Obsession (24 page)

A nightmare. She blinked, remembering, seeing it all again in lightning-fast replay. Her eyes sought and held his.

She had seen him, almost as clearly as she was seeing him now, in her dream. But the self who had been there with him in her dream had not been the skinny blonde she was now. It had been the real her, the authentic her, the self she knew in her heart and soul she truly was. And he had been pointing a big silver gun at her.

Good Neighbor Dan my ass.
Distrust permeated every fiber of her being.

She didn’t know what was going on, but she did know this: She had to get away from him. She had to get out of there.

Until she figured out what was happening, she was going solo.

But he stood between her and the door. He was bigger, stronger, far more ruthless. To get away from him she had to be smart.

“A nightmare,” she repeated, as if she were slowly accepting it.

He nodded. “Must have been a bad one.”

His eyes were hooded and dark as he watched her with the same kind of calculation a predator might turn on its prey. Meeting his gaze, she managed—at least, she hoped she managed—to look merely worried and bewildered.

“I . . . don’t really remember.” She suddenly became aware of the chill breath of the air-conditioning caressing her legs, and realized that she was wearing only the scanty lace panties and snug tee. Wedged back in the corner as she was, with her legs bent almost double and her hands pressing into the mattress beside them, there wasn’t a whole lot of her that he could see, she hoped. But still, it was too much. “I screamed, didn’t I?” Shaking her head ruefully, she willed her wired body to let go of the flight impulse for the moment. Letting out a deep breath, she sank down on her butt, drawing her legs up in front of her and wrapping her arms around them for modesty’s sake. “I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“No problem.” He was still watching her carefully. “In fact, I’d be surprised if you
weren’t
having night-mares. ”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” she said, nodding wisely.

“Exactly.” He sounded pleased at her acceptance of this as the cause of her symptoms. His eyes searched hers. “Can I get you a drink of water or something?”

“You know, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll take you up on that offer of a baloney sandwich. How about I get dressed and meet you in the kitchen?”

Some of the tension left his face. “You like mayonnaise? ”

She nodded.

“Tomato soup?”

She nodded again. It actually did sound good. She had missed supper. Lunch, too. Her stomach growled, right on cue.

“You got it,” he said, and she rewarded him with a tremulous smile.

His eyes slid over her in one last assessing look, and then he turned and left the room. She got a good view of his bare back and registered just how heavily muscled his shoulders and biceps really were. Wide and powerful-looking, his shoulders tapered down to a narrow midsection and an athletic-looking butt, she saw with a sweeping glance as he walked out of sight.

She frowned thoughtfully.

Although she’d been too upset to pay any attention earlier, she had a sudden flash memory of his chest: It was wide and muscular, with well-developed pecs covered by a light smattering of dark brown hair above tight, toned abs.

In fact, his leanness was deceptive: This was the physique of a well-honed machine. For a moment longer she stayed where she was, trying to get her thoughts in order, to sort things out, to come up with a plan.

The bottom line was, she had seen Dan in her dream. In the midst of horror and carnage he had appeared, pointing a big silver gun at her. And she had been her auburn-haired, curvy self, the self she saw in her mind’s eye.

Her gut was screaming in favor of the
not.
Uncurling herself from the cramped position she was in, sore muscles protesting every move, she clambered off the bed. Closing the door—it didn’t have a lock—she pulled jeans and a bra from the duffel bag. She dressed quickly—the jeans were a little long, a little tight, but, once she rolled them up at the ankles, doable; the bra was nude stretch nylon that, because of the nature of the material, molded itself effortlessly to her perky what-she-guessed-were-B-cups—even as she tried to come up with a plan. Trading the white T-shirt for a plain black one (the harder to see in the dark), she gave the kitten-heeled sandals a jaundiced look—if she had to run, they would be worse than useless—and left them off. Anyway, under the circumstances, walking around the cabin in her bare feet would probably seem more natural. Then she opened the purse, extracted her driver’s license, credit cards, and cash, and stuffed them into her back pocket. Running a brush through her hair, she smoothed a slick of tinted, strawberry-flavored lip balm over her dry lips and stuck the tube in her front pocket.

