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Exhaling on a sigh, she mounted the steps to the porch and tried the door, not surprised to find it locked. But the house was scheduled for demolition, and she knew it wouldn’t be tightly secured. The windows were either painted shut or wouldn’t close. Hale had said as much to her in passing once.
She was early. She’d planned it that way. She needed to catch him unaware to have any hope of coming out of this alive and well. Nervously she walked around the porch, which ran along every side of the house. In the dark, the old, decrepit building seemed sinister and almost anticipatory, like it was waiting for her. She shivered and shook that off. Ridiculous. Turning a corner to the beach side, she was hit with a slap of wet wind. She tucked in her chin and groped with her fingers for the window, tugging to open it. No luck. It took her until the third window and a growing desperation before she could get her fingers into the gap beneath it. With all her strength, she shoved it upward. It gave with a wrenching cry, and cradling her purse, she could finally shoulder her way in.
When she climbed through to the living room, she was accompanied by another gust of water-soaked wind, the water dragged off the ocean, as the rain had stopped. There was a puddle inside—the gap in the window had allowed its entry—and she felt dread settle into her heart. What she had planned was unnerving, and yet she intended to go through with it.
She stepped gingerly, still in the peep-toed shoes and outfit she’d worn to Hale’s office, hoping against hope to entice him with how desirable and luscious she looked. Her mind shied away from the humiliation of that failure.
Switching on her flashlight, she shone its beam upon the wooden rafters and the balusters of the narrow balcony above. She had been through this house with Hale and hadn’t liked its cottage style, though its ocean frontage was fabulous. But the house she and Hale had built was even more fabulous, and the ocean was right there, too. Maybe not at ground level, like this, but accessible via a stairway that hugged and curved down the headland.
Inside she was cold.
A quiver had set up residence in her gut. She had told him she would meet him at seven, and then had burned up the road to be here by six thirty. It was her turn to lie in wait. She’d played enough sexual games with him to know his MO, and though she had been a slave to his game—and had admittedly been sick with desire—she’d learned a thing or two along the way. Oh, yes, he had power and a way of setting her senses on fire, but after what had happened, she’d slowly been released from his grip. At first she’d thought it was his doing, that he’d let her go. But she’d come to realize over time that no, this was her own pleasure-drugged conscience slowly awakening, and though she’d panicked with Hale today, begging him to give her the same burning sexual thrill that the devil stirred in her, that same panic had given her a cold-eyed view of what she must do: confront him and kill what was between them forever, no matter what that took.
In fact, if she . . .
Something caught her attention. A noise? A smell? Something was definitely out of place.
Don’t be silly, she scolded herself, but her nerves tightened in spite of herself.
She took another step.
“Hey, lover.”
His voice shot a thrill of fear through her. She glanced up again, to the balcony. He was already here!
“I’m not here to play games,” she said, but her damn voice quaked as if she were terrified.
Then she felt it come at her, like a snake, like a rope, his overwhelming sexual power. Closing her eyes and gritting her teeth, she fought it back. She seized on the idea that if she were a block of ice, he couldn’t penetrate her, and it seemed to work, for she was not swamped by a desire so strong that it left her slack and panting and jelly-limbed. After a few moments, she dared to open an eye and glance upward.
He was holding a short, thick beam, his arms straining from the weight though he was strong. She registered this the same moment the beam hurtled toward her.
She opened her mouth to scream, turning.
Crash!
Pain blasted through her head as the beam smashed into her. Jarred and broken, she crumpled into a loose heap. She couldn’t move . . . couldn’t draw a breath. For a moment she lay awake, her eyes staring upward. Vaguely, she heard running footsteps, and then he was beside her, his face swimming like a mirage, until she focused and saw the intent look in his eyes. Her last thought was, He’s watching me die. . . .
And then she was gone.
CHAPTER 11
Savannah got out of bed while it was still dark, took a shower, then dried herself off, standing in profile at the mirror to get a good, hard look at her body. Yep. Pregnant. Really, really pregnant.
She towel dried her hair, then let it land lank against the bare skin of her shoulders as she searched for what to wear. As her shape had grown larger, her wardrobe had shrunk down to a tan shirt, a blue one, and a black one, and two pairs of black slacks. Today she went with the blue blouse and a gray pullover sweater, which she would team with the black pants and the black raincoat that hung, waiting, in the closet by the front door.
She’d never been much for high heels, either, which was a bonus in the career field she’d chosen, but occasionally, right now being one of those occasions, she longed to dress up and look attractive. A short skirt, a body-hugging top, a pair of three-inch heels . . . yeah, that would be great. Except she would look ludicrous given her third-trimester shape. Maybe after Baby St. Cloud arrived, and she went through a fitness program to lose the extra pounds . . . maybe then she would treat herself to a shopping spree in Portland. Go to one of those fancy boutiques downtown or up on Twenty-third. And if she was back at fighting weight, maybe hit Papa Haydn or Voodoo Doughnut for dessert.
She was smiling as she blow-dried her hair and snapped it into a ponytail. She added a bit of blush, then called it good. She spent the next fifteen minutes packing an overnight bag and eating some peanut butter toast. Then she looped the strap of her messenger bag over her neck and shoulder, slipped on a pair of black flats, grabbed her raincoat and her overnight bag, and headed out the door. She was in the garage, climbing into the Escape, when she hesitated, feeling the chill in the air. Cold front. Hmmm.
Back inside the house, she rummaged through her closet for a heavier coat. Finding a dark blue ski jacket, she eyed it skeptically. Sliding her arms through the sleeves, she realized it was not going to make it around her middle. She needed something bulkier, but she didn’t own such a thing.
I can buy a coat in Portland.
Tossing the ski jacket over her arm, she headed back outside, relocked the door, then climbed into the SUV, threw the jacket into the back footwell, and placed her messenger bag next to her on the passenger seat. She didn’t damn well care what the weather was going to do at this point. If bad weather hit, she would stay overnight in Portland. No harm, no foul.
She gave one more thought to the Braxton Hicks contractions, but they hadn’t started again since they’d quit the afternoon before. From everything she’d heard, first labors took a long, long time, so any way around it, she would make it back to the coast in time to have this baby. And, if by some outside chance that didn’t happen, well, Portland had some of the best hospitals in the state, most of them, actually. Sure, Kristina and Hale wouldn’t be there, but in some ways, that was okay with her. She wasn’t sure she even wanted either of them around while she was going through labor. She didn’t know if she could stand the ultra-solicitousness. A few nurses, a doctor . . . perfect.
But if all went as planned, she’d be turning and burning and back in Tillamook before it got dark, anyway.
