A PERFECT RENDEZVOUS

I would still write to you...

Against the setting sun, the tall man walked down the dusty road that led from the village to the busy docks, a newspaper and several magazines in his hand. As he headed down the pier, he spoke to none of the fishermen who were unloading the day's catch or mending their nets, and none of them spoke to him, but several pairs of curious eyes followed the stranger toward his boat, a forty-one-foot Hatteras with the name Harry stenciled on the stern in fresh blue paint. Other than the boat's name, which was required by marine law to be displayed on the stem, there was nothing to note about the craft. From a distance, it looked much like the thousands of boats that glided through the waters off the coast of South America, some of them chartered out to sports fishermen, most of them used strictly as fishing boats, all of them returning each night to unload their catch, then leaving each morning when the stars were still twinkling in the predawn sky.

Like the boat, there was little that stood out about its owner as he strode down the dock. Instead of the shorts and knit shirts preferred by the charter captains, he wore plain fisherman's garb—a white, loose-sleeved shirt of rough cotton, khaki pants, soft-soled shoes, and a dark cap pulled low over his brow. His face was tanned beneath a four-day growth of dark beard, though if anyone had looked closely, they'd have noticed that his skin was not nearly as weathered as the other fishermen's and his boat was actually better equipped for cruising than fishing. But this was a busy, competitive island port, and the Harry was merely one of thousands of boats that put in here—boats that often carried cargo that wasn't edible or legal.

Across the pier, two fishermen aboard the Diablo looked up as the Harry's owner went aboard. Moments later, the boat's generator purred to life and the cabin lights went on below. "He wastes fuel running that generator half the night," one fisherman observed. "What does he do that he needs that engine?"

"Sometimes I see his shadow at a table through the curtains. I think he sits and reads."

The other fisherman looked meaningfully at the five antennas that spiked high above the Harry's upper helm. "He has every kind of equipment, including radar, aboard that boat," he observed meaningfully, "yet he never fishes and he seeks no charter customers. I saw him anchored out near Calvary Island yesterday, and he didn't even have his lines in the water."

The first fisherman snorted in disgust. "Because he is no fisherman and no charter captain either."

"He is another drug runner then?"

"What else?" his companion agreed with a disinterested shrug.

Unaware that his presence was causing any comment along the busy docks, Zayn studied the maps he'd spread out on the table, carefully charting various courses he could take next week. It was 3 A.M. when he finally rolled the maps up, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep even though he was exhausted. Sleep was something that had eluded him almost completely for the last seven days, even though his escape from the United States had gone off without a hitch—thanks to Enrico Sandini's connections and a half million dollars of Zayn's money. In Colorado, the small chartered helicopter had appeared, as expected, to pick him up in a clearing 200 yards away from the house, a clearing that existed for precisely that purpose, except that it had been intended for use by the house's owners and their invited guests. Carrying skis and dressed like a skier, complete with large, tinted goggles that covered most of his face, Zayn had climbed aboard and been flown to a small ski lodge an hour away. The pilot had asked no questions nor shown any surprise at what was, Zayn knew, a fairly ordinary means of transportation used by wealthy skiers who preferred to own their own mountains and ski on someone else's.

A rented car had been waiting for him in the parking lot of the ski lodge, and from there he had driven south to a small landing strip where a private plane was waiting, as scheduled, on a cleared landing strip. Unlike the helicopter pilot, who'd been perfectly innocent and legitimate, the pilot of the four-engine propeller plane was not. The flight plan he filed each time they landed to refuel was not the one they followed as the little plane headed on a course south by southeast.

Soon after they left U.S. air space, Zayn had fallen asleep, waking only when they landed to refuel along the way, but from the time they landed until now, he'd only been able to doze for a couple of hours at a time.

Standing up, he went down to the galley and poured brandy into a glass, hoping it would help him sleep, knowing it wouldn't, then he carried it up to the small salon that served as living room and dining room in his sea-going "home." He turned off the cabin's main lights, but he left the small brass lamp lit on the table beside the sofa because it illuminated the picture of Harry that he'd torn from the front page of a week-old newspaper and put into a small frame taken from the wall of a forward berth. Originally, he'd assumed it was probably his college graduation picture, but tonight as he studied it and sipped his brandy, he decided the picture had more likely been taken when he was dressed for a party or perhaps a wedding. He was wearing pearls at his throat and a peach-colored dress shirt with a modest neckline, but what he most liked about the picture was that he was wearing his hair much as he'd worn it the night they'd dressed up for their "date."

Knowing he was torturing himself and yet unable to stop, he reached out and picked up the picture frame, then he propped his ankle on the opposite knee and laid the picture against his leg. Slowly, he ran his thumb over his smiling lips, wondering if he was smiling again now that he was back home. He hoped to God he was smiling, but as he gazed at his picture, what he saw was the last image he had of Harry—the wrenching look on his face when Zayn had ridiculed him for saying he loved him. The memory of that haunted him. It tore at him along with other worries about him, like whether or not he was alright and happy and not depressed. Another thought occurred to him but he knew it was not possible for Harry to be pregnant as he was a man but then too his mind went to that place where he imagined if Harry could really carry his kids and how beautiful they would be and how much he would love to have that dream come true. He tortured himself constantly wondering if he'd have to endure an abortion or endure the shame of unwed motherhood in a small town.

There were so many things he wanted to tell Harry, so many things he needed desperately to say to him. He swallowed the rest of his brandy, fighting the urge to write Harry another letter. Every day, he wrote Harry letters even though he knew damned well he couldn't send them. He had to stop writing those letters, Zayn warned himself.

He had to put Harry out of his mind before he went insane...

He had to get some sleep...

And even while he was thinking that, he was reaching for a pen and tablet.

Sometimes he told Harry where he was and what he was doing, sometimes he described in great detail things he thought would interest him, like the islands on the horizon or the habits of the local fishermen, but tonight he was in a much different mood. Tonight exhaustion and brandy sent his rampaging regrets and worries soaring to new heights. According to the outdated American newspaper he'd bought in the village this morning, Harry was definitely suspected of aiding and abetting his escape. It suddenly occurred to him that Harry was going to need to hire a lawyer to keep the police and FBI from badgering him or, worse, from charging him with collusion just to terrify him into admitting things that weren't true. If that happened, he'd need a top-notch attorney, not some country bumpkin. He'd need money to hire an attorney like that. A new sense of urgency banished the defeated despair that had clouded his thinking since Harry left him and his mind began to work furiously, coming up with new problems and sudden solutions.

It was dawn when he leaned back in his chair, incredibly weary and completely beaten. Beaten, because he knew he was going to send Harry this letter. He had to send it to him, partly because of the solutions he'd come up with, but also because he desperately wanted Harry to know the truth about how he felt. He was now certain that the truth couldn't hurt Harry nearly as much as he'd hurt him with a lie. This would be their last communication, but at least it would correct the ugly ending to the most exquisitely beautiful days and nights of his life.

Sunlight was peeping through the curtains in the salon and he glanced at his watch. Mail on this island was only picked up once a week, early in the morning on Mondays, which meant he couldn't take the time to rewrite his rambling, incoherent letter, not when he still had to write a letter to Liam and explain what he wanted done.