by Sandra Brown
“Oh.” Heather was at a loss. He appeared harmless. She saw no sign of a weapon, although he could have a gun concealed inside his denim jacket, she supposed. He wasn’t menacing, but she couldn’t account for his jitters. “When you find out their date of arrival, you could call us and reserve a room. This time of year, we usually have vacancies.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Seeming reluctant to go, he looked through the brochures and state maps in the cardboard rack on the counter. “Uh, actually, I wondered if it would be possible for me to see a room. Like preview it, check it out. Your nicest room,” he added quickly. “They like things fancy.”
Heather laughed. “You want to see if our rooms are fancy enough for your relatives?”
“Meaning no offense, Miss Winston.” He raised his hands and looked so disarming that Heather felt silly for being afraid of him. “These folks are like that. Uppity. Always wanting everything just so. I promised to check out the motel situation before they commit to a visit.”
Heather moved to the drawer where keys were filed according to the room number. “The honeymoon suite is our nicest room.”
“The honeymoon suite? I like the sound of that.”
Heather put a sign on the counter that said BACK IN TEN MINUTES and hid her smile as she motioned him through a pair of wide glass doors. He didn’t have relatives coming to visit any more than she had wings. He was planning a rendezvous with a lady friend. It was kind of sweet, Heather thought, the way he was making special plans for it.
“The suite is convenient to the swimming pool.” She called his attention to it as they walked through a landscaped courtyard.
“Bit nippy for a swim.”
“It’s heated year-round.”
“No foolin’?” He glanced dubiously at the water.
“No fooling. That pool is my daddy’s pride and joy. My mother talked him into installing it when they expanded and added this new wing. But it was Daddy’s idea to heat it. The honeymoon suite was also my mother’s idea. It’s not as elaborate as ones you’d find in Dallas or Houston hotels, but it’s pretty. Here we are.”
She unlocked the door for him and stood aside. He hesitated on the threshold. “If you feel uneasy coming inside with me, Miss Winston, I can take a look-see by myself.”
His eyes were so apologetic and earnest that Heather would have followed him into a dark alley wearing all Darcy’s diamonds. “After you, Mr. Cato.”
The “suite” was decorated in mint and peach, the quality of materials a notch above what was used in the other rooms. It had a sitting room and a bedroom with a king-size bed. The bathtub had a built-in whirlpool. Otherwise it was standard motel fare. Heather wouldn’t want to spend her wedding night in it, but she supposed it would seem luxurious to the hicks in Eden Pass.
Bowie Cato nodded appreciatively to every amenity she pointed out, but remained noncommittal. “Where does that go?” he asked, indicating a door on the far side of the bedroom.
“The parking lot. If a guest wants to rent just the bedroom, we lock the door that connects to the parlor.”
“Hmm. So you can come into the bedroom using the parking lot door without having to go through the lobby and around the pool?”
“That’s right,” she answered, suppressing another grin. Mr. Cato was having a secret affair. “The TV in the bedroom has a VCR, so you can bring your own movies to watch.”
“Oh, I doubt we’ll be watching—”
He broke off when he realized that he’d given himself away. Embarrassed, his ears turned red and he swallowed hard. She smiled to let him know that his secret was safe with her. “Like doctors and lawyers, people in the hotel business are very discreet.”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, I think I’ve seen all I need to see. Thank you kindly. Can I go out through this door?” He moved to the one that opened directly onto the parking lot.
“I’ll lock it behind you. Should I make a reservation for you?”
“Not tonight, thanks. I’ll be in touch when, uh, a date’s been set. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
Still looking sheepish, he replaced his hat and waved good-bye. Heather locked the suite and returned to the lobby. As far as she could tell, no one had been there during her absence, nor had the search for the Northwest Passage grown more interesting. She couldn’t concentrate for thinking about Tanner. He’d told her he would be at home studying tonight, but was he?
On impulse, she dialed his number, asked his father if she could speak with him, and was relieved when Ollie told her to hold on while he called Tanner to the phone.
