Forster, Suzanne by Blush Page B

its graceful balustrades and spires aligned so delicately she could hardly believe it was real. On closer inspection, she saw that the only thing holding the pieces together were notches in the wood itself. How had he done it with a knife that size? The carving was fantastically intricate and detailed.
    The melancholy she'd seen in his profile stirred within her as she realized there was no way to preserve the piece. Its fragility made her think of her own daydreams of magical edifices, castles spun out of light and spiraling toward the misted sun. It would be a crime to destroy anything so pristine, she realized, but the desert had little regard for perfection. It was a hostile place with its charred, barren vistas and blood-boiling heat. Or was it he who was hostile?
    Her growling stomach reminded her she was starving.
    His duffel bag yielded two high-protein candy bars, and she grabbed both of them, scarfing one down as she continued to search the contents of the bag. Only supreme self-control kept her from devouring the other. She would save it instead, she told herself. There might be a time when she would need it more than right now.
    The bag also contained a shiny metal briefcase with a combination lock that she suspected must contain the computer she'd seen. Why a kidnapper would cart a computer around with him, she couldn't imagine, but if she hadn't dreamed the castle, she doubted that she'd dreamed the computer. Her search didn't yield any weapons, which told her that he'd hidden the Magnum somewhere else or taken it with him, but she did find a photograph hidden in a side pocket of the case. It was a tattered snapshot of a still life painting, and though she was not the art expert her stepbrother was, she recognized the style as reminiscent of Van Gogh's.
    Moments later as she looked around for something to wipe her grimy hands on, it hit her that her hands were the least of it. She was grimy everywhere, hopelessly filthy. A hysterical sound gurgled up. No one would believe this! If Rob could see her now— No, if Vogue's West Coast Bureau Chief could see her now! They would all boggle. She lifted her head and sniffed the air, wrinkling her nose. God, what was that smell? Lizard shit? No, it was her. And she was worse than anything lizards could have left. Gus Featherstone smelled like an unwashed jock strap.
    Choking back laughter, she began suddenly, inexplicably, to cry. "Oh, my God, " she whispered as tears blinded her for a moment. This wasn't like her at all. She never cried, ever, and the uncontrollable emotion propelled her to the sink, where she cranked on the tap. Red water was better than no water.
    As she scrubbed at her grimy face and arms, she told herself that the tears weren't for her. She was sad for Rob, who must be frantic wondering where she was. And for Bridget, whom she missed terribly. Emotion welled up into her throat as she thought about the towheaded moppet, who seemed to have inextricably tangled herself in Gus's heartstrings. If you dare worry about me, Bridge, even for a moment, I'll hide your toe shoes when I get home.
    The metal storage cabinet still made her uneasy, but it was time to brave the evil thing, she decided when she'd finished washing up. Sucking it in, she headed for it, but she wasn't halfway across the room when something astonishing happened. The entire place seemed to shift and shudder like an ocean-going ship.
    Being a native Californian, her first thought was of the Big One. She turned, scanning the walls, the ceiling, peering out the window before she realized it was the floor beneath her. It was giving way! She sprang back and realized she'd stepped into the trap instead of out of it.
    The rotting boards sagged under her weight, toppling her forward. Pain streaked through her injured knee as she landed on it, and a flurry of snapping and crackling dropped her down another half foot. The floor was about to collapse totally and there seemed to be nothing beneath