Read Online Your Heart Belongs to Me by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online
Authors: Dean Koontz
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it, for to name it would be to embrace it.
He woke in low light. The dread that weighed him down was not of an imminent threat but of some monumental peril he sensed coming in the weeks and months ahead, not the failure of his body but some worse and nameless jeopardy. His heart did not race, but each beat was like a heavy piston stroke in some great slow machine.
Although Samantha’s alluring scent clung to the sheets, she had risen from the bed while Ryan slept. He was alone in the room.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 11:24 P.M . He had been asleep less than an hour.
The light that came through the half-open door called to mind the strange glow in the submerged city of his dream.
He pulled on his khakis and, barefoot, went in search of Sam.
In the combination dining room and living room, beside an armchair, a bronze floorlamp with a beaded-glass shade provided a brandy-colored light, dappling the floor with bead gleam and bead shadow.
The kitchen was an extension of the main room, and there the door stood open to the deck on which they had sat for dinner.
The candles were extinguished. Only faint moonlight glazed the air, and the branches of the old tree were tentacular in the gloom.
The mild air was slightly scented by the nearby sea, more generously by night-blooming jasmine.
Samantha was not on the deck. Stairs descended to the courtyard between the garage and the house.
Murmuring voices rose from below, leading Ryan away from the stairs to a railing. Looking down, he saw Samantha because a shaft of moonlight devalued her hair from gold to silver and caressed her pearl-white silk robe.
The second person stood in shadows, but from the timbre of the voice, Ryan knew this was a man.
He could not hear their words, and he could not discern their mood from the rhythms of their conversation.
As in the butler’s pantry the previous night, when he tried unsuccessfully to eavesdrop on a whispered discussion in the kitchen, he was overcome by a creeping unease, by a tantalizing suggestion of hidden dimensions and secret meanings in things that had heretofore seemed simple, clear, and fully understood.
From a tonal change in the voices, Ryan inferred that the pair below had reached the end of their discussion. Indeed, the man turned away from Samantha.
As the stranger moved, shadows at first clung to him, but then relented. The lunar glow was illuminating yet at the same time misty and mystifying, veiling as much as it revealed.
Tall, slim, moving with athletic confidence, the man crossed the moonshadow-mottled lawn toward the alleyway behind the garage, his hair white and punk-cut, as though he wore a jagged crown of ice.
Spencer Barghest, reputed lover of Rebecca Reach, compassionate and eager guide to the suicidal, was visible for only a brief moment. Moonlight shrank from him, and shadows took him in; the intervening limbs and leaves of the California pepper blocked him from further view.
Below, Samantha turned toward the steps.
THIRTEEN
R yan backed barefoot off the deck and through the open door. He turned and hurried out of the kitchen, across the front room.
In the bedroom, he stripped off his khakis. He draped them over the arm of a chair, as they had been, and returned to bed.
Under the covers, he realized that he had not thought through this retreat, but had instinctively chosen to avoid confrontation. In retrospect, he was not sure that he had taken the wisest course.
Feigning sleep, he heard Samantha enter the bedroom, and heard the silken rustle of her robe discarded.
Under the covers once more, she said softly, “Ryan?” When he did not reply, she repeated his name.
If she believed that he was faking sleep, she might suspect that he had seen or heard something of the assignation under the pepper tree. Therefore, he said sleepily, “Hmmmm?”
She slid against him and took hold of what she wanted.
Under the circumstances, he did not believe that he could rise to the
He woke in low light. The dread that weighed him down was not of an imminent threat but of some monumental peril he sensed coming in the weeks and months ahead, not the failure of his body but some worse and nameless jeopardy. His heart did not race, but each beat was like a heavy piston stroke in some great slow machine.
Although Samantha’s alluring scent clung to the sheets, she had risen from the bed while Ryan slept. He was alone in the room.
The digital clock on the nightstand read 11:24 P.M . He had been asleep less than an hour.
The light that came through the half-open door called to mind the strange glow in the submerged city of his dream.
He pulled on his khakis and, barefoot, went in search of Sam.
In the combination dining room and living room, beside an armchair, a bronze floorlamp with a beaded-glass shade provided a brandy-colored light, dappling the floor with bead gleam and bead shadow.
The kitchen was an extension of the main room, and there the door stood open to the deck on which they had sat for dinner.
The candles were extinguished. Only faint moonlight glazed the air, and the branches of the old tree were tentacular in the gloom.
The mild air was slightly scented by the nearby sea, more generously by night-blooming jasmine.
Samantha was not on the deck. Stairs descended to the courtyard between the garage and the house.
Murmuring voices rose from below, leading Ryan away from the stairs to a railing. Looking down, he saw Samantha because a shaft of moonlight devalued her hair from gold to silver and caressed her pearl-white silk robe.
The second person stood in shadows, but from the timbre of the voice, Ryan knew this was a man.
He could not hear their words, and he could not discern their mood from the rhythms of their conversation.
As in the butler’s pantry the previous night, when he tried unsuccessfully to eavesdrop on a whispered discussion in the kitchen, he was overcome by a creeping unease, by a tantalizing suggestion of hidden dimensions and secret meanings in things that had heretofore seemed simple, clear, and fully understood.
From a tonal change in the voices, Ryan inferred that the pair below had reached the end of their discussion. Indeed, the man turned away from Samantha.
As the stranger moved, shadows at first clung to him, but then relented. The lunar glow was illuminating yet at the same time misty and mystifying, veiling as much as it revealed.
Tall, slim, moving with athletic confidence, the man crossed the moonshadow-mottled lawn toward the alleyway behind the garage, his hair white and punk-cut, as though he wore a jagged crown of ice.
Spencer Barghest, reputed lover of Rebecca Reach, compassionate and eager guide to the suicidal, was visible for only a brief moment. Moonlight shrank from him, and shadows took him in; the intervening limbs and leaves of the California pepper blocked him from further view.
Below, Samantha turned toward the steps.
THIRTEEN
R yan backed barefoot off the deck and through the open door. He turned and hurried out of the kitchen, across the front room.
In the bedroom, he stripped off his khakis. He draped them over the arm of a chair, as they had been, and returned to bed.
Under the covers, he realized that he had not thought through this retreat, but had instinctively chosen to avoid confrontation. In retrospect, he was not sure that he had taken the wisest course.
Feigning sleep, he heard Samantha enter the bedroom, and heard the silken rustle of her robe discarded.
Under the covers once more, she said softly, “Ryan?” When he did not reply, she repeated his name.
If she believed that he was faking sleep, she might suspect that he had seen or heard something of the assignation under the pepper tree. Therefore, he said sleepily, “Hmmmm?”
She slid against him and took hold of what she wanted.
Under the circumstances, he did not believe that he could rise to the
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