Nights Of Fire

by Laura Leone

  Fallen From Grace Excerpt

  by Laura Leone

  Copyright 2003 & 2011 by Laura Resnick

  By the time Sara returned from her apartment a few minutes later, Ryan had lit half a dozen candles, and his living room was bathed in a warm golden glow while steadily falling rain drummed on the roof. No more thunder and lightning; the worst of the storm had passed.

  Ryan had removed his wet clothes and put on a pair of gray sweat pants. A towel hung round his neck, and he rubbed at his damp hair with one end of it. He wore no shirt.

  Sara briefly closed her eyes and called on her composure.

  He was putting down the telephone with his other hand. "No answer," he said. "Lance isn't home."

  "You have the landlord's number?"

  "Oh, that's what you were doing downstairs in the rain." He looked at her armful of first aid supplies. "All right, before I let you near me with that stuff, I'm entitled to know: Do you have the slightest idea what you're doing?"

  "Please. I'm a mystery writer. I've watched autopsies."

  His brows arched. "Not the reassuring answer I was looking for."

  "I'm not splinting a bone, Ryan, just patching up some cuts and bruises. Sit down."

  He sat in the leather easy chair. She sat on the arm and held a candle up to his face.

  "Will I live?" he asked.

  "It's too early for a prognosis."

  "Ow."

  "Sorry." She dabbed around his injured eye with damp cotton, to make sure the area was clean. Then she gave him a cold pack. "Hold this over your eye." As he did so, she asked, "Have you talked to the cops?"

  He flinched. "The cops?"

  "Yeah." When he just stared at her, looking dumbstruck, she prodded, "You know. About, oh, being mugged, for example?"

  "Oh!" He looked strangely relieved. "No."

  "No?"

  "No."

  "Ryan." It was so self-evident, she didn't quite know what to say to him. "We have to call the cops."

  "No!" He stopped her when she tried to rise from the arm of his chair.

  "What do you mean, no?" When he didn't respond, she asked, "Is it because you fought back?"

  "Um..."

  "Did you hurt the other guy?"

  He sighed. "Okay. Straight up. I wasn't mugged. I got into a fight."

  "You got into a fight?"

  "Yeah."

  "You don't..." To cover her confusion, she started washing the blood off his face. Tending him. Caring for him. "You don't seem like a violent person."

  "I'm not. These were special circumstances."

  "Do you know the other guy?"

  "Yeah." He sounded depressed.

  She reached for his hand and studied it in the candlelight. The knuckles were bruised and bloody, some of the skin torn. As she gently cleansed it, she asked, "So what does he look like now?"

  Ryan gave a soft puff of amusement, which she gathered meant the other guy looked worse; but he didn't answer her.

  "Well, you're not badly hurt, thank God. There'll be bruises for a while, but swelling will be your main problem." She broke out two more cold packs, resting one on his right hand, then holding the other against his jaw. "Thoughtful of you to provide me with a chance to use all this stuff Miriam gave me."

  "And to think some people," he said, "are doing boring things like dinner and the movies this evening."

  "Each to his own."

  She was way too close to him. To that hard expanse of ever-so-lightly furred chest, those bare shoulders, that smoothly muscled stomach. Too close to the beautiful, bruised face in need of healing. Too close to the troubled eyes which avoided hers right now.

  "Are you going to tell me why this happened?" she asked.

  He was silent for a long time. She saw that he was trying to figure out how to tell her, and he evidently couldn't find a way.

  "Whatever it is," she said quietly, "I'd rather you tell me nothing than tell me lies."

  "I know."

  She barely heard him, his voice was so soft.

  He still looked conflicted, undecided about whether or not to answer her question.

  She tried to be more specific. "Is it something to do with your car? Is that why you didn't drive home?"

  He seemed briefly amused. "No, I just couldn't get the car because it's parked so far from where I lost my wallet."

  "You lost your wallet?" she exclaimed.

  He sighed. "It's been a bitch of a day."

  "I don't suppose you've reported your lost wallet to the cops?"

  "No."

