The Red Bikini (22 page)

She reached for the hem of the billowy skirt and pulled it up. He swallowed hard. Beneath, he could see milky-white thigh, a color he didn’t see often on the beach. A color he didn’t see often at all, in fact. A color that hinted at unexplored secrets.

Most of the women he’d been with were coming on to him at this point—experienced, aggressive, ready to move things to the next level they could all predict. He’d never had a woman staring at him like this from across the room—eyes wide, unsure, trusting, hopeful, eager to please, eager to
be
pleased.

His breathing went shallow. He had to close his eyes for a second.

When he opened them, she was wriggling off her panties from under the skirt, bending forward and giving him a glorious view of her breasts almost falling out of that top. Her skirt fell back over the part of her body he most wanted to see, the one he wanted to touch, the one he wanted to be buried in. . . . She delicately pushed the lace-trimmed scrap of underwear to the side with the pointed toe of her shoe, then leaned against the door.

“There,” she whispered.

He laughed to himself. They were nowhere near “there.” He glanced at the panties on the floor and swallowed hard, again, imagining the bareness underneath that skirt. It was all he could do not to rush her, run his hands up under the fabric, slip his fingers inside her, take her right against the door. He took another step, although he didn’t mean to.

“That’s not ‘there,’ Giselle,” his throat scratched out. “I’m not standing here, hanging on by a thread, to see you in a dress.” He tried to smile to lighten the desperation in his voice, but a flicker of nervousness came across her face.

“You first,” she whispered.

“I’ll be happy to strip for you, too, when it’s my turn. But please don’t deny me this pleasure.” His voice had a despair laced around the edges that he found embarrassing. “You hold all the power here, Giselle. Look what you do to me. This is desire.”

Her gaze finally fell to the tent in his shorts. She nodded. The realization seemed to give her strength, and her fingers went to the
V
of her dress, running toward the crease of her cleavage, exactly where he wanted to be. He imagined kissing her down through that
V
, his lips moving against soft skin, his hands running up her legs. . . . His mouth went dry.
Hang on, man
. . . .

She reached up to untie the dress at her neck. “You have to turn the lights off,” she whispered.

“No,” he managed to choke out.

“Fin.”

“No.”

She bit her lip. “Please.”

He shook his head. “Do you always have sex with the lights out?”

She hesitated for what felt like an eternity, then nodded a little.

“That’s your mistake number one,” he said. “Or . . . well, your ex’s mistake. I don’t make that kind of mistake. I want to see you. And if you want to feel desired, all you have to do is watch my eyes.” He took another forbidden step. “Watch how crazy you’re going to make me with every piece of your clothing that hits the floor.”

Her eyes became glossy with something he’d never seen before. Maybe it was her own desire. Maybe it was a challenge. Maybe it was something deeper, something like trust. It made him want to reach out and wrap his arms around her, protect her from guys like him. So he held back, his breath animalistic, his hands desperate, his erection pressing. He listened to the clock ticking in the background and waited for Giselle Underwood to show him her white body and invite him in.

She started to undo the gigantic belt that was the same color as the dress. Since it looked like part of the fabric, he hoped it would let the whole thing unravel.

As he stood dumbly, his hands just inches away from ravishing her, a powerful bang exploded in the front room.

Breaking glass shattered the silence.

The roar of the ocean got louder.

Giselle’s face went white as she scrambled for the lock, and Fin lunged forward and yanked the door open.

F
in was in the front room in five strides.

He whirled toward the couch where Tamara had—
Fuck
. She was gone.

He leaped over a floor lamp that had crashed to the floor, its bulb lying in bits and pieces, then rushed through the open slider and thudded down the concrete steps.

His eyes went to the rocks.

The tide pulled back and he was able to scan them, hoping he’d see something. Or hear her. Or something.
And
holy
fuck, where had she gone?

