Angel Face

by Suzanne Forster

  It was twilight, and as the rest of life prepared for sleep, the jungle was coming awake. The raw beauty of Angela’s surroundings filled her with awe. Behind her was a rain forest. In front of her, blue, blue waves lapped lazily on golden sands and the primal essences of the sea mingled with the exotic perfume of wildflowers. Orchids grew like clover here. How much more gorgeous could it get?

  A sigh escaped her. If only the circumstances were different and she could appreciate the scenery. But they weren’t. This was a crisis of the highest order. It no longer surprised her that she seemed to know what to do in such dire circumstances, including how to handle a male hostage who had to relieve himself. She was starting to take her abilities for granted, even if he wasn’t.

  He hadn’t been able to urinate until she physically left the room, which touched off some interesting locker room language. She wrote it off as a minor crisis of the male ego, and when she returned, he’d finished his business and gotten himself free of the bucket and mostly back into his shorts. She didn’t ask him how.

  The last thing she wanted was for him to realize that he’d had any effect on her. But in fact, he’d had plenty. Or at least a part of him had. She wouldn’t have believed it was possible for a man to become aroused that fast, or that fully, to put it delicately. A nightstick would have felt insecure in comparison. And it was all because she’d touched him.

  Touched him. Her hands had turned him into a giant. Into heat and blood and sinew. But what had shaken her up the most was that he’d been helpless to hide his body’s response. Helpless.

  His image stayed with her as she hesitated at the door of the hut a moment later, wondering what to expect. Finally, she set the bucket down and went inside.

  No!” she blurted. “Don’t touch that!”

  He had rolled to his side and worked his way over to the knife she’d stuck in the floor. Again, instinct took over. She knew how to drop to the ground, roll, and lunge. She knew exactly how to come up again. And the instant she had the knife in her hands, she was on him.

  “Don’t ever try that again.” She grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, the blade at his throat. “I’ll kill you! I swear I will.”

  She vibrated with shock. It was her fault. She’d been careless, but he would damn well know there were severe consequences for taking advantage.

  He went utterly still, and she thought she had him. She had to assert control, regain dominance. And her readiness—her very rage to do that—astounded her. Her breath was shaking, her soul was shaking, but it wasn’t fear, it was a surge of adrenaline. A need for retaliation had come alive inside her that she barely understood, yet it was as familiar as breathing.

  He moved, and she snarled like an animal, “I’ll kill you.”

  “Do it,” he rasped. “Cut my goddamn throat, because if I get another chance at that knife, I’m taking it. And if I get a chance at you, I’m—”

  She yanked his head back as far as it would go and glared into his hot blue eyes. “Bastard!” she whispered. With two words he’d taken control. Do it. If a hostage didn’t fear death, there was nothing to hold over his head. Threats were pointless, and it was the captor, not the hostage, who was stripped of his power. He’d called her bluff.

  She ought to kill him for that alone. Instead, she flung the knife away and sprang to her feet, walking, pacing, thinking that if he said one word, one bloody word, she would rip a death mask off the wall and beat him with it.

  “Maybe we could talk?” Sarcasm burned out of him as he struggled to get back to his knees.

  She ignored his efforts and pretended not to hear him. She didn’t want him dead; she wanted him gone as if he’d never existed. He had called her bluff. He was winning. He was tied up, flat on the floor, and he was winning.

  “I know it’s a foreign concept,” he said, “but it has to be more productive than this.”

  “I can talk; you can’t. I thought we’d established that.”

  “Then I guess you wouldn’t care to know the most common trait of lust murderers?”

  She knew exactly where he was going with that one. Serial killers were almost universally pathological control freaks, but she was about to disabuse him of that notion. She hadn’t gone into detail about who she was or why she was at his house partly because of concerns about security. Most of SmartTech’s studies were classified secret or sensitive, and employees were not allowed to discuss them, but that hadn’t been her chief concern. Angela had decided not to give Jordan Carpenter any more information than suited her purposes. Now it did.

  “I hate to disappoint you, Doctor,” she said. “But I’m not a serial killer or a lust murderer. I’m a scientist, and until you assaulted me, I was involved in a double-blind study in which you yourself consented to participate.”

  He was already shaking his head. “I didn’t consent to participate in anything.”

  “You couldn’t have been included without your knowledge and consent. It’s a remote brain imaging study, and each subject has to drink a radioisotopic solution to activate the sites under observation.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. The only solution I drink is beer, and I could use one right now.”

  There wasn’t any possibility she had the wrong man. He knew too much about her, and he’d clearly been lying in wait for her when she got to his house. If he wasn’t a legitimate study subject, then he had to be part of the conspiracy against her, which was why she had him here—to get the truth out of him one way or another.

  “I could prove everything I’ve just said to you with one phone call,” she informed him coldly, “but since you’re the one who’s tied up, I don’t have to prove anything, do I? It’s you who’s going to talk, and I’m—”

  “And you’re going to make me? How? Use defib paddles on me until I confess? You must get a real charge out of that.”

