Just Beyond Reach

by Candace Irvin

  However, their uncle hadn't been thwarted. Neither had the small, but lethal, off-the-clock army of Hispanic-American soldiers from Fort Hood, Texas, who'd come to his uncle's aid. Within a week of the judge's decision, the boys had been liberated and were residing firmly inside the US border. But from the grip on that steering wheel, the boys' journey from deep inside Mexico to Texas had not been smooth, or easy.

  Joe's grip eased as the lane in front of them opened up. But by the time they were bumper to bumper with the station wagon in front of them, his grip had locked back down.

  Tess counted the cars to the booth.

  Fifteen to go.

  He wasn't going to make it. Not at this pace.

  "The mother has a bruise."

  Joe flinched at her soft murmur—but he finally turned his face and met her gaze. "Bruise?"

  She nodded.

  "Where?" Again, in English.

  Risky, yes. But none of their passengers had appeared to understand English when she'd greeted them upon arrival. And Joe's equally low response had been barely audible as well, even to her. "The back of her right hand. You mentioned something about a bruise on the first run?"

  He nodded. "Perhaps a week old. But it was on the father."

  She lifted her focus to the rearview mirror as discreetly as she could. Unfortunately, the thirty-something mother had shifted her infant again.

  The woman caught sight of her gaze, and Tess smiled gently.

  The woman smiled back—timid, terrified.

  Tess nudged her attention back to Joe and lowered her voice that much more. "I missed it when they climbed in. Still can't get a good look. Partly because of the distortion in her reflection, but also the baby. I think this one's newer though."

  Joe inched the van forward. "We may be able to gain a closer look when we reach the apartment."

  She frowned. "You know—that's odd, too."

  Joe had dropped the first night's passengers off a good two hours' drive north in Los Angeles. But they'd be dropping this family off at a private residence in Chula Vista, a mere twenty minutes after they cleared the booth. The only similarity being that, again, no employee of Eddie's would be waiting, no chain-of-custody for the heroin.

  Surely Eddie didn't trust the father to just hand it over?

  She drummed her fingers lightly over the upper edge of the passenger door. A door that, like every other potential hiding place in the van, was devoid of narcotics. Just as he had the night before, she and Joe had checked. "It doesn't make sense."

  "Agreed. And there is something else."

  "What?"

  He flicked his gaze ahead. "You see the officer at the booth?"

  She could. They were six cars away now. With the silence broken, the time was whizzing by. "What about him?"

  "He is not the one who manned the lane I took last night. Unless I am mistaken, the hair of the man ahead is more dirty blond than brown."

  Curiouser and curiouser.

  But the rest did substantiate the tar heroin theory. The destitution of the family, not to mention their palpable desperation. And this time, they'd both noticed the extreme care with which the parents had belted in the four older children. Except…two of the kids were under five. In all her years of nursing, she'd never gotten a child that young to swallow a pill without gagging.

  How had the parents gotten them to swallow a stuffed condom?

  From the glance Joe slid to the rearview mirror and the frown that followed, she suspected he was wondering the same thing.

  His gaze returned to the booth ahead—and the tension had returned. It was in the clipped edge to his jaw now, his taut neck and shoulders. Hell, his fingers were all but welded to the steering wheel…and she'd run out of things to say.

  So she reached out and laid her hand on his thigh.

  He flinched.

  Okay.

  She was about to tug it back when Joe pulled his right hand from the steering wheel and covered hers. She swallowed a gasp as he clamped down on her fingers as fiercely as he had the steering wheel. Three accelerations later, his grip began to ease. Another acceleration and another stop, and his hand had loosened enough for her to turn her fingers prints up and intertwine them with his.

  And then, the relief. It was intense, searing—because Joe had squeezed her hand back, the way he had so many times through the years.

  Maybe they could get past this. Maybe their friendship could survive.

  "Joe, we have to talk."

