by Anne Stuart
He leaned forward, his belly pressing against her, his hand groping at her breast, and there was no escape. She stood motionless, terrified, defenseless, ready to suffer and endure, when a cool, mocking voice interrupted them.
“Messing with my woman, Dutchy?” Reilly stood in the doorway, a silhouette in the shadowy light. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
Dutchy backed away from her so quickly it would have been comical. But Carlie was in no mood to laugh. She realized she’d been holding her breath, and she let it out, wondering if she was going to throw up all over Dutchy’s filthy white suit.
The old man was already across the kitchen, hands raised in the air in a defensive gesture. The fact that Reilly was pointing a gun at him probably encouraged his attitude. “I meant no harm, Reilly. I’m just a harmless old flirt, you know that. I can’t let a pretty girl go by without making a pass at her. No need to point that gun at me—it was all in fun.”
“Was it?”
His voice was grim, deadly. Carlie stood there, mesmerized. The sight of the gun in his strong hand brought back other memories, other hands holding guns, and the nausea rose farther in her throat. “He didn’t hurt me, Reilly,” she said, silently pleading with him to put the gun away.
Oddly enough, he did, tucking it back into the waistband of his jeans. “Lucky for him,” Reilly murmured. “Get out of here, old man.”
Dutchy left, almost tripping in his haste to escape, and they were alone in the tiny shack. She’d thought it was crowded with Dutchy bearing down on her. It was nothing compared to Reilly towering over her, looking dark and disapproving.
“I thought I told you to stay in your room,” he said.
“I was starving,” she said, squaring her shoulders and trying to pull some of her self-control back around her. She still felt shaken, frightened, helpless. She didn’t like that feeling. Any more than she liked realizing that Reilly’s presence was rapidly banishing that fear, replacing it with another, more disturbing kind of tension. “I didn’t know when you were coming back.”
“So you decided to come exploring. Were you looking for a meal, or a better offer? Morales may have been el presidente’s chief enforcer, but all that ended when your stepfather was assassinated. Those soldiers are renegades. Your stepfather’s dead, Caterina, and those loyal to him have gone their own way. You’re nothing more than a pawn now.”
“I wasn’t—”
“As for Dutchy, I think you already discovered exactly what he’s interested in. He’s a bigger danger than an anaconda, and if you think you can trust him—”
“I don’t trust him!” she snapped. “I was hungry, I told you.”
He looked at the empty can of soup. “You must have been desperate,” he said calmly. “You want anything else, or are you ready to go up to bed?”
His even tone of voice was deceptive. She looked up at the big dark man, and fear was back. “I want my own room,” she said. “My own bed.”
“I’m sure you do. But you wouldn’t get it. You can share with me, you can trust me, damn it,” he said, suddenly angry. “Or you can start out the night alone. You wouldn’t end up that way. Either Dutchy or one of Morales’s men would be joining you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Sure you can. I just had a perfect example of just how good you are at protecting yourself,” he drawled.
“I could have handled him,” she said, knowing just how unlikely that was.
“Maybe you could have. But I’m not going to risk Billy’s kid’s life on that slim chance. You do as I say, no questions asked, and we’ll be out of here before they even know we’re gone.”
“Are you really that confident?” she asked faintly.
“I’m really that good.”
There was nothing she could say to that. It wasn’t a boast, it was a simple statement of fact. And she believed him.
“All right,” she said. “I won’t argue with you.”
“That’ll be the day,” he drawled, half to himself.
“I don’t argue!” she said, shocked.
“Lady, you have a very cantankerous streak when you forget you’re trying to convince me you’re a Madonna.”
He probably thought he was being funny. The words cut her to the quick, though, bringing into doubt almost anything she’d ever believed about herself. “What do you mean by that?” she demanded.
“I mean there seem to be at least two people inside that small, luscious body of yours. There’s the saintly mother of the year, trudging along behind me, following orders, biting her tongue, peaceful and serene and not really of this world. Then there’s the strong, angry young woman who gives as good as she takes, who questions authority and who’s driving me crazy. And somewhere in all that mess is Caterina Morrissey, a spoiled, self-absorbed tramp. I’m just trying to figure out which one is the real you.”
“Who told you Caterina Morrissey is a tramp?”
“Honey, I read the letter you wrote Billy. Where you told him you were having a better time sleeping around the continent and you didn’t feel like being the wife of an American soldier, even a rich one. Kind of put me off a bit, I do admit.”
There was nothing she could say. She could remember Caterina’s weak, hesitant last confession. A confession that was neither sanctioned by the church nor forgiven by the holy rites, but a confession free and honest and true nonetheless, between two unlikely friends.
“I’m not going to argue ancient history with you,” she said instead, primly. “I’m ready to go up, but first I’m dying of thirst. That condensed soup was pure salt. Is there anything to drink around here?”
“This is a bar, Carlie. There’s plenty.”
“I was thinking of water.”
“We’ll save any decent water for the baby. You can make do with beer.”
“I don’t drink—”
“You’ll drink beer and like it. Your other choices are so potent I’d end up carrying you and the kid for the next three days. I could do with a couple of beers myself.”