“Hi, it’s me. Whachadoin’?”
“Studying history.”
“Me, too. It sucks.” She twirled the phone cord. “I’m sorry I totally bitched you out after school today.”
“It’s okay.”
Heather could tell by his tone of voice that it wasn’t. “Everyone was saying—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
That was a little too glib a response, she thought. Why wasn’t he denouncing the rumors and denying any interest in Mimsy Parker? I’m losing him, she thought in panic. She knew she’d never live it down. “Tanner, why don’t you come drive me home when I get off at ten? Please? I want to see you.”
“Don’t you have your car?”
Since when did he need an excuse to see her? “I can tell my folks that it wouldn’t start, so I called you.”
“I guess I could.”
“Okay.” She consulted the clock. “I’ll see you in thirty minutes. Unless you want to come now and keep me company until the night clerk gets here.”
“I’ll be there at ten.”
Peeved, Heather hung up. She used the remaining thirty minutes of her shift to primp. The reflection in her compact mirror was reassuring. Mimsy Parker might have boobs the size of cantaloupes, but Heather still had the best hair, the best clothes, the best smile, the best eyes. Nor were her boobs anything to scoff at. Any bigger and they’d sag like Mimsy’s in a few years.
Anyway, possession was nine-tenths of the law. Tanner was still hers. She just needed to guarantee that she kept him.
The night clerk, a pimpled geek who had a mad crush on her, arrived a few minutes early. When Tanner pulled his car into the porte cochere, in order not to appear overanxious she pretended to be busy behind the desk with the geek. After letting him wait a full five minutes, she joined him in his car.
“He’s so dumb!” she exclaimed in exasperation as she slid into the passenger seat. “Honestly! He’s in the National Honor Society but hopeless when it comes to common sense. Hi.” She leaned across the console and kissed his cheek.
“Hi.”
Heather pretended that the spat had never taken place and that Mimsy Parker didn’t exist. She chatted nonstop about school and teachers, inconsequential things. “I’ve got to get something to wear for the homecoming game. I think Mother and I are going to Tyler Saturday to shop. If we can’t find anything there, we’ll go to Dallas the next Saturday. You’re so lucky you don’t have to worry about what you’ll wear for the coronation during half-time. You’ll be in your football uniform.”
That was a subtle reminder that she had been nominated for homecoming queen and that he was damned lucky to be her official escort. “Your football jersey will be all muddy, and when you take off your helmet, your hair will be sweaty. You always look so sexy like that. It makes me hot just thinking about it.”
When she dropped her hand into his lap, she made it appear a casual gesture. She felt his instantaneous response. What a goose I’ve been, she thought. What an idiot! Sex was power. Look at how much mileage her mother got out of it: all she had to do was whisper something to Fergus and look at him seductively, and she got whatever her heart desired.
From the time Heather had been old enough to recognize that kind of manipulation for what it was, she’d been scornful of it. Maybe it was time for a change of heart. Her sexuality was an unlimited and as yet untapped resource
.
What was she saving it for? Why not use it? Now. When it was needed. Every other woman did. Her mother. That slut Mimsy Parker. If she wanted to keep Tanner…
“Stop here,” she said suddenly. They were still a block from her house. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”
Tanner pulled the car to the curb, killed the engine, and cut the headlights. “What about?”
She wanted to slap that surly smirk off his face. Instead, she smiled beguilingly and drew him close. “I don’t really want to talk.” She pressed her open mouth to his and reached for his tongue with her own.
He was taken off guard but quickly recovered. After a few tongue-twining kisses and some carefully choreographed moves, his erection was well defined behind his fly. She ran her hand up and down it, massaging.
He reached beneath her sweater and seized her breast. “What got into you?” he panted as he unsnapped the front closure of her bra.
