Night Hunter (51 page)

They rolled on the fleece, each experiencing the sensual softness of it. She was breathing rapidly now, emitting low, moaning sounds deep in her throat. He was approaching orgasm too quickly. Against a muffled protest, he slowly pulled out before he went over the edge. He began to kiss her, taste every part of her, his fingertips caressing her warm, damp skin. Lifting a corner of the rug he rubbed the soft fleece lovingly along her hips and waist to her full breasts, across nipples hard and erect. She moaned.

“
John ... now ... please,” she said, taking hold of him.

He moved between her legs and she guided him into her. This time there was no mistaking the reason for the sharp intake of breath. She locked her body to his, as though fearing he would leave her again. They moved together in perfect sync, the perfect couple fitting together in perfect harmony, lost in the superheated flashes of complete and total passion. He wanted it to go on and on, yet was fearful that it might, fearful that he’d be stimulated beyond reason and driven deliriously mad. He sensed her sexual tension and the instant he felt her first orgasmic contraction, he erupted. Both cried out in unison, holding tight to each other.

Regina hugged herself deliciously.

“
Cold?” John asked, rising to look at her.

She shook her head. “No.”

He kissed her throat, her chin, her nose, then rose to one knee and began to build a fire in the fireplace. A moment later it was blazing nicely.

“
What a rotten host I am,” he said. “You’re a guest in my home and I’ve yet to offer you anything.”

“
I haven’t gone without,” she replied.

He kissed her again. “What can I get you? Wine, beer, cognac, brandy?”

“
Brandy sounds good.”

He draped his sweater over her shoulders, the long sleeves partially covering her breasts, then got them each a snifter of brandy and returned to the floor. She accepted both with a smile. The sweater smelled of him.

John stretched out on his side, braced himself on an elbow, and pulled her down to lie beside him. She felt herself instinctively burrowing in closer, searching for the warmth of his flesh, the security of his nearness. She had a million things she wanted to say, yet she said nothing. They lay that way for a while, John’s fingertips moving over her body affectionately.

“
Was it pretty bad for you?” he asked out of the blue.

“
What?”

“
The death of your husband.”

“
No.” She was unable to see his face, but she sensed his surprise. “His death was the easy part. It was the last four years of his life that tore me apart.”

“
Cancer?”

“
Alzheimer’s. Leo was much older than me.”

“
It was a good marriage?”

“
Yes. For the most part it was very good. It turned sad.”

“
Care to talk about it?”

She snuggled in closer. Regina spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “One year we were the perfect couple; lovers, companions, parents, and then suddenly we became strangers. Maybe it wasn’t so sudden, but it was fast enough for me to know that he was different and that nothing could ever be the same for us again.”

Silent for several moments, she cleared her throat and continued. “I sometimes wonder if our love, and all those special memories, make any sense at all. Memories only I carried. I had ceased to exist for him. At the end, when he did seem to recognize me, it was to call me by his first wife’s name.”

John, working his fingers in between hers, waited for her to go on.

Regina sipped the brandy. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to witness the slow degeneration of the person you love?” She spoke quietly. “His mind ... brilliant—little by little, like an inch worm nibbling a leaf, was eaten away. He turned hostile and abusive, drawing into himself and shutting us out. We kept him at home as long as we could, until the outbursts began to be a major part of his existence. He was still physically strong. We ... I ... was afraid that he ...” She was unable to go on.

John wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight. “Regina, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize ...” he whispered into her hair.

“
I only hope that someday I can remember him as he was before the disease struck him.”

“
You will, honey, you will.”

“
The man I knew died—for me, anyway—more than two years ago. Sometimes, brief as it was, he’d come back, you see, and be the man I married, and it was those times that made it so hard overall.”

“
You feel guilty about his death. Why?”

“
Can we change the subject?”

“
Maybe you should talk about it. What you went through, how you felt, is only natural. You have no reason to blame yourself or feel guilty—”

“
Oh, John, I have every reason to feel guilty. I
am
guilty.”

“
Because you wanted to end his suffering?”

“
Because,” she blurted out, “because the night he died I was in the arms of another man.”

She felt his body stiffen.

Pulling away, drawing in her knees, she covered herself with his sweater. She turned her head away. “My husband died alone, without any of the people he loved, and it was my fault.”

John was silent. She wanted him to say something, anything. Regina felt vulnerable, exposed. She hadn’t meant to speak of her dead husband, of her infidelity. What must he think of her? His silence was so damning.

He reached for her at the exact moment she struggled to her feet, his sweater sliding off her shoulders.

“
I have to go,” she said, striding across the room.

“
Regina, wait--”

In the entry she retrieved her coat and put it on. John stopped her before she could leave.

He held her. No caressing, no kissing. He just held her in a way that made her feel both wonderful and wretched.

