by Sandra Brown
“You’re not a nice guy.”
“Maybe I’m trying to change.” She gave him a retiring look, which only heightened his anger. “Bury the hatchet for once, okay? And bury it someplace besides my skull. Can’t you forget my last name? Even temporarily? I’ll try to forget yours. Deal?” He held her stare until she lowered her gaze.
Taking that as concession, he said, “Thanks for what you did tonight. I was out of my element and knew it the minute I saw the condition Helen was in, physically and emotionally. It was a scene out of hell, and you handled it like a real pro. You… were terrific.”
Again Lara listened for sarcasm, but there was none. Those words, she knew, were difficult for him to say. It would be churlish of her not to accept the compliment. “Thank you.” Then, with a self-deprecating laugh, she added, “Actually I’m great during emergencies. I never crack under pressure. Only afterward. Then I collapse.”
It seemed a long time before he spoke again. When he did, it was in a hushed voice that invited confidence. “What was the crying binge about, Lara?”
She felt herself respond not only to his tone but to his speaking her name. Still she hesitated, unwilling to bare her soul to him. Although what did it matter now? He’d already witnessed her loss of self-control.
Her throat ached from so much crying. She cleared it before speaking. “My daughter. It was about my daughter.”
“I guessed as much. Go on.”
She threw back her head, then rolled it around her shoulders. “Sometimes when a case involves a child, it conjures up the nightmare. Ashley dies all over again.” She sniffed and blotted her nose with a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table.
“There’ve been two in the last few days. First Letty Leonard. Now Helen’s fetus. Knowing that a small, helpless, innocent life was needlessly lost…” She shrugged eloquently. “It still affects me. Deeply.” She sipped from her coffee mug, which felt very heavy in her trembling hand. The brandy had been a good idea. It warmed and soothed all the way down.
“Tell me about her.”
“Who, Ashley?”
“Pretty name.”
“She was pretty.” She laughed softly, with embarrassment. “Every mother thinks that about her child, I know, but Ashley was pretty. From the day she was born. Blond and blue-eyed, cherubic-looking. She had a perfectly round face and rosy cheeks. Truly a beautiful child. And she was a good baby. Content. She didn’t cry much, even during the early months. She had an unusually happy disposition. Her smile was like sunshine. Even strangers commented on it. She… beamed. Yes, beamed,” she said reflectively.
“She seemed destined to make everyone around her smile, to light up a room when she walked in. She certainly lit up my life.” Her coffee was growing cold. She folded her hands around the mug in a vain attempt to retain the warmth.
“Until she was born, I was desperately unhappy. Randall’s job required all his time and concentration. Montesangre is a hideous place. I loathe it. All of it. The climate, the land, the people. Living there in banishment was the bleakest period of my life. Or so I thought at the time. I didn’t learn what real despair is until I lost my child.”
She paused for a moment to stave off another smothering attack of bereavement. She swallowed with difficulty and briefly mashed her fist against her lips. When she felt it was safe to speak, she cleared her throat again and continued.
“Ashley made even that horrid place bearable. When I nursed her, it was as nurturing to me as it was to her. For weeks after I weaned her, my breasts ached.” She covered her breasts with her hands, feeling once again the pain of disuse and remorse. Then, remembering herself, she lowered her hands and glanced at Key. He sat unmoving, watching and listening. “And then she died.”
“She didn’t die. She was killed.”
She sipped her coffee, but it was cold now so she pushed the mug aside. “That’s right. There is a distinction, isn’t there?”
“Definitely.”
She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. “What do you need, a play-by-play account?”
“No,” he answered quietly. “I think that’s what you need.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to go to hell, but the words died unspoken. She didn’t have enough energy for defiance. Moreover, perhaps he was right. Perhaps she did need to talk about it.