Mimsy Parker, she thought. “I just love you so much. Oh, yes.” When he lightly pinched her nipple, she placed her hand on the back of his head and guided it down to her. “Tanner, I had the best idea tonight. Listen.” She outlined her plan as she slid her hand inside his jeans. “Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”
“Yes. Oh, Jesus, oh God. Wait. I have a rubber. Want me to—”
“No. I want to see it.”
“Faster, babe. Yes. Yes.”
“Touch me, Tanner.” She opened her thighs and guided his palm to her center.
After several steamy minutes of dual masturbation, he dropped her at her front walk. His eyes were still lambent, his face flushed; he was pathetically grateful and newly besotted.
Her confidence restored, Heather skipped up the steps of her house. Mimsy Parker didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of stealing her boyfriend.
As she went inside, ready with an elaborate lie as to why Tanner had brought her home, she silently thanked that ex-con for giving her the idea that had saved her romance.
Chapter Twenty-Three
El Corazón del Diablo gave his prisoners his most ingratiating smile. His eyes flickered to Key, but after one curious glance they returned to Lara. Key doubted that she realized she had sunk to her knees.
No sooner had the thought crossed Key’s mind than she slowly came to her feet. “I can’t believe it. Emilio, what—”
“I am no longer Emilio Sánchez Perón,” he snapped, his glassy smile vanishing. “I have not been that naive, idealistic youth in a long while. Certainly not since the revolution and your return to the United States.” He almost snarled the last two words. “A nation I hold in utmost contempt.”
Key hated what the young man said, but he was impressed by the manner in which he said it. He spoke fluent English without a trace of a Spanish accent, although he didn’t use contractions.
The squalid backdrop made his neatness even more pronounced. He was smooth shaven and immaculately clean, not an easy condition to maintain in the middle of a jungle. His black hair had been pulled back so tightly that his head was as sleek and shiny as a bowling ball. He had a short queue at the nape of his neck. The style accented his high cheekbones, the lean angularity of his face, the hard, angry slash of his mouth. His eyeglasses had thin gold-wire frames.
Key had tangled with tough customers from all parts of the world. He couldn’t recall one who had looked more chilling than Emilio Sánchez. He was slightly built, but the cold, dead quality in his eyes was symptomatic of unmitigated cruelty. The eyes of a snake.
“If you hate the United States so much, why were you working for my husband at the embassy?” Lara asked.
“My position there allowed me to receive information which others found very useful.”
“In other words you were spying.”
He flashed another grin. “Between you and your husband, I always considered you the more intelligent.”
“You were using the embassy as a source of information. For how long?”
“From the beginning.”
“You bastard.”
A murmur arose from those around them who understood English. El Corazón’s smile slowly dissolved, as though it were melting in the heat. “Having narrowly escaped with your life once, you were a fool to return to Montesangre, Mrs. Porter.”
“I came to retrieve my daughter’s remains. I wished to return them to the United States.”
“You came in vain.”
“I know that now. I condemn the Montesangrens who buried her in a pit.” Tears formed in her eyes, but her posture was now unbowed. “God damn you all.”
“You’ll find it difficult to attract God’s attention from here, Mrs. Porter. He hasn’t listened to the people of Montesangre for decades. We no longer believe he exists.”
“Is that why you found it so easy to murder Father Geraldo?”
“The drunken priest?” he said scornfully. Ricardo slapped him on the shoulder as though he’d told a joke. “He had outlived his usefulness long ago. He was merely another mouth to feed in a country of starving people.”
“What about Dr. Soto? Surely he was useful to your regime.”
“And also to Escávez.”
“You are unforgivably wasteful. Dr. Soto was a healer. When it came to saving lives, he didn’t think politically.”
“Which was his downfall,” El Corazón replied blandly. “In Montesangre one cannot have divided loyalties. Speaking of which,” he said, his eyes moving to Key, “I’m curious about your loyalties, or lack thereof, Mr. Tackett. My curiosity alone has kept you alive.”
“My life’s an open book.”
