She was, of course, still “asleep.”
He stood for a while, watching her. Her complete vulnerability gave him a thrill. He could do anything he wanted, touch her, feel her warmth, smell her secret woman scent.… But he wanted none of that. He had decided that now Verity was to be used for a different purpose. Her role would be amplified.
He checked the monitors that showed the grounds immediately outside the bunker. The shadows were deep and for a second he thought he saw a movement under the jacaranda tree. He pressed the pause button, stared hard at that area. The wind had gotten up and all the trees were bending under it. He saw no one there.
He decided that the wind was not a bad thing, since it would hide any noise he’d make when he carried Verity down to the beach. First though he had to prepare her. After all, she was going to be on camera tonight, so the better she looked—or perhaps the worse—the better for him.
He walked over to take another look, stood for a minute assessing her again, then slid his arms under her and lifted her off the bed. He was shocked by how cold she felt. Had he left her too long? Was it too late? She couldn’t just die on him now, not yet, at least not until he had “saved” her. He must warm her up, get her into a hot bath.…
She was unexpectedly heavy. He put her down, took her by the feet, and dragged her across the marble floor. Her dress ruffled up. Her panties were white satin, edged with black lace. He thought she looked like a dumb young bride on her wedding night, except this was not going to be the marriage culmination that would have been expected.
She seemed to be getting heavier by the minute as he lifted her over the step at the edge of the tub and slid her legs into the hot water.
Startled, he heard her sigh. Could the drug be wearing off? God knows she’d been given enough to take care of her for the entire night, but still she was reacting.
He stood over her, waiting to see what would happen. Her eyelids fluttered and for a second it seemed she was looking at him, then she slid away again. Her head thunked on the marble step. Jesus. He did not want any marks on her; she must appear intact, unharmed, except by the tide from where, as the valiant rescuer, he would pull her. He had better hurry.
He left her lying on the floor and went to the cupboard where he kept the stretcher. He returned, knelt beside her, lifted her shoulders, and got the stretcher under them. Then he lifted her body and her legs onto it. He jacked up the lever, the wheels emerged, and the stretcher rose up off the ground. Now he was in business.
He went back to look at the bank of TVs showing the exterior of the bunker. Lights still glared from the house where he knew the Colonel would be doing his job of grilling his guests, while his half-dozen men combed the grounds. Nobody would come here though. He was safe.
He rechecked Verity on the stretcher. He didn’t want her to slide off at the crucial moment. She looked so pretty, just a girl sleeping, long blond hair mussed, cheap diamante earrings glittering. She was all his to show the world.
The secret door leading directly onto the beach opened at his command. He pushed the stretcher through, cursing as her arm slid off and scraped along the floor. Now she would have bruises and he did not want that. Still, it could be assumed she had been bruised when she was swept against the rocks in the sea.
There was no light where he was walking but he knew the path, knew every step of the way, he’d traversed it so often. Pushing the stretcher in front of him, he walked steadily down the slope to the beach. Once there, he got her—with some effort because she was dead weight now—off the stretcher and lay her down on the sand. Then he folded the stretcher and carried it back to the house where he returned it to the cupboard.
It took only minutes yet he knew anything might happen in only minutes. But nothing had. She was still lying there, eyes closed, bruised arms spread wide, exactly as he’d left her. Now, though, was the time for the main event. The rescue.
He hefted Verity over his shoulder and stumbled through the soft sand to the firmer part of the beach where the tide came in. He lay his burden down and watched the sea sweep over her. He caught a murmur as she moved her head to one side. She was good and wet and the time was right.
He hefted her in his arms, not over the shoulder this time, because she was meant to look like the maiden in distress and he was her valiant savior. Our hero.
Carrying her, he staggered back down the beach along the tide line and into the brightly lit area where his guests still mingled, drinks still in hand, worried looks on their faces. The Colonel was there, and Mirabella and that bastard Chad.
“I found her,” he gasped, staggering as he ran with her in his arms. “I think she drowned.”
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