Goodbye Arizona Page 5

  He whipped his head toward the sheriff to argue. Before he could proffer a sound, his phone chimed.

  The image attached to the wordless text message curdled his blood.

  ****

  Deb jolted awake, gasping for air. Her head fell back on the hard surface under her as she struggled to breathe. She forced her lungs to work, inhaling and expulsing the stale oxygen, almost relieved by the uncomfortable humidity around her. For a terrorizing minute, she felt trapped underwater, drowning.

  With another deep breath, she straightened up, and blinked to accommodate. Her vision cleared from a golden blur to a world of honey-colored flat surfaces and white angles. She fluttered her lashes and finally made out wood panels and square ceramics.

  She placed her bare feet gingerly on the tiled floor. It was warm, hot even, but not unbearable. Deb looked down at herself. She was down to her underwear, but sweat still pearled on her skin.

  “At least my bra and panties match.”

  Hearing her own voice and the attempt at humor quieted the harried pulse in her veins.

  Whoever had taken her clothes and shoes had tossed a small spongy towel on the bench next to her. The fabric was damp, and it clung to her skin, but once Deb had wrapped it around her torso, she felt better. She pushed tangled locks away from her clammy cheeks, and braced herself on the bench to stand.

  The small effort it required pushing upright made her giddy. Blood pounded on her eardrums. She pressed one palm on the wall to support herself against it. The room around her reeled so badly that her head hurt. Her throat burned. Nausea battled the rampant fear lurking too close to the surface. Deb fell on her knees and vomited.

  ****

  The body on the grainy photograph was twisted in a fetal position. Eden grouched, “What is it now?”

  Marcus’s eyes stayed glued to the small screen. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think. Deb… What had happened to Deb? Minutes ago, he was arguing with her and now… Her face was flushed, her skin unnaturally red. He tried to swallow so his heart would regain its normal place inside his chest.

  He fisted the Southern Belle’s blouse with both hands. He almost yanked her off her feet. Eden screeched, “Marcus!”

  “What did you do? What did you do to her?”

  “Mr. Turner.” The blood pounding in his ears made him conveniently deaf. “You’d better tell me this minute where Deb is, or I swear—”

  Pooley picked up the phone he’d dropped, to scan the image. At the same time, a text’s arrival pinged. She read it aloud.

  “‘But shh, here comes the beautiful Ophelia. Nymph, please pray for my sins.’”

  ****

  With her stomach empty, she felt better, and managed to stand on shaky legs.

  The room was about twelve feet wide, with a semi-circular wooden bench on one side. The opposite wall was also paneled, and bare, except for one minuscule frosted-glass window, and a knob.

  “Here you are. Open Sesame.”

  Deb grabbed the handle and pulled. And pulled again. “Damn it. Come on!”

  She shook the knob over and over. Her throat seized up, as the heat and panic made it hard to breathe. Sweat trickled down her spine, dampening her palms. She nearly lost her footing on the humid floor and sank back on the bench.

  Her eyes tingled.

  No crying. It’s okay. You’ll think of something. Just calm down, Deb, you’re going to be all right.

  Deb took in wobbly gulps of air, one painful hiss after another, until she felt steadier. She licked her lips, choosing to blame the salty sweat instead of tears. She glared at the closed door, and remained seated.

  She wasn’t hungry, so she could assume only a short amount of time had passed. A couple of hours, maybe even less than that. “It’s still daylight. Your kidnapper couldn’t go far with you in tow. It was already risky with all these people around to take you,” Deb reasoned. A nasty murmur in her head blabbered about the alcoholic focus of the crowd, the possible excuses about a blackout. “He or she locked you somewhere close. And if you’re still at the resort, then there must be people around. Someone will hear if you make enough noise. Someone has to…”

  With renewed energy, Deb approached the door again.

  “Hey! Hello? Is anyone there?” She banged her fist on the window. “Hello? I’m locked in! Hello?”

  ****

  He dashed out of the room. In Shakespeare’s play, Ophelia drowned. He’d used the name on purpose for one of the victims in Storm Watcher, so like Hamlet, his hero grieved and regretted his actions.