  "Ryan—"

  "I can probably find who took it."

  "Someone took your wallet? You're saying someone stole it?"

  "Um. Yeah. Someone stole it."

  "Okay, I give up." She took away the cold pack from his jaw. He moved his mouth experimentally, testing for pain while she spoke. "You're in a brawl, and you try to tell me you were mugged. Your wallet's been lifted, and you won't call the cops."

  He looked away.

  She stared at him. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

  "Most of my life." He sounded uncharacteristically bitter. "But the fight's over and doesn't matter now. I'll get the car tomorrow. And I think I can get my wallet back."

  "Your credit cards won't still be in it," she warned.

  "I never carry more than one. I've cancelled it. Made the call on my cell phone while I was on the bus." He scowled. "But I want my stuff back. And my money. Well, whatever he doesn't spend before I find him."

  "But why don't you call the cops about—" She stopped herself. "Wait. You know who took it?"

  "In a way."

  "Still, why won't you—"

  "The cops are not the right people to call in a situation like this. Believe me, Sara."

  "No, Ryan, the cops are exactly the people you call when someone steals your wallet."

  "I'd rather handle it myself," he muttered.

  Needing something to do, because she had no idea what to say, she took her dirty cotton pads into the kitchen and threw them away. He was still sacked out in the chair when she returned to the room. Still half naked and painfully gorgeous in the golden glow of the candles. And still avoiding her eyes.

  "What kind of trouble are you in?" she asked at last.

  "Nothing I'm not used to." His dismissive tone closed the subject.

  But Sara wouldn't let him close it. Not this time. "You don't want me to know about it, do you?"

  He met her eyes now. What she saw in his face made her want to shake him, because his whole expression was telling her he didn't mean to shut her out.

  It would be a lot easier if he'd tell her to mind her own business and ask her to leave him alone now. That was the answer she was braced for—not this look of longing she got instead. Miriam was right; it wasn't fair of Ryan to look at her this way.

  Unable to walk away from that expression, Sara sat down on the arm of his chair again. She sifted her thoughts carefully before she spoke. Ryan was like his damn cat. She had to let him come to her.

  "You've had trouble with the cops yourself, haven't you?"

  He nodded, his gaze turning wary.

  She took his injured hand, checked to see how it looked, then held it in on her thigh as she reapplied the cold pack. "Is that why you don't want to speak to them about whatever happened to you today?"

  "It's not their business." Seeing her speculative gaze, he amended, "Yes, that's why. Well, partly why. I mean..." He looked down at his injured hand as she held it in both of hers. "Cops never did me any good, Sara. Not when I needed help, not when I needed to be left alone. I don't want them in my business, and I don't put them onto anyone else's business."

  "So, instead, you're going to try to get your wallet back yourself."

  "Yes."

  "And if you can't?"

  "I'm pretty sure I can," he said.

  She could tell it didn't worry him that much, either way. But she certainly didn't understand this, and she wasn't sur
e how to proceed.

  They were quiet for a long moment, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Heavy with unacknowledged longings. All that smooth, bare skin bathed in candlelight... All the warmth in the hand she tended... All the dark sorrow in that beautiful, bruised face... All the weariness in Ryan's posture as he closed his eyes, lowered his head, and rested his cheek on her leg.

  ***

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  Fever Dreams Excerpt

  by Laura Leone

  Copyright 1997, 2004, & 2011 by Laura Resnick

  The storm killed the electrical power, and Señor Gutiérrez didn't think they'd get it back before morning. The señora posted kerosene lanterns around the inn and upon the few simple dining tables outside on the covered veranda. The heavy rain gradually settled into a gentle downpour, drumming lightly on the roof and freshening the night air.

  Washed and wearing dry clothes, Madeleine, Miguel, and Ransom enjoyed a simple dinner in the now-cool evening air. When Señor Gutiérrez joined them after their meal and started asking about the car and where they had come from, Miguel readily admitted to working for Veracruz. He boasted of Ransom's exploits, too, until Ransom cut him short with unusual curtness. Neither Miguel nor the old man were daunted by this, and Miguel spent the next hour regaling the señor and his family with amusing stories about working for the inhabitants of the palace.