That was it. That was all she could take with her. Everything else she had arrived with would have to be left behind.

The plan? Ditch Dan.

Exactly how she was going to accomplish that she didn’t know. Wait until he was asleep and run for it? Hope he decided to take a really long shower and run for it? Bop him over the head with something and run for it?

The thing was, running for it was the key. And the more she thought about it, the more urgent the need to take action became.

He had promised to drive her back to the airport tomorrow so that she could, as he supposed, catch a flight out.

Ain’t gonna happen, was the verdict she arrived at. Either he was hoping to talk her out of it or he had some means in mind to prevent it. Or maybe he meant to try the first, and if that didn’t work go with the second.

In any case, if she was going over the wall, she needed to do it tonight. The sooner the better, as a matter of fact.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she opened the door and stepped out of the bedroom.

Except for the glow coming from the kitchen, the short, narrow hall was dark and full of shadows. Over and above the sound of rain drumming against the roof, she heard voices, faintly, which shook her for a moment until she realized that they must be coming from the television. As she reached the doorway that led into the living room, she saw at a glance that the TV was indeed on with the volume turned low. Light from the kitchen spilled over the half-wall so that the living room was almost as brightly illuminated as the kitchen itself.

The doorway that led into the kitchen was a couple of feet to her left. Through it she could see a slice of space that included part of the kitchen table, which sported two paper plates with two white-bread sandwiches—one sandwich, presumably baloney, on each—with a bag of Lay’s potato chips in the middle of the table. A slight rattling sound was unexplained. She assumed that Dan, who was out of her sight, must somehow be the source of it. The merest hint of a yummy tomatoey smell told her (a) that her nose was once again minimally functional, and (b) he was indeed making tomato soup.

Another rumble from her stomach reminded her that she really was extremely hungry.

Once again she glanced into the living room, undecided as to the next best step. Her goal was to get away. To do that, the first thing she needed to do was lull Good Neighbor Dan into thinking that nothing had changed: She still trusted him.

Even though she most emphatically did not.

Too many things just didn’t add up. Who he was and what he was up to she didn’t know, not for sure. But . . .

His car keys lay beside a cell phone—presumably his cell phone—on the coffee table.

As soon as her brain registered that, her eyes widened. Her pulse quickened. Her breathing suspended. Her gaze fixed on the keys, riveted there, while all sorts of thoughts ran through her mind. There was no doubt about what set of keys it was: She had seen him insert them into the Blazer’s ignition too many times for there to be any mistake.

All she had to do was pick up the keys, go out the door, get into the Blazer, and drive away.

For a moment the simplicity of it stunned her. Without the Blazer, he wouldn’t even be able to give chase.

The sharp, unmistakable clang of tinny metal on tinny metal made her start. Glancing sharply toward the sound, she realized that she could see Dan in the kitchen. He was standing at the stove with his back to her, under a round wall clock that said it was just a little after ten-thirty, stirring a metal spoon around inside a ratty-looking aluminum pan that was steaming over a gas burner alive with a flickering blue flame. He was still shirtless, and the size and style of those flexing back muscles reinforced her conviction that he wasn’t what he wanted her to think.

Okay, so maybe up until now she had been dumb as a rock. People could change.

It was clear that he had no clue that she was nearby, watching him.

Carpe diem—seize the day. Even as the words popped into her mind, her heart started to pound. This was it: her chance. Casting another assessing glance at Dan, she went for it, moving stealthily toward the coffee table, her bare feet soundless on the tightly woven cords of the rug. Pulse racing, practically holding her breath lest he should look around and spot her, she picked up the keys carefully, so carefully that they wouldn’t jingle and betray her. The noise from the TV provided a cover; so, too, did the patter of the rain and his efforts in the kitchen. Holding the keys tightly in her fist, she moved away, all the while shooting lightning glances in Dan’s direction. He continued to stir the soup, oblivious.

