Like a winged goddess, Victoria arched her back, spread her arms, and sank deeper into the salty, inviting sea. What a luxurious sensation. The turquoise water like warm velvet swirling between her bare legs, cupping her exposed breasts.
Suddenly, a man-sleek and naked-swept below the surface and scooped her into his strong arms.
She was in twilight sleep, vaguely aware she was dreaming. Fine with her. Better to remember the dream in the morning. Judging from the trailer, it would be a hell of a movie. R-rated.
Steve was spending the night on the houseboat; she was alone in her king-size bed at the Pier House. Well, almost alone.
Ah, there he was, free-diving to the bottom, arms extended, legs kicking, and. . oh, God. . that sledgehammer between his legs. Cutting through the water, creating its own wake, a keel on a sloop.
Victoria pondered just how was she breathing, being underwater and all. Then, figuring she might be a mermaid, left it at that.
Junior zoomed back into view, rising like a missile from the deep. With something in his hand. An oyster.
Victoria's mind drifted like kelp in the current. Steve loved oysters with beer. The Queen loved oysters with pearls.
Junior pried open the oyster with his bare hands. Said something to her.
Junior opened his mouth and
She heard something then. A slapping sound. Not the slap of a leaping fish smacking the water. Something landlocked and familiar. A quiet thud, the sound of something flat hitting carpet.
Something moved. Her bed was on an elevated portion of the room. One step down and twenty feet away was her worktable, covered with files. Beyond that, the sliding door to the balcony. She could see the silhouette of a person outlined against the glass door, backlit by torches on the pool deck below.
The figure bent, picked up a file from the floor, replaced it on the table.
Heart racing. Paralyzed with fear. Holding her breath, then exhaling, so loud that surely the intruder could hear her breathe.
A weapon. She needed a weapon. Scissors. A pen. Anything. But what did she have? A clock radio. A paperback book. A pillow.
Defenseless. Lying under a sheet, wearing only a satin camisole that stopped above the waist.
A rustle of papers. The intruder opening a file. A narrow beam from a miniature flashlight.
Her ears seemed to twitch like a cat's, her sense of hearing on high alert. The bed had become a furnace. In an instant, she was bathed in sweat. Beads of perspiration, like salty tears, trickled down her face and neck. She could barely breathe, her throat dry and constricted.
An involuntary spasm shook her, and she barked a cough. The miniature flashlight clicked off. For an eternity, no movement, no sound. The silhouette a statue at the table, Victoria frozen under the sheet.
She watched the figure walk silently toward the bed.
Her muscles were locked so tightly, she was terrified she wouldn't be able to move. Her joints petrified wood.
She would not let herself be raped. Or beaten. Or killed. Furious now. The intruder just a few steps away. When he was close enough, she would spring at him.
She curved her hands into claws.
Another step closer. Two more steps and. .
She would shriek to startle him, then tear his face off.
One step away, the intruder stopped. She heard breathing, this time not her own. In the dark, could he see her eyes were open?
The intruder turned and walked past the table. She heard the balcony door sliding in its track. She counted five seconds, then leapt out of bed and raced to the door. Slammed it shut, locked it, inserted the pin in the slot in the track.
Breathing hard, she peered through the glass. Tiki torches burned on the deserted pool deck. The fronds of a palm tree swayed in the ocean breeze. Nothing else moved. The intruder could have crawled down from her second-story balcony-maybe even jumped-to the ground.
The adrenaline flow had stopped, but her mind cranked at the speed limit. So much to do. Call the police. Call Steve. Wash her face. Get dressed. Pee. . don't forget to pee.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 a.m. She turned on the lights and checked the worktable. Nothing seemed to be missing. A chilling thought.
She ran to the closet, threw open the door. No one inside except Calvin Klein and Donna Karan. Whoops, Vera Wang, too.
She considered waking her mother, just a few feet away in the adjoining room. No. She'd be a mess. Let The Queen get her beauty sleep. Tell her about this in the morning.
Victoria sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed Steve's cell. She had to tell him three times before he was sufficiently awake to understand. Then he came unglued.
'I'm fine. I'm going down to the front desk as soon as I get dressed.'
'I'm sure.'
'I'm calm.'
'No.'
True, Steve slept with a baseball bat under his bed, but the only thing he ever clobbered was the occasional palmetto bug. On the phone, she heard what sounded like drawers slamming and muttered curse words.
'What are you doing, Steve?'
