Oh, Jesus. I'm awake, and this is real!
The figure bent, picked up a file from the floor, replaced it on the table.
Should I scream? Jump up? Fight?
Heart racing. Paralyzed with fear. Holding her breath, then exhaling, so loud that surely the intruder could hear her breathe.
A weapon. She needed a weapon. Scissors. A pen. Anything. But what did she have? A clock radio. A paperback book. A pillow.
Defenseless. Lying under a sheet, wearing only a satin camisole that stopped above the waist.
A rustle of papers. The intruder opening a file. A narrow beam from a miniature flashlight.
Go ahead. Steal whatever you want. Then leave!
Her ears seemed to twitch like a cat's, her sense of hearing on high alert. The bed had become a furnace. In an instant, she was bathed in sweat. Beads of perspiration, like salty tears, trickled down her face and neck. She could barely breathe, her throat dry and constricted.
Oh, God. Don't cough.
An involuntary spasm shook her, and she barked a cough. The miniature flashlight clicked off. For an eternity, no movement, no sound. The silhouette a statue at the table, Victoria frozen under the sheet.
Breathe. Dammit, breathe, or you'll cough again.
She watched the figure walk silently toward the bed.
Oh, God, what now?
Her muscles were locked so tightly, she was terrified she wouldn't be able to move. Her joints petrified wood.
C'mon. You've got to fight.
She would not let herself be raped. Or beaten. Or killed. Furious now. The intruder just a few steps away. When he was close enough, she would spring at him. Go for his eyes. Gouge!
She curved her hands into claws.
Another step closer. Two more steps and. .
Scream and spring.
She would shriek to startle him, then tear his face off.
One step away, the intruder stopped. She heard breathing, this time not her own. In the dark, could he see her eyes were open?
The intruder turned and walked past the table. She heard the balcony door sliding in its track. She counted five seconds, then leapt out of bed and raced to the door. Slammed it shut, locked it, inserted the pin in the slot in the track.
Breathing hard, she peered through the glass. Tiki torches burned on the deserted pool deck. The fronds of a palm tree swayed in the ocean breeze. Nothing else moved. The intruder could have crawled down from her second-story balcony-maybe even jumped-to the ground.
The adrenaline flow had stopped, but her mind cranked at the speed limit. So much to do. Call the police. Call Steve. Wash her face. Get dressed. Pee. . don't forget to pee.
Okay, slow down. Relax.
Think.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:17 a.m. She turned on the lights and checked the worktable. Nothing seemed to be missing. A chilling thought.
Someone left. That doesn't mean someone else isn't still here.
She ran to the closet, threw open the door. No one inside except Calvin Klein and Donna Karan. Whoops, Vera Wang, too.
She considered waking her mother, just a few feet away in the adjoining room. No. She'd be a mess. Let The Queen get her beauty sleep. Tell her about this in the morning.
Victoria sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone, and dialed Steve's cell. She had to tell him three times before he was sufficiently awake to understand. Then he came unglued.
"Oh, Christ! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. I'm going down to the front desk as soon as I get dressed."
"No. No. No. Stay in the room. Check all the locks again. I'll call Rask at home. He'll have cops there in ten minutes. Sure you're okay?"
"I'm sure."
"Stay calm now." His voice rising.
"I'm calm."
"You get a look at the guy?"
"No."
"I should have been there. I'd have clobbered him with my Barry Bonds."
True, Steve slept with a baseball bat under his bed, but the only thing he ever clobbered was the occasional palmetto bug. On the phone, she heard what sounded like drawers slamming and muttered curse words.
"What are you doing, Steve?"
"Looking for Dad's car keys. Dammit. Where the hell …?"
"Steve. ."
"Yeah?"
"Calm down."
Five minutes later, Victoria pulled some cotton sweats from a drawer, but sticky with sweat, she decided to clean up before dressing. She slipped out of the camisole and padded into the bathroom, nearly tripping over a halter sandal she'd left on the floor by the sink.
She opened the shower door and turned on the water, hotter than usual, the steam rising like a cleansing cloud. Once inside, she let the water stream over her body.
Water. The sea. My dream. Junior.
Or half Junior, half Steve. A Minotaur of a dream lover. If dreams represent repressed desires, as she had learned in Psychology 101, just which man did she desire?
She grabbed the soap and lathered up, pondering the question.
Suddenly, something grabbed her bare leg.
A snake!
It tightened on her calf and circled higher, gripping her knee.
She screamed, the sound echoing off the tile, the loudest sound she had ever made. Thick as her wrist, the snake coiled around her thigh. Its head solid black. Stripes of yellow, red, and black along its five-foot length.
Coral snake!
Slithering up her leg, tongue flicking in and out.
She screamed again.
Dammit! Do something!
She shot a hand out and grabbed the snake near its head. Tugged at it, tried to pull it off her leg. The damn thing was impossibly strong. She braced a foot against the shower wall, yanked as hard as she could. The snake flew off her leg and coiled around her arm, its tail flapping in the air. She shook her arm, but the snake stayed put, opening its mouth to an impossible dimension. Wide enough to swallow an orange. Fangs showing, the head darted toward Victoria's face. She jerked sideways, slipped on the wet tile, and crashed through the shower door, falling to the floor.
Her hip took the fall, and pain shot down a leg. The snake flew off her arm, slid across the tile, and coiled in front of the bathroom door. Blocking her exit. The reptile's head bobbed, left to right and back again, tongue flicking, daring her to move.
Naked. Wet. Hip throbbing. Afraid. Victoria stayed on the soapy floor, her eyes searching for a weapon. What was there? A bar of soap? A towel? A tiny bottle of perfume.
A shoe!
She'd nearly tripped over it. An ankle-strapped, halter sandal with fuschia pom-poms. One of the Manolo Blahniks filched by a client. Nothing more than flimsy scraps of leather, weighing a few ounces. What she needed was a work boot with steel toes.
But look at the heel. A solid three inches. You could pound nails with it. The shoe was three feet away, halfway between her and the damned serpent.
The snake's head swung back and forth, seeming to size up the space between them. Then lowering itself to the floor, the snake slithered toward her.
"Princess! Princess! Are you all right?"
Her mother's voice. From the bedroom. She must have come through the connecting door. The snake stopped. It turned its head toward the sound.