“We were on our way to a party,” she began. “A wealthy local businessman was throwing a birthday bash for one of his seven children. I didn’t particularly want to go. I knew it would be an ostentatious affair. The way in which the wealthy Montesangrens flaunted their wealth made you almost sympathize with the rebels. Anyway, Randall insisted that we attend the party because the host was an influential man.
“I dressed Ashley in a new dress. Yellow. Her color. I put a yellow bow in her hair, on the top of her head where her curls were the thickest.” She touched her own hair to demonstrate.
“Randall had arranged for someone on the embassy staff to drive us, thinking it would be more impressive if we arrived with a chauffeur. He was sitting in the front seat with the driver. Ashley and I were in the back. We were playing patty-cake. The car approached a busy intersection. Ashley was laughing, squealing. She was happy.”
Lara couldn’t go on. Resting her head in her palm, she pinched her burning eyes shut. After a moment, she forced herself to continue.
“The driver stopped for the traffic light. Suddenly, the car was surrounded by armed, masked guerrillas. I didn’t realize this at the time. It all happened too fast. I didn’t know anything was wrong until the driver fell forward against the steering wheel. He’d been shot through the head at close range. The second bullet shattered the front windshield. It struck Randall.
“The third bullet was intended for him too, but he had slumped to one side. Ashley was hit instead. Here.” She touched the side of her neck. “Her blood splattered over my face and chest. I screamed and fell across her to protect her. That’s when I was shot, in the back of my shoulder. I didn’t even feel it.”
She paused and sat staring into space. It was an effort to continue, but she knew that healing processes were customarily painful.
“Bystanders started screaming. People left their cars idling and scattered in every direction, seeking cover. They were safe. It was us the rebels were after. Three of them opened the passenger door and grabbed Randall. He shouted in pain and outrage. I believe one of the gunmen struck him in the temple with the butt of his pistol. Randall lost consciousness before they carried him to their waiting truck. I read all this later in the newspaper, after they had executed him. I knew nothing at the time of the kidnapping. All I knew was that my baby was dying.
“I knew it, but I couldn’t accept it,” she continued hoarsely. “I was screaming. I couldn’t stop the bleeding. I pushed my finger into the bullet hole in her neck to try to stop it. The authorities arrived within minutes of the attack, but I was hysterical. They had to prize Ashley away from me. They dragged me to an ambulance. I don’t remember anything after that. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was in a hospital in Miami.”
She didn’t realize that tears were rolling down her face until one ran into the corner of her lips. She licked it away. “The ambush on our car marked the official beginning of the revolution. The rebels attacked the birthday party, too. It was a bloodbath. Only a few survivors lived to tell about it. No doubt we would have been killed there. I don’t know why they chose to ambush us en route.
“Because of what happened to Randall, the United States closed the embassy in Montesangre—what was left of it after it was ransacked—and abruptly discontinued diplomatic relations with their new government.
“Following his execution, the revolutionaries returned Randall’s body to the States. It was more a gesture of contempt than largess, because they also sent gory photographs of the firing squad to the secretary of state. They didn’t send back Ashley’s remains, nor any pictures of her body or coffin. No death certifica
te. Nothing. They ignored all Washington’s demands for either more information or the release of her body. After a while, Washington lost interest and stopped demanding. I’ve continued to badger them, but as far as our government is concerned, the matter is closed.
“Oh, God.” She covered her face with her hands. “My baby is still down there. I never got to touch her. Never got to see her face one last time. Never got to kiss her good-bye. She’s somewhere down there in that wretched place. That—”
“Don’t, Lara.” He was there in an instant, standing beside her chair, smoothing back her hair. “You’re right. It’s a goddamn nightmare, but for Ashley it was over in a heartbeat. She didn’t suffer any fear or pain.”
“Yes, the pain has been all mine. I thank God for that. But at times it’s so crushing that I don’t think I can stand it anymore. There’s no relief from it.” She pressed her fist against her chest. “It hurts so bad. I want my baby back!”
“Shh. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t.” He pulled her to her feet. His arms went around her.
