The silence seemed to grow in the darkness and become a black cloud above them, filled with the portent of wind and rain. They did not touch, though they were no more than an inch apart. Then suddenly Mandy sneezed, and that sneeze ended the silence.
“Bless you,” he muttered, turning toward her. His hand brushed her arm, and suddenly she knew that he was above her, that his dark brows were furrowed with concern, and that his handsome features had hardened into a scowl. “You’re shivering like a leaf, and you feel like an ice cube!”
“Do I?” Mandy murmured.
“Yes, you do.” He quickly stood, pulling at the mattress, fumbling and swearing when he stubbed his toe against it.
“Get up—can you?”
“Of course I can,” she murmured, confused. “But why?”
“There’s a top sheet on this thing, and you need to get under it. Take your clothes off.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on! I can’t see a damn thing in here. Besides, I’ve already seen you. Your clothes are still all wet from the beach, and you’ll get pneumonia if you sleep in them. And then, should the time come when you need to move quickly, you won’t be able to. Take your clothes off.”
“I think I’d rather risk pneumonia!”
“Than me?”
How could a voice do so much? Reach out through the air and darkness like a velvet brush, teasing, warming.
“Umm.”
“Still don’t trust me?”
“Not in the least.”
“Well, that’s okay. I don’t trust you, either.”
“I’m not asking you to take your clothes off.”
“Not yet. You’ll get to it, though. Women are all alike.”
She rolled off the mattress, laughing, perplexed. Somehow he had brought light and warmth into the room. And also that sense of security that was so very easy to rely on, so very easy to need—and so very dangerous. More dangerous, perhaps, than Julio and his accomplices.
“Laugh at me, will you, Mrs. Blayne?” he charged softly, and she knew that he was walking around to her. He hunched down in front of her and felt for her. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but he found her breast.
“Hey! And you’re asking me to take my clothes off?”
“Sorry, I thought it was your face.”
“Umm. You’ll get yours one day.”
“Promises, promises. Off with ‘em, lady.”
“I don’t think this is proper police procedure.”
“Off!”
“Well, move, then!”
He did. Feeling like a stripper in broad daylight, Mandy shed her soggy cutoffs and top, then groped with a fair amount of panic for the sheet.
It was there, in his hands, ready to be wrapped around her. She sensed that he was laughing at her.
“I’ve already slept with the…real…you, you know.”
“Oh, shut up!”
She was still shivering, but she did feel much better; she hadn’t realized how chilling her wet clothing had been. But even now, with the dry sheet wrapped around her, she was cold.
“Lie down now,” he said huskily.
“What wonderful relationships you must have, Mr. Ramiro! Take off your clothes. Lie down.”
He laughed softly in the darkness, and once again she felt touched by the sound, brushed by velvet.
“When it works, do it. Lie down.”
Gritting her teeth, she did so, cocooning herself in the sheet. Then she tensed as he crawled over to her. He didn’t keep his distance this time; he brought his chest to her back and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close to absorb his heat.
She must have been as stiff and unyielding as concrete, though she made no protest, because he chuckled softly again. “Ease up. I’m just trying to make you warm.”
She didn’t know that she had held her breath until she released it in a long sigh.
“I’m not the big bad wolf.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Why do I make you so nervous?”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You are.”
“Well, I have a right to be! Since I’ve met you, you’ve knocked me down, thrown me around….”
“What’s a lover for?” he teased. “Mandy—Mrs. Blayne—I do apologize for my rougher methods.”
“And your gentler ones?” she murmured without thought.
His arm tightened slightly around her midriff. “Meaning?”
“Nothing!” she said quickly. What had caused her to say such a thing?
And even as she asked herself the question, she knew the answer. The kiss. The real one, in the salty foam of the surf, interrupted by Julio’s appearance.
In the darkness she felt his every breath, knew his every movement, no matter how slight. Knew him, living and breathing beside her.
Silence spread again, total in the darkness. And in that silence she thought it would be the easiest thing in the world to turn to him, to give in to temptation under cover of darkness.
She’d always known that she was young, that she would make love again one day. But one day had always meant some indeterminate future. It was something she hadn’t dwelled upon, had not imagined easily. It would be awkward and difficult, and she would be nervous and afraid and, certainly, making comparisons. She had even begun to imagine how difficult it would be to remove her clothing, or watch a man disrobe, knowing his intent.
She wore no clothing now, but it was dark. And in the darkness she would not have to see a man’s face. Not have to know if she brought pleasure or ennui, nor bear visible witness that she found it not thrilling in the least, but actually distasteful….
But it would be thrilling. With him. For her. She knew from his eyes, from his laughter, from his words, from the hands that touched her so well, from the hard length of his body, taut and warm against hers.
It was easy to forget because of circumstance. Easy to imagine that the darkness could cover her, and she could hide from truth and light and thought. Easy…
She would never do it; not even the darkness could take away her memories. And it wasn’t just Paul; it was Paul and the baby. If one of them had made it—just one of them—she wouldn’t have felt as if she had been stripped of everything. Everything that mattered. She wouldn’t have been so afraid of emotion, of reaching out. But she had learned that pleasure brought pain.
