by Sandra Brown
“Plane crash. I walked away, but tore open my arm on a piece of fuselage.”
She marveled at his nonchalance. “Other than today, have you ever been in real danger of losing your life?”
“Once.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I got shot. Here,” he said, touching his newest scar, the one she was familiar with. “Nearly bled to death.”
Laughing, she tossed her hair over one shoulder. “It was more than a scratch, but certainly not a mortal wound.”
“I know that. But I wasn’t talking about the wound itself,” he said. “See, I stumbled into Doc Patton’s place, expecting him, but finding someone else. A woman.”
Lara became transfixed by his eyes and the hypnotic quality of his voice. “How was that life-threatening?” she asked huskily.
“I turned around and looked at her and thought, ‘Shit, Tackett, you’re a dead man.’ ”
She swallowed with difficulty. “We’re grown-ups, Key. Beyond the age of consent and too old to play games. I don’t expect hearts and flowers from you. You don’t have to profess—”
He laid his index finger vertically against her lips. “I’m not telling you this to get you into bed. You’re already here and I’ve already had you. I’m telling you because it’s the truth, and you know it as well as I do. We’re here together, like this, because we’ve wanted it from the beginning. We’ve both known that it was only a matter of time.”
He reached up to stroke her cheek. “Once we looked at each other, I didn’t stand a chance and neither did you. I wanted to fuck you on the spot.”
“Until you discovered who I was.”
“I wanted to fuck you anyway.” Reaching behind her head, he clutched a handful of her hair and drew her face close to his. “Damn me to hell, I still do.”
Key reached for her as she scooted off the bed and began gathering her clothes. “Where are you going?” he mumbled sleepily.
“To my room.”
“What for?”
“A bath.”
“We have a tub in here.”
“But we used all the soap. Besides, I need to organize my things so that when they come to take us to the airport I’ll be ready.” She dressed hastily.
“What time is it?”
“Nine.”
“Nine! We slept that long?” He sat up and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair.
“You don’t have to get up. We’ve got plenty of time before noon.”
“No, I’m getting up. I don’t want to give the bastards any reason to delay our departure. As soon as I shower, I’ll see if they’ll bring us some coffee.”
“I’ll have everything ready by then.” She smiled at him, checked to make certain she had her key, then unlocked the door and stepped into the hall.
Contrary to what he’d said, Key didn’t get up immediately, but lay back down and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Last night Lara had confessed to some confusion. Being less straight-forward then she, he hadn’t admitted to his own ambiguity.
To assuage her conscience, she had dredged up a psychological explanation for going to bed with him, although he doubted that she believed her own sales pitch. He didn’t think lust needed analysis or rationalization. It was a call to action all by itself.
His confusion was centered not on why it had happened but on how he felt about it—about her—now that it had.
He’d never enjoyed a woman more. Physically, they were a good fit. She had matched him in passion and skill. Despite all the tabloid journalism written about her, he hadn’t expected her to be so sexually liberated. Memories of their love play now sent heat surging through his loins. Even after their marathon of sex, he was for from satisfied. He wanted more of her.
That, too, was unexpected and disconcerting. Usually the chase was most of the fun. Once caught, a woman’s charms rapidly diminished. It bothered him greatly to realize that Lara had become only more intriguing. She had layers and dimensions he was eager to explore. Customarily, women were as disposable as razor blades. When one got dull, he threw it away and replaced it with another. He wasn’t eager to dispose of and replace Lara.
Not that she was his to do with as he pleased.
Ah! He’d finally acknowledged the crux of all these niggling misgivings. She didn’t belong to him. Furthermore, if circumstances had been different, she might still belong to his brother.
Clark had had her first.
That alone had prevented last night from being the most satisfying night of sex he’d ever engaged in. Inadvertently he must have conveyed his uneasiness about it. Either that or Dr. Mallory was damned perceptive.
She brought it up, after they had nibbled on the remainder of the food and decided that they should try to sleep. She lay on her side, facing away from him, her folded hands supporting her cheek. He’d been absently rubbing a strand of her hair between his thumb and index finger, thinking that she’d been luckier at falling asleep than he. He was surprised to hear her drowsily say, “I know what you’re thinking about.”
He moved his knee against the back of her thigh. “Okay, smarty, what am I thinking about?”
“Clark.”
His smile receded and the strand of hair sifted through his fingers. “What about him?”
“You’re wondering if I’m comparing the two of you, and, if so, how you measure up.”
“I didn’t know you were a shrink, too.”
She turned her head and gazed at him over her bare shoulder. “I’m right, aren’t I? Isn’t that what you were thinking?”
“Maybe.”
Smiling sadly, she gave her head a small shake. “You and Clark… you’re two different people, Key. Equally attractive, both charismatic, each of you a natural leader, but so very different. I loved your brother, and I believe he loved me.” She reduced her voice to a whisper. “But it was never like tonight.” She rolled away from him and returned her cheek to her hands. He had thought she was finished, but she repeated, “Never.”
He’d lain there for a while, steeped in jealousy, wanting desperately to believe her. Soon, however, desire superseded envy. Or maybe it wasn’t so much desire as jealous possessiveness.
