Shattered Lullaby

by Rebecca York

  She’d been daring him to kiss her, daring herself to risk rejection again. The contact of his mouth with hers was like the completion of an electric circuit, starting a flow of current between them. Swamped by her response, she heard a small sound escape from her throat.

  He answered with a growl deep in his chest, as he gathered her closer. Moving his lips against hers, he opened her mouth for a more complete invasion.

  One of his large hands slid down to anchor her hips against his, the other slipped under her T-shirt so that his fingers could splay across her back. Instantly, her skin heated under his touch—not just her skin, but her whole body.

  She forgot that they were standing in front of a window in full view of her neighbors; forgot that the intimacy had started as improvisational theater for Officer Waverly. She forgot about everything except the taste of Miguel’s mouth as it moved urgently over hers, the feel of his hands on her, and the pressure of his hips against hers.

  The kiss deepened, lengthened, consumed her. Consumed thought and reason. She was dimly aware that he had pulled her away from the window, into the shadows of the hallway where they had all the privacy they needed. He leaned back against the wall, taking her with him and widening his stance so that he could bring her body more intimately against his.

  He moved his hands downward, cupped her bottom, rocked her against the rigid flesh concealed by his sweatpants, and she made a little sobbing sound as she held on to him to keep her knees from giving way.

  She hadn’t planned anything like this when she’d issued her challenge. One moment she’d been standing on solid ground, the next, she was spinning out of control.

  She would give him anything he wanted, because she wanted the same thing—to get closer to him, and closer still, until there were no barriers left. All she could do was cling to him and let him take her wherever he wanted to go.

  His deft hands rolled up her T-shirt, unsnapped her bra, then angled her body so that he could bring his hot mouth to her breast.

  “Oh!” She cried out as his tongue circled her rigid nipple. When he began to draw on her, the exclamation turned into a sob of pleasure.

  Still, somewhere in her fogged mind she registered that his hands were shaking and his breathing had become ragged. Not from passion, she realized, as she forced herself to come back to earth. Last night when she’d brought him home, he’d been so sick he could hardly walk. Perhaps Dr. McQuade’s medicine had worked a miracle, but he was still in no shape for this kind of activity, and she was crazy to have let things go this far.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered, dragging her heated flesh away from his.

  Miguel looked dazed, then swayed on his feet when she moved a few inches away. Lowering her head to hide the abashed expression on her face, she reached to refasten the catch of her bra, then pulled down her shirt. When she looked up again, he had flattened a hand against the wall to steady himself.

  “You should be in bed.”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean...” Her voice trailed off as she silently acknowledged that she was the one at fault. She had goaded him into kissing her—and kissing had quickly gotten out of control.

  “You should be resting,” she managed.

  He looked away from her, and she knew he hated being reminded why she had brought him home.

  “Come on.” She took his arm and steered him down the hall. Really, what had she been thinking?

  When he stood staring at the bed, she tugged on his arm so that he was forced to fight her or sit down. He sat, staring with unfocused eyes at the opposite wall as he kicked off his shoes. They thunked onto the floor.

  When he didn’t lie down on his own, she took him by the shoulders and eased him onto his back against the pillows. He lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily, and she started to slip from the room.

  “I should take some more of Dr. McQuade’s medicine,” he said in a low voice.

  Her eyes shot to the nightstand, where the bottle had been.

  “In my pocket,” he answered the unspoken question.

  She pulled out his wallet and set it on the bedside table, reminding herself that they had things to discuss. But any discussion would have to wait until he was in better shape. Instead she found the bottle of pills that Katie had given him, shook one into her hand and got water. Miguel took the glass from her and swallowed the medicine.

  Then he lay back heavily and closed his eyes again. A few minutes later, he was asleep.

  She glanced quickly at her watch, knowing she should make an appearance at work. Yet that would mean leaving him alone in the house. Now she knew that would spell disaster. As soon as he thought he could stagger to the kitchen door, he’d duck out on her.

  After tiptoeing out of the room, she picked up the phone in the den and called the staffs private line. The answering machine picked up, and she thanked Providence that everyone had gone to lunch. Quickly, she left a short message saying that she was at home taking care of a sick friend and wouldn’t be in that day. Tomorrow was Saturday, so she wouldn’t have to make up any excuses for the weekend.

  MIGUEL LAY IN BED with his eyes closed, breathing slowly and evenly so that Jessie would think he was sleeping. He heard her quietly slip from the room, heard her making a phone call and talking in a voice so low that he couldn’t tell what she was saying. For a moment, he had to fight a surge of panic. After that scene with the van and the policeman, she could be calling the authorities, summoning help. Yet he was still able to recognize paranoia when it swept over him. She had gone to a lot of trouble to get rid of Officer Waverly. And afterwards...

  His tongue touched his lips, searching for the taste of her and finding the proof that he hadn’t been hallucinating.

