A man stepped out into the alleyway ahead of her. Yes, she thought, as a fierce exaltation swept through her, yes, it was he. She'd have known those wide shoulders and aggressive stance anywhere. And his eyes, the color of the midday sky...
"Rogan," she whispered, "thank God it's you."
"Elena!"
She fell against him as she reached him, burrowing into his warm, hard body. His arm slipped around her, and his strength and power seemed to flow into her.
"Rogan," she said again, "Rogan..."
"Elena. Elena, you must wake up. Querida, please..."
Her eyes flew open suddenly and she stared into her father's face. The bedclothes were tangled around her in a damp knot.
"What is it, Papa?" she whispered. "What's wrong?"
Her father smiled at her the way he used to when she was little and she'd awaken with a nightmare. He was seated on the edge of her bed, fully dressed as if he were ready to go out for the day. But her bedroom was still in darkness, except for a wavering pool of light that fell over the bed. Candlelight, she thought in surprise, and then she grasped the twisted blanket and sat up. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
"I'm sorry to wake you, Elena," her father said softly.
She nodded. "That's all right," she murmured, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "Has the power gone off?"
"Elena, you must get dressed."
She leaned back against the pillows and stared at him. "I don't understand, Papa. Is something the matter? Are you ill?"
He shook his head. "No, no, I'm fine. But you must get dressed. There is time to pack a small suitcase, if you wish." He rose from the bed and she watched as he marched across the room and pulled open her cupboard door. He was all dark shadows now, and his voice was muffled as he leaned into the wardrobe. "This one will do," he said, pulling her overnight bag from the shelf and tossing it on the foot of the bed. "Be quick, Elena. There's not much time."
Fear roughened her voice. "Papa, what are you talking about? What's going on?"
"The city is falling," he said with an abruptness that made the breath catch in her throat. "Get dressed quickly and come down to the library. There's no time to waste."
She watched in disbelief as the bedroom door closed after him. What was he talking about? He'd looked so worn lately; perhaps the tensions of the country were too much for him. Elena's heart pounded as she scrambled from the bed and pulled on her robe. She would go downstairs and phone for a doctor. What her father had said—that the city was falling—was insane. Things were bad in San Felipe, yes, but surely not that bad? Her birthday party had only ended a few hours ago, amid laughter and toasts for her health and happiness, even though she'd had to force herself to smile and say all the right things. She had not been enjoying the party to begin with, and Blake Rogan had put the finish to her evening.
If there were fighting in Santa Rosa, she would have heard something wouldn't she? The ranch wasn't very far from town. Well, there was the distant sound of thunder, yes, but that was because of the rain.
The thunder rumbled again and she stirred uneasily. There was a strange, flat quality to the sound, as if someone were setting off fireworks.
"Oh, God," she whispered as a flash glowed on the horizon. She wasn't listening to the sound of thunder. It was gunfire.
The realization thrust her into action. Elena hurried to the dresser and began to pull clothing from its drawers. Underthings, shirts, sweaters, whatever her hands fell on was tossed, helter-skelter, into the suitcase and then she snapped it shut.
She stripped off her robe and nightgown. Dress quickly, her father had said, and she did, tugging on the first things she thought of, a pair of jeans and a shirt. Normally, she never wore anything like that in his presence. Such clothing was unfeminine, he said, and belonged in America, not in San Felipe. But she doubted that he would mind how she looked tonight. She pulled on a pair of cotton socks and her sneakers, snatched up the suitcase, and hurried down the stairs.
Her father was waiting in the library. He'd lit her mother's ornate silver candelabra. As she entered the room, he turned to her and held out a brandy snifter.
"Tell me," she began, and he shook his head.
"Drink this first," he said.
"I want to know what's happening."
"Drink, Elena."
Wordlessly, she took the glass from him and sipped at it. The dark, fiery liquid brought tears to her eyes, and she shook her head and handed it back to him.
"I don't like it," she said.
Her father sighed. "Do you remember when you were a little girl, querida? Your mother and I would sometimes tell you to do something, that it would be for your own good, and you would say, "I don't like it". But we would insist, and eventually you would obey."
Elena stared at her father. "You're going to send me away, aren't you?" she said softly.
He reached out and touched his hand to her cheek. There was a tremor in his fingers, and somehow that frightened her more than anything else that had happened so far.
"Elena," he said softly, "there is very little time. I just want to tell you that I love you."
"Then, let me stay with you, Papa. I..."
"And your mother loves you, too, as she watches you from Heaven. She, too, would say that you must do what I tell you. Do you understand, Elena?"
A succession of sharp-sounds echoed through the night, closer than they had been before.
"We must go now, Elena."
So, she thought, the trouble was finally upon them. She was surprised at how calm s6e suddenly felt. Her mother had always told her that the only way to deal with the devil was to face him without fear. Whatever waited outside the house could be dealt with. The anticipation of fear was always worse than the reality.
"Well, then," she said calmly, "I suppose we'd better get going. Where are the servants?"
Eduardo Esteban shrugged. "Gone. I think they knew before it all started. We are alone, child. Give me your suitcase. I've brought the car around front."
