Forbidden

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She lifted her head, looking up at him. “We’ll find him,” she said.

  Her mouth was mere inches away from his. All he had to do was to lower his head…

  “It’s just a matter of time now,” she continued.

  He moved closer….

  “Tomorrow we can take a ride up into the mountains and…” Her words trailed off, and he saw recognition in her eyes. Recognition and something else. She knew that he wanted to kiss her, and for a moment it looked as if she wanted that too.

  The look in her eyes nearly pushed him over the edge. But for over twenty years, Cal had denied himself selfish and short-term pleasures, and he’d be damned if his self-control was going to be shattered now, when Liam needed him most, and when Kayla, too, desperately needed him not to push too hard.

  Slowly, jerkily, Cal somehow managed to release her. Somehow he stepped back, away from her. He ran his hand through his hair, shocked not that it was shaking, but that it wasn’t shaking more.

  He’d done it. He’d managed not to kiss her.

  This time.

  Next time he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself.

  He cleared his throat. “First thing in the morning I want to ride up into the mountains—try to find that prison camp.”

  Kayla cleared her throat too. She wasn’t sure what had just happened. Cal had held her so tightly, she’d felt his heart racing, felt his pulse pounding. And now, here he was, pretending again that whatever it was between them was something that could be ignored. “All right. What time do you want me to be ready to leave?”

  He glanced at her. “I was thinking I’d go alone.”

  “Without me?”

  “That’s generally what alone means. Without anyone else.”

  He turned to start walking down the beach, but she moved in front of him, walking backward so that he was forced to meet her eyes. “Why?”

  “You’ve been watching CNN,” he said. “You know damn well why. Despite what the tourist bureau says, there’re people up in those mountains with guns.”

  “So? There’re people in Puerto Norte with guns too. They’re called soldiers, and from what I’ve seen on CNN, they’re probably more dangerous than the rebel forces hiding in the jungle.”

  “You can spend the morning by the swimming pool, inside the hotel courtyard. You’ll be safe there.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.” He stepped past her, lengthening his stride.

  “You barely speak Spanish,” she pointed out, nearly running to keep up with him. “How are you going to communicate with anyone? How are you going to ask questions about Liam?”

  He didn’t even glance at her. “I don’t know.”

  Kayla grabbed his arm and dug her heels into the sand, pulling him to a stop. “You’re going to take me—that’s how you’re going to do it.”

  The heat of his temper flared in his ice-blue eyes as he glared down first at her and then at her hand still holding his arm. “You’re not coming along.”

  “Because it’s too dangerous?”

  “That’s right.” He shook himself free from her grasp and stepped past her again. But this time her words stopped him.

  “That’s a load of bull,” she said hotly. “You don’t want me to come along not because you’re afraid for me—but because you’re afraid of me. You can’t handle the temptation, Bartlett. You think that something’s going to happen between us.”

  Well, that may not have been the smartest thing to say. She could see the anger in the tension of his shoulders and back. She steeled herself for the explosion she knew would come.

  He slowly turned to face her, pushing his hair back from his face. He looked at her, starting with the dark red nail polish on her toes and traveling all the way up to the top of her windswept curls, taking his merry old time on the way to study the lengths of her legs, the fullness of her breasts, the softness of her mouth. Finally he settled on her eyes.

  She couldn’t look away. She didn’t want to look away.

  “I can handle the temptation,” he said quietly, dangerously. “And believe me, Kayla, you are one hell of a temptation. I figure after this is all said and done, I’ll be ready for sainthood. Because nothing is going to happen between us.”

  “If that’s really true, then let me come with you tomorrow,” Kayla countered. “I’ll be safer with you than I would be alone at the hotel.” She had intended to play on his macho cowboy pride, but the funny thing was, she actually believed her own words. She would be safer with him. She was frightened at the thought of him leaving her alone. “Please?”

  She could read nothing but coldness in the hard lines of his face. Somehow he’d taken all of his anger, all of his passion, all of his emotion, and pushed it deep down inside of him.

  “Six A.M.,” he told her. “If you’re ready, you can come. But if you’re one minute late, I’m leaving without you.”

  The black car.

  It was at the edge of the parking lot, right next to their motorcycle. It was just sitting there. The windows were tinted—there was no way to see who or what was inside.

  “What do we do?” Kayla murmured, glancing up at Cal. Her heart was racing.

  “Go to the concession stand,” he ordered her. “I’ll get our boots and the bike and meet you over there.”

  “But what if it’s the Special Forces Police? What if they grab you and drag you into that car and—”

  “Please, Kayla.” He took some of the colorful San Salustiano dollars from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. “Buy us both a soda. I’ll be right there, okay?”

