by Linda Bond
He grabbed her with enough force she had no choice but to tumble into him, but without any kind of violence that would alarm the two cops standing close by. One of them was actually grinning. The other looked angry, but maybe a bit turned on. “I think you’re enjoying this,” he whispered into her ear. “Don’t hit me again.” She shivered against him.
“You have no idea how much,” she whispered back. “Don’t threaten me again.”
“Little hellion.” He planted his mouth on hers before she could reply. If she wanted to take advantage of the precarious situation they found themselves in to hit him and get him back, he’d do the same. She couldn’t pull away. She wouldn’t blow their cover. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, savoring the taste of her.
She bit him.
Hellcat. “Ouch!”
A hand on his shoulder pulled him away from her. “Take her home.” The older cop gave him a knowing look. “And teach her a lesson.”
“Like this, you mean?” He laid another kiss on her. So far the cops were buying their act. Maybe that’s because Rebecca was actually kissing him back, this time running her hands through his hair and tugging on it. Jesus, it felt good. He wondered if he were able to maneuver a hand under her clothes, would she be excited? Did danger ignite her fire like it did his? Because right now, as the cops rolled their eyes at each other and walked away, his thoughts were drifting to the hard-on between his legs and how the line between danger and desire, pleasure and pain, was very thin for him.
He pressed her body up against his again, this time forcing her so close she could feel his erection.
She stiffened.
He broke the kiss. “What?”
Her gaze flickered toward the cops.
“They’re leaving. We’re good.” He reassured her.
“You’re carrying.”
At first he thought she was referring to his erection. Then it hit him. She was feeling the gun in his pocket. Shit. It was hard and probably hurting her. He released his hold.
“I’m always packing.” He tried a mischievous grin.
“I’m talking about the gun.”
“I know.”
“Why did you hide it from me?”
So much for desire being a pleasant side effect of the danger. “What difference does that make?” The moment had passed.
“Because I think you’re not telling me the whole truth. Come clean, Antonio. What else are you hiding?”
Chapter Nine
Rebecca plopped down on a plastic stool in the bathroom of Uncle Johnny’s farm, staring at the steam rising out of a tin bucket. Her bones ached, and she’d become so filthy she was actually able to carve her name in the layers of dirt caked onto her forearm. They’d survived a close call, and now her only plan was to shower, eat, and sleep. “What’s this for?” she asked Esmeralda, pointing at the bucket. “To wash my clothes in?” Please let that be the right answer.
Esmeralda, who’d taken Rebecca under her wing as soon as she and Antonio arrived at the farm, dragged the bucket to her side and spoke in Spanish. “Hot water for you to bathe with.”
Water sloshed over the side, a few lukewarm drops landing on Rebecca’s naked toes. “For me to bathe in?” Rebecca stood and ripped back the shower curtain. The tiled area had a drain and a showerhead. “I don’t understand.”
“We have running water, but it’s cold. Ice cold.”
Rebecca shivered at the thought. Great. She’d been looking forward to powerful bullets of hot water blasting away her stress, disintegrating all this anger and confusion, washing it down the drain along with the dirt. Who the hell didn’t have hot water? That was so uncivilized. “Where’s Dallas, by the way?” She wondered how he’d react to no hot water.
“Helping Maria with something out back.”
“You all escaped Angel’s wrath, I see.”
Esmeralda nodded. “Your guy is a good actor, no? He played along.”
“Thanks for watching out for him.”
Esmeralda laughed. “The big man watched out for me.” She handed Rebecca a thin piece of material, barely thicker than a paper towel. “I brought you a washcloth.”
“Oh.” Rebecca didn’t know what was worse, the rough texture or the moldy smell. “Really? This is all you have?” She wrinkled her nose, disappointment tingling throughout her tired body.
Esmeralda raised both eyebrows, crossing her arms in front of her.
Embarrassed that her tone was coming across as foul as her body, Rebecca looked at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“I think you need something stronger than a shower, something to take the edge off, no?”
