WHERE TIGERS PROWL

by Karin Story

  Standing, she suddenly realized, in a perfect position to be killed. A large and easy target.

  Her protective instincts pushed everything else out of the way. At least temporarily. She charged back up the steps, taking them two at a time, and shoved him back into the apartment.

  Slamming the door shut, she scowled at him. "You can't just stand out there in the open like that! What if someone followed us here? Do you know how easy it would have been for them to shoot you, you idiot?" She mentally kicked herself, because he'd been out there in the first place because of her.

  He stared at her, his mouth open. Then his gaze softened. "Sometimes there are more important things to worry about."

  She was mere inches away from him, peering up into his face, loving the look of his golden, week-old beard, loving the sparkling glow in his eyes, loving the smell of him. As always, he infused her senses and sent her rushing toward a heady high.

  My God, had he just told her he loved her?

  But she brutally pulled her head out of the fluffy clouds she was creating. There was no dreamland here. This was the bitter real world.

  "There isn't anything more important than your life," she snapped at him.

  "I can't worry about that every second. I'd go crazy." She heard the tired honesty in his voice.

  "Well, I damn well can if you can't." What was she doing back up here with him? She should have gone. Should have continued on her way and not looked back. But then he'd done that "Tom" thing, and she'd melted. She hated this control he had over her. Hated it, but loved it.

  "Crud, your hand is bleeding. Let me look at it." She dropped her pack on the floor, and dragged him into the kitchen where she quickly wet a dishtowel in the sink. He tried to pull away, but she wouldn't let him. He finally sighed and his body relaxed.

  "That was a stupid thing to do, hitting the door," she said quietly as she wrapped the wet cloth across his bleeding knuckles.

  "Yeah, it was."

  "What did you mean when you said you'd promised Sarah and Jerry you'd protect me?" Her voice was low and soft, as the steam and fury that had pushed her ever onward over the past week gave its last gasp.

  "Just what I said. Sarah told me that if I ever let anything happen to you, she'd make sure I went down. And your pal Jerry had his little say at your house that day when he was tightening the splint on my hand. I was half out of it, and I don't think you were in the room, but I distinctly remember him leaning over me and telling me in no uncertain terms that if you ever got hurt, he'd kill me."

  Maris sniffed and wiped her nose on her shirt sleeve, then slowly unwrapped the towel from his hand. It was swelling a little, but didn't look broken. That was good. His left hand couldn't possibly be healed all the way in spite of him having removed the splint, so it wouldn't have been real helpful if he'd broken this one, too. Idiot. His knuckles were still bleeding, though, and she concentrated on dabbing at the scrapes so she wouldn't have to look up at him.

  Digging through her backpack, she pulled out her first aid kit, which was getting a workout on this trip, and took out a tube of ointment and a bandage.

  After she'd done everything possible, she finally lifted her gaze to his. "No matter what Sarah, or Jerry, or you think, I don't need to be protected. I can look after myself. I've been doing it a long time."

  He took a ragged breath. For a moment, she thought he was going to pull her against him and make everything all right. But he didn't.

  The already fragile pieces of her heart, craving some kind of physical attention from him, shattered into a delicate pile at her feet. Except for one small, tough piece that clung desperately in place, refusing to give up hope.

  He'd said he loved her. She didn't think she'd imagined it. That had to mean something, didn't it?

  "I know you can protect yourself, Mare. You wouldn't have made it this far if you couldn't." His voice was deep and hoarse, full of emotion. "It's just hard for me…for the people who love you to stand back and not help."

  She hadn't missed his slip of almost saying himself rather than everyone who loved her. So he did love her then. A wave of dizzy emotion swept through her.

  Taking his hands in hers, she studied them, turning them back and forth so she could see the tops and palms of them. Large capable hands. The palms were roughened from work, but not so rough as to be uncomfortable to touch. Were these the hands of a killer?

  She looked up into his face and saw his darkened, curious gaze focused on her. She knew the subtleties of his expressions. Knew the signs of his anger and hurt, but also of his passion. The hard aloofness of his eyes, but also the mischief and good humor that twinkled behind them on occasion. Was this the face of a killer?

  Lowering her gaze to his tall body leaning against the counter, she noted the strength and alertness of him. She'd experienced the power of his grasp, the steeliness of his arms as they'd lifted her that night at the cabin. The overall fortitude and resilience of his body recovering from the horrible torture he'd suffered. Was this the body of a killer?

  Everything about this man exuded strength. Strength of body, strength of will, strength of character.

  And that last was the telling sign. He did have strength of character. All the times she'd seen him angry, seen him harden, and grow withdrawn, were times when the most was at stake. When he believed his actions were the cause of some kind of hurt or pain.

  Running all her memories of his anger through her head, she realized she could directly relate them all to his perceived guilt over something, or his inability to protect.

  He was tough, yet gentle. Strong, yet tender. Powerful, yet sensitive. This was a man who could kill, she had no doubt. There were enough hard edges about him to suggest that. But kill in cold blood? Kill for the sake of killing? For the power of it? For the glory of it? No, she didn't believe that.

