Antonia digested his explanation without any evidence of increased anxiety. “Given the conditions, it wouldn’t be unreasonable for them to think the boat pulled loose prematurely and no one was in it. I hope that’s the case. Better you messed up than—”

“I didn’t mess up. Someone scuttled my boat and took your paddle.”

She swallowed, nodding. “I know.”

“It means we’re not alone.”

* * *

Robert swore viciously. He was in agony. His skin was burning, itching, covered in lumps and bumps and oozing crusts. Now thorns were pricking his arms and back from the rosebush behind the bitch doctor’s cottage.

Just what he needed, more shit gnawing on him.

He was covered in bites and red welts. The humidity was building in ahead of the storm, and he couldn’t stand it in his poncho—it was like a damn steam bath, and sweating made him itch and burn even more. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t plan. But he didn’t see what choice he had, and he put his poncho back on, just for protection from the thorns and the bugs. He’d given up on the deer ticks. One ankle was damn near black with them. He’d just have to get some antibiotics when he returned to the mainland. Maybe he could get Dr. Antonia to write him a prescription before he killed her.

Meanwhile, bring on the Lyme disease.

At least he was well-armed against the bitch doctor and the stud boyfriend. It had nearly killed him last night, knowing the two of them were in the cottage. But now he had no illusions whatsoever. He had no doubts. He didn’t have to second-guess himself. He’d done the right thing, stalking her, sneaking out here with his Smith & Wesson. Deep down, he knew it would come to killing her. And killing the wannabe senator, too. It was why he’d kept picturing her begging for her life. Because it was the right thing to do. It was necessary.

The bitch doctor would never let him into her orbit.

He was a nonentity to her. He didn’t have the nuisance value of even one of the ticks stuck to his leg, sucking his blood, spreading disease. He was just the floor-mopper who showed up for work every day and once, for reasons that she must have thought didn’t concern her, had arrived in the E.R. for treatment.

Well, the instant messages, the spooky way he’d whispered to her in the garage and left her bedroom window open, cutting up her underwear—that all had more than deer-tick-level nuisance value. But she didn’t know it was him. She didn’t even know he’d slashed up her silky underthings. She didn’t know he was the one who’d set Superman Callahan’s boat adrift, who’d stolen her paddle, who was out here now, plotting his next move.