by Kay Hooper
Raven nodded. She heard the change in the engines that indicated they were landing. “We get the photos this afternoon?”
“Right. We can be in Kadeira by tomorrow afternoon.”
Kelsey stirred and said plaintively, “And I didn’t even bring my swimming trunks!”
SEVEN
THE SUN WAS coming up, and the distant gunfire was long since over when the sounds of vehicles could be heard approaching the house. Sara was out of the office and racing for the front door before Durant could move, but he was only a few steps behind her when she flung open the door and rushed outside.
The two jeeps that had taken Andres and his team partway to Lucio’s camp were drawn up in front of the house. The men got out. Two bore superficial wounds but stood easily with little help and seemed more annoyed than in pain.
Andres was speaking to them when Sara first saw him—and he never got a chance to finish what he’d been saying. She threw herself into his arms, holding on fiercely, only dimly aware that the formerly morose men were now grinning and clapping each other on the back, as if they’d had a hand in their president’s obviously successful courtship.
Sara didn’t cry. The fear had gone too deep to find an easy expression of relief now. She just held on to the solid reality of his presence, the flesh-and-blood certainty. He was whole and unharmed. Safe—for now. It was enough.
Andres held her, lifting her off her feet briefly in a strong hug and then kissing her quickly. He kept an arm around her to guide her back to the house, saying something in Spanish over one shoulder to his men. They laughed.
“What did you say?” she asked, a little breathless from relief and the greeting.
His black eyes gleamed down at her. “That life rewarded the pure of heart,” he told her solemnly.
Sara laughed despite her tangle of emotions. But then she sobered, remembering the earlier morose faces of his men. “You didn’t get Lucio, did you?”
Andres walked beside her into the house, gesturing to a very obviously relieved Colonel Durant to accompany them into the office. He didn’t answer until they were inside the room, then shrugged ruefully. “No, we didn’t get him. From all the signs, he had moved out less than an hour before. There were a few of his men left behind; you probably heard the gunfire.”
“Yes.” Sara sat down on the arm of a chair and watched Andres move behind his desk and take off the gun belt he wore. “Two of your men were wounded. Did you … lose anyone?”
He shook his head. “No. But Lucio lost four of his men.”
“Attrition.” Durant, standing by the desk, sounded bitter. “He loses a few of his men, or we lose a few. But it changes nothing. And the war goes on.”
“The war goes on,” Andres agreed somberly.
Durant sighed explosively and said, “I’ll go and see to the men, Andres.”
When he had gone, Sara said, “He was worried to death about you.” She drew a deep breath. “So was I.”
Andres’s smile was crooked. “All for nothing—except that we know where Lucio isn’t. At least for today.”
“What now?”
“We try again.” He looked at her steadily. “Tomorrow. Or the day after. We keep trying until we get him.” He watched the effect of his words on her face, saw her eyes go dark briefly, her lips tighten. Then he saw her chin lift fractionally, and the green eyes glittered with a steely determination.
“Then that’s what you do,” she said calmly.
The knife in his heart twisted. He had known she had strength, and watching her discover it as well was both a fascination and a torment. She shouldn’t have had to find out this way, he thought in pain. Not like this, in sudden danger and violence. An ordinary life would have tested her enough, with its daily triumphs and tragedies; the life he offered was one long ordeal without respite.
He didn’t have the right to ask this of her.
“Andres?”
He looked at her, at the finest, most beautiful dream he had ever dreamed. Like the vision that had sent him to war, it seemed that fate intended to torture him with this dream, too, taunting him with what he could touch briefly but which would always have to be just beyond his reach.
“I love you,” he said quietly.
She came to him, smiling a little, her eyes gentle and loving. “I love you too,” she murmured. And then, her smile widening, she added, “Why don’t we go back to bed for a few hours? President Sereno is entitled, isn’t he?”
“Definitely.” He swept her up into his arms, holding her easily as he started toward the stairs.
He felt the knife twist again but bore it stoically. For now she was his. In his arms, his bed, his life. Warming the coldness near his soul. Holding back the darkness that threatened always to overtake him.
The affinity between them, Sara had discovered, strengthened with every passing hour. She thought that perhaps their being lovers had intensified that bond; the potential of closeness had always been present, and the intimacy of a physical relationship had sealed the bond.
And there were times when she thought she could even read his thoughts. She knew, at any rate, what he was going through. She felt it in the fierceness of his lovemaking, saw it in the depths of his eyes, heard it in his voice. She couldn’t make it easier for him, as much as she wanted to.
He loved her and needed her, but he would, in the end, try to send her away. She knew that. But she also knew now that there was a core of strength in her, an innate determination. She had fought too hard to love, to understand, to accept; she had learned how to fight.
She thought she had even learned during those fearful predawn hours how, if necessary, to fight him.
For the present she could only wait. Until Lucio was dealt with, there would be no talk of her leaving. She had no intention of pressing Andres on the point, but it still hurt her when he gazed at her in unguarded moments as if she were a dream, soon to turn to mist.
