Stephanie Draven - Dark Sins and Desert Sands

He realized she was actually propositioning him. “Not gonna happen, Jailbait.”

“Why? I don’t charge much. Don’t you like me? I’m not your type?”

“Ask me again in ten years,” Ray said, too weak to get up and gather his things, and still thinking about the woman who was very much his type, all naked in the sand.

Missy arranged some of Ray’s notes in a new pattern on the floor. “Maybe I can help you find the guy who ratted you out. That’s who you’re looking for in all these little pieces of paper, isn’t it?”

“Nobody ratted me out.” Ray took another swallow of liquor. It soothed his nerves. “Somebody flat-out lied about me.”

“And you think this woman in the picture knows who it was?”

Ray nodded. But a fat lot of good it was going to do him now, with her mind wiped clean. He’d hit a dead end and now Missy was laughing at him. “What the hell is so funny, Missy?”

“This chick is a shrink but you were trying to get into her head.”

“Hilarious.” Ray smiled wanly, throwing her a wad of cash. He guessed she’d earned it.

He’ll hurt me if he finds you here , the lioness had said. He’s watching . Was it just the crazy talk of a woman who’d had her mindscape destroyed by someone like Ray? Possibly. But she’d asked him for help and he’d sensed that she was actually in danger.

He shouldn’t give a damn. But he did.

“Hey, Jailbait,” he said to Missy, who was on her way out the door. “Maybe you can help out … I want you to follow Layla Bahset.”

Layla gasped fully awake. The horned monster had only been a dream. She was safe and alone in her own bed. The only thing she had to fear was the syrupy sweetness running through her veins, a dull but incessant throb between her legs. She still remembered the feel of the monster that had crawled into the cradle of her thighs and she didn’t have to be Dr. Freud to understand the symbolism. Could there be a more potent icon of masculinity than a well-endowed bull?

She thought she wasn’t the kind of woman who responded to things like that, but now the sensual tension streaked across the canvas of her body and trailed off, leaving her … unfinished. Incomplete. Wanting. It was better when she didn’t want things, when she didn’t need things, when she didn’t feel like some kind of flower bud that wouldn’t blossom.

A swath of morning sun made its way up the stark white bed and she watched it move over the pillows. Dear God, how long had she slept?

It wasn’t until she slipped out of bed that she saw the jagged rips in the beige silk headboard. The fabric was slashed, like some horned animal had pierced it in the midst of angry passion, and Layla’s heart seized. Throwing on a robe, she ran to check the bolts on her front door. All the locks were still in place. The alarm was set. There was no sign that anyone had been here. No sign at all—except for her torn headboard.

Layla returned to the bedroom and stepped out onto the balcony. The whole expanse of Las Vegas spread out beneath her at a comforting distance. Unless the man in her dreams could fly, there was no way he was actually in her high-rise bedroom last night. It was a dream. A nightmare. She must have slashed the headboard herself. Her stalker had terrorized her so thoroughly that she could no longer tell what was real.

She knew the old saying. Physician, Heal Thyself . It wasn’t going to cut it anymore. She’d built her life on a shaky foundation and now it all seemed ready to come falling down. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that it was time to ask for help.

She should’ve invited Nate Jaffe to her condo, but it was Layla’s compulsion to pretend everything was fine that made her agree to meet Nate for dinner. She donned her lovely new red dress, the gift from Isabel. Pearls might have been a nice touch, but the only jewelry she ever wore was a sixpence coin on a long chain around her neck. Her first memory was finding that coin in her hand, and now she was afraid to be without it. Once she was dressed for dinner, she put on her happy face and hailed a cab. And why not? In this city, everyone wore a mask. From the feathered showgirls at the Rio to the gondoliers at the Venetian. In Las Vegas, how was anyone to know what was real?

A young blonde teenager in a miniskirt was standing by the street, sucking on a red Popsicle, probably in some vain hope it would cool her off. Technically, prostitution wasn’t legal in Vegas, but it was a technicality barely observed and it was clear to Layla that the young girl was working. Another lost soul in need of saving …

The cab ride to the casino was brief. Stepping from the taxi onto the curb, Layla was hit with an oppressive wall of heat. It made her dark hair wilt, her knees soften, and little beads of perspiration gather on the back of her neck. The Egyptian motif of the Luxor had always bothered her. She told herself it was because the decor was a callow mockery of her ethnic heritage, but it was more than that. Layla couldn’t bear to look upon the statuary outside, and having to actually pass under the sphinx at the entrance of the casino made her shudder. What’s more, the inside of the pyramid was a claustrophobic maze of confusion. Balconies hung out over the floor, elevators moved along diagonal paths, and the lighting seemed low and eerie.

It shouldn’t be so stark , she thought to herself. Ancient Egypt was a riot of paint and color . Why these thoughts crowded her mind, she couldn’t say and, already upset, Layla wasn’t sure how she was going to get through this night.

At the restaurant inside, Dr. Jaffe had already ordered for her, and now smiled expectantly from across the table. Layla gave him what she hoped was her fondest smile. They ate. They talked. He complimented her dress. It was all very pleasant. After all, Nate Jaffe was a very nice man. More importantly, he was a psychiatrist and she needed his help.

As she dragged her fork over a nest of green asparagus sprouts in a hollandaise sauce, Layla thought about what she should say. I can’t remember who I am . No, if she started with that, he’d realize how long she’d been pretending, and feel betrayed. Someone is stalking me . That would certainly get his attention, but he’d insist on calling the police. I think someone can hunt me down inside my own mind . If she told him that, he’d worry about her sanity. Which, admittedly, he should.

“Don’t you like your filet?” Dr. Jaffe asked, peering over his spectacles.

“You know I’m indifferent to food,” Layla said, then dared to glance up at him. People weren’t meant to be indifferent, were they? They were meant to enjoy the pleasure of taste. They were meant to inhale beautiful scents that made them sigh. People were built to feel strong emotions other than fear, weren’t they? It was something hardwired, right down to the lizard core of the brain. She was meant to feel things, to taste things, to take pleasure in things, even if she couldn’t remember who she really was. “Would you kiss me?” Layla asked.

Nate Jaffe stopped midsentence. She had no idea what he’d been saying, and from the look on his face, neither did he. She’d kissed him before.

She’d gone to bed with him, too. She knew he wouldn’t hurt her. But in the past, she’d never felt more than the faintly soothing sensation of skin upon skin. Last night, in her dream with the monster, she’d felt something more. Now she wanted the man she was dating to take the spark inside her and coax it into a flame.

Dr. Jaffe didn’t make any sudden moves and when he leaned forward to kiss her, Layla closed her eyes. It was a very proper kiss, one borne of sincere affection, but it didn’t make her feel like she had last night. Nothing had changed, and even the decorative hieroglyphs on the wall, stolen from some ancient tomb, mocked her with their message of doom.