And there was the matter of those papers.
The ones that had appeared to be very much in order.
Joe shifted his gaze from the mirror, focusing it on the once crisp manila folder clutched atop Alberto's lap. When that bruised hand finally released those papers, there would be creases as well as the stains of quiet panic marring their sheath.
Yet another testimony to the man's fear.
And yet another reason for the guilt that invaded his own body. Would that he could lay the blame for the nausea it had produced at the base of his empty stomach. But he could not. For while the omelet Teresa had prepared for him that evening had long since been digested, the regret he had been swallowing from the moment he met this man and his family had not.
Alberto caught him staring and shifted in his seat, switching the folder to his right hand as he attempted a smile.
The result was poor and wavered at the edges.
Again, a result of nerves.
Joe met the man's gaze full on—and immediately regretted his action.
Those eyes.
Alberto Mendoza was six, perhaps eight years his senior. But those dark eyes of his…they were a thousand.
It was trial enough to sit here in official judgment of his former fellow countryman and the choices Alberto had been forced to make. But to look into that tortured expression was very nearly his undoing.
Joe pulled his gaze away as smoothly as he could manage and forced himself to focus on the booth that was now no more than thirty cars in the distance.
Thirty cars to freedom.
Whether illegally gained or not, there it was.
And as he counted down the cars, he found himself hoping against his better judgment—indeed, against his very badge—that when this van cleared that distant barrier, Alberto and his family would have the tenacity to grab that freedom and continue to run.
Before he was forced to arrest these six people for doing the very thing he himself, his uncle and his three younger brothers had done almost two decades ago.
As Tess took in the expanse of deep blue ocean before her, she was forced to concede that Nicole had been right about one thing: Eddie's modus operandi. The call she'd taken from the tech after Nicole had abandoned her at the nursing station the night before had indeed come with an invitation. It seemed Eddie had decided to host one of his infamous impromptu beach blowouts this very afternoon.
And his latest guest of honor?
Her.
At the time, Tess had been thrilled. Professionally, anyway.
Her enthusiasm had waned, however, shortly after her arrival. Between the throbbing music and surprising abundance of fawning hospital staff, not to mention the plethora of bikini-clad and nauseatingly over-perfumed women that seemed to fill every square foot of the overblown contemporary beach house behind her, another migraine had set in. Maybe Joe was lurking within, too. His presence would explain the rate at which this particular headache was slowly but surely consuming her entire skull.
After all, the migraines had seemed to worsen right along with the growing tension between the two of them these past two months.
Tess pushed that particular pain to the back of her mind. It was time to head back inside and find Eddie—smile and feign interest, even as she avoided those relentlessly traveling hands of his.
Ten minutes earlier, the tech's phone had rung. She could only hope the call hadn't concerned Joe's border run, because whatever Eddie's caller had opened with had had the tech excusing himself with a dark frown and heading to his bedroom so he could complete his conversation in private.
Since she didn't know the tech well enough yet to try to tag along, she'd decided to slip out here for a bit fresh air and the space to recoup.
And now, her reprieve was over.
Tess sighed as she turned away from her breath-taking view of the Pacific and the strip of glittering sand bordering it to take in the deck of Eddie's weathered-gray, pretentious beach house—and promptly froze.
What the hell?
Joe was here.
He was standing in the frame of the open, oversized sliding glass doors, slightly in profile, his dark blue T-shirt clad back to the bulk of the massive deck protruding out over the sand and the dozen-odd nurses, aids, medical technicians and their plus-ones milling around it—and he was pissed. That she could tell by the set of Joe's jaw as he jerked his head down to glare at Eddie and respond to something the man said.
And then Eddie was pissed.
Evidently Joe didn't care, because he turned his back on the pharmacy tech and strode through the open slider.
He was heading straight for her.
Oh, boy. She knew that look.
Unfortunately, she didn't have time to take cover.
Hell, even brandishing her Glock wouldn't have saved her. Not that she had the 9mm on her anyway. It wasn't as though she could pack a loaded, government-issued sidearm in her bag and then leave it lying around during Eddie's impromptu barbecue. The tech might notice. Especially if he decided to rifle through her bag.
She wouldn't put it past the man. Nor would she put it past Joe not to strangle her right here on the beach in broad daylight.
By the time Joe reached her he looked ready to do it, too.
But, apparently, he wasn't ready to speak. He just stood there, less than a foot away, towering over her, his broad shoulders blocking out every single angle of that two-story, modern monstrosity behind him as the tic in his lower jaw throbbed out a tempo that put the cacophony on her favorite rifle range to shame.
"Well, Teresa?"
Okay, so he was ready to speak.
But she wasn't ready to explain herself. Not to a fellow agent—let alone friend—who'd done nothing but second guess her every decision since day one on this case.
Her case.
"I am waiting."
"Then settle in, buster, 'cause you've got a long one."
Wrong response. The tic took on the tempo of an M-60 machine gun—on full auto. "Santo Cristo, woman. What were you thinking?"
That's it!
