Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island (24 page)

Susanna took large, crouching, stretching steps around her prison cell, bashing the air with her arms. Any exercise felt good. She pretended she was running down a hill, the wind in her face, Hank in his stupid mask beside her—

Why was she turned on? His thoughtfulness? Because he was the only man she'd seen in weeks? Because he cooked? Left her a sandwich when he went somewhere? His gentleness appealed to her. Also he had excellent hands, strong but with delicate fingers that, she imagined, would feel firm and gentle on her body. Though she could hardly be of interest to him—she saw herself regularly in the mirror and knew she looked heavy and schlumpy in her baggy jeans and loose shirts. Despite which she had a real yearning, an itch in need of a scratch, for Hank. What if she got undressed, slid under the sheet; when he came in she'd fake sleeping, then groan as if she felt ill and he'd come over to her and touch her brow to see if she had a fever and she'd reach for his hand and kiss it and bring those slender fingers to her breast? What would he do then? Yeah, well, this all needed some thought. A plan.

Actually what she needed most was food. She would starve if he didn't return. But every day he did return.

Aha, the knock. She jumped onto the bed like the well-trained captive she'd become. The key scraped in the lock, sound of deadbolt sliding—

In came Hank, pushing the dinner cart again, top level laden with plates, plastic knives and forks, wooden servers, a bottle of wine and real wine glasses. Also two frying pans, covered. On the lower level, two white plastic bags. Eyes on her, he turned the deadbolt. The ski mask! Again. He set the bag on the floor.

“Hi. You all right?”

“Hi. Sure. Why?”

He smiled, shrugged. “Just wondered.”

“Why've you got that balaclava on again?”

“Keeping warm from the wind.”

“Oh? It's windy out?”

“No, it's sunny.”

“Could you take it off?”

“You really want me to?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He reached behind his head and pulled it up from his nape, slowly, slowly, a skull striptease. He rolled it over his crown, then quickly from his face.

Susanna gasped.

Fredric laughed. Underneath, his Arlechino mask. “Better?”

“Yeah,” she scowled, “but not great.”

“Sorry. As far as I can go.”

“Who says?” But she knew his answer.

“Can't tell you. You hungry?”

“Actually, famished.” She leaned over the cart. “What've you got?”

“You'll see.”

Fredric grabbed one of the plastic bags from the lower level and pulled out some material. He spread it on the table.

“A tablecloth!” First time. She watched as he set the table, two places, and put the wine bottle in the middle. White. More cloth? Napkins. Hmm. Also on the lower level, an oven mitt beside the other bag. He put on the mitt and transferred the two frying pans to the table. She got off the bed, stepped into her sandals and walked toward him. She felt immensely domestic. She could stand beside him, touch his shoulder, look through the small openings in the mask and into his eyes, put her cheek to his—well, to the mask. Instead she stopped at the opposite side of the table and reached toward one of the frying pan covers. “May I look?”

“Careful! That's hot.” He handed her the mitt. “Use this.”

She put it on. Pleasant to have something on her hand that he'd just worn. She lifted the lid. Two fish, lying on their sides, well grilled.

“Trout almondine.” He sounded proud. He uncovered the other. Steamed potatoes sprinkled with chives and garlic.

“Looks wonderful.”

“Thanks.” He took a corkscrew from his pocket, slit away the shrink-wrap from the wine and worked out the cork.

Susanna thought: first weapon he's ever brought in, grab it—But then what? Stab him? Hardly.

He poured wine into the glasses. “Pinot Grigio,” he said.

“What's so special tonight?”

“Cheers,” he said, raising his glass, looking into her eyes.

She saw gentle, caring eyes. Hank? Wrong name. “Cheers,” she repeated.

They sipped, watching each other. Suddenly his hand trembled and he set his glass down. The softness of his eyes seemed to quiver. Control yourself! he thought. He's nervous about something, she realized. Better do this right now, he figured.

He went to the cart, grabbed the other plastic bag and handed it to her. “I bought you a present yesterday in Seattle.”

