Twelve
As Cheyenne studied the two-mile crescent of utterly deserted, white sand, she felt happy. Happier than she’d ever been.
Not because she was the first shell seeker and she had the beach all to herself.
Nor because there was no better time to look for shells than after a storm.
No. Cheyenne felt that singular sparkling happiness of a woman who knew at last that she was well loved. She couldn’t stop thinking of Cutter and their night of steamy passion. She kept remembering the way he had looked as he’d lain sleeping this morning with his hooded eyes closed and his luxuriant black hair crisp and dark against the white pillow. For a long while she had stood beside the bed, savoring his carved profile. Then she’d watched the gentle rise and fall of his massive, bronzed chest and remembered how virile and strong he’d seemed when he’d wrapped her in his arms and pressed his body into hers. She had taken pleasure that he looked younger and more relaxed this morning than he ever had before. That the cynical lines on either side of his sensual mouth had all but vanished. That he had looked almost happy and at peace, as if what they had shared together meant everything to him.
Last night had been the first time that they had made love without fear. Without dread of José.
She closed her eyes, remembering all the things Cutter had done to her, remembering how his tongue had dipped inside her navel, how he had held her down, how his hands had roamed over her until he’d thoroughly aroused her. He had told her he loved her dozens of times, in dozens of ways. He’d shown her, too.
All her life she had been starved for love, and this bright morning was the first that she could look forward to sharing her future with the man she loved and who loved her.
Blushing, she pushed her wanton, but much-cherished memories from her mind. Then she lifted her white skirts above her slender ankles and ran lightly across the lagoon. Once she reached high, dry sand on the other side, she stood there, listening to the peaceful lapping of the surf at the shore.
In the golden darkness she could see the shadows of the fishing boats anchored offshore. One of them was a huge Cigarette boat, which she hadn’t seen before. Some rich tourist perhaps.
The park was officially closed. Usually she came here in the afternoon with Cutter and Jeremy and the other tourists. Jeremy loved the iguanas that ventured shyly out of the jungle onto the beach because they reminded him of the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, his favorite movie. She usually swam a mile or two while he and Cutter read or explored the sea caves. She loved it here, especially now that she felt safe. The scene before her was quiet, peaceful—normal, like her life was going to be.
Millions of shells littered the beach.
As she ran toward them, she knew that even though the danger was past, Cutter wouldn’t have let her come alone if he’d been awake.
As she leaned down and gathered her first glistening, pearly treasure, she told herself she’d be back in bed long before he ever knew she had gone.
As she picked up another shell, a small black shape suddenly flashed across the beach.
She stopped to watch as a white-faced monkey raced into the jungle.
Something had scared it.
As she studied the silent wall of palms and mangrove trees that ran parallel to the beach, a nearby snake, sensing some unseen danger, slithered from beneath the gnarled tangle of mangrove roots into the black jungle.
Something gleamed from the trees. For no reason at all the vision seemed sinister. She blinked once, and then squinted, but whatever had been there, was gone.
The sun went behind a cloud, and a strange, cold wind swept across the cove without making a ripple on the water. Then it gusted up the beach and tore through the rain forest. Suddenly, like a wild creature, she, too, sensed an alien dangerous presence.
The wind died.
Once again the rain forest loomed dense and dark, like an impenetrable wall, imprisoning her. As she watched and listened, the dark green fringe of jungle grew quieter.
Too quiet.
Suddenly the beach with its glistening shells felt too deserted and lonely for her to enjoy her solitary walk.
Spooked, she began edging back toward the lagoon and the road on the other side of it, retracing her steps.
A monkey howled from the trees, its shrill solitary voice a warning.
Shivering, she rubbed her bare arms and told herself she was being ridiculous.
She forced herself to kneel down and pick up another shell.
But this one was black and gritty and ugly. When she turned it over, it disintegrated in her hands and an ugly creature that looked as deadly as a scorpion skittered out of it.
It was a sign.
She screamed, and throwing down the shell, she ran.
She couldn’t see him.
But she could feel his dark, unseen force in the shadowy jungle as she raced back toward the shallow lagoon.
But the sand was so deep, she was soon exhausted.
With her every step, her bare feet seemed to sink more deeply into the ankle-deep sand. He stalked her remorselessly as he raced along the hard, packed path that lay just inside the jungle.
Sweaty and too light-headed to go on, she stopped before she was halfway to the lagoon. Her chest was heaving, and she had to gasp for every breath.
He stopped, too.
When she could breathe again, she decided the straightest path to the cabana was through the jungle.
Two minutes later she was plunging through thick canopies of dark vines, and then through a long tunnel of overarching palms.
The rain forest was dark and quiet. It was like entering a cathedral and leaving the real world behind. Fearing snakes or iguanas, she, nevertheless, sank down into a thick bed of damp ferns to rest a minute.
The trees with their dripping ivies and lacy ferns were so shadowy and all-enveloping that she considered hiding there indefinitely. Then she made out the shape of a howler monkey, ambling toward her along the narrow trail. Overhead more monkeys kept up with him by racing from branch to branch.
Strange how the monkeys made no sound.
Strange how the figure on the trail kept growing larger and larger—until he was much too large to be a monkey.
With a chill she realized that her monkey was a man, and that the man was walking steadily and deliberately toward her. She felt that he knew she was there, that he had known all along, that he knew he had all the time in the world to take her.
Her dress was white.
In another instant he would be so close he couldn’t miss her.
She bolted away from him, running headlong down the path of overhanging darkness that led away from the sunny road and the swimming pool and the cabanas. Away from Cutter.
Her pursuer raced after her.
When her pace slowed, his did, too.
But he was breathing so hard she could hear him.
When she glanced back over her shoulder to see how close he was, she stumbled on a sprawling root and fell.
Her head hit a tree. Then she was on the ground, and the dense trees were blackening.
Something wet was dripping on her cheek. She opened her eyes to blurred shadows and radiant green foliage. Less than a foot away, a twig snapped under a heavy boot heel.
Dear God. She gasped in panic as an ever-tightening band of fear compressed her lungs.
He took a final step, so that when she tried to lever herself to a sitting position, her fingers touched the dusty toes of his tall, black leather boots.
From her vantage point on the jungle floor, her gaze traveled up his muscular legs, widening in shock when she registered his swarthy features.
“Get up, señora.”
She had never seen him before. Still, from Cutter’s description, she recognized him instantly.
“Mucho gusto, señora. My name is José Hernando.”
His raspy voice was so ordinary. As was his face. His broad Indian nose, his olive dark eyes and swarthy skin were the features of so many Costa Ricans. Even his thin, cruel lips, so like a Spanish conquistador’s, were common enough, too. Had she chanced to meet him elsewhere, she would never have known him for a killer.
“How did you find us?”
“Your sister.”
“Chantal?”
“I met her the night of your auction. We became friends.” He smiled. “More than friends. She is a woman of extraordinary talents.” He spoke in a cold, dispassionate tone. “She knew you would go to your mother’s funeral. She followed you to Costa Rica and called me. Funny, I was in Europe. I never considered this a possible hiding place. I suppose it’s a nice country—if you don’t mind the rain.”
In a panic, Cheyenne tried to crawl away, but Hernando stamped his boot down, nailing her to the damp earth with her skirt. Then he pulled her up by her hair.
“Cutter,” she whispered in a desperate, frozen voice.
“He can’t help you now.”
So, it had all been for nothing.
Their marriage.
Their love.
Their happiness.
Everything.