  Madeleine had no trouble guessing the reason for Ransom's curtness. Three men had stopped for dinner at the pensión just as he came downstairs after his shower, and she could tell that something about them worried him. Despite not having called ahead, the men were angry that the wealthy foreigners and their driver were getting a hearty meal while they had to settle for beans and rice. Ransom had come to the aid of a flustered Señora Gutiérrez, putting the men in their place with a few clipped words.

  However, Madeleine was sure that their rudeness wasn't the reason Ransom had told her not to leave his sight until the men had gone, and why he looked at them every few minutes with an expression that should have frozen their livers. She also noticed that he made sure they saw the gun holstered at his side. Surely those men would have to be suicidal to cause any trouble here tonight.

  Fortunately, the men left soon after finishing their meal. When Madeleine felt ready for bed, Ransom took her to her room, checked the windows, then gave her his pager and told her to keep her door locked.

  "Do you think those men will come back?"

  "Not really," he said, pausing in the doorway. "But I don't want to take any chances."

  "Do you think they're bandits?"

  He shrugged. "Maybe. Or kidnappers. Or drug runners."

  "What makes you th—"

  "They were armed, and—"

  "They were? I didn't see—"

  "I did," he said.

  "Oh."

  "And..." He shrugged again. "Call it instinct."

  She nodded pensively. She had learned to believe in his instincts.

  He hesitated. "Will you be all right?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay."

  She spoke again as he turned to go. "Ransom?"

  "Yeah?"

  Their eyes met. There were a dozen things she ought to say to him. After a long moment, she settled on, "I'm glad you're here."

  He looked surprised for a moment. Then he grinned. "So am I, God help me." He was laughing softly when he closed the door.

  She stared at the door, wanting to open it and call him back to her side. Then she heard the sharp rap of his knuckles on the wooden surface.

  "Lock it!" he ordered.

  She did.

  #

  Ransom did a patrol of the surrounding property after putting Madeleine to bed. Everything seemed quiet. Damp from the rain, he went back inside. In such a hot climate, there was no question of closing the hotel's windows, not even with tonight's rainfall. Nevertheless, Ransom double-checked the entire first floor of the pensión after Señor Gutiérrez finished locking up for the night. When he was done, he found Miguel waiting for him in the empty bar with two glasses of whiskey.

  "Would you like a nightgown?" Miguel offered.

  "Nightcap," Ransom corrected dryly. "Sure. Thanks."

  They sat down to drink. Ransom lit up a cigarette, pleased that he hadn't smoked so many today. The rain pattered lightly outside the window, and the fan spun lazily overhead. The place looked soft and serene in the lantern light.

  "You are different since you came back to Montedora," Miguel said, with the honesty borne of strong liquor shared after dark in a strange place.

  "Different how?"

  "You never used to be afraid."

  That surprised him. He raised both eyebrows and fixed Miguel with one of his meaner stares. "Afraid?" Ransom could make his voice as chilly as Madeleine's when he chose.

  Miguel shook his head. "Not like that, amigo. I mean for her."

  Ransom felt his stomach drop. He tightened his hand around his glass of whiskey and studied it, avoiding Miguel's eyes.

  What could he say? It was bad enough that it was true, even worse that he'd let it show. Yes, he was afraid for her. Whether it was the hot panic he'd felt when she'd exposed herself to the escaping bombers last night, or the cold fear he'd known tonight when he'd found those three hard-eyed men arriving here for dinner, he was being tormented by unaccustomed feelings. And he feared, too, that his emotions would endanger Madeleine, because the first requirement of any good bodyguard was a clear, cool head.

  "She's a very special woman," Miguel said. "I congratulate you."

  "There's nothing to congratulate me for," Ransom snapped.

  "Ahhh..." Miguel grinned. "So that's why she got three rooms."

  "It's a purely professional relationship, kid." Ransom took a belt of the whiskey and let it burn its way down his throat. It was strong stuff, and a little bitter.

