PART ONE
THE HUNTED
Chapter 1
He sat by himself in the small, air-conditioned room, staring blankly
at the widescreen while struggling to shake the notion of superstition invading
his thoughts.
He was not a superstitious man; entertaining this semblance of reasoning
made no sense. Many thought along the same lines, but that didn't
mean he should include himself. Superstitions, such as bad
things happening in threes, just didn't belong in the mind of an
intelligent, educated man. The concept was silly and largely
unfounded. Three strikes and you're out. The
third time's the charm. Celebrities died in threes. Other
nonsense followed, but he just wasn't in the mood to remember
it all. Even so, why would he think all this had to do with his stumbling upon
the same beautiful woman three different times in the
same afternoon?
At thirty-eight, Arthur Sills had only been married once, and very
briefly. Sandi, his first fiancée, had shattered his dreams seven years earlier
when she announced her pregnancy by another man just three weeks before she and
Arthur were to wed. Denise, his second-and final-love, destroyed their future together
just four months after the wedding when a twenty-year-old idiot with drug
issues slammed his stolen BMW into the driver's side of her Honda Accord, killing
her instantly.
Though he had only known Denise less than a year before their wedding,
the sudden loss had still been devastating. Their plans for buying their own
home in Winter Park were, naturally, scrapped. So were their reservations for a
weekend in Honolulu during the Christmas holidays, as well as the two very expensive tickets to see Denise's favorite group, The
Pentatonix, in Orlando.
For the last few months, Arthur directed his grief inward, avoiding
as much interaction with people as possible. Since he
had never been a particularly outgoing person, this depressing "adjustment" didn't even seem like an adjustment at all. Nothing in his
routine needed to be changed, and he discovered that, except for Denise no
longer being in his life, his existence had reverted back
to what it had once been.
Arthur preferred being alone. A quiet man by nature, he operated his
online computer consultation service in the study of his Winter Park condominium,
working through the mornings and afternoons and spending his evenings in front
of his 48-inch widescreen, watching movies on Netflix while enjoying a glass or
two of bourbon on ice, or a Manhattan. It was a quiet, uncomplicated existence
and, except for occasional phone scuffles with abrupt, arrogant Indian techs speaking poor English, one that Arthur
considered as perfect as it could possibly get.
***
The first of three strange circumstances happened that afternoon at
the corner liquor store.
An attractive woman stood at the end of the aisle, blocking it. Arthur
had just picked up his bourbon and would have already paid for it and left, had
she not trapped him so suddenly.
She was impossible to ignore. Tall and slender, with long black
hair. A model's face and large, proud breasts. Black sunglasses concealed her
eyes. In her mid-thirties, most likely, wearing a sleeveless
black silk blouse with the top two buttons undone, and a cream skirt about an
inch above the knee. Gold necklaces, bracelets, and rings decorated her tanned
flesh. Shiny black pumps with three-inch heels, making her only a hair shy of
his six-foot height, accentuated her muscular calves.
"Have you ever tried this?" She held up the small, squat bottle.
He struggled to ignore her strong lavender scent. He didn't like cognac, thought it tasted like cough medicine.
"I don't drink cognac."
"A friend of mine told me the aged ones have quite a kick."
"It's strong, all right." Briefly he wondered what color her eyes
were behind the shades. It bothered him when he couldn't
see someone's eyes.
"Is that why you don't drink it?"
"Can't get past the taste."
Two tiny dimples appeared on her cheeks. "I guess I should just
stick with bourbon, then." She lifted her glasses, resting them on top of her
head so she could study the bottle. Her eyes were blue. A deep blue, like the
ocean. A moment later, the blue orbs lifted, focusing on him. That steady gaze
made him uncomfortable. He never liked it that women were
allowed to stare at a strange man, but when a man did the same thing to
a strange woman, he was considered a stalker, or pervert.
"Well, thanks." She replaced the shades, and the deep-blue orbs
disappeared behind their twin black round shades. She replaced the bottle on
the shelf before leaving the store.
He hurried over to the cashier, paid for the bourbon, and left.
There was no other vehicle parked beside the Caddie. He wondered briefly how she
had gotten to the store. A moment later, he decided he didn't
care.
***
He saw her again at around six that same day, at the local 7-Eleven.
He had just finished supper before getting in the Caddie and driving
to the store for gas and a six-pack of dark beer.
"Hello again." She was standing beside a shiny white Lexus one pump
over. She'd changed into maroon shorts and a yellow
sleeveless tank top. Open-toed tan sandals for her feet. The same necklaces and
bracelets embellished her tanned flesh, and her sunglasses were
pulled up, resting on top of her head.
