by Rebecca York
Was he? Making a decision to take Miguel at his word—at least for now—Jessie answered, “No.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Quickly she gave Katie a brief summary of the facts she knew.
“There are several distinct malaria strains,” her friend said in response. “We can’t be absolutely sure what medication he needs until we do a blood test. But I’ll stop by the lab and pick up the best treatment alternative. I can get to your house in about an hour.”
“I appreciate it,” Jessie told her with sincerity, wondering if she’d done the right thing. After hanging up the phone, she hurried back to the bedroom to see how Miguel was doing. She’d only been gone a few minutes, but she found the contents of her purse and the pillowcase strewn across the bed. Miguel’s sweatpants were lying in a twisted heap on the floor, and he was sitting with his back propped against the pillows, his head bent, and his arms partially hidden by the edge of the sheet.
“Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.
His head jerked up. Eyes glazed, forehead beaded with perspiration, he stared at her. Or was he seeing someone else?
“Miguel?”
His arms came free of the covering. Clasped in both hands was the shiny little revolver she’d taken away from Luis—the same weapon that she’d used to fend off Georgie. Too bad she’d been too scared and too busy to check whether or not it was loaded.
“You are back,” he growled, speaking in Spanish, moving the pistol so that it was pointed where it would do the most damage. “I always knew you would be back to finish the killing.” He seemed to be looking right through her as his face contorted in anger.
“I’m not your enemy. I’m Jessie,” she gasped. “Jessie Douglas. I brought you to my house, remember?”
“Lying scum!” he growled, still in Spanish. “Carlos Jurado sent you to kill my staff. Kill my patients. But you are not going to get me.”
The gun wavered, and she wondered how long a man in his condition could hold it steady. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to shoot straight. Maybe there weren’t any bullets. But she couldn’t trust her life to either eventuality.
“Please,” she tried, taking a step closer. “Put the gun down.”
“You must be crazy!” he spat. The weapon listed to the side, but she could see he was working hard to hold it on her.
“Miguel, it’s Jessie. Jessie Douglas,” she cried out again, her voice rising in desperation as she saw his finger tighten on the trigger.
Chapter Four
Jessie braced for the impact of a bullet. It never came.
Despite her numerous deadly mistakes this evening, she was living a charmed life. Springing across the room, she threw herself against Miguel, the impact of her forward motion knocking him backward into the pillows.
She heard the breath hiss from his lungs as he took the force of the collision squarely in the chest, but the pistol stayed in his hand.
“Miguel, it’s Jessie,” she repeated urgently. “You’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Paying no attention to her words, he kept fighting her with his remaining strength.
“I brought you home,” she panted. “You’re at my house. Please, trust me!”
It seemed she was wasting her breath.
“No.” He made a mighty effort to push her off him, then struggled to get the revolver into position for another shot. What if there really was a bullet in one of the chambers? she thought frantically as she tried to wrest the gun from his grasp.
Under ordinary circumstances she would have been no match for a well-muscled man, but she felt his strength flagging fast. Her fingers on his, she pried the pistol from his hand and lay across his chest, panting.
When he stopped moving, she eased away so that she could look into his face. His expression had changed dramatically, and for the first time since she’d returned to the bedroom, she was sure he recognized her.
“Everything’s okay,” she whispered, her hand pressing over his, trying with her touch to bridge any gap between them.
“Oh, God,” he gasped. “I thought—” He was silent for long seconds, then said in a shaky voice, “Jessie, I had a gun in my hand. Did I just try to shoot you?”
She nodded. His teeth clenched as he sank back against the pillows.
“It’s all right. You didn’t know what you were doing.” Without thinking, she wrapped the fingers of her free hand around his, carried them to her lips.
“That is no excuse! You cannot keep a loco in your house,” he choked out, trying to yank his hand away.
She kept hold of him, determined to maintain the contact. “I think it’s called ‘delirium’ when it’s caused by a high fever, Dr. Diego,” she said quietly.
His face contorted, but she continued quickly, “You need medicine and someone to take care of you until you’re feeling better.”
“What if I...threaten you again? What happens then?”
“We’ll deal with it. Lie still.”
“I’m getting worse. Delusional.”
“My friend Katie is coming over to bring you medication. You’ll start feeling better soon.”
“You called her? When?”
“While you were getting the gun out of my pocketbook.”
Miguel made a guttural sound.
After checking to see that the revolver was really empty, she set it on the floor, then moved to the head of the bed and cradled him against herself, stroking back the damp hair from his forehead, murmuring low, soothing words. She could feel his warm breath penetrating the thin fabric of her blouse, heating her skin. She tried to stay detached, but when she thought she detected the touch of his lips brushing her shoulder, she felt her heart melt.
“Why are you doing this?” he murmured.
He had asked the question before. Last time her answer hadn’t been entirely honest. This time she whispered, “I want to,” then, “Everything’s going to be all right. Trust me on that.”
“It has been a long time since I trusted anybody,” he replied in a barely audible voice, as if the admission were welling up from some hidden place inside him.