  Her mouth was dry from sudden panic. “Cal—”

  “Okay?” He turned her to face him, holding her chin so that she had to look into his eyes.

  She found a certain stability there, a warmth and familiarity that calmed her, and she nodded. She should go to the concession stand and he would be right there. No one was getting kidnapped by the SFP. Not in broad daylight on a public beach. “Okay.”

  “Buy the sodas,” he said again. “Make it look real. I don’t want these boys to know we’re on to them.”

  She nodded again, took a deep breath and forced a smile. “You want a cola or a root beer or something else?”

  Cal smiled at her. “Whatever you’re having.”

  Kayla reached for his hand. “Be careful.” But he was already moving away, toward the bike and toward that sleek black, deadly looking car.

  She forced herself to turn and walk toward the crude concrete shack that served as a refreshment stand. A pair of nearly identical-looking boys—they had to be twins—were behind the counter. One of them dug two cans of cola from an ice chest. They cost Kayla nearly ten San Salustiano dollars, which she thought was outrageous.

  “It works out to be about three American dollars a can,” said a man who was in line behind her. He spoke in English, and Kayla turned around to look at him.

  “A sorry state of affairs, isn’t it? Our economy has been nearly destroyed by the constant threat of violence between the government and the opposition party,” the man continued. “I come down here all the time, to talk with the tourists, and each time the soda pop is a little bit more expensive.”

  He was strikingly handsome, with the dark hair and eyes that were native to the island. He was overdressed for the beach in a light-colored suit made of linen. Everything about him, from his well-styled hair to his expensive leather shoes, spoke of wealth.

  Kayla smiled at him, and moved toward one of the brightly painted picnic tables that sat outside in the shade of a palm tree. Where was Cal? She searched for him, squinting against the brightness, her heart pounding as she couldn’t see him and…Then she could see him. He was pushing the motorcycle far away from the black car. He was nearly up to the concession stand, and she quickly started toward him, carrying both of their sodas.

  But the man followed her, opening his own can of soda with a crack. “I am Tomás Vásquez. I am connected with the San
Salustiano Council of Tourism. Perhaps you would allow me to ask you several questions about your stay on our island.”

  Kayla knew Cal had heard the man’s words as he reached for his soda. “Sorry, we’re in something of a hurry today,” he said in his smooth western drawl.

  “Señor Bartlett, is it not?”

  Cal froze. “Yes, it is.”

  “Perhaps we could walk, sir.” Vásquez nodded slightly to Kayla. “Miss Grey.”

  How did this guy know their names? Kayla involuntarily glanced toward the black car. It hadn’t moved.

  “Ah, I see you are admiring my car,” Vásquez said. He lowered his voice. “Yes, I have been following you. There is an important matter of which we must speak, but it is vital—for all of our safety—that we appear only to be discussing your stay as tourists on our island. Please, will you walk?”

  He started toward the water, beckoning them to follow.

  Kayla met Cal’s eyes.

  “Stay here,” he said.

  “No way!”

  “I have no idea what this man wants from us.”

  “Neither do I—and that’s exactly why I want to go talk to him. This is why we came to San Salustiano, Cal. Maybe this guy has some information about Liam.”

  “Then why would he approach us on the beach, where everyone can see us talking together?”

  “He told me he comes here all the time,” Kayla told him, “to talk to the tourists. What better place to contact us?”

  Vásquez had stopped, and he stood watching them, waiting for them to catch up.

  Kayla started toward him, but Cal caught her wrist. “Stay close to me,” he whispered.

  Vásquez looked out over the ocean, taking a drink from his can of soda. “It’s amazing such a beautiful island should be the grounds for such a long and bloody battle,” he mused. “Did you know that three years ago, during the worst of the fighting, a skirmish was fought right here, on this very spot?”

  Cal shook his head. “No, I didn’t know that. There was no mention of that in anything I’ve read.”

  “Often times the most fascinating of the stories are kept out of the newspapers and history books,” Vásquez said. He turned toward them suddenly. “I know who you are and why you are here. I am given the names of people passing through customs, and Bartlett sounded familiar. I had the opportunity to access government computers earlier this afternoon, and sure enough, two years ago, a young American reporter named William Bartlett was killed in a terrorist explosion outside of Puerto Norte. It was a terrible tragedy.” He took a deep breath. “However, being a disbeliever in coincidence, I checked the files more carefully and found that yes, William did have an older brother, Calvin Bartlett, who is, of course, you.”

