Gillian stepped inside the adjoining all-white bathroom. And gasped with pleasure as her eyes took in the round sunken tub and ornate gold taps shaped like dolphin heads. Slender bottles filled with colored oils and unguents were set neatly at intervals around the rim.
Claudette Colbert in
Only thing missing was a Nubian slave girl.
Excitement stirred, touching her spine with soft, seductive fingers. The tingly feeling teased her stomach and goosebumps rose on her skin. She couldn’t wait to undress.
But first off, had she missed anything? Like some vital clue telling her that the owner was home, after all? To be safe, Gillian called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”
If somebody answered she could always say ... hell, what
An escapee from the local psychiatric unit seemed more plausible, she remembered thinking.
Okay. Weak wasn’t the word. Especially if she was discovered upstairs already. She’d have to come up with a pretty good answer. Bluff her way out of a tricky situation.
Or just make a break for it.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
No reply.
Thank God.
She was safe. Although ...
The short hairs on the back of her neck began to rise.
She cocked her head. Listening for sounds. Any sounds.
None.
The familiar tingle of excitement teased her center. Her pubic mound throbbed until the ache became unbearable. A low giggle burst from her lips. She slipped off her shoes and undressed.
A flicker of fear came and went. Wait, a small voice whispered.
Against her better judgment, she ran water into the tub. Steam curled into her face, making her gurgle with excitement. Selecting a long-stemmed container of bath oil, Gillian took off the stopper and poured it into the tub. Fascinated, she watched the amethyst fluid flow into the bubbling torrent.
The delicate scent of lilacs met her nostrils. Mmmm ... Stepping into the fragrant water, she hummed a tune:
All round, her most fascinating, memorable intrusion so far.
And the briefest, so it turned out.
Bert wasn’t in the tent. Rick told himself there was no reason to worry, but he scurried out of his sleeping bag, needing to see her, needing to banish his sudden fear. He swept aside the tent flap.
She was nowhere in sight.
The fire crackled. Its pale flames fluttered in the morning sunlight. A distance beyond the fire were their packs. The ponchos had been removed and the red nylon top of Bert’s pack was open.
Rick sat down just inside the tent and pulled on his running shoes. His fingers trembled as he tied the laces.
She’s all right, he told himself. Probably down by the stream.
On her back. Wearing one knee sock.
Rick shook his head sharply to dislodge the thoughts, and winced. His head had a dull ache, thanks to the bourbon. He got to his feet, looked around, and walked across the campsite.
She’ll be down by the stream, he thought. When I get to the top of the embankment, I’ll see her. She’s fine.
God oh God, why had he let himself remember all that last night? Over the years he’d become talented at turning his mind away from the memories whenever they started. But lying there in the dark tent, he’d dwelled on them, wallowed in them. He hadn’t even tried to fight the memories.
He suspected that he knew the reason why—because he had a
Shaken by the memories, he had crawled from the tent last night, stirred the smoldering fire to life, gone to his pack and taken out the bottle and revolver. The pocket of his parka was deep enough to hold the revolver. Its weight felt good. He sat on a stump close to the fire and drank. The heat of the bourbon swept through him. He wished he had brought two bottles, not just the one. He had six more nights to go. He needed to hold back, to drink no more than a seventh of the bourbon, or he might run out.
But a seventh of a quart wasn’t much at all.
There were bound to be nights when he wouldn’t need to drink, nights when he would sleep through till morning.
When a quarter of the bottle was gone, he forced himself to quit. Hoping that would be enough to help him sleep, he put the bottle away and returned to the tent. He rolled his parka into a pillow. In spite of its thickness, he could feel the revolver under his head. He didn’t mind.
Nobody gonna fuck with us this time, he thought vaguely, just before falling asleep.
Rick reached the edge of the embankment. For a moment, he didn’t see Bert and something clamped tight in his chest. Then he spotted her. She was off to the right, sitting cross-legged on a rock near the middle of the stream.
“Morning,” he called, climbing down the slope.
She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. “Afternoon,” she said.
“Oh, it’s not that late.”
She got to her feet, hopped across the stream, and stepped into her sneakers. She was wearing baggy tan shorts and a white T-shirt. She looked fresh and wonderful. She came to Rick. He put his arms around her. She pressed herself against him.
“How come you didn’t invite me to your party?” she asked.
She knew. Of course she knew.
“You were asleep,” Rick said.
He felt her shrug.
“You didn’t miss much. I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. So I knocked back a few. They helped.”
“The first night out can be tough,” she said. “It’ll get better.”
“God, I hope so.”
“Good thing I didn’t light a match this morning, the tent would’ve blown up.”
Rick laughed softly. “Sorry.”
Her hands slipped inside the seat of his sweatpants. They were warm on his buttocks. “If you have trouble sleeping again, how about waking me up? I don’t want you to suffer alone.”
