Читать книгу Capture - Flora Dain - Страница 9

After a few terrifying bumps and jolts we halt in a clump of bushes.

Behind us the motorcycle roars off into the distance, its rider yelling with laughter and hooting his twin klaxon in triumph.

I lean over the steering wheel, panting, my hands still locked on it. I can feel sweat trickle down my back.

‘You OK?’ Darnley’s low voice stirs me to a shudder.

‘Sure,’ I say, hoping I’ll sound less squeaky when I’ve breathed in a few times. ‘Here. You drive.’ I snatch the keys out of the ignition and dangle them.

He takes no notice.

I stay where I am, still panting, as he gets out of the passenger seat and comes round to inspect the damage. He regards it in silence for a moment and then looks back at the road, his nostrils flaring. ‘He made a mess of the door. OK, we better go back. Start the car and reverse out.’

I stare at him in panic as he takes a few steps back. ‘Wait. Aren’t you driving?’

‘Nope. You are.’

‘I can’t.’ I lick my lips.

He leans over the door and puts his hand around the back of my neck, folding his fingers lovingly so that his thumb grazes the tip of my ear. ‘You must, Ella. If you don’t you’ll be too scared for months. Just do it. Take it slow. You’ll be fine.’

His tone and his look are so gentle, and the kiss he drops on my damp, clammy forehead so hot, that I take a deep breath and turn the key.

‘OK. But don’t blame me if we get lost.’

We almost do as I finally edge out of the clump of bushes. Still on autopilot I make for the lane we were on before.

‘Turn left. Back to the complex.’ His sharp command makes me wrench the wheel.

Rattled, I spin the wheel in the other direction. ‘Why?’

‘You’ll see.’ His mouth settles into a grim line.

He phones ahead. When we finally pull up a reception committee is waiting for us. Darnley instantly leaps over the side of the car and strides up to them. ‘Show us the transport hangar. We missed it before. Now.’

He glances back at me, his look angry. ‘Ella, get your ass over here.’

I gather my doting fiancé wants me to join him. As I do so he grips my arm but his anger’s focused on Freda.

‘Which of your machines just came back in?’

To my intense satisfaction she actually looks scared. ‘What? None of them. Why?’

I swear she’s changed colour. In answer he strides off towards a long, low shed we’d missed on the tour. I’d thought it was empty but as we walk inside I see it’s full of machinery – motorcycles. Two gleaming rows of them are lined up in the pale, dust-filled space where the afternoon sun slants in through the skylight. There must be around thirty machines here, some of them large and very powerful.

As we walk in a pale-faced mechanic walks towards us, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He’s stocky, his dark hair limp and greasy. His mouth slumps badly at one side. ‘Sumpn’ up, y’all?’

Freda glances at me. ‘This is Chet Newson, our mechanic.’ She strides forward and he shrinks back, instantly cowed. ‘Any of the bikes been out today?’

‘Nossir. None of’em. I bin workin’ here since breakfast. Sir. I mean, ma’am.’

Darnley glances at me. ‘Feel the motors. See if one of them’s hot. I’ll take the row on the left. You take the right.’

I do it, marvelling at the massed power in here. The machines are all gleaming BMWs or Harley-Davidsons, shiny-new and arranged in order of size. The little mechanic clearly takes pride in his work.

They’re all cold.

Freda stays near the door, pinning the mechanic with her steely gaze. ‘Chet? Are you sure about that?’

He mumbles a reply and she continues to question him, her voice low. When we rejoin her he seems close to tears.

She shakes her head. ‘I’m pretty sure he’s telling the truth. He’s a good kid. That right, Chet?’

She ruffles his lank hair in a sudden fond gesture. He’s clearly an apple or two short of a picnic, but I look at her with new respect.

The little mechanic certainly seems to like her. His eyes follow her like a devoted puppy’s as she heads for the door, now talking earnestly to Darnley, her voice low.

‘Whoever it was, they can’t have come from here. You can see these machines are still cold …’

‘Ma’am?’ I jump as Chet leans close to me, his gaze anxious. Close up he smells of motor oil and sweat.

‘Hi, Chet. What is it?’ I smile, still shaky.

‘You wus swimmin’ this morning, right?’

My smile vanishes. Oh, no, not another … ‘Yes. You swim too?’

He takes a step back, fear in his eyes. ‘Nossir. Tain’t safe. There’s a troll down there.’

I frown. ‘A what?’

His eyes are wide now. He licks his lips. ‘A cave troll. I heerd it. Tain’t safe down there. You stay outta the water, ma’am.’

I smile vaguely and back away to the door.

A few hours earlier I’d have taken no notice. But I’m still chilly from shock. It’s no time to dismiss cave trolls out of hand. I feel his eyes on my back as I hurry out into the welcome sunshine and catch up with Darnley.