  "You know better than that," Miguel chided. "And so does she. I can see it when you look at each other."

  "Oh, you can, can you?" Wow, what a gift for repartee I'm demonstrating, he thought sourly.

  "And she trusts you."

  He remembered the way she had fled from his touch two nights ago. Trusted him? "I don't think she does. Not that way." He sighed and added more honestly, "I think I made sure she wouldn't."

  "How?"

  "You're too young for this story." He finished his drink.

  "Me? I'm the man who keeps the First Lady smiling," Miguel said with sudden bitterness. "A woman my mother's age."

  "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

  "I know." Miguel shook his head, then looked at Ransom with resolve. "I didn't want to speak of either woman, actually."

  "Oh?"

  "No. I meant only to say that I like you, Ransom. I am glad you came to Montedora."

  "Well... thanks." Feeling self-conscious, Ransom stubbed out his cigarette and said, "I like you, too."

  "I know. You have been good to me. And never condescending."

  "You're too bright and too capable for me to condescend—"

  "Many do, and you must know it," Miguel interrupted brusquely. "The wealthy of Montedora. The pitying foreigners I drive around for the President." He frowned. "It is the pity that I have hated most of all."

  "Yeah," Ransom said slowly, wondering at Miguel's mood. "Pity cripples a man more than adversity."

  "And hopelessness, too."

  "Hopelessness most of all." He felt a little lightheaded. That was damn strong whiskey.

  "Yes. You would understand this. That's why I wanted to tell you."

  "Tell me what?"

  Miguel blinked and seemed to come awake suddenly. He smiled. "That I have always admired you, and that I like the lady." He stood up a little unsteadily. Ransom wondered if the kid had had too much to drink tonight. Or maybe it was the rain that was making Miguel so melancholy.

  "Off to bed?" he asked, feeling rather tire
d himself all of a sudden.

  Miguel nodded. "Yes. To bed."

  "G'night."

  "Goodnight, Ransom."

  Frowning slightly, Ransom watched the young man go upstairs. Something wasn't right. Something was... Oh, hell. He was too tired to worry about Miguel's problems tonight. He had enough of his own.

  #

  He awoke at dawn, stiff and uncomfortable and disoriented. His eyelids felt as if they'd been glued shut. What had woken him?

  He finally figured it out. There was a soft, repetitive, abrasive sound. Somewhere nearby. Swish-swish, swish-swish. It took him back to his early childhood, to the mother he'd lost long ago, sweeping the kitchen after supper while he and his brother sat doing their homework at the kitchen table. Swish-swish, swish-swish. A comforting, homey sound, full of vague but good memories.

  What was that sound doing in his room at dawn?

  He forced one eye open. He saw a flat wooden surface. Ah, so that's what the hard thing under his cheek was. Wood.

  Where the hell was his pillow? In fact, where the hell was his bed?

  He blinked his other eye open and picked up his head. He immediately felt sick.

  Oh, shit. He didn't want to be sick. He swallowed and held still, waiting for the feeling to subside.

  By the time it did, he'd realized he wasn't in his room. He was sitting on a hard wooden chair in the bar, his head and arms resting on the table.

  How the hell had he managed to fall asleep in this position?

  His tongue felt furry, and his mouth tasted foul. His head hurt. The nausea was fading, but not disappearing. Surely he hadn't gotten drunk last night? Not only was that unlike him, but surely he wouldn't have done anything so stupid while guarding Madeleine?

  He thought back. The effort made his head hurt.

  No, he'd only one drink last night—that modest shot of whiskey. He remembered that the whiskey had been strong and slightly bitter, but still...

  Oh, shit, he thought again, as things started coming together. He stood up slowly, and the way the room whirled confirmed his suspicions.

  He'd been drugged.

  "Buenas días, señor."

  Ransom looked over his shoulder and found the source of the sound which had awoken him. A girl, about twelve years old, was sweeping the barroom floor. She smiled hesitantly at him. He tried to smile back, but she apparently didn't find the effort reassuring.