  Just like that, the tension was back. But it was thicker than before and even more damning, if that was possible.

  She ignored it. Yes, she'd been thrown for a loop next to the truck at Eddie's. Just as she had been on the beach. But, damn it, she had too much invested in this man to give up on him now. Serious girlfriend in his life, or not.

  Her sigh matched the van's idling engine. "I mean it. If you need more time, I can wait. But I am not giving up. Not on you, and not on us."

  His gaze found hers.

  For a moment, it was as dark and as tortured as it had been beside that truck. But then it cleared, and he nodded.

  And she breathed.

  Tess pulled her fingers from Joe's as they reached the inspection booth and turned to retrieve the sweat-stained manila folder from Señor Ramirez.

  A split second before Joe snagged it, she let the folder drop to the floorboard. She could feel the father's panic behind her as well as Joe's approval as she scrambled to stuff the forms back inside before allowing the folder to connect with Joe's hand.

  Unfortunately, she hadn't been able to get a clean look at the numbers on the forms, any more than Joe had.

  His frown mirrored hers as he turned to roll down the van's window and pass the folder to the CBP officer in the booth. While the man's hair did indeed appear to be dirty blond and not brown, this one too was wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, as well as a fully-zipped agency windbreaker—in seventy-five degrees. And, as before, the officer simply accepted the folder from Joe and glanced within, then passed over a small envelope. Since the officer was also clearly watching Joe, Joe turned to deposit the envelope into the father's waiting hand.

  The second the van cleared the booth, both the father and mother let out a joint, telling sigh, but still no small talk between them. Nor any talk for that matter.

  This time, Joe's hand sought hers.

  After the quick squeeze, she expected him to release her, but he didn't.

  Their hands remained linked as he merged the van into the northbound freeway traffic, as well as for the duration of the drive to Chula Vista.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she was suppressing a yawn as Joe brought the van to a halt in the driveway of a tiny white-washed adobe ranch. The front door opened before he'd even withdrawn the keys from the ignition.

  Tess scrambled out of the van, angling for a glimpse of the mother's hand as she slid the side door open. Unfortunately, the father's body blocked her view as he climbed out and turned to help the children. Try as she might, she couldn't get a look at the mother's hand. She did, however, manage a straight shot at those of the eldest child, a girl of thirteen, fourteen.

  Heavily callused, but devoid of bruising.

  Tess skimmed the flesh exposed by the girl's pink and green tie-dyed T-shirt, jerking her gaze to a halt as she reached the bend in the girl's left elbow. While she hadn't spotted a bruise on the girl's hand, she definitely showed evidence of a recent puncture site just above her median cubital vein.

  Blood work?

  But as Tess dropped her focus and spied the yellow- and rust-tinged discharge that had soaked and crusted into the left side of the girl's T-shirt, she began to suspect more. As horrific as her new, growing suspicion was, that puncture on the girl's arm was large enough to support an IV fluid line. And when she reached out to gently peel the tie-dyed shirt up, she knew it had.

  The girl gasped—as did her parents.

  Holy mother of Moses.

  The incision w
as a good six inches in length, on the bias of the girl's left side, starting slightly above her hip and tracing angrily up and back, ending at the base of her starkly delineated ribcage. The surgery was less than a week old. Given the amount of tissue re-fusion, as well as the level of infection that had set in, closer to three days. Nor had it been terribly well executed for that matter.

  But that wasn't all.

  The sheer, blinding panic consuming the girl's gaze, as well as those of her parents, confirmed it.

  Joe was wrong. So was she. This case wasn't about a stash of pills and syringes. Nor was it about vials of morphine showing up in and around San Diego's middle schools. Hell, it wasn't even about condoms full of heroin or whatever else this family might be carrying. It was about what they weren't.

  Kidneys.

  Joe was not surprised. Stunned and revolted, sí. And perhaps a myriad of other emotions he had yet to place, much less name, but he was not surprised.

