Would she never let him live that down?
Relief flooded through him regardless. If Teresa was in the mood to tease, then his earlier fears were for naught. She had put those moments upon that guest bed behind her. His own smile now genuine, he retrieved the bowl of grapes and the coffee cream from the counter as she picked up the sugar and cocoa.
Together they headed out of the kitchen and to the table in the small dining space that flowed into the living area beyond.
"Teresa, I told you then, I ate at the new seafood place on the Embarcadero. That is how I received the food poisoning."
"Uh-huh. I believe you." Her lingering amusement stated otherwise.
The relief yet surging through him supplanted his caution of late, and he reached out to tug a lock of her hair. He realized his error as his fingers brushed the warmth of her neck. The teasing in her eyes faded, and something new took its place.
Try as he might to deny it, this time he could not.
Blue, green, it did not matter. There was no mistaking the desire darkening her gaze. The hunger.
The icy hands of dread slipped quietly into his chest and stole the very beating from his heart. Madre de Dios—no!
She must not want him.
Silence pushed into the air between them, awkward and thick.
In the end, deliverance came by her hand.
One moment that warm, green gaze was growing warmer, and the next, it was gone. She turned from him, busying herself with arranging the cocoa and sugar on the table. By the time she lifted the bowl of grapes from his hands, he was still searching for a way to extend this latest of reprieves.
Again, it was she who provided it with the soft, but distinctive clearing of her throat. "So…what happened at the border last night?"
He eased out his breath as he sent heaven its due and quickly pulled her chair from the table, taking care to keep his hand well away from the tumble of curls trailing down her back as he waited for her to sit. Once she was settled, he took the chair opposite.
Yet another error. This one perhaps more grievous than the rest. In sitting across from her, he found himself staring directly into those twin pools of green.
He drew a cleansing breath and severed his gaze as he reached for the grapes. "As expected, the family was illegal."
Her hands shot out, gripping his over the bowl. "You got the numbers off the forms? Why didn't you tell me?"
He shook his head, his regret genuine as he extricated his fingers from the warmth of hers. "I did not tell you, because I was not able to retrieve them. But perhaps more importantly—neither Alberto, nor his family, nor I were directed to enter the CBP office. Instead, the officer at the booth—who, incidentally, wore an agency windbreaker fully zipped to cover up both his name tag and badge number—took the folder Alberto carried. The officer then kept the forms within and passed a small envelope back to me to hand to Alberto as he watched. Once we had cleared the booth, Alberto checked the contents of the envelope—green cards."
Teresa shook her head, as confused as he had been earlier that night when it had happened. "The cards were waiting for you—at the booth?"
He nodded.
Her confusion deepened along with the furrow that had taken up residence between her brows. "Joe, that doesn't make sense."
She was correct, for that—as well as the entire night—went directly against CBP procedure. And before she could ask, "No, I was not able to retrieve any of the numbers from the cards either." Not without demanding that Alberto show them to him outright once they'd reached LA, thereby risking their covers.
Though part of him wished he had.
For he would have run the numbers on the green cards through the computer system. Once they knew who had issued them, the case would be all but over. At least, his portion would be finished—and with it, this precarious "marriage" to her.
Unless, of course, the cards were fake…which he suspected they were.
As would Teresa.
"Damn." She pushed the bowl of grapes to the side and drummed her slender fingers atop the table. "First the money, and now a stack of phony cards. It doesn't add up. Ten grand for six people? That's far too much for just the driver on a straight run—even without those cards tossed in. And the mystery officer in the booth? Even after we ID him, we'll have to leave him in place—and not just to protect our covers. There's an excellent chance that he's not the only officer involved in all this."
"Agreed."
"Was the family well off?"
"No." For the hundredth time, he attempted to push the memory of those haunting eyes from his mind. "They were quite poor."
"Then I really don't understand." Again, her fingers drummed. "You said you didn't find evidence of drugs."
"I said I did not find visible evidence."
Her fingers halted in mid-tap—and her brow rose. High.
He refused to apologize for misleading her at that beach house earlier this afternoon. It had been necessary. Besides, he had known then that he would correct the misassumption with a more detailed report once they were no longer beneath the technician's watchful gaze. A report he now gave. "I believe they are mules."
Her gaze flew wide. "But you said— Oh, my God." She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, before opening them. "Joe, please—you said there were children. Young ones."
He nodded, this time slowly.
But she said nothing. Her eyes became over-bright as her throat began to work. He covered her hands with his, squeezing gently as the tears succeeded in slipping free.
This was why he had waited.
For all this woman's steel, she carried the softest of hearts. While he had knowingly and willingly sold his soul to the DEA on the tenuous hope that one day his demons would fade, Teresa had been lured in by the noblest of reasons. Grown weary of meeting the overdosed and already dying upon yet another gurney in an overcrowded emergency room, she had made the shift to prevention. But in doing so, she had also succeeded in shredding at the layers of her heart.
Such compassion. Indeed, at times he found himself wishing her inner beauty did not match the outer. For surely a harder core would have allowed her to survive this profession of theirs more fully intact?