"No, that's OK, Papa, I can carry it. Where are your things?"
But her father was hurrying to the door, impatiently motioning for her to follow him into the dark night.
She settled beside him in the front seat of the Cadillac as he gunned the engine to life. Strange, she thought, staring into the darkness, but she'd never sat in the front seat of this car before. She'd tried, but Juan wouldn't permit it.
"It is not proper, senorita," he'd said, and his dark eyes told her she'd insulted his sense of propriety with her casual American ways.
Come to think of it, she'd never seen her father drive the car, either. It was a night of "firsts", she thought, and suddenly she had an insane desire to laugh aloud. The sound of guns in the dark, dressing this way in front of her very proper, very old-world father, and now the way they were riding in the Cadillac—but then, she'd never been in the midst of an insurrection before, had she? She took a deep breath.
"Where are we going, Papa?"
He reached across the seat and patted her knee. "I know what's best for you, querida."
"That's what you told me the first time you sent me off to boarding-school, remember? I was only thirteen, and I begged you not to sent me away. "I know what's best for you," you said. It was hard for me to understand."
There was a heavy silence and then her father nodded. "This time it may be even more difficult for you, Elena."
The soft hairs on the nape of her neck stirred. "Meaning?"
"Meaning you must do as I tell you, no matter how distasteful it seems."
His words held a warning, but of what? Suddenly she thought of the single suitcase. "Where are we going, Papa?" she asked, trying to control the rising note of concern in her voice. "You still haven't told me."
"I'm taking you to safety, child."
"Are
we going north? Are the roads safe?"
"No, I'm sure they're not. But that doesn't matter. Soon, you'll be on a plane headed for Miami."
"You mean, we'll be on a plane..."
"No, Elena. I am staying here, where I belong. You are leaving without me."
Elena shook her head. "No," she said quickly. "That's out of the question, Papa."
Her father's voice was sharp. "You will do as I tell you," he said. The Cadillac lurched as it whipped around a sharp curve in the road. "You went to school in the United States, Elena. Your mother was an American. You, yourself, live as an American lives..."
"Don't be foolish, Papa. I'm your daughter. I'm as much a San Felipian as you are. It says so on my passport."
Eduardo Esteban turned towards her. "Yes, it does," he said bitterly. "And only because of my own foolish pride. Your mother wanted you to have an American passport, but I insisted. You were my daughter, I said, with the blood of the Estebans in your veins. And now..."
Silence filled the car and finally Elena touched her father's arm. "And now?" she prompted.
"And now I shall remedy that," he said grimly, pulling the car to the curb.
A large building stood back from the road, silhouetted against the dark sky. Lights gleamed in several of its windows.
"The American Embassy? Why have we come here?"
Her father was already out of the car. "Hurry," he said as he opened her door. "There's no time to waste."
Elena scrambled out of the door. "But they won't let us in," she said. "Not in the middle of the night. Not..."
Her father gave his name at the gate and the soldiers waved them through. The Embassy compound was a mass of confusion. People were hurrying back and forth in the dark. Elena's father clutched her wrist and pulled her along beside him towards the building entrance.
Was he going to request sanctuary? No, she thought, that couldn't be it. He'd said he was going to put her on a plane headed north. Not that she'd let that happen, she told herself with conviction. Her father could argue all he liked, he could remind her of what an obedient child she'd been, but there was no way she was leaving here without him. That was definite.
They were on the second floor of the building now, hurrying down a poorly lit corridor. Her father had said he was going to remedy the fact that she didn't have an American passport, but that was impossible. Nobody in this place was about to issue passports now. You needed all sorts of papers, none of which she had with her. And, even if she had, not even American efficiency would include stopping everything for as long as it took to document those papers and make up a passport in the middle of a revolution.
"Senor Esteban! It's a damned good thing you got here. I wasn't going to wait much longer." A man had stepped into the corridor from one of the offices. He gestured to them impatiently. "Come on, come on, let's go-"
Now, suddenly, the taste of fear filled Elena's mouth. She turned to her father, her green eyes searching his face, until finally he looked away from her.
"Papa?"
Her father sighed. "One moment," he said to the man, and then he put his arm around Elena's shoulders and began walking her slowly towards the end of the hall. "Querida, this is going to be difficult for both of us. Remember, as I talk to you, that I love you and that this will be for the best."
What was he going to say? Why was he making all these apologies? He was sending her away again, yes, but there was more to it than that. There was something he wanted to tell her, something he was afraid to say...
"What is it?" she pleaded. "Why are we here?"
"Come on, Esteban, get it over with."
Elena gasped and spun towards the all too familiar sound of Blake Rogan's voice. He was standing in the doorway of one of the offices, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, watching her through narrowed eyes.
"This conversation doesn't concern you, Mr. Rogan," she snapped. "My father and I would like some privacy, if you don't mind."
Rogan laughed. "Shall I tell her why she's here, Esteban? Or are you afraid she'll be less than thrilled if she hears it from me?"
