Asylum

Chapter 22: Second Thoughts

Sunday evening

"Um ... thank you?"

I picked up the fat paperback novel that Mateo had tossed down onto the kitchen table in front of me. I glanced at the metallic red flourish across the front: A Frozen Heart. Sounded like something Hannibal Lecter needed to move to the fridge several hours before dinner, I mused, though the cover's illustration left little doubt that this was not that kind of book.

"I asked him to grab you something to read while he was getting dinner," Ivan explained. The large Latino he referred to was pointedly ignoring us from his post at the counter, where he was pulling take-out cartons from a grease-spotted white paper bag. "There will be times when you can't be with me on the boat, and Emilio doesn't allow electronics of any kind onboard."

My stomach flipped over, but I covered my reaction by turning the book around to pretend to read the back. No electronics didn't just mean limitations on my entertainment; it meant I was completely cut off – no way to call for backup, no way for DiMarco to reach me if he decided to check in. It didn't matter, I told myself; Ivan would take care of me, whatever happened. He would.

Marshall set four open beer bottles on the table and sat down. His scarred face split into a gleeful grin when he saw the cover art as I continued to try to focus on the back. "Hey, why'd you pick that one in particular, Mat? Something about it just screamed 'Lex' to you?"

I turned the book over again. The novel's heroine – a porcelain-skinned, buxom young woman with an unlikely quantity of platinum blond hair and an imminent wardrobe malfunction – was swooning in the heavily muscled arms of a lantern-jawed hero sporting a scanty ensemble of silvery fur scraps and seemingly randomly-placed leather straps, with a crown of dark blond braids. An icy landscape and the dragon prow of a nearby Viking ship completed the tableau.

Ivan seemed torn between amused and apologetic. "I told him to get something that would confirm that you were ... non-threatening."

"As opposed to the most recent issue of The Economist or a first-edition Proust?" I suggested. "Well, I think this book fits that directive perfectly. Thank you, Mateo; I'm sure this will be very ... diverting."

Mateo divided his glare between Marshall and me as he set two plates of food down in front of Ivan and myself with a clatter. I noted black beans and rice, a salad of lettuce, tomato, and avocado, and some fried plantains. The guards were having the same, but with a large helping of ropa vieja making the meal nearly spill off of their plates.

My cheek twitched as I curled my injured right hand around my fork. Marshall had done a masterful job with the antibacterial salve, a gauze pad, and some strips of surgical tape, but the shallow cuts on my palm and fingers still stung as they shifted against the bandage. I hoped the scrapes would be healed enough by tomorrow to leave the field dressing at home.

Marshall shoveled a heaping forkful of ropa vieja into his mouth and groaned in appreciation. "Man," he mumbled around the soft wad of shredded beef. "There is nothing in New York like Mariella's."

Mateo grunted his agreement, too focused on his food to speak. Normally I – quick to defend the ethnic diversity and culinary superiority of my home town – would have suggested some Big Apple venues where they might find similar fare, but after a bite of the artfully seasoned congri, I decided that Marshall was probably right and wisely kept my mouth shut.

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"Come on, it's warmer in the water."

My teeth were almost chattering as I padded gingerly to the edge of the pool where Ivan waited, already chest deep in the dark water. I tossed a glance over my shoulder at the softly glowing bulk of the guest house; though I knew no one could see the pool from the main floor, where Mateo and Marshall's rooms were, I was nevertheless painfully aware of my nakedness.

I took his proffered hand and extended a toe tentatively into the water. Not bad, I thought. He might be right about it being warmer ...

Ivan gave a strong tug on my fingers, yanking me off balance, and I hit the water with an inelegant splash. I came up sputtering, blowing water out of my nose and wiping my face with my free hand, my other still linked with his.

As I opened my eyes, he was standing directly in front of me, his hard body glistening darkly in the dim illumination of the city lights across the bay.

"I told you it was warmer," he murmured, wrapping me in his arms and bringing his sensuous lips to mine.

My violent urge to splash him evaporated. I traced the ridges of muscle on his back with my hands; the sodden lump of bandage throbbed against my palm. Ivan would have to apply a new one when we went back inside, but for now, I didn't spare it a second thought.

I half-lifted, half-floated my legs up to wrap them around Ivan's waist, and he snugged my body closer into his as he crouched down in the gently swirling water, submerging us to our necks in the giant outdoor bath.

I felt his stiff cock nudge against me, and my eyes widened in surprise. "Already?" I asked, a bit amazed and, to be completely honest, gratified on some deeply primal level by how much, and how often, he wanted me. My body still throbbed deliciously from our lovemaking before heading down to the pool.

Ivan smiled and pushed my chin up with his cheek, exposing the underside of my jaw and neck to his lips. "I can wait," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the trickle of the pool's ever-cascading edge and the gentle lap of the bay's surf.

I wrapped myself more tightly around him and rested my cheek on his hard shoulder. Slowly my eyes drifted shut, and I let the sensations of touch fill every part of my consciousness: the warmth of the water trickling between us with each breath, Ivan's arms enfolding my body, his hands shielding my back, his breath tickling my neck, his heart beating against my breast. My senses were filled with him, I was surrounded by him, enveloped in him, and still, it seemed I could never get enough.

His stillness spoke to me, and I raised my head to seek out the shadows of his eyes in the near-total darkness. "What is it?" I whispered.

Ivan pressed his forehead to mine and held me for a long minute. I waited, willing my mind to be calm, embodying stillness and patience, until he was ready.

He pulled his head back a fraction of an inch. "I don't think you should get on the boat tomorrow."

The cold chill I felt had nothing to do with the temperature of the air or water. "Why not?" I asked. "I thought we agreed that I can't possibly survive a night without you."

I felt his smile more than saw it. "Actually, it was my survival without you that was in doubt," he reminded me. He sighed. "But the closer we get to boarding that boat, the more selfish and stupid this whole idea seems."

"I'm not scared," I insisted quietly, flicking my tongue lightly against the firm seam of his closed lips.

He snorted lightly and shifted my weight to seal my body more tightly against him. "That just proves you don't know what you're getting yourself into," he countered.

"So enlighten me."

Ivan sighed again and, after a tense moment of stillness, seemed to reach a decision. Slowly he moved us to the trickling edge of the pool and loosened his grip on me. I understood his signal unconsciously and reluctantly unwrapped my legs from his lean hips to allow him to turn me around. He pressed his warm bulk against my back, and when I folded my arms up on the streaming tiled ledge rimming the pool, he laid his corded arms on top of them, crisscrossing his fingers idly with mine.

The lights from the houses, cars, streets, and businesses of Miami glittered distantly across the bay. So much bustle, a quiet voice inside of me observed, but it was completely remote, of as little relevance to me as the industrious goings-on of a disturbed anthill. Ivan's lips hovered just at my ear, and I waited, my breathing slow and shallow, as he decided how to begin.

"Emilio is a psychopath," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.