Moving suddenly, he placed his arm around her and roughly pulled her closer until her bottom was firmly pressed against his belly. He entered her with one hard thrust. He took a love bite from the back of her neck and held it between his teeth, feeling the need to dominate and control.
There was no need for it. She was receptive and giving and so erotically charged that he had only to press his open palm against her mound and the inner walls of her body contracted around his cock like a magic fist, massaging him, milking him of semen and of doubts.
It took a while for their breathing to return to normal. Their bodies glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. When he finally withdrew from her, she turned to face him and nuzzled his chest with her open mouth.
She said, “Shameless.”
“I’ve never claimed to be otherwise.”
“Not you. Me.”
He’d fallen asleep with her in his arms, secure in the knowledge that their lovemaking had gone beyond mutual satisfaction. It had been in another league.
But now it was day, and his doubts were encroaching like the tropical humidity that accompanied the rising sun. He thought back to all that she’d said, to all her sensual responses, to her bold caresses. Surely it couldn’t have been any better for her with his brother.
Had she ever ridden Clark until she collapsed, exhausted, on his chest?
Key’s fists clenched at his sides.
Had she blissfully tortured Clark to climax with her sliding, kneading hand?
He cursed obscenely.
Had she permitted Clark to kiss her between her thighs, to separate and taste…
A bloodcurdling scream brought him bolt upright.
By the time the second one shattered the morning stillness, he had put on his pants and was at the door, all but pulling it from
its hinges in his haste to get it open.
“Buenos días,” Lara said to the guards as she left Key’s room. Undaunted by their leers, she crossed the hall and entered her room, carefully locking the door behind her.
Their boots had tracked mud onto the carpet, and, as Key had pointed out, they’d ravaged the bed. He’d joked, telling her that regardless of what she might have heard about Texans, that was the first time he’d ever made love with his boots on.
Made love? Had he used those exact words, or was her memory being kind?
She shrugged off the disturbing thought, having had enough self-analysis for one twenty-four-hour period. The conclusions she’d reached last night had been positive. The rest of her life had begun when she fell into Key’s embrace. The experience had been cathartic. Why try attaching a name to it? Her mood and her body spoke for themselves. She felt wonderful. For once, why not let it go at that?
Taking her duffel with her, she went into the bathroom. When she saw her reflection in the mirror over the basin, she laughed with self-deprecation. She had on no makeup, and, though her hair was clean, it had been washed with bar soap and looked it.
He hadn’t seemed to notice. Or care.
A blush spread up from her chest to her neck and face. Unbuttoning the first few buttons of her blouse, she glanced down at her breasts and, as expected, saw that they were whisker-burned. Before they slept together again, she’d insist that he shave.
If they slept together again.
To her chagrin, she found herself hoping desperately that they would. Soon.
Smiling with anticipation, she pulled back the shower curtain and reached for the water taps.
Her scream reverberated off the flamingo-pink tiles.
Lying in the bathtub, beaten and bleeding but very much alive, was Randall Porter.
Her husband.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“How charming you look.” The former United States ambassador to Montesangre stood as his wife entered the parlor. “Although I liked your hair better when you lightened it. When did you stop?”
“While I was recuperating in Miami. Those were difficult months for me. Hair color wasn’t a priority.”
Lara glanced at Key. Declining to stand when she came in, he was slumped in an upholstered chair, one ankle balanced on the opposite knee, his foot rapidly jiggling up and down. His steepled fingers tapped his lips in time to the movement of his foot. The posture would have looked insouciant on anyone else, but Lara sensed that he was on the verge of exploding.
If Randall noticed Key’s tenuously controlled rage, he gave no indication of it. “Would you like something to drink, darling? We have a few minutes before going downstairs.”
“No, thank you. I don’t want anything to drink. And I don’t see why it’s necessary for me to participate in this news conference.”
“You’re my wife. Your place is by my side.” At the bar, Randall poured himself a club soda. “Mr. Tackett? Anything?”
“No.”
Randall returned to the sofa where he’d been sitting when Lara joined them from the bedroom of the Houston hotel suite. The well-appointed rooms were a considerable improvement over the accommodations in Montesangre.
Well-wishing floral arrangements crowded every available surface. Their mingled scents were sweet and cloying and had given Lara a dull headache. She thought these expressions of congratulations ludicrously hypocritical, having been sent by many of the same bureaucrats and political figures who, five years ago, had been relieved to see Randall and his cheating wife shuttled off to Montesangre, thereby sparing Washington the embarrassment of having them underfoot.
Technically, Randall was still a United States ambassador. When the media was notified by news services in Colombia of his shocking resurrection, the story took precedence over all others and earned the banner headline of virtually every newspaper in the world. His return to life sent the entire nation into a tailspin, the press into a frenzy.
In Bogotá he’d been treated for his wounds, which were more superficial than they’d first appeared. Key had relented and had his ribs X-rayed. Three were cracked, but he’d sustained no internal injuries.
