Heat of Night by Harry Whittington Page B

smiling. “You want to go?” she said.
    Ho boy, he thought, the understatement of the year.

11
    M AL H OLLISTER STOOD at the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked bluff, wind-buffeted pines and palms, the dark void of the bay and the storm approaching across the Gulf. After all his elaborate planning only one thing was certain this night: a storm brewed.
    Everything had gone wrong.
    He heard the music; its stereophonic sounds hammered at him from every direction: a mockery of his own devising and selecting — something by Mantovani. He’d always enjoyed Mantovani. Well, he was wrong about everything. He should have cleared out of this place before he became so deeply involved. For sure, he was closing this whole damned house, he was selling it off as he should have done after Stella divorced him. This place was hers, and had been evil for him from the first.
    “Mal.” Dolores’ voice reached out and caressed him like sharp kitten claws from the divan. “Come here, Mal.”
    He sighed, and nodded.
    “As soon as I close the drapes. This damned lightning snaps off right in my eyeballs.” He tried to smile. “Reminds me of your mother.”
    Dolores’ voice remained soft and urgent. “If she knew how much I loved you, she would love you.”
    He shook his head. “If she even knew you were here, she’d kill me. With her bare hands.”
    He turned, looking at her stretched out on the divan, blonde hair against the pillows, dress high above her golden knees. He felt a sharp twist in his loins and cursed himself.
    He pulled his gaze away to the intimate dining table for two and stared at the remains of the supper. True, he hadn’t eaten much but Dolores had devoured almost every edible on the table. How this girl loved black olives. She’d eaten his filet mignon, too: no sense wasting it if he was sure he wasn’t going to eat it. His anxiety had killed his appetite and she ate like a young horse, a young child. A young girl.
    His gaze touched the chilled wine bottle he hadn’t opened, the cocktail shaker he’d ignored since the moment he brought Dolores into this room. It was as though Rosa and Juan stood all evening in the shadows, daring him: open it, you evil man, get her to drink, intoxicated, a child and you would do this.
    He closed his eyes, still standing beside the windows and the romantic view that was lost in the storm’s unearthly dark. He saw the way he’d planned it, music, wine, the way they’d lie together on the divan, the way he would carry her naked and moaning to his bedroom. This was bad enough but worse was the desire and excitement in her eyes: she wanted all this, even more than he did. He would have to be blind to miss it. He wasn’t blind. Knowing she wanted to give herself to him stopped him cold, showed him clearly he had no right.
    He caught the drape cord, glancing once more at the storm-riven night. Well, there was no moon, either. Nothing was as he’d planned. Abrupt lightning clicked at the tip of his nose. When he could see again, he stared into the cosmic darkness and muttered bitterly, “The hell with you, too.”
    He yanked the drapes closed.
    He stood with his back to the drapes hearing the storm outside the windows and the one raging within him.
    He looked at her, saw he could have her, anything he wanted, everything, she was waiting. He must take her or she could not endure the need. Her untouched body had been an obsession with her, Rosa’s most vital teaching from infancy, but she wanted to forget it now because he was more important to her.
    She was a devout and innocent girl — innocent in the wonderful way only a Venzino offspring could be innocent — aware of life but innocent of guile and evil. She’d grown up believing her virginity was the greatest gift she could bring the one man she would love; not even chastity was an acceptable substitute. The ecstasy her simple and revered parents shared was what she wanted with the man she married and she’d come here