Taken (4 page)

The door wrenches open on rusty hinges, letting sun and a blast of hot, humid air inside. You stand back and brush your hands together, getting off the dust and grime. “What do you think?”

I step out into a tropical Eden in the middle of a swamp. Tall, lush trees loom over a stone wall dripping moss down onto red and green tiles that weave into a mosaic pattern on the ground. Black, wrought iron benches, chairs and tables sit scattered around the patio. Some have tipped onto their sides. The algae and moss-covered stone fountain in the center is larger than it looks in photos. A mermaid sits atop a rock in its center holding a conch shell.

“Water would stream out from the shell,” you say, pointing.

A yellow butterfly flutters between us and lights upon the edge of the fountain. We stay still, watching it tip-toe and flit its wings. When it launches back into the air, you brush off the spot where it had landed and gesture for me to take a seat. “That has to be some kind of sign,” you say. “I have something. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

I sit on the edge of the fountain and watch you dart back inside. You seem excited now. I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t know if it’s stupid to feel safe with you, to feel like what happened is okay because of how it’s turning out.

You still drugged and kidnapped me, no matter the reason.

I should despise you, but I don’t. You know the legend of Turtle Tear Island—you told me the story. You want to share this place with me. No, I don’t despise you. I feel something entirely opposite, and I wish I didn’t. You said it yourself—I’m a smart woman. I should know better.

You come back out onto the patio with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two chunky clay mugs in the other. You set the mugs on the ledge beside me and shake the champagne bottle. “Would you like to do the honors?” you ask, holding the bottle out to me.

I take it. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll point the cork at your face?”

You grin. “I deserve no less.”

I press both thumbs on the cork and wiggle it out a bit before it pops and sprays champagne like my own conch shell fountain. You take it and pour us both a mugful.

“To Turtle Tear,” you say, holding up your mug.

“To Turtle Tear.” I hold mine up, and you tap yours against it.

We drink, eyeing each other over the rims of our mugs. Where do we stand? What happens now?
 
Where do we go from here?

Chapter Four

You toss another log in the fireplace before striking a match and lighting the wadded up newspaper your using for kindling. Here in the lounge it’s cool, unlike the stuffy attic bedroom.

The sun is setting.
 
A blaze of gold and orange dapples through the tree leaves. A breeze blows through the open door behind me, and I pull the blanket you brought downstairs up around my shoulders and snuggle into my wrought iron chair from outside.

The champagne relaxed and warmed me a bit, but not enough to make it feel like I’m having an evening with a friend. I’m not sure there’s enough champagne in the world for that.

“What are you thinking?” you ask. “You’re so quiet.” You refill your mug and offer the bottle to me.

I hold out my mug, and you top it off. “I’m wondering if anyone has ever been in a stranger situation.”

You stare into the fire, considering. “Are you in love with me?”

“What? No! Why would you ask that?” I shift uncomfortably in my chair.

You smile and laugh to yourself. “Because that would be a stranger situation, and it happens. Stockholm Syndrome. Women falling in love with their captors.”

“I’m aware of what Stockholm Syndrome is.” I take a deep drink, watching you smile like you know some secret that you aren’t sharing.

“Be sure to let me know when that happens,” you say.

“Don’t count on it.” You keep those deep, dark eyes on me with that cocky grin on your face. Your skin glows in the firelight. There’s a shadow of stubble on your jaw and chin. I imagine it prickling against the delicate skin on my neck.

I rub my hand over my neck where it’s flushing with heat and look away. “You’re too used to getting everything you want.”

“Maybe so.” You tip your mug back and empty it then set it on the floor. “You look like you’re freezing. Why don’t you come down here in front of the fire?”

I cock an eyebrow. “Very smooth.”

You hold your hands up and chuckle. “I won’t try anything. If was going to, don’t you think I had ample opportunity?”

I glance out the door behind me as another cool breeze blows over my shoulders and makes me shiver.

You pat the hardwood floor beside you. “Come on. Bring your blanket.”

The fire cracks and pops, sparks fly up into the dark chimney. I sit, fold my legs to the side and lean my elbows on the hearth. I’ve always loved the smell of a wood fire burning, the way the smoke curls from the tongues of the tallest flames, the pounding heat on my face. “It feels nice.”

“It is nice, isn’t it?”

I feel your eyes on the side of my face. If I look at you, I’ll be trapped in their depths.

I want to look.

I can’t look. It’s so wrong.

Thankfully, you lie back with your hands under your head, and I don’t have to play tug-o-war with myself any longer.

“This reminds me of camping. I haven’t been camping in probably twenty years.” You roll onto your side and prop yourself up on your elbow. “My grandfather used to take my sister and me in his pop-up trailer.”

My eyes dart to him. “A pop-up trailer? You?”