  Teresa, however, was.

  She was also exhausted.

  Joe unlocked and opened the door to the apartment, studying her as she entered.

  Her movements were slowed, her thoughts obviously dulled from her impromptu slumber on the way home. He had not had the heart to wake her until he had turned his truck into the parking lot outside, for she had earned the respite.

  She had held up well following her discovery, had even had the presence of mind and forethought to insist upon examining the girl whose incision she had discovered, as well as the others. Though the eldest child was the only one suffering from infection, she was not the only one missing her left kidney. But for the infant, they all were.

  The mother's behavior from his previous border run made sense now, too. Namely, why that mother had pulled her older daughter in close for comfort, but not her younger one. The girl of seven had been on the mother's right—and missing her left kidney as well, no doubt along with her twelve-year-old sister, two brothers and parents.

  How many other kidneys had Hernández and his vile cohorts stolen?

  Unfortunately, he and Teresa had no idea—as yet.

  Joe closed the door and tossed his keys onto the table. With nothing left to do medically once he had returned with the antibiotics Teresa sent him out for, they left. To stay, or even to question the family, much less ask to view the contents of that small envelope which the father guarded as closely as he did his children, would only arouse suspicion.

  As far as they could determine, the family was to have no contact with Hernández and his partners again. Ever. Indeed, the parents had not even seemed to know of anyone's participation beyond the physician who had performed the mutilations.

  So, for now, he had simply made the appropriate call to have the family placed under surveillance. Tomorrow they would begin the search for answers.

  What was left of tonight was for sleep.

  "Hungry?"

  He shook his head, humbled by her ability to think of him even now when she could scarcely stand, much less keep those soft green eyes open. He had already bid her to remove the contacts the moment they had returned to the van, as the lenses had done nothing but irritate her eyes from midnight on.

  It was now three hours past. "Come, Tessa. Time for bed."

  She nodded sleepily.

  Moments later, his heart began to burn—for as he slid his arm about her shoulders to guide her to the bedroom, her head sank trustingly to his chest. This he did not deserve after his brutish behavior on the beach, nor his confession after.

  Yet she continued to lean to him as he drew her through the doorway, then turned her gently in his arms to seat her at the foot of the bed. Her head drooped as he knelt to remove her shoes and socks, his actions recalling to mind the morning before when he had taken much too long to smooth the sand from these same slender feet.

  He set the moment firmly from his thoughts as he rose to leave her to the rest of her undressing.

  Unfortunately, the six hours of sleep she had managed in the past forty-eight had not been enough. Even now, sitting up as she was, her lashes were all but closed.

  He touched her cheek. "Teresa."

  "Hmm?"

  That soft murmur alone was enough to fire his blood. He did not need the slow smile that accompanied it. For not only was the gentle curve already well steeped in slumber, it was wreathed with the promise of dreams to come.

  They had been here before. To insist she help in her undressing would only prolong that smile and the torture it inflicted upon his heart and his restraint.

  Best he finish the job himself. Before he reached out in his exhaustion and succumbed to his own dreams.

  He released the catch at the back of her bra and slipped his fingers into her sleeveless shirt to draw the straps down the slope of her shoulders, all the while working to sear the resulting fantasy from his thoughts as he freed first one arm and then the other from the loops. As he tugged the lace cups out through one of the sleeves, his gaze traveled to where the lace had been and lingered.

  Again, he cursed his traitorous thoughts. It was but his imagination. He did not truly see the shadow of the mark that lay beneath.

  He dropped the bra to the carpet and breathed his relief as his mind came to accept the truth.

  One task finished, one remaining. Her jeans.

  Perhaps he should leave them along with the shirt?

  No, the last time he had done so, she had slept fitfully and woken far too early. She needed sleep.

  He schooled his breathing, then reached for the snap.

  There. He could manage this.

  His confidence promptly bled as the zip gave way, rasping softly with promise beneath his now trembling fingers.

