Demon Lover (6 page)

"But you’re not a woman, are you? You are an officer of the law. And I, as you put it so succinctly, am a criminal. You’d send me to jail in a minute, wouldn’t you, darlin’? No matter what. How did you put that? No excuses for breaking the law."

He leaned down and kissed her, a feather’s touch this time, just a tickle of his moustache on her cheek, a stirring of warm breath on her lips, and a touch that tingled such remote nerve endings as the back of her neck and the palms of her hands. He drew back only far enough to look into her eyes and whispered, "So I guess it’s a damn good thing you’re not a woman, isn’t it, Julie? You’d be in one hell of a dilemma."

He straightened, releasing her, then turned his back on her, moving his arms to stretch and massage the muscles in his neck and shoulders. "Well, I’ve got no intention of going to jail," he grunted with finality. "But I do believe I’ll take another little nap." He glanced at his wristwatch and hoisted himself into the loft. "We won’t reach the village until tonight. That’s a good four or five hours yet."

"What am I supposed to do?" Julie asked, aghast at the quaver in her voice.

"Well," Chayne said placidly, making no effort to subdue a jaw–popping yawn, "I guess you could get on with your search. Unless you’d care to come up here and do some research for your new role— No? Well—
Buenas noches
, then,
Guerita
.
Hasta luego
."

Until later.
A tremor shook her, a chill that raised goose bumps on her arms in spite of the warmth of the cabin. Julie felt another wave of fear—the fear of a small child who finds herself unexpectedly lost in a supermarket, surrounded by large strangers. She wanted to put her head down on her arms and cry, but although she had a tendency to choke up and mist over for such things as Disney movies and choirs of small children and marching bands, she had not really cried since she was a child.

Colin, she supposed, would say her embarrassing sentimentality was a kind of sublimation—a "safe" emotional outlet. Colin could be a pain in the ass, at times.

She did put her head down on her arms; it had begun to ache again, and it felt good to close her eyes. And like that lost child in the supermarket, she thought longingly of her mother.

I should have gone home in May. Both my mother’s birthday and Mother’s Day were in May.

She’d been on the day shift that month, but she could have gotten away for a day, at least. Canoga Park wasn’t that far from San Diego. But she’d been too busy, and anyway, she’d planned to be there in August, during the Exposition.

I’ll go as soon as I get back, I promise,
she thought fervently, then added a prayerful,
If I get back.

She was assailed by a wave of homesickness so acute that she could almost smell the verbena that bordered the front walk of her parents’ house, hear the wind chimes that hung on the patio off the kitchen. With the window open, she had been able to hear them from her bedroom. How often had she lain there in the dark and dreamed to the music of wind chimes tinkling in the night breeze?

She’d had such an ordinary childhood, such a typical Southern California suburban middle–class home, in a neighborhood full of station wagons and children and the racket of lawnmowers on Saturday mornings. What had happened that she, Julie Maguire, only child of doting but sensible parents, ex–Girl Scout cookie pusher and high school cheerleader, should find herself in such a predicament? Bargaining for her life with a smuggler in the wilds of Baja California!

Mom… Dad… I love you. I didn’t mean to stay away so long.

* * *

Julie woke up with a crick in her neck and what felt like a permanent dent in her forehead from her wristwatch. It was too dark to see what time it was; she had no idea how long she had slept. The camper was silent and still, but outside the window she could hear a dog barking fitfully, voices calling softly in Spanish, laughter, and, somehow reassuring, music—a plaintive Mexican ballad of love sung to the soft strumming of a guitar.

This must be the village Chayne had spoken of. How big was it? Where was it? Would there be someone—anyone—who might help her? Would there be a telephone? A church? How far south had they come? How far away was home…and hope?

Outside the window Julie could see the glimmer of moonlight on water and the dark silhouettes of several boats, but no buildings. A fishing village, then. Perhaps a boat. She could escape in a boat, make her way along the coastline to a settlement.

She had half risen in her excitement, ready to run to those distant outlines this very minute. Now she sank back and took a deep breath to calm herself.

Easy, Julie. Don’t be dumb. They aren’t going to let you just walk out of here. And besides, you don’t even know which way to go.

