LED ASTRAY

by Sandra Brown

  "This is my house," Cage said simply. He drew the bike to a halt and cut the engine. He let Jenny alight before he did. She stared at the house as she lifted the helmet from her head.

  "This is where you live?"

  "Yep. For two years now."

  "I never really knew where your house was. You've never invited us out here." She turned to him. "Why, Cage?"

  "I didn't want to be turned down. My folks consider this a den of iniquity, they wouldn't set foot in it. Hal probably wouldn't have come because he knew they would disapprove. It seemed simpler not to ask and just make it easier for ev­erybody."

  "What about me?"

  "Would you have come?"

  "I think so." But neither of them believed she would have.

  "You're here now. Would you like to see it?"

  He asked humbly. For all his machismo he looked ex­tremely vulnerable. Jenny didn't hesitate this time. She very much wanted to see his house. "Please. Can we go inside?"

  His mouth broke into a wide grin and he led her up the front steps. "The house was built just after the turn of the century. It went through a series of owners, each one letting it deteriorate a little more. It was truly derelict when I bought it. What I really wanted was the land that went with it, and I thought about tearing the house down and starting over with something low and sprawling and contemporary. But the house began to grow on me. It seemed to belong here, so I decided to let it stay. I've fixed it up."

  That was an understatement.

  "It's lovely," Jenny observed as they wandered through the tall-ceilinged, airy, sunlit rooms.

  Cage had decorated simply, painting everything off-white, the walls, the shutters, the woodwork, the portiere, which sep­arated the central hall from the parlor on one side and the rounded dining room on the other. The oaken floors had been rubbed to a soft patina. The furniture, with an emphasis on comfort, was a pleasing mixture of old and new, all tasteful and well arranged.

  The kitchen was a space-age wonder, but all the modern appliances were aptly hidden behind a facade of century-old charm. The upstairs boasted three bedrooms. Only one had been fully restored.

  From the doorway Jenny gazed at the room Cage slept in. Decorated in desert colors of sand and sienna, it matched his dusty-blond coloring. The massive bed was covered with an irregularly shaped, unhemmed suede spread that looked as soft as butter. Through a connecting door Jenny caught a glimpse of a lavish bathroom with a picture window immodestly placed over the enormous tub.

  Cage noted the direction of her eyes. "I like to lie in the water and look over the landscape. From there the sunset is spectacular." He spoke close to her ear, close enough for his warm breath to stir her hair. "Or at night when the moon is full and the stars are out, it's a breathtaking sight."

  Jenny felt herself being hypnotically drawn closer to him and jerked herself erect. "The house suits you, Cage. At first, I didn't think it would, but strangely it does."

  He seemed to like that. "Come see the pool."

  He led her back down the stairs, through a screened "sleeping porch," and onto the limestone patio. It was a riot of color. Terracotta pots held clusters of blooming red geraniums. In one corner a cactus garden boasted bright yellow and pink blooms. Silvery sage bushes with their purple flowers lined the fence. The pool was as deep and blue as a sapphire. "Wow," she whispered.

  "Wanna swim?"

  "I don't have a suit."

  "Wanna swim?"

  The raspy inquiry was laden with implication, subtle and seductive, but indubitably clear.

  Everything inside Jenny stilled. Her blood stopped flowing through her body because her heart ceased pumping. Her lungs shut down operation. She couldn't even blink, so captivated was she by his intent amber stare and the intoxicating huski­ness of his invitation.

  It was unthinkable, of course.

  But she thought about it anyway.

  And the thoughts, making a kaleidoscope of her mind, sent her temperature rising. She could see them naked, the sun beating down on their bare skin, the dry wind swirling around them. Cage naked, his toasty skin garnished with that soft golden brown body hair. And herself, shyly baring herself to the elements, to the man.

  The fantasy made her mouth water.

  She saw herself touching him, saw her hands gliding over those sleek bare arms, saw her fingertips tracing the veins that showed beneath the surface, saw her fingers winding through that soft pelt on his chest.

