Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 02 - Elective Procedures (22 page)

He made a clucking sound. “No, you’re right. I’m not to blame. And yet, people close to me keep coming to harm.” His eyes penetrated the darkness, riveted on me.

“But you couldn’t have prevented any of it.”

“Greta wanted her leg off. She begged me—”

“But her leg wasn’t what got cut.”

“I knew she was suicidal.”

“But it wasn’t suicide.”

“Maybe not.” He paused. “But you’d be surprised, Elle, what passion can lead people to do.”

I didn’t move, couldn’t. My lungs were raw and sore. Someone had tried to murder me, and darkness whirled in my mind. When I looked up, Alain was there, reaching for my hand, guiding me to my feet, leaning down. Kissing me.

Pain shot up my leg. I leaned against him to take weight off it. Or maybe just to lean against him. His body wasn’t much taller than mine, lean, solid. Strong arms slid around me. The candles quivered and the bushes rattled with something unseen, and I accompanied Alain into the stucco house with red, blue, green, and yellow décor.

But as he led me toward his bedroom, Charlie whispered that he loved me, that we were soul mates. I held back, smelling Charlie’s Old Spice, recalling how real he’d seemed that morning. How happy I’d been with him.

“Are you okay?” Alain kissed my cheek, my neck.

I put a hand up, pressed it against his chest, a stop signal. “You’re married,” I breathed. It made more sense than the truth.

He straightened, bit his lip. “Yes. But I’ve told you. It’s not a marriage. My wife—she’s not my wife any more. She’s too damaged.” He took a breath. “But if you’re uncomfortable, I understand.” His arm was still around me, but only to help support my weight. Not to possess me.

Charlie persisted, insisting that we’d be together forever. Calling me “Elf.” A dead man was in my head, claiming me.

“Shall I take you back to the hotel?” Alain waited.

Charlie made puppy dog eyes and pleaded. Yes. Go to the hotel.

I ignored him. Remembered his bare butt in our shower with a babe. Dead or alive, he had no right to ask me to be faithful. I reached up, touched Alain’s face, guided it to mine and planted a kiss on his lips. Yes, he was married, even if in name only. But I’d nearly died that day. And selfishly, I needed to be held by someone other than Charlie. I needed to find comfort in the arms of a man who was actually alive.

I didn’t spend the night. In fact, we didn’t even make love. I’d planned to and we would have, but Alain’s phone rang before his shirt was even off. He ignored the call and, finally, it stopped ringing, but began again immediately. He apologized that it was probably the clinic, some problem with a patient. He said he’d just be a moment and answered the call, speaking Spanish but, by the urgency in his tone, I knew something serious had arisen. By the time the call ended, I’d replaced my garments in their original positions and slipped into my sandals, ready to go.

On the way to the hotel, Alain apologized repeatedly, explaining that he had to attend to an emergency. He held my hand as he drove, asking if I’d see him again the next night. Promising that there would be no more interruptions.

I didn’t commit, suggested that we speak in the morning. I was ambivalent and more than a little embarrassed about being so easily seduced. After all, I didn’t really know Alain. I knew some things about him—his profession, his height, smooth skin, straight nose, and strong bones. His kisses. But nothing else, really. So why had I slid my hand under his shirt and unfastened his belt?

And why had I almost hopped into bed with him? Was I pathetically desperate? Lonely? Seduced by the Mexican
moonlight? All of the above? Yes, maybe. But, in my defense, I’d also been shaken by Claudia’s and Greta’s deaths, topped by my own injuries. And by the suggestion that I’d been attacked and might still be in danger. I was just plain vulnerable and needy. And Alain had not missed the opportunity to take advantage of that. After all, he had a history of womanizing. I’d heard him on the balcony with Greta. He’d admitted having an affair with her and indicated one with Claudia. And they hadn’t been the only ones.

Still, his kisses tingled on my lips. And I felt chilled without his arms around me.

Even so, I was going back to my room, alone, and that was for the best. Alain had moved too fast. All his talk about death and danger—had it been out of concern for me? Or had it been a ploy to frighten and lure me into his bed? Either way, by the time I got back to the hotel suite, I felt both foolish and relieved, as if the emergency call had rescued me from my own impulsive behavior.

When I came in, Becky was playing Scrabble with Susan and Jen, who sprawled on the sofa.

“Becky?” I was surprised to see her.

“How was dinner?” Jen didn’t look up.

“Fourteen points,” Susan wrote down her score.

“How was that fourteen?” Becky frowned.

Susan moved a tile aside. “Double word score.”

“Damn.”

“You’re not with Chichi tonight?” I took a wineglass from the kitchenette, poured some of what they were drinking.

“He’s got a private fiesta.”

“Becky thinks he’s got a hot date.” Jen reached for a bag of tortilla chips.

“No, I do not. He’s calling when he’s done.”

“Which might be late if she pays him by the hour.”

“Shut up, Jen.” Becky threw a handful of tiles at her.

Jen chuckled. Winced. “Oh fuck. Laughing hurts.”

“Good. You deserve to hurt. Talking like that about Chichi.” Becky retrieved her tiles. “Elle, tell us about dinner.”

“I hope you had a frickin’ awful terrible boring time,” Jen munched a chip.

Becky looked at me. “Why is she so nasty? Just because she hurts?”

“Seriously? Jen’s always nasty,” I sipped wine.