She took it. “Tablecloth, fancy food, and a present?”

“Open it.”

She did, and her mouth gaped. She unfolded a dark green silk dress, sleeves to elbows, low-cut neckline, little buttons down to the draping skirt. All she could say was, “I don't have a present for you.”

“Go on, try it on.”

She floated to the bathroom, stripped off her jeans and shirt, unbuttoned the front of the dress. She stepped into the skirt, slipped her arms into the sleeves and rebuttoned. Perfect fit at the waist, and the bosom of the dress felt designed for her. She pulled the front down to show a little more cleavage. All those times when he looked at her, was he measuring her? If so, he had a very good eye. If he could dress her this easily, had he mentally undressed her too? She suddenly felt shy. The dress needed heels. Second best, bare feet. She flicked off her sandals and smoothed the skirt. She checked her face in the mirror, picked up the hairbrush, a few passes, she looked okay. Except for the darkening roots. She opened the door and stepped into the room.

Hank or whatever his name was stared at her. What a direction for a kidnapping to take. She walked around the table, and stood inches from him. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek below the mask. “It's a lovely dress.” She stepped back.

His lips, what she could see, seemed to be smiling. “You look lovely in it.”

For a long moment they stared at each other. Hank said, “The trout'll be getting cold,” which broke their mutual concentration. “Let's eat.”

“Good,” she said, smiling. “I'm starved.” She sat opposite.

He lifted off the lid. With the servers, he slid one of the fish onto her plate. She watched him serve himself the second fish, and then potatoes for both.

The feel of the mask on her lips had weirded her a little—rough and leathery and cool, not the pleasant warmth of his skin. A lustful part of her wanted to pull the mask off. Her rational part said,
Don't be stupid.
She heeded her more intelligent self and picked up her knife and fork.

He sat, and raised his glass. “Bon appétit.”

She did the same. “And to you.” They both sipped. And without thinking, Susanna said, “Why did you get me this dress?”

“Because you needed something more beautiful than those seedy jeans and shirts.”

“I have the white dress I wore that day you kidnapped me—”

“The day you came here.” He smiled. “The day we met.”

Was he playing with her, flirting with her? “You teasing me?”

“A little,” he conceded. “Like you're teasing me, right?”

She veered away from his question by taking her first bite of trout. “Delicious. Just delicious.” She took another bite, then some potato. Was she teasing him? Not intentionally. Or did he mean with the way she looked right now? She glanced down at the front of her dress. What she saw confirmed what she was feeling. Her nipples had gone hard and their tips pushed against the thin silk. She needed a good sip of wine. She took it. Change the subject. “You're a very fine cook, Hank.”

“Thank you. I'm learning.”

“You make something different each evening.”

He laughed lightly. “More than the evening. The meal takes most of the afternoon. And sometimes the morning to shop.”

“Who taught you to cook?”

He grinned. “Me.”

“From books? Experimenting?”

“Right now only from books. I'm too new to experiment.”

“I can't believe that. When did you start cooking?”

“Two weeks ago.”

She would have sworn that beneath the mask he'd raised his eyebrows. So she raised hers as well. “You'll make some woman a good husband, Hank.”

He shrugged.

She had to say: “Your name's not really Hank, is it?”

He took a bite of fish, then potato. “Why do you ask?”

“You don't feel like a Hank.”

“How do you know how I feel?”

She felt the back of her neck warm up and hoped the blush wouldn't spread. “I don't.” But would like to find out. She took the last bite of trout from the upper side. Then she lifted the tail, pulled the skeleton away from the lower side, and laid it in the frying pan.

“Beautifully done,” he said.

“My father taught me.” Would this be the right moment to ask again if she could phone him? “He taught me to fly-fish and catch trout.”

“I'd like to learn to fish.” He smiled wistfully, or at least his lips did. Or she was projecting it on him.

“Maybe one day I'll teach you.”

“Maybe one day I'll appreciate that.”