Dropping her shoulders, Rebecca turned back to the shower. Smiling weakly, she eyed the bucket again. “I can’t remember the last time I bathed.”
“This is not just about the bath, no?”
“Well, yes. And no.” Her attitude needed a good cleansing, too. Rebecca exhaled, determined not to sound like a spoiled, obnoxious American. “Did you know Antonio carries a gun?”
Waving that concern away like an annoying mosquito, Esmeralda rolled her eyes, “That’s what’s bothering you? Chica, how’s Antonio supposed to protect you without it?”
Antonio had abducted her. He seemed to attract danger and was not afraid to respond with violence. They were in a hostile country. So, okay, it made sense he’d carry a gun. But why hadn’t he told her about it?
If she was honest with herself, the hidden gun was only part of what bothered her. After the way they’d kissed in the Plaza de la Revoluciòn, after the way they’d fooled the Cuban police and escaped, she and Antonio should have been celebrating right now. High on life and thankful for the scrape with danger they’d just wiggled out of. Working together like Antonio had suggested up on the wall overlooking Havana bay.
But when they arrived at the farm a short time ago, they had both hopped off the bike, barely nodding at each other, and quickly gone their separate ways, like two strong magnetic forces repelling each other. Confusing at best. She shook her head.
Esmeralda raised a finger, watching her through narrowed eyes. “Wait for a minute.” Then she slid out of the closet-sized bathroom, a playful smile on her pretty face. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Where could I possibly go?” Rebecca asked the empty room. She plopped back down on the stool to wait. An image of the man in the picture Antonio had handed her popped back into her head. Could that really be her father? If so, her papi had armed police officers guarding his office building. How odd for an American to see that. What the hell did her papi do for the Cuban government?
Looking to keep busy, she occupied herself by checking out the room, quickly groaning at its austerity. Plain white walls, a skinny tiled shower, a toilet bowl without a tank, a sink with no toothpaste or toothbrushes on the counter, and no toilet paper. Really? Did it make her shallow that she longed for more?
And no mirror.
That was probably a good thing.
“Oye, I have something that will relax you.” Esmeralda danced into the room, balancing a plate of pale orange fruit chunks in one hand, waving a tall, skinny brown bottle in her other hand.
Had to be alcohol. “I don’t drink.” But I’ll take that fruit, for sure.
“De verdad?” Truthfully?
Esmeralda first placed the plate, then the bottle, on the sink counter as if both were priceless china. “Havana Club. The seven-year version. Pretty expensive.” She pulled two shot glasses out of her pocket and set them next to the bottle.
Rebecca wished Esmeralda, nice as she was, would leave so she could throw back that delicious-looking fruit, whatever it was, undress, and get on with her lukewarm bucket shower. “Thank you for the food, but you shouldn’t waste your expensive rum on someone who won’t appreciate it.”
Ignoring her, Esmeralda opened the bottle and poured the golden liquid into both glasses. “You may not appreciate it, but trust me, you need it.” She handed her one. “Plus, we’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?” Rebecca raised the shot to her nose. The Cuban rum smelled of molasses and sugar cane with a hint of tobacco. Not too bad.
“Our escape from Cuba.” Raising her cup in a toast, Esmeralda grinned like a child on Christmas morning.
“Don’t you think we should stay sober in case we do have to ‘escape’ soon?”
Esmeralda’s eyes lit up. “Antonio talked with his boat captain. La Libertad will be here tomorrow.”
Rebecca’s muscles tightened. Antonio had shared that information with Esmeralda? But not her? So much for working together. “How does he know that, anyway?” No one here had a cell phone that worked. Rebecca had asked as soon as they’d arrived.
“He talked to his captain by satellite phone.”
Of course he did. Antonio must store his sat phone right next to his gun.
“So tonight”—Esmeralda tossed back the alcohol—“we celebrate, and then we sleep.”
Rebecca sighed. Sleep sounded delightful, but her mind was racing around like an Earnhardt at Daytona. How the hell would she ever be able to doze off? Her gaze crept over to that shot glass full of rum.
