When he lifted her, the towel fell away.
No words now; they’d both had enough of them. Enough of storms and soothing. She stayed wrapped around him on the bed, holding on, holding on while her lips roamed his face. Already stirred, already lost, he took his hands over her.
Quick, quick, no time for thinking, he took her up, felt her body arch and shudder. Accept.
Strong mind, strong needs, he thought. He’d fill them, fill her and himself. For a little while the ugly stains of the day would be cleansed.
For a little while, pleasure and passion would smother pain.
His heart drummed against hers. It brought her a thrill, that hard, frantic beat. But more, it restored. His life, beating there against hers. Their lives.
Nothing could change that, no nightmare, no shame, no poison in the blood. She’d brought herself out of the dark, but she’d come to crave the light he’d flooded into her world.
That light shot through her like a thousand arrows when he pushed her to climax.
She cried out, and he heard the edge of triumph in the sound. And he understood. She could feel and want to reach and take, she could give, no matter what had been done to her. She could live and thrive. She could want him.
That she could, did, would, humbled him. Enraptured him.
She rolled, sliding over him, feeding and feasting until he was mad for her. When he dragged her up, she straddled him, took him deep. And rode, rode, rode him like a stallion under the whip.
He saw, before his vision blurred, the strong curve of her body, and the fierce joy on her face.
She collapsed on him, body limp, breath tearing.
“God,” she managed. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”
“I think I rate at least an ‘I appreciate it.’ ”
“I appreciate it.” She kept her face buried against his throat. “I thought I might clutch. You know, it’s been . . . a day. But it was just the way it should be.”
“Darling Eve.” Smiling, he stroked her back. “I was afraid I might clutch.”
“We didn’t. We’re just too damn good at it.” She shifted, tucked her head in the crook of his shoulder. “It was a really excellent step.”
“Quite possibly better than the spaghetti and meatballs.”
“It’s neck-and-neck.” She lay quiet for a moment. “I know you want me to sleep. I’m just not . . . we should watch some screen, finish all the steps.”
“All right, then. How about some porn?”
She laughed as he’d meant her to, then elbowed him. “Perv. Didn’t you just have porn?”
“It shows what you know about fine art and lowly pornography.”
“Then let’s leave that step on the high note. Feeney had the ball game on. The Mets could clinch the division tonight. They’ve got to have a replay, time delay, something.”
“Baseball it is.” He ordered the screen on, drew the throw at the foot of the bed over them.
She went under in the top of the fifth. He wondered how she’d held out that long.
He ordered the lights on low in case she woke, ordered the screen off. And holding her, let himself slip into sleep with her.
Closer than she knew, Isaac McQueen roamed his new spaces. It was, very precisely, what he’d wanted and arranged—the colors, fabrics, materials, layout.
And still he felt caged.
She’d put him in again, that bitch Dallas. Just another run of luck for her. And the total fucking stupidity of Sylvia.
At least she was dead. Her stupidity, her unending neediness wouldn’t be a problem anymore. She’d had her uses, but he’d find another when the time was right. One he could be more sure of, one he wouldn’t have to charm and train and instruct from prison.
That had been the problem. He hadn’t made a mistake with his choice. Because of Dallas he simply hadn’t had the opportunity to correctly train that choice.
Next time, he thought, circling his hand to keep his brandy moving in its snifter.
He was still in control of the situation. He’d planned for the unforeseen, hadn’t he? Of course, without Sylvia’s idiocy, he’d have bad little Darlie to entertain him right now. Nothing kept him more in tune than a bad little girl.
He walked to the window, looked down at the city, sipping his brandy, wondering how many bad little girls walked the streets. He only needed one for now. Just one.
He could find one, of course. He was so very much smarter, better, wilier than the cops. He could take one, just one, and christen his new home.
Better not. No, better not, he reminded himself. He felt too rushed, too upset. Too fucking angry to work properly tonight.
He’d have to make do with the pale, bloodless substitute of the recording.
He mulled it over. He’d watch it and imagine how he’d feel when he forced Dallas to watch it with him. That would perk things up.
He decided to make himself a little snack. For a time he simply wandered the kitchen, unable to choose. So many choices, he thought. Too many choices.
Ridiculous. He brushed off the uneasy sensation, the temporary lapse. He knew exactly what he wanted. He always knew.
He selected a few cheeses, some berries, carefully sliced rounds from a baguette, calming a little itch of panic at the base of his spine with the homey chore.
He did love this kitchen, he thought as he worked, the high sheens, the smooth surfaces. He’d enjoy using it for a week or two.
Really, this was a much better location, better plan. Things had worked out precisely the right way. Precisely.
Then soon enough, with Dallas floating in the river—a real pity he’d been denied that tradition with Sylvia—he’d move on. As much as he wanted New York, for spite if nothing else, he had to consider another venue altogether.
London perhaps, he thought as he carried his tray into the living area. He’d always planned to spend some time in London. He set his tray on the coffee table, unfolded a wide, white linen napkin. Ran his fingers over the spotless and smooth material.
Yes, London. Carnaby Street, Big Ben, Piccadilly Circus.
And all those rosy-cheeked bad girls.
“Screen on,” he ordered, trying out a public school British accent. Pleased with the sound, he laughed, and continued in character. “Play Darlie.”
He swirled brandy, nibbled on cheese and berries. And discovered that the pale substitute worked quite well if he just had the right mind-set.
He decided then and there to make one titled “Eve Dallas.” He imagined the staging, the props, the lighting. He considered writing some dialogue, for both of them.
Wouldn’t it be fun to force her to speak his words?
He could barely wait to produce it, direct it. And view it, over and over after he’d killed her.
21
Near dawn she dreamed. Trapped in the dark, whispers and whimpers all around her. Cold, so cold, and the bite of the shackles clamped on her wrists and ankles.
He was out there, and the knowing carved a bleeding gash of fear in her belly.
Not like this, she thought as she yanked and strained against the shackles. A thousand ways to die, but not like this, and not at his hand.
Light oozed into the room, slipping dirty red through cracks and fissures to smear the dark like blood.
And she learned it could be worse to see.
They huddled all around her, all the girls, all those hopeless, empty eyes. They sat, staring and shivering in the icy room of her nightmares. All of them had her face. The child’s face.
She fought harder, twisting, dragging against the restraints. She heard—felt—the bone snap. One of the girls shrieked, and each of them clutched her arm.
“It’s not happening, not happening. It’s not real.”
“It’s as real as you make it.” Mira sat in one of the blue scoop chairs from her office, crossed her pretty legs.