She twisted around to get the nozzle, then twisted around again to
replace it. Watching him as she worked but not making it obvious. She said
something, but he couldn't hear over the low-rider pulling
in. He just shrugged.
She came right over as he was replacing his nozzle. She stepped up
on the island then stepped back down, making it look graceful, her hair sliding
across her shoulders as she moved. Some of it swished
across her arm, stopping in front of her. She stopped about three feet away, nudging
it back over her left shoulder while giving him that same unsettling look as before.
"I just said, it gets busy here in the afternoons."
"It sure does." He wondered why she walked all the way over just to
say something trivial like that. It didn't make sense.
She tilted her head as if she could study him better. Some hair slid down her arm. She didn't
seem to notice. That told him she had done it deliberately. "You're shy, aren'tcha?"
He shrugged. He didn't want to tell her that
he was still grieving over Denise. He didn't want to
talk about it, for one thing, and didn't want to share his grief with a total
stranger. He wondered why she was so interested. A woman as great-looking as her
should have men swarming all over her. "I guess you could say that."
She shook her head, obviously confused. "Haven't met anyone like you
in a while. The guys I usually bump into? Well, they talk. A lot."
"I don't have too much to say." He half-turned to the Caddie, hoping
she'd take the hint.
She reached up and pulled the shades back down over those big ocean
blues. A strong whiff of lavender drifted his way. "Nothing wrong with that.
Quiet works for me these days, too."
"I like it," he said flatly.
A nod. He figured she understood.
"Well, nice seeing you again." She raised an arm, turned, and
pranced away. Got in the Lexus, eased away from the pump, went over to the curb,
and vanished in the heavy stream roaring past.
The lavender stayed with him a while longer, lightly rubbing his
cheeks as he got back in the Caddie.
***
At eight o'clock that evening, Arthur crossed the front lot of the
complex and approached the strip mall directly across the street.
The Moonglow Lounge sat at the far end of the mall. It employed a
pianist during the week and a small four-piece band specializing in music from
the sixties on Saturdays and Sundays.
He chose a table not far from the small
crescent-shaped stage, and the waitress brought over his Manhattan just a
couple of minutes after he came in. A set of drums sat in the rear of the
stage. In front, an alto sax rested on a metal stand beside a bass guitar. In
the middle sat the piano, its bench tucked neatly beneath the keyboard. The
pianist usually showed shortly before nine.
"Want some pretzels or beer nuts?"
"I just had supper, thanks."
"I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes." She whisked back to
the bar.
The juke finished with Elton John and moved on to Shania Twain.
He sipped his drink and noticed the familiar sight at the far end of
the bar. His mind went right back to his superstition notion, which had been bothering
him all afternoon. Three times in the same day. Coincidence? Had she just moved
into the area? Or was she stalking him?
His thoughts looped wildly. He was being silly. And paranoid. This
was how paranoia began, wasn't it? Someone's
after me. Following me. Hunting me. The idea was ridiculous. The woman came
here for a drink, plain and simple. She was already here. She didn't even know he'd come in.
She finished her drink and shifted on her barstool while the barman took her empty glass and went to fix another. She
still wore her maroon shorts and yellow tank top. The bar lighting was dim and
smoky, but he could see the reflection of her face in the mirror. She sat, legs
crossed, back arched, enjoying her drink. Probably thinking about whether to
dye her hair or change manicurists...or whatever else women like her thought
about. With Sandi, it was age-lines. She spotted them everywhere. Around her
eyes. Her mouth. Her neck. Even her hands. The vertical one between her brows really
bothered her. She was convinced it looked like a crack, a gash. A lightning
bolt. Makeup barely touched it. She looked fabulous at thirty-two, yet she
thought she looked old whenever she frowned or went pensive.
He decided to finish his drink and walk back to the condo without waiting for the pianist to show. He couldn't relax, not with her here. He'd
come here for a few drinks and to listen to the piano player, but now he was obsessed
with the brunette. And sex. This wasn't how the
evening was supposed to go.
He dropped a ten-spot on the table, finished his drink, and got up.
His gaze betrayed him, shifting back to the bar. His blood instantly grew cold.
She was staring at him. Their eyes locked. He felt exposed and
vulnerable, wanting to disappear. He wondered if this was how a deer felt the
moment its gaze locked onto the rifle scope.