  He almost laughed, and she whirled on him, furious. How could he joke about something like that? He’d wanted to believe the worst about her from the beginning. Apparently, it fascinated him to think she was a siren who seduced men and then slayed them. Perhaps she should give him what he expected.

  Angela’s thoughts brought a frightening calm to her voice.

  “I’m not going to murder you, Dr. Carpenter, but when I get through with you, you’ll wish I had.”

  A tactical error, she thought. A very bad tactical error, and he had made it. She now had a mission that was far more interesting than making him cease to exist. She was going to make his existence intolerable. There were as many ways to torment a man as there were to please one, and some of them were the same. Even more interesting, she knew what they were. She knew how to make him sweat. Oh, God, yes, she did. She’d been taught and taught well by someone. But who? Brandt? Sammy? Silver? Someone she didn’t remember?

  Who had trained her in the ways of erotic torture and taught her to get what she wanted from a man? Anything she wanted.

  “What are you doing? What the hell are you doing?”

  “Making sure you stay put, cowboy.”

  Inspired, Angela had rolled him onto his belly, and she was untying his feet. One of his feet, to be exact. When she had it loose enough, she neatly crossed his ankles and cinched him back up. The next thing she crossed were his wrists. And the last thing she did was lash him to the nearest piece of furniture, a heavy rattan couch. She also pushed, pulled, and shoved him back to his knees, then propped him up against the couch so he wouldn’t miss a minute of the action.

  She was trembling from sheer determination as much as from physical effort. But it was right about then that the adrenaline wore off and she started to shake for real. Her arms and legs floated like phantom limbs, and the room went white and patchy, despite the darkening sky. Everything was giving out at once. Her body refused to support her, but she had to stay on her feet. Hurricane lamps had to be lit and shutters secured. There was a long and frightening night to get through, so why did it feel as if her grea
test challenge at that moment was to return a bound man’s angry glare? Crazy.

  “Are you hungry? Good,” she croaked without waiting for an answer. “You can watch me eat.”

  She steadied herself once she got to the kitchen and was thankful he couldn’t see her sink to the floor. The half-size refrigerator ran off a solar generator, as did the other appliances. It wasn’t cold enough to make ice, but the moment she opened the door and the bracing air hit her, she knew she needed to remain still. The chilly blast settled around her like a cloak. Eventually, it began to clear her head, but she couldn’t spend her life in streams and open refrigerator doors. The cold was beginning to give her goose bumps.

  This wasn’t exhaustion, exposure, or hunger. She was sick.

  Out of the range of his prying eyes, she examined herself. The cut on her hand had formed a seam that was the deep pink of normal healing. It didn’t look infected, but something was making her feverish. Carpenter had already diagnosed that much, and if her immune system couldn’t fight it off, she would have to find another way. Rain forests were pharmacies of natural medicines, but she didn’t know what to look for.

  Silver could have helped her. What had happened to her friend?

  Bathed in waning light, Angela realized that the ruby and orange twilight had nearly played itself out. In moments it would be dark, and the sharp screeches and roars coming out of the jungle were sobering reminders that it wasn’t safe. Most predators were nocturnal. They did their hunting after the sun went down. Why should the beasts of a Mexican rain forest be any different?

  Or the beast in the next room?

  A piercing cry made her jump. It was followed by a burst of staccato chatter that brought her dizzily to her feet. It sounded as if someone was laughing hysterically at her predicament, but it must be another denizen of the jungle. She imagined a spidery creature with eyes even bigger than hers.

  A dozen or so hurricane lamps were clustered on a wicker trunk next to the front door. She made her way over there with a great show of strength, aware that her hostage was deeply and darkly interested in everything she did. Next to the lamps were a box of foot-long matches and a container of what smelled like kerosene. She went at the task with the resolve of a disaster survivor.

  The first lamp wouldn’t cooperate, and her shakiness made it difficult with the others, but when she had several of them glowing, she took a moment to regain her strength. She was becoming increasingly fragile, which was difficult to hide with him watching her every move.

  Fortunately, the shutters gave her no trouble, but the front door had nothing more than a primitive chain lock.

  “Grab a chair from the kitchen,” he said, anticipating her, “and wedge it up against the door.”

  His tone was surly, but arguing would have taken too much energy. She needed her strength for better things.

  “And those yellow candles on the bookshelf should be lit. They’re bug repellents.”

  She did that, too.

  “Now, where’s that food you were talking about?”

  “Coming right up.”

  She sounded dangerously cheerful. And when she returned from the kitchen, it was with a large platter of exotic fruits and vegetables that she’d found in the refrigerator, along with some soft corn tortillas, spicy shredded meat, and a pot of simmering, aromatic black beans. She also found a peppery green salsa and a pitcher of something that tasted like sangria.

  Someone was going to feast tonight, and it wouldn’t be the beasts.

  The fever had robbed her of an appetite, but she hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, so she had to be hungry. He was hungry, too. She made a point to put the platter on the floor right in front him, and when he saw it, his throat convulsed and saliva formed a bubble at the edge of his lips. He was starving, she realized. His mouth was watering involuntarily, and she could hear his stomach rumbling from where she sat.

