by Laura Leone
She stared at the door, wanting to open it and call him back to her side. Then she heard the sharp rap of his knuckles on the wooden surface.
"Lock it!" he ordered.
She did.
#
Ransom did a patrol of the surrounding property after putting Madeleine to bed. Everything seemed quiet. Damp from the rain, he went back inside. In such a hot climate, there was no question of closing the hotel's windows, not even with tonight's rainfall. Nevertheless, Ransom double-checked the entire first floor of the pensión after Señor Gutiérrez finished locking up for the night. When he was done, he found Miguel waiting for him in the empty bar with two glasses of whiskey.
"Would you like a nightgown?" Miguel offered.
"Nightcap," Ransom corrected dryly. "Sure. Thanks."
They sat down to drink. Ransom lit up a cigarette, pleased that he hadn't smoked so many today. The rain pattered lightly outside the window, and the fan spun lazily overhead. The place looked soft and serene in the lantern light.
"You are different since you came back to Montedora," Miguel said, with the honesty borne of strong liquor shared after dark in a strange place.
"Different how?"
"You never used to be afraid."
That surprised him. He raised both eyebrows and fixed Miguel with one of his meaner stares. "Afraid?" Ransom could make his voice as chilly as Madeleine's when he chose.
Miguel shook his head. "Not like that, amigo. I mean for her."
Ransom felt his stomach drop. He tightened his hand around his glass of whiskey and studied it, avoiding Miguel's eyes.
What could he say? It was bad enough that it was true, even worse that he'd let it show. Yes, he was afraid for her. Whether it was the hot panic he'd felt when she'd exposed herself to the escaping bombers last night, or the cold fear he'd known tonight when he'd found those three hard-eyed men arriving here for dinner, he was being tormented by unaccustomed feelings. And he feared, too, that his emotions would endanger Madeleine, because the first requirement of any good bodyguard was a clear, cool head.
"She's a very special woman," Miguel said. "I congratulate you."
"There's nothing to congratulate me for," Ransom snapped.
"Ahhh..." Miguel grinned. "So that's why she got three rooms."
"It's a purely professional relationship, kid." Ransom took a belt of the whiskey and let it burn its way down his throat. It was strong stuff, and a little bitter.
"You know better than that," Miguel chided. "And so does she. I can see it when you look at each other."
"Oh, you can, can you?" Wow, what a gift for repartee I'm demonstrating, he thought sourly.
"And she trusts you."
He remembered the way she had fled from his touch two nights ago. Trusted him? "I don't think she does. Not that way." He sighed and added more honestly, "I think I made sure she wouldn't."
"How?"
"You're too young for this story." He finished his drink.
"Me? I'm the man who keeps the First Lady smiling," Miguel said with sudden bitterness. "A woman my mother's age."
"Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"I know." Miguel shook his head, then looked at Ransom with resolve. "I didn't want to speak of either woman, actually."
"Oh?"
"No. I meant only to say that I like you, Ransom. I am glad you came to Montedora."
"Well... thanks." Feeling self-conscious, Ransom stubbed out his cigarette and said, "I like you, too."
"I know. You have been good to me. And never condescending."
"You're too bright and too capable for me to condescend—"
"Many do, and you must know it," Miguel interrupted brusquely. "The wealthy of Montedora. The pitying foreigners I drive around for the President." He frowned. "It is the pity that I have hated most of all."
"Yeah," Ransom said slowly, wondering at Miguel's mood. "Pity cripples a man more than adversity."
"And hopelessness, too."
"Hopelessness most of all." He felt a little lightheaded. That was damn strong whiskey.
"Yes. You would understand this. That's why I wanted to tell you."
"Tell me what?"
Miguel blinked and seemed to come awake suddenly. He smiled. "That I have always admired you, and that I like the lady." He stood up a little unsteadily. Ransom wondered if the kid had had too much to drink tonight. Or maybe it was the rain that was making Miguel so melancholy.
"Off to bed?" he asked, feeling rather tired himself all of a sudden.
Miguel nodded. "Yes. To bed."
"G'night."
"Goodnight, Ransom."
Frowning slightly, Ransom watched the young man go upstairs. Something wasn't right. Something was... Oh, hell. He was too tired to worry about Miguel's problems tonight. He had enough of his own.
#
He awoke at dawn, stiff and uncomfortable and disoriented. His eyelids felt as if they'd been glued shut. What had woken him?
He finally figured it out. There was a soft, repetitive, abrasive sound. Somewhere nearby. Swish-swish, swish-swish. It took him back to his early childhood, to the mother he'd lost long ago, sweeping the kitchen after supper while he and his brother sat doing their homework at the kitchen table. Swish-swish, swish-swish. A comforting, homey sound, full of vague but good memories.
What was that sound doing in his room at dawn?
He forced one eye open. He saw a flat wooden surface. Ah, so that's what the hard thing under his cheek was. Wood.
Where the hell was his pillow? In fact, where the hell was his bed?
He blinked his other eye open and picked up his head. He immediately felt sick.
Oh, shit. He didn't want to be sick. He swallowed and held still, waiting for the feeling to subside.