He folds his arm round me. ‘You done?’ He nods to Freda. ‘Let me know if you hear anything. We’d better get back.’

Freda’s cool downward glance sweeps me again and then she turns away.

* * *

On the way back we say little. This time Darnley drives.

I’m still seething over this morning. He’s being simply Darnley. Silent and stern, alone with his thoughts. The set of his jaw hints they’ll stay his for a while.

As we come in sight of his sleek beachfront mansion I fold my arms and jut my chin. ‘So, are you going to apologise?’

He pulls his damaged convertible to a purring halt and turns to look at me, his eyes cold. ‘For what?’

I’m getting emotional now. It’s been a trying day. ‘For treating your new fiancée like a tramp. For humiliating me in front of the people I’m supposed to teach. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep your dignity in a classroom? It’s crucial. And all for …’ I tail off. Don’t push this, I think.

‘For what?’

Cross now, I say it anyway. ‘For Freda,’ I mutter.

To my fury he grins. ‘Still bitching about Freda? Hey. Lighten up. We survived your driving, we can survive anything, even her. Come on in. We’ll clean you up and then –’ He kisses me unexpectedly on the cheek.

‘And then?’ I glower back.

He grins. ‘And then we’ll get you all dirty again.’

* * *

I feel better after some coffee. When he’s sure I’ve calmed down he hustles me into the shower and we linger under the jet. He smears gel all over my softest places and then teases me in the hardest of ways, with cold and hot water, and with firm caresses of his busy hands, until I’m warm, refreshed – and eager.

When he finally bundles me up in a towel and scoops me up in his arms I’m shrieking in protest and drumming my fists on his back. ‘You can’t do this. Put me down.’

‘Sure thing, ma’am. Right here?’

I land on my back and sprawl out on the bed as he lands on top of me. He musses my hair with the towel in a token attempt to dry it and then fastens his mouth on mine, splaying my arms wide and pinning me down with his tongue and his powerful, gym-honed body until my giggles die away, stifled in my throat. Soon I’m kissing him back, easy and content, warm and damp from the shower and his growing impatience.

‘You sleepy now? I owe you an apology.’

I open my eyes with a snap. ‘You do? That’s a first. I don’t want to miss that.’

I’m genuinely mystified – it’s not a word I’ve ever heard him use. And now the gleam in his eyes tells me it’s not for what he did to me this morning … it’s for what he left out.

He’s kneeling up over me, laughing. ‘I’ve been neglecting you since this morning. I think you need some serious attention. Hold still. Put your arms up over your head. I want a good view of your tits while I do this.’

Grinning now I obey. Instantly I clench as he kneels between my knees, spreads my thighs wide and starts to drop soft, gentle kisses all down the inside of one thigh and up the inside of the other, before swooping down on my splayed, pulsing gap. He gives me a slow, roguish smile, lowers his head and starts to feast.

His tongue is so busy and so urgent I find it impossible to keep still. Soon I give up the struggle and my hands fly down to his head. I thread my fingers deep into his hair in a futile attempt to pull him away, if only to give my flaring, scorching arousal a breather from his busy mouth. ‘Stop, stop. It’s so intense. I can’t –’ I break off and gasp. For some reason, all unbidden, tears are coursing down my hair and into the pillows.

He raises his head and frowns. ‘Ella? What’s up?’

‘I can’t – I’m so sorry. It’s too much. I thought …’

His eyes narrow as he surges up to join me, his expression stern. ‘What? What did you think?’

I stare at him as the reality of what I’ve been thinking hits me like a stone. ‘I thought you were angry with me. I thought …’

I tail off again, scared of going on, like saying it will somehow make it come true. I thought he’d stopped loving me.

I shake myself. I’m getting weepy. It must be delayed shock …

‘Nothing,’ I grin weakly as his cruel, slow smile brings me back to my senses. I feel a flare of heat deep down and a flame of arousal so fierce I wonder if he senses it. ‘Don’t stop,’ I murmur. ‘Please.’

His eyes narrow as he curves over my body and raises himself up on his arms. The power in his gaze shreds my will as his eyes burn into me. My feeble protest at his intimate, controlling caress has stirred something dark inside him, something feral.

‘Too late.’

His low growl rumbles through me like distant thunder. The effect settles in my groin and sets up a steady, nagging pulse.

‘You missed your chance. Now it’s my turn.’ He’s nudging my thighs apart with his knee as he flows over me in a lithe, unstoppable flood of power and muscle, his eyes pinning me into submission. And with a grunt he plunges inside, his first thrust sending me into hyperspace as my trembling belly clutches round him and grips him tight.