  She saw him touching her, saw his strong hands reaching out gently to caress her breasts and their aching crests, to slide down her belly to her thighs, to touch—

  "I need to get back." She turned and virtually ran across the patio and through the house as though the devil were after her. Cage didn't have a forked tail and horns, but the simile wasn't all that inaccurate.

  He caught up with her on the porch and she waited stiffly beside him while he relocked the door of the house. When he took her arm to guide her down the steps, she flinched away from him. "Is something wrong, Jenny?"

  "No, no, of course not," she said, wetting her dry lips with a nervously flicking tongue. "I like your house."

  Why was she acting like this? Cage wasn't going to hurt her. She had known him for years, lived in the same house with him when he came home for summer vacations from college.

  Why now did he suddenly seem like a stranger to her, yet one she knew better than any other human being on earth? She hadn't shared her heart with Cage the way she had with Hal during their quiet discussions. But she felt a kinship with this man that was beyond reason or explanation. Why?

  Feelings for him churned inside her. They were all so for­eign, all so sexual. But, miraculously and unnervingly, all so right.

  "Okay, you've been initiated," he said, jumping onto the cycle once she had resumed her place. He revved the engine. "Hang on tight, girl."

  "Cage!"

  That was the last full breath she drew. He sped down the highway until the landscape was no more than a blur. Hanging on for dear life, she clung to him, no longer timorous about splaying her hands wide over his stomach and gluing her front to his back. Her thighs cradled his hips and she propped her chin on his shoulder.

  When they reached the street of the parsonage, he slowed down considerably but jumped the curb and weaved in and out of the mulberry trees that some civic-minded individual had planted there decades ago. There were no pedestrians, so it was safe, but Jenny squealed, "You're crazy, Cage Hen­dren!"

  They were gasping with laughter when he pulled into the driveway of the parsonage and killed the motor. "Want to go again tomorrow?" he asked over his shoulder.

  She climbed off and her knees nearly buckled beneath her. Excitement had robbed her of equilibrium and it took her a moment to regain it while she clutched his shoulder. "No. Definitely not. That last ride was death defying."

  Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes shone green. Cage had never seen her smile quite like this. Gone was the conservative mask she hid behind. Jenny had an adventurous streak to her nature and he was seeing it emerge for the first time.

  He got off the bike and pulled the helmet from his head.

  "Pretty soon you'll get the hang of it." He helped her with her own helmet and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to comb his fingers through her matted hair. "Next time we'll break the sound barrier."

  He draped his arm around her shoulders. Still weak-kneed, she slumped against his support and looped her arm around his waist. Together they staggered toward the back door.

  It opened. Bob stepped out onto the steps. He looked at Cage accusingly, then at Jenny. His hard expression brought them to an abrupt halt.

  "Dad?" "Bob?" they asked in unison.

  But they already knew.

  "My son is dead."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  "Jenny?"

  Cage's urgent whisper elicited no response.

  "Jenny, please don't cry. Can I have the f
light attendant bring you something?"

  She shook her head and lowered the damp tissue from her eyes. "No, thank you, Cage. I'm fine."

  But she wasn't fine. She hadn't been since yesterday after­noon when Bob Hendren had told them that Hal had been shot by a firing squad in Monterico.

  "Why the hell I let you talk me into letting you come along, I'll never know," Cage said with bitter self-reproach.

  "This is something I had to do," she insisted, still blotting her puffy red eyes and dabbing at her nose.

  "I'm afraid it's going to be an ordeal that will only make things more difficult for you."

  "No, it won't. I couldn't just sit at home and wait. I had to come with you or go mad."

  He could understand that. This was a gruesome errand, traveling to Monterico to identify Hal's body and arrange for its transport back to the United States. There would be mounds of paperwork from the U.S. State Department that must be dealt with, not to mention the tenuous negotiations with the petulant military junta in Monterico. But grappling with all that was better than staying at home and witnessing the Hen­dren's abject grief.

