Return to Tomorrow (11 page)

“Do you ever question yourself?” Rachel asked suddenly. “Is the successful businessman I see standing before me now, the soldier of fortune I met that night in a ruined jungle temple, complete and whole within himself? You're the same, yet different here, somehow, in a way I can't explain. Can you go from one life-style to the other with no shifting of values, or does it tear you up inside?”

“We all conform to some extent to the environment around us. Rachel, I…” He didn't know what to say next. There was so little, really, he could say.

She lifted her fingers to his lips. “Shhh.” Her skin was cool and smooth, her fingers scented with the petals of flowers. “I don't want to know. I'm tired of always trying to be rational, of weighing each decision I make, of considering and reconsidering the consequences of every word I speak.”

“There are very few times in life we can live so heedlessly and not be held responsible for our actions,” Brett replied. He knocked the tobacco out of his pipe and ground the coals beneath the heel of his shoe. He knew how she felt. God, how many times had he felt the same?

“Maybe tonight is one of those times?” she said in a small, quiet voice. “I don't care what you've done in the past, Brett. You had your reasons, I imagine, just as I had mine. I don't see everything in black and white the
way you think I do, the way everyone expects me to. I know there's a lot of shading, degrees of right and wrong. I'm not asking you to explain why you are the way you are.”

“I couldn't if I wanted to.” And he did want to. He was tempted to tell her everything. He'd never cared what others thought of him. During the war, he'd made the decisions necessary to keep himself and his men alive. After the war, he'd attempted on his own to correct some of the wrongs that had been done to Ahnle's people and others like them, when the U.S. pulled out of Vietnam and left them to fend for themselves. In a lot of instances that meant arming them against their enemies. He'd done that without a qualm. Micah understood what drove him and always had. He wondered if Rachel would understand, also, but he couldn't find the courage to tell her. Instead, he took her in his arms.

She didn't pull away from him, as he half feared she would. She stood quietly as he held her, then slowly, reluctantly, as though she were fighting against herself, her arms crept around his waist and she pressed closer. His breath caught in his chest, the earth tilted on its axis, then righted itself slowly as he absorbed the sweet, reluctant promise of her body. He tipped her chin up with his knuckles so that he could see her face. Her skin was pale, ivory in the moonlight. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and quick. She trembled against him and he felt her resistance and her desire, like a heartbeat echoing his own, a faint, steady counterpoint beneath the fear.

“Don't be afraid,” he said in a husky voice that sounded strange to his own ears. He hadn't asked Micah
the details of her long imprisonment, but he knew she couldn't have escaped either physical or emotional abuse at the hands of her captors. Her scars would be deep and lasting. “I don't intend to ask anything of you that you're not prepared to give.” He stayed still so as not to frighten her more. She was like some small, exotic bird in his arms. One wrong move, one jarring note, would be enough to send her winging away from him forever.

“It's been so long.” Tears welled in her eyes, drowning the moon in their blue-gray depths. “I haven't been in a man's arms in years.” She shuddered, closed her eyes, fighting off the past, then opened them again. “It's been much longer than that since I've wanted to be.”

“All I'm asking for is a kiss.” One crystal tear escaped and rolled down her cheek. He wiped it away with the edge of his thumb. He lowered his head so that their lips almost touched. “I've waited months for it, you know.”

She moaned a little as his mouth closed over hers, a sigh somewhere between desperation and surrender. Brett held her close, tasted her lips, inhaled the delicate herbal fragrance of her hair, clean and shining once more. He didn't tighten his hold on her slender waist, although he was amazed at the effort of will it cost him to keep from doing so. He wasn't used to being this aroused by a kiss.

Rachel shuddered as she felt his body's reaction and he cursed his inability to control the surge of passion that swept through his veins. He ignored her hands as they pushed against his chest but kissed her again, not so gently this time, urging her mouth to open beneath his, teasing her lips with the tip of his tongue until she
melted against him and returned his kiss with warmth and passion of her own.

When it was over she laid her head against his shoulder. She was breathing heavily and he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. “I have to go,” she said so softly he strained to hear the words.

“Don't run away from me.” He stroked her hair and felt her draw a deep, trembling breath.

“I'm not ready for this. I may never be ready for this.” He caught her hand in his and wouldn't let her go.

“Don't be afraid.” Brett could only keep repeating those words to help her banish the terror of the past, a talisman against memories that only time could erase.