  Kayla could see the tension in Cal’s shoulders and neck, and she couldn’t keep from reaching out and lightly squeezing his hand. He wasn’t alone and she wanted him to remember that. As if acknowledging her silent message, he gently squeezed her hand too.

  “In my capacity as a government official, I should scold you soundly for failing to let the authorities know that you came to San Salustiano to investigate your brother’s death,” Vásquez continued. “However, as a member of the Council of Tourism, I can appreciate your silence. The last thing I want is newspaper reporters and TV crews reminding the public that Americans were killed here in the recent past. That is why I have not mentioned your identity to anyone else.

  “If you will allow me, I will assist you in your search for the truth. In a day or so I will escort you both to the place where the bus was bombed—where your brother lost his life,” Vásquez promised them. “The ruins of the bus have been left there as a monument to the dead. It will take me at least a day to get permission to travel into that area of the country, but if you will be patient, you will find such a visit helpful in understanding why the San Salustiano officials were unable to return your brother’s remains.”

  “And what about the rumors that Liam was never even on that bus?” Cal asked quietly.

  Vásquez seemed surprised. “I have not heard of such rumors.”

  Kayla couldn’t believe that. She let her incredulousness show in her voice. “You’ve never heard of the legendary Americano who escaped from one of the prison camps in the mountains?”

  The San Salustiano man took another long sip of his soda, then crushed the empty can in his hand. “I had heard talk of a mercenary American hired to fight with the opposition forces—a man well trusted and respected by the rebels. You honestly believe William Bartlett could be this man?”

  “We don’t know what to believe or who to trust,” Kayla told him.

  “If William Bartlett is still alive,” Vásquez said as if thinking aloud, “and if he is this man so beloved by the opposition forces, then he could well provide the basis for the negotiations and peace talks this country needs so very badly.” He drew in a deep breath and looked from Cal to Kayla, his gaze steady and filled with quiet determination. “We must begin to heal this country’s wounds by trusting one another.”

  8

  Cal knew the moment he stepped into his room that someone had been in there while he was out.

  The shirts he had used to cover the video camera had been moved. They were neatly folded now and lying on top of the dresser, leaving the camera lens unobstructed. His cowboy hat had been delivered from the front desk—it lay on top of the neatly tidied bed along with several thick white towels.

  “Oh, good, the maid’s been here,” Kayla said, coming into the room behind him, meeting his eyes just long enough to let him know that she, too, was aware they were being watched.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up his hat. “I’m exhausted. I know you wanted to go out for dinner, but I’m ready to turn in early. My stomach’s still upset from lunch, and…”

  Cal knew what she was doing. She was giving them an excuse to spend tonight in their separate rooms without arousing suspicion on the part of the people watching and listening in. That was good. That was very good. He wasn’t sure he could handle pretending to be intimate with Kayla right now.

  He sat down next to her on the bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to touch her for the sake of the cameras. Not this time. “If that’s what you want…” He gazed into her eyes, knowing she was thinking about their recent conversation with Tomás Vásquez, and about the question Cal had asked her on the beach after the man had left. Do you trust him?

  “Why don’t you order room service?” There had been such hope in her eyes as Vásquez had walked to his car and driven away from the beach. There was hope there still. I don’t know. Do you?

  I don’t know. He hadn’t answered truthfully. No, he didn’t trust Vásquez. He didn’t trust any- one. But he couldn’t bear to see the hope in her eyes replaced by disappointment.

  He nodded now. “Okay. Can I get something for you?”

  “No. Thanks. If I want something to eat, I’ll call myself.” She stood up, moving toward the balcony doors. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be right here if you need me.”

  Kayla stopped and looked back at him, meeting his eyes and smiling very slightly. “I know.”

  She stepped through the billowing curtain and disappeared into the deepening twilight.

  Cal lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He’d be here if she needed him.

  But what about if he needed her? And he did. God, he needed her. Desperately.

  It wasn’t just about sex. It was about the way Kayla could make him smile. It was about the way his entire being felt lighter when she was around. It was about the way he felt something was suddenly missing when she wasn’t there.

  Something like his heart.

  Cal sat up quickly, pushing his thoughts away. He couldn’t go in that direction. He refused to go in that direction.

  He pulled off his boots and shirt. He didn’t bother to cover the camera lens before he stepped out of his jeans and shorts and headed, naked,
toward the shower. Let ’em look. He didn’t give a damn about himself.

  He turned on the water and stepped under the warm spray, letting it pound down on his head and pour over his face. He rolled his shoulders, trying to force himself to relax. But the tension wouldn’t go away.

  Sweet Jesus, today had been hard. And tomorrow was looking to be even harