Just Beyond Reach

by Candace Irvin

  His Tessa.

  Tess opened her eyes slowly as she eased her head up from Joe's chest, careful not to disturb the arms that were wrapped securely about her waist. She watched the generous muscles for several moments, automatically timing each slow rise and fall to an internal clock no nurse could ever really turn off, even outside the hospital.

  Joe was sleeping. From the way his brow continued to furrow now and then, he was also dreaming.

  His parents?

  Them?

  She couldn't be sure—until his brow smoothed, leaving a soft smile behind and leaving her to suspect the latter. Well, why not? She'd been dreaming of him until his arms had tightened swiftly enough to wake her. In fact, she wished she was still dreaming, still reliving the most wonderful moments of her life.

  Sex with Joe was incredible.

  No, not sex—making love.

  She and Joe had definitely made love—she flicked her gaze to the midnight hour gleaming back from the alarm clock on the nightstand—three hours ago. Not only had their love-making been incredible, it had been giving as well. Healing.

  They could make it. She was sure of it now.

  No, she didn't have all the answers, but they were going to find them—together. She absorbed that gorgeous face with its shadowy growth, so relaxed now, so at ease. His dark brows had finally smoothed and his thick lashes were resting softly above his cheeks. Her heart clenched anyway. If anything, the contentment in Joe's face only served to underscore how truly little peace he'd had in his life.

  It made her cherish his devilish smile all the more. Those twin, dimpled creases that, from what several of their fellow agents had implied, rarely made an appearance when she wasn't around to coax them out. Dimples that had every right to hide from the world. Her gaze drifted down to Joe's chest as the ache within her own grew even more painful, staring at the satin skin and sleek muscles as she forced herself to tamp down her regret.

  He did not need pity. And he certainly wouldn't want it. Especially from her.

  But Joe did need help, and he did need her.

  He was going to get both.

  She was about to give in to the urge to smooth her fingers across his chest when his breathing picked up. For a moment she thought he was waking. But when she shifted her focus back to his face, she knew he wasn't. He was dreaming again. Those dark brows were furrowing once more—but this time, he was frowning as well.

  His arms tightened, almost jerking her to him. And then they began to quiver. A sheen of sweat had begun to form on his forehead as well—and he was murmuring. She couldn't make out enough of the broken muttering to make sense of what he was saying. It was too fervent and in Spanish. But he was definitely pleading, begging.

  Once again, there was no need for Freud.

  He was dreaming about his parents. His mother.

  She should wake him.

  She was certain of it when he stiffened. A second later, hands snapped up to grip her shoulders—painfully.

  "Joe."

  No response.

  Not unless she counted the hoarse whimper that escaped his throat. Good God—that whimper. It socked her squarely in her gut, razing her nerves and raising her fears—a thousandfold. Yeah, she definitely counted that whimper.

  The grip on her shoulders tightened, so much so that she winced beneath the strength of it—as well as the outright terror now racking Joe's taut features. His eyes were working furiously beneath his lids, matching the fierce grinding in his teeth and jaw, the almost convulsive working of his throat.

  "Joe!"

  His lashes flew wide—and she swore she was staring into horror incarnate. It was black and it was ugly, and it ripped her heart from her chest and twisted it inside out before she could draw her next breath. And then it changed, eased. Altering ever-so-slowly as he held tightly to her shoulders and to her gaze.

  Eventually, all that was left swimming within those deep brown eyes was confusion.

  "Joe?"

  When he didn't answer, she smoothed the sweat and the dampened wisps of hair from his brow, her fingers trembling as he finally turned his face into her hand. The shadow covering his jaw scraped against her skin until the smooth warmth of his lips replaced it. He pressed a kiss to the center of her palm almost reverently, his deep, soul-razing sigh heating her hand even more.

  But silence reigned once again as he finally pulled away from her hand and blinked at her.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  Just like that, the horror had returned—along with the fear.

  He closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. He shook his head as he reopened them. "Tessa, I…"

  The words trailed off into yet another silence.

  Her heart clenched as his throat began working again, much as it had during his nightmare. She smoothed her hand down his jaw, trying to ease the tension that was once again locking into it. "It's okay. I understand. I can wait."

  Another breath, and another silence.

  And then, "Would you mind…terribly?"

  It took a moment realize what he was saying. He needed space, and time.

  Alone.

  Despite the ache piercing her heart, she nodded. "Sure. I'll be right here if you need me."

  It was her turn to breathe deeply and tamp down the fear as he pressed an obviously relieved kiss to her temple and withdrew from the bed. He stopped at the foot to retrieve his jeans and then closed the door behind him. Firmly.

  Silence echoed across the room as the darkness settled in. In the stark moments that followed, she discovered that Joe had taken far more with him than the faint glow slipping in from the living room when he'd left. He'd taken a large piece of her hope.

  What if they couldn't make it?

  What if her love wasn't enough? What if she couldn't heal him, no matter how long or how hard she tried? What if he couldn't be healed?

  That last was the worst thought of all. She turned to the clock, ashamed by her need to time this man. A man she had never timed before.

