Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  Her stomach took another plunge. She felt her jaw drop unbecomingly. She swallowed and looked away. “No. No, I wouldn't.” A horrible afterthought made her ask, “Did you tell her about me?”

  “Somehow,” he drawled, “the subject never came up.”

  “Oh.” She felt a little light-headed as the limousine swung around another corner.

  “I don't think she'd have been interested, anyhow.”

  “No.” Her breathing was shallow. Her chest hurt terribly, as if she'd been hit there. She looked out the window, willing him to be silent, willing him to look away from her.

  After a few tense moments, she heard his newspaper crinkle. She risked a brief glance in his direction and saw that his face was now hidden behind it. She stared out the window again, stunned and confused.

  Of course he slept with other women! Had she ever thought otherwise? Why had his comment come as such a surprise? Was he supposed to have turned celibate after Montedora? And more than that, why was she bothered by the knowledge that he'd been with another woman last night?

  Madeleine closed her eyes and tried to steady herself. Why did she feel as if he had just given away something that was rightfully hers? She opened her eyes and discovered her vision had grown misty. She blinked hard and clenched her jaw. This was crazy! And undignified—not that she had much pretense to dignity where Ransom was concerned. She must get a grip on herself. And she mustn't let him know. How he would ridicule her if he knew!

  She had gotten off to a bad start, swapping insults with him like that. He could get under her skin faster than anyone she'd ever met, but it was time to start dealing with him the way she would deal with any other impertinent, presumptuous rogue who tried to get the better of her. No one got the best of Madeleine Barrington, she reminded herself.

  Firm in her resolve, and entrenched in her violent hatred of Mr. Ransom, she picked up the Wall Street Journal and started reading. Too bad she didn't understand a single word of it today.

  * * * *

  Ransom didn't stop hiding behind his newspaper until they pulled up outside their departure terminal at JFK Airport. He didn't absorb a word of the damned paper, but keeping it between him and Madeleine at least kept him from grabbing her and shaking her until her head flew off. The temptation to do so had been unbearable ever since she had dismissed him with a withering glance and begun calmly reading the Journal.

  He wasn't sure whose idea it had been to make him go up to her apartment, but there was no mistaking the purpose behind the request. The boyfriend wanted Ransom to know whose woman Madeleine was; and she wanted Ransom to know she wasn't pining for one wild night in Montedora City. It had taken a lot of self-control not to throw the boyfriend down the elevator shaft. It took even more self-control now not to draw the curtain across the glass separating them from the driver, pull Madeleine down into the cushioned seat, and do whatever it took to make her forget her boyfriend's very name.

  No names, she had said.

  No, why should she tell her name to some one-night stand in a crummy hotel room in another hemisphere? It wasn't as if some working stiff with a bad tie actually mattered. Not to her. He'd protected enough rich people to know that some of them were real shits. He was just annoyed at himself for getting taken in by Madeleine Barrington; that was all. He was just mad at her for treating him like a peasant; that explained the claw that had dug into his guts when he'd walked into her apartment this morning.

  He tried not to think about those two in bed together. He tried so hard his head hurt. But the images flashed mercilessly through his mind as his eyes stared blankly at the newspaper. Was it good between Madeleine and her society boyfriend? Was it frantic and noisy and juicy, tender and slow and sultry, easy and sweet and wild? Was it just the way he remembered it? Nah, probably not. Preston didn't seem like the kind of guy to really cut loose, even in bed. On the other hand, Ransom reflected uncomfortably, Madeleine didn't seem that way either, not at first glance. But when the time came, she had abandoned all her moorings and thrown herself into the storm.

  Ransom gloomily redoubled his efforts not to think about those two together. In bed. Fucking their brains out.

  Stop it! What does the sports page say?

  He'd known she was no cloistered virgin, no green schoolgirl. Had he expected her to turn celibate after Montedora, for God's sake? It's not like she was giving away something that rightfully belonged to him, after all. On the contrary, she was engaged to that supercilious jerk. Or nearly engaged. So Ransom really wasn't in a position to snarl at her for letting that guy into her bed.