Instinctively, her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, and she pressed her face against his chest. “I’ll never forget it. But there are parts of it that I can’t remember. Like frames of a motion picture film, segments have been clipped out, and I’m afraid they’re important. I want to remember the missing pieces, but my mind blocks them out. Sometimes I can almost grasp a lost memory, then it eludes me. It’s as if I’m afraid to grasp it. I fear those things I can’t remember.”
“Shh-shh. It’s all right. It’s over and you’re safe.”
The assurances were whispered into her hair before his lips moved to her brow. Lara became aware of how good it felt to be held by someone physically stronger than herself. There had been no one with whom she could share this grief. Not her parents, who implicitly blamed her for everything that had happened, including Ashley’s death. All her friends had deserted her when she made banner headlines for being Clark’s mistress. For years she’d carried this burden alone. It was an unexpected luxury to lean on someone else and, for a few moments, relinquish a portion of the cumbersome weight.
Placing his fingertips beneath her chin, Key tilted her head up and grazed her lips with his. “Don’t cry anymore, Lara.” The raspy words were lightly ground against her mouth. “It’s all right.” Again, his lips rubbed hers. “Don’t cry.”
Then he kissed her, a deep, hot, wet, questing kiss.
Lara’s eyes slowly closed. She swirled in a maelstrom of fluid heat. Her will was voluntarily surrendered, and her mind went on a sensuous ride where nothing mattered except the connection—mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, man to woman. It fulfilled a primal need she wasn’t even aware she possessed.
Her response was instinctual. Her hands clutched him yearningly. She tipped her middle up, a gesture purely feminine, a silent solicitation for intimacy.
As though from a distance she heard his soft curse, then felt his hands moving across her shoulders, down her back, over her hips, drawing her against him, pressing her close. Closer.
It was that sudden and shocking familiarity with his body, or perhaps a self-preserving resurgence of sound judgment, that jolted her out of the sensual mist and into cold reality.
She pushed herself away and turned her back to him. Seeking support, she leaned forward against the counter. She took several deep breaths and vainly tried to disregard the desire rioting through her.
“Take me there.”
He said nothing.
She let go of the counter and faced him. “Take me there. I’ve got to know what happened to my child. I’ve got to see her death certificate, touch the soil in which she’s buried. Grasp… something.”
His face remained impassive.
“That closure, that final goodbye, is essential to one’s survivors. That’s why we have funerals and eulogies and wakes.” Still he said nothing. “Damn you! Say something.”
“You weren’t bullshitting. You really intend to go back.”
“Yes. And you’re going to fly me.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Now why would I do something that dumb?”
“Because you’re smart enough to realize that I’m right. Clark was instrumental in getting Randall assigned to Montesangre. My baby died as a consequence of your brother’s cowardly, political machinations.”
“A debatable point at best,” he said. “So, in order to make your argument more convincing, you decided to throw in some tongue-twisting kisses, right?”
Heat rushed to her face. “One has nothing to do with the other,” she said gruffly.
He made a snide, scoffing sound. “You know, Doc, you’ve just lived up to all my expectations. In fact, you surpassed them.” He whistled long and softly, wagging his hand as though he’d touched something hot. “One little kiss and you’re ready, baby.”
He snickered insultingly as he looked her over, then started toward the door. “Find yourself another sucker. I’ll pass on taking a vacation to a war zone. I’m sure as hell not interested in fucking my dead brother’s leftovers.”
He was so angry, it was a life-threatening risk to drive, yet he pointed the Lincoln toward home and pushed it through the night like a Sherman tank. He was angry with her, but that was nothing new or surprising.
The surprise was that he was angry with himself. He, who never analyzed his actions or apologized for anything he did, was riddled with guilt because he wanted his late brother’s mistress. If circumstances had been different, if she had given him the go-ahead, he’d be tugging off his boots right about now.