His heart pounded as he ran across the wet sand, scanning the rocks and the black ocean, waiting for the next wave to roll back to see whether he could see anything in the sand.
Could she have gone in the water? How could she have moved so fast?

He scrambled down to the foamy surf, which was wet and cold, feeling like quicksand as the tide hissed out. He ran the length of the house to make sure she hadn’t gotten stuck in one of the breaker rocks. As he took in another lungful of misty air, the ocean roared behind him and the freezing night tide slammed against the backs of his legs.

“Fin?” Giselle’s soft voice floated on a pocket of mist behind him. She was on the stairs.

“Get back up there,” he yelled over his shoulder, still moving along the rocks, pulling through the water as the tide retreated, scanning them first, then scouting the ocean.

Giselle hadn’t moved.

“Now!” he yelled at her.

Satisfied there wasn’t a body in the rocks, he turned and ran into the ocean, scanning the black horizon. The floodlights illuminated about fifty yards, but beyond that was a complete abyss.

A tiny voice—small, far away—drifted toward him. He whirled to see a figure in the water, bobbing in the darkness, about forty feet out, sputtering for air.

Tamara!

She floated in the darkness like ripped seaweed, getting swept back by powerful waves that were rushing out, fast and furious, in a riptide.

His voice was meant to let her know someone was there for her, but he had the sense it was getting caught on the ocean wind and thrown back at him. He sloshed through the surf, trying to find a spot deep enough to dive. She went under again, but she was still about twenty feet away when the next wave came rising up behind her like a black hand—curling over the top of her, its white foam wrapping like menacing fingers—

Fin opened his mouth to yell, just as it crashed down, roaring.

Tamara disappeared.

“Tamara!”
The white foam slammed him the other way, but the water was deep enough now to dive into. He threw himself in, his head exploding from the stabbing cold. He paddled hard, then popped up for a deep breath. When he saw the next wave, black as night, rising like the fists of hell, he dipped under and let it roll over the top of him as he dove toward the sandy bottom. It was so black under there—eerie and silent, like death.

He came up for breath and searched frantically. He’d been swimming in the right direction, but it was hard to tell which way the waves would carry her. She could have been anywhere, tossed around like debris in this raging tide. He twisted to find her, just in time to see the next wall come up in front of him—black glass, rising. He threw himself underneath, but he knew he’d been late seeing it. The ocean punished his negligence by tossing him to the bottom—sand scratching his face and arms—until he got his footing again.

“Tamara!” he finally hollered, taking a lungful of seawater.

He twisted his body in time to see her—about twenty-five feet away—getting swept farther out. His arms and legs felt attacked by nails, the water so cold, but he pushed forward. She didn’t appear to be moving. Fin drew a deep breath through frozen lungs and lunged again.

He caught another wall, rising, getting ready to rage, right in front of him, and—
Damn! He just needed one minute
. But he had to go under again, this time paddling hard in the iciness to propel him in her direction.

When he came up on the other side of the wave, she was about fifteen feet away, getting batted. Her movements were labored. He knew from talking with her that she was a strong swimmer, but this tide was powerful. The blackness was disorienting. And alcohol in your system never helped.

He threw himself toward her—closing the gap between them to about ten feet—but the ocean lifted her out of reach. The next swell propelled him closer and he grabbed. He caught her hair, then her arm. He gripped fiercely, but had to bring them both under while the next huge wave crashed over their heads, and he felt the white water hammer over his head. He knew he was going to lose her—the ocean was pulling her the other way—but he held on as best he could and managed to keep his fingers manacled around her upper arm. Sand slashed their skin. He felt her slip. But the water retreated, and he was able to shoot up for air on the other side. He spouted water, his lungs feeling like knives were slashing them, but stunned that he still had a grasp on her. He had about a quarter of a minute before the next wave. He yanked her toward him and got her into a lifeguard’s hold, across her chest and under her arms.

She fought. It was a natural reaction. But he held firmly, the way he’d been taught.