He was being silly again. This was a woman-not a hunter with a
rifle. And he certainly was no deer. She wasn't about
to shoot him, was she? She would probably just climb
down, walk over, say hi, smile, then leave. He could deal with that, couldn't
he? Of course. If he couldn't deal with that, he might
as well barricade himself in the condo.
His pulse hammered as she slid down off the stool and crossed the
room, heading straight for his table.
***
"Small world," she said.
"Sure is."
She watched him and he could feel her taking him in. "You seem
nervous, uncomfortable."
She had obviously found something in her quick mental examination.
He didn't know if his eyes had given him away, the
slight trembling in his limbs, or how he was careful to keep the table
separating them. She could obviously sense something.
She stepped back. "Did that help?"
It only made him feel worse. Silly. Like a child.
She shrugged. "If I step back another foot or so, we won't be able to
hear each other."
He smiled even before realizing it.
She smiled as well. "You're really good-looking when you do that,"
she said.
"Do what?"
"Smile."
He had nothing to say about that. He could feel his wall trembling,
ready to fall right in front of her.
"You don't do it very often." She said it as if she actually knew what was going on inside him.
"How could you tell?"
"It's obvious you didn't want to, but you did. It turned out all right,
didn't it?"
She was confusing him, manipulating him, distracting him. "I...guess so..."
"What brings you here?"
"I come here pretty often."
"Live around here?"
He didn't want to give her anything
personal. When you told someone about yourself, it gave them power. The more
you revealed to them, the more power they had. "I live pretty close."
"What's your name?"
"My name?" The room had suddenly grown warm and stuffy. He needed
fresh air. He could feel the shakes coming on.
She laughed. "You have one, don't you?"
"Of course I have a name."
"I don't have any secret motives." She crossed her arms beneath her
breasts, and his eyes lowered despite his resistance. "I like to know people's
names, especially when I'm talking to them. And when I know I'm going to like
them."
"Arthur Sills." He wanted her to stop the questions and thought it
was the only way to get her to do it.
"Aren't you going to ask what my name is?"
He didn't want to know anything about her. If
he asked her about herself, she'd want to know more
about him in return.
"It's Vanessa. Vanessa Campeon." When he made
no comment, she said, "Are you always this...friendly...when someone approaches you
in a bar?"
"No one's ever approached me before." He cursed himself for telling
her. He should have told her he had someone waiting for him back at the condo. He didn't know why he didn't.
He supposed it was because he was so distracted.
"A nice, quiet, good-looking guy like you?" She shook her head.
"What's wrong with the females around here?"
He glanced at his empty glass and suddenly wanted a refill. He was furious
with himself for coming here. For not drinking the bourbon in the kitchen
cabinet. For not putting on one of Dad's old jazz LPs. For not getting up and leaving as soon
as he saw her sitting at the bar.
"Buy me a drink."
"I was...just about to leave."
"How about if I buy you one?" She reached up and pulled some black hair away from her face.
He was about to say no, but another quick burst of lavender made him
forget what he had meant to say.
"One drink?" The blue eyes grew, searching his.
He felt lost and vulnerable in them-a small boy trapped in a dark,
frightening world of strange shadows. All he could think about was this woman's
scent.
"One drink." Her voice jerked him out of his darkness. She pulled
out a chair and kept her eyes on him as she sat.
***
The waitress brought them two strong Manhattans
and then hurried back to the bar.
Arthur took a large pull of his drink. It sent a fire plunging down
his throat, relaxing him but not doing much else. He was uncomfortable in her
presence, growing more nervous as she watched him. Her large, long-lashed blue eyes
held him fast. Her heavy lavender scent intoxicated him more than his drink,
and he soon realized that his surroundings were not exactly helping him
overcome his fear of the sexy woman sitting across the table.
What was happening to him? Was he no longer in control of his own
thoughts or actions? Had she done something to his head? Willed him to do whatever
she wanted?
The concept was absurd. No one possessed this sort of power. It
reeked of the supernatural, and he never fully believed in such nonsense. But
he couldn't help suspecting something strange had indeed
happened.
"So...what's the problem?" she asked. "You obviously don't want to be
bothered. Is it me? Or females in general?"
He didn't want to tell her about Denise or his
miserable love life. She would probably make him feel worse
by being sympathetic. She might even try to improve things for him. He didn't want that. He had the strong feeling that she could complicate
things as well as the rest of them. "I usually keep to myself."
"Then it isn't me?"
"No."
"I won't feel slighted, then."
He had more of his drink.
"You're the first guy I've ever met who didn't want to jump my bones
as soon as I started talking to him."
He caught himself looking at her breasts and immediately shifted his
focus to his glass. "I can imagine."