  He felt his mouth curve into a little smile as he relived the kiss. Not just his lips on hers—the whole thing. Her body moving against his, the wonderful taste of her breast

  Jessie had stopped him, but he knew things couldn’t have gone much further—not when a strong wind would blow him over. Yet she’d wanted him. He knew that as well as he knew his own reactions. And if things were different...

  He allowed himself to contemplate a kinder, gentler world where he was not a hunted man, and where he could make choices based on his own needs. In that world, he would make slow, perfect love to Jessie Douglas. Too sick to resist the comfort of the fantasy, he lay with eyes closed, imagining that luxury.

  He hung on to the delicious daydream as sleep crept over him. For a while Jessie guarded his slumber. But eventually the nightmares came. The clinic again. And then another one—from the time when he was on the run.

  He was in Cancún, Mexico, where he’d traveled by bus from Playa del Carmen. He was staying at a small tourist hotel where people from many cultures mixed. The vacation spot was a good place to get the identification papers he’d need when he crossed into the U.S.

  There had been a woman named Juanita who owned a local restaurant where he got into the habit of eating dinner—because he liked the food, and because he was lonely.

  In his dream, he was back there again—a man starved for human contact, consumed by the need to prove to himself that he wasn’t doomed to an existence in the shadows.

  “You eat alone every night,” she said as she stood beside his table.

  “I like my own company,” he answered, hating the way the lie felt in his mouth.

  “Where are you from?”

  He gave the answer that he’d rehearsed. He was from Costa Rica, and he was a lawyer who was tired of the rat race. He’d taken a few months off and was traveling north, stopping where the spirit moved him. He was enjoying the snorkeling here, he told her.

  He thought the performance was convincing. He didn’t know he’d picked the wrong audience.

  That night she pulled out a chair at his table and sat with him, joined him for a cup of strong, dark coffee after his meal. Soon they were eating together in the back of the restaurant where they could talk
in low intimate voices.

  She told him she’d been poor as a young woman, but she’d married a man who was much older than she. When her husband had died, she’d moved away and used the money from his insurance to buy the restaurant.

  Now she was financially secure—and selective about her lovers. But it seemed that she was taken with the man who was calling himself Diego Marcos. Drawing him into the shadows of the arbor behind her house, she kissed him, inviting intimacies that he was hardly able to resist The next night they moved from the arbor to her bed. After that, he was there every night.

  Perhaps he should have thought more about her background—and her motives. But he was attracted to her, and she made him feel comfortable—too comfortable.

  One night after they’d made love, she gently began asking him questions.

  “Where are you really from? Why are you on the run? What can I do to help?”

  Her soft voice, the touch of her hands, and the warmth of her bed made him let down his guard. Slowly, giving away more and more, he answered her questions. Forgetting caution, he ended up telling her too much about his background.

  Not until later did he realize that men had been looking for him in cities like Cancún—and putting out the word that they would pay a fat fee to anyone who turned him in. Juanita had heard about the offer and wanted the money.

  So she’d kept him near her while the net closed around him. They were eating dinner at her house one evening, when he heard a noise in the front hall. The evasive look in her eye told him something bad was happening. He bolted from the table seconds before two men with guns burst into the dining room.

  As he fled into the night, he heard the shots and heard her scream—and knew that she had taken the bullet intended for him.

  He abandoned his clothing and few possessions at his hotel, then hitched a ride on a hay wagon, thankful that most of his funds were in the money belt he was wearing. And as he rode out of town, he vowed never to give in to soft words and seduction again.

  Chapter Six

  Voices woke him—women’s voices, low and quiet, penetrating the vulnerability of sleep. They dovetailed with the dream, and he was halfway out of bed when he saw that the speakers were Jessie and her friend, the doctor. They were standing just inside the door to the bedroom, their faces registering shock as they saw his frantic reaction to their presence.

  “It’s all right.” Jessie moved rapidly toward him, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, though her expression was still worried.

  Dr. McQuade hung back.

  He stopped himself in midflight and eased back against the pillows.

  “Were you dreaming again?” Jessie asked.

  He answered with a tight nod, then asked, “How long was I asleep?”

  “Almost two days.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “What day is it?”

  “Sunday morning.”

  He must have been in worse shape than he’d imagined.

  “Well, I woke you up to take your medicine. And you got up to go to the bathroom. But you went right back to sleep.”

  He had vague memories of her coming to him—very vague memories. Had she slept in the bed with him again? He thought not.

  “Your body knew you needed rest,” she said softly. “Even if you were too stubborn to admit it.”

  That was Dr. McQuade’s cue to come briskly forward, her medical bag in her hand. “How are you doing?” she asked as she pulled the chair up to the side of the bed.

  He took a quick inventory. His fever was down. His headache was gone—along with the terrible thirst. And he felt as if he could get out of bed without falling on his face.

  “Much better,” he answered. “Your medicine is very effective.”

  “I think you have the constitution of a bull elephant.”

  He laughed. “Maybe.”

  “Jessie told me you were up and around the morning after you arrived,” the doctor added conversationally.

  His nod of agreement was cautious. Had Jessie reported that he’d been planning to leave? Or that he’d been going to steal the van? Neither woman’s expression gave anything away.