  A mere three minutes had passed.

  Then five.

  Then ten.

  At fifteen she was beginning to get worried. At twenty, she was solidly there. By thirty, she was damned near hysterical.

  Maybe she should check on him. Just to make sure he was okay.

  If he looked as though he wanted to be alone, she'd retreat before he could even ask. Because what if he needed her right now—but he was too lost in the past, in too much pain to even rise up and walk back into the bedroom to let her know?

  That settled it. She'd check quickly. Silently.

  If she was lucky, he wouldn't even realize she was there.

  She slipped quietly from the bed and padded softly to the foot to snag her T-shirt and underwear from the floor. She tugged both on just as swiftly and as silently. Then she closed her fingers over the knob to the door and held her breath as she eased it open.

  Empty.

  He wasn't in the living room.

  So why had he turned off the light?

  Water?

  She strained her ears for several moments, trying to discern the soft, rushing sound. That definitely sounded like running water.

  Except…it wasn't stopping.

  She crept across the darkened room, slipping past the dinette table containing her bag and the morning paper as well as Joe's Glock, his keys and his DEA credentials. She turned into the equally darkened kitchen.

  It was water.

  Joe had donned his jeans and he was at the sink, washing his hands.

  There was just enough light for her to make him out, but he didn't turn. He didn't even raise his gaze as she moved closer. Hell, he didn't even seem to realize she was now standing two feet away. He just kept washing his hands and his forearms arms over and over, working the lather created by the liquid soap and the oversized nail brush up until it reached the bend in his elbows.

  And then it hit her.

  The bile rose in her throat, right along
with the certainty.

  Joe wasn't washing, he was scrubbing.

  He was systematically performing a surgical scrub. Again, and again. And from the rash—no, from the raw and reddened skin that materialized as he shoved his arms beneath the flood of water again, she knew exactly what he was trying to scrub off.

  His mother's blood.

  He flinched as she laid her hand on his arm. But he didn't turn. He did, however, draw in his breath. And he did finally set the brush back down at the rear of the sink, exactly where she'd re-stowed it that morning. Then he calmly turned off the faucet and just…stood there. Silent. Breathing in the dark.

  "How long did she linger in your arms?"

  The side of his jaw flexed, but other than that—nothing.

  "Joe?"

  And then he turned.

  She almost wished he hadn't. Despite the darkness shrouding them, the agony consuming those deep brown eyes was crystal clear—and as endless as that scrubbing.

  He finally spoke. "Tessa, I am sorry. I tried. I truly did. But the dream; it has changed. In a way that I cannot withstand. And I…I cannot do this."

  She didn't have to ask what he meant.

  Not when he was staring at her as he was, with his tortured gaze slowly traveling the features of her face as it had when she'd woken to find him studying her from the foot of the bed earlier. Because this time, there was no desire heating his eyes, no promise. No hope. Just the horror and the grief.

  His fingers came up to caress her cheek, leaving a damp trail of tap water behind to mingle with her tears as they withdrew. "Please…forgive me."

  Somehow, she managed a nod.

  Somehow, she also managed to remain standing as he turned and walked out of the kitchen. To her amazement, she even managed to remain standing as he collected his boots and his keys, as well as his Glock and his DEA credentials from the dinette table. Hell, she even managed to remain standing as she heard the brass security chain slide across the track on the door, and then the door itself, opening.

  But the second it closed, her legs buckled.

  She grabbed onto the edge of the sink and turned to brace her spine against the cupboard beneath as she slid down to the floor. Several minutes passed before she was able to gather up enough strength to wrap her arms about her knees and drag them beneath her chin. She was grateful for that. It gave her someplace to rest her head. It gave the tears somewhere to pool. She had been so wrong tonight.

  Joe hadn't been the one dreaming; she had.

  And she'd just woken up.

  12

  He had hurt her deeply.

  Joe knew this, even before Teresa walked into the conference room to join him and a not-yet-present Agent Daniels for this second meeting of their newly formed, interagency task force. But there was something else. Perhaps it was the way she could not meet his eyes, keeping her gaze focused instead upon the stack of files in her hands as she lowered herself into the chair that he had reserved for her at the head of the table.

  She had waited the remainder of the night.

  But, of course, he had not returned. He could not.

  How could he when he had not been able to get that image from his mind? The blood off his hands. Even now, as he gazed upon her bent head, the cursed vision swam before him, between them. He attempted to push it aside—as he had these six hours past, as he had learned to do so well with the other image these twenty years past—but he could not.

  Fifty-seven minutes.

  Teresa had asked him how long his mother lingered in his arms after he had found her. Fifty-seven minutes, and several seconds more.

  He knew this because the clock his father had crafted from a knotted slice of tree had been hanging upon the wall of the kitchen, collecting up and hoarding each moment of his terror.

