may wake you up when I put more wood on it, but I figure them’s the breaks.”

“It’s not that cold a night,” she found herself saying. “You could let the fire die down.”

“I was wrong about the moonlight, Maggie. If the fire died down, it would be dark.” His voice was gentle.

She wished she could tell him not to bother. Just when she was trying to regain control, her old, irrational fears crept out again. “All right,” she said, stretching out on the sand beside him, not touching him. “Wake me if you have to.”

He grinned down at her. “What is this, a high school dance where the partners have to stay five inches apart? We aren’t going to share much warmth this way, Maggie.” And he pulled her across the sand into the shelter of his warm body.

She automatically stiffened, wondering if she’d read him wrong. But his hands were impersonal, holding her against him as if she were a child. Slowly she began to relax. What was she being such an idiot for, anyway? What would be wrong with sharing a little more than body warmth on a deserted beach?
What was wrong with making love to a man she found very attractive?

But she wasn’t about to talk herself into it. Lying in the shelter of his big, strong body, she had to admit that she wanted him, and wanted him quite badly. Maybe more than she’d ever wanted anyone before. And despite Mack’s nonthreatening, laid-back attitude, she suspected that he wanted her too.

But she didn’t dare give in. They were safe enough on this beach, but if they made love now, they’d make love again. And again and again, every night they spent together, and then it wouldn’t be as safe.

She’d had enough of failed relationships, of going into them blindly, openheartedly, only to have the men leave when they began to feel threatened or bored. It had been months since she and Peter had decided to go their separate ways, romantically, and she wasn’t eager to trade her peace of mind for another round of passion and pain.

So Mack and his considerable physical attractions were going to have to be ignored. It was a good, sensible resolution, and she released her pent-up breath, relaxing against him.

“I don’t think I like that decision,” he murmured in her ear.

“Hmm?” she questioned sleepily.

“Never mind. I just got the impression I lost that round.”

She didn’t even bother to marvel at his uncanny ability to read her mind. He was doing it far too often—the longer they were together the better they knew each other’s thoughts. It was one of the hazards of getting close to someone, but at least she’d avoid the other hazards. “You did,” she murmured. “G’night, Pulaski.”

“Good night, Maggie.” His voice was deep, raspy, and amused. “Pleasant dreams.”

They weren’t. They were nightmares, memories from some of the worst times in her life. Suddenly she was sixteen again, alone in the darkness, with rough hands all over her, pawing at her, pulling away her clothes, cruel hands that she couldn’t slap away, couldn’t escape from, could only lie there and cry. …

“Maggie? Wake up, Maggie.” The hands weren’t on her breasts, pulling her clothes off her. They were strong, gentle hands on her shoulders, shaking her awake, out of the deep morass of dream and memory that had torn through her sleep and her defenses.

She opened her eyes. The flames of the newly stoked fire were flickering up into the inky black sky, and the man kneeling over her was in shadows. But she knew immediately that he was no threat, and she felt the panic and tension drain from her body. “I’m awake,” she said. “I’m okay.”

As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness she could see his face, the tenderness and concern in his eyes as they stared down at her. Slowly he sank down beside her, gathering her body against his own. “You want to sleep, Maggie?” he whispered in her ear. “Or do you want to tell me about it?”

She shrugged against him, but her hands reached up of their own accord and clutched the rough khaki shirt in unconscious pleading. His body was warm and strong and curiously soothing beneath her fingers. Her voice was at variance with her hands, cool and composed. “There’s not a whole lot to say. It happens to a lot of girls. The wrong man at the wrong time, in the wrong way.” She waited for him to make some response to that, but he said nothing, just lay there, holding her, waiting.

“Except,” she went on, unable to stop herself, “in my case it was my stepfather, when I was sixteen. And he wasn’t completely to blame—I had a mad crush on him and I suppose he thought I was old enough to know what I wanted. It was a very dark night, and there was no light at all in the deserted pool house. And he was too stoned to realize when I said no, I meant it.”

There was a long silence, and Mack’s hold on her tightened imperceptibly, in wordless comfort. “What happened?”

“My mother divorced him, of course. She’d been planning to anyway, but when she heard what happened to me that night she kicked him out of the house. She’d already caught him in bed with another young actor, and she’d been willing to overlook
that. But in my case her long-submerged maternal instincts came out and he was handed his walking papers.”

“Another actor?”

“My stepfather was catholic in his sexual tastes. He took on all shapes, sizes, sexes, and relationships,” she said bitterly. “I’m just glad he died of a drug overdose before he could get his hands on my stepsister.”

“Who was your stepfather?”

Maggie laughed, a raw bitter sound that scraped her throat. “I had three. There was my father, Count Alexander Lagerfeldt, then Sidney Zimmerman, a banker, Deke Robinson, the heartthrob of the fifties, and finally Peter Malcolm, my mother’s true love.”

“How come you don’t use your father’s name?”

She shrugged again. “Sybil changed it to hers before I had much say in the matter. I was never close to my father—there never seemed much reason to go to the bother of changing it back.”

“And it was Deke Robinson in the pool house.”

“Deke Robinson in the pool house,” she agreed. “Mother sent me to the best therapists. I survived the traumatic experience and I’m very healthy sexually. And I’d conquered my fear of the dark long ago.”

“So what happened?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. It started again about a year ago. It built up slowly, and I haven’t had time to deal with it. I know if I just have some time I can face it and it’ll go away. I hate to be at the mercy of it,” she said passionately.

“I’m sure you do. Are you still healthy sexually, or did that come back to haunt you too?” He said it in a light, bantering voice, and she responded in kind, grateful for the gentle teasing that was no threat at all.

“That’s for me to know.”

“And me to find out?” he replied.

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No,” he said slowly. “I’m sure you didn’t. Nevertheless, it’s
going to come to that, sooner or later. You know that, Maggie. Don’t you?”

“Do I?” She was fencing, wary.

“You do. But now is neither the time nor the place. I’m perfectly willing to wait until the time and place are right. Are you going to run, Maggie?”

She took a deep breath. “No. You don’t scare me.”

He laughed, a silent expelling of sweet breath against her face. “That’s good. Because there are times when you scare the hell out of me.”

She smiled, a smug cat-that-got-the-canary smile that he couldn’t see in the dark, and snuggled closer. “Keep it that way, Pulaski,” she said. And willed herself back to sleep.

Maggie stamped with all her might on the clutch pedal, shoved the shrieking gear shift into third, and continued bouncing down the rutted road, a brilliant smile on her face, her tawny blond hair streaming out behind her. Her sense of well-being was completely out of proportion to her accomplishments, but she couldn’t resist feeling absolutely wonderful and at peace with the world.

She’d woken up early, at first light, her bones and muscles cramped from sleeping on the hard sand. Mack slept on, and in the early morning light he looked as all men look when they sleep—young and vulnerable. Pulling herself into a sitting position, she’d stayed and watched him for long moments. He was a good man, Mack “Snake” Pulaski. Good and kind and generous. And sexy. Lying there with his shirt half open, his breathing deep and even, the stubble of beard rough on her hand as she reached out and touched him.