His dark smile warns me he can feel my hunger and knows I’m powerless in his grip. He withdraws slowly, his eyes searching my face, watching every trace of my reaction. His next plunge ebbs away just as slowly and sets our rhythm. Soon we’re fusing together, my hips arching to meet him, matching my own pleasure to every touch of his pounding loins.

His flood of energy takes me over and I’m afloat on his tide. Each powerful thrust fills me up, each slow, lingering withdrawal draws me to him. The heat in his gaze as he finally brings me to fruition stirs my heart.

He touches his lips to mine, murmurs soft things into my ear, scolds me for not paying attention when my looming orgasm starts to transport me, and finally leans down close, threading his fingers into my wet hair as he shudders to his own completion.

It tells me that however grim his thoughts were on the way home, and however much I still resent that scary, alpha-male demo thing in my boat, he still loves me and needs me.

And I love him too. Far more than I’d ever admit.

* * *

‘The attacks mostly take place just north of San Francisco. Nobody has so far been hurt or directly molested but state police warn some bizarre aspects of the attacks suggest the attacker may need help. Today’s weather? Mild and sunny inland but if you’re on the beaches take care in those foggy stretches. And now for news closer to home …’

I switch off the radio and pour myself another cup of coffee. No Darnley this morning. He’s vanished into the fog, along with the glorious views of the bay from his windows, and the warm Californian sun.

He’s gone over to the complex on business, the convertible is in for repair and a respray and I’ve got a date with my boat.

They’re right about the fog. As I make my way down to the beach thick mist settles over me in a damp, white blanket. It mats my hair, chills my skin and muffles my footsteps as I crunch my way down the shingle.

No chance of skinny-dipping in this – even without Darnley on hand to demand a forfeit. Without its fabled sunshine the air out here is dank enough for New England, the quiet splash of the waves hidden by the mist as eerie as the white winter silence of the Maine woods. I shiver and pull my goose-down jacket tighter.

As I reach my boat I stop short.

It’s decorated with seaweed.

It’s beached well above the water line and beyond the reach of the waves so it’s not decorated by chance. There’s been no storm.

Someone has looped festoons of it along the sides. All at once I hear a low, roaring boom.

Fear prickles along my back. I stand very still and peer into the mist. Now I sense sounds, little shuffles in the grasses along the path, small rustles from further away. A clank, like someone’s moving something heavy, made of metal.

‘Hello?’ My voice falls short in the stifling fog. It seems to reach no further than I can see. ‘Anybody there?’

The boom comes again, a terrifying, hollow sound, like an echo but louder. All at once there’s a flurry of movement and a crash as somebody lands on the shingle behind me.

I spin round to see a leather-clad figure in goggles peering at me out of the mist.

If I had any voice I’d scream. As it is I’m paralysed for a whole two seconds, unable to speak, squeak or even run as the figure before me slowly removes its goggles. ‘Ms Dean? I came to warn ya.’

It’s Chet Newson, his eyes wide and scared.

He’s not nearly as scared as me. Shakily I gasp air.

‘Kin you hear it?’ He’s leaning towards me, his face contorted. ‘That’s him. That’s the cave troll. He’s here. You don’ wanna mess with them things, miss. They’s real dangerous.’

The boom comes yet again, louder than ever now. He shrinks back and starts to jabber.

Now I’m scared too, but I’m also puzzled. I don’t believe in ghosts – even though, right this minute, some part of me wants to jabber too.

‘Calm down, Chet,’ I snap. ‘It’s probably nothing of the sort. Anyway, what are you doing here? You came all the way out here just to tell me that?’

It occurs to me that I’m alone here and he may mean well but he may have – urges. I swallow.

Suddenly he slips his hand into his jacket and I take a nervous step back.

‘They say you’s a poet, Miss. I writ you a poem. Here.’

He stuffs a card in my hand. I stare at it for a moment. It’s a Wolfe Security business card, like the one Darnley left me once, a long time ago. As I turn it over I see something scrawled on the back.

‘Wel cum home fokes!’

It’s the same message we found splashed on the wall in crimson paint.

And the same spelling.

As I look up the boom comes again. This time Chet shrieks and scrambles back up the shallow sloping cliff, sending rocks and loose stones pattering down as he scrabbles for a foothold.

‘Wait,’ I shout. ‘Chet? Come back here. Did you write this?’

He’s already halfway up, clawing at tufts of sea grass and dipping ledges where seabirds have worn holes. He looks down, his face contorted, as he shouts down. ‘Who, me? No’m, I cain’t write. It wus him. He did it. The cave troll.’

The mist is lifting now. As he reaches the top, scrambling the last few feet in his panic to get away, I see the fuzzy silhouette of a motorcycle emerge from the mist. It’s parked on the top of the headland.

He springs onto the seat, kicks the motor and with a roar the powerful machine curves away in the direction of the highway and disappears into the mist.