  The stairs moved past as a blur. The lobby was cold and empty. His radar zoomed in on the crowd outside. Marcus broke into a run and bullied his way to the counter.

  “Have you seen a beautiful brunette? She wore shorts and a short-sleeve cherry jersey.”

  His question splintered under a deafening uproar. Bodies swayed. The stench of alcohol and bar food overwhelmed him. The bartender barely spared a glance in his direction. “Nope. Who’s next?”

  Empty glasses clinked in response, craving attention. Marcus thrust the picture of Deb’s inert form—please, God, let her be just unconscious—under the guy’s nose. “Look, asshole! Look at her! Where is she?”

  “Hey, back off, man. I’m sorry for your girl, but look around you. It’s a jungle out here.”

  “Where. Is. My. Wife!”

  Marcus’s voice grew in volume with every word. Women stepped back with the look of frightened gazelles on their faces, ideas of free drinks forgotten.

  A small hand pressed firmly on his forearm. “Mr. Turner, let me handle this.”

  The sheriff took the phone from his hand to present it to the barman again. Her badge appeared on the counter at the same time. The man grabbed a full pitcher of sangria.

  “I’m Sheriff Pooley.” The name earned a fleeting glimpse to the badge on the counter, then another nod. Suddenly, the terrace seemed very quiet, despite the samba blasting from the speakers. “Do you recognize the place she’s in? Is it in the hotel?”

  “I—I don’t know, ma’am. I—I don’t work here. I mean I work here, but I’m just a hired hand. For the weekend.”

  “Julio, give me that.”

  An elfin redhead with blue and green locks expertly balanced a tray from one hand to the other and picked up the pitcher before the flavored wine could topple over. The young man exhaled in relief. She put it back on the counter and nodded at the sheriff. “Can I see the photograph?”

  Pooley handed it to her. The newcomer peered at the screen. “It’s hard to tell, but it looks like one of the saunas.”

  “Which one?”

  “Huh, I don’t know. A few of the guesthouses have those, but—”

  Marcus didn’t wait for the end of her sentence and scampered off. He would break into each bungalow if he needed to.

  ****

  Screaming in the heat consumed more energy than she had. Deb coughed, gritting her teeth at the pain in her throat. Air rasped through the constricted pipe like sandpaper. She tried the knob again, to no avail. The door was locked tight.

  Half-panting, half-wheezing, Deb resumed her hitting on the window. Someone would pass by at some point and hear her. Or Marcus would start to worry, and—

  “Marcus… Oh, God…”

  They had parted right after fighting in relatively amiable ways, but he knew her tendency to sulk. She didn’t exactly hold grudges, but she brooded, sometimes for days. What if he thought she’d disappeared to punish him? He’d never talked to her the way he had this afternoon. Her legs betrayed her and her bottom hit the bench. What if he decided he’d had enough of her caprices? What if he chose to give up on her, for good this time?

  Tears welled again and she let them fall, too tired and too scared to fight the desperation any longer. She was doomed. Her kidnapper had left her to rot in that oven of a place. She would die here, of thirst or of hunger, alone. Marcus would forever think that she had abandoned him, that she was the reckless child he ha
d accused her to be only hours ago.

  A heart-rending mewl filtered through her parched lips. Her chest constricted, squeezing so hard her heart tried to escape up her throat. Deb curled on the bench, her hands balled close to her mouth. She closed her eyes to block out the nauseating whirlpool her prison had become.

  Breathing turned into a battle. The faint smell of rosemary on her skin stopped being reassuring. She didn’t want to die. Not here. Not like that. She wanted to live. She wanted a chance to apologize for reading his work when she had sworn not to. She wanted to prove he could trust her, a chance to say ‘I love you’ a thousand more times. She wanted to see another sunset in the Valley, to dine with Marcus on the patio overlooking the apple orchard. To bicker with him because he cheated at cards and left dirty clothes on the bathroom floor. She wanted to decorate another Christmas tree, and tease him about singing carols out of tune. She wanted to make a home with him, raise a family…

  “Deb!”

