seven
She felt inexplicably shy to touch him once they'd finished. Instead, she lay still, listening until his breathing changed and she thought he was asleep. His presence, the thought of what they'd just done, of what she was doing here, all avalanched down on her in the claustrophobic silence. As quietly as she could, she eased out of the bed, showered behind the closed bathroom door, and pulled on the first pieces of clothing she came across. Then she let herself out of the room.
When she reached the deserted beach, she deposited herself ass first onto the sand, forcing a number of slow, even breaths until she was reasonably sure she wasn't going to start balling her eyes out. The sky looked heavier than before, charcoal grey clouds loomed broodingly over the horizon, and the waves had come up, each bearing its own white crest and breaking noisily against the shore.
So this is what pathetic women did on vacation? Fuck strangers and then get emotional about it? Except, she wasn't on vacation - she was never going back. She'd almost started weeping all over him, and the best she could do was congratulate herself on having the self-control to come out here and cry in private.
Still, after three years of solitude, it had felt so good to feel someone else's skin next to her own, to orgasm with someone else in the same room, never mind in the same bed. He'd need time to sleep a little, and then he'd get dressed and go: isn't that what people did in situations like this? An hour, perhaps an hour and a half? She owed him the courtesy of being able to leave without having to feel uncomfortable about it. He wouldn't stay. Of that she was sure. She had even less to offer him than he probably imagined.
She'd been on Cayman for almost three weeks. It was time to decide where she was going to go and start again. Honduras? Guatemala? Venezuela? Somewhere without a US extradition treaty. She'd done her planning, knew her options. It was probably past time to decide. But she'd miss Jack, she thought sadly. He smelled good, he felt good, especially inside her, he kissed like he meant it.
Liz spent a while leaning back on the sand dune, staring up at the tumultuous sky, and playing romantic mental games of 'what if', before sternly reminding herself that self-torture was a useless pursuit. She'd give him a decent interval to leave and then head back to her hotel room. It was time to think about moving on.
* * *
Even as he heard her shower, get dressed and leave the room, Jack was doubtful as to what he might find. Would she have left him alone in a room full of secrets? Nonetheless, it would be lax not to look. Pulling on his pants, he started a methodical search of her luggage, the drawers, purse, her toiletries. In his progress through the room, he eyed the open bottle of Pinot Noir with disappointment: a shame to waste such a good wine. He re-corked it firmly and slipped it back into the bag. The phone in his pocket chimed discreetly, and he fished it out and answered.
"Yeah."
"Mr. Graham? I was a little disappointed not to have heard good news from you by now. Please tell me we have progress on our little endeavor."
Jack sighed inwardly, but replied in a controlled voice, "Mr. Jeffries, I assume you knew of my reputation when you hired me. I don't think I need to tell you that your concerns are being attended to as we speak."
"Did you find the bitch?"
Clearing his throat as he neatly searched through one of the pockets of the clothing hanging in the closet, Jack's voice turned to ice. He didn't make a practice of working for idiots, but that last indiscretion did make him wonder if this client had slipped through the filter. "I have no idea what you're referring to, Mr. Jefferies. I can assure you, however, that I am attending to the business you hired me to do. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get on with it. I will contact you when the work is complete."
There was a sort pause at the other end of the line. Good, thought Jack. Message received.
"I look forward to it, Mr. Graham. Patience isn't one of my virtues, and your time is not cheap. I hope to hear from you soon."
Without another word, Jack snapped the phone shut, pocketed it and resumed his search. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing. He had the right woman and he knew it, but he'd expected her to be a little more sentimental - to keep something that would act as proof of her betrayal, something concrete he could use to break her down.
Well, he thought, padding back into the bathroom to check her make-up bag and slip into the shower, he'd have to coax it out of the horse's mouth. This was nothing that he hadn't already anticipated and prepared for.
He was just stepping out of the bathroom as he heard her re-enter the room. From her expression, it was clear she had expected to find it empty.