It was only a few steps to the door. Reaching it, she cast a nervous glance over her shoulder to find Dan, still at the stove, pouring milk from the carton into the soup. With her heart now thumping so loudly that its thudding in her ears was all she could hear, she took a deep breath and went for it, turning the knob, so quietly, pulling open the door inch by careful inch, praying that it wouldn’t creak, and then when the opening was wide enough, slipping through it out into the cool, damp darkness of the porch.

By that time, her heart was pounding so hard she was surprised it didn’t burst through her chest. The muted roar of the rain sounded loud as a NASCAR track in her ears. Did he hear it? How could he not hear it—or smell its earthy scent as it poured in through the opening? A quick, scared glance back revealed that he gave no evidence of being aware that anything was amiss. In fact, he was once again stirring soup.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she silently eased the door shut behind her.

There was, she told herself, no reason to panic. She figured he wouldn’t even start to wonder where she was before the soup was done. First he would call her, then go check the bedroom, then search the cabin . . .

She ran like a spooked rabbit anyway. The Blazer was parked no more than thirty feet away. Heart pounding, pulse racing, every nerve ending she possessed terrifyingly attuned to the house she was leaving behind, she tiptoed to the edge of the porch and then bolted, flying off the porch into darkness that would have been absolute except for the light filtering out through the tightly closed living-room curtains, running through the driving rain, her bare feet slipping and sliding over the already-soaked -to-flatness grass. She was wet to the skin almost immediately. Warm, drenching water ran down her face, got into her mouth, her eyes, which she had to blink to keep clear. She had the keys in her hand, pointing them at the car, punching the button that she knew, from the tiny beep and flare of light that accompanied the urgent jabbing movement of her thumb, had already unlocked the door, when all hell broke loose behind her.

The electric screech of an air horn split the night.

The noise was so loud, so terrifying, so totally unexpected that she jumped in fright and would have screamed, too, if she hadn’t managed to swallow the sound at the last second. Surprise caused her head to whip around so fast that she nearly gave herself whiplash. Huge-eyed, goggling at the cabin, which was now practically vibrating on its foundation with the force of the noise it was emitting, she realized something appalling: She had forgotten about the alarm system, which was now going off like an air-raid siren behind her.

It must, she calculated as she reached the Blazer and jerked the driver’s door open, operate on about a forty-five -second delay. When the code was input within that time frame, nothing happened. If it wasn’t—well, Rip van Winkle himself couldn’t sleep through the result.

There was no way he now didn’t realize she was gone.

Adrenaline exploded through her veins. Her heart went into overdrive. Every tiny hair on her body catapulted upright. Throwing herself into the driver’s seat, glancing up at the cabin what felt like every other second, she slammed the door behind her—no need to try to be quiet now—then hit the button locking all the doors and jabbed the key at the ignition at the same time. But she couldn’t get the key to fit in the damned little slot.

Panting with the urgent need to hurry, hands shaking, she tried again, more carefully. This time the key went in. Almost bouncing in the seat with apprehension, she stepped on the accelerator—not too hard, because she didn’t want to risk flooding the engine—and turned the key. The Blazer roared to life. The headlights, which must have been set to automatic, came on, their brightness terrifying as they cut through the darkness, unmistakably blazing her location to the world. They illuminated rain, trees, half a dozen sets of small animal eyes shining at her from the undergrowth . . .

The horrible deafening screech of the alarm was abruptly silenced.

That was so not good.
He’s coming. . . .

Her breathing suspended. Her stomach heaved. Throwing the Blazer into reverse, she stomped the gas. The
thuckety-thuckety
sound of tires spinning uselessly in the mud filled the air.