Dance Upon the Air Page 0,110

and a muffin?"

"Payment first."

He came to her, wrapped her up in a long, deep kiss. "That do it?"

"Oh, yeah. Just let me give you your change." She drew him down again, lingered over the taste of him. "I'm so happy."

***

At precisely eight-thirty, Evan sat down to a breakfast of sweetened coffee, fresh orange juice, an egg-white omelette, and two slices of whole wheat toast.

He'd already made use of the hotel health club, such as it was. He had only glanced at the pool. He disliked using public swimming pools, but had considered it until he'd seen it was already being used. A long, lean brunette was streaking through the water. As if she was in a race, he'd thought.

He'd only caught glimpses of her face as she turned it rhythmically in and out of the water in time with her strokes.

And he didn't see, as he dismissed her and walked away, her sudden loss of pace. The way she pulled up in the water as if gathering for attack. How she shoved her goggles, treading water as she looked around for what had felt like an enemy.

He'd showered in his room, dressed in a pale gray sweater and dark slacks. He glanced at his watch, ready to be annoyed if his meal should be above one minute late.

But it arrived, just as requested. He didn't chat with the waiter. He never did such foolish things. The man was paid to deliver food, not to fraternize with guests.

He enjoyed his breakfast, surprised that he could find no fault with it, as he read the morning paper and listened to the news on the parlor television.

He considered how best to do what he'd come to do. Walking through the village as he'd done yesterday, driving around the island as he planned to do today, might not be enough. Still, it wouldn't do to ask people if they knew anyone of Helen's description. People never minded their own business, and there would be questions. Speculation. Attention.

If, by some chance, Helen was alive and here, the less attention paid to him, the better.

If she were, what would she do? She had no skills. How could she earn a living without him to provide for her? Unless, of course, she'd used her body to entice yet another man. Women were, at the center, whores.

He had to sit back and wait for the fury to pass. It was difficult to think in logical steps through anger. However justified.

He would find her, he reassured himself. If she was alive, he would find her. He would simply know. And that took him to what would be done when and if he did.

There was no question that she would have to be punished. For distressing him, for deceiving him, for attempting to break free of the promises she'd made to him. The inconvenience, the embarrassment of it all couldn't be calculated.

He would take her back to California, of course, but not right away. They would need to go somewhere quiet, somewhere private first, so he could remind her of those promises. So he could remind her who was in charge.

They would say she'd been thrown from the car. That she'd struck her head or some such thing. She'd had amnesia and had wandered away from the scene of the accident.

The press would love it, Evan decided. They would eat it up.

They would work out the details of the story once they were settled in that private, quiet place.

If none of that was possible, if she tried to refuse him, to run again, to go crying to the police as she'd done before, he would have to kill her.

He made the decision as coolly as he had decided what to have for breakfast.

Her choices were just as simple, in his opinion. Live-or die.

At the knock on his door, Evan folded the paper precisely, walked over to answer.

"Good morning, sir," the young maid said cheerfully. "You requested housekeeping service between nine and ten."

"That's right." He checked his watch, noted it was nine-thirty. He had lingered over his thoughts longer than he'd planned.

"I hope you're enjoying your stay. Would you like me to start in the bedroom?"

"Yes."

He sat with his last cup of coffee, watched a report on a fresh hot spot in Eastern Europe that couldn't have interested him less. It was too early to call the coast and see if there was anything he needed to know. But he could call New York. He had a deal cooking there, and