In Too Deep (11 page)

Oh. My. God
. Tally's eyes flew open, and her heart almost stopped as realization struck:
He's come to my room. Be still my heart
.

Oh, Lord. She'd categorically told him no more sex, then flirted with him. She'd given off completely mixed signals, but damn it, that was because she was
feeling
mixed signals. Her body wanted va va voom, and her brain was sending a Klaxon call of warning.

Tally froze, listening to his stealthy footsteps approaching the bed. She didn't know what to do. Sit up and say, "Come on in," or pretend to be asleep, or yell at him for crossing the line she'd drawn in the sand.

His footsteps stopped, and the soft, comforting glow in the room was suddenly extinguished. He'd unplugged the small night-light by the door.

Fear tangled with desire and damn near squashed it.
I wish you hadn't done that
. Dark was the last thing she needed right now. She was already overstimulated, and the man hadn't done anything. Yet. Tally squeezed her eyes tightly shut, pretending she was bathed in candlelight.

It helped. A little.

Her heartbeat sped up, and every sense vibrated as Michael crossed from the door to the bed.

She opted for pretending she was asleep. Cowardly, perhaps, but nonconfrontational and safe; the best course for this time of night.

His footfall was quiet, a soft shift of bare feet on wood. She wanted to roll over to greet him. With open arms.

No, she didn't. What was she
thinking
? This would be a good time to "wake up" and tell him to get the hell out. This would be a perfect time to get her body and her brain to cooperate and come up with a definitive N-O. How the hell could she make it clear to him when it was as clear as mud to her?

Tally lay still, barely breathing, her body humming with anticipation. With sheer, unadulterated lust.

The footsteps stopped beside the bed.

Under the pillow beneath her head her fingernails bit into her palm. If they made love again, there'd be no going back. If she managed to get a grip on her raging hormones and tell him her decision had been final, that would be that.

To holiday fling, or not holiday fling. That was the question.

Make up your mind, Tallulah!

It was now or never. She started to roll over. The movement was arrested by a large palm slapped roughly over her mouth.

"Heyth!" The callused hand tightened painfully. Tally struggled to sit up even as she tried to shove the restraint away. He was strong and determined. She couldn't even manage to lift her head from the pillow.

The son of a bitch hadn't taken no for an answer after all.

Infuriated, Tally tried to break his grip on her face. One of her arms was pinned beneath her head. The other trapped against her body by the sheet he was apparently kneeling on.

The nerve of the man. The unmitigated
gall
. How
dare
he come in here and just grab her after she'd…

Oh, God. This was not
Michael
.

He bent over to whisper something in her ear. Tally hadn't a clue what he'd just said. It sounded like French. Did he think that phony accent would turn her on? The man was crazy.

He put more of his considerable weight against her shoulder, squishing her into the mattress, and whispered menacingly. "This will go much worse for you if you fight me."

He'd been drinking. His breath smelled like whiskey aged in a fish barrel.
Ew
!

Tally struggled harder, managing to free her legs but not her upper body. She tried to reach the flashlight she kept on the bedside table. It was lightweight, but big enough to give him a nasty conk on his head. Unfortunately, it was just out of reach.

She couldn't get his hand off her mouth to scream, and besides, the noise in the bar downstairs would drown out any sound from her room.

She struggled, this time freeing an elbow and jerking it backwards with enough force to elicit a hoarse curse as it struck his thigh. His hand tightened on her face. He said something else, but the blood pounding in her ears made hearing damn difficult.

Something cold and sharp touched her throat. Tally froze. He had a knife? The son of a bitch had a
knife
at her throat?

That's it
! Tally pushed the weapon away from her skin, so furious, she didn't care if the sicko cut her in the process.

With almost superhuman strength, she shoved away. Free, she scrambled to her knees and then bounded to her feet to stand—no,
bounce
—on the sagging mattress. Vaguely, she heard the knife clatter to the hardwood floor as she grabbed him by the hair and shook him like a rat.