  The voice she knew so well—his voice—echoed in her head like a cruel taunt. You’ll never hear him say your name again. You’re pitiful and useless. He spoiled you and you threw it back in his face.

  “Deb! Deborah!”

  The call came out too strong, too frantic to be a figment of her imagination. Deb lifted her head, weak as a kitten. “Marcus? Marcus, I’m here!”

  Tears poured down her face as hope flew out. There were noises nearby. A shuffle of feet followed by angry demands. Deb sank against the door, drummed her fists against the wood. “Help! I’m here! Marcus! I’m here! Help!”

  ****

  “Sir, please stand back.”

  “Open the fucking door, damn it! Deb! I can hear her. Deb!”

  “I could override the system, sir, but her program will be complete in a couple of minute—”

  “I don’t care—open the damned door!”

  Marcus consented to step back so a technician in a peach coat could type a code on the control panel of the sauna. A few seconds later, a disheveled, crying beauty threw herself at him, and his heart started beating again.

  Chapter Seven

  “This is a mild sedative. Give her half a caplet if she becomes agitated. And don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Marcus closed the door behind the physician and turned to look at the woman curled in the large bed.

  The evening lights played hide and seek on her side as she slept. Marcus watched the gentle tide of rose gold and growing indigos, thankful for the peaceful rhythm of her respiration. It had taken several minutes for her to calm down after they let her out of her temporary cage, and several more to get a coherent story out of her.

  She hadn’t seen her assailant, hadn’t noticed anything until she had woken up in the sauna. The hotel didn’t have any cameras in this area—one of the reasons he asked for a suite inside the main building—and with the crazy fest she’d been taken from, the police had little chance of finding her kidnapper.

  Marcus leaned down to brush a kiss on the crown of her head. He’d vowed to himself to let her rest, but he needed to touch her once in a while, as if to make sure she was really there, that she was safe. Deb stirred.

  “Mmm.”

  “Sorry … I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  She snuggled closer. “What time is it?”

  “A few minutes shy of seven. You’re all right?”

  Deb rubbed her head on his shoulder like a cat, one arm wrapped around his waist. Marcus shifted on the bed and propped himself up against the mountain of pillows she’d insisted they needed. He knew by experience that most of them would end up on the floor during the night. His hand found hers and he laced their fingers over his stomach. The scent of her shampoo tickled his nose. Silence enveloped them for a while, so he wondered if she had drifted off again.

  “I lost my ring…”

  He stared at their entwined fingers. The band on his fourth gleamed in the falling light. “I’ll buy you another tomorrow, and not out of a vending machine but in a wedding chapel this time. So you won’t need to wear it on a chain around your neck.”

  She pondered that for a moment, then uttered under her breath, “Yours always fit.”

  Sensing there was more to it than a discussion about jewelry, Marcus rolled on his side so he could look at her. Her eyes vibrated with lassitude and unspoken emotions. Diving in their depths, Marcus wondered if he’d been wrong all along. He’d always thought that to be truly happy, she needed independence. That she couldn’t breathe unless she had the chance to experience whatever tickled her fancy. So he’d watched her come and go, no matter how badly he wished she would stop flitting around and would settle down. Perhaps what she’d truly needed after all this time was for him to ask her to stay.

  “I thought I’d lost you this afternoon.” He felt her breath flicker, and brushed his nose against hers. “I was—I’m not ready to lose you. I don’t think I’ll ever be. I love you.”

  Deb smiled at last. “I love you, too.”

  She linked her arms around his neck, her lids closing as he changed their Eskimo kiss to a less innocent caress.

  Her mouth parted under his. She tasted the same, but somehow sweeter. He knew every inch of her body, and yet took the time to rediscover the delicate curve of her shoulder, the silky feel of her skin. A feather-light kiss under her jaw earned a sigh, a nibble on a sensitive spot a chuckle.

  She winced when he accidentally pressed on the small bruise on her shoulder.

  “Sorry…”

  Desire fought—and lost—an arduous battle with concern, but her limbs tangled with his to forbid a strategic retreat. Marcus stared up into her eyes, and nearly drowned in their light. The only move she allowed was to come close, so he lowered himself so his cheek rested on her breast.

