Key West by Stella Cameron Page A

shower and change the bed, but she hadn’t the strength.
    From below came the sound of knocking at the door. Sonnie sat up and hugged her shins.
    The knocking sounded again, and again.
    “Go away,” she said softly. “Leave me alone.”
    More knocking, insistent, steady.
    On legs that threatened to collapse beneath her, Sonnie got off the bed and went into the upper hallway. She held the banisters with both hands and began to climb down the stairs, placing first one, then the other foot on the same step before taking another. Her injured hip trembled. The pain that never quite left her foot became sharp. She moved so slowly, and the knocking went on and on.
    Another step. And one more.
    The knocking stopped.
    Sonnie sat down at once and covered her face. If she didn’t get some help, she wouldn’t survive, and she wanted to survive.
    A scraping sound reached her, and she raised her head to look downward. Only an instant passed before the front door swung inward and a large figure stepped quickly inside. The door closed again.
    She opened her mouth but no sound would come past her aching throat.
    A flashlight beam shot across the foyer, swung from side to side, then upward, upward to hit her face. Sonnie crossed her forearms to ward off the glare, and she did scream then.
     

 
    Seven
     
    Chris ran to the stairs and took them two at a time. “Sonnie, sit still. Don’t move or you’ll fall.” She looked as if she were about to slide downward. “Gotcha. Hell, what’s happened to you? Hey, relax, I’ve got you.”
    He gripped her beneath her arms and started to lift. She struggled against him, tried to fight him with thin hands, and arms encased in damp satin. Suddenly jerking up to stand, she almost sent them both down the stairs. He was no stranger to the kind of strength adrenaline produced. She pummeled him, kicked at him, even though he knew she must be hurting herself.
    “Sonnie? Hey, hey.” Holding his flashlight and the banister with one hand, he wrapped his other arm around her and held on while she struggled. “Sonnie, it’s me, Chris. It’s Chris. You’re okay.”
    She was crying, sobbing. He knew she was trying to say something but couldn’t understand a word.
    “Okay, that’s it. Enough. Do you hear me?”
    “I won’t die for you,” she said, her eyes huge and glassy. “Kill me again, but I won’t just die.”
    He cataloged every word. She could be sleepwalking, but he didn’t think so.
    Her bare feet raked his shins repeatedly. Beneath satin pajamas her too-thin body was slick, and he released the banister long enough to hike her over his shoulder before she slithered away from him altogether.
    Taking her upstairs seemed the only thing to do. She must have been in bed. And to have made the call he was now sure she had made, she must have been very frightened. The question was, by what? Or who?
    The house was in total darkness. Had she dialed his number without putting on a light?
    Moonlight shone through a domed skylight. When Chris reached the top of the stairs, he swung Sonnie down from his shoulder and carried her in his arms. She slumped there, limp, her head lolling to one side. That didn’t mean he got careless. With the hand he’d passed under her shoulders, he kept a grip on her arm. Now that the fight seemed to have gone out of her, she might not pack much of a punch, but he didn’t want to find out.
    One door stood open, wide open, to a room on his left. He carried her in that direction, then inside and directly to a large bed. Nothing more than moonlight was needed to show sheets tangled into ropes and trailing to the floor.
    French windows were pushed wide onto the balcony outside, and pale curtains filled softly with the breeze. He smelled the unmistakable scent of jasmine.
    She moved slightly in his arms, but only to curve toward him and press her face against his chest. Did she know who he was? Did it matter who he was? Her breathing was quieter, but she still