Like a moth to the flame, the tips of his fingers stole to her cheeks. He caved into the need to touch, and smoothed the damp trails from the silk. "Teresa, please…you must not." Though his voice had grown hoarse, he did not care. He could not watch this woman cry. It cut too deeply.
It always had.
"I-I don't understand. How? I can maybe—maybe—understand how someone could swallow a condom full of tar heroin, knowing at any moment it could burst and kill him instantly. But children? How in God's name can someone ask children that young to do the same?"
He shifted his gaze slowly, deliberately. Before she saw the truth. For he could indeed conceive of at least one situation where he could not only understand such a vile request, but perhaps also even excuse it.
How many other such nightmares existed? He did not want to know.
The one was more than enough.
"Joe?"
He tensed, more at her whisper than at the fingers now soothing his jaw. He drew his gaze to hers cautiously, relieved to see only concern for memories of the desperate race for freedom that he, too, had once endured—and, yes, sympathy as well.
But, thankfully, no knowledge of the cause.
"Joe, I'm so sorry. I've been so wrapped up in trying to nail Eddie before my sister's wedding, I didn't even think of what that drive would force you to relive."
He did not pretend to misunderstand, for this much he had told her. But he did shake his head. "It was not that bad."
She held his gaze. "You're right—it was awful."
Again, the burning ache of old slipped in. He drew deeply against it.
The images, the sounds. The smell of sweat.
Of terror.
"Don't bother denying it. I can see it in your eyes. Crossing the bor
der like that was hell."
He focused on her gaze, holding fast to the compassion amid the rich gold and greens as he forced the past to return to where it belonged. Only then did he attempt to shrug the rest off as best he could. "I will not deny it; it was difficult. But it is over—for now."
Her hand slipped from his jaw and found his fingers.
This time, he could not find the strength to pull away. Nor could he find the strength to prevent his fingers from turning into hers, threading tightly. Wanting. Needing. But he was saved from this new ache as well, for sharp as she was, she had already latched onto the implication in his words.
Her gaze narrowed. "What do you mean, for now? Eddie said—"
"He has reneged upon his word."
"Damn." She exhaled sharply. "How?"
"The money. I had originally stopped by his house this afternoon to pick it up. Hernández claimed not to have the cash on hand. He invited me to remain at the party. I was expressing my…displeasure…at the delay of payment when he informed me you were there also."
"You mean you didn't get my note?"
He shook his head.
"But I taped it—" Her gaze shot over his shoulder, no doubt to the back of the apartment door, seeking the note he had found and read whilst she was removing her contacts. Her gaze returned to his, the concern with it. "You must be exhausted."
"No more than you."
"I doubt it. I managed to scam a nap yesterday—and then I fell asleep in the tub."
Madre de Dios, must she remind him? His nerves were stretched thin enough as it was.
The case. Return the discussion to the case.
Sí. "About the money—Hernández claims that if I can wait but a few days more, perform my service again, he will triple the amount."
As expected, her brows rose sharply. "Thirty grand for two lousy border runs? No way. They're mules, all right."
Unfortunately, he found himself in agreement.
And yet… He dropped his gaze to the grapes. Their color was much like the fading bruise on the back of Alberto Mendoza's hand.
"Joe…what is it?"
He glanced up.
"Something's bothering you."
He thought to deny it. After all, there was naught he could place his finger on. At least not precisely. But she was right. Truth be known, there were several aspects of this case that refused to mesh. Most significantly, "The apartment."
"The one in Los Angeles?"
He nodded. "I saw it for myself when I dropped the family off. In fact, I was invited in."
"Was something wrong with it?"
"No. But perhaps this is precisely what was wrong."
"I don't understand."
Neither had he, at first. "The neighborhood? It was poor but well kept. And the apartment? It was small, but furnished. Sparingly, yes. But decently enough to invite a family to stay awhile, perhaps even permanently. Also, the kitchen was well stocked, and with vegetables. Finally, there was no one to greet us."
"No one?"
"No one."
"But if you didn't turn the family over to anyone, how could Eddie be sure they wouldn't skip town with the heroin once the condoms passed out of their systems?"
"He could not. Especially since someone had also left an older model Ford station wagon in the proper slot, apparently for the family's use as well, for I caught sight of a set of car keys on the kitchen counter."
"Let me guess—the keys were for a Ford."
He nodded.
"That definitely doesn't add up."
"Neither does the bruise."
"Bruise? What bruise?"
He felt foolish for mentioning it. But for all his efforts, he could not dismiss the discoloration on the back of Alberto Mendoza's hand. Why, he did not know.
He sighed. "It may be nothing."
She waited. No doubt for an explanation.
Unfortunately, he had none to offer. For how could he explain a growing suspicion that, as yet, defied logic?
A suspicion that would only strengthen this woman's resolve to insinuate herself even more deeply into Eduardo Hernández' life, and this case, than she already had.
5
Joe was holding something back.
And, whatever it was, it was gnawing at him.