  The hell with the sports page! Where are the funnies?

  That sigh she had given after waving goodbye to her boyfriend had cut through Ransom like a knife through hot butter. Was she really so crazy about that jerk?

  He was going to stop thinking about it.

  He needed to keep his mind on business. Letting himself get distracted over a woman—particularly this woman—was just plain dumb. Guys wound up getting shot—or worse—when they let a woman cloud their minds. He'd seen it happen to others and had always thought it was crazy. Sex had its proper time and place, and it was best left there. Gwen had understood that; it's what he had liked best about her. Wasn't it about time he started acting and thinking like a professional?

  Yes, it definitely was. For his own self-respect, if nothing else. He wouldn't let his temper—or this high-handed, sneaky society chick—get the best him.

  * * * *

  The driver pulled the limousine to a stop outside their departure terminal, unloaded their luggage, and drove away. Madeleine and Ransom both maintained their resolve to behave appropriately all the way from the car to the VIP check-in desk, about one hundred yards away.

  “Non-smoking, please,” Madeleine said to the check-in clerk, presenting her with her passport.

  “Smoking,” Ransom said, handing over his passport.

  Since they were clearly together, the clerk looked at them expectantly, waiting for them to settle the matter.

  “I'm not sitting in a smokey area from here to Montedora,” Madeleine said firmly, her tone discouraging any argument.

  “I'm not going without a cigarette for the next six hours,” Ransom replied just as inflexibly.

  “Then go stand in the smoking section when you want a cigarette,” Madeleine said.

  “That's a good suggestion, sir,” said the clerk. “Many—”

  “Would you like me to hold your coat and run your bath, too, while I'm standing around for your pleasure, milady?”

  “What do you normally do?” Madeleine prodded. “Force all your clients to risk lung cancer, emphysema, and God-only-knows what else, just so you can satisfy your nicotine addiction while—”

  “I haven't done any bodyguarding in years,” he snapped, “but when I did—”

  “Then what on earth are you doing guarding me?” she hissed. “I was told that you were qualified—”

  “My clients were so pleasant, Miss Barrington, that I didn't need a cigarette every time they opened their mouths. And I'm the best qualified—”

  “How dare you blame me—”

  “—protector that you're ever likely to have, so don't—”

  “—for your pathetic weaknesses!”

  “—push me!”

  Having run out of steam, they glared at each other in deadly silence.

  “Uh, will that be smoking or non-smoking?” the clerk asked.

  Ransom took a deep breath and forced himself to speak politely. “Miss Barrington will take a seat in non-smoking. I would like a seat in the smoking section, please.” He glanced at Madeleine and added, “As far away from her as possible.”

  Madeleine took a deep breath and muttered, “Why don't you just strap this tough-guy to the wing of the plane?”

  The clerk twittered. They both glared at her.

  Ransom lit up a cigarette, blatantly ignoring the sign telling him not to. “I was down to four cigarettes a day when I me
t you,” he told Madeleine.

  “On Tuesday?”

  “In Montedora.”

  “Oh.”

  “On Tuesday I was down to eight a day.” He regarded the cigarette in his hand and added, “This is already my eighth today.”

  “Maybe you should take up knitting.”

  “Maybe I should have turned down this assignment.”

  “It's not too late to turn back.”

  He took his boarding pass from the desk clerk. “Oh, yes, it is, Maddie.” His voice was surprisingly soft.

  Their gazes locked. For the first time ever, Madeleine wondered if she had hurt him. It was almost an absurd thought, for she had never met anyone who seemed so invulnerable. And certainly his attitude about that night—and sex in general—seemed far too cavalier for her to suppose he harbored any special feelings about what had happened between them. Everything he'd said these past couple of days indicated that his pride was wounded. Nothing more.