  Her heart palpitated in her chest like a panicked bird in a cage. He brushed a soothing kiss on the naked skin that was revealed by the shirt she’d put on. He freed one button from its hole to kiss her again. Another button popped out, followed by another kiss. Deb shivered and he warmed her with his mouth, blowing air and heat on the goose bumps, bringing a different frisson to her skin. Her hands detached from his hair to tug at his clothes. Marcus consented to pull off his polo and then returned to his worshipping.

  Her flesh filled his hand, hot and so soft he nearly moaned in delight. When kisses stopped satisfying the growing need inside him, he suckled and lapped. His fingers busied themselves with her curves, the wonderful valley of her stomach, the length of her leg. She gasped when his mouth followed the bump of her hipbone. He nibbled the delicate flesh because he couldn’t resist.

  He would never have his fill of her scent, of her taste on his tongue, of the glorious rasp that escaped her lips when he touched her. “Don’t make me beg, Marcus…”

  Her husky whisper invaded his head, freezing his brain like a drug, until the only thing on his mind was her. He wanted her to beg. He wanted to please her until he was the one demanding mercy. She was the queen he obeyed, the goddess to whom he prayed. She was his best friend, his only love, his everything.

  The mysteries he unraveled up her inner thigh teased every part of him. His body trembled with want. His senses overloaded. The romantic writer was at a loss for words. The lover relished the way she sighed his name as if it were a lustful secret. “Marcus… Marcus…”

  The tight lid he’d put on his own needs shook, ready to explode. His mouth traveled north while he fought with his pants. The jerky movements against her stomach caused mixed giggles with her moans. “You’re tickling me!”

  Marcus answered with a groan, finally managing to rip off the fabric. The contact of their feverish skin made him dizzy. Deb enlaced him. She offered her mouth, arching under him when he allowed his weight on her. “Please…”

  He never could refuse her anything, especially not that. Marcus delayed nonetheless, digging the last of his control to pace himself, to offer gentleness in the tornado of passion that they
had created around them. Want sharpened to a keen ache. One soft calf slid up his leg, the invitation impossible to turn down.

  He tried anyhow, torturing them both. Her eyes fluttered open, so bright that his heart skipped a beat. Marcus felt her hands clamp on to his back. His muscles tensed under her touch. Inch by inch, his body escaped his control. Something inside him snapped, like a coil springing free. The world narrowed to the point where their hips joined. She cried out when he filled her.

  He kissed her again, but the lack of oxygen forced him to release her mouth. He buried his face in her neck, pushing in deeper. Heat tightened an impossible grasp around him. She was so soft, so wet, perfect. “Mine … all mine…”

  Ecstasy licked at the verge of his sanity. Every pant, every moan, became a prized reward, even more satisfying when she flushed in pleasure, her delicate face lost in rapture. “Marcus!”

  One more thrust, one more dive, before he fell.

  Chapter Eight

  The midday sun tickled Deb’s nose. Eyes closed, she yawned, drifting along the last tendrils of slumber. When she couldn’t pretend to be asleep any longer, Deb opened one eye. As usual, the bed beside her was empty. She smiled. Trust Marcus to get up at the crack of dawn, late nights or not. He loved nothing more than having his first coffee of the day by himself, watching CNN, Discovery Channel, or whatever program piqued his interest that day. Last Christmas, she’d caught him on a Tom & Jerry marathon.

  A quick stop in the bathroom assured her that she looked more rested than she felt. Deb arranged the Diamondbacks t-shirt she had used as pajamas and immediately regretted stretching. Combing her hair with her finger and a grimace, she went looking for Marcus.

  She found him in the living room part of their suite, typing on a keyboard with his phone tucked under his jaw.

  “Yes, yes, I know, Theo.” He smiled at her when Deb curled on the sofa with her legs tucked under. “Look, Deb’s here, I have to go, okay. The exact words? Fine. I promise. You too. Bye.”

  He threw the phone on the cushion chair nearby and leaned over to peck her lips. “Theo said to tell you, I quote, ‘I hope you find the bastard and kick his sorry ass’.”