Esmeralda laughed. “You can drink it straight. It’s smooth, tastes like vanilla and oak, with a smoky finish that reminds me of a lover’s breath.”
Rebecca’s thoughts drifted to Antonio. “No thanks.”
Shrugging, Esmeralda poured herself another, downed it, and then licked her lips. “All right, amiga. Take a shower and come to dinner. We have a surprise for you.” She rubbed her hands together in what looked like childlike glee. She left the room, leaving the fruit and the bottle of rum behind.
“I don’t like surprises,” Rebecca yelled after her. Ever since she’d met Antonio her life had been nothing but surprises.
Immediately, Rebecca plopped a piece of the fruit in her mouth. It had a rich, sweet taste, and the texture of a ripe pear. Yummy. She quickly ate a couple more pieces, wondering how Esmeralda could live with so little, and yet love so much about life?
After finishing off the whole plate, Rebecca undressed and used the slim bar of soap and the old rag to lather up. She had to use bar soap for her hair as well. Once she had enough suds, she picked up the bucket and poured some of the water over her head. “Aww.” That lukewarm water must have been on the surface only, because the water rushing down her back now burned her skin. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She dropped the bucket, not caring if the rest of the contents splashed out. Wiping the water out of her eyes, she jerked open the shower curtain, jumped out, grabbed a towel, and sat on the toilet.
Tears, almost as hot as the water that had scalded her, threatened to run down her face as the stress from the trip hit her all at once. Frustration filled up her lungs and burst out in one long, desperate howl. And then she began to cry. How the hell had she ended up here? Her life had been going just as planned. Would it ever be the same?
After a good five-minute deluge, Rebecca decided drinking the rum might not be such a bad idea. Best-case scenario, the alcohol would numb her mind so she could escape this real nightmare and disappear into a blissful sleep tonight.
Grabbing the shot glass, she downed the seven-year rum, swallowing so quickly the alcohol barely warmed her constricted throat. Esmeralda wasn’t kidding. The rum went down smoothly, so smoothly she didn’t even feel the effects. Maybe a second shot could help her get through an ice-cold shower, since she’d given up on the thought of bathing from a bucket. Rebecca poured and downed another.
…
The fingers of a familiar aroma wove their way into the tiny farmhouse bathroom, beckoning Rebecca with the mouthwatering scent of onions, green pepper, and garlic cloves simmering in olive oil. Someone was making sofrito, the basis for all that used to taste good in her mami’s West Tampa kitchen. So many different Cuban dishes began with this smell. Her stomach roared in anticipation. The fruit had only been a teaser of an appetizer. She’d barely eaten anything since this whole ordeal had started.
Drying off, she noticed Esmeralda must have brought her clean clothes, panties, and a sundress. Hope it’s the right size. But no bra. Great. But all she could really focus on was the smell of the potential food waiting for her. Was that the surprise? She couldn’t imagine anything better right now than home-cooked Cuban food. Bring on the pork, the rice and black beans. Something hardy to pick her up and give her energy.
Dressing quickly, she twisted the water out of her hair, leaned over and messed it up with her hands like she did at the beach. Her naturally wavy hair would dry curly if she did nothing else to it. Good enough for tonight. Her empty stomach protested again, sending rolling hunger pangs through her center. Her mouth was actually watering thinking about what might be waiting for her.
The hall leading to the kitchen remained empty and dark. The sun had set, but blaring salsa music and the voices of adults talking over one another clued her in to the direction she should head. She walked toward an open door at the end of the hallway and out into the softly lit backyard.
A couple of things quickly became evident. First, the temperature had not dropped. The air still hung heavy, like a muggy, tropical-island coverlet. Two, Antonio’s family must be throwing some kind of party, odd given the circumstances of the day, but she couldn’t deny the signs. Near her, a frosted cake sat on a long card table covered by a bright pink paper tablecloth. The cover looked like the ones you’d buy at the dollar store, and it had the words Feliz Cumpleaños on it, the Spanish way to say happy birthday.