  He had glanced at that clock often as his mother had drifted in and out of pain and consciousness, all the while listening to her ever-weakening breath and her fevered whispers, her pleas and her plans for him and for his brothers—until, finally, she slipped from his trembling arms into the colder, yet all-embracing arms of death while he waited for the ambulance that never arrived. An ambulance whose driver and dispatching officer had both been paid off by the same man who had raped his mother in front of his father, then slashed and stabbed them both so very many times before leaving them to die.

  Had his mother lingered all night, help would still not have shown.

  His gaze slipped to the conference room floor as the memories returned to haunt him now. But it was not the white government tiles beneath his boots that filled his view, but those of sun-baked clay. One would have thought the ripened color would have worked to conceal that ever-widening pool of scarlet, but it had not.

  The floor of his family's kitchen had glistened slick and bright, as it had so often in his mind at night these twenty years since.

  As it had last night.

  Sí, the dream had come, just as Teresa had suspected. Given the love they had shared he had not even been surprised…until the unexpected occurred.

  The knowledge.

  For the first time since they had begun, he had actually been aware that he was dreaming. Despite this, he had not been able to prevent the events from unfolding. Nor had he been able to quell his own reactions. As always, he had watched as if from above, his heart pounding furiously within his breast, his skin chilled, his fear dripping.

  And, as always, the fervent prayers had been ripped from his lips.

  The pleading.

  Through all these years, in all those dreams, he had never once seen his mother's face. Only that naked, weeping flesh. And, of course, his hands and his arms as he worked to staunch the flow of scarlet. It was if he was frozen within time, above and beyond it—for his hands had always remained those of a boy.

  But last night, this had changed.

  His hands had clearly been those of a man.

  He had not realized this until that final, precious breath had eased from that starkly naked body. Despite this, he had picked up the T-shirt he had long since torn from his chest and attempted to use the overly saturated cotton once more to cleanse the blood from his mother's chest. This was when he had made the most startling discovery of all. For though, as always, he had not seen a face as he had smoothed the blood from her breast, this time he had seen the mark. The mark of her birth. It was then that he knew the woman in his arms was no longer his mother.

  She had become Tessa.

  A throat cleared within the room. Though the sound was soft, it succeeded in jarring his attention back to Teresa. She straightened the folders upon the table before her and swallowed firmly as she raised her gaze to him. "Are you…all right?"

  No. Nor would he be any time soon.

  Still, she accepted his answering nod with one of her own.

  A false smile followed, and then her attention was drawn from him as Agent Daniels entered the room. The man waved a sheaf of papers as well as a file as he took the chair left empty between them.

  "Good news." Daniels glanced to Teresa as he slid a sheet across the table. "Looks like your hot tip on the mysterious Arturo panned out."

  She blinked. "You're kidding."

  A wide grin invested with success spread across the agent's face. "Nope. Got a hold of the next installment of Eddie's phone records and cross-checked the calls against anyone even resembling an Arturo."

  Joe sent forth a prayer to heaven. "You have a match then?"

  Daniels shook his head. "Not yet. But get this—the timing of that call Tess overheard between Eddie and the mysterious Arturo the first time she was in the pharmacy with him matches another call made to the same burner phone. The second, incoming, call was made late that same night Tess and Eddie met to a supervisory officer who works out of the San Ysidro CBP office—Arthur Brohm. I just learned that a fellow FBI agent and friend has been working a joint case out of the same office, so gave Luke a call. According to Luke, Arthur Brohm was there, working late that nigh
t."

  A low whistle escaped from him and Teresa almost at the same moment—only to be severed as Daniels held up a hand.

  "There's more. Brohm was promoted recently. Our new buddy Arthur is now the assistant director for field operations."

  "Pay dirt." Tessa.

  Joe was compelled to agree with her.

  Indeed, his own blood was already humming in anticipation. Daniels had performed well. As assistant director for field operations, Arthur Brohm would serve as a powerful accomplice to Hernández. And who better to discover which family was too poor to pay for illegal entry and yet was also not eligible for legal immigration status?

  It was an ingenious, though heinous scheme.

  And with Hernández supplying the necessary medications and quite possibly the instruments for the surgeries themselves—and perhaps also performing them? They could only hope they had stumbled onto the scheme soon after its inception.

  Though Joe suspected not.

  "What have you got on the man?" This, too, from Tessa.

  Daniels' lingering triumph faded into a frown. "Not much else I'm afraid—yet. The preliminary stats on Brohm's career are in, but there was a computer glitch. I'm waiting on the full report." He glanced at the face of his watch. "It should be ready now."

  She nodded. "Get on it."

  That wide grin was back. "Yes, ma'am." Daniels separated several papers from the folder he had brought to the room and passed them to Teresa as he stood. But then he leaned down to speak softly at her ear. "Get some sleep, little lady. You look exhausted."

  Joe forced himself not to stiffen as Daniels touched her cheek, then again as Teresa nodded and smiled softly in response.

  It was for the best.

  Though she was not yet ready, Daniels was by far the better man for her. He knew this. Just as he knew she could only benefit from a such an agent in her life. Most especially now, as he prepared to leave it.

  Even so, the brief contact filled him with dread.

  And burning jealousy.