By the time it did, he'd realized he wasn't in his room. He was sitting on a hard wooden chair in the bar, his head and arms resting on the table.
How the hell had he managed to fall asleep in this position?
His tongue felt furry, and his mouth tasted foul. His head hurt. The nausea was fading, but not disappearing. Surely he hadn't gotten drunk last night? Not only was that unlike him, but surely he wouldn't have done anything so stupid while guarding Madeleine?
He thought back. The effort made his head hurt.
No, he'd only one drink last night—that modest shot of whiskey. He remembered that the whiskey had been strong and slightly bitter, but still...
Oh, shit, he thought again, as things started coming together. He stood up slowly, and the way the room whirled confirmed his suspicions.
He'd been drugged.
"Buenas días, señor."
Ransom looked over his shoulder and found the source of the sound which had awoken him. A girl, about twelve years old, was sweeping the barroom floor. She smiled hesitantly at him. He tried to smile back, but she apparently didn't find the effort reassuring.
"Donde está el señor?" He asked for Gutiérrez in a gravelly voice, his mind working slowly. Who had drugged the whiskey? And why?
The girl replied that Gutiérrez was outside. Did the señor require something?
He didn't even hear her.
Why? Why else, you idiot? He was halfway up the stairs before he'd completed the thought. A wealthy woman, sleeping alone up there... Oh, God, please, please, please let her be safe.
He flung himself against her door. It was locked.
"Maddie!" He kicked in the door and barreled into the room.
She screamed and leapt out of bed.
Safe! Safe, she was safe.
"Maddie!" He scooped her up in his arms while she was still flailing in the tangled bed sheets that twined around her legs.
"What? What! What?" she cried breathlessly, squirming in his arms, trying to see what was in her room or beyond her door that had caused him to terrify her like this.
"Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, thank you, God," he murmured incoherently, hugging her with bruising force.
"What? What? Ransom,
what's going on?" she demanded, shoving at him.
He ran his hands over her possessively, still needing to assure himself that she was safe. "I thought... I thought... Oh, hell, I don't know what I thought, but—"
"You don't know? You don't know?"
"Well, no, but—"
"What's going on?" she demanded.
"I'm not sure."
"Is something wrong?"
"Um. I'm not sure." He was starting to feel very stupid.
"You're not sure?" She looked like she wanted to hit him. "Have you gone mad? You scared me half to death!"
Realizing that he wasn't behaving very sensibly, he mumbled, "I'm sorry."
"Sorry? You're sorry?" She seemed at a loss for words. Her pretty nightgown molded to her body as she slumped down on the bed and repeated, "You're sorry." She rubbed her side and said, "I think some of my ribs cracked when your gun rammed into them."
He glanced down, so accustomed to the feel of his holstered Glock that he'd forgotten he was wearing it. Yes, he must have hurt her. Shit. He had to pull himself together. He ran a hand through his tangled hair and tried to think. "Look, it's been a hell of a night, and—"
"I nearly had a heart attack!" She pressed a hand to her chest and threatened, "In fact, I may still have one!"
"Not now," he ordered absently, drawing a withering glare from her. "I've got to figure out..." It hit him like a ton of bricks. "Miguel."
He turned and ran from the room. Madeleine followed him. She caught up with him when he stopped to pound on Miguel's door, two rooms away.
"What's going on?"
"Somebody drugged me last night." He shouted through the door, "Miguel? Are you in there?"
"What?" Her eyes were wide with surprise.
"I thought it was a kidnapping attempt."
"Oh! That's why you burst—"
"Stand back." He shoved her aside and kicked the door in. She followed him inside the room.
It was empty. The bed hadn't been slept in. There was no sign of Miguel or his battered valise. But there was a note on the bed. Ransom picked it up and read it in silence.
"What does it say? Where is Miguel?" Madeleine asked.
Ransom sagged onto the bed and handed the note to her. "He's gone. For good. And he's stolen the car."
***
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Nights of Fire Excerpt
by Laura Leone
© 2004, 2011 Laura Resnick
June 4, 1944
Normandy, France
Both eyes opened this time. The left one, not very much... but he could see out of it—though it took him a few moments to realize this, since it was dark again.
He wondered what that soft drumming was, then realized: rain. Again.
He lay there listening to it for a while, then gradually became aware of a faint splashing sound coming from the barn below him. "Ga..." His throat was dry. He tried again. "Gabrielle?"
"Ici," she called softly. Here.
She climbed up into the loft. He could scarcely see her.
"So dark tonight," he muttered.
"This filthy weather."
"Rain. Storms. Wind." It meant something to him. It seemed like a problem. He just didn't know why.
She came closer. "You're better."
"Yes," he agreed.
"The fever broke after sundown."
Her silence was speakingwas telling, so he informed her, "I still don't remember. Well, not much."
"Not much? What do you remember?" she pounced.
"Mostly... things about the war."
"The invasion?"
He went still. "No."
It wasn't entirely a lie. He wasn't sure what his jumbled thoughts meant.
Will the rain never stop?
Why did he care so much about the weather?
"Do you remember being a prisoner?"