"You were gone when I woke up," he said, smiling. "I used your shower. Hope you don't mind."
"No... No, of course not." She leaned against the wall with her hands stuffed into the pockets of a pair of old jeans and tilted her head. Returning a more tentative smile, she said, "To be honest, I kind of thought you'd be gone when I got back."
Jack toweled his hair vigorously before pulling his polo shirt over his head. He paused, looked at her and gave her a curious smile. "Did you want me to be?"
Her face softened and she glanced downwards. "No. I'm just...surprised. That's all." She peered up again, her hair ruffled and windblown. "I don't do this sort of thing much. I just assumed..."
Nodding, Jack tucked his shirt in to his trousers and made a soft acknowledging sound in his throat. "Perhaps I am not as predictable as you thought."
A cloud crossed her face, and then she smiled again, coming towards him and kissing him quickly on the lips. "I guess not."
He looked at her for a long moment, brushed a few strands of hair off her face, and then stroked her cheek. "It's getting late. Are you hungry? You must be. My hotel has a decent restaurant. And this wine," he said, reaching for the bottle, "it would be a damn shame to waste it."
Liz looked down at herself. "I'm not really dressed for a restaurant," she muttered.
Jack was pretty sure he'd been neat in his search, and it wasn't like she was terribly tidy with her unpacking - the clothes in the drawers had been tossed in any old way. But he smiled, hiding his trepidation, and said, "Then change. I'll wait."
* * *
The hotel was a little larger than hers, and the rain had just started as their taxi pulled into the portico. The restaurant beyond the lobby had a nice view of the beach and the sea. In the distance, out over the black waves, lightning flickered, painting the dark sky with flashes of violet.
There was almost no one in the restaurant, and a waiter led them to a table near the sliding windows, drawn closed against the weather.
"Nasty night," said the waiter in his deep Caymanian accent. "Big storm coming. Can I offer you folks the rum punch? It's our specialty."
Liz stifled a laugh and bit her lip, looking across the table at Jack.
He gave her a sly look and smiled. "Sure," he said. "Two."
"Not the rest of the Pinot Noir?" she asked once the waiter had left to get menus. "I'm sure they'd be fine with a corking charge."
Jack raised an eyebrow and shook his head. "No. That's for later. Besides, it would overpower the seafood, and that's all they serve here."
Strange man, handsome man, Liz thought as she sipped her drink and watched the light show playing out over the water. The fact that he'd ordered for her - careful to ensure she was happy with his choices - was even more of a puzzle. It wasn't that she didn't like it - she did - but it was so intensely formal. Somehow it made her feel safe. Her image of him as a safe port in a storm had become less metaphorical by the minute.
Over dinner they talked about what it would be like to live in a place like this, and what sort of people actually chose to. It might get boring after a while, they agreed.
By the time they'd finished eating, the wind had kicked up, and the sound of the waves rolling ashore, angry and violent, penetrated the windows of the restaurant like a distant, feral roar.
"I'm glad I'm not out there," whispered Liz.
She felt him cover the hand she'd left lying idly on the tablecloth with his own. The heat of it seeped into her skin. Then he turned her hand palm upwards, tracing the tendons at her wrist with his fingertips.
"You're not. You're here, with me."
There was no smile on his face. Underneath the surface of it, she thought she could discern an edge of need, of desire. Even if its presence was imagined, it still found echoes in her.
When the bill arrived, Liz reached for it. This time the hand that settled on top of hers was just a little less gentle.
"But you paid for breakfast," she insisted.
"Don't, Tamarra. Really, I mean it."
"But..." Liz searched through a complex set of feelings she wasn't sure how to express. He pulled the bill folder out from under her grasp.
As he placed the cash between the leaves and handed it back to the waiter, he smiled. "You think that, somehow, if you let me pay for dinner, it puts you at a disadvantage, right?"