She locked her spine and closed up the remaining ten inches of air between them, by the grace of God alone keeping her voice at a seething whisper as she squared off against Joe's matching fire. "Woman? Don't you dare woman me. I call the shots on this one, not you. Furthermore, the invitation to attend this little mid-day soirée—and check out the man's home from the inside—came up while you were crossing the border. So, I took it. At least I had the decency to inform you where I was going in my note."
His equally seething, dark-brown ire turned black as he too managed to keep his temper to whisper, "But you did not have the forethought to arrange backup, did you?"
"I didn't need it. Look around you. Guests are crawling all over that damned deck. Or are you suggesting that Eddie Hernández is clever enough to do away with me in front of a hundred witnesses?"
Nothing.
She waited for Joe's comeback, but apparently he didn't have one, because he just stood there glaring at her. Silently. It took a good minute, but his temper finally cooled, then shifted away from her altogether. His focus settled somewhere over the ocean beyond as the tic in his jaw slowed, then faded altogether.
Another minute dragged by without a response.
Finally, a sigh.
She knew Joe well enough to know that was all she was going to get. "Just leave, okay? As it stands, Eddie probably thinks we're out here having a lovers' spat." While they were too far away to be heard, their body language was no doubt speaking volumes. "If we're lucky, he'll offer to take me out later so he can cheer me up."
The smolder returned. "If I leave, you leave."
This time there was no give in Joe's tone or his expression.
So, she did—grudgingly. "Fine."
Besides, it might be good for Eddie to see the two of them together. It would make their supposed marital breakup later this week—and her subsequent grief—more believable. Especially if Jo
e intended on glowering through the remainder of the day.
She stepped back to see if Eddie was watching, wincing as something sharp jabbed into her bare heel. "Ouch."
Joe was kneeling at her feet before she could glance down past the hem of her floral sundress to get a look at what she'd landed on. She smothered a gasp as he lifted her right foot and flicked away a crimped beer bottle cap before smoothing the remaining grains of sand from her arch.
The sun-heated sand and pebbles beneath her other foot had nothing on the sudden warmth in his hands—and, now, in her foot.
"Where are your shoes?"
Was it her imagination, or had his voice gone hoarse?
"I-in the spare bedroom."
Unfortunately, so had hers.
She swallowed firmly. "I'm fine. Please—uh—let go."
But he didn't.
To make matters worse, her sole supporting knee went inexplicably weak as he continued to look up at her. She was forced to drop her hands to his shoulders to keep her balance. A second later, she dropped her focus as well, desperately trying to regain her equilibrium as she took in the snug T-shirt beneath her fingers. Evidently his washer and dryer had won another battle.
She was two seconds from losing the war. The one in her stomach. It was being fought by butterflies at the moment, and for some reason, the fluttering of those delicate wings was damned near leveling her.
What the heck was wrong with her?
This was Joe.
He was her best friend, damn it. Not to mention, there was a very real possibility that he might be involved—seriously involved—with another woman.
So why were the butterflies there?
She steeled herself against it, as well as Joe's sorry excuse for a shirt, as she jerked her foot from his hand. She shifted well out of his reach—only to wince again.
The perfume-induced migraine she'd been fighting since her arrival.
It was coming on quick and it was coming on hard.
Another all-nighter without a nap-chaser hadn't helped. Neither had standing out here in the baking sun. Unfortunately, this had been the only place she could grab a few moments alone to form her plan of attack on how best to case Eddie's house.
She managed to focus on Joe's face—barely. She was going to have to take something and soon. Before the nausea set in.
Sometimes it exploded in like this.
But, damn it, why now?
"How bad?"
She blinked up at him as he came to his feet. "What?"
He closed the distance. "The migraine. How bad does it hurt?"
"I'm fine."
He sighed. "Teresa, you are favoring your right eye."
He would be too, if he had to face that indecently snug shirt.
She tried blinking again, but it didn't help this time either. Nor did the blinding rays of the sun that were stabbing directly into her brain. "I said, I'm fine."
She followed it up with a glare—and instantly regretted it.
Though slight, the added motion had egged on the ache in her right temple, jacking it up to pounding. Worse, it was becoming difficult to focus, given the luminescent spots that were now floating in and out of her peripheral vision.
"How bad?"
She knew that tone. He was not going to give up.
She finally sighed. "Bad enough."
"When did you last take a tablet?"
"I haven't."
"And why not?"
She caught his frown through the pulsing pain and ignored it. "Because I ran out yesterday morning, that's why. I haven't had a chance to hit a pharmacy in the meantime." At least not one she could use her real name in.
"What about your injection?"
"It's in my bag."
"And that is…?"
She sighed. "In the bedroom with my sandals."
He nodded briskly. "Come; I will administer it."
"That's okay, I can—"
"Come." This time he held out his hand.
She took it.
Between her head, his tone and those swirling, luminescent spots, she didn't have a choice.
By the time they made it across the sand and onto the bleached deck, she was grateful Joe had taken over, because the migraine was full-blown.