“I know.”
“How?”
“It’s pretty obvious. I think it’s turned into a bad habit.”
He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Changing my habits kept me alive.”
She thought about the things he’d inadvertently revealed earlier and wanted to ask about Carlos Jurado. Who was he and what had happened between him and Miguel? But she knew this wasn’t the right time—not when he’d finally settled down a little.
Several silent moments passed till she felt the tension ebb from his rigid shoulders, felt him calming in her arms, felt her own heartbeat returning to a normal rate. There was something elemental about holding him close like this that was an antidote to all the uncertainty that had come before.
Exhausted, she curled against him, rested her cheek on the top of his head. Her eyelids were impossibly heavy, and she let them drift closed.
“HIDE!” MIGUEL’S VOICE was low and urgent as his hands pushed at her shoulders. “Get away from me. Hide!”
She lifted her head, blinked as she tried to remember what they were doing together in her bed. The chiming of the doorbell penetrated her consciousness, then the sound of loud knocking.
Miguel’s eyes were dark and fierce, his cheeks flushed as he turned and began searching frantically on the surface of the bed. “Where is the gun?”
“You don’t need the gun. It’s my friend Katie at the door. She’s coming to bring you medicine. Remember, I called her?” she asked, her gaze locked on his. “We’re safe here. You don’t need the gun,” she repeated. “I’ll be right back.” Standing, she used her foot to slowly push the weapon farther under the edge of the bed.
Then she hurried to the front door. Peering cautiously through the peephole, she was relieved to see a distorted image of her friend.
“Sorry I took so long,” Katie apologized. “I don�
�t usually need to put my hand on medication, and I had some problems finding it. So I called Mac, and I’ve got some great news. There’s not much malaria research going on in the U.S., but it turns out Medizone is working on a medication that’s designed to be effective against all strains of the disease, and with reduced side effects. The drug’s still in the testing stages, but Mac says it’s better than anything on the market.”
Jessie nodded, then put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Before you meet Miguel, you’d better know he’s, uh, having a little trouble remembering where he is, and that I’m one of the good guys.”
“A high fever will do that.”
“I know,” Jessie said as she led the way to her bedroom.
Miguel was sitting up, his head turned toward the door, but she could see it was taking considerable effort to maintain the position.
After Jessie introduced them, Katie stepped closer. “I’d like to examine you, if that’s all right. And get you started on a course of treatment as soon as possible.”
He nodded.
Jessie stood uncertainly in the doorway.
Katie looked from the patient to her. “Why don’t you have a cup of coffee or something while I’m checking him out.”
“Yes. Right.” Miguel wouldn’t want her as a spectator. She’d just have to trust that he wouldn’t try to murder the doctor.
Making a quick exit, she headed for the kitchen and automatically filled the kettle. But when the water boiled, she turned it off again, knowing she was too jittery to drink anything. Pacing back and forth, she kept watching the clock. After twenty minutes, she tiptoed down the hall and found Katie had pulled a chair close to the side of the bed. She and Miguel were talking peacefully in low voices.
Katie looked up. “I’ve taken a blood sample to find out what malaria strain we’re dealing with, and I’ve given him an injection that will take effect very quickly. But he needs to continue with a course of treatment over the next few days.” She picked up a bottle of tablets from the bedside table. “He should have one of these every six hours until the bottle’s empty.”
Jessie nodded.
“He’ll feel a lot better very quickly,” Katie continued, “but the effects don’t last unless the course of medication is completed. I’ve explained to him that he’s going to have intermittent good and bad periods, but he should stay in bed for the next three or four days. His fever may spike again and alternate with chills.”
Jessie nodded. “He’s already had those.”
“It’s important not to overdo when he’s feeling better. You can be the bad guy and enforce the bed rest.”
“Thanks.”
Katie turned back to Miguel. “Do you have any more questions?”
He shook his head.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Jessie said, as she and Katie stepped into the hall. “How is he?” she asked tensely when she judged they were out of earshot.
“It’s a good thing you called me tonight,” Katie replied. “He’s in pretty bad shape.”
“But he’ll get better?”
“I can’t give you a guarantee, but I think so.”
Jessie let out a little breath.
“He’s worried about you,” Katie added. “About your being found with him.”
“Something happened to him back in San Marcos. He won’t tell me much,” Jessie hedged.
“Well, he’s trying to protect you. If he hadn’t been so sick, he never would have let you bring him here.”
“I know.”
They walked down the hall to the front door.
“Phone me tomorrow morning and let me know how he’s doing,” Katie said. “Here’s my private number at Medizone.” Reaching into her purse, she took out a card and handed it to Jessie.
“Thanks. And I really appreciate your coming over so late.”
“That’s what friends are for,” Katie answered, giving Jessie a quick clasp on the arm. Then she drew back and searched Jessie’s face. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
Jessie hesitated. “I don’t know much.”
“But you trust him?”
“Yes.”
“Call if you need anything.”
“I will,” Jessie promised, anxious for her friend to leave.