Rachel shook her head. She stayed within the circle of his arms, quiet but trembling. “I'm not afraid of you,” she said very softly. “I'm afraid of myself. I'm afraid of what I'm feeling because I haven't let myself feel anything like this for so long.” Another tear rolled down her cheek and soaked into the cream-colored linen of his shirt. “Can you understand? Feeling means coming back to life and that hurts. Sometimes it hurts too much to bear.”

“Don't think, don't try to reason it out. Isn't that what you said you wanted earlier? Go ahead. For a little while just feel. Nothing more, nothing less.” He bent his head to kiss her again and tasted the salt of tears on her lips. Hatred for the men who had done this to her welled up inside him so strongly he could taste the bitterness of it at the back of his throat. Some of that anger must have communicated itself through his kiss.

“Brett. No.” She pushed at him in a flurry of panic, but he held her still, his hands just below the soft curve
of her breasts, his thumbs moving softly, caressingly against them.

“Shhh, be still, Rachel. Only as far as you want to go, only what you want me to do. I promised you that.” She sucked in her breath and clamped her hands over his wrists to stop him. He ignored her silent plea, increasing the pressure, grazing her nipples with the pad of his thumb. “Don't think, don't remember. I'm only asking for what you're willing to give. No more. No less.”

“I can't give you what a man wants from a woman. I can't.”

“Then this is enough.” He moved his hands, skimming the soft cotton of her blouse to cup her breasts. Her bra was as flimsy as her blouse. He could feel her nipples tighten beneath his touch. She strained against him then, pushing close, winding her arms around his neck to bring him closer still.

“Kiss me again,” she said, looking up at him with tear-bright eyes. “Help me feel again, help me remember, a little, what love is like.”

R
ACHEL LAY QUIETLY
, listening to the sound of Brett's even breathing in the predawn darkness. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him in the dim glow of a night-light shining through the open bathroom door. She had never thought she would lie beside a man again and be comforted by the warmth of his body, and aroused by the promise of his love and strength in the night. She closed her eyes as a faint nightmare image of a faceless man's hands and body pushed for recognition.
She would not remember.

She opened her eyes again, willing away the terror. As she watched, a slight frown drew Brett's brows together. She let her eyes wander lower over the arrogant jut of his nose, the line of his jaw. His skin was bronzed, stretched taut over well-defined muscles. A pulse beat slow and strong at the base of his throat. Lower, the silver tracery of old scars snaked across his shoulder and disappeared in the dull gold hair covering his chest. Her eyes, disobeying her will, followed that arrowing line of gold to his belt buckle, then skittered away, obedient at last, returning to the endlessly fascinating study of his face.

He slept with the same fierce intensity of purpose that characterized everything he did. As though he used sleep as a tool, renewing his body and mind to face whatever challenges the new day might bring. Certainly he didn't
sleep to escape life as she'd done so often in the past, nor did he sleep to court dreams.

A sound from the hallway caught at the ragged edges of her thoughts. She sat up, slowly pulling her blouse together, buttoning the buttons with fumbling fingers as her mind refused to let go of the memory of Brett's mouth on her nipples and his hands on her breasts. She had hated him a little for proving her body could still be pleasured by a man's touch. Even now, hours later, she shivered with the sheer arousing power of that memory as she swung her feet over the edge of the low bed.

A slight ghost-like shadow flitted down the hall ahead of her. Rachel furrowed her brow, trying to bring the figure into focus in the near darkness. “Ahnle?” she whispered so quietly she didn't think the girl heard her at first. “Stop.”

Ahnle halted and turned very slowly as Rachel caught up with her and urged her into what turned out to be the kitchen. Outside, a security light shone through the window, illuminating a small rectangle of glazed tile floor at their feet. The girl was dressed in the clothes Nog's wife had provided for her, a plain, dark skirt and short-sleeved, pale yellow blouse. She carried her sandals, also provided by the servant, in her hand. Her long, gloriously black hair was twisted into a haphazard knot on top of her head.

“Where are you going?” Rachel asked under her breath. She didn't know where Nog and his wife slept, so she kept her voice pitched low.

“Home,” Ahnle whispered back. There were tears in her voice as well as on her face.

“Back to the camp?” Rachel asked, somewhat bewildered.

Ahnle shook her head. “Home,” she repeated. “I must go home.”

“You can't.” Rachel spoke sharply, too sharply. She lowered her voice to a whisper once again. “Your village is in Laos. There's been a lot of unrest along the border these past weeks. You know that. Father Dolph read the warning from the government last month at the staff meeting, don't you remember?” Had Ahnle's recent unnerving experiences affected her more than she had realized? Rachel didn't know what to think.

