Light it might’ve been, but cramped was a kind word for it. By the time he had the dog curled at the small of his back and Fiona shoehorned beside him, there wasn’t an inch to spare.
“I think your dog has his nose in my ass.”
“Good thing you’re wearing pants.” Fiona shifted a little. “You can scooch over toward me a little more.”
Scooch, he thought, but realized he was too tired to think of a sarcastic comment. So he scooched, muttered and found if he got his arm under her—which he’d probably have to amputate in the morning—he gained a fraction of space.
Thunder belched violently seconds before the skies opened. The rain sounded like a monsoon.
“This would be romantic,” Fiona decided, “if we had a bigger tent, were doing this for fun, and there was a nice bottle of wine involved.”
“The dog’s snoring.”
“Yes, he is, and he will. He worked hard tonight.” She only had to turn her head a fraction to kiss him. “So did you.”
“You’re shaking. Are you cold?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You’re shaking,” he repeated.
“I just need to settle down. I have a problem with closed-in or tight spaces.”
“You...” It struck him immediately, and he cursed himself for an idiot. She’d been bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of a car, heading for death. “Jesus, Fiona.”
“No, don’t.” She grabbed on to him when he started to move. “Just stay right here. I’m closing my eyes, and it’ll pass.”
He felt it now, the way her heart beat against him, as violently as the rain. “We should’ve gone back for the night.”
“No, it wastes time and energy. Plus I’m too tired for a full-blown panic attack.”
What the hell did she call the shivering and heart-banging? He drew her closer, wrapping his other arm around her to stroke a hand up and down her back. “Is that better or worse?”
“It’s better. It’s nice. I just need a minute to adjust.”
Lightning slashed wildly, illuminating the tent. He saw her cheeks were pale, her eyes closed. “So, is Tyson banging the vet?”
“I don’t think it’s progressed to banging, Mr. Romance. I think they’re just starting to get to know each other on a personal level.”
“Banging’s personal, if you do it right.”
“I’m sure she’ll let me know if banging becomes part of the arrangement.”
“Because you’ve told her we’re banging.”
“I suspect she could’ve come to that conclusion all on her own, but yes, of course I told her. And in specific and minute detail. She wishes you’d banged her first.”
“Huh. An opportunity lost.” Her heartbeat was slowing, just a bit. “I could backtrack and make it up to her.”
“Too late. She’d never have sex with you now. We have codes and standards. You’re no longer on the menu when it comes to any of my friends or relations.”
“That doesn’t seem fair when you consider you’re friends with everybody on the island.”
“That may be, but rules are rules.” She tipped her face again, touched her lips to his. “Thanks for taking my mind off my neurosis.”
“You don’t have any neuroses, which is annoying. You have quirks, which make up for it a little. But you’re mostly irritatingly stable and normal. You’re still not my type.”
“But you’re still going to bang me.”
“At every opportunity.”
She laughed, and he felt her fully relax against him. “You’re rude, socially stunted and cynical. But I intend to be available for said banging whenever possible. I’m not sure what that makes us, but it seems to be working.”
“You’re who I want to be with.”
He wasn’t sure why he’d said it—maybe the forced intimacy of the tent, the rain beating its fists down on it, his concern for her even as her trembling ceased. Whatever the reason, he thought, it was truth.
“That’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me,” she murmured. “Even more, given the current circumstances.”
“We’re warm and we’re dry,” he pointed out. “And they’re not,” he added, echoing her thoughts.
“No, they’re not. It’s going to be a terrible night for them.”
This time he turned his head and brushed his lips over her hair. “Then we’d better find them in the morning.”
Part Three
Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?
Twenty-One
She woke in solid dark, unable to move or see or speak. Her head throbbed like an open wound, while nausea churned choppy waves in her belly. Disoriented, terrified, she struggled, but her arms remained pinned behind her back; her legs felt paralyzed.
She could do no more than worm, buck and struggle to breathe.
Her eyes, wide and wild, wheeled in her head. She heard the hum, steady, forceful, and thought—fresh panic—she was in the cave of some wild animal.
No, no. An engine. A car. She was in a car. In the trunk of a car. The man. The man on the jogging path.
She could see it all so clearly, the bold morning sun, the dreamy blue sky like a canvas against the rich hues of fall. That hint of autumn spice on the air like a flavor on her tongue.
Her muscles had warmed. She’d felt so loose, so limber. So powerful. She’d loved that feeling, the heady rush of being alone in a world of color and spice. Just her and the morning and the freedom to run.
Then the man, jogging toward her. No big deal. They’d pass, he’d be gone, and the world would be hers again.
But... did he stumble, did he fall, did she stop for a second to help? She couldn’t remember, not exactly. All blurred now.
But she could see his face. The smile, the eyes—something in those eyes—an instant before the pain.
Pain. Like being struck by lightning.
It spun in her head as the rhythm beneath her changed and the floor vibrated under her. Rough road, she thought in some dizzy corner of her brain.
She thought of her uncle’s warnings, and Greg’s. Don’t run alone. Keep the panic button handy. Stay alert.