“One more thing. He may not remember the conversation he had with me. You’ll have to make sure he follows doctor’s orders.”
“Understood.”
Miguel was sleeping fitfully when Jessie returned to the bedroom. She stood with her arms crossed, looking down at him before flopping into the chair Katie had pulled next to the bed. For a while, simply sitting with her eyes closed was a profound luxury. Soon she realized it wasn’t enough, particularly since she didn’t know what she would be facing in the morning.
She needed to sleep, and she needed to stay in this room. And the only way she was going to do both was to occupy part of the bed.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, she donned a T-shirt and sweatpants, then set out the medicine and a glass of water on the nightstand. Finally, she climbed under the covers and lay on the far edge of the bed. Right before she fell asleep she had a fleeting worry that she was doing something improper.
MIGUEL MOANED AS THE nightmare assaulted him again. It always started the same way, when he entered the clinic waiting room and saw the pool of blood flowing from behind the reception desk.
Rushing around the desk, he found Margarita on the floor, bullets riddling the front of her plump body. He didn’t have to search for a pulse in her neck to know she was dead. But he did that anyway, stooping to touch her smooth skin—skin that was still warm.
Good God, he had been gone less than an hour—to the airport to pick up some medical supplies that he’d been waiting for.
He bolted toward the back of the building, praying that the others were all right. But it was already too late. He found Tony in the hall. Then Anna in the lab. And Paco in the lunchroom. They were all shot, all dead. And so were the patients.
All except the VIP patient who had come to the clinic three days ago. He was missing.
Miguel was staring at the empty bed when he heard stealthy footsteps coming down the path that led from his private residence.
“His car is back,” a harsh male voice hissed.
“Get him. One of you go in the front. The other take the back.” The speaker was his well-heeled patient.
For several heartbeats, Miguel stood in the middle of the room, paralyzed. When he heard the front door open, he knew he had only seconds to react. Climbing onto one of the beds, he dived through the window into a flowering jasmine bush. He picked himself up and ran, skirting the guest cottages where rich patients came to vacation while they were recuperating.
His luck ran out when he rounded a corner of his own luxury villa and almost slammed into a man directly ahead of him—a man holding a machine gun, his back to the path, his eyes trained on the thick trees that marked the edge of the lawn.
The assassin must have heard a noise behind him, because he started to raise the weapon and turn. There was only one option as the weapon came into firing position. Miguel leaped forward, under the muzzle, his head butting hard against the man’s chest, knocking him to the ground, pummeling him with his fists even as they went down. A burst of automatic fire shot into the air.
No! The noise would bring the others.
Wresting the gun away with strength fueled by fury and fear, Miguel slammed the stock into the man’s face. Blood spurted, punctuated by a scream of agony. Miguel leaped up and sprinted for the woods, breathing hard, clutching the gun against his chest.
JESSIE AWOKE TO THE sound of ragged breathing. In the light from the hall, she looked around her room, then remembered why she was sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. Miguel was on the side near the door, his body shaking the mattress as he muttered something about guns and bodies.
Chills racked him, and at the same time his arm lashed out, catching her in the ribs. Gasping, she
wrapped her arms around him, using her grip and the weight of her body to keep his still.
Her breasts flattened uncomfortably against the hard wall of his chest, and her hips wedged intimately against his so that she could feel every male contour as he struggled with her.
“Don’t. It’s okay,” she gasped out several times while she tried to defend herself from his flailing arms without hurting him. Gently she told him again and again that he was with her, that he was safe.
Finally his eyelids fluttered open, and he stared at her, surprise registering on his face.
“Where am I?” he grated, his teeth beginning to chatter.
“With me. With Jessie. You have malaria. I brought you to my house. And Dr. McQuade gave you some medicine.”
He listened, taking it all in. “Jessie,” he repeated, some of the anxiety seeping out of his voice. Yet his body was still shaking.
“I’m cold.”
She pulled a blanket around him. “You need to take more medicine.”
She got the pills from the bedside table and handed him a tablet and a glass of water. This time, even though his hands were trembling, he managed to drink by himself. When he was finished, she folded him close against her.
“It’s all right,” she murmured, stroking him gently, feeling his tremors lessen. Finally, he relaxed against her, his arms moving up to clasp her.
FROM THE FIRST TIME HE had seen her, he had wanted to hold her. He had wanted to lie in bed with her, although this was not exactly what he’d pictured, he thought with a harsh inward laugh. He’d cast himself in the role of a lover who could turn her beautiful green eyes into shimmering pools of passion. He’d imagined drawing little gasps of gratification from her lips as his hands and mouth caressed her, learning what gave her pleasure; then he had imagined himself inside her, moving with urgent hunger above her, driving her higher and higher into a world where only the two of them existed.
But simply making love with her wouldn’t be enough. In the dark hours of the night, when he felt more alone than any other man on earth, he’d dared to dream of a safe haven in her arms, an end to his wanderings. Now that he was in her bed, he was caught by the power of that ultimate fantasy. The safety of her embrace felt more true and more real than anything else since he’d been on the run.