Midnight Rainbow (22 page)

           
 
"What on earth is the Blue Pelican? How
do you know so much about this town? Have you been here before?"

           
 
"No, but I keep my eyes open. The Blue
Pelican is the first cantina we passed." Now she remembered. It was the
cantina with the flashing neon sign, the one that had given her such an intense
feeling of unreality.

           
 
They were walking down the small side street
into a yawning cave of darkness. The street wasn't paved, and there were no
sidewalks, no street lights, not even one of the incongruous neon signs to lend
its garish light. The ground was uneven beneath her boots, and the sour smell
of old garbage surrounded her. Jane didn't think; her hand shot out, and she
grabbed Grant's belt. He hesitated,
then
resumed
walking without saying anything. Jane swallowed, belatedly realizing that she
could have found herself sailing over his shoulder again, as she had the first
time she'd grabbed him from behind. What would she do if she no longer had him
to cling to in the dark? Stand around wringing her hands? She'd already come a
long way from the child who had sat in a terrified stupor for days, and perhaps
it was time for one step more. Slowly, deliberately, Jane released her grip on
his belt and let her arm drop to her side.

           
 
He stopped and looked around at her, darkness
shrouding his features. "I don't mind you holding on to my belt."

           
 
She remained silent, feeling his reluctant
curiosity, but unable to give him any explanation. All her milestones had been
inner ones, attained only by wrenching effort, and this wasn't something she
could easily talk about. Not even the frighteningly expensive child
psychologist to whom her parents had taken her had been able to draw her out
about the kidnapping. Everyone knew about the nightmares she'd had, and her
abrupt, unreasonable fear of the dark, but she'd never told anyone the details
of her experience. Not her parents, not even Chris, and he'd been her best
friend long before he'd been her husband. In all the years since the
kidnapping, she'd told only one person, trusted only one person enough. Now
there was a distance between them that she'd tried to bridge, but he kept
pushing her away. No matter how she wanted to throw herself into his arms, she
had to stand alone, because soon she might have no choice in the matter.

           
 
The fear of being alone in the dark was
nothing compared to the fear that she might be alone for the rest of her life.

           
 
He wove a crazy path through the town,
crisscrossing,
backtracking,
changing their route so
many times that Jane completely lost her sense of direction. She chugged along
doggedly, staying right on his heels. He stopped once, and stood guard while
Jane sneaked in the back of the local version of a greasy spoon. The plumbing
was pre-World War II, the lighting was a single dim bulb hanging from the
ceiling, and the carcass of an enormous cockroach lay on its back in the
corner, but she wasn't in the mood to quibble. At least the plumbing worked,
and when she turned on the water in the cracked basin a thin, lukewarm stream
came out. She washed her hands and, bending over, splashed water on her face.
There was no towel, so she wiped her hands on her pants and left her face to
dry naturally. When she tiptoed out of the building, Grant stepped from the
shadows where he had concealed himself and took her arm. They weren't far from
the Blue Pelican, as it turned out; when they turned the corner, she could see
the blue and pink sign flashing. But Grant didn't walk straight to it; he
circled the entire area, sometimes standing motionless for long minutes while
he waited, and watched. At last they approached the old Ford station wagon that
was parked behind the cantina, but even then he was cautious. He raised the
hood and used his cigarette lighter to examine the motor. Jane didn't ask what
he was looking for, because she had the chilling idea that she knew. He closed
the hood as quietly as possible, evidently reassured.

           
 
"Get in, and get the keys out from under
the seat."

           
 
She opened the door. The dome light didn't
come on, but that was to be expected. Doing a little checking on her own, she
peered over the back of the seat, holding her breath in case there was actually
someone there. But the floorboard was empty, and her breath hissed out of her
lungs in relief. Leaning over, she swept her hand under the seat, searching for
the keys. The other door opened, and the car swayed under Grant's weight.
"Hurry," he snapped.

           
 
"I can't find the keys!" Her
scrabbling fingers found a lot of dirt, a few screws, a scrap of paper, but no
keys. "Maybe this isn't the right car!"

           
 
"It'll have to do. Check again."

           
 
She got down on the floor and reached as far
under the seat as she could,
sweeping
her hands back
and forth.
"Nothing.
Try under yours."

           
 
He leaned down, extending his arm to search
under his seat. Swearing softly, he pulled out a single key wired to a small
length of wood. Muttering under his breath about damned people not being able
to follow simple instructions, he put the key in the ignition and started the
car. Despite its age, the engine was quiet and smooth. Grant shifted into gear
and backed out of the alley. He didn't turn on the headlights until they were
well away from the Blue Pelican and the well-lit main street. Jane leaned back
in the musty smelling seat, unable to believe that at last they seemed to be
well on their way. So much had happened since that morning that she'd lost her
sense of time. It couldn't be late; it was probably about
ten o'clock
, if that. She watched the road for a while,
hypnotized by the way it unwound just ahead of the reach of their headlights,
tired but unable to sleep. "Are we still going to Limon?"

           
 
"Why? Is that what you told your
lover?"

           
 
Jane sat very still, clenching her teeth
against the anger that shook her. All right, she'd try one more time.

