Dropping the table, she went back to the railing, cautious not to touch it or get too close to the glass panels that enclosed the deck. She screamed for help again. But there wasn’t a soul on-property to save her.
Bayli had no phone with her. No way to signal for help. No water. Except …
“Oh, thank God!” There was a two-person Jacuzzi tub on the balcony. She crossed to it and cranked the knob for the cold water. A pathetic little stream trickled out. Then … nothing.
“No way,” she said on a shattered breath. She cranked the other knob and got the same result. Tears stung her eyes.
No water.
None for her to sit in and cool down until someone rescued her. None to drink.
Like the two vamps, she was trapped under the relentless rays, with zero breeze and not an inch of shade for protection.
Fuck! This really couldn’t be happening.
But it was.
She went back to the patio doors and banged some more. Until she had to admit that there was no one on the other side to let her in. And jumping over the railing didn’t seem like such a fab idea because she’d hit the hard patio below and break every bone in her body. Probably bleed to death from compound fractures before anyone got to her.
So she needed a Plan B.
Survival mode kicked in and she surveyed the balcony. The only saving grace she could see was the chaise longue chairs. She stripped the cushion from one and spread it horizontally in the tub. Then she took the other and perched it on the ledge, creating a little bit of shelter from the sun and the hot surface of the tub. She crawled in, the sweat still pouring from her body and her breathing shallow.
She needed water. Badly. But she tried not to think of heatstroke and dehydration and just plain shriveling up and dying right there in paradise.…
TWENTY-ONE
Christian was with Rory when the driver he’d hired to pick up Bayli phoned.
“No esta aqui,” came the driver’s rapid-fire Spanish.
“What do you mean she’s not there?” Christian demanded.
“I’ve searched. There’s no one here in the house. Not on the patio or the grounds.”
“That’s impossible! Where would she have gone? She doesn’t have a car.” Fear gripped Christian.
Rory gave him an insistent, imploring look, only hearing half of the conversation.
Christian said, “Keep looking.”
He disconnected the call and told Rory, “She’s missing.”
“How?” he asked, incredulous. “That place is locked down. And like you said, she has no vehicle.”
“What’s going on?” Lily joined them. “You two look panicked.”
“Bayli’s not at the house,” Rory curtly said.
“She has to be,” Lily assured them, looking deeply perplexed—matching Christian’s and Rory’s expressions. “There’s nowhere for her to go. Not even down to the beach. There’s no direct access. She’d need transportation no matter where she wanted to take off to.”
“She could have called a cab,” Christian strove for a reasonable explanation. Not the horrifying one creeping in on him.
“No way,” Rory said. “Not without telling us. And besides, she doesn’t know the gate codes to let anyone in.”
“Look,” Lily urged, ever the problem solver. “She has to be there somewhere. Go to the house, Christian. The audience is already filing in and we’re supposed to be taping in half an hour. Rory can get things rolling.”
“Not a fucking chance!” the chef roared. “This is exactly what we don’t want. Me interacting with these people. That’s the very reason we tanked the first time. And it’s Bayli’s job.”