The light here was better than it had been on the patio a few hours before. She could see Rogan clearly, see every flawlessly tailored inch of his grey suit, his highly polished shoes, even smell the faint scent of what was surely an expensive cologne. But none of it mattered. The man still looked like a bandit, come down from the hills to wreak havoc in the lives of normal people. Elena took a deep breath. It was inconceivable that this man and her father should have discussed her, but clearly they had. She thought back to the curious conversation Rogan and her father had had on the patio, thought of the plans her father had made to fly her home, and a bitter smile touched her mouth.
"Mr. Rogan has been hired to get me to the airport," she said softly. "Is that right?"
Her father pursed his lips. "Something like that," he said.
Rogan laughed again, and the sound made her blood run cold.
"Is there more to it? Has he been hired to escort me all the way to Miami? Is that it, Papa? Well, it doesn't matter. I don't care if he sits on me; I'm not getting on that plane and I'm not..." She broke off in surprise as Rogan moved out of the doorway. He was beside her before she could take a breath, his hand closing tightly around her wrist. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Rogan? Let go of me. Papa, tell this man to..."
"I thought you said she was a sweet-tempered girl with a docile disposition, Esteban." Rogan's fingers bit into the tender flesh inside her wrist. "Go on, tell her."
"Senor Rogan, please, if you would just give us another minute..."
"You've taken too damn much time as it is," Rogan growled. As if to underscore what he'd said, there was the thunderclap and an explosion flashed brightly outside the window. "Tell her, or I will."
The fear building within Elena was making it almost impossible for her to breathe. She turned to her father and put her hand lightly on his arm.
"Tell me what?" she whispered. "Please, what is he talking about?"
Her father sighed. "There is a plane scheduled to leave here soon, querida. I have been assured it will do so. I..."
The man who had greeted them minutes earlier put his head into the corridor again.
"Jeez, are you still talking? Dammit man, if you're not ready to go with this in five minutes, I'm leaving. Do you understand?"
Eduardo Esteban nodded and then he turned towards his daughter. "Listen to me, Elena," he said, and there was a rough urgency in his voice. "There is a place for you on that plane."
"Not without you!"
For the first time in her life, Elena heard her father curse. He grasped her shoulders and shook her.
"Do not interrupt me again, Elena. You will be on that plane. Do you understand? I will not tolerate any insolence."
Elena's eyes filled with tears. "But what will happen to you, Papa? I..."
Esteban smiled tenderly. "I shall be fine, querida, especially if I know you are safe."
Rogan took a step towards them. "Will you please cut the crap and get to it, Esteban? That plane's not going to wait for us, you know."
"Elena, querida, listen to me. It is possible—it is probable—that those who carry San Felipian passports will not be permitted to leave the country. Do you see? If you had an American passport, as you should have, you would be able to board the plane."
Elena shook her head. "But I don't have one. And I can't believe that the Embassy would be willing to verify my right to one now."
Her father nodded in agreement. "Exactly. But if the situation were different—if, for example, you were married to an American citizen..."
"But I'm not," Elena said impatiently.
Esteban stroked the hair back from her forehead. "But if you were," he said softly, "no one could stop you from boarding that plane."
"Papa, wha
t..."
Rogan's hand closed over her wrist again. "Which brings us to why you're here." Elena looked at him blankly and he laughed. "A quick temper and a short memory. You're no bargain, are you, senorita?"
"Senor Rogan, there is no need to be unkind. My daughter..."
Rogan nodded. "OK," he growled, looking into Elena's eyes, "I'll refresh your memory. A few minutes ago, you wanted to know why you were here. Well, it's time someone told you."
She waited for him to say something else, but suddenly Blake Rogan looked uncomfortable. A fist seemed to clench deep inside her. "Papa," she said softly, her eyes still locked with Rogan's, "what is he talking about?"
Eduardo Esteban let out his breath. "Querida, forgive me." Her father took her hand and placed it in Rogan's. "You are to be married to this man. When you leave here tonight, it will be as Mrs. Blake Rogan."
Chapter 4
Elena snatched her hand from Rogan's and stared at her father in disbelief.
"What did you say?"
"Elena," he said softly, "Mr. Rogan and I have reached an agreement."
Had everyone gone crazy? It was the middle of the night, the country was in the midst of an armed insurrection, and her father was making a joke. But his face told her it was no joke. His expression was grim.
"You can just forget all about your agreement, Papa. It's impossible."
"Listen to me, child. Mr. Rogan is going to marry you. Then you will be able to leave Santa Rosa in safety. You..."
Her father was still talking, but she'd stopped listening. She looked at Blake Rogan. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, watching her in stony silence. An agreement, she thought, as shock gave way to disbelief, disbelief to anger, and suddenly the anger became rage.
"You want me to...to marry this man?" she demanded, cutting into her father's explanation. "You want me to marry this... this..."
Rogan made a sound that was not quite a laugh. "Believe me, lady, words fail me, too."
Her green eyes raked him with cold dismissal before she turned her back to him.
"Is that what you want, Papa?"
Esteban sighed. "Querida, you must understand. It is the only way to ensure your safe departure."
Deal With The Devil Page 4