“I haven’t always had money.” You trace your finger along the seams between planks of wood on the floor. “Sometimes I’d trade it all to be that age again, to go camping and sit by a big fire roasting marshmallows without a care in the world.” You frown and watch your finger on the floor. Your thick black eyelashes stroke your cheeks. “I’d do so many things differently.”

I get the feeling you aren’t just talking about what you did to me. I want you to keep talking, but I’m afraid if I ask, if I push, you’ll stop. I sip champagne, watch you and wait for more words to fall from your lips.

You shift and your foot touches my leg. My instincts tell me to move away, but I don’t want to.

“This,” you say, gesturing all around us, “and you are my way of trying to make up for things in my past. I hope you understand I didn’t ever want to hurt you. I didn’t want to scare you. I just want to make things right.”

“What are you trying to make right? You don’t owe me anything. We have no past to fix.” I don’t want any more talk about righting wrongs or giving back to the universe. It’s bullshit, and I know it. I want specifics. “Who did you wrong, Merrick? What happened?”

You stare into the fire for a few minutes, then fall back again with your eyes on the ceiling. My questions shut you down. You won’t answer me.

A log falls off the stack in the fireplace. Sparks rain and embers glow dark red and bright yellow.

“Did you ever camp when you were young?” you ask.

“One time in sixth grade with the Girl Scouts. I like indoor plumbing and hate spiders. Once was enough.”

The grin sneaks back onto your lips. You reach for me and make your fingers crawl up my thigh like a spider. I laugh because it tickles and jump back because you’re touch on my bare skin feels way too good.

“I can open a bottle of wine if you want.” Your expression is so warm and open. You’re begging me to let my guard down—to let you in. I want to, but it’s insane. You have issues, and I haven’t gotten to the core of them yet.

“I don’t think so.”

Your smile slowly fades, and you nod. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“Okay.” I smile because I don’t want to hurt your feelings, and this realization makes me question my own sanity.

Maybe I need to stop thinking.

Your hair, your eyes, your smile and lips, that body…the pull is so strong. I can’t deny how much I’m attracted to you, how I don’t want to look away from your eyes, just gaze longer, harder, deeper until I’m completely inside you.

“What is it?” you whisper.

“You,” I whisper back.

You hover closer. Flames reflect in your eyes. Inches stand between us. The warmth of your body—your lips, I want you. I need you.

I inhale sharply and turn away. “I think the fire needs stoked.”

You sniff a few times and cough, recovering your self-control.

The best thing for me to do is go to sleep. I don’t trust myself with you, and I don’t want to regret anything in the light of day.

“I’ll sleep down here,” I say. “Unless you want to tie me back up?”

You toss another log on the fire and turn to me on your knees. “Of course not.” You take my hand and squeeze. “You take the bed. I’ll sleep down here, or on the couch upstairs.”

I take my hand from yours. “Okay. I’m going to head up then.” Before I let things between us get out of control.

You smile, understanding my unspoken reason for abruptly going to bed. “Sweet dreams, Rachael.”

I gather the blanket and flee the room, dashing down the hall and up the arching staircase. I know my dreams will be of you, and I’m not sure how I’ll stay away from you in the morning.

It’s bright and birds are chirping like crazy feathered alarm clocks outside the window. It has to be early. It feels early.

I sit up in bed and rub my eyes. I didn’t dream of you. I didn’t dream at all.

My feet hit the hardwood floor with a thud, and I realize everything’s different today. A thrill of anticipation runs up my back and down my arms. I wasn’t kidnapped by a crazy man.

Okay, what you did was undeniably crazy, but also desperate and impulsive. There are deeper reasons behind your actions that I’m eager to uncover. Until I do, at least I know I’m in no danger, unless it’s from my ever-increasing need to feel your lips on mine.

I shake my head to stem the flow of molten desire that takes over when I think of you. Today should be interesting.

Crossing the sitting area on my way to the bathroom, I stop when I notice you curled on your side on the couch. I had no idea you were there, sleeping silently. You’re beautiful—it’s the first thought that crashes through my mind. Men are rugged, handsome, athletic. You’re all of these and more—you’re a beautiful man.

I step closer running my eyes across your strong, shirtless back. The stubble on your face is darker, rougher. My fingers itch to touch it. I marvel at the angular shape of your face, your prominent cheekbones, thick-lashed, almond-shaped eyes, and how the dimple in your cheek dips in even while you sleep.

Your eyes flicker open. My heart jumps. You blink a few times while it sinks in that I’m standing above you staring. “Morning,” you say, stretching and rubbing your eyes.

I should move away, stop staring, but I can’t. “Morning.”

You sit up and adjust your boxer shorts. I can’t keep myself from peeking at the bulge pressing against the fly; the thin cotton barely contains you. My breath comes quicker, and I look away.

Dear God, I’ve never wanted someone so badly.