Suddenly, a longing to return home rushed over her. She rolled her lips inward.
A couple of young kids, dancing in the center of the farm’s courtyard, caught her attention. They were twirling through salsa steps to a song she recognized by Los Van Van, a famous Cuban band. Her mami had loved the band and had often played its CDs while whipping up arroz con pollo and sipping sangria on a Saturday night. Rebecca struggled to not get too teary-eyed on memories. The rum must be making her emotional. Maybe two shots had been too many. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to have filled the shot glass to the top.
A piñata had been tied up in a tree to the right, white pieces of string hanging down, waiting for little fingers to pull on them. Rebecca closed her eyes, drifting back to her mother’s small kitchen in their two-bedroom apartment in West Tampa, where every year her mother had made sure a handful of school friends came over to help her celebrate her birthday. Since they didn’t have family in Tampa, her mother had used her famous black beans to lure kids and their parents to fill the empty seats and give the perception of a family gathering. Back when she was young, her mother couldn’t afford a real piñata, so she would patch up the ones paying clients discarded at the fancy hotel where she had worked as a maid.
Rebecca’s eyes ached, and the bittersweet onslaught of recollections erased her hunger and replaced it with an ache in her belly for home.
She jumped at the unexpected hand on her shoulder.
“Rebecca.” It was just Maria. The skinny, small-framed woman had long, beautiful auburn hair but tired eyes. “Happy birthday.”
“Oh my God.” This is all for me? Rebecca’s breath caught in her throat. “How did you know?”
“Antonio told me.”
“He did?” Her stomach fluttered, but not with hunger.
Maria smiled. “He did.”
“I’m—I’m shocked.”
“Why?” Maria put her skinny arm around Rebecca’s waist and gave her a squeeze. “Antonio knows a lot about you.”
Suddenly uncomfortable, Rebecca shifted out of Maria’s hold.
“He’s been emailing me for months, telling me all about you.”
Rebecca’s skin began to tingle. “Months?” She covered her mouth, whispering through her hand. “What’s he been telling you about me?” Alarm bells went off in her head. He’s been following me?
Maria placed a gentle hand on her arm. “He watches your reports, you know.”
Okay,
he’s just been watching me on TV. But she must have had a confused look on her face.
“You’re a newsperson, right?” Pursing her lips, Maria looked up, as if trying to come up with the right words.
That’s when it registered. Maria was speaking English, and her pronunciation was pretty good. Antonio had probably had a hand in that as well.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you do in America. We don’t have shows like yours here. We have four channels. One is for education, two are for government, and one has cartoons. Here at the farm we don’t even have a TV. But Antonio, he says he watches you on TV every day in America.”
Every day? “He strikes me as someone who would look down on the news as sensational.”
Maria shrugged. “He told me about the woman who got set on fire.”
Stiffening, Rebecca looked at Maria to make sure she heard right. “Adrianna?”
“I don’t know her name, but he said you helped a woman being abused. That her husband threw gasoline on her and set her on fire.”
The memory made Rebecca shudder. “I covered her story for a year until her ex-husband went on trial.”
Maria began to tremble. “Antonio is afraid that will happen to me.”
Rebecca froze. “By who? Your fiancé, Angel?”
The skinny woman dropped her gaze, and her hand slid off Rebecca’s arm in a silent answer. As Maria moved, her sleeve came up, exposing an ugly purple-and-black bruise.
Rebecca gently held Maria’s arm so she could confirm the bruise. “Oh my gosh, did Angel do that yesterday?”
“He’s not very nice sometimes. Please, don’t tell Antonio.”
Maria’s voice, barely above a whisper, stung Rebecca, and she couldn’t help but see Adrianna’s burned features in her mind’s eye. Reaching for Maria, Rebecca hugged the young woman. “I won’t.”
“I don’t want to happen to me what happened to the lady in your TV news story.”
“I don’t want that, either.” Now Rebecca had a much better idea of Antonio’s drive to get here and get his sister out of Cuba. She’d felt a similar unstoppable drive to help Adrianna.