“
Stay,” he whispered.

She shook her head, biting back the tears. And before she could change her mind, she gently pushed him away and hurried out the door. She felt his eyes on her as she rushed up the stairs.

At the top of the landing, she stopped to catch her breath. Her chest felt tight, constricted. She brushed at the tears on her face, then she continued down the hallway. As she approached her apartment, she was suddenly overcome with a quaking sensation of dread. The door to the storage room was slightly ajar. Through the opening she saw darkness, the dark giving sanctuary to an unknown terror. Had it been open when she left her apartment? She felt a cold numbness in her legs. Hurrying now, she rushed inside her apartment and hastily closed and locked the door. The feeling hung on.

In the entry she hung up the coat, then swooped the towel off the floor and loosely wrapped it around her. The tension that had been building the past twenty-four hours had dissipated with just one hour with John. But now it was back again, along with a sense of loss. She had spoiled everything with her confession.

She wouldn’t blame him if he never wanted to see her again. Why did she have to move into this apartment and meet him? She could have gone the rest of her life without falling in love again. It was the price she had to pay for being unfaithful to a dying man.

She went directly into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Within moments, a steamy vapor filled the stall. She stepped in and let the hot water beat down on her, soothing the taut muscles of her shoulders and thighs. She stood there, her head back, her eyes closed, letting the hot water massage her body.

She heard a noise, thought she saw a movement on the other side of the shower curtain. Her heart began to beat wildly, making her light-headed. She looked out. The room was thick with steam. No one else shared it with her.

She began to wash herself. The lather was slick as she worked it along her arms, breasts, stomach, and thighs. Again she stood still as the water rinsed away the soap.

And as abruptly as she had gone into the shower, she was out.

As she dried herself off, she looked out the small bathroom window to the ground below. She saw light spilling out onto John’s patio. She felt a sense of longing deep inside her.

With the towel wrapped around her like a sarong, she stepped back into the bedroom. Lethargically, Regina bent down and gathered up the clothes on the floor. With the bundle in one arm she went to the closet and, as she reached for the knob, her hand paused in midair. There was something wrong. Very wrong. She reached for the knob again when suddenly she stopped and drew back her hand. A heaviness bore down on her. She stood facing the closet, staring at the rows of slats in the door. The air seemed thick and oppressive.

An icy chill racked her body.

The door, a fold-back louvered type, stood open a crack. The blackness beyond whispered to her to run, to scream, to do anything but open that door. The clothes in her arms fell to the floor. She began to hum softly, backing away, fighting the panic as she gripped the towel around her until it cut into her flesh.

Before she could reach the hallway, she heard the sound of hangers rattling, then the closet door crashed open. A figure in black lunged out, a curse erupting through the black nylon stocking covering its head as the figure lunged for her. She tried to scream but managed only a strangled cry. She ran. The intruder was close enough to rake a hand down her back. Tracks of pain seared along her spine. The towel came away, but she continued on, staggering before regaining her footing. She made it into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door seconds before a body smashed against it. She shot the slide bolt home. She heard footsteps. The other door.

She spun, ran to the far end of the bathroom, and slid the bolt on that door moments before it banged with a jarring thud. Her attacker was in her bedroom again. Her mind raced. Could she make it out the hallway door and escape from the apartment before he could reach her?

The next thump came from the door in the hall. If she were to go out any door, it would have to be the one into the bedroom. And that was exactly where he wanted her.

A barrage of bangs sounded against the door. Oh my God, she thought, he was going to force his way in. As she frantically looked around for something to use as a weapon, she spotted Kristy’s cotton shortie nightgown draped over the hamper. She grabbed the nightgown and struggled into it.

Through the door she heard his labored breathing, as though his mouth were pressed to the crack. The door banged again. The wood around the slide bolt gave with a creak, but held.

Regina looked around desperately for something to fight back with. The only razors she had were disposable, the blades locked permanently into a cartridge. She pounded at one with a jar of moisturizer, whining in frustration. The razor shattered, but the cartridge held onto the twin blades.

The door banged, the wood screeched, the screws in the bolt inched outward. Another ear-splitting bang. One screw flew out and landed at her feet.

She ran to the window, pulled it open. It was too narrow for her to get through. And even if she could, it was a straight drop down two stories to the brick and concrete of John’s patio.

“
John!” she screamed.

With each bang at the door she jumped. When another screw pulled free from the wood, she screamed for John. Backing up into the corner between the tub and basin, Regina crouched down, the broken razor clutched in her hand. She was to be burned like Donna and Corinne. The noise outside the bathroom door intensified. Her attacker was becoming enraged, growling and grunting as he threw himself against the door. Still she screamed, watching the slide bolt as the last two screws worked out of the door.