Love and pain. They seemed two halves of one.
That day was spent quietly. Maria served a late breakfast when Andres and Sara reappeared a few hours later; she beamed happily at both of them. Colonel Durant joined them for the meal, and he and Andres talked about finding Lucio and about other work that had to be seen to that day.
Sara left them to it after breakfast and spent some time in the garden with Carlos, remembering, this time, to wear a hat against the building heat of the day. She picked up a few new Spanish words from the gardener, amused to realize that her vocabulary was increasing with regard to roses and endearments, but nothing of a more practical nature.
Amused or not, she searched the library after lunch, finding at last an old and tattered Spanish grammar book and one Spanish-English dictionary. Andres found her curled up in a chair in the room hours later, engrossed in Spanish grammar and muttering softly to herself.
“What are you doing, mi corazón?” he asked curiously, half sitting on the arm of her chair and smiling down at her.
“I’m trying to learn Spanish—and my college French isn’t helping me any,” she replied ruefully.
He chuckled softly, taking the book from her and looking at it. “This won’t help much, either. You need to hear the language spoken aloud. If you’re too impatient to learn from me, my love, we’ll order cassettes—”
When he broke off abruptly, Sara knew that he was remembering his intention to send her away. Ignoring that, she rose up on her knees in the chair and slipped her arms around his neck. “I intend to learn a great deal from you,” she said solemnly. “But I am impatient, darling, so—” The words were lost forever, because Andres kissed her suddenly; Sara didn’t much care about his words, anyway, not when his actions were so wonderful.
He left her a few minutes later to return to his office, and Sara sat with the grammar book in her lap and stared into space. She found that although she could accept the danger of Andres’s life with at least a semblance of composure, the nemesis that was Lucio roused in her a deep and unbearable resentm
ent. He was there, hanging over their heads, haunting every thought like a specter.
Nothing could be decided until he was out of their lives; nothing could be settled. She couldn’t confront Andres with her intention of remaining there because the threat to her from Lucio was so strongly fixed in Andres’s mind that nothing she could say would overcome that.
She could only wait, wait and watch Andres look at her with haunted eyes. And for the first time in her life she found she could hate with an implacable certainty. She hated Lucio, hated him for what he was doing to Andres.
It wasn’t until later in the evening when she was at his side and boneless in the aftermath of lovemaking that she asked Andres the question in curiosity.
“Do you hate Lucio?”
“Hate?” Andres was quiet for a few moments, one hand almost compulsively stroking her fiery hair. “Once I did.”
“When?”
“Before I met you.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder, looking at him gravely in the dim light from the bedside lamp. “Why? I mean, why did you hate him then but not now?”
“I hated him because of what he was doing to Kadeira. And I suppose I hated him because he hated me. When friendship turns to hate, it is a bitter thing. After I met you I saw it was a waste to hate when I could love. And love, no matter how painful, doesn’t corrode the soul.”
Sara thought about his words, realizing she had been right about her importance to Andres. And she wondered how many women were granted the knowledge that they were not only deeply loved but also deeply needed by the men who held their hearts. It was a humbling thought. She pulled herself up to kiss him, then asked softly, “What happened between you and Lucio? How did it go so wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he answered simply. “Oh, there were signs even before I gained power. Lucio was intolerant of any delay in carrying out a plan. He was convinced that force could move mountains, while guile and patience were useless. But I thought he believed, as I did, that change would take time and patience.”
Andres was silent for a few moments, and Sara waited. After a time he went on quietly.
“It seemed, when the revolution was finally over, that Lucio was content. There was so much to do, so much work. We were both busy for months just discovering what there was to work with. Then, gradually, the discord between us grew. He pushed for execution of the government troops we had overthrown; I refused. He insisted we apply to communist governments that had shown an interest in constructing a military base here; I refused. He had dreams of Kadeira becoming an international scene for gambling; I had seen how gambling could destroy much more than it built, and I didn’t want that for Kadeira.
“I intended to work toward a goal of free elections, a goal of democracy; he thought me weak for it. I wanted to persuade foreign businessmen to invest here; he complained that too many concessions would have to be granted. And, more than anything else, I wanted Kadeira to be content and at peace, prosperous for its people.”
“And what did Lucio want?” she asked after a moment.
“Ultimately? He wanted power. He saw Kadeira as a stepping-stone to greater things.”
“That’s why you can’t let him win.”
“Yes. He would do what half a century of revolution has been unable to do: destroy Kadeira.”
Sara moved even closer, resting her head on his shoulder again. “You won’t let him. You’ll stop him.”
Andres didn’t respond aloud. He held her, listened as her soft breathing gradually deepened into sleep, felt her warmth beside him. He wanted to hold on to her with all his strength, all his will, with every ounce of driven need. Instead he held her closely but gently.
She had asked about Lucio and about hate, still trying, he realized, to understand what she had accepted more or less on faith. She hadn’t asked about the terrorists at all, and he knew she wouldn’t; that, too, was accepted.