           
 
"He isn't my lover, and I didn't tell him
anything. All I was trying to do was to stay untied until I could catch one of
them off guard and get his gun." She spat the words out evenly, but her
chest was heaving as she tried to control her anger. "Just how do you
think I got the pistol that you took away from me?" She felt that was a
point that he couldn't ignore, but he did, shrugging it away. "Look, you
don't have to keep making explanations," he said in a bored tone.
"I'm not interested—"

           
 
"Stop the car!" she shouted,
enraged.

           
 
"Don't start pitching one of your
fits," he warned, slanting
her a
hard look. Jane
dived for the steering wheel, too angry to care if she caused them to crash. He
pushed her off with one hand, cursing, but Jane ducked under his arm and caught
the wheel, wrenching it violently toward her. Grant hit the brake, fighting to
keep the car under control with one hand while he held Jane off with the other.
She caught the wheel again and pulled it, and the car jolted violently as it
hit the shoulder of the road.

           
 
Grant let go of her and wrestled with the car
as it slewed back and forth on the narrow road. He braked sharply, finally
bringing the car to a complete halt so he could give his full attention to
Jane, but even before the car had completely stopped she threw the door open
and jumped out. "I'll get myself out of
Costa Rica
!" she yelled, slamming the door.

           
 
He got out of the car. "Jane, come back
here," he warned as she started walking off.

           
 
"I'm not going another mile with you, not
another
inch
!"

           
 
"You're going if I have to hog-tie
you," he said, coming after her, his stride measured. She didn't stop.
"That's your remedy for everything, isn't it?" she sneered. Without
warning, he sprinted. He moved so fast that Jane didn't have time to run. She
gave a startled cry, twisting away as he reached her; his outstretched hand
caught her blouse and Jane jerked as he stopped her. It was doubly infuriating
to find herself so easily caught, and with a fresh burst of rage she threw
herself away from him, twisting and doubling her lithe body, trying to break
his grip. He caught her wildly flailing arm and pinned it to her side.
"Damn, woman, why do you have to do everything the hard way?" he
panted.

           
 
"Let… go!" she shouted, but he
wrapped his arms around her, holding her arms pinned down. She kicked and
shrieked, but he was too strong; there was nothing she could do as he carried
her back to the car.

           
 
But he had to release her with one arm so he
could open the car door, and when he did she twisted violently, at the same
time lifting her feet. The combination of the twist and the sudden addition of
weight broke his grip, and she slid under his arm. He grabbed for her again,
his fingers hooking in the low neckline of the blouse. The fabric parted under
the strain, tearing away from her shoulders. Tears spurted from Jane's eyes as
she scrambled to cover her breasts, holding the ruined cloth over them.
"Now look what you've done!" Turning away from him, she burst into
sobs, her shoulders shaking. The raw, hard sobs that tore from her throat were
so violent that he dropped his outstretched arms.

           
 
Wearily he rubbed his face. Why couldn't she
cry with sedate little sniffles, instead of these sobs that sounded as if she
had been beaten? Despite everything that had happened, he wanted to take her in
his arms and hold her head to his chest, stroke her dark hair and whisper that
everything was going to be all right.

           
 
She whirled on him, wiping her face with one
hand and clutching the ruined blouse to her breasts with the other. "Think
about a few things!" she said hoarsely. "Think about how I got that
pistol. And think about
Turego
. Remember when he came
up behind you with the rifle, and I warned you? Did you notice, before you shot
him, that his face was bloody? Do you remember the way his nose was bleeding?
Do you think it was the altitude that made his nose bleed?
You
big, stupid, boneheaded
jackass!"
 
she
bellowed, so beside herself with fury that she was
shaking her fist under his nose. "Damn it, can't you tell that I love
you?"

           
 
Grant was as still as stone, not a muscle moving
in his face, but he felt winded, as if he'd just taken a huge blow in the
chest. Everything hit him at once, and he staggered under the weight of it. She
was right.
Turego's
face had been bloody, but he
hadn't thought anything about it at the time. He'd been so damned angry and
jealous that he hadn't been thinking at all, only reacting to what had looked
like betrayal. Not only had she done some quick thinking to avoid being tied
up, she'd charged to his rescue as soon as she could, and when he remembered
the way she'd looked when she came through that door, so white and wild—
Turego's
goons were probably lucky that he'd gotten free
first.
She loved him!
 
He stared down at her, at the small fist that
was waving dangerously close to his nose. She was utterly magnificent, her hair
a wild tangle around her shoulders, her face filled with a temper that burned
out of control, yelling at him like some banshee. She clutched that ridiculous
scrap of cloth to her breasts with the hand that wasn't threatening his profile.
Indomitable.
Courageous.
Maddening.
And so damned desirable that he
was suddenly shaking with need.

           
 
He caught her fist and jerked her to him,
holding her to him so tightly that she gasped, his face buried against her
hair.

           
 
She was still struggling against him, beating
at his back with her fists and crying again. "Let me go!

           
 
Please, just let me go."

           
 
"I can't," he whispered, and caught
her chin, turning her face up to him. Fiercely he ground his mouth down on hers
and, like a cornered cat, she tried to bite him. He jerked his head back,
laughing,
a
wild joy running through him. The torn
blouse had fallen away, and her naked breasts were flattened against him, their
soft fullness reminding him of how good it felt when she wasn't fighting him.
He kissed her again, roughly, and cupped her breast in his
palm,
rubbing his thumb over the velvet nipple and making it tighten.