No amount of talking would get him to go to a doctor and inquire about Viagra. It was as if even suggesting the idea were an affront to his manhood.
What manhood, she thought unkindly because, truth be told, she was losing interest in the man she once would have killed to marry. Hadn’t she seduced him away from his first wife, that imbecile Isabella?
And Rick Bentz, even with his uneven walk, oozed virility. He caused her mind to wander down twisted and darkly seductive paths she didn’t dare follow. Jennifer had hinted that he was a great lover. She’d insisted that she hadn’t strayed for sex so much as for forbidden sex, with a priest, no less. Her husband’s half brother.
But then Jen had been one messed-up woman. Shana had thought so when they’d hung out together.
God, that seemed like another lifetime.
It was ancient history, long before she noticed the strands of gray in her hair and the evidence of sagging in certain areas of her body that had once been firm.
Christ, it was hell growing old…older, she reminded herself. She wasn’t yet fifty and she knew a lot of women who were over sixty and looked fabulous, though they had to work at it.
“Ugh.” She eyed her figure again and told herself to buck up. She was told over and over how beautiful she was, how great she looked, and so far no one had dared tacked on the “for your age” line that diminished the compliment.
She threw a cover-up over her body, though there was no reason. The maid had left long ago, the gardener wasn’t scheduled for a few more days, Leland was out of town again wooing some big client in Palm Springs.
Hurrying down the marble stairs, she cut through the sunroom and out to the yard, where Dirk was barking loudly at the neighbor’s Chihuahuas, who were yipping from the other side of the hedge and fence. “Enough,” Shana said and dragged Dirk into the house. She stuffed him into the laundry room and closed the door.
She just needed some time alone, without the aggravation of Leland’s dog giving her a headache. These days she spent more time with the damned animal than she did her husband.
She eyed the refrigerator and thought of the chocolate mousse pie within. It was a ritual she allowed herself. Each week she bought a different decadent dessert and left it calling to her on the third shelf of the refrigerator. She allowed herself one bite of pure heaven, then left the rest to slowly dehydrate and turn dark. Lemon meringue or key lime pie, coconut or Boston cream or fudge cake or eclairs. They all rented space on the glass shelf at eye level, then were evicted on the next Saturday night.
Her ritual of self-deprivation and control.
Today she wouldn’t even bother opening the door but hurried back outside and crossed the patio to the pool. It was twilight, the pool light glowing at the far end, the aquamarine water smooth and welcoming.
She dropped her cover-up and kicked off her flip-flops near the edge of the pool. Descending the mosaic tiled steps, she slid into the warm water and relaxed as it surrounded her calves, then her hips, and finally embraced her waist.
Vaguely aware that those nasty little Chihuahuas had quit their incessant yapping, she began her nightly ritual, her second workout today, with even strokes. Freestyle to the far end, breaststroke back, sidestroke for two laps. That was one set. She’d do five sets and then, only then, would she allow herself a drink. For next to the white box containing the chocolate mousse was a pitcher of martinis, already made and chilling.
It was another test of her willpower, waiting until after her exercise regimen before allowing herself a tall drink with exactly three olives. She’d suck the pimento out of each. God, Jennifer had loved martinis.
Stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke, stroke, breathe, turn.
She headed back, changing her rhythm as her body movements altered for the breaststroke. Night was closing in, the moon high. The subdued outdoor lighting cast small pools of light near the walkways. Brighter beams washed up the trunks of the palms, and the huge arched windows of the house were illuminated from within.
It was a gorgeous place to live.
Even if her life had become lonely.
Stroke, stroke, stroke.
She lost herself in her routine, silently counting off the turns, knowing instinctively from the way her muscles strained when she was coming to the end of her self-imposed exercise regimen.
She could almost taste the martinis as she completed the final lap. Letting water drip from her body, she started up the steps. She was reaching for her cover-up when she heard something.
A footstep?
A chorus of barking arose from the other side of the fence as the Chihuahuas started up again. Inside the house, Dirk responded with a low, warning growl.
“Great,” Shana said, intent on marching into the house and giving the dog a piece of her mind. What the hell was wrong with him? He never engaged the yappy rat-dogs from inside the house. It would serve the neighbors right if Dirk ever got loose and attacked those ankle biters. God, she hated them.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement.
What?
Something dark.
A shadow in the side yard.
Or was it?
Her skin crawled as fear slithered through her.
She peered, staring at the side of the house, telling herself that nothing was out of the ordinary, there was nothing to be concerned about. And yet…
Just beyond a circle of decorative light, she caught a glimpse of movement again, something slinking near the undergrowth.
Heart hammering, she peered through the darkness, told herself she was being a ninny, one of those frightened little women she detested and then she saw it again. Something or someone creeping closer.
Something was definitely wrong.
“What the hell-?”
In a flash, a dark figure lunged, running, footsteps slapping across the cement.
Shana started to scream, as the sprinter rushed forward, eyes dark and glittering.
The attacker hit her mid-section, ramming her hard enough that she tripped, fell backward into the pool, her assailant pushing firmly.
Bam!
Shana’s head hit the side of the pool.
Pain exploded behind her eyes. She nearly passed out, but tried to hang onto consciousness. To fight.
Still the maniac was on her, in the water with her as she flailed. Gloved hands circled her throat. Held her under. She saw the features of an angry face through the curtain of water. Features twisted in hatred. Oh, God, she should recognize the monster but she couldn’t think, couldn’t draw a breath.
Dear God, help me. Someone, please help me, this psycho wants to kill me!
She struggled and tried to roll in the water, to twist so that the attacker was under the surface. Shana was strong, a swimmer, but she was already tired and she couldn’t battle the fierce determination of this would-be killer.
No! Sweet Jesus, no!!!
She was already coughing. Trying to keep her wits. Find a way to survive.
But she was losing ground. Sputtering. Her strength drained even as she tried to pry the steely hands from her throat, hoping to land a blow with her feet. Kick him, Shana, kick! Or bite. Do something, anything!
But the water was heavy.
Her assailant was agile, even in the water.
Her lungs and nose were burning. Her throat on fire. She was trying to cough again, but couldn’t expel the air trapped inside. Her throat was raw, her lungs screaming.
Oh, God, oh, God…no, no, no!