41
Nat
W
hen I come to, I’m lying on my back on a leather sofa with a cold washcloth on my forehead. Some time has passed, because the sun has set and crickets are chirping outside.
The room is large and airy, decorated in a tropical Balinese style. The polished dark wood floor gleams. Ferns, orchids, and palms nestle beside carved teak tables and smiling stone buddhas. Sheer white linen curtains sway in the breeze from a pair of open French doors. I smell salt air and hear seagulls crying somewhere far off, and try to remember how I got here.
David sits on the sofa opposite mine, watching me.
His tanned legs are crossed. His feet are bare. His gaze is fixed on me with unblinking intensity.
When I sit up too abruptly, the washcloth drops to my lap and the room starts to spin.
“You