The soldiers guarding Key had allowed him to stand. His ribs hurt like hell. A couple of them had probably been cracked when he was kicked during the attack at the cemetery. His head hurt worse. The wound on his temple had scabbed over, but his whole cranium throbbed. He itched from having had so much sweat dry on his skin, leaving a salty, gritty residue. On top of everything else, he was hungry.
Sánchez said, “You are assisting the whore who unraveled your brother’s political career. I find that peculiar. What would compel you to risk your life for her?”
“Not her. Her daughter. I believe she might have been my brother’s child.”
“Indeed?” El Corazón removed a folded white handkerchief from the rear pocket of his trousers and blotted his forehead. Even despots were victims of the jungle heat.
Key enjoyed knowing that the other man wasn’t immune to discomfort. It made his own aches and pains more bearable. “Now that I know what happened to Ashley’s body, I agree with Lara in her opinion of your country.”
“Which is?” Sánchez asked as he meticulously replaced the handkerchief in his pocket.
“Montesangre is a shithole and El Corazón del Diablo is the toilet paper.”
With lightning speed, Ricardo whipped a pistol from the holster around his hips and aimed it at Key. Languorously Sánchez raised his hand. Ricardo lowered the pistol but glared at Key murderously.
“You are either very foolish or very brave,” Sánchez said reflectively. “I prefer to believe you are brave. Only a brave man would have dared fly an airplane into my country without permission.” He smiled his chilling, reptilian grin. “In spite of your clever piloting and the ridiculous charade enacted by you and the priest when my men stopped you on the road, we knew exactly where you landed your aircraft. I haven’t seen it for myself, but Ricardo tells me that it is an excellent airplane. Well equipped. It will be useful as we continue our fight. Thank you very much for contributing it to our cause.”
Key looked at Lara. When their eyes met, the best he could do was shrug helplessly. He had no tricks up his sleeve. Even if he could get to the Magnum pistol in the camera bag, he’d be gunned down before he could use it. Then they would murder Lara, too, and her death might not be so mercifully quick.
“Untie their hands.”
Considering the gravity of Key’s thoughts, El Corazón’s brusque order came as a surprise. Ricardo
voiced his objections, but Sánchez cut them short. “We are not savages. Give them water and something to eat.”
Ricardo delegated the unwelcome responsibility to his subordinates, who roughly shoved Lara and Key to the ground. With heart-stopping ferocity and quickness, they severed the cords binding their hands. Key’s wrists had been chafed raw. Lara’s, he saw, were worse. The skin had cracked opened and she was bleeding.
They were brought crude bowls of a stew comprised mostly of rice and beans. The chunks of meat were scarce and unidentifiable. Key figured he was better off not knowing what it was. A young boy with a body as slender and tough as a jungle vine and eyes as hostile and flat as El Corazón’s brought him a crockery pitcher of water. He drank greedily.
When he lowered the pitcher, he became aware of the nearby scuffle. Lara had dumped her portion of food onto the ground and was being jeered for pouring out the water that had been offered.
“How very childish, Mrs. Porter,” El Corazón remarked. Someone had brought a chair for him. As he sat in the shade of the porch, two girls, one on either side, fanned him. “It surprises me that you would be so demonstrative. I remember you as a woman who displayed very little emotion.”
“I would never accept your charity after what you did to Father Geraldo and Dr. Soto.”
“As you wish.”
She looked at Key, her irritation with him plain. He shrugged, knowing the insolent gesture would only increase her annoyance with him for eating and drinking what their captor had offered. If they stood a ghost of a chance to escape, they would need physical strength.
He wasn’t as principled as Lara, maybe, but he was a hell of a lot more practical. Only moments before he’d been sympathetic to her physical discomfort. Now he could easily have throttled her for squandering food and water, which she desperately needed.
At a signal from Sánchez, several guerrillas detached themselves and moved out of sight behind the hut. Key finished his food and drank the remainder of the water. As the empty utensils were being taken from him, the soldiers returned, leading a man and a woman. Both had their hands tied behind their backs.