By the time she followed him back into the bar he’d already pulled the caps off two tall dark beers. She took one from him, looking at it askance, but he was ignoring her, tipping the bottle back and pouring it down his throat with obvious enjoyment.
She had no choice in the matter—she was so thirsty she could go out and suck a cactus. She took a big gulp of the lukewarm stuff.
It tasted strong, dark and yeasty. She drank half of it, then wiped her mouth. “It’s good,” she said, half in surprise.
“The princess doesn’t usually deign to drink beer?” he drawled.
“Not this kind.” It was an easy enough lie.
“Funny, I would have thought Dos Equis would be just your style.”
She drained the bottle. “Is there another one around?”
His mouth curved in a smile. She liked his mouth, she decided. It was one of the reasons she trusted him. “Here you go, princess.”
“Don’t call me princess,” she snapped.
“Ah, the bitch is back.”
She choked on the first gulp of beer. “I beg your pardon?” she said, glaring.
His smile was positively beatific. “I think I like you best this way,” he said, taking her arm and herding her toward the stairs. “I suspect it’s the real you.”
“I want another beer,” she said, hanging back.
“You haven’t finished that one.”
She pulled away, stumbling slightly when he let her go, and drained the second bottle. “There,” she said triumphantly.
He just looked at her. “I thought you were used to drinking.”
“I am.”
“Not from the looks of it, kid. Two beers is the cheapest drunk I’ve ever seen in my life. I heard you used to be able to pack it away like a professional.”
Dangerous ground, she thought hazily. “Maybe my metabolism changed since I gave birth.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Think you can walk u
pstairs?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, full of dignity, staring past him. The floor was slightly unsteady, and she reached out a hand to balance herself. Unfortunately he was the one she reached for.
If she’d felt dizzy before, it was nothing compared to being swooped up in Reilly’s strong arms. Ascending the steep staircase didn’t help the woozy state of her brain, either.
“Could you take it a little slower?” she murmured, sinking back against him, totally incapable of fighting him at that particular moment. “I’m dizzy.”
“Don’t worry, princess,” he drawled. “The night is young. I’m not about to let you go to sleep.”
“You’re not?” She tried to summon up a latent wariness, then gave it up.
“Not until you answer a few questions.”
They were in the upstairs hall by now, and it was very dark. She wondered hazily where Dutchy was now. If he’d gone after the soldiers. “I answered all your questions, Reilly.”
“Oh. I just had a couple more.” He kicked open the door to the bedroom, his voice deceptively affable. The oil lamp had burned down low, sending out only a small pool of yellow light.
“Such as?”
He carried her over to the bed, and she found herself strangely loath to let go of him. There was a strange glitter in his eyes, one she couldn’t read, and his mouth was dangerously close. She wondered what he’d do if she kissed that mouth. She wanted to try it again. She’d liked her first attempt, liked it very much indeed. She imagined she’d improve with practice, and the amount of beer she’d drunk made her feel pleasantly warm and eager to try again.
“Such as who the hell you really are,” he said softly. “And whose baby you’re trying to pass off as your own.”
Chapter Nine
Reilly wondered, quite calmly, whether the young woman in his arms was about to throw up on him. She looked green, her huge blue eyes were stricken and her body, even in this humid night air, felt tense and cold.
“You’re crazy, Reilly,” she said, but her voice shook.
He considered dropping her on the bed. He didn’t want to—a dangerous reluctance he was willing to acknowledge, even as he deplored it. He didn’t want to let go of her at all, but he knew the longer he cradled her against his body, the harder it would be. In more ways than one.
He put her down, gently enough, and took a step back, away from her. She made the very grave mistake of not staying put. She scrambled off the bed in a panic, the beer she’d drunk making her awkward. It was child’s play to catch her by the door, pulling her back around, against him. Child’s play to look down into her frightened, upturned face, and exert the last little bit of pressure.
“Crazy?” he replied in a low, menacing drawl. “I don’t think so. I don’t know whose baby that is that you’ve been playing devoted mother to, but it’s not yours. You didn’t give birth a month ago. I don’t think you’ve ever been pregnant in your life.”
“What would you know about it?” she demanded furiously. Another mistake on her part.
It was a simple enough matter to push his hand up under the loose white T-shirt she wore, to cover her small, perfect breast. She tried to jerk away in shock, but he held her tightly, allowing no escape. And then she held very still, looking up at him in mute despair, as his hand cupped her breast and the peak hardened against his palm. “I watched you in the shower, remember?” he taunted her in a low voice. “Babies wreak havoc on a body, especially one as small and slight as yours. Your breasts would sag, whether you were nursing him or not. The skin on your stomach would be loose, your waist would be thick, your stamina would be shot to hell. I don’t know whose baby you’ve been cooing over, but it’s not yours.”
“You’re crazy,” she said again, trying to disguise the panic in her voice, and failing. “Timothy is mine and Billy Morrissey’s, and you can’t prove otherwise.”
“Oh, yeah? What color were Billy’s eyes?”