“It’s okay.” His voice rasped on a breath. They were in a riptide, the water below rushing off to sea. He’d have to pull her farther out, just to get out from the wave breaks so they could swim parallel to shore. He began lugging her, and she gurgled, clawing at his forearm.

“It’s okay,” he breathed into her ear. “We have to move. To the right. Riptide is”—he caught his breath—“right underneath us.”

He wanted to go out about another ten feet, “behind” the waves. There wouldn’t be any breaks to bat them around.

But the next wave rose. He hollered for her to hold her breath, and she screamed again, a series of “no’s” that broke his heart, but she finally gulped for air and held her breath. He pulled her under. He knew that was the last one until they could get behind the waves. All he could do was hope she’d hold her breath and survive. She went limp under his arm.

He sputtered back to the surface, yanking her with him, and searched her face. For a second, he thought he’d drowned her. But she coughed and reached back, trying to grab his hair.

At first, he welcomed the battery, grateful she was moving at all, but then her grasping was pulling him under.

“Tamara,”
he tried, grabbing her wrist. It was impossible to hold her, fight her, and paddle at the same time. “It’s okay,” he shouted above the waves. “It’s okay now, Tamara; we’re okay.” He pulled her close. The water calmed as they floated to a place behind the waves. An eerie silence fell. Her body stilled with it.

“It’s okay; it’s okay; it’s okay,” he whispered, over and over into her ear. His breath caught through half the litany, but she was calming. The ocean bobbed them up and down. She stopped thrashing and clutched his arm.

“Hang on,” he sputtered, taking a small, smacking wave of salt water and choking it out. He wanted her to catch her breath so she could swim on her own, but there was no time. He had to get them out of this thing or they’d both be under.

He swam as hard as he could to the left, dragging her like a corpse. He glanced at the shore, which was painfully far away, and wondered whether they were going to make it.

“Tamara, stop . . . kicking.” He took a deep breath. “Go limp.”

She did. He breathed a sigh of relief and paddled for about thirty feet.
I cannot let her die out here
. The ocean settled under him. They were out of the riptide. But damn, he was exhausted. They coughed together as lapping water slapped their faces. His arms were lead. His feet had weights attached.

The smaller backwater waves threw another mouthful of seawater down his throat, but he coughed it out and turned his face toward her. His arms could not lift her, but he had another thought—a deep, ugly thought from the recesses of his memory, of Jennifer, limp on the rocks, her black hair in clumps around her face, her mouth blueish ash—and he found some strength to pull Tamara upward. He slipped his arm across her chest and began to pull—kicking, paddling, desperately pulling through the icy water, moving them toward shore.

The last of his energy got them to the wave breaks, where the tide began pushing them in the right direction, but they had to deal with crashes and foam. The next few waves battered them, and Tamara was starting to fight again, but at least he could use the momentum to let the waves drag them to shore. He paddled with all the strength he had left. When he got to the point where his feet could touch the ground, he sputtered and stood, wobbly. His knees wanted to give out, but he got Tamara to her feet and helped her across the sand. Her legs were crumpling beneath her.

Suddenly Fox was there, reaching toward her—
where had he come from?
—and Giselle rushed forward, too—
damn it, hadn’t he told her to go back?—
and they both fell toward him, getting their calves and thighs wet, and reached for Tamara, dragging her back toward the beach stairs, limp and sputtering.

Fin bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to get some air back into his lungs, and next thing he knew Giselle was back, her arm slipped around his waist, pulling him the rest of the way onto the beach.

“You shouldn’t . . . be . . . out here,” he sputtered. He tried to push her away, but she clung voraciously and dragged him out of the water. He had to be heavy on her. When they were out of the shore break, he went down on one knee.

She knelt with him, and he turned, for some reason, and kissed the top of her head.

He felt as if she were the one lost. Panic seized and froze his muscles for a second—as if he almost lost something he really wanted—although he was confused about what it was. He inhaled gulps of air and tried to speak, but it was too painful, so he simply snapped the water off his face and sat in the sand, knees up, dropping his head into his forearms.