  “I want you to take it easy for at least another couple of days,” Dr. McQuade said with a note of mild reproach.

  He didn’t answer, unwilling to commit himself to anything.

  The doctor opened her bag and pulled out a stethoscope. As she warmed the business end in her hand, he eyed Jessie. She stayed where she was in the doorway, watching as Dr. McQuade deftly rolled up his shirt and listened to his chest.

  “Well?” he asked when she had finished.

  “Heart and lungs sound normal.”

  She prodded his abdomen, looked down his throat, checked his ears, pronounced him in surprisingly good shape.

  He nodded in gratitude, knowing that if it hadn’t been for her and Jessie, he might have died.

  Jessie walked the doctor to the door. When she came back, she had a tray with food.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Chicken soup. The rich aroma made his stomach growl.

  “I see the answer is yes.” She tried for a little grin, and he knew she was feeling uncertain about how to act.

  He was just as uncertain. He was lying in her bed. For one night, at least, she had shared that bed with him. Then they’d kissed, and his last pretenses had disintegrated. Now he needed to convince both of them that it had been a temporary aberration.

  Twisting away from her, he plumped up the pillows. When he leaned back again, she set the tray on his lap. He wanted to thank her for everything she’d done, but he knew the words would come out wrong. If he sounded too impersonal, she would be hurt. If he said the things he longed to say, she would think he was going to share his burden with her—and that was impossible.

  She had brought a mug of soup for herself, and she sat in an overstuffed chair across the room, sipping it while he ate.

  “You’re a good cook,” he complimented her, enjoying the food and the simple fact of being with her, storing up memories for when he would be alone again.

  “Thanks. I love being creative in the kitchen,” she answered self-consciously.

  He longed to talk about things that were important. Instead, he asked about the weather and the news he’d missed.

  When he finished the meal, he ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “I must look like Robinson Crusoe. Can I borrow a razor?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your shower.”

  “If you’re quick. Then you need to rest again.”

  He gave a little nod.

  When she took the tray away and set it on the dresser, he walked down the hall, through the living room and into the kitchen, testing his strength. For a man who had been at death’s door, he was doing amazingly well, he decided, as he opened the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. He downed a glass and was still hungry, but he knew it would be imprudent to eat too much.

  Domestic sounds from the bedroom drew him back. Jessie was changing the sheets. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched her work, taking pleasure from simply observing the grace and efficiency of her movements. Infinitesimally his body swayed toward hers until he caught himself, his feet scuffling slightly as he shifted his position.

  She stopped, looked up at him, then quickly turned to slip a pillow into its case, avoiding further eye contact. It looked like he’d let her know where they stood. He should be pleased. Instead he felt his throat tighten.

  Grabbing a change of clothes, he headed for the bathroom and started to lock the door behind him, then thought better of it. What if he suddenly passed out, he wondered as he studied his gaunt face in the glass. Honesty made him admit that he looked a lot worse than Robinson Crusoe. More like a refugee from hell. But a hot shower and a shave would go a long way toward restoration.

  Stepping under the hot spray was delicious. Once he had taken such simple pleasures for granted. Now he deeply appreciated every luxury of modern life. If he wa
s ever allowed to settle down again he would—

  Ruthlessly, he cut off the thought, lifting his face and concentrating on how good the pounding water felt. Then he grabbed the bar of soap. It was already wet. Jessie had been in here not long ago. As he began to lather his body, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about her doing the same thing with the same bar of soap, and he felt himself getting hard.

  It was definitely time to leave, he told himself with a low curse.

  CARLOS JURADO SAT BACK in the leather chair, alternately staring with narrowed eyes at the phone on his broad mahogany desk and at the antique clock that hung on the wall between the windows. Impatiently, he drummed his stubby fingers on the polished surface of the desk. When the phone failed to ring, he reached into the middle drawer and pulled out a thick manila folder. Once the cover had been crisp, though now it was bent and smudged from frequent handling.

  Eyes narrowed, he thumbed through the pages of the exhaustive report, hitting highlights that he had perused many times. Really, he no longer needed to read the words. He had long ago memorized the report, absorbed the clues that would lead him to Miguel Valero. The man had traveled north. He was in the U.S.—near his old hometown. He had to be.

  Jurado was on the fifth page when the phone rang. Snatching it up, he snapped, “You are late.”

  “Sorry, señor.”

  “What do you have for me?” he demanded.

  There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line, telegraphing bad news. “Valero is not in Washington, D.C.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I have been waiting for a report from the detectives I hired. They have checked out everyone from his past who might have given him shelter. No one has been in contact with him.”

  Jurado’s fingers dug into the edge of the manila folder. He’d been playing a hunch—more than a hunch. And he’d thought he was right. Now he reiterated his reasoning. “But his mother is from the suburb of Bethesda,” he growled. “She went back there after the divorce. His father was with the San Marcos embassy for over five years. Valero has strong ties to the city. He knows many people there.”