  She felt pangs of concern, even of sympathy, but she steeled herself against them. Someone had taught her to do that, too, to get the information no matter what it took or who got hurt. You didn’t get second chances in this business, they’d told her. When the first one came, you acted.

  This was her opportunity. He needed what she had, and she could break him with that need. The essence of pungent Mexican spices, of ortega chilis, and of cilantro floated up with the steam coming off the platter, and hunger stirred within Angela, despite her listlessness. She was desperately thirsty, and the ripe, juicy fruit made her throat constrict. There were mangos, crimson blood oranges, bananas, and exotic melons.

  Greedily she tore off a section of orange and licked the juice that dripped from its pulp. The sharp, sweet flavor stung her cracked lips and made her jaws tighten and burn. She sucked out the remaining juice and struggled to eat what was left of the section. Her shuddering body was in shock and barely knew what to do with the food, but she’d never tasted anything so delicious.

  The melons dripped juice, too. A stream of pale green ran down her arm as she nibbled on a slice of honeydew. Her swollen throat wouldn’t allow for anything but tiny bites, and it was impossible to swallow all the nectar. Within seconds, her aching mouth had filled to the brim and run over, and even though she knew the juice was oozing in embarrassing ways, she wasn’t fast enough to catch it with her tongue.

  Her lips trembled as she licked the sweetness from them and felt a cool trickle under her chin. She caught it with her fingers and discovered a pool of wetness in the hollow of her throat. Melon juice had formed its own spillway, and the crevice between her breasts had become its sluice. Dizzily she looked down and wondered what to do.

  It was not a pretty picture. Her blouse had come untied, and it was creeping off her shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a bra because of the heat, and on one side, the gauzy material was stuck fast to a glistening breast. The other side was billowing like a sail in sultry trade winds. As far as she could tell, there was just one button holding the whole mess together, and her arm was wet and tacky up to the elbow.

  As she woozily assessed the damage, her eyelids drooped and a feeling of heavy, dreamy languor overcame her. She swayed forward and caught herself, afraid to look up, afraid the room would begin to spin. What she needed was a shower, but she couldn’t seem to move, especially the way everything else was moving. The melon juice had hit her like liquor.

  There wasn’t much she could do but wait out the weak spell and pray this one would pass. Her head filled with a rush of noise, and she wondered if it was real or imagined. It sounded like rain on the roof or a flock of birds. Reduced to the coping skills of near infancy, she tried sucking the stickiness from her fingers. Cats managed to clean their entire bodies with their tongue, didn’t they? Of course, cats didn’t eat melons. She hadn’t thought to bring any water, and the hut’s water probably wasn’t safe to drink, so she dipped her hand in the pitcher of sangria and looked up, dimly aware that he was watching.

  And had been watching all this time.

  She hadn’t thought to bring napkins, either.

  She drew out her hand and let it drip. But really, what could you do with wet fingers besides wipe them on your clothes or put them in your mouth? And her clothes were wet enough.

  He didn’t seem to appreciate her situation. In fact, his blazing eyes were fixed on her drip-drying hand, and Angela didn’t know what to do with it.

  A snarl of frustration startled her, and she realized it was him, struggling to speak. The room began to sway, and she held on, mentally dropping anchor. Maybe it was her state of mind, but he looked as predatory as the creatures prowling outside the hut, and she probably would have felt safer with them. His jaw muscles were torturously knotted, and the way his throat was working, it looked as if he’d been trying to eat the fruit right along with her.

  But this wasn’t just simple hunger. She had aroused an appetite for more things than melon, and he was a man of strong appetites. She’d seen that in the aurora borealis on her computer screen. His brain scans
had signaled powerful drives and passions. She’d seen calm blue pools throw purple flares and his reward pathways pulse with crimson rivers. She’d been a witness to even his most private impulses, and if she’d read them correctly, the septal nucleus, which was the brain’s arousal center, must be on fire right now.

  It had enthralled her. He was enthralling her, although his ever-darkening features were a stark contrast to his vibrant mind. The falling light was thick with rising disquiet. It crackled like wires in danger of shorting out. It was there in his stony jaw and his heavily corded biceps, and every sense Angela had was engaged. She could see him, taste him in the stinging juice on her tongue, even smell him.

  “This is your specialty, isn’t it? Turning men into drooling idiots?”

  His voice was raw, dry, accusing. She needn’t have worried about making him want what she had. He wanted it badly. If he was hungry for anything right now, it was a sticky-fingered female in a wet blouse. He was devouring her with his mind, but he looked as if he didn’t like the taste of this exotic feast very much. He didn’t like it, only he couldn’t stop himself.

  Angela had seen it before, this primal struggle that men went through. She’d seen it all her life. And it had spelled disaster. The men who wanted her were racked with conflict, and in some cases, they’d found it easier to make her responsible for their obsession with forbidden fruit. Her foster father had tried to make her responsible for everything, even the pain he caused others. And it had always struck her as tragic that society still encouraged its males to covet youth and innocence, even when it was off limits, and then tragically, some of them took it a step further. They blamed the victim.

  “What was I supposed to do?” they said. “She was irresistible.”