  Enough. Finish—and quickly.

  Another breath to fortify his resolve and he did, gently peeling her jeans down to slide them from her shapely legs. She startled him by sinking back onto the bed as he knelt to release her feet from the cuffs. He tossed the jeans atop her bra and rose.

  Dios mío, what now?

  She lay half on the bed, half off—all of her most definitely in slumber. She could not sleep so. He pushed the covers to her right side, then leaned over to shift her to the fitted sheet. He had nearly succeeded in escaping when she stirred, sliding her arms about his neck to prevent him from straightening. He waited a moment, hoping she would release him, but she did not. Nor did she wake.

  If anything, her arms tightened as she whispered his name in her sleep, her very breath caressing his lips.

  He swallowed his need.

  A full minute passed before he risked speech. "Teresa?"

  "Hmm?"

  ¡Ay, Dios mío! Not again. He steeled himself against the smile that accompanied the soft murmur and swallowed once more before he turned his head to press his lips to the curls at her ear and plead softly, "Querida, I must go. I am…tired."

  But again, her arms only tightened. "Stay."

  He closed his eyes and prayed to the Virgin Mother for strength. But when this woman he loved more than he loved life itself turned her face into his neck and breathed deeply of his scent only to sigh, he knew he would not find that strength.

  Not tonight.

  Of their own accord, his legs bent, and his will quickly followed.

  Before he could say for certain how or why, he was lying upon the bed beside her, his own lashes drifting low as he pulled her so very close to savor the warmth of her curves as she nestled into him.

  What would be the harm?

  Yes, she was in his arms once again. But, surely, for once he was too exhausted…even for the dream?

  Mocha.

  Joe. He was here. She was sure of it. Because this time, not only could she smell the man, she could feel him.

  Or was she just dreaming again?

  No. If she was dreaming, Joe would be holding her and kissing her, not to mention undressing her. Making love to her. Then again, from the muscular arm locked snugly to her waist as she lay on her side, as well as the soft T
-shirt tickling the tip of her nose, Joe was definitely holding her. And from the equally muscular thigh thrown over her sheet-clad legs, he'd already undressed her too.

  At least partially.

  As near as she could figure, without opening her eyes and twisting her head around, she was wearing her shirt and underwear.

  However, she was braless.

  That discovery was pretty much a no-brainer once she'd woken enough to realize the large, warm palm cupping her left breast and searing straight through the cotton of her shirt to tease the nipple beneath was not her own. But while that oversized palm definitely belonged to Joe, it didn't feel anything like it had out on that beach.

  The beach. Eddie.

  That poor, desperate family.

  The rest of the previous night came flooding back as Tess opened her eyes to the blue T-shirt clinging to Joe's chest. The last few months—and especially the last few days—finally made sense. As soon as she'd seen that angry, weeping scar on that sweet child, she'd known exactly why Joe had done what he had to her.

  In that instant, she'd also realized that Joe really did love her. That hadn't been anger driving him out on the beach, it had been fear pure and simple.

  Fear for her.

  She was wrong. Wrong about Eddie—and wrong about Joe.

  But most startling of all was that the knowledge didn't terrify her as it should. For some reason, knowing that Joe was in love with her felt…right.

  But why?

  She drew her head back slowly, taking care not to disturb him. She'd always enjoyed watching Joe sleep, had even lingered in her living room upon occasion when he'd fallen asleep on her couch just to watch him. He always seemed so content when he slept. At peace. And, okay, downright gorgeous.

  Lord, he was handsome. Sexy.

  Even now, with those dark, mesmerizing eyes shielded from her. In a way, without Joe's smoky gaze commanding her attention, she was able to appreciate the hard, masculine beauty of his face even more. The silk of his new bangs fell loosely over his forehead into the thickly fanned lashes below, teasing the pads of her fingertips almost as much as the shadowy stubble rasping his jaw.