“I don't care,” Ahnle insisted. “I must go home.” She clasped her sandals so tightly to her chest that her knuckles gleamed pale in the yellow glow of light.

“Why?” Rachel asked the question to gain time to order her thoughts, but she already knew the answer.

“My son. Now he is disgraced twice over. Chengla and his wife will not want him. They will think they have been tricked into taking him if there is no money for them.”

“We can work something out.” Rachel tried to sound encouraging.

The girl shook her head. “My brother will have to make good or he will lose much merit. I must return and take my baby away before he comes back to the Teak Doll and finds me gone from there.” In her anxiety she spoke in Hlông and Rachel answered in that language.

“You will have to give Chengla and his wife something for their kindness in fostering your son.”

“I have this.” Ahnle held up a crumpled one-hundred-
baht
note. “That man, the
farang
with yellow hair,
pushed it into my clothes when I was dancing. Other men did that, too, but the owner of the bar always took the money away. Is it enough?”

Rachel looked at the note consideringly. In Ahnle's remote village, the money, less than five American dollars, might be enough to allow Chengla and his wife to save face and return Ahnle's son to her.

But she had nothing for the long journey north. And Rachel, herself, had very little more.

“It is enough for Chengla and his wife, perhaps. But not to go home. It is many days' walk.” Rachel tried to translate the hundreds of miles into terms Ahnle could relate to.

“My brother brought me here on a…” There was no Hlông word for bus. Rachel supplied it in English, all the while straining her ears for sounds of awakening from the other occupants of the house. “I know buses go all the way to Chiang Khong where my aunt lives.” Ahnle held out the money. “This is not enough for both the journey and for Chengla and his wife?” Fresh tears glittered in her dark eyes.

Rachel shook her head. “Ahnle,” she said, hesitating. “I will help….”

“What's going on here?” Light flooded the room. Rachel ducked her head, lifting her hand to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness. Brett stood in the doorway in his bare feet, his slacks riding low on slender hips. Ahnle took a step closer to Rachel, closer to the familiarity and security she represented.

“Ahnle woke up. She's still a little confused. She's afraid her brother might find her,” Rachel said, sticking as close to the truth as she could. She'd been doing that
for almost two years now, skirting the truth about a lot of things. She was getting very good at telling half-lies.

Brett didn't come any closer. His blue eyes were narrowed, focusing on the trembling girl at Rachel's side. “She needs something to eat. Nog will be starting breakfast soon. Ahnle,” he raised his voice very slightly and spoke carefully and slowly in Thai. “Why don't you go back to your room for a little while, let Rachel and me get bathed and dressed and we will share tea and rice at my table.”

Ahnle glanced pleadingly at Rachel. “Do as he says,” Rachel said in Hlông. “I will come with you. Wherever you go.” Hope gleamed in the ebony depths of the girl's eyes.

“To the gate of my village?”

“Yes. But first we must do as he asks.” She smiled just a little. “He has my shoes.”

Ahnle giggled. “Thank you,” she said in English, bowing formally to Brett. He returned the salute and stepped out of the doorway, still watching the girl. He waited for Rachel to precede him down the hallway, back to his room, to the bed they'd shared, yet hadn't made love in.

Dawn was coming up over the city. But the view of the garden faded abruptly into darkness when Brett switched on a bedside lamp. “Your things are here,” he said, indicating her
yaam
and the clothes she'd been wearing the day before, now neatly cleaned and pressed. “Nog's wife brought them in last night.”

Rachel felt a stain of color surge into her cheeks and was amazed to realize she could still blush.

“She evidently decided I'd be able to get you into my
bed a lot sooner than I did.” He continued to watch her closely. Rachel looked down at her bare feet.

“Brett…” She felt torn. Part of her wanted to be here with him, part of her wanted to be with Ahnle, where her duty lay. And part of her wanted to be somewhere dark and safe and quiet, where she didn't have to face any choices, especially those thrust on her by her reawakening body and its needs. There were too many demons at large inside her soul. She didn't want to remember why they were there. Brett opened her up, made her remember. It frightened her.

“Shhh.” He took her in his arms and her senses swam with the heat of his nearness and the hard strength of his body so close to hers. A low, coiling ache of desire began deep inside her and she pressed against him, ignoring the clamoring warnings of her brain and the panicked beat of memories in the icy darkness at the center of her heart. “It's too early in the morning for long-winded discussions.” His mouth was so close that his breath stirred her hair. “It's too early for anything but crawling back between the sheets and taking up where we left off last night.”