And she gave her own love without reservation, offering support and understanding, offering the warmth and light he craved. She was an utterly natural, totally responsive lover, uninhibited and delighted in his arms.
His beautiful love. Caged.
And not safe even in the cage. Surrounded by the fence and the guards, not safe. He had asked this of her, hoping it wouldn’t matter, hoping she would be blind to fences and guards. And she seemed to be. Now. But there would always be some variation of a cage, and she would always, in necessity, be forced to live inside it with him.
But even then—never safe.
Andres’s arms tightened, still gently, around her. He left the bedside lamp on even as sleep began to claim him, but it was her light and warmth he held close, wondering in pain if there would be anything left to hold the cold darkness at bay when she was gone.
A dawn raid on the town woke them.
By the time they had dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, even Sara knew that the raid on the town was no small skirmish. The sounds of guns were constant; there was the chatter of automatic weapons, the occasional cra-aack of high-powered rifles, and the hollow booming of shotguns as the townspeople fought the raiders. And, above the rest, the chilling violence of explosions as buildings were blasted into rubble.
Durant was in the office waiting for them, and the long-forbidden radio crackled and whined with the harried reports from those of Andres’s men stationed in the town. And, even above the rest, they could hear the angry shouts and curses of the soldiers outside the house who were not involved in the battle.
Lucio had thrown his entire army against the town for the first time.
“The town and harbor patrols are outnumbered.” Durant’s voice was terse. “The ships’ captains are moving their vessels out of the harbor to avoid mortar fire; they ask if you wish them to fire on the town.”
“No.” Andres’s face was a mask, hard. “I won’t sanction that. Guns from the ships would kill innocent citizens. Have the captains send every available man to the town; they can come ashore at the beach on the east side of the island.”
Durant relayed the order, then looked at Andres. “It won’t be enough,” he said bleakly.
Sara’s voice came steadily into the silence. “Almost a third of your men are guarding the house.”
Andres looked at her, his face still hard but hell leaping at her out of his eyes. “It could well be a diversion,” he said. “To get to you.”
“That doesn’t matter. You can’t let them destroy the town.”
She was right, and he knew it, had known it all along. But that didn’t make his orders easier to give. He looked at his waiting colonel and spoke flatly. “Leave two men on the parapet, a dozen guarding the perimeter—but pull them inside the fence. Have the rest ready to go in ten minutes.”
Durant saluted and strode quickly from the room.
“I’ll stay here,” Andres told Sara.
“No, you won’t.”
“Vincente can lead the men, Sara.” He wasn’t arguing, merely stating a fact.
“I know that. But they fight for you, Andres. For you. You always lead them, and that can’t change now.” It took all her control to say the words calmly, steadily. “We both know that. You have to go on fighting for your people.”
“Sara …”
“I can’t be allowed to change you!” she said fiercely. “You can’t be less than you are. If I weren’t here, you’d go with your men without hesitation, without even thinking about it. Wouldn’t you?”
He didn’t answer, just looked at her.
An explosion in the town made the floor shudder beneath their feet, and Sara drew a deep breath. “I know how to handle a gun, and I’m a good shot.” She nodded toward the far wall, where he kept a small handgun collection. “I’ll find something in there. Maria and I will go down into the cellar just in case, and stay there until you come back. We’ll be fine, Andres.”
After a moment Andres bent slowly and got his webbed holster from the desk drawer. He buckled the belt in place, then cam
e around the desk and pulled her into his arms. “If anything happens to you—”
“Nothing will.” She lost herself for a few precious heartbeats in the heat of his kiss, then found a smile from somewhere. “Just … come back to me.”
“Always.” And it was a vow chiseled in stone.
Sara went to the front door with him and watched the jeeps disappear into the slowly lightening darkness before closing and locking the door. She went to find Maria in the kitchen, telling the pale and quiet housekeeper that they were going to spend a few hours in the cellar. Grateful for something to do, Maria began gathering a few snacks and drinks to take with them.
Sara returned to the office and went to study the handguns in Andres’s collection. Not allowing herself to think of anything but practical defense, she made a swift choice and took a Colt automatic from the case. The gun was cleaned and oiled, the clip holding seven bullets. Sara weighed the gun in her hand, then double-checked the safety and stuck the gun inside the waistband of her jeans.
She could indeed handle guns. Her father, a career army man who’d been undismayed by having a daughter rather than a son, had taught her from a young age to know and respect guns, to handle them easily, and to fire them well.
She had practiced regularly, especially during the past few years. While moving so constantly to avoid what she had thought had been Andres’s men, she had practiced at various target ranges, renting a pistol rather than keeping her own. As much as she would have preferred a gun of her own during those hectic days, she had decided reluctantly against it; the police and the FBI took a dim view of guns carried across state lines, and she had been constantly on the move.
She had accepted then, somewhat to her shock, that in her own defense she could have shot at something other than a target. But that had not been put to the test then. Now it looked as though it would be.