Her sense of direction was confused. The water was visible out the window, which didn’t seem right, somehow.

Before she could sort out why it didn’t, the camper door opened and her captor entered carrying a kerosene lantern and a small bundle of clothing. He gave her a quick, hard glance and set both the lantern and the bundle on the table. The angle of the light cast sinister shadows on his face and gave his eyes an unearthly glow.

"Good—you’re awake. I’ve brought you some clothes. There’s probably enough water left in the tank for a shower. I suggest you use it. It will be a while before you get another."

"What’s the matter with the clothes I have on?" Julie asked sullenly.

"Aside from the fact that you’ve been sweating in them for two days, the sooner these people forget you’re an agent of the United States government, the better." He gazed down at her somberly, his eyes hooded. "I suggest you forget it, too, if you want to save your pretty neck. It’s time for you to get into your role and stay there."

Julie opened her mouth to retort, thought better of it and swallowed. "I’m not sure I know how. What’s expected of me? I haven’t had much experience being cowed and subservient."

He didn’t smile. "Keep your eyes down, unless you can get rid of that speculative, calculating gleam. You haven’t a thought of escape, remember? Don’t speak to me unless I speak to you first, and don’t speak to anyone else unless I give you permission. And no matter what I do, you take it. With good or bad grace, I don’t care. But don’t fight me. Got it?"

Julie was almost choking with rage and could only nod stiffly.

"Geraldo’s wife Rita is fixing something for us to eat. I expect you’re hungry. I hope you can swallow with all of that pride and anger swelling up your throat. Rita is a very good cook."

Julie looked up, surprised to hear a note of amusement in his voice, but he had turned and was ducking back through the camper door. She sat for a moment, plucking at the soft material of a much–washed and worn cotton shirt and glaring at the space the demon had just vacated. Then, her shoulders sagging with resignation, she held up the articles in the pile, one at a time. The shirt was a man’s, but it was clean and would be comfortable. There were faded denim jeans that looked as if they’d fit her if she rolled up the pant legs. A pair of huaraches—sandals. There was a pair of cotton panties, very plain and serviceable and bleached to bone white, but no bra. She would have to do without while she rinsed out her own things, but the shirt was soft, unlike her stiff uniform blouse, which was already chafing her nipples painfully.

There was a bar of soap, used; a comb; even, miraculously, a toothbrush. After the day and night she had just endured it seemed an impossible luxury. She had no qualms at all about the likelihood that it was also used; the bottle of tequila would serve quite nicely as a disinfectant.

She picked up the last item and sat pulling it through her fingers and blinking back treacherous tears. It was a belt, hand–woven in turquoise, red and black in typical Mexican folk art style, a splash of vivid color in the pile of neutral, bleached–out clothing. Its presence in the pile touched her—proof that somewhere in this desolate place, in the middle of a smuggler’s nest, there was a person with enough sensitivity and human insight to know how much she needed this small gesture of kindness, this one tiny touch of beauty. Warmed and strengthened, Julie folded the belt, placed it almost reverently on top of the pile and stood up.

She was dressed and waiting long before Chayne finally came for her, and so hungry that she had to hug her arms across her empty belly to ease its ravenous churning.

"Stand up," he said with typical lack of ceremony after he had shut the door firmly behind him.

Julie eased herself out of the booth and stood up,  overcome by an uncharacteristic self–consciousness. She shifted uncertainly as he studied her in silence, his eyes sliding over her from her bare toes in the brown leather sandals, the light blue jeans rolled to the ankles and fitting smoothly over her thighs, to the soft, blousy shirt, which she had chosen to wear loose and belted, its sleeves rolled to the elbow. The blue eyes rested for a moment on the slash of color at her narrow waist, then continued on upward, sliding over the deep V between the swell of her unbound breasts, the long, tanned column of her neck, and narrowed slightly as they scrutinized her face. He stepped forward, put one hand on her shoulder and, with the other, tilted her face toward the light. At last he nodded.

"Do I pass?" Julie asked unsteadily. She put the hollow, butterfly feeling in her stomach down to acute starvation.