She had to ask. “Hank or whatever your name is, I would very much like to call my father. Just assure him I'm being well taken care of. I can't tell him anything about where I am because I don't have the slightest idea. I'd be off the phone in thirty seconds; if anybody's listening, no way can they trace the call. Please?”

He sighed, as if understanding her assessment was correct. But he said, “Susanna. I'd like to. But I'm sorry. I can't let you.”

Her eyes teared. She nodded. In that moment she missed her father immensely. She took another bite of fish. Potato. Sipped wine. Did not speak again. More fish. And suddenly she pushed her plate away and ran to the bathroom. She sat on the closed toilet seat and tried to figure out what had just happened to her. His refusal to let her make the phone call? But he'd refused before. Twice. She'd taken that in stride. Something had shifted. In her? Or in him? She didn't know. She stood and looked at herself in the mirror. Were her eyes a little red? She wet a facecloth and wiped her face. Felt good. She dropped it in the sink and looked at herself. The dress, was that the change? She should take if off, pull on the baggy jeans and shirt, go out and finish her dinner. Would she, dressless, be back to where she'd been before he'd given it to her? Something in her said she couldn't go back. Or wouldn't? Her skin had lost its flush. Good. And her nipples were no longer prominent. Good? Oh dear. She should go back to the table. She did.

He stood. “Are you okay, Susanna?”

She sat. “Sorry, Hank.”

“My name isn't Hank.”

She stared at him. She laughed lightly. “Of course not.” She looked at her plate. “Will you tell me what it is?”

“What would you like it to be?”

She thought. “Charlie? Or Frank?”

“Okay. I'll be Frank with you.”

“Not while you're wearing that mask.”

“Yes, well, there have to be exceptions.”

She ate a bite of trout. “A lovely meal, Frank.”

“Thank you.” He took a sip of wine. “Susanna. If you really only take thirty seconds to tell your father you're okay, you can use my phone.”

“Okay? Truly?”

“It's not okay, and you better not ever tell anyone I let you do this. And you have to make your father promise not to mention that you called. Can you promise me?”

She nodded, hard. “I promise. I promise on everything I believe in.”

“Good.” He stood. “I'll be back. Figure out what you're going to say.” He walked to the door, unlocked it and went out. She could hear the key turn on the other side. What could she say to her father in some code that would give him more information than—Frank?—would hear. She should have thought about this possibility before. She'd never imagined she'd have the chance. Damn!

She got up from the table. It was a truly beautiful dress. What could she say? She sighed. Maybe simply do as she'd promised. Frank came back in and locked the door. He held up a cell phone. “Tell me the number.” She did. He pressed in the numbers and waited. A voice must have answered. He held out the phone.

“Dad?”

“Susanna! Are you okay? Where are you?”

“First, I've only got thirty seconds and you have to absolutely promise you'll never tell anyone I called. Okay?”

He started to protest.

“Don't waste time arguing. Just promise.”

He did. She told him she was being well treated, they'd release her after she'd been held for three weeks, eating very well thanks—

“Twenty-five seconds,” she heard Frank say.

“I've got to go. I'm okay. I'm going to be okay.”

Frank reached for the phone, took it and killed the connection. “You did fine,” he said. “And just so you know, the phone's not traceable. It's a throwaway.”

She wasn't disappointed. She'd never expected to be found because of this call. “Thank you, Frank.”

He dropped the phone into his pocket. “You really will be released after you've been here for three weeks.”

“Thank you for that, too.” She shivered. She put her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. She breathed, “Thank you.” She trembled. She held him to her. His arm went around her waist and drew her closer. For maybe a minute they held each other. She pulled her face from him and touched his cheek. Stroked it at the mask. What a strange combination. She raised her mouth to his and kissed it. Half human, half alien, no sense or word for it. He kissed her back tenderly, no rush from him, as gentle as he was in the other parts of this strange life he'd been sharing with her. A warm and prolonged kiss, which ended as by mutual consent. They continued to hold each other.

He said, “I'm sorry. I overstepped.”

“I started it.”

“Yes. You did. And I think I'd better clear these dishes and go.”