Page 89 of Their Cruel Love

“I guess so.” The jetty looks deserted though we angle off again, sneaking across the warm, soft, beach sand toward a darkened hut that sits at the end of a smaller pier. It’s on the far side of the little bay. I don’t recall this from the day we landed, perhaps due to a rocky outcrop jutting into the bay, screening the pier with palms and shrubs.

We pause where concrete steps merge into the sand and lead onto the pier. At the opposite end of the pier, the door of the hut seems to wait for me, the frame edges glowing with faint light. To the left, a wash of paler sea marks where window light is cast onto the water.

“You can go in. I will stay here to guard you. If anyone comes, I will?—”

“Hoot like an owl? Have I been watching too many movies?”

She nods and smiles then points toward the door. I wonder whether it’s meant for fishing or for isolated bacchanalian rendezvous. Surely the latter.

“No hooting. I will make a clicking noise.” Then she clicks her tongue. I would need ninja hearing to detect that above the rushing of the waves rolling in.

“Okay. Less fun but okay.” I’m flippant because I’m nervous.

Walking closer lets me gauge the depth of the water sloshing against the supports. It looks deep and perhaps that’s a trickery of the darkness. I’m not about to jump in and test it.

My footfalls on the jetty make creaks and dull but obvious noises. The door opens, spilling light across the timber while I’m still yards away. A man stands there, silhouetted. I know him. I stop dead, rocking, momentum trying to make me go forward, while all my instincts are screamingfuck no!

If I were to kill anyone after what they did to me, he would surely be one of the first on the list.

“Simon.” His name feels vile as it slides off my tongue, and my distaste must show.

A glance behind shows Aimee still there and she’s shooing me forward, as if she truly thinks this guy has something useful to say or she has some stake in this. Money, love, sex, all of those are big motivators that drive people to do horrendous things. My heart thumps away, fierce enough that it seems to reverberate, reminding me I’m still alive, and that is always desirable. I need to stop being so afraid.

I take a step.

“I won’t bite.” He fake-gnashes his teeth, and I pause to catalogue the cut of his short, blonde hair and his perfect linen shirt with the onyx buttons. He wears long pants, here, tonight, in the place of sweat, crocodiles, and air so thick you could carve it up for dinner—probably along with a vast array of bugs.

A cooling breeze arrives, as if to dispute what I’m thinking. It rattles the distant palm trees and delivers one last bug. I swat it from my face, and it whines away, into the darkness. “What do you want with me?”

“To talk.” He steps back and indicates I should enter.

I have back-up, don’t I? Yes, a woman I only just met, wholooks sweet and as if she’d fold if someone breathes on her. But then again, if she can do break and enter so smoothly, I have to wonder at her job skills. Who is she?

Who is Simon?

I’m torn. I’m more than a little afraid.

And I go in past him. Spider meet poisonous fly. If he tries to touch me, I will thrash him, severely, somehow.

I don’t even have my cheese knife.

Large windows dominate three sides. The light comes from standing lamps with gilded nymphs climbing the central posts. Those are in the far corners presiding over two lush red sofas that run the length of the walls to my left and right. Beneath the front window, that’s pushed fully open, lies a narrow bar carrying a silver ice bucket and a row of bottles.

White curtains flail in the gust sweeping through and a painting of a nude woman having sex with two very flexible men bangs against the wall. It’s a classical painting I recognize though the name has slipped my memory. Bookending the bottles of whiskey, vodka, and so on, are erotic sculptures.

The hutcouldbe used for fishing on a luxurious scale, but it’s unlikely as hell.

“I’m not here to?—”

“Oh I know that.” He flashes a knowing smile that sinks almost before he launches it. Still creepy. “I had you brought here so I could broker a deal. Drink?” He saunters to the bar, puts out one square glass, then two.

“No, thanks.” I follow but stop in the middle of the room. “How in the world can I do a deal?”

“Oh, I appreciate you’re in a sticky situation, Phoebe.” Even his use of my name seems a defilement. He pours himself a drink, fishes ice cubes from the bucket. “You’re the daughter of Emma Bartholemew and have come here afterbeing lured…” He drops two cubes into the amber liquid. “So we can kill you, luridly.” He glances back and smiles as he says that.

Fuck.My blood has run away to hide, and someone has doused me in a glacial waterfall.

“That’s blatant.” Is my voice shaking? My legs are quivering. Fuck this. Grow a spine. I clear my throat. “The deal?”

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