  "Jenny, where have you been?" Sarah had cried. She had stretched both arms in Jenny's direction when the younger woman rushed into the living room of the parsonage after Bob had told her and Cage the news. "Your car was here … we looked everywhere… Oh, Jenny!"

  Sarah had collapsed against Jenny and sobbed heart wrench­ingly. Cage sat down on the sofa, spread his knees wide, bowed his head low, and stared at the floor between his booted feet. No one comforted him on the loss of his brother. He might not have been there, save for the condemning looks Bob directed toward the motorcycle helmets Cage had dropped on the hall floor as they rushed inside the house.

  Jenny smoothed back Sarah's light brown hair. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. I … Cage and I went riding on his motorcycle."

  "You were with Cage?" Sarah's head popped up and her eyes swung toward him. She looked as though his existence was a great surprise to her, as though she had never seen him before.

  "How did you find out about Hal, Mother?" he asked quietly.

  Sarah seemed to have fallen into a stupor. Her expression was blank, her skin pasty.

  It was Bob who had told them what little they knew. "A representative of the State Department called about half an hour ago." The pastor seemed terribly old suddenly. His shoulders sagged, reducing his posture to that of an old man. The skin beneath his chin looked flabby and wobbly for the first time. His eyes weren't as clear and lively as usual. His voice, which sounded impressive and full of conviction from his pulpit, wavered pitifully.

  "Apparently those fascist hoodlums in control of the gov­ernment down there didn't like Hal's interference. He and members of his group were arrested, along with some of the rebels they were going to rescue. They were all—" he cast a sympathetic glance at Sarah and amended what the government official had told him "—killed. Our government is mak­ing a formal protest."

  "Our son is dead!" Sarah wailed. "What good will protests do? Nothing will bring Hal back."

  Jenny had silently agreed. The two women had clung to each other for the remainder of the evening, weeping, grieving. Word had spread through the congregation of the church. Members began arriving, filling the large rooms of the par­sonage with sympathy, and the kitchen with food.

  The phone had rung incessantly. Once Jenny glanced up to see Cage speaking into it. At some point he had gone home and changed clothes. He was wearing a pair of tailored slacks, a sport shirt, and a jacket. As he listened to the party on the other end, he rubbed his eye sockets with his thumb and index finger. Slumped against the wall as he was, he looked tired. And bereaved.

  She hadn't even taken time to go upstairs long enough to brush her hair after that madcap ride with Cage. But no one seemed to notice her dishevelment. Everyone moved about like robots, going through the motions of living with disinter­est. They couldn't believe that Hal's presence in their lives had actually been snatched away in such a cruel, violent, and irreversible way.

  "You look exhausted." Jenny had turned from pouring her­self a cup of coffee to find Cage standing behind her. "Have you eaten anything?"

  The dishes of food brought over by members of the church were lined along the countertops of the kitchen. They didn't entice Jenny, indeed, the thought of eating anything was re­pugnant. "No. I don't want anything. How about you?"

  "I guess I'm not hungry either."

  "We really should eat something," Bob had remarked as he joined them. Sarah was clinging to his arm as he eased her into a chair.

  "A man named Whithers from the State Department called, Dad," Cage had informed them. "I'll go down there tomorrow and accompany Hal's body back." Sarah whimpered and crammed her fingers against her compressed lips. Cage looked down at her sadly. "This Whithers is meeting me in Mexico City. He'll go with me, and hopefully cut through some of the red tape I'm bound to run into. I'll call you as soon as I know something, so you can make funeral arrangements."

  Sarah folded her arms on the table, laid her head on them, and began crying again.

  "I'm going with you, Cage."

  Jenny had spoken her intentions calmly. The Hendren's re­action to her announcement hadn't been so calm. But her mind was made up and they were too distraught to argue with her about it.

  She and Cage had left early that morning, driving to El Paso to catch a plane to Mexico City, the same flight Hal had taken almost three months before.