Jesus. Didn’t he have any more character than to be craving a piece of the woman who’d caused his brother’s downfall? Jody was right about him after all. Who better to know a child’s character than his mother? He was rotten to the core, just like his old man. Where women were concerned he had no discretion and no conscience. If he did, his cock wouldn’t be hard enough to drive nails, and the taste of Lara Mallory’s mouth wouldn’t still linger on his tongue.
When they were growing up, he and Clark had shared things, sometimes voluntarily, sometimes under parental duress. They swapped sweaters, shaving lotion, skateboards. But they’d never shared women. Not the easy girls at school. Not even whores.
This tacit agreement had evolved out of their adolescence, possibly because romance was one arena in which they didn’t want to compete. As brothers, they were constant subjects of comparison, but they drew the line when it came to sexual aptitude. Key had never wanted a girl that Clark had dated before him, and, although he couldn’t put thoughts into Clark’s head, he figured his brother had felt the same way. That’s why his desire for Lara Mallory was so puzzling and infuriating. It violated one of his own commandments.
He knew he had just as well get over this itch for her because he could never scratch it. To want the woman who had tainted his brother’s name and destroyed his future was sinful. And while sin had never been a deterrent to his doing anything he wanted to do, stupidity certainly was.
That was the crux of his anger. He felt like a stupid fool for listening like a trusted old fogy while she poured out her tearful story. He’d brewed coffee, for chrissake! Then he’d gone one step farther and held her. Kissed her.
“Shit.” He hit the steering wheel with his fist.
She was probably still laughing, knowing that she’d built a fire in his gut that he doubted ten other women could extinguish. A woman didn’t let you make love to her mouth like that without knowing damn good and well what it was doing to you. No wonder she’d chosen that moment to make her pitch about a trip to Central America. She figured she had him so wound up he’d agree to take her to Mars if she asked.
Guess again, Doc, he thought with a smirk. He’d been hot for a lot of women, but even in the throes of passion he’d never taken a total departure from his reason.
On second thought, she hadn’t looked particularly complacent when he left. She had seemed as confused and humiliated
as he felt now. True enough, the story of her daughter’s death had been heartbreaking. He still didn’t trust her, but when it came to Ashley’s murder, who could doubt that her suffering was genuine? The kid’s death had shattered her, and she wasn’t over it yet.
When I nursed her, it was as nurturing to me as it was to her.
She seemed destined to make the people around her happy.
She had adored that kid and had taken her death harder than Randall Porter’s brutal execution. Of course, following the nasty scandal involving Clark, their marriage couldn’t have been on solid ground. By her own admission, she’d been miserably unhappy in Montesangre. Only the birth of her daughter had made life there livable. To her, Ashley must have been like a consolation prize, a sign of God’s forgiveness. Having lost Clark, she’d transferred all her love and attention to her baby.
Suddenly Key withdrew his foot from the accelerator. The Lincoln began to slow down. He stared sightlessly into the darkness that was gradually lifting on the eastern horizon. But the imminent sunrise didn’t register on him. Nor did he realize that the Lincoln was straddling the center stripe as it rolled to a stop.
Other things Lara had said echoed in his head.
Blond and blue-eyed.
Her smile was like sunshine.
She beamed.
Key knew of only one other person who’d been described in such radiant, solar terms. Clark Tackett the Third.
“Son of a bitch,” he whispered as his hands heedlessly slipped from the steering wheel and landed in his lap.
Lara Mallory’s beloved Ashley had been his brother’s child.
Chapter Fifteen
Ollie Hoskins went to work with his feather duster on the cans of pork ’n’ beans, chili, tamales, and tuna in aisle 6. As manager of the Sak’n’Save supermarket, he could have delegated dusting the shelves to one of the stock-boys, but he enjoyed doing the menial tasks—pricing, stocking, sacking—because the work was clearly defined and easily dispatched. It was mindless labor that he could do while thinking about something else.