He politely but firmly cut off the conversational attempts of several nurses and two techs, including one from Eddie himself, as he led her through the maze of guests and into the blessedly dimmer house.
Moments later, they'd made it down the main hall, up the stairs to the second floor and through the guest bedroom door just beyond the top step.
"Sit."
She obeyed, sinking into the leopard-print comforter at the foot of the bed as Joe closed the door. He set about locating her leather bag from the collection of bags and purses on the mattress behind her as she tried to focus on the plastic palm tree beside the door. Thankfully, she was too far gone to really see the sorry thing. She was dimly aware of Joe rummaging through her bag's inner, zippered compartment as she attempted to pull the hem of her skirt to her thighs.
His hands closed over hers, nudging her clumsy fingers out of the way. "I will get it."
Tess nodded, so very grateful as the former paramedic in Joe took over. She felt the cool swipe of the alcohol pad at the middle of her left thigh, then the quick sting as the needle pierced her skin, followed by the slow burn as the liquid sumatriptan spread out into her muscle. Though relief was a good ten minutes out, she sighed.
"Thank you."
He chuckled. "De nada."
But when he tried to ease her head to his chest, she stiffened. She tried to focus on his face, but it was still too difficult, so she settled for speech. "You haven't said how it went last night."
He shook his head. "I found no visible evidence of narcotics. As for the rest, the details will keep until the pain has passed." He reached for her again, this time tucking her face into the curve of his neck as he gathered her close.
She wasn't about to argue. Not when it now hurt just to think.
She breathed out another, deeper sigh as Joe smoothed the length of her hair over her shoulders and down her back. He brought his hands to her neck and slipped them beneath the weight of her curls, digging his fingers deep as he began to massage her entire scalp. Slowly but surely, he worked the excruciating tension from her head and neck. Another sigh poured from within, this one straight from her heart.
Because this was Joe.
He was back. They were back.
He'd held her like this after she'd overheard her fiancé telling her mother on graduation day that she might have made it through the DEA's academy, but he doubted she'd make it through the probationary period. Nor was Bill sure he wanted her to. Humiliation singeing her cheeks, she'd handed her fiancé his ring—and walked straight into the comforting arms of her friend.
Joe hadn't said a word. He'd simply gathered her close and held her…just like this.
Lord, she'd missed it. Missed him.
The ease, the familiarity. The feeling that she could tell this man anything, lean on his warm, steady support—forever, if need be. She closed her eyes and sank deeper into his neck as his kneading fingers withdrew from her hair to massage the ache at her temple. But as the pain ebbed altogether, a new and languorous sensation took its place. Only this sensation wasn't in her head. It wasn't even in her stomach.
It was lower.
It was somewhere it should not be.
Suddenly, this wasn't Joe anymore. At least, not her Joe.
Surely the muscles of Joe's chest had never been this firm, let alone this warm?
Before her eyes, his T-shirt seemed to shrink even more. The air bled out from her lungs as the cotton beneath her fingers melted into muscle, defining the healthy ridges as it never had before. She hauled her gaze up to the tempting hollow at the base of his throat and dragged her breath in deep.
Not a smart move.
Even the male musk swirling into her lungs had changed. Yes, the fa
miliar hint of mocha was there. But it was darker now, smoky.
No, this definitely wasn't her old buddy, Joe.
This was a man. A man she wanted.
Oh God, it was happening again. First the beach, now this. She tried to pull away, but she didn't get very far—at least, not far enough. She could still smell him. And that sensation was still there. Only it was hanging between them now. Thick, heavy.
Ripe.
She swore he felt it too.
His eyes.
She'd never seen that look in them before. That dark, steady gaze was burning now, almost glowing with the heat of it. The need. And his mouth. Against her will, she was drawn to his lips, just as he seemed drawn to hers.
"Joe?"
She felt his answering swallow deep inside her—and then her mouth went dry. She flicked her tongue to wet her lips.
His eyes darkened. Went black.
She wasn't sure why or how it had happened—much less, whether or not it should—but it was definitely happening. They were drawing closer. Joe's mouth was drawing closer. He was so close now, she could feel his breath feathering her lips.
Mocha and musk teased at her, filling her lungs. He filled her lungs. Any second she was going to be tasting—
"Tessa? Ah, damn. Sorry. Guess I should've knocked."
Eddie.
Joe had jackknifed off the bed and spun around before the fragments of Eddie's name had finished coalescing in her mind. It was a good thing, because she couldn't think, let alone move. She did manage to drop her gaze to her lap.
Her thighs were covered—but the syringe was not.
And Eddie was staring at it.
4
¡Carajó!
Joe locked his arms to his chest, his every instinct as a federal agent warring against the private man within as Eduardo Hernández pushed the door to the guest room wider and strolled all the way into the room. The private man within nearly won as Joe confronted a satisfaction so insolent it fairly radiated from Hernández' knowing smile, as well as the lazy snap of over-priced leather sandals as the man brought them to a halt two feet from Teresa's slender toes. He clenched his fists as that insolence continued to slide up Teresa's equally bare, slender calves.
Just Beyond Reach Page 6