Life wasn’t fair, she reminded herself. You can’t expect fate to hand out fortunes. You have to make your own luck. That’s what you’re doing.
And now she was waiting for a man she knew didn’t really love her, a man who would never care for her the way he did his damned wife.
So who’s the fool?
Look what you’ve done for him.
Think about how many people you betrayed, you killed.
For him.
Oh, you tell Marla it’s for her, but you know better. You’re only kidding yourself, and now you’re in this big bed, in a room overlooking the bay, in a house that should have been yours but has been denied you while you wait for a man you don’t really trust.
“He’ll come,” she said aloud, and her voice seemed to ricochet off the walls. “He will come. He’d better.”
Her shrink had told her not to hold false hope, not to expect more from people than they could give. But why couldn’t they give? Why couldn’t she have had a real mother’s love? Or a husband’s? The louse she’d married had never had any time for her, was married to his job, had never understood her. In fact, he acted as if she were the one with the problem! As if she were cra
zy. What had he called her? A “psycho whack-job”? She was lucky to be rid of him. Lucky!
But still it bothered her that she couldn’t find a man who cared about her, who would love her, fight for her, even die for her.
Soon, all this mess with Marla would be over, and Elyse would have what she wanted. Then she wouldn’t have to run over to the bungalow where Marla was hiding out any longer. God, that was getting tough. Sooner or later someone would see her. There had been the incident with the bicyclist, and just the other night she’d stumbled over a cat. The damned thing had shrieked as if she’d stabbed it, and a nosy neighbor had peeked through her blinds, the same old bitch who had looked through the slats before.
Elyse couldn’t take any more chances.
It was time to end this thing. Go for the real prize.
So where the hell was he?
Through the open window, she heard the low sound of a foghorn and then the quiet rumble of a smooth engine. She smiled with relief as she recognized it.
He wasn’t standing her up.
No way.
He’d come! Her smile broadened as she imagined what she would do to him to prove how much she loved him, to show how much she cared. Her heart beat a little faster, and she adjusted the lapels of her robe, glancing in the mirror to assure herself that her hair was freshly tumbled, that a sexy glimpse of her cleavage was visible, that her lips were glossy and wet, promising oh-so-sinful delights.
The engine was closer now, louder, and then suddenly died.
She waited. Counting her heartbeats.
Within seconds a key turned in the lock.
Her fingers twisted in the sheets.
He didn’t say a word, but the door shut softly behind him. She heard his footfalls on the floor of the foyer a story below. Darling, she thought.
Up the stairs he came, his footsteps quickening as he reached the second story.
He tapped lightly on her door and pushed it open. She lay back on the pillows, every sense alive as he stepped into the darkened bedroom where the candles burned.
His grin, always seductive, widened.
God, he was handsome.
“I’m sorry about last night,” he said without preamble as he unbuttoned his shirt. She watched every little pearl disc slide through its hole. He was tanned and fit, his abdomen a washboard of muscles, his chest hair thick and springy.
“Don’t let it happen again.”