“No. I’m nasty because Elle is dating my effing doctor.”

Susan picked new letters. “Damn. No vowels. Not a single bleeping one.”

“She’s winning,” Jen explained. “She’s actually killing us, but she’s whining anyway.”

“Well, my letters stink.”

“So what did you have? Is he a good cook?”

“Grilled fish.”

“Jen, ‘coulk’ is not a word.”

“Hell if it isn’t. Like when you coulk your bathroom tiles.”

“That’s c-a-u-l-k.”

“No, it’s c-o-u-l-k.”

“Where’s your computer? Google it.”

I sat on an easy chair, leaned back, and sipped wine. Their voices flittered around the suite like chamber music. Tightness eased out of my shoulders, thoughts out of my mind. I felt safe, protected by familiar faces. Very tired. And glad to be home.

And, then, minutes later, Alain knocked on the door. I sunk into the chair. What did he want? Hadn’t we said good night?

Susan let him and his black bag in.

“I’m on my way home, but first I thought I’d check on my patient.” He walked in without being invited, as if he had a right to be there.

Well, I realized, he did. The suite was part of his surgery package.

“How are you feeling, Jen?”

“Miserable.” She began to rattle off complaints. The pills
weren’t killing the pain. She felt tender here and swollen there. She still had a fever. She was afraid she was scarring.

He went to the sofa, his gaze skimming over Becky, twinkling as it passed me. “Hi, ladies,” he smiled, taking Jen’s hand and leading her into the bedroom even as she continued her list of grievances.

We heard muffled voices; Jen’s whining, his comforting.

“Elle, play Jen’s letters.” Susan waved me over to the table.

I didn’t want to move, but obeyed automatically. Looked at her letters.

“It’s your turn,” Becky said.

I looked at the board. Checked the letters. A-L-R-R-C-U-T. Terrible letters. Useless. I searched for spare E or S to tag letters onto. I wasn’t good at Scrabble. Didn’t have the patience or the concentration. My letters could form cat. Cult. Cut. But I needed a link.

“Elle?” Susan urged.

“Are you with us?” Becky asked. “Maybe she’s pulling another Elle.”

“I’m fine.” I added C-A-L to another L. Formed CALL.

“Six points.” Susan wrote it down.

Not a great word, but at least they’d leave me alone. Fortunately, Jen and Alain emerged from the bedroom before Jen’s next turn.

“Well?” Susan asked.

“Apparently, I’m doing great,” Jen grumbled.

“So we can cancel the funeral arrangements?”

Alain chuckled. “Well, at least you can postpone them. The patient is recovering very well.”

I got up, made room for Jen to spread out on the sofa. “Everything all right with your emergency?”

His smile disappeared. “Very strange. It was a mistake. Nobody from the clinic called. The nurse who gave her name isn’t even on duty.”

“You mean someone faked it?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But what would be the purpose?”

I didn’t know. I remembered being in his arms, unbuttoning his shirt. The roughness of his whiskers on my neck. The phone ringing. Had someone wanted him to get out of his house? To rob him?

His eyes met mine, laughing. “If I didn’t know better, I might think someone was trying to ruin my evening.” He turned to Jen and handed her a vial of pills. “Take these as needed. One every six to eight hours. They will reduce swelling and pain. You’ll sleep better.”

Then, he looked at us one by one, “Ladies, I bid you good night.” As he headed for the door, he said, “I’ll call in the morning.” His eyes held mine for a moment, and he left.

As the door closed, two phones rang simultaneously. Norm was calling for Jen, Chichi for Becky. Susan picked up her phone to call Tim.

I sat watching my wineglass for a while. Then, abandoned, I wandered onto the balcony and stood at the railing, alone.

Something tickled my face—a mosquito? I swatted at it, refusing to wake up. Smelling hyacinth. Odd. Probably a scent from outside. The door to the terrace was open, the breeze blowing the slats of the vertical blinds. Their flapping was soft, soothing. I turned my head, wishing the pillow wasn’t so thick and my shoulders weren’t so burned, and sank back into sleep.

But something tickled my cheek again. This time, as I slapped at it, I opened my eyes, annoyed. Ready to hunt down the bug even if it meant waking up.

But the tickle hadn’t been caused by a bug. Someone was there, in my room, standing beside my bed.

I don’t know which came first, my shriek or my jump. The shadowy form didn’t move. It stood perfectly still for the immeasurable duration of time it took for me to surface from the
depths of sleep, struggling to identify it. Was it Susan? Jen? Becky? No, Becky was with Chichi. So, was it Alain? No. I couldn’t tell; it had no face. A ghost then? Certainly not Charlie. Was it Greta or Claudia, paying me a visit? These thoughts flashed simultaneously as I gawked at the shadowy form, which seemed to be facelessly gawking back at me. Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe I was still asleep, dreaming. I closed my eyes, lying stiff on the mattress.

Smelling hyacinth.

Were there smells in dreams? I opened my eyes again. Saw the open terrace door, the vertical blinds swaying in the breeze. Moonlight beaming through the slats, lighting the form of a woman in a long loose robe. Her face was wrapped, hidden behind a veil.

A veil? Oh God. Was this the woman Charlie had been with—the one on the beach? Why was she in my room, beside my bed? How had she gotten in? Who was she? I tried to ask, but couldn’t make a sound. Tried to get up, but couldn’t move.