  Nevertheless, for the first time, she wondered how she would have felt had the situation been reversed. What if she had awoken to find him gone with no explanation?

  When passion was spent, he had been sweet to her, so very sweet...

  “Uh, Mr. Ransom,” the clerk said, drawing Ransom's gaze away from Madeleine's, “according to the notation on my screen, I believe you have some weapons to check?”

  “Yeah.” He turned to Madeleine, his expression impersonal now. “This will take a little while. Why don't you go through passport control and wait for me in the VIP lounge?”

  To Ransom's relief, she agreed without argument, turned around, and left him on his own. His tension eased, and he turned a pleasant smile upon the clerk, who was phoning one of her superiors to come inspect Ransom's weapons. She handed him a card to fill out which would go inside his checked luggage, along with his two unloaded, declared guns. As a member of the private sector, he wasn't allowed to carry a gun in the cabin of a public airplane.

  His resolve to stop baiting and battling Madeleine hadn't lasted a moment beyond her first imperious order. Actually, he would normally have been perfectly willing to sit in the non-smoking section according to his client's preference, but something in her regal manner and arrogant assumption that she needn't even to consult him just pushed all his buttons. And something about her coolness incited him to keep sparking the temper she seemed trying so desperately to pretend she didn't have.

  His papers and permits were all in order, and he knew the routine well, so the checking and approval of his firearms went smoothly. After passing through passport control, he found Madeleine scanning a copy of The Economist and sipping a glass of juice. He ordered black coffee and sat down with her. One thing he had gotten used to as a Secret Service agent and still appreciated as a Marino Security executive was first-class travel all the way. It might seem natural to a Barrington, but Ransom had grown up without luxury, and he never took it for granted.

  “Veracruz will have a car and driver waiting for us at the airport,” he told Madeleine when she put down her magazine, apparently finished with it.

  She looked at him with cool speculation. “Do you know him well?”

  He shrugged. “We're not pals, if that's what you mean, but I've spent time with him. I know a lot about him.”

  “You don't like him,” she said perceptively, despite the careful neutrality of his tone.

  “I don't like you either, but it doesn't stop me from doing my job,” he pointed out rudely.

  “So you've said.” She refused to be ruffled. “So now you're Marino's expert on Montedora?”

  He shook his head. “No, I'm an expert on Veracruz's personal safety and the security of the Presidential Palace. Marino's ‘expert’ on Montedora is an analyst who advises foreign investors about economic and political conditions in South America. He's the guy who briefed me before my assignment down there.”

  “I see. You said you haven't done any bodyguarding for years. I take it you're more of a security advisor?”

  “That's exactly what I am.” He finished his coffee, vaguely suspicious of her sudden polite interest in him. “I analyze, recommend, and implement security measures for individuals, companies, and organizations.”

  She frowned slightly. “So you're not an expert on Montedora, or a ‘pal’ of the president, or a bodyguard—anymore, that is.”

  “I used to be in the Secret Service,” he said. He'd guarded some pretty important bodies in those days; as well as, he believed, the American political system.

  She nodded, still frowning. “So why did Marino send you to us when my father decided I needed a bodyguard in Montedora?”

  He should have figured that she'd be bright enough to wonder about that sooner or later. He'd known from the first that she was a thinker, and he'd already guessed that she wasn't the operations director of Barrington Enterprises just because of her birth.

  He considered lying to her, but he was no liar. He considered telling her to mind her own business, but he kind of thought his professional standing was her business, for as long as she put her safety in his hands. So he shrugged and told her.

  “Joe—Marino, I mean—thought it would be a good idea if I left the country for a while.”

  She blinked. “Would you care to explain that to me?”

  He wasn't proud of this. On the contrary. He'd really screwed up. He thought he should have been fired. But, without false modesty, he knew he was extremely valuable to the company. Besides, Marino, who pretended to be such a tough guy, was a pushover who was too fond of Ransom to fire him.