She hadn’t known that she was crying; her tears were as silent as the night. Then suddenly she felt a thumb against her cheek, wiping away the moisture there.
“How long?” he asked her very softly.
And she knew exactly what he meant. “Three years ago.”
“What happened?”
She had to breathe very deeply before she could whisper out her answer. “A drunk driver,” she said flatly. “The baby was killed instantly. Paul lingered a few hours.”
“And the driver?”
“He died, too. There wasn’t even anybody left to hate.”
He didn’t say anything else to her; he just ran his fingers gently, idly against her cheek, then over her hair. And he stayed there, beside her, his warmth all around her.
And in time she slept.
* * *
She awoke to find his glittering green eyes upon her.
The absolute darkness was gone; hazy light filtered in, like a gray fog. She could see him now, and herself, too well.
In the night she had turned to him. Turned and twisted and left half of her sheet behind. Their legs were completely entangled, her left one beneath his, her right one thrown across his thigh. She’d made a pillow of his arm—which he couldn’t possibly move without tearing out a handful of her hair. Thus his patient and amused stare as she opened her eyes wider and wider with the realization of her position.
“Oh! Get off me, you—”
“Hey, you’re the one on top of me, Mrs. Blayne.”
And of course she was. Clenching her teeth and emitting a soft oath, Mandy moved
her legs away from his and wrenched furiously at the sheet. It wouldn’t give, not until he laughed and shifted his weight. Groaning, she wrapped it around herself and stared disgustedly at the ceiling, drawing another soft chuckle from him.
“Can’t you go somewhere, do something—get out of here? You’re never around when I—” She broke off abruptly.
Naturally he pounced on her words, leaning on one elbow to watch her closely. “When you what?”
“I have no idea. I was just talking.”
“You were not. You were about to say ‘when I need you!’”
“I do not need you.” She paused, lowering her lashes. “You’re just better than some of the alternatives around here.”
“Wow! What an endorsement!”
“Will you please go do whatever it is you do when you’re not around?”
“Ah, jealousy becomes you.”
Mandy sighed with exaggerated patience. “I’m not jealous.” Then she turned suddenly, holding the sheet tightly to her breasts, surprised that it really did seem nice to wake up and find him there, smiling at her—even if she had been definitely disturbed at first.
“I’m curious,” she murmured, remembering what she had intended to say. “Here I am, entirely harmless, and they keep me under lock and key. And there you are—at least two hundred pounds of you—and they let you run around. Why?”
“Because I’m madly in love with you. I’m allowed to be here to keep a lid on you. I’m a kindred spirit, a refugee, too, or so they believe. I’m one of them—a gardener—pulled into the bedroom. And you, Mrs. Blayne, are the farthest thing from harmless that I’ve ever come across.”
“What?”
“You half killed me the other night.”
“I half killed you?”
“Umm. Scratching, flailing, slapping—you’re about as harmless as a basketful of vipers.”
“Oh, really? Funny, you don’t look much worse for wear!”
“But I am. You might well have cost me months of normal sexual activity.”
“What?” she shrieked, astounded at his accusation.
“You must have learned your kicks from Bruce Lee. Honestly, I felt mortally wounded. My mother would never forgive you. She’s expecting grandchildren one of these days.”
She saw the grin he couldn’t keep hidden then. “Oh, will you please get out of here? Go join your fellow refugees!”
The humor instantly fled from his eyes. “A refugee, Mrs. Blayne,” he said, “is one who seeks refuge. I was born in Dublin, but both my parents were American citizens. Therefore I never had any need to seek refuge.”
He rolled away from her and rose, leaving her feeling a strange remorse; she had been teasing him, and she wasn’t sure what she had said to make him draw away from her with such disgust.
His back was to her, his hands on his hips. “It isn’t a dirty word, you know,” he said.
“What?”
“Refugee, Mrs. Blayne. Little Miss Mayflower Princess. This country was established because people sought a better life. The Irish have come, the English, Italians, Germans and so on forever. That’s part of the reason we’re so unique, Mrs. Blayne. What do I do out there? I talk with them—in Spanish. I try to watch which way the wind is blowing, I try to read people. For your safety, Mrs. Blayne. If you had bothered to learn some Spanish—”
“Why should I have?” she snapped, simply because she needed some defense; he was definitely attacking. “It’s an English-speaking country!”
He swung around then, and to her surprise he was suddenly on his knees on the mattress, green fire in his eyes and radiating enough tension to make her shiver. “Yes, Mrs. Blayne, yes! It’s definitely an English-speaking country. And you’re right—those who seek its shelter should learn its language! But what kind of an isolationist are you? Nine out of ten Europeans learn at least two languages. They have to. They have to be able to talk to their neighbors. Haven’t you ever wanted to learn for the simple joy of learning. Relating? Are you so smug, so satisfied with what you are, that you feel no need to give?”