"So then, what's your story?" She'd placed both
elbows on the table. The valley between her breasts deepened.
He struggled to ignore them, but his eyes wandered anyway. It seemed
the most natural thing in the world, yet it made him uneasy.
"There must be someone," she said. "Or maybe there was someone."
When he didn't reply, she said, "Ex-wife?
Ex-girlfriend?"
A sudden coldness cascading down his spine made him shiver. This
woman was getting way too personal. He finished his
drink and made a move to get up.
"I've said something wrong." Her eyes grew. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"
"It's all right." He could tell she truly felt badly about bringing
something up he didn't want to talk about. She obviously
meant to be friendly. Now she was chastising herself. "I really do have to get
back home." He got up and dropped another bill on the table between their drinks.
Her hand covered his own the moment he released the bill. Her touch was
cold. He figured it had something to do with the glass. Denise's touch had
always been warm. "This was on me."
"No. It's all right--"
"I insist." She pressed his bill into his palm and dug into her own
bag, pulling out a twenty and dropping it on the other bill on the table.
The action caught him off-guard. He felt guilty again. She wasn't as bad-or as evil-as he'd originally thought. She was
nice. He had a feeling she knew something was wrong.
"Thank you. It's been nice." He turned to leave.
"Want some company?"
"It's all right. I really like being alone."
"Something's very wrong." She moved closer, and he was suddenly engulfed in lavender. It brushed lightly
against his face, warming him. The deep-blue eyes bore into his, making everything
dark again. "Sometimes it helps to talk to someone."
She just didn't understand. "No. Really. I
don't want to--"
"Why not?"
"Talking...won't help."
She shrugged. "How do you know?"
"I just do."
She reached up and touched his cheek. "Maybe I won't talk, then."
***
His head was trapped in a cloud, everything
dark and muddled as he crossed the street and stepped onto the mowed grass that
would take him back to his place.
He knew he wasn't alone, that there was a
strange woman walking beside him. He just didn't want
to look her way; it would make her real, tell him he was no longer imagining
things. It would tell him he was bringing a strange woman home.
He honestly couldn't remember how this had happened.
How he let her manipulate him so easily. He went into the Moonglow for a couple
of drinks; now he was bringing home a strange woman.
His mind went blank again, staying that way even as he slipped
through the doorway, closed the door, then turned to face her.
"I think we both need another drink," she said, her voice soft and
unsteady.
She was right. He was still shaking, still clueless about
everything. Two drinks at the Moonglow hadn't relaxed
him at all. He went to the kitchen and opened the cupboard. He managed to grab
the bourbon bottle without dropping it. He successfully pulled two clean glasses
from the drainer without chipping them and poured a couple of inches into each
without spilling any. He even managed to pick up the glasses, cross the living room,
and hand one to her-all without incident. She took hers, brought it to her lips
and drank half, all the while watching him. He took a sip himself, closing his
eyes as the whiskey trickled down his throat.
His thoughts began spinning, telling him things that made sense and
blending them with things that didn't. The
superstition notion came back. Along with it, that persistent feeling of
vulnerability that took over whenever this woman crossed his path. He wanted
solitude and quiet, yet each time he stepped out of his condo,
this woman had been right there. There was something about her, too. Something
that made him feel better. Something that told him she somehow understood what
was happening to him and wanted to help.
Something about her suggested that she really could help.
"Sometimes being by yourself isn't the best thing," she said.
"I'm just not good company anymore."
"Why not?"
He couldn't look at her. Her eyes made him feel
strange.
Her gaze stayed on him as she pulled her tank top over her head and
let it drop quietly to the floor. He watched her in numbed silence as she squirmed
out of her skirt and let it fall to the floor between her feet. Her sandals came
off next, discarded and forgotten as she stepped out of them.
She approached him and stopped just two feet away, her eyes locked
onto his. She reached up and pushed her heavy black mane away from her face.
Her lavender scent, mixed with her own sweet fragrance, engulfed him.
He opened his mouth, but no words would come. He found it impossible
to grasp what was happening. None of this seemed real.
"You want it, too, Arthur. I can tell."
He tried once again to speak, but his throat felt as if it had been scraped raw. He could only nod.
"I know you do, so say it."
Once again he tried. Once again the words remained trapped in his throat.
"Say
it." She moved closer.
He opened
his mouth, and the words suddenly came right out. "I want it, too."
She pressed her warm flesh against him, wrapping her arms around his
neck and kissing him passionately. Waves of hot dizziness took hold of him. He
closed his eyes and surrendered to the passion.