James Patterson - Swimsuit

Mandy turned over in her sleep, put her arm across my chest, and snuggled close to me. I wondered what she was dreaming. I tightened my arms around her, lightly kissed the crown of her head.

“Try not to torment yourself,” she said against my chest.

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“That's a joke, right? You almost blew me out of bed with all your heaving and sighing.”

“What time is it?”

“It's early. Too early, or late, for us to be up. Benjy, I don't think obsessing is helping.”

“Oh. You think I'm obsessing?”

“Get your mind on something else. Take a break.” “Zagami wants -”

“Screw Zagami. I've been thinking, too, and I have an idea of my own. You won't like it.”

I was pacing in front of my building with an overnight bag when Mandy roared up on her gently used Harley Sportster, a snappy-looking bike with a red leather saddle.

I climbed on, put my hands around Mandy's small waist, and with her long hair whipping across my face we motored to the 10 and from there to the Pacific Coast Highway, a dazzling stretch of coastal road that seems to go on forever.

To our left and below the road, breakers reared up and curled toward the beach, bringing in the surfers who dotted the waves. It struck me that I had never surfed – because it was too dangerous.

I hung on as Mandy switched lanes and gunned the engine. She shouted to me, “Take your shoulders down from your ears.”

Huh?

“Relax.”

It was hard to do, but I willed myself to unclench my legs and shoulders, and Mandy shouted again, “Now, make like a dog.”

She turned her head and stuck out her tongue, pointed her finger at me until I did it, too. The fifty-mile-an-hour wind beat on my tongue, cracking me up, making both of us laugh so hard that our eyes watered.

I was still grinning as we blew through Malibu and crossed the Ventura County line. Minutes later, Mandy pulled the bike over at Neptune 's Net, a seafood shack with a parking lot full of motorcycles.

A couple of guys called out, “Hey, Mandy,” as I followed her inside. We picked out two crabs from the well, and ten minutes later we picked them up at the take-out window, steamed and cracked on paper plates with small cups of melted butter. We chased the crabs down with Mountain Dew, then climbed aboard the Harley again.

I felt more at home on the bike this time, and finally I got it. Mandy was giving me the gift of glee. The speed and wind were blowing the snarls out of my mind, forcing me to turn myself over to the excitement and freedom of the road.

As we traveled north, the PCH wound down to sea level, taking us through the dazzling towns of Sea Cliff, La Conchita, Rincon, Carpinteria, Summerland, and Montecito. And then Mandy was telling me to hang on as she took the turn off the freeway onto the Olive Mill Road exit to Santa Barbara.

I saw the signs, and then I knew where we were going – a place we had talked of spending a weekend at, but we had never found the time.

My whole body was shaking when I dismounted the bike in front of the legendary Biltmore Hotel, with its red tiled roofs and palm trees and high view of the sea. I took off my helmet, put my arms around my girl, and said, “Honey, when you say you have an idea, you sure don't mess around.”

She told me, “I was saving my Christmas bonus for our anniversary, but you know what I thought at four this morning?”

“Tell me.”

“No better time than now. No better place than this.”

The hotel lobby glowed. I'm not one of those guys who studies the “House Beautiful” channel, but I knew luxury and comfort, and Amanda, prancing in place beside me, filled in the details. She pointed out the Mediterranean style, the archways and beamed ceilings, the plump sofas and logs burning in a tiled fireplace. The vast, rolling ocean below.

Then Mandy warned me – and she was serious.

“If you mention what' s-his-name, even once, the bill goes on your credit card, not mine. Okay?”

“Deal,” I said, pulling her in for a hug.

Our room had a fireplace, and when Mandy started tossing her clothes onto the chair, I pictured us rolling around in the king-size bed for the rest of the afternoon.

She read the look in my eyes, laughed, and said, “Oh, I see. Wait, okay? I've got another idea.”

I was becoming a big fan of Mandy's ideas. She stepped into her leopard-print bikini, and I put on my trunks, and we went out to a pool in the center of the main garden. I followed Mandy's lead, diving in, and heard – I couldn't quite believe it – music playing underwater.

Back in our room, I untied the strings of Mandy's swimsuit, pushed down the bikini bottoms, and she climbed up on me, her legs around my waist. I walked her into the shower and not too many minutes later we tumbled onto the bed, where goofiness became heart-pounding lovemaking.

Later we napped, Mandy falling asleep while lying on my chest with her knees tucked up along my sides. For the first time in weeks, I slept deeply without my eyes flying open at some bloody nightmare.

At sundown, Mandy slipped into a small black dress and twisted up her hair, making me think of Audrey Hepburn. We took the winding stairs down to the Bella Vista and were shown to a table near the fire. There was marble underfoot, mahogany-paneled walls, a billion-dollar view of whitecaps below, and a glass-paned ceiling showing cobalt twilight over our heads.

I glanced at the menu, put it down when the waiter came over. Mandy ordered for us both.

I was grinning again. Amanda Diaz knew how to take a day out of the dumper and light up memories that could take the two of us into old age.

We started our five-star dinner with sautéed jumbo scallops and continued with scrumptious honey-cilantro-glazed sea bass with mushrooms and snow peas. Then the waiter brought dessert menus and chilled champagne.

I turned the bottle so I could read the label: Dom Pérignon.

“You didn't order this, did you, Mandy? This is about three hundred dollars.”

“Wasn't me. We must've got somebody else's bubbly.”

I reached for the card the waiter had left on a small silver tray. It read, “The Dom is on me. It's the good stuff. Best regards, H.B.”

Henri Benoit.

Fear shot right up my spine. How had that fucker known where we were when I hadn't known where we were going myself?

I got to my feet, knocking over my chair. I pivoted around, a full 360 and then back again in the other direction to be sure. I scanned every face in the room: the old man with soup on his whiskers, the bald tourist with his fork poised over his plate, the honeymooners standing in the entrance-way, and every one of the waitstaff.

Where was he? Where?

I stood so that I blocked Mandy with my body, and I felt the scream tearing out of my throat.

“Henri, you bastard. Show yourself.”

After the scene in the dining room, I locked and chained the door to our suite, checked the latches on the windows, closed the drapes. I hadn't brought my gun, a gross mistake I wouldn't make again.

Mandy was pale and shaking as I sat her down next to me on the bed.

“Who knew we were coming here?” I asked her.

“I made the reservation when I went home to pack this morning. That's all.”

“You're sure?”

“Except for calling Henri on his private line, you mean?”

“Seriously. You talk to anyone on your way out this morning? Think about it, Mandy. He knew we'd be here.”

“I just told you, Ben, really. I didn't tell anyone. I just called in my credit card to the reservation clerk. That's all I did. That's all.”