"Your hair’s wet."

"I washed it."

The smuggler nodded again, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "It’s all right. Gives you a kind of drowned look—along with those big brown eyes. That scared look is good too. Try to hang on to it."

"That shouldn’t be difficult," Julie said dryly.

He reached out to touch her chin with a finger. "That bruise is a nice touch, too."

"Thanks a lot." She was beginning to be annoyed by the continuing examination, but the smuggler had begun to frown and shake his head. "What’s wrong?"

"You still don’t look right."

"Sorry," she muttered acidly. "I’m doing my best."

"You just don’t have the look of a woman who’s been well and thoroughly bedded."

"No kidding!" Julie exploded incredulously. She gave a short, sarcastic laugh. "I’m sorry, but this is the best I can do. It’s really too bad I’m not an expert on that subject, but I’m sure you are, so why don’t you tell me what I’m supposed to look like?"

He rubbed his chin, his fingers making a dry, rasping sound against the rough stubble. Suddenly he looked at his fingers and then back at her face, and his eyes narrowed. "Come here," he growled softly.

J
ULIE SHOOK HER
head and took a backward step. He came after her and took her by the shoulders.

"Hold still."

"What…what are you doing?" Her voice came out sounding high and frightened, and she put out her hands to ward him off. They came up flat against his chest, and she felt the moist heat of it penetrate the fabric of his shirt.

"I’m putting the finishing touches on your makeup," he said, and, leaning down, drew his whiskery jaw across her cheek.

She gasped and uttered a small, shocked cry, pulling back from the abrasive contact. He let go of her shoulders and moved his hands to her head, holding it still while he rubbed his face against hers, burning her skin with his beard. Then he tilted her head back and she felt the painful rasp on the soft, delicate skin of her neck.

It was so completely unexpected, such a devastating assault on her unguarded senses, that she was paralyzed with shock. She gripped his forearms, more for support than with any hope of moving him. Her mouth was open, but no sound came out; she couldn’t even breathe. Tears rushed to her eyes. She squeezed them shut and managed to gasp, "Please—you’re hurting me."

His head tilted away from her cheek. She felt moisture, cool on the hot, abraded skin of her neck, and then a gentle, drawing pressure. After a moment he bent lower, his mouth nuzzling the skin revealed by the deep slash of her shirt, seeking the soft, white top of her breast.

Julie heard herself whimper, "No…" and her hands came up to his head, her fingers tangling in his hair as she tried desperately to pull him away. Her legs were shaky…weak; her knees buckled, and she clutched at his shoulders for support.

His mouth closed over her tender flesh and he sucked gently… then harder, bringing blood to the skin’s surface, leaving an indelible mark. His mark. His brand of ownership.

He straightened then, and she drew a shuddering breath, thinking he’d finished with her. He took her hands from his shoulders and held them by the wrists, spreading her arms away from him, surveying his handiwork through half–closed eyes. And then he slipped his arms around her, pulled her close and turned his attention to her mouth.

He kissed her long and hard, his mouth deliberately bruising, intent only on leaving her looking swollen and ravished. Julie made small noises of protest in her throat, but it was impossible to resist such a prolonged and purposeful assault; inevitably she had to open to him. With a deep–throated groan of frustration and defeat, she felt her neck muscles relax and her head fall back.

But something was happening to the kiss. It had altered in intent and execution, so subtly at first she never knew exactly how or when it began to be something else entirely. His head shifted, finding a new, less punitive melding; her hands touched his shirt collar, the warm skin under the hair on the back of his neck. His hands slid over her back, curving downward over her buttocks to press her into his body, stroking back up along her spine to support her head. His lips were firm but no longer hard; they teased and aroused rather than plundered. His tongue took moisture from their mouths and soothed and bathed her burning, tingling lips, slipping and sliding over the contours of her mouth, drawing responses from her that were as wanton as they were distressing.

And then, abruptly, it ended. He lifted his head, leaving her mouth cold and moist, and for an instant his demon’s eyes burned into hers with that blue fire. Then once more he took her wrists and lifted her arms from his shoulders, holding her at arm’s length.