"
Hurensohn
!" she shouted in German. "You sorry excuse for a man." Shake. "
Kaproskilo
! Scum-sucking dirt wad." Shake. "Lowlife opportunist. You—"

"
Mon Dieu
!" The man grabbed her hands fisted in his hair. "
Merde
."

"Who are you? What are you doing in my room?" Tally paused, her fingers buried in his hair. Coarse, thin, oily hair.

Oh, gross
. "What"—she held on, and shook him again—"do you want?"

"You are a dead woman," he said in gutter French. "A dead woman."

She yanked harder. "For a dead woman, I have quite a grip, don't I, you motherless bastard?"

"Let go or die."

"Let go
and
die, you mean. What do you want? What have I done to you?" She demanded, in French.

He shackled her wrists and threw her backwards. Tally landed flat on her back on the mattress, the man fell with her, crushing her chest. One arm was pinned beneath her own hip, the other was pinned by the weight of his body. She squirmed beneath him. He wasn't budging.

His hands came up around her throat. He was strong and determined. She gagged. Coughed. Gagged again. Brilliant lights starburst in the blackness of Tally's vision.

Her right hand was palm up, and she could feel his heavy erection twitch against her fingers. Oh, Jesus. Fighting to stay conscious, Tally tried to free either of her arms so that she could try to fight him off. Their combined weight made the task impossible.

With sheer gut instinct she closed her hand around the man's testicles and penis in a death grip. And squeezed with all her strength. The pressure immediately relaxed around her throat. She squeezed harder, digging her long nails into his flesh through his pants.

He screamed. High-pitched and loud. Still holding on, she levered her upper body off the bed. He was cursing in virulent French, bent over, trying to protect his privates while scrabbling for her wrist. Tally managed to get a two-handed grip on his body parts. As disgusting as it was, she wasn't letting go for anything.

His elbow smacked her check as he flailed around, in too much pain to be effective fighting
her
off. Good. She held to him as tightly as she could. Her hands numb with the pressure, her nails imbedded to the quick. There was no more erection of course, just a limp, disgusting noodle stretched to its limit. She was going to be grossed out as soon as she could figure out what to do next.

Oh, Lord. What
am
I supposed to do with him now? Staring blindly into the darkness, she shouted, "Michael! Help!"

Tally dragged the guy to the window like a pull toy. His language was blue and fierce, but of course, like any man, he followed his penis. She stepped outside onto the narrow wood lanai. The star-studded sky didn't give off enough light. But she saw that he was hunched over almost double, his hands clutched over hers, moaning in pain. Tally dug her nails in harder.

Below the balcony was Auntie's beautiful tropical garden. No stairs. So he'd come in through the bar and up the inside stairs. She gave a sharp twist. He screamed like a girl. "Tell me why you wanted to hurt me?" she demanded, trying to figure out what the hell to do now.

"I was looking for… money," he said in a rapid spate of French interspersed with much sobbing. "You will release my penis, and I shall go."

"And come back to rob me another time? I don't think so."

"Non. I will tell h—
mon Dieu
! Release me, I beg this of you."

Because she obviously couldn't stand there forever gripping the man's balls, Tally let go. And while he was still moaning and hunched over hugging his privates, she pushed him over the balcony to the lanai below.

There was a thump, a loud rustle of foliage, and then silence.

Without looking down, she rushed back inside and slammed the French door behind her. Grabbing the rattan chair near the bed, she wedged it under the handles. Useless, of course. Anyone wanting to come in only needed to give a hard push and the chair would slide across the wood floor.

Tally fumbled in the dark for the flashlight she always kept beside the bed, then pulled the thin drapes closed across the glass door with shaking hands. With the light to guide her, she went across the room and turned the useless lock in the doorknob, then flicked on the overhead light.

Better. Much better. She peered at her throat in the mirror by the door. Her neck was already starting to bruise, and damn it, the son of a bitch had
cut
her. She felt sick to her stomach at the violence. Two near-death experiences since she'd been here was two too many.