Giselle leaned against him and wrapped her fingers around his arm. He thought she might be crying.

He had lost Jennifer. He’d let her down. But there were others in his life that he didn’t have to let down. It wasn’t a chain reaction. He could break the cycle, come back from the dead.

He leaned over and kissed the top of Giselle’s head again, then settled his hand over hers, pressing the turquoise ring between them.

He knew who he might start with.

 • • • 

The smell of chocolate and strong coffee mingled in the kitchen as they sat around the small table, mugs between their palms. Only Fox was still on his feet, pacing. He threw fiery glances around the room, as if he weren’t sure where he wanted them to land. Mostly they landed on Tamara, much to Giselle’s dismay.

“I still don’t understand what went on here,” he said.

Fin glanced up tiredly. “That’s enough, Fox.”

Giselle pressed her mug between her palms. They’d spent the last half hour getting Tamara warmed up and changed. Fin had given her an enormous sweatshirt and pajama bottoms that she clutched at her waist. While Fin warmed up in the shower and changed, Giselle searched for her underpants. She shuddered to think where or when they might turn up. For now, she returned to the kitchen and sat with Tamara, a blanket over her yellow skirt, warming her thighs and calves.

Her heartbeat had slowed, but still had not found its normal rhythm. Watching Fin and Tamara get swept farther and farther away was like witnessing death right before her eyes. She’d never been more terrified in her life.

Fox obviously felt the same way. He leaned against the kitchen pillar, his face ashen.

“What
happened
?” he asked again, exasperated that no one was ready to talk. He marched into the living room for the tenth time, studying the blanket on the couch, inspecting the broken lamp Tamara must have knocked over on her way out.

Fin moved into the kitchen and filled another novelty mug with water. “She thinks you’re cheating on her,” he finally said.

“
Cheating
on her?” Fox twisted toward Tamara. “Is that true?”

Tamara stared into her coffee—tired, weary, half-drowned, defeated, embarrassed, barely sober. The cuffs of Fin’s pajama bottoms swam around her bare feet. With her face scrubbed clean of her makeup and polish, she looked like the vulnerable human Giselle herself always felt like.

“You’re always leaving me.” Tamara’s voice was small and far away.

Fin walked the water back to Tamara with two aspirin. “You’re going to need this,” he muttered. “Sorry about the profanity on the mug.”

“I’m not
leaving
you.” Fox moved toward the table.

Fin slid quickly out of the way.

“I just . . .
worry
,” Tamara said.

The ocean sounded far away as the four of them huddled in the dining room, Tamara sniffling and Fox delivering apologetic kisses into her bangs. Giselle stole a glance at Fin. She couldn’t tell whether he was touched by the scene or relieved it was over. Mostly he looked grim.

“I don’t know whether to give you a medal of honor or beat you senseless,” Fox said to Fin, without any animosity. He drew Tamara closer to his chest.

“Don’t say that,” Tamara said, sniffling. She pulled away from Fox and turned toward Fin, her hand clenched at her waist to hold the pajamas up. “Thank you.” Her eyes became moist. “This was my fault, and you were . . .
amazing
.”

Fin blinked hastily. He started to say something, but before he could, Tamara’s chair scraped across the floor, and she threw her arms around his neck.

Abruptly, she removed herself and faced her husband. “This is
not
Fin’s fault. I drank too much. I was going down to the water to be mopey, but I got caught up in that tide, and that damned water sucked me right out. And thank God for Fin.”

“What the hell were you doing, going into the water?” The veins swelled in Fox’s forehead. He turned toward Fin. “And where were
you
?”

“Don’t blame Fin,” Tamara reiterated. “I went outside because I was sad. I thought you were cheating on me because you keep having these late-night emergencies, and it seems suspicious. There was that one two weeks ago, when we got in that huge fight when you had to leave—”