Lara’s injuries were as severe, but not as evident. For fatigue she was prescribed hot, healthy meals and two nights of drug-induced sleep. She’d eaten and slept but continued to look shell-shocked. Her movements were disjointed, her speech distracted. A husband she believed dead had suddenly returned to life. Her entire system had been thrown into shock.
Neiman Marcus had generously offered to outfit her for her first public appearance following her return to American soil. For the newsworthy occasion the store had donated a silk and wool blend two-piece suit, matching Jourdan pumps, and suitable accessories and costume jewelry. The hotel salon had sent the staff to her suite to do her hair, nails, and makeup. On the surface, she was well turned out and appeared ready to accompany her husband to the news conference that was scheduled to begin in half an hour in the hotel’s largest ballroom.
She’d just as soon face a firing squad, she thought.
In a very real sense that was exactly what it would be. Too jittery to sit, she moved aimlessly about the room among the furniture cluttered with floral bouquets. “You know what they’ll dredge up, Randall.”
“Your affair with Clark,” he replied without a qualm. They had informed him of Clark’s death on the flight from Montesangre to Colombia, but he already knew about it. World news filtered in, although little was filtered out.
“I’m afraid that’s unavoidable, Lara,” he continued. “I’ll try to distract them with my story of the last three years.”
“You don’t look all that worse for wear.” Key ceased wagging his foot and tapping his lips. “You look tan, fit, and well fed.”
Lara too had noticed Randall’s superior physical condition. He looked even better than when she’d met him seven years ago, as if he’d enjoyed several months’ vacation in Hawaii rather than three grueling years as a political prisoner.
He pinched up the creases of his new suit trousers, also a gift from Neiman’s. “After the first few months of my captivity, I was treated very well.
“At first, the rebels beat me unmercifully,” Randall told them. “For several weeks they ritualistically whipped me with pistols and chains. I thought this was preliminary to their killing me.”
He finished his soda and checked the time. Seeing that he still had a few minutes, he continued. “One day they hauled me into General Pérez’s quarters. I say ‘hauled’ because I couldn’t walk. They carried me like a sack of potatoes.
“Pérez was pleased with himself. He showed me photographs of my ‘death,’ as they’d staged it. They’d executed a man, God knows who, shooting him in the head so many times it was little more than pulp.”
Lara hugged her elbows. The room was frigid. After sweltering in the tropics for three years, Randall had said he wanted to keep the air conditioning as high as possible.
“You can imagine how devastating it was for me to see those photographs. They also showed me American newspapers reporting my death. They had photos of my funeral. I realized the hell you must be going through.” He looked at Lara with commiseration. “I thanked God you were safe but knew you would be agonizing over the violent way in which I’d died. Knowing that no one would be sent to rescue me was the worst torture of all. As far as anyone knew, I was dead.”
“Did they tell you about Ashley?”
“No. I didn’t learn that she’d been killed in the ambush until I read the newspaper accounts of my funeral. The only comfort I could derive was knowing that you had miraculously survived. If it hadn’t been for the priest—”
“Priest? Father Geraldo?”
“Of course. He got you on one of the last American-bound planes to leave Montesangre. I thought you knew.”
“No. I didn’t,” she said in a subdued voice. “I should have thanked him.”
“It was certainly an act of brav
ery,” Randall said. “Emilio harbored a grudge against him for facilitating your escape. I suppose that’s why he ordered Father Geraldo’s murder.”
Key cursed beneath his breath. “So good of you to tell her that.”
“Lara’s a realist, aren’t you, darling? Nevertheless it’s a pity about the priest. And about Dr. Soto.”
“I can never atone for involving them,” she said quietly. “I’ll always feel partially responsible for their deaths.”
“Don’t do that to yourself,” Key said insistently. “They’d been pegged for elimination, with or without us. Sánchez said as much.”
She threw him a grateful look for the sentiment but knew she would carry the guilt of their murders to her own grave.
“You were incredibly brave to return to Montesangre, Lara,” Randall said. “Thank God you did. If you hadn’t, I’d still be a hostage.”
Key surged to his feet. He’d shaved his dark beard, but his hair was still overly long and contributed to his look of a caged wild animal. Disdaining the role of national hero in which he now found himself, he’d declined Neiman’s offer to provide him with new clothes. On his own, he’d bought new jeans, a sport coat, and cowboy boots.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Lara and I arrive unannounced in Montesangre, and thirty-six hours later your captors up and decide to let you go?” He spread his arms away from his body. “Why? What does one have to do with the other?”
Randall smiled indulgently. “Obviously you have something to learn about the mind-set of these people, Mr. Tackett.”
“Obviously I do. Because your story sounds like a big pile of caca to me.”
Randall’s eyes narrowed marginally. “You saved my life and Lara’s. Therefore I’ll extend you the courtesy of over-looking your unnecessary vulgarity.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
Randall dismissed him and addressed his next words to Lara. “Emilio likes to play mind games. Remember the chess tournaments we hosted at the embassy?”
“This is more serious than chess, Randall.”
“To you and me. I’m not so sure Emilio makes the distinction between a board game and the little dramas he plays out for his own amusement using human lives as the stakes. He thanked you for providing entertainment to his camp that morning, remember?”