This was a little more reality than she was ready for. From downstairs came the sound of people laughing, talking, having fun. She hesitated, almost scared enough to go racing downstairs in her jammies.

But not
quite
.

She pulled off her pj's, and dragged on a pair of camel linen slacks, and a tailored white linen shirt with natural bone buttons. Barefoot, she opened the door into the hallway. If it hadn't been for the stream of light from her room, the hallway would've been pitch-dark. She went back inside to get the flashlight. If need be, she'd use it like a club.

A quick glance to the left showed Michael's door ajar. Had he come upstairs yet or was he still downstairs drinking and carousing with the locals? He wasn't the type of man to go to bed at ten o'clock. At least not alone.

She hesitated. Michael, or downstairs?

Surely he wouldn't sleep with her one night, and bring Leli'a to his room right in her auntie's hotel the next? The thought of Michael Wright having hot sex with the beautiful Tahitian girl made Tally's stomach roll.

With the flashlight raised, she turned toward the stairs and the noisy barroom below. Grabbing the metal banister, she raced down the steep cement steps two at a time.

Wearing shorts, a sweatshirt, and his eye patch, Michael tapered off his nighttime run to a jog, then finally, a walk. He wasn't wearing his watch, but judging by the position of the stars, it was after ten. There was no moon, but the stars winked ice clear in the blackness of the sky.

The beach was at least three miles long. He'd run the soft sandy stretch five times at a dead run and was barely winded. No heavy pack. No combat weapons. No sweat.

Not bad for a man who'd sailed for eleven months and avoided dry land, barring necessities. With all the toys he had onboard, two global positioning systems, the radios, and phone, fax, and e-mail capabilities, other than supplies, he could do everything he needed to do from the open sea.

Michael stood with his fingers locked behind his head and stretched as he stared thoughtfully out over the ocean. His lips twitched as he pictured Tally earlier at dinner. Did she know what a mass of contradictions she was? Elegant and earthy. Sexy as hell, and prim. Volatile and icy.

He shook his head and lowered his arms, then turned and walked away from the few lights of the bar and marina. Down the long, suddenly too bright, expanse of the beach. Farther up, as the beach turned the corner of the bay, he'd be blocked by a convenient rocky outcrop. The lava rocks meandered along the coast, steadily climbing, and forming a wedge as gentle hills became the cliffs on the west, north, and south of the island.

Warm, fragrant air caressed his damp skin.

The blast on Arnaud's boat had been expertly set and discharged. It didn't take an underwater detonation expert to figure that one out. Bouchard
had
been on deck when she'd blown.

Coincidence? Michael didn't think so.

He wondered if the explosion was a plan gone wrong. Did the delectable Tally have a nice big life insurance policy? And what about the second man? Also missing. How had he figured into it?

The sugary sand beneath his feet retained the heat of the day. Michael picked up a small broken slice of shell and flipped it between his fingers as he walked. The shell broke like a promise in his hand. He tossed it aside and veered onto the hard-packed wet sand.

He clambered over the lava rocks to the beach of the tiny cove on the other side. It was clear from the watermark striations on the rocks that this small stretch would be under water at high tide. Presently, the surf lapped gently at the surrounding rocks, leaving a snowy expanse of beach exposed.

Michael reconned the perimeter and found the small mouth of a cave, or deep depression. Darkness prevented him from seeing more than a foot or so inside. He crouched low and brailed his way around the opening.

"Sonofabitch, a cave." The narrow fissure opened enough for him to stand without bumping his head. But without a flashlight it was useless going any further. He'd come back tomorrow in the daylight. The cave would be a strong possibility for Church's hidden cache. His heart sped up with anticipation. God, it couldn't be this easy.

And why not?

Church wouldn't expect his enemy to show up announced at his front door.

Michael backtracked until he saw the faint glow of starlight, then emerged into the fresh air. He dug his toes into the damp sand and stuffed his hands into his pockets as he stared out across the vast expanse of the ocean.

There was nothing malevolent about the water tonight. A transparent white sheen painted a shimmering path to infinity beyond the glassy surface. Tempting. Luring.