She jerked away, but he'd been expecting her to bolt and tightened his arms around her. “I know. You're not ready for anything more. But I can dream, can't I?”

“Dreaming is sometimes the most dangerous thing of all.”

“Maybe that's why we belong together, Rachel, because we know we can't trust our dreams.” He kissed her then and she responded with every fiber of her being, despite the warring emotions swirling around inside her. If he had pulled her down with him on his hard, narrow
bed, she couldn't have denied him whatever he wanted of her. And then it would be too late.

Brett stopped kissing her, looked down into her eyes for a long moment, then rested his forehead against hers. “When you're ready for me, Rachel, I'll be waiting.”

“Don't say that.” Her voice came out all squeaky and broken into little bits. She swallowed hard against the sudden constriction in her throat. “Don't say you'll wait. I might never be ready.”

She felt him shake his head very slightly. His lips were still close to hers; she had only to tip her head slightly and their mouths would meet again. She resisted the urge and found it harder than she'd imagined it would be.

“You'll be ready, someday. But not today.” He stepped away, leaving her feeling absurdly cold and forlorn. “I'll get cleaned up. You can use the shower in Ahnle's room. We'll have breakfast and you two can do some shopping. We'll make an early night of it and tomorrow, when you're both rested, we'll start making arrangements for Ahnle's future. How does that sound?”

The temptation to agree to the plan was so great Rachel bit her lip to keep from doing so. She couldn't let herself fall any further into his debt, or under his spell. She owed Brett Jackson too much already, and, even more dangerously, she could too easily remember how to fall in love with him. That was the last thing she could afford to do because then she would remember everything about herself she'd betrayed to stay alive.

“Rachel? Are you okay?” He held her at arm's length, watched her without smiling.

No,
she wanted to scream.
Help me, I'll never be all right again.

“I'm fine. I just need a shower to wash away the cobwebs.” She tried to smile and succeeded. He looked as if he wanted to kiss her again so she stepped back hastily.

“Don't disappear on me,” he said, and Rachel couldn't be sure he wasn't serious. “I promised to show you Bangkok, remember? We'll have that few days alone I asked you for. Just the two of us, at least at night.”

She wished he hadn't said that. It made her hands shake and her toes curl when he talked like that. “Go take your shower.”

He walked into the bathroom and closed the door. Rachel stayed where she was, not even turning around when she heard Ahnle in the doorway. She couldn't stay. That much was obvious. “Rachel?”

“I'm ready.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped on her shoes before looking at the girl. Her heart was pounding with anticipation and with dread.

“Do we go now?”

“Yes.” Her gaze slid to the bedside table. Beside the telephone was Brett's wallet, a money clip and a set of car keys. “We can go now.” She picked up the money clip and marveled at the amount of cash it contained. She slipped out some of the bills and wrote an IOU on the pad by the phone. For a moment she hesitated, her hand hovering over the car keys. Then she picked them up, as well. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

“I do not understand,” Ahnle said, casting anxious glances at the bathroom door where the sound of running water from the shower could be heard.

“Nothing. We must go. Quickly.” Rachel folded her clothes into the
yaam,
pocketed the money and the car keys and turned her back on the room she'd shared with Brett.

She couldn't explain the forces that drove her any more than he had been able to explain himself to her. All she knew was that she was bound to Ahnle and because of that bonding, she must help her recover her child. It meant going back into the jungle alone, without Brett's help. It meant facing the hill country of Laos that had haunted her days and nights for fifteen years. But at least those terrors were familiar, the skills needed to fight them easily recalled. In so many ways, this journey was less dangerous and frightening than the one Brett had asked her to make with him.

 

B
RETT STOOD CONCEALED
behind the beaded curtains that separated the private section of the Lemongrass from the main bar and dining room as the evening dinner crowd began to arrive.

“Man, somethin' smells good in the kitchen tonight,” Billy said, coming up behind him. “How's the room?”

“Usual Saturday night crowd.” Brett watched as Ponchoo escorted group after group of well-dressed, well-heeled Europeans, Japanese and Americans to their tables.

“The kid's got the touch.” Billy was as proud of Ponchoo as Brett was. Twelve years ago, when they'd opened the restaurant on a shoestring budget, Ponchoo had been a snotty-nosed street urchin, picking pockets and panhandling on the street outside. Neither of the men had wanted to see him hauled away by the police, so they'd
offered him a job washing dishes. Ponchoo had been smart enough to see a good deal when it was offered to him and headed into the kitchen.