Heather Graham Pozzessere - Eyes Of Fire

She shuddered, her entire face puckering. Wine was not meant to be guzzled. She poured herself a second glass, determined not to think about Adam. She decided, as she made her way into the bathroom to start hot water running into the massive Jacuzzi, that he had one hell of a lot of nerve, thinking that he could just walk in here and expect her not to betray him.

Maybe she’d misread him and he really didn’t care if she betrayed him or not. Maybe he was really on vacation.

No. Never.

By the time the Jacuzzi had been filled, she had her third glass of wine at her side. She crawled into the tub and leaned back, determined to relax, to unwind. Impossible. She laid her head back, feeling the water pulse against her back, her neck.

Damn him. What was he doing here now? Where had he been when things had gone badly for her, when her father had disappeared, when Hank had followed the exact same way? She’d been desperate enough then to write to him, to beg him for help, and he hadn’t shown up. Where the hell had he been, and what possible right did he have to come now?

She sipped her wine, feeling its effects at last, soothing her body if not her soul. Great. She was guzzling zinfandel. Trying to get sloshed on wine. She hadn’t done anything so stupid since she and Jem and Yancy had been sixteen and downed a bottle of cheap burgundy they had gotten hold of in Freeport. Think how sick she’d been….

No, she wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

Right, she taunted herself. Her wine wasn’t cheap anymore.

She shook her head, warning herself to slow down. She had a business to run. She didn’t want to get sloshed at all—couldn’t afford to—but his presence on the island was really getting to her. And she was usually so moderate. She hadn’t overimbibed in wine or anything else since she had gotten so carried away that night when they had first…

She heard a noise behind her and tensed, sitting up straight, her fingers curling over the rim of the tub, listening.

She had imagined it, she told herself. She sat very still, barely breathing, listening once more.

Nothing….

Had she imagined it?

No, no…a few seconds later, it came again. Like a whisper through the air. Movement.

She gritted her teeth furiously.

Adam.

He’d been like the sun coming into her life, all powerful, blazing, the center of her universe.

She’d been like a stick of gum to him. Easily spat out and forgotten, exchanged for another.

And now he thought he could saunter in again, and she would be the same obliging innocent she had been before.

The noise was coming closer.

How had he gotten in? she wondered. The bastard. She spoke at last, controlling her contemptuous tone to the very best of her ability. “You son of a bitch, I don’t know how the hell you got in here, but you can get out of my private quarters right this second!” she snapped.

He didn’t reply. Not a word. Not a whisper of laughter, not a breath of mockery.

“Damn you!”

Furious, she twisted around. To her absolute amazement, it wasn’t Adam.

At least, she didn’t think it was Adam.

It was a figure in black. Completely in black—down to a black ski mask.

Sam was so stunned that she didn’t even think to be frightened at first, just curious.

A ski mask? Nights on the island could be cool, but never cold enough for…

Oh, God. She was an idiot.

“What on earth…” she began to murmur. Then she realized that the figure was coming toward her, carrying some kind of a black cloth in its black gloved hand.

She stood up, drawing in breath she could expel in a shriek as she tried to leap from the tub and escape. But she was cut off from the doorway by the figure, left standing there naked, dripping.

She made an attempt to sidestep the figure and leap for the door. No luck. She stared at it hard. Male, she thought instinctively. Tall—no chest. But that was it. There was nothing else she could tell about her silent attacker.

For seconds they just stood, staring at one another.

Then she realized her situation. She was naked, unarmed, and an intruder was in her bathroom, completely camouflaged and staring at her.

“Help!” she screamed. Her cottage wasn’t that far from the main house. And there were other cottages near hers. Someone might be walking on the beach. Someone…

This was ludicrous. A black-clad figure in a ski mask on a Caribbean island—attempting to attack her!

“Help!” she shrieked again.

The figure lunged for her.

“No!” she cried, beating her fists against his chest, kicking him. He grunted as one well-aimed kick connected, then seemed to find his own spurt of fury. He grasped one of her arms, and she was drawn, still kicking and screaming, against his body. He struggled to force the cloth over her face. She kept struggling to keep it away. She tried not to breathe. She could already smell the sickly sweet scent of the drug that soaked the cloth.

“Help!” she shrieked again, still kicking. The cry cost her what little breath she had left. She had to breathe. Had to inhale….

The scent was awful. Filling her nose, her lungs, seeping into her blood, deadening her limbs. She couldn’t keep fighting, couldn’t force her arms to move the way she wanted them to. She tried to claw, to scratch his eyes with her fingers.

Oh, God, she was losing her strength. She was being attacked…assaulted….

Murdered?

She still couldn’t believe that an intruder had come here for her. This was her damned island!

Blackness…stars…weakness…

That awful, sickly sweet smell, closing in around her, filling her…

She was starting to go limp in the fierce hold of her attacker.

Suddenly the arms that held her were wrenched away. She was dimly aware of a thudding, crunching sound as a blow was thrown and connected with flesh and bone. She heard a groan, footsteps taking flight….

All in a matter of seconds.

“Sit!” someone snapped at her. “I’ll be back.”

She reached out blindly. “Ca—can’t!”

She lacked the strength to stand, yet she couldn’t manage to tell her limbs to set her into a sitting position. She was going to fall against the unforgiving tile.

“Damn it!” she heard someone say. “He’s going to get away.”

She didn’t fall, she was swept up. She blinked furiously against the effects of the drug, trying to fight again.

“Damn it, Sam, I’m trying to keep you from killing yourself!”

Her vision started clearing. It was Adam. Right in front of her. No, holding her. She was still so dizzy. The room was spinning. No, he was walking. Carrying her. Laying her down on her bed.

He left her for a minute and the darkness began to recede. She drank in the fresh, salt-tinged night air that whispered over the island. She tried her fingers. They moved. Her toes. They wiggled.

There was a sensation of weight as he sat down at her side. Cold, as he pressed a washcloth rinsed in cool water over her face.

She inhaled through the cloth and felt her temper reviving the rest of her.

Adam was in her room—and she was stark naked.

He lifted the cloth from her face. His eyes were burning and sharp, his features tense, yet his lips seemed to curve in a mocking smile.

She struck out wildly, her palm swinging toward his cheek.

“Stop it, Sam! It’s me. Adam!”

The Ray-Bans were gone. She could see his face clearly, if she could only focus. She blinked, making the attempt. She saw the silver glitter of his eyes against the striking, angled lines of his profile and tried to strike out again. He caught her hands, leaning over her, his weight bearing her down, preventing her from attacking him.

“Sam, damn it, it’s me!”