Tess was certain of it when he raked his fingers through his hair. And there was the tension in his hands as well as his lower jaw. Something was definitely bothering him. And it was related to the case. The intense concentration as he appeared to study the tiny living room beyond sealed it. How many times had she seen that look?
She thought about pressing, but what would be the point?
When Joe had a hunch that he hadn't quite worked out, nothing could pry it out of him. Besides, in light of her dismal track record of getting him to open up lately…
What the hell. It was her case, not his.
But as she opened her mouth, a phone rang.
Joe seemed as startled as she was as they glanced at the chair beside them. At the leather bag hanging from its shoulder. Who would be calling the phone she'd set up for this case in the middle of the day? Anyone she knew from Lorring Memorial and "work", including Eddie, would believe her to be sleeping. Or should.
Joe recovered first, snagging the bag as he stood. His fingers brushed hers as he passed it over. The brief unexpected contact sent a fizz of electricity up her arm. She drew in her breath as Joe jerked his hand away and turned to head into the kitchen.
She watched his retreating back, trying to absorb the sparks zinging through her. What the devil was happening to her?
Whenever she got within ten feet of Joe lately, he seemed to get to her. Only this time, she could have sworn he'd felt it too.
Yet another ring.
Unlike the first three, this one succeeded in jarring her attention back to the bag and the phone inside it.
It might be Agent Daniels. They were scheduled to meet later.
Whoever it was, she'd better answer before they hung up. She dug the phone out, punching the connection open as she brought it to her ear. "Hello?"
"Tess?"
Damn. It wasn't Gray. She winced even as the guilt bit in. "Hi, Mom."
Tess clamped down on the phone, her stomach bottoming out as her mother let out a high-pitched wail.
"Mom?"
"It's K-Kelli. You've got to come h-home. It's—she's—" The rest was lost as her mother dissolved completely into tears.
"Kelli's what?"
There was nothing but thick, racking sobs.
Four years of shifts at the Naval Medical Center in Portsmouth's ER seared through Tess' brain as her mother continued to wail. Car accidents, severed limbs, gunshot wounds. "For God's sake, Mom, what happened?"
Unable to contain the burgeoning panic, Tess vaulted from her chair, halfway to the kitchen, halfway to Joe, before she'd finished yelling.
Joe met her at the doorway, her stark fear mirrored in his gaze. "Teresa, what is it?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. She can't stop crying—"
"The w-wedding—" her mother finally wailed.
"What about it?"
Once her mother started to babble, the woman couldn't seem to stop. Unfortunately, there were no real details between the sobs. All Tess knew for certain was that the wedding had been called off—and that she had to come home to deal with the fallout. Immediately.
Fear gave way to confusion and then fury.
"The wedding? You damned near gave me a heart attack because of a stupid wedding? A canceled one at that?" That's what this panic-fest was about?
The sobs staunched. Instantly. "Don't you dare use that tone with me, young lady."
Tess sucked in her breath, intent on using a lot worse when, suddenly, the phone was gone. Plucked from her hand.
Joe.
His deep, soothing lilt filled the tiny living room as he moved toward the couch, all the while attempting to calm her mother. From the sound of it, he was succeeding to
o. She wasn't surprised. Joe had always been able to handle her mother.
Better than she could, anyway.
Tess turned around to scoop up the sugar, cocoa and cream, then headed into the kitchen with them. She had no intention of remaining at the table where she'd be forced to listen to the other end of that call.
By the time she'd finished filling the mugs from the coffee pot Joe had switched on, her anger had pretty much ebbed, giving way to a bone-weary yawn. She was adding cocoa to Joe's mug as he joined her, trading the phone—connection mercifully severed—for the mocha as she faced the apology in his eyes.
"I did not mean to presume."
She shrugged. "Presume away. You probably saved our rocky relationship. Again. 'Til the next time, anyway."
"Teresa—"
She sighed. "Spare me the lecture, Cortez. Just give me the facts. Did Kelli, or did she not, wise up?"
"If you are asking if she was the one to call off the wedding, sí."
Hallelujah! After two failed marriages and a succession of live-ins, there was hope for Kelli after all. "I take it mom's ticked because she's not going to get to do the big, blowout bridal scene again—if vicariously."
"Teresa, she is your mother."
"So?"
He frowned. Not just any frown, but that frown. The one that made her feel like a four-year old caught with her hand in the cookie jar. As it did with his smile, his shorter hair magnified it.
Too bad.
She wasn't the one who'd been married more often than Liz Taylor and Henry the eighth put together. Not to mention, she was too bloody exhausted to sit through another lecture from him, let alone about this. "What's it to you? You've certainly never been a proponent of marital bliss. Or are the rumors true? Are you preparing to recant?"
The second the words left her mouth, she wanted to call them back.
But it was too late.
She wasn't sure which chilled her more. Her slip, the shock that had flashed through Joe's eyes—or the awkward silence that now reigned.
The burn that had begun at the center of her chest spread out until her entire body hurt. The rumors were true. And he obviously believed she hadn't had a clue.
Just Beyond Reach Page 8