“What the hell is this?” Mandy retorted. “A soapbox? I took another language, Mr. Ramiro—it just happens to have been German, not Spanish. And I’m not a linguistics whiz. I’m ever so sorry. And if you think that I’m a bigot, I’m sorry about that, too, but it’s certainly your prerogative.” Mandy was gaining steam as she continued her argument. Gripping the sheet, she rose to her knees to face him, as angry as he was. “You’d better face a few facts, Mr. Ramiro! We had a lot of real criminals dumped on us! As a police officer, you should know that! And I don’t care if a murderer is German, French, English, Japanese or all-American mongrel—he shouldn’t be walking the streets!”
“So what are you saying? The Cubans are all murderers?”
“I didn’t say that and you damn well know it!”
His hands suddenly clamped down on her bare shoulders; she felt their leashed force and the blaze of emotion that seemed to leap from him to her. And then, just when she was certain that he would either shake her or scream at her again or both, he released her with an oath of disgust and scrambled back to his feet.
He strode straight toward the door without a backward look, opened it and slammed it behind himself.
“Oh, you stupid son of a bitch!” Mandy muttered after him. But then she realized that tears were stinging her eyes, and she didn’t know why.
She hurried up, stumbling to grasp her clothing, racing for the bathroom. Brackish water, a little yellowed from rusting pipes, spewed from the spigot. She closed her eyes to ignore the color and splashed her face. Why did they keep getting into all this? Why didn’t he understand…? And why the hell was she worrying about him when she was still a kidnap victim?
She sighed and realized that she wasn’t really frightened. Not anymore. Julio seemed more like a misguided child than a menace. Except that he did know how to use a gun.
But she didn’t believe that he would really hurt her. The only person she was afraid of—bone deep!—was Roberto, but she didn’t have to worry about Roberto, because Julio seemed determined that no harm would come to her.
“This is insane!” she whispered aloud.
She had faith that this would end, and it was strange what that feeling did for her morale. Strange, but even her arguments with Sean made her feel stronger—impatient, but optimistic.
“Pain in the…”
Her cutoffs and top were still damp, but since she had no other choice, she took a brackish and slightly yellow shower, then donned them again. When she had finished, she noticed that a delicious aroma was reaching her from beyond the door of her prison.
Sean had simply walked out. Why shouldn’t she do the same?
She stalked over to the door and wrenched at the knob. It didn’t give; since Sean had left, someone had come to bolt the door.
“Probably did it himself!” she muttered.
“Hey!” She slammed a fist against the wood. To her surprise, the door opened. Julio was standing there, clean shaven, attractively dressed in a clean cotton shirt and jeans.
He looked just like a nice kid—except that he was still carrying the gun tucked into his boy-next-door blue jeans.
“Good morning, Señora Blayne. We expect to hear something from your husband by tonight.”
He smiled at her as if Western Union was simply sending the money to get her out of a rather sorry jam.
“Great,” she muttered.
“Coffee?”
“Please,” she accepted, with just a trace of irony. He indicated that she should precede him into the kitchen. His mother was there, smiling at Mandy with her usual sympathetic apology as soon as she saw her. Eggs and bacon were cooking in a skillet, and two kinds of coffee were brewing: the thick sweet Cuban blend and what was—according to the nearby can—Maxwell House.
Julio noticed the direction of her gaze. “Mama brewed it specially just for you.”
Marvelous, she thought. Cater to your kidna
p victim. Except that that wasn’t really true, and she knew it. Señora Garcia was very upset that Mandy had been taken; she had made both kinds of coffee in a sincere effort to do anything in her power for Mandy.
She went up to accept the cup the woman offered her, telling her thank you. Señora Garcia smiled, and Mandy glanced out the kitchen window to the beach beyond.
Maria, Roberto and Sean—Miguel! She had to remember that, no matter how mad she got!—were all sitting around, paper plates discarded, laughing and chatting while they drank coffee.
Maria, it seemed, was growing quite fond of Sean. She kept placing her red polished fingertips on his bare bronzed arms as she spoke to him, her dark eyes beautiful with laughter.
And Sean…well, he was laughing back.
Oh, nuts to you! Mandy decided belligerently.
“Señora, por favor…”
She turned around. Señora Garcia had pulled out a chair for her at the table, where she had set down a plate filled with bacon and eggs. Mandy thanked her again and sat down.
Julio was sipping his coffee by her side. She picked up her fork because she was hungry, but after a few minutes she turned to her captor and spoke to him. “You know, don’t you, that what you’re doing is very wrong?”
He gazed at her sharply. Then he lifted his hands and let them fall. “My father is getting old, and he is very ill. Too many years in a dank prison. He will not live long. Using any means that I can manage, I will see to it that he knows freedom before he dies.”
“But—”
“Señora Blayne,” he interrupted very softly, “I was three years old when Batista was overthrown. He was certainly not a prize, but we went from one dictator to another. In the States the exiles pray for another revolution. In Cuba, those who have not been indoctrinated into the new regime work for the next revolution. When I was a child gunfire raged, people bled, and people died. The needs create the means, don’t they? Spying is fine—when it is for your country. A spy must be hanged when he is from the other side. This is life. Violence is an ugly thing, but it can also be a way of life. Secrets, trial and error, violence, abduction. They are all means to an end. I will see my father free. It is that simple.”
A Matter of Circumstance Page 10