The Stranger Just One Night Part 1(41)

For a split second I consider removing the keys from the ignition. Why would I meet this man at a marina? The location is too soft, too romantic, whispers of too many fantasies of just sailing away from it all.

But he knows I’ll come and so I turn the key.

* * *

I PULL INTO the parking lot lining the peninsula. Moorings holding pleasure crafts are surrounded by high-rise condos and hotels. It’s fantasy meets urban reality—an appropriate metaphor for my current predicament. But I can’t have both. I have to give up the fantasy.

My cell buzzes with a new text message. It’s from him. He simply tells me where to park, where to walk, which gates to open. The text is eerily well timed. It’s as if he has a sixth sense when it comes to me.

I study his words again. He’s instructing me. Just as he instructed me that one night in Vegas . . . just as he had instructed me when he had watched me through his computer screen. But perhaps these instructions are more benign?

No, not benign. Nothing about Robert Dade is benign. And neither is my eagerness to follow his directives.

As I walk away from my car to the gate that he told me to walk through, the Ritz-Carlton to my left, the ocean to my right, I find myself wondering what he’ll ask me to do next.

It’s hot; the jacket comes off. Even satin isn’t right for this setting but it’ll have to do. I follow the steps and go down the dock, passing sailboats, restaurants, tourists, and palm trees until I find the place where I’m supposed to turn . . . toward the horizon. And I see him, standing on top of a small yacht, wearing another cheap T-shirt, charcoal gray this time so it matches his hair; his jeans are faded. . . . I can’t tell if they’re old or simply designed to look that way. Doesn’t matter.

I walk to him, just as he asked, but stop when I’m still several feet away from the boat.

“Are we meeting in the yacht club?” I ask from the dock.

“No, come aboard.”

I’m pained by how much I want to heed his request. I want to let him take me on yet another adventure. I want to follow my devil’s lead.

But I shake my head. “There are plenty of restaurants for us to have our lunch meeting.”

He studies me for a moment. “Is everything all right?”

It’s a good question. Maybe it isn’t right now but surely it will be if I just stay strong. I press my lips together and give a stiff nod.

“If I come down there, I will not be a gentleman.”

He’s teasing but the threat scares me anyway. Everything has changed. I am now officially engaged and everyone, my friends, my parents, my colleagues, they all know it. If Robert does anything to give me away, the consequences will coat my world with humiliation. I can’t even let myself think about it.

“I could turn around and leave right now,” I say. The wind picks up and lifts my hair with a silent force. I wore it down again and I’m getting used to the way it feels when it moves. I’m getting used to the way Mr. Dade’s words move me, too, and that’s a problem. I will myself to turn away from him. “I’m not here for that, Mr. Dade.”

“Ah, so we’re back to formalities.” There’s a question there. He doesn’t understand the degree of the shift. He thinks I’ve just gotten a little scared . . . or that maybe I’m teasing him back.

“I think . . . for a lot of reasons, we should strive for a more . . . professional decorum. I . . . I’m afraid I let things get a little too familiar. It won’t happen again.”

He pauses, studies me. “I assume you’ve heard the story of the boy who cries wolf?” he asks, deadpan. “You realize that you don’t have a lot of credibility in this area.”

“I’m serious this time.”

“As opposed to last time, when you were just joking?”

“I’m not getting on the boat.”

I roll back my shoulders and meet his gaze. I wait for the anger, the hurt, the bewilderment that must be coming. But his poker face is flawless. I can’t predict what hand is about to be played. . . .

Until he smiles—it’s the smile I get when I realize I’m playing chess against a worthy adversary. It’s the smile of someone who knows he’s about to win against the best.

“If I come down there, Miss Fitzgerald, I will kiss you”—he raises his hand as I start to protest—“and I won’t stop there. I will touch you the way you want me to touch you.”

“Quiet!” I hiss.

I look around self-consciously. I don’t see anyone on the nearby boats but that doesn’t mean anything. We’re in public, his voice is strong, I can’t count on the ocean breeze carrying his every word out to sea.