Just Beyond Reach

by Candace Irvin

Moments later Daniels left, closing the door behind him. Once again, they were alone. Though six hours had passed since they had spoken amid that darkened kitchen, the silence was as awkward and as thick as it had been then. Perhaps even more so.

  Speak to her.

  He should. After all, it was he who had caused this latest rift. It was up to him to attempt to bridge it. If it was even possible.

  But Tessa, being Tessa, sought to ease his way. "You have anything set up for the day?"

  He nodded. "Hernández. I am to meet him at his house today to pick up the payment he owes."

  "Good."

  Again, the silence.

  And again, it was she who broke it. "Promise me you'll be—"

  He nodded quickly to halt the soft quaver in her voice as well as the concern that caused it. "I will take care. And you? What plans have you for the day?"

  That soft gaze he so loved dropped to the ever-growing stack of files resting upon the conference table. "Since I'm not scheduled to work another hospital shift, I thought I'd wade through these. See if I can find a connection that clicks it all into place."

  He nodded again as another of those cursed silences locked in. No doubt he resembled one of those obnoxious toy dogs seen upon the dashes of automobiles. The ones with heads that did naught but bob and sway with every motion of the car.

  She finally gathered her files and rose, leaving him to conceal the ache within his heart, as well as the desire to fold her into his arms and soothe her, even as she pushed the chair to the table to stand lost and hurting before him.

  How he wanted this woman.

  But he would never have her again. To do so would destroy her more than he already had. He knew this as surely as he had always known he loved her.

  She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it, leaving him to hold his very breath hostage as he waited, praying there would be no tears. No pleading.

  Dios mío, he would not be able to withstand either.

  What he received instead was her love, for she gave up on speech and simply reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled forth a small tube of cream from within, then held it out to him.

  The cortisone.

  Shame filled him as he dropped his gaze to his reddened arms. While he stood fearing her words, she had sought only to ease the chafed skin she now knew was from no allergy at all, but a product of his own memories, his weakness and his terror. He had always known he did not deserve this woman's love. Nor did he deserve her friendship.

  She truly was his Achilles heel. He had always known this.

  Indeed, his salvation had been that she—and most especially, others—had not. If he risked retrieving that tube and chanced to brush his fingers against hers one last time, how would he stop himself from taking the offer that came with it?

  How would he stop himself from taking her?

  Madre de Dios.

  Not even a full night spent in paradise, and already their hearts were exposed. Daniels had seen it, as had each of their fellow agents that he had greeted this morning. Their hearts were now that apparent. What would happen if he took this woman into his bed night after night as he truly desired? What would happen if he gave into his deepest desire and filled her with his seed, causing those beautiful curves to nurture the most precious curve of all? What then?

  He had survived two attempts on his life this year already.

  How would he ever survive an attempt on hers?

  Or worse.

  When it became apparent that he would not take the cream, she offered no condemnation, no pleas, just as she had offered none before. She simply laid the cortisone upon the table and adjusted her stack of papers and folders, then quietly informed him of yet another meeting for later that afternoon—and left.

  As painful as the silence was within her presence, it was far worse amid her absence. So much so, he could not abide the confines of the room without her. He departed as well, turning right instead of left down the outer hall and into the main offices beyond. He passed Daniels at his newfound desk, but could not bear to look upon the agent any more than he could have gazed upon Teresa at this moment.

  He left the building altogether.

  Hernández.

  It was time to seek the bastardo out and demand payment.

  Sí, the hour was early. But this was good. All the better if he found his prey abed as he prepared to lay the final stages of his trap. For in the hours of the waning night as he sat in contemplation of all that had happened of late, he had come to accept that while he could not be at his brother's side in the coming weeks, neither could he remain at Teresa's. But before he left her and this city, he would remove the specter of one Eduardo Hernández from her world.

  Permanently.

  "I said, just a goddamned minute!"

  Joe allowed himself the satisfaction of a smile as the technician bellowed his fury at being rousted from his bed and forced to navigate the stairs of his home whilst no doubt hung over from the previous eve. Then he settled the side of his fist back upon the door to the man's home and pounded once again.

  Harder, this time.

  Moments later, the door was fairly removed from its hinges as it jerked wide. "Who the hell do you think—" The tirade was severed only to be followed by yet another, much darker, curse.

  Then there was naught but silence.

  Joe folded his arms loosely to his chest and waited patiently as Hernández raked somewhat shaky hands through his sleep-tousled hair in an attempt to bring it to some semblance of order.

  "G-good—" The man cleared his throat. "—morning."

  Excellent.

  It appeared that, despite being foolish enough to greet his callers armed with a mouth and fist full of anger and naught but a pair of leopard spotted boxer shorts to back them up, Hernández was indeed able to learn. For the man had successfully grasped the reality of the new order within their relationship.

  Joe acknowledged him with a brief inclination of his head, and nothing more.

  "I've—ah—got the money. It's right upstairs. Perhaps you'd like to come inside while I—"

  "Who is it, Eddie?" The woman's voice had come from the top of the stairs.