  Now Cage was sitting close to her. Though there was an empty seat in their row, he sat in the middle beside her, as though shielding her from the rest of the world. When her tissue began to shred, he passed her a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his sport coat.

  "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me, Jenny. I can't bear to see you crying."

  "I feel so guilty."

  "Guilty? For godsake, why?"

  She waved her hands in frustration and returned her gaze to the void outside the window of the airplane. "I don't know. A million reasons. For being mad at him when he left. For feeling hurt and angry when he didn't send me a special post­card. Silly, stupid things like that."

  "Everybody feels guilty for slights like that when someone dies. It's natural."

  "Yes, but … I feel guilty for … being alive." She turned her head and looked at him with tear-shiny eyes. "For having such a good time with you yesterday when Hal was already dead."

  "Jenny." Something hard and painful ground into Cage's chest. That same guilt had visited him, but he wouldn't tell her that.

  He put his nearest arm around her and drew her against his chest. His other hand sifted comfortingly through her hair as her head rested on his shoulder. "You mustn't feel guilty for being alive. Hal wouldn't want that. He chose to do this. He knew the risks involved. He took them."

  Cage didn't want to be consciously aware of how good it felt to hold her. But he was. He had wanted to hold her plenty of times. He hated the reason for being granted the opportunity now. On the other hand, he was human. He couldn't ignore the sheer pleasure of feeling her small, dainty body pressed against his.

  Why did Hal have to die? Dammit, why? Cage had wanted to win Jenny in a fair fight. There was no victory in her sud­denly becoming available by Hal's death. Would her own guilt be the next obstacle he must overcome?

  "Why were you mad at Hal when he left?" Had she had a change of heart and later regretted what had happened in her bed that night? Oh, please, no. He might get an answer he didn't want to hear, but he had to ask.

  Jenny hesitated so long, Cage was beginning to think she wasn't going to answer. Then she said haltingly, "Something happened the night before he left that brought us very close. I thought it had changed things. But the next morning he left without even saying good-bye as though it had never hap­pened."

  Because it hadn't happened to Hal.

  "I halfway expected him to call off his trip." She sighed and Cage felt her breasts expand wi
th the deep breath. "I felt rejected when he didn't. Deep down I really didn't believe that my feelings were more important to him than his mission, but…"

  Cage had been desperate to know what she was thinking and feeling that morning. As he stared at her across the break­fast table, a thousand questions had tumbled through his mind, but he hadn't been able to ask any of them. He had been forced into silence by his own treachery.

  He had wanted to say, "Are you all right?" "Did I hurt you?" "Jenny, did I imagine how wonderful it was, or was it really that good?" "Did it actually happen or was it all a fantastic dream?"

  And he still didn't know the answers to those questions. But whatever her answers to them were, they belonged to Hal, not to him. She had been hurt by Hal's apparent casualness about having made love to her for the first time. She couldn't understand how he could have left the way he did if it meant something to him. Hal didn't deserve her anger. But she was innocent, too. There was only one culprit, and as usual, it was he.

  Should he tell her now, explain that Hal hadn't been indif­ferent to their lovemaking because he hadn't experienced it? That would absolve her of the guilt she was feeling now. Should he tell her?

  No. God, no. She had Hal's death to deal with. How would she cope with the knowledge that she had made love to the wrong man? How could any woman ever forgive herself for that? How could she ever forgive the man who had tricked her?

  Jenny must have felt the tension in his arms, because she sat up suddenly and put space between them. "I shouldn't be bothering you with this. I'm sure my personal life is of little interest to you."

  Oh, yes, it was. They had once been as personal with each other as two human beings can be. Only she didn't know it. She didn't know that he had caressed her skin until the texture of it was engraved on his palms and fingertips. He knew the shape of her breasts and how they felt against his lips and tongue. The sounds she made in the throes of passion were as familiar to him as his own voice because his mind had played them like a tape recorder over and over again when he was alone at night in his bed, thinking of her.