  “Marino thought my absence might help to diffuse a certain legal situation.”

  “What legal situation?”

  He shifted and reached for a cigarette, ignoring another no-smoking sign. “I, uh...”

  “Yes?”

  He was ashamed to tell her. It was crazy. He'd lately been nastier to her than he'd ever been to a woman before, and suddenly he was afraid of her bad opinion. Embarrassed by this stupidity, he said bluntly, “I slugged a client.”

  The surprise on her face made her look more like herself, and less like Madeleine Barrington, the cool, unruffled goddess of the upper classes. “You hit a client?”

  He nodded and inhaled smoke. “It was a pretty big mistake.”

  “I know you've got a dreadful temper, but really.” She stared at him. “How could you have done something so incredibly stupid?”

  He grinned wryly, preferring her candor to her courtesy any day. “Funny. That's exactly what Joe said.”

  “Who did you hit?”

  “Doby Dune.”

  “The rock star?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The skinny one who wears those leather bodysuits, undone down to...” She indicated a point slightly past her navel. “You hit him?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you hurt him?”

  “No. Not really. Not seriously. Just his pride. But that can hurt a lot, you know.”

  “Yes. I know.” She lowered her eyes suddenly. “What on earth made you do it?”

  “Good question. I haven't got a good answer. And I'd need a really good answer to keep Dune's lawyers from using me to clean up the floor of a courtroom.”

  “But what happened?”

  He flicked ashes off the end of his cigarette and met her eyes. He noticed with surprise that they were a little bloodshot. She must have stayed up pretty late with the boyfriend. The thought of her with that wimp suddenly brought back the way he'd felt the day he'd slugged Dune. Close to implosion.

  “You don't look as perfect as usual today,” he commented.

  “If you're trying to change the subject, that was a pathetic effort,” she shot back. “What were you doing working for Doby Dune?”

  He couldn't help smiling at her sparks. “He'd bought this huge estate out in California. House, pool, recording studio, the works. Celebrities have all kinds of people following them, threatening them, harassing them. So Dune wanted complete security f
or the whole estate, with back-up measures in case something went wrong.” Ransom shrugged. “It was a routine assignment. I didn't think it would take long or be particularly difficult.”

  “I take it you were wrong?”

  “I hadn't counted on Dune. A nasty, temperamental, abusive slob who provoked everyone around him with impunity—thanks to his money and fame.”

  “Come, come, Mr. Ransom. I happen to know that no one provokes you with impunity.”

  Their eyes met, full of acknowledgement. Yeah, sometimes he almost liked her. “Well, that was the problem. But I'm completely at fault in this. I was the professional; he was just some hopped-up guitar player with too much money and too little sense.” He drew on his cigarette, remembering. “And I was feeling pretty short-fused.” He'd been feeling that way ever since Montedora, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

  “Go on.”

  “Dune had a girlfriend living with him. And ... he really pumped himself up by humiliating her in public. He liked to shout at her, belittle her. I'm pretty sure he hit her when they were alone, but I never...” He shrugged again, less easily this time. “And one day he made her cry in front of me and a dozen other people, and I blew my stack.”

  “Well, that's under—”

  “No, I don't mean I criticized him or suggested he cool off. I mean I lost it. And then he lost it. He hit me. And I,” Ransom said, clenching his fist, “hit him back.”

  “If he hit you first,” she began, “surely—”

  “My position's pretty bad, Maddie. I was in his home. I intervened in a family fight without authority. I insulted him first.”

  “But he hit first.”

  “But he's a skinny guitar player, and I'm a trained fighter. His punch barely made me blink. Mine knocked him across the room and made him bleed like a pig.”

  “Oh.” She nodded slowly. “I see your point.”

  “His personal assistant had his lawyer on the phone before I even left the house.”

  “Oh, dear. So he's going to sue?”

  “That's what his lawyers and Joe's lawyers have been discussing. And Joe got pissed off when I refused to apologize to Dune.”