Her hesitation was so imperceptible he found he was impressed. “Hazel.”
“Wrong. It was a pretty safe guess, though. I’ll grant you that. Billy’s eyes were a bright, bright blue. You have blue eyes yourself, princess. The baby’s eyes are already turning brown.”
He pulled her a little closer against him. He knew he ought to release her breast, but the feel of its small, mounded warmth against his palm, the hard nub of her nipple, the way she shivered in his arms, were all too delicious to resist. He was very hard, and he didn’t mind her knowing that as well, as she stood plastered up against him. There was no way she could miss it, and yet she still seemed slightly disoriented, confused by him and her own body. Maybe those two beers had had an even greater effect on her than he’d originally thought.
“Whose baby?” he said again, softer now, arching her back slightly. “Does Caterina Morrissey have brown eyes?”
Her body slumped in defeat. Against his. “She had brown eyes,” she said in a low voice. “She’s dead.”
“I thought so. But Timothy was hers?”
The woman nodded. “She died soon after he was born. It was a massive infection—there was nothing I could do. I could only promise that I would make sure Timothy got safely out of this wretched country.”
Release her, he told himself. He loosened his grip marginally, but she made no effort to escape. He considered whether he could flatter himself into thinking she was starting to like it, but he didn’t think so. She was simply too dazed to realize her compromising position.
If he had a speck of decency he’d let her go. She was ready to spill—he didn’t need to use any sort of physical intimidation on her anymore to pry the truth from her. But the feel of her warm, smooth skin beneath his hand was irresistible. He wanted to cup the other breast, as well. He wanted to lean down and taste it.
“So he really is Billy’s baby. His grandparents will be pleased to hear that. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“I did. You didn’t believe me.”
He nodded, remembering. “So you did. I guess I’m a little too used to liars. So who are you, if you’re not Caterina Morrissey? And how did you end up at that deserted convent?”
Sudden awareness darkened her eyes as she realized her position, plastered up against him, his hand on her small, perfect breast. She wrenched herself away and he let her go, disguising his unwillingness. She sat back on the bed, keeping her face averted, but he could see the unexpected color on her cheekbones. Just as he recognized her rushed breathing, and her nipples pressing against the thin cotton of the white T-shirt. Her ladyship was turned on, and she either didn’t know it or didn’t like it. Maybe a combination of the two.
“I told you, I was a friend of Caterina’s. My name really is Carlie. Short for Caroline. Caroline Forrest.”
“How did you and Caterina become friends? She tended to fly with a pretty rich crowd. And what were you doing at that convent?”
“I was taking care of Caterina.”
“Why?”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide and slightly dazed. She was about to lie to him. He recognized that fact with a combination of irritation and triumph. If she continued to lie, then all bets were off. There was no reason he should play the little gentleman with a liar.
“Because no one else would,” she said. “All the nuns had left. I…I’ve known Caterina for years. We were in school together, in France, and we used to have fun together. She wrote me a few months ago and asked me to come visit. I thought we were going to continue to party when I came to San Pablo.”
“You picked a lousy time for a vacation. Don’t you read the newspapers? Don’t you have the faintest idea of the political upheaval around here?”
“There’s political unrest everywhere,” she said with a brave attempt at a shrug. He was impressed. If he didn’t already have reason to distrust her he would have believed that shrug. She looked up at him defiantly, and she would have convinced most people she was simply a spoiled party girl, caught in the mi
ddle of a revolution.
It would be easier on him if he did believe it. He could take full advantage of that small, trim body that had such a surprisingly potent effect on his, and if she was who she said she was, she’d be more than agreeable.
Dutchy had been scared off. Morales and his men were well out of reach, at least for now, the baby was safe and the door was locked. He looked at her, taking in the brave defiance in her pale mouth, and pulled the gun out of his waistband.
Her eyes followed that gun, nervously. She’d had a bad experience with guns in her life, he could tell that much. If he were a real bastard he could use that gun to make her tell him the truth this time. Not that half-baked lie of French finishing schools and the like.
But he put the gun down on the table beside the bed, close enough so he could reach it if someone decided to interrupt them, and then moved closer to her. Her eyes were at the level of his zipper.
“All right,” he murmured. “I’ll believe you. What do you want from me?”
“I want Timothy to be reunited with his grandparents.”
“And you’ll accept safe transportation to the States, as well,” he drawled cynically.
“I’m not sure.”
Another lie, though this didn’t sound like one. She wanted to get the hell out of this country, back to the same cushy life Caterina would have had. “Oh, I imagine you’ll decide soon enough, princess,” he said. “Tell me, were you going to tell anyone the truth? Or were you going to keep passing yourself off as Caterina Morrissey?”
“Caterina Morrissey wasn’t exactly a recluse,” she snapped, some of her anger struggling back. “Plenty of people would know I’m not her.”
“Good point. Besides, I imagine you have family somewhere, who wouldn’t take kindly to your up and disappearing.”
“I have no family left.” She didn’t look at the gun lying on the table. She didn’t need to. In certain ways she was a mystery to him. In certain ways she was far too clear.