  To Joe's surprise, Hernández reddened at the query. Now here was an interesting turnabout. So much so, he raised his brow—which, oddly, resulted in a deeper shade of red within the technician's features.

  Most curious.

  That this man who attempted to portray himself as the successful bachelor on the make would become embarrassed over a feminine companion within his house and—given the state of undress of the pair of slender legs now descending the stairs—in his bed. The mystery was solved, however, as the flaxen locks, now dulled and lank from sleep, and the pale and washed-out features of a face from two nights previous entered his view. Krissie-with-a-K had evidently snared her man.

  His distaste must have shown.

  Hernández misconstrued it. "I swear to God, she said you weren't interested—"

  "I am not."

  Hernández relaxed.

  Krissie, however, gathered the vestiges of her pride, knotted the leopard wrap that matched her benefactor's spotted shorts tightly about her waist and strode past. Hernández waited until she had disappeared down the hallway and into the kitchen beyond before he turned back and held the door wide. "I'll just be a minute."

  Again, Joe simply inclined his head and entered the foyer.

  He kept his back to the door as the technician made his way up the stairs. Despite the man's palpable fear in his presence since he had been forced to introduce his blade to that overly thick neck, he would take no chances.

  Moments later, he heard Krissie's return from the kitchen.

  "So, where's the wife?"

  "Resting." Joe flicked his gaze to the woman.

  Blue eyes, rimmed red with the lingering ravages of the night, as well as the chemical means to get through it, swept the length of his T-shirt and jeans suggestively. "I'll bet
." With that she leaned into the side of the hall and maneuvered a cup of steaming coffee into one hand as she retrieved a capsule from the vial in her other.

  She pushed the capsule between her lips, then washed it down with a sip from the mug.

  He frowned.

  "Sorry. Guess I'm rude." She held up the vial as well as the mug. "Want some?"

  He merely stared.

  Without the makeup of two days previous caking this woman's face, it was plain to see she was no woman at all. Little more than a child, really.

  Such a waste.

  If he remained near Teresa and, hence this city, he would wager he would be meeting Krissie again in the not-so-distant future. Only it would not be in some fancy beach home, but lying amid a pile of trash in the corner of an alley, with track marks marring those slender arms. Nor would those eyes be burning so brightly blue.

  He sighed as the girl finally shrugged and turned to make her way back down the hall to the kitchen. Perhaps he was wrong about this one. Before he put in his transfer, he would run a check on the girl. If she was lucky, she was as young as he now suspected. Perhaps her profile was within the system. And if she was luckier, her family was looking. Cared.

  Perhaps.

  "¡Hijo de la puta!"

  Joe stiffened as another equally foul string of American curses tumbled down the stairs along with a pointed query to whomever was on the other end of that call. A door slammed above, cutting off the rest of the conversation. He had not caught much, but he had heard enough to know Hernández was not pleased—and that he was in need of someone and soon. But whom and for what, he did not know.

  Him?

  He leaned against the door, resolved to the wait.

  Fortunately, it was not a long one. Hernández took the stairs two at a time as he descended, this time greeting him with a smile as well as a donned T-shirt, jeans and pair of black boots of his own.

  "Joaquín, my friend."

  He was not sure which raised his suspicions more. That overly smooth smile in light of what had passed between them in the pharmacy, or the overly friendly hand that reached up to clasp his shoulder as the technician held out a stack of crisp thousand-dollar bills.

  He chose to focus his attention on the hand.

  It slipped down and away beneath his gaze.

  That source of unwelcome contact removed, he accepted the bills and turned to the door, knowing even before he grasped the handle that Hernández would stop him. Nor was he disappointed.

  "Just a minute, amigo."

  He turned back slowly, drawing his breath in slowly as well. "I am certain we have already had a discussion regarding the lack of our…friendship."

  "Uh, right." The man held to the last of his fleeing smile as he looked to the money. "Aren't you gonna count it?"

  "Need I?"

  "No."

  "I thought not." He turned to the door once more, knowing with certainty he would make no more progress this time than the last.

  "Tessa—"

  He allowed himself to stiffen at the intimacy of the name.

  "T-that is, your wife…"

  He relaxed and turned to that now nervous smile.

  "She—ah—thought you might be willing to pick up a few more of those." The technician's nervousness slipped to the money held loosely within Joe's grasp, then returned to meet his gaze pointedly. "A lot more. And on something of a regular basis."

  Joe said nothing. But he did incline his head.

  "You interested in taking a ride to find out more? There's someone who'd like to meet you."

  The mysterious Arturo?

  Perhaps. Unfortunately, he could no more afford to ask than he could to mention Brohm's profession, even obliquely.

  "Who am I to meet? And where?"

  "Mexico. Little shit-town just southeast of Tijuana. You've probably never heard of it—" To his credit, the man flushed. "Maybe you have. Anyway…this friend and I, we have a little side business going. You've—ah—been dealing with the fallout for us this past week. If you're interested, we might be able to cut you in for a bigger slice of the profit. For a bigger share of the work, of course."

  Again, Joe inclined his head. "Of course."

  "So…I take it you're interested in learning more?"