  Kill in self-defense? Kill because he was backed up against a wall and had no choice? Kill to defend his loved ones or his property? Yes. That she could see.

  And there was a difference between the two. A vast difference. She, too, could kill in self-defense. The haunting memory of her abduction in Cairo filled her mind for one brief moment. The terror was still there, alive and pulsating, wrapping dark tentacles around her chest when she allowed herself to remember. At the age of fourteen, she'd taken another human being's life. Taken it because even at that young age, she'd been wise enough to understand that if she didn't protect herself however she had to, she would have been defiled in the worst possible way, and quite possibly met her own death.

  Tom was more seasoned than she was, that much was clear. But fundamentally, his motives were no different than hers.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she finally understood what this was all about. What the distance between them was all about. He needed to protect her, and she wouldn't let him.

  She looked again to his hands, then squeezed them gently. Yes, they were strong and capable. They were the hands of a protector.

  "I understand," she said. "All I ask is that you don't shut me out. If it's my well-being at stake, then I need to have a say in it. Please don't make decisions for me. Make them with me."

  He contemplated her for a long time, and she could see his inner struggle, the look of pained frustration. It was hard for him to give up some of the responsibility. In spite of what he'd told her the day they'd first kissed, he did want to be the knight in shining armor.

  At last, he raised his bandaged hand to her face and ran his palm gently down her cheek. His thumb trailed across her lips. She turned her head and placed a kiss against his palm, her heart full to bursting.

  He took her face between his hands. She felt him shaking. He gazed deeply into her eyes, and she looked back without hesitation, knowing she had nothing to fear from this man. She never had.

  His deep voice trembled with emotion, sending a current of profound love through her. "I promise, I will do the best I can not to shut you out, Mare. I won't make any more excuses. You're
right, I've made decisions about you without consulting you, and that's not fair. I promise, I'll do my damnedest not to let that happen again."

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  * * *

  The promise he'd made to Maris was agonizingly hard for him. Everything inside him screamed to do things his way. But she was right. Everything that had happened to her since he'd left her in Colorado had happened because he'd left her.

  Tom stretched out his legs on the window seat and glanced over at her sleeping form on the bed, watching until he was reassured by her even breathing that she was truly safe and alive.

  He should have realized she would never be content to sit up there in that cabin. That had been complete stupidity on his part, given what he knew of her personality. So instead of being with him where he could watch over her, she'd had to go off on the journey alone. The things she'd done, that had happened to her, were his worst nightmares. And none of them would have happened if he'd stayed with her.

  And she was right about something else. She did know how to take care of herself. He'd known it since that night in the morgue. He'd been furious with her because she'd been so foolhardy. But also because, just as she'd said, she hadn't stood by quietly and let him champion her. She'd taken control of her own fate—and his—and that had raised his hackles as nothing else could have.

  He sure as hell wouldn't want her as an enemy.

  In spite of his earlier concerns, though, he knew in his heart that Maris was the genuine article. She wasn't his enemy. Having her on his side caused him heartache and worry. But it also comforted him. She was an irrepressible spirit. She would be there through thick and thin, as she'd already proven. As strong as his need to protect her was, Maris's protective spirit was just as strong.

  He couldn't help but smile. They were quite a pair, arguing, spitting, glaring at each other like a couple of wildcats because each wanted to keep the other safe.

  Yet, fear for her caused every nerve and muscle in his body to stretch tight. They were in dangerous territory here. He suspected it would only be a matter of time before someone recognized him if he really was an associate of the Cardoza cartel. But he had to take that chance. The only way to discover his past was to confront it headlong. And that meant finding Juan Cardoza.

  Cardoza. What his reception from Cardoza would be, he had no idea. But he was savvy enough to know that even if he was one of "them," people in this business would just as likely stab their friends in the back as they would their enemies.

  His injuries were case in point of that.

  And what was the deal with this Bob Hope guy who claimed to be a DEA agent? How did he fit into the picture? If he was one of the bad guys, as Maris put it, then why hadn't he just killed him outright that night at the morgue? He'd obviously had another agenda. But his shooting Maris a few days ago raised the stakes considerably.

  His stomach clenched at the thought of Maris, alone in Denver, running away from that man and being shot.

  He had to force down the urge to send her off to safety again until this was all over. It would never work because she would never let it work. He had to trust her. Had to trust in her abilities and concentrate his energy on other things.

  Like why Elise had been killed, and why he was being framed for it.

  Elise.

  Every time he thought of her he grew numb. How are you supposed to feel about someone you have no memory of? She might or might not have been his wife. He had no way of knowing for sure. But since she'd been killed, he suspected she must have been someone close to him. Someone with information, or someone the bad guys were using as bait. He couldn't imagine they'd kill one of their own. Of course, you never could be sure about that.

  Tom's mind swirled endlessly, but he couldn't fit any of the pieces into the puzzle.

  His gaze wandered back to Maris again, and he let the sight of her comfort him. When he'd suggested she go to bed, she hadn't argued, and in fact had done it quite peacefully considering not long before, she'd been accusing him of cold-blooded murder.

