He disappeared down the hall in the direction of the bedroom. Jack, left alone with Kirstie, felt the familiar itch in his palms.
She leaned over the counter, toweling off the plates, her back to him. He took a step toward her, put insouciant friendliness in his voice.
“Want some help with that?”
“No, thank you.”
“I can wash the glasses.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very.”
The plate in her hand squeaked. She was rubbing hard.
“You don’t like me,” he said softly, “do you?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“If you got to know me, you’d feel different.”
She turned. Gave him a hard, level stare. “No, I wouldn’t.”
Blue eyes. So deeply, consummately blue. They stabbed the hot, impulsive part of him like ice picks.
He was conscious of the knife in his pocket, the blade that would snap free at the prick of his thumbnail, the wicked triangular point …
One second. That was all it would take to pin her against the counter, slam the spear blade into her soft throat.
“Are you… feeling all right?” she asked slowly, watching his face.
He needed to get away from her. Right now. He took a faltering step toward the doorway.
“Just a little gas.” He managed a smile. “Must’ve been that Tabasco sauce.”
He left her. Went through the dining room, out the French doors, onto the patio. Inhaled the calming fragrance of roses.
Anastasia, stirring from sleep, trotted over and licked his hand. He scratched her ears.
“Good girl. That’s a good, good girl.”
The dog mewed softly, and Jack thought of Ronni Tyler in her death throes, whimpering with her last hissing exhalation of breath.
It would be better with Kirstie. The best so far. Even without the syringe, it would be perfect.
Soon, he promised himself.
He let his mouth relax into a smile.
15
Kirstie intercepted Steve on his way out of the bedroom. He had changed into a bathing suit and was toting a bulky carrying case loaded with two sets of snorkel tubes, face masks, and swim fins.
“Don’t go with him,” she said urgently.
He stopped in the middle of the loggia and set down the case. “What?”
“Out to the reef. Don’t go.”
“Why not?”
She couldn’t say, exactly. There were no words for it. In the kitchen a few minutes earlier, Jack had acted odd again, vaguely menacing-yet when she replayed the incident in her mind, she could find nothing definite to object to.
He had asked if she wanted help with the dishes. Had said he wanted to be liked. A perfectly innocent exchange. Hardly one that should have left her frightened and unsettled.
Yet it had. It had.
“I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all.”
Steve smiled. “Like a man-eating shark is gonna get me?”
“Not a shark. A snake.”
She turned toward the French doors. Through the sun-streaked glass, Jack was visible in a far corner of the patio, petting the dog.
Steve followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed as he understood.
“Jack…? Oh, come on.”
The doors were shut, and Kirstie was sure Jack couldn’t hear their conversation, but she pitched her voice low anyway. “He scared me on the beach. He still scares me.”
“I’ve known him for years-”
“No. You knew him-years ago. That’s different. You haven’t seen him since high school.”
“He hasn’t changed.”
“Everybody changes.”
“I don’t notice any difference.”
“Because he’s hiding it.”
Steve studied the floor. “What are you saying?” he asked slowly. “That he’s a psychopath? That he’s luring me to the reef so he can drown me?”
Kirstie felt her scalp prickle. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“No-you listen to me.” She took his hand. “I’m asking you not to go. Whether it makes any sense or not… that’s what I want.”
He lifted his head and stared at her for a long moment, then let his gaze travel through the French doors, to rest on Jack again.
“I already promised,” he said softly.
“So break your promise. People do it all the time.”
“Not me.”
Something snapped inside her. “Jesus Christ, when did you get to be so goddamn righteous?”
“Calm down. He’ll hear you.”
She almost screamed at him that she didn’t care what Jack Dance heard. Then self-possession took hold of her, and she bit back the words. She stood unmoving until she could speak quietly, reasonably.
“You won’t even humor me a little?” she said at last.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Not when I think you’re being irrational.”
“Then will you at least do one thing for me?” He waited. “Take the gun.”
“The gun?”
“Just stick it in your bag. Where you can reach it-if you have to.”
Steve shook his head disbelievingly, then crossed the narrow space between them and embraced her.
“Kirstie… Jack’s an old friend.”
“I don’t want you to be alone with him.”
“It’ll be all right.”
“You won’t take the gun?”
“Forget the gun. Everything will be fine.” He brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead and smiled. “I’ll be back in an hour. Still in one piece. I guarantee it.”
Useless to argue. She yielded.
“Of course you will,” she breathed, the words toneless, a memorized lesson. “Don’t mind me. I’m paranoid.”
Abruptly he pulled her closer, his mouth meeting hers with surprising urgency. His sudden need, the driving intensity of his desire-she found it shocking, disorienting.
Then he drew back, and Kirstie caught her breath. She searched for something to say.
“What… what was that all about?”
“Do I need a reason to kiss you?”