Embarrassed, Liz shrugged. "I... I guess it does."
He nodded and got to his feet, holding out his hand to her. "You're worth a lot more than $56 dollars, Tamara."
I'm worth about sixteen million, she thought bitterly, as they walked into the hotel lobby, hand in hand. The thought made her shiver. As they approached the bank of elevators, Liz wondered whether perhaps she should prove his point by saying goodnight. She wanted him, and she was pretty sure he wanted her, but he didn't want the real her. He wanted the nice woman he thought he'd met. That wasn't right, she thought. If he knew what she really was, she was pretty sure he'd run a mile.
Just then, a pair of drenched tourists dashed through the front doors, the wind gusting in behind them, carrying a torrent of rain. Jack curled a hand around the back of her neck and kissed her softly. "Good thing you don't have to go out in that," he said, grinning. "I think it's fair to say you're marooned for the evening."
Perhaps it was the gentleness of the kiss, or the feeling of his fingertips caressing the back of her neck, but Liz knew she wasn't going to leave, that she couldn't leave, and it had nothing to do with the weather.
They shared the elevator with the drenched tourists - two middle aged women who twittered to each other and stole the occasional glances at she and Jack. Noting their intertwined fingers, one of the women gave her a munificent smile. They think we're newly-weds or something, here on a honeymoon, thought Liz. Sorry to disappoint you, lady. It's tawdrier than that.
The hallway was long, silent and dimly lit. The smell of damp and things that grow in dark and humid places gave her a vague sense of claustrophobia. The steady hand at her back moved upwards, curling around the back of her neck, as if he were directing her, not past the space, but through it. Jack stopped at number 44, a door as unremarkable as all the others they had passed. He fished his key from his pocket and opened it.
Liz yearned to touch him, to regain the mental stillness that she'd had that afternoon. Yet, as he pushed her through into the dim room, and reached back to slide the chain across, she heard the rough, grating sound of metal sliding against the plate and shivered, ashamed of just how much she wanted him.
Carefully setting the bottle of wine down on the chest of drawers by the door, his eyes found hers. He wore an expression she couldn't read in the weak light of the room.
He curled a finger. "Come here."
As she went to him, the quality of time changed, slowing, growing viscous. Instead of feeling his arms enfold her as she'd expected, he turned, pushing her to face the wall. The impact was rough enough to make her catch her breath, force it from her as the weight of his body pinned her in place.
"J-Jack?" she stammered. Even as the heat of his chest sank into her back, a small bloom of fear opened in her belly.
"Sh-sh..."
His breath was quick and ragged at her ear. Hands grazed the sides of her body, and she felt him grind his hips against her ass. It sent a hot spike of arousal up her spine, not quelling her fear, but feeding it. A soft, confused sob broke from her throat. Her hips pushed back, partly with desire, and partly in an instinctive effort to avoid the sense of being trapped.
"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he demanded in a thick, raw voice. His hand squeezed between her body and the wall, sliding down the front of her silk skirt, wedging itself between her legs. He cupped her sex. This was not the way he'd touched her earlier in the day. There was nothing gentle or seductive about it, but it didn't seem to matter to her body. She moaned her assent, tilted her hips, and felt herself flood hotly against the pressure of his hand.
He growled as she moved. "Want me to fuck you?"
Liz whimpered, but said nothing. Jack caressed the side of her neck with his fingertips, before threading them into her hair.
"Do you want me inside you? Now? Right now?" The hand at her sex curled, palm pressing against the bone, fingers digging cruelly through the fabric and into her sensitive flesh.
"Yes!" she gasped. "Yes, please."
"Yes, please," he echoed, mocking her in a high breathy whisper.
With lightening speed, with a fistful of hair, Jack tugged her head back with a sharp, painful jerk. She yelped, and, as her eyes met his, the core of her body froze in panic.
"Good. But first, we need to talk about the money, Elizabeth."