Alice Orr - Key West Heat

“I apologize for waking you up,” he said.

She put her finger to her lips to shush him into speaking more quietly. The sun might be up and bright, but the hour was early. Roosters crowed at the dawn somewhere in the distance. Before she could ask him what he wanted, he went on, but in a whisper this time.

“I didn’t want you to miss your first morning here. I thought you might sleep through it.” He hesitated a moment, as if just now realizing he might have judged the situation wrong. “And I thought you might want to get your stuff out of the guesthouse, at least anything you don’t want the cops pawing through.”

Taylor had been about to scold him for disturbing her so early after yesterday being such a grueling day for her, but what he was saying made sense. Besides, she agreed with him. She wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, anyway. The warning of danger from her dream tried to intervene upon that thought but she pushed it aside.

“I would like to get my things,” she said.

“You might also like to eat something. I have croissants in my car. There’s a place over on Duval that makes them fresh. They’re the best this side of New Orleans.”

The mention of food reminded Taylor of how long it had been since she’d eaten last. Late yesterday afternoon on the plane, which felt like very long ago indeed. The rumbling in her stomach agreed. She was definitely hungry. Still, she hesitated as another recollection of her dream returned, the memory of another kind of hunger. She might have fantasized about Maxwell in the most intimate of ways, but she didn’t really know him. This early morning visit smacked somewhat of the bizarre. She did have serious questions about his relationship with Netta. It occurred to Taylor that he might be trying to work the same spell on her that had charmed her aging aunt. Taylor’s still-damp body might be more vulnerable to those charms than her will to resist was strong. Perhaps it would be wise to keep a safe distance from Des Maxwell, at least until she felt more her usual in-control self than she did at this moment. She didn’t know what to do, which way to choose—another uncharacteristic state for her to be in.

“We could go to the Key Westian,” he was saying, “then drive up to the beach for a little breakfast.”

“Wait a minute.” Something had suddenly occurred to her. “Didn’t the police say they were sealing the guest-house?”

“We can get past that.”

Taylor hesitated.

“Aren’t you curious to see whether the guy who killed April Jane might have had some special reason to be in your room, after all?” Des asked. “The cops suggested that could be the case. Remember?”

Taylor did remember that, and she was definitely curious about it.

“I figured we’d be smart to go there early, before anybody’s around,” Des said. “Less chance of being stopped that way.”

Taylor nodded. He was right, or maybe she merely couldn’t think of a good argument this early in the morning. The soft air from the veranda had cooled her body from the frenzy of her dream. More practical considerations were supplanting her qualms about being alone with Des Maxwell. She could surely govern her emotions as successfully with him as she always had with other men. She ignored the danger warning yet again.

“I’ll get dressed and be with you in a few minutes,” she said.

“You can come out this way,” he said, indicating the end of the veranda. “There are stairs around the corner of the house and a path to the street. I’m parked out there in the red Jeep.”

She might have known he’d have a car like that. Where she came from, mostly oversexed adolescents drove Jeeps, especially red ones.

* * *

DES HAD the T-top on the Jeep. All of a sudden, he wasn’t sure that had been the right choice. Maybe it would be too breezy for her in the open air. He thought of her full, wavy hair, how it had haloed her face last night in curling strands against her long, white neck. Her hair had been wilder a few moments ago. Even through the narrow door opening he could see how tossed and tousled she was. The memory of that wildness, along with the bright flush of her cheeks from sleep, flashed through him now with an intensity that sped straight to his groin. He’d felt the same stab of lust on the veranda, at the first glimpse of her misty blue eyes, so sultry in their sleepy softness. He’d had to hold himself back from shoving through the door and grabbing her. He couldn’t remember ever having the urge to put his hands on a woman come over him so strong. Still, she didn’t strike him as the kind of woman you grabbed.

But what kind of woman was she? Des smiled at the question and at himself. Obviously, she had to be the kind of woman who could get him out of bed at dawn and off to the Croissanterie before anybody was around but the bird-watchers. The buttery aroma from the pasteboard box on the back seat enticed him, but Taylor Bissett had been the real enticement. For what felt like the hundredth time this morning, Des asked himself what was going on with him, anyway. He didn’t run after women. He didn’t have to. They generally came after him. He didn’t kid himself that they thought of him as some kind of stud. He figured his general lack of interest turned them on. Sandra had told him that. He’d married her thinking she could break through the wall he’d had around him for so long. They’d grown to be friends but nothing more. The deep parts of him remained untouched, no matter how much he’d wished them not only touched but overwhelmed.

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