  He peeked through the blinds to the darkened street below, and rested his hand on the gun next to him.

  Sleep had evaded him for the most part since he'd been in Mexico, but his body seemed to be adapting to it. He was lucky to get three or fours hours a night, and tonight he'd get none. It was only an hour from dawn now. He'd have to be at work downstairs shortly after that.

  A rustle and a sigh distracted him from his reverie and surveillance of the street.

  He turned to see Maris rising out of the bed.

  Her soft footsteps carried her across the room to him, and she motioned him forward on the window seat. Without a word, she knelt behind him and began kneading his shoulders. He'd taken off his shirt after she'd gone to sleep, and now, her gentle touch on his skin sent spasms of longing through him. He needed her. Needed her in every way.

  In silence, she continued to press and squeeze his tense muscles in her small, strong hands until little by little they began to relax and loosen up. He closed his eyes and gave himself permission to go off duty for a little while, enjoying the sensation of her fingers and hands tightening and releasing over him.

  After a good long time, her motions slowed, and she ran her fingertips gently over his shoulder blade.

  "Why a tiger, do you suppose?" she whispered softly. He knew she was referring to his tattoo.

  "Someone in Denver told me I'm known as El Tigre." He kept his voice quiet, too, not wanting to disturb the peace of the moment.

  "El Tigre. I've always thought you were very tigerlike. Your eyes particularly." She put her arms around him and rested her head against his back.

  His heart nearly exploded with love for her. He savored the feel of her for a moment, then pulled her around in front of him and settled her between his legs with her head resting against his chest. Whatever distance had been between them all night had waned for the moment, and he just enjoyed holding her close to him. It was right. It always had been.

  She sighed and caressed his chest. He closed his eyes again and felt each and every movement her fingers made.

  "I love you, too," she whispered.

  His chest hitched at the words. He kissed the top of her head, and prayed her faith in him wasn't unfounded.

  A few minutes later, her soft breathing grew regular and the motions of her fingers slowly tapered off until her hand fell gently into her lap.

  But he was on fire. Her touch burned into him and through him until he was a molten mass of aching, writhing desire. The tenseness Maris had so carefully coaxed out of his body, was back full-force. It was a different kind of tension, even more powerful. She had the ability to reduce him to this with an innocent, sleepy touch.

  It was all he could do to keep from moving her to the floor, or the couch, or the bed and burying himself inside her, taking her body and her heart and soul and making them his again. More than anything in the world, that's what he wanted right now.

  He lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the bed, where he lowered her onto the soft mattress and drank in every detail of her.

  Then he kissed her gently on the lips, covered her with the blanket, and turned away to start his day at the cantina. The first hint of dawn lightened the sky and peeked in through the window blinds, casting the room in shadowy grays and just a hint of rose.

  He loved Maris and wanted all of her. But never again this way.

  Never again would he put her in the position of loving a man who had no past. Loving a man who might be a criminal. Loving a man who might or might not be married. Even if he'd never been married to the woman who called herself Elise, he had to know if there was someone else.

  Never again would he put Maris, the heart of his heart, in the position of being the other woman.

  He had to be sure. He had to know that he was worthy of her love.

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  When Maris finally made her way down to the cantina a fe
w hours later, she was immediately greeted at the front door by a large, smiling woman in a bright blue dress that stretched tight across her ample bosom.

  "You must be Marisa! Como estas?"

  "Bien, gracias," Maris automatically responded as she was swept through the half-filled restaurant to a comfortably padded red booth in the far corner.

  With much flourish, the woman seated her and quickly produced a glass full of iced Coke for her. Maris sipped it as the woman took the bench across from her.

  "I'm so happy to meet you!" the large woman said, beaming from ear to ear. "It's so nice to have la amiga de Tomás here at last."

  Tom's girlfriend here at last? What was that supposed to mean?

  "Tomás never told me you were coming down here to join him, and then this morning he informs me that you have arrived. Such a dear he is. He says you'd also be interested in a job." The woman spoke English very well. "Ah, how rude of me. Dios mio! Forgive me, chiquita." she said, holding out a hand with amazingly long red fingernails. "I'm Carlotta Martinez."

  Maris took the hand and was surprised by the firm, businesslike handshake. But her surprise was short-lived as she studied the woman in front of her. The woman's face and demeanor were merry and bright, yes. But shrewd black eyes shone out of the dark face. Maris suspected Tom was right about Señora Martinez knowing her establishment was patronized by drug dealers. Those eyes wouldn't miss much.

  "It's nice to meet you, too. I'm—"

  "Yes, yes, chiquita. You are Marisa Radcliffe. Tomás has already told me." Her smile brightened every time she mentioned Tom's name. And Maris noted, with no little amount of satisfaction, that for all his determination to have her call him Trent, he'd used the name Tom with Señora Martinez.

  Señora Martinez leaned across the table and whispered intimately to her. "And Tomás is so very happy to have you here, no? The way his eyes glow this morning when he comes to work."

  "Oh…" Maris wasn't quite sure how to respond to that.