  Most definitely.

  He considered the face of his watch for several moments. "I can make myself available this afternoon—"

  "Sorry, it's gotta be now, or the offer expires. My friend's waiting to meet you. Also, I'm driving. Oh, and—" The man reached out to tap the small table in the foyer. "—you leave your phone in here. You can pick it up after the meet. Sorry, GPS and all."

  Carajó. The timing was too soon.

  True, he could feign a necessary business cancellation and call Teresa to inform her of the changing events, but what if Hernández insisted he make the call within his presence? And given the fact that the man was now fairly shifting from boot to boot from nerves as well as impatience, the possibility was extremely likely.

  As for his phone, it was a burner. Though filled with calls and texts from Teresa and others, the information therein was benign, since it had been scripted solely to enhance his cover.

  He held up his phone. "I can come now."

  "Great. Let's go." The technician took the phone and tucked it into the drawer inside the small table so quickly, Joe's suspicions eased somewhat.

  The man truly was in a bind.

  But why?

  Had he and Brohm decided to increase their supply of available kidneys? It was possible. Though the logic escaped him. For an increase in the influx of families would likewise result in an increase in the chances of detection.

  Were the men that confident then?

  Or that greedy?

  He had no time to ponder the answer, as Hernández had already opened the door to his home and herded him down the steps, without so much as a shout thrown over his shoulder for the now abandoned Krissie.

  Hernández motioned him toward the red, extended-cab pickup with added lift kit in the drive. The truck's equally enhanced engine roared to life, and within seconds Hernández had backed the truck out into the street.

  Moments later they departed altogether, not only leaving behind the technician's companion for the previous night, but Joe's own considerably more subdued pickup with his Glock and DEA credentials concealed discreetly inside.

  Given his current cover, no great loss.

  At least Hernández' nervousness had ebbed.

  So much so, Joe chanced conversation as they approached the second traffic light. "You intend to increase the crossings, then?"

  The man's dark gaze flicked to his. "What?"

  "The number of border runs, you intend to increase them?"

  The man actually laughed. "Shit, no. We've got enough trash on this side of the border as it is." He shook his head as they passed through the intersection, then shrugged as he glanced across the cab. "What the hell. You'll know soon enough. We don't want you to take out the garbage anymore, we want you to bury it."

  She was experiencing the worst ache of her life, and it wasn't even in her head. It was in her heart. As horrific as it was, it didn't require a medical degree to diagnose its cause.

  Joe.

  Tess sighed. Why had she done it? Why had she caved into the urge to get up from her desk and walk past Joe's just to see what urgent piece of paperwork he'd requested from their secretary? She knew when Gina slipped it into his inbox instead of handing it to her that it had nothing to do with the case. So why had she looked?

  Because she was a glutton for punishment, that's why.

  Not to mention more like her mother than she wanted to admit. She might have convinced her heart that she just needed to know if his vacation had been approved, but her head knew better. Well, both anatomical regions had just received a reality check. Joe might or might not be leaving to join Miguel. But he was leaving.

  Permanently.

  He'd asked Gina for a listing
of vacant DEA assignments—on the East Coast, no less. Tess dropped her gaze to the photo on the far corner of her desk. The ache in her heart only worsened. It didn't matter that half their agency had posed for the picture after they'd won the interagency softball championship last year.

  She only saw Joe.

  She'd never realized how possessive his arm looked thrown over her shoulders. Nor had she caught the contentment in her smile as she gazed up at him.

  "Nice photo—who's the twin?"

  She flinched as a folder dropped onto her blotter. Her reaction must have startled Gray as well, because his brow rose warily.

  "You okay?"

  When she didn't answer, he folded his form into the spare chair beside her desk. "Tess?"

  She dragged her nerves together and pasted on a smile, hoping the frayed edges were intact enough to divert the compassion now honing his gaze. "Just tired." She flicked her glance to the photo and the other long-haired Hispanic male posing three agents down from her and Joe. "Special Agent Tomás Vásquez."

  Gray's brow rose. "Pardon?"

  She managed a stronger smile. "Joe's twin—only, they're not twins. Joe and Tomás aren't even related. But they are close enough in looks to fill in for the other when the need arises." Not that she'd ever thought they looked that much alike, even before Joe cut his hair. Though granted, the men also shared a heavier, lilting accent that stemmed from the both of them not having learned English until they were well into their teens.

  Tess tensed as Gray picked up the frame and studied the photo within. She didn't want to discuss Joe—or even another man who resembled him. Not right now. Not when it all hurt too much.

  "So what have you got, Cowboy?"

  Thankfully Gray got the message, because he retired the photo to the corner of her desk and tapped the file that he'd laid on her blotter. "Not what, who."

  "Brohm?"

  "Yup."

  She reached for the file and flipped it open, this time smiling for real. There it was in black and white. Not only had Gray located a witness who placed Brohm leaving the CBP office right before Eddie had conducted his burner phone chat with Arturo, the FBI agent had ferreted out even more. Apparently, Arthur's stepbrother had recently deposited several obscenely large sums of money into his savings account.