The pain... His head started throbbing.
"Some of it."
"What?" she prodded, kneeling beside him now.
He could hardly see her tonight. "Is there a lantern?"
"Downstairs. We shouldn't use one up here, not with that window," she said. "This place is isolated, but even so...
"If someone saw the light, they might investigate."
"Yes."
Needing human contact, wanting it, he reached out to touch her. She was in her slip again. Her skin was damp and cool. "You've been... washing?"
Her breath was shallow as he explored her. "Yes."
He brushed his fingers across her throat. "I... like to watch you wash."
"You're remembering?" she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. "No, I think it was a lucky guess." Based on the way his thoughts suddenly filled with a mental image of her—remembered, or just imagined?—sluicing water over her bare skin. Droplets trickling down the smooth column of her throat, sliding into the valley between her breasts...Water glistening on the pale skin of her back, tapering down to her waist...
He came out of his reverie when he heard her unhappy little sigh.
"It's so strange," she said. "You're right here, you act very much like yourself... Yet I'm so lonely for you, because you don't remember me."
"So this is what I'm usually like?"
"No. I mean..." She suddenly laughed, though it was a weak and shaky sound. "This is your personality, yes. But your circumstances—weak, ill, confused—make everything even stranger. You're normally in charge. In command. Confident. Organized. Efficient." She added archly, "Bossy."
"You don't seem," he ventured, "like a woman who would let me boss you much."
"I don't," she assured him. "We fight when you try."
He smiled. It sounded true. Even familiar. "Gabrielle..." The more he said her name, the more right it sounded to him. Memory? Or was he just getting used to her?
"Yes?"
"I, uh... Never mind."
While they held their silence in the dark, the rain started to let up.
"I'll get you something to drink," she offered.
"No, I'll come down with you."
"You shouldn't—"
"I need to go outside for a moment," he explained.
"Ah. Of course." She sounded very matter of fact. Well, a wife would be accustomed to her husband having normal human functions, after all. "I'll help you climb down."
She rose and leaned down to help him do the same. It was more difficult than he had expected. He was dizzy when he stood up, leaning against her for a moment while his body adjusted. Then, impatient with his weakness, he pulled slightly away from her.
"Come," she said, leading him towards the ladder.
"Wait a minute." He felt embarrassed at the idea of walking around naked with her. "Where are my clothes?"
"I burned them."
"Burned..." He seemed to remember her saying something about that. Ages ago. "Why?"
"They were all torn, and covered in blood and mud and... ugh, who knows what else?"
"But—"
"You couldn't have worn them again, chéri, je te le jure. So I burned them. I don't expect anyone to come here, but if I'm wrong, then it's better that no one should find those clothes. They'd realize right away that—"
"Yes, I see." He supposed he did. It was a sensible precaution. "But surely I must have other clothes?"
"Not here." Sensing his hesitation, she let out her breath on an impatient puff. "Paul, there is no one here but me, and I see you naked often." When he didn't respond, she added, "You like me to look at you naked."
He could well believe that. And at least he seemed to be in decent shape for showing himself off to her. "It's just that, uh..."
"I see." She was getting annoyed. "You let me do the things I did this morning when you didn't even know my name. But now that you know I'm your wife, you don't want me to see you naked."
"When you put it that way," he admitted, "it sounds bad. But this m
orning, we were making love. Whereas now—"
"Were we?" she snapped. "Love? You didn't even know my name!"
"But you knew I was your husband—"
"While you thought I was just some woman you were enjoying for a few minutes!"
"No, I thought you had saved my life—"
"Oh, and your way of saying merci was to roll around in the straw with me?" Her sarcasm made him wince. "What if some other woman had rescued you? Would you be in bed with her now?"
"Not unless she was also as bold as a cat in heat," he snapped back. "It's not fair to blame me completely for—"
She gasped in outrage. "A cat in heat! Monstre! You're the one who taught me to be bold with you! You like it!"
"I know! Without remembering! I can tell! In fact, I love it. I loved it so much this morning, I wanted you even though I was half-dead. So why," he said, angry by now, "are we fighting about it?"
"Because when I took off my clothes for you last night—"
"You were so beautiful, I—"
"Or put you in my mouth this morning—"
"And I'd have died a happy—"
"You might have found the time to mention," she snarled, "that you thought I was a total stranger instead of the woman you married!"
"My body could tell—"
"Because if I had known that you didn't know that we do things like that together all of the time—"
"We do?"
"Yes!" she cried furiously.
"In that case, I married very well, didn't I?"
"I might have been a little more... A little less..."
"Yes?" he prodded.
She sputtered, "I would not have..."
His anger was fading now, being replaced by amusement. And comfort. This did feel familiar. Wonderfully so. "Would not have what?" he asked, cheerfully goading her. Did he even like arguing with her? He must be in love.
"I would never have—"
"Put my hands on your breasts?" he offered helpfully. "Or taken me in your mouth—"
"Yes!"
"With, I might add, stunning expertise. Is it always that good, or was this morning special?"
"You'll just have to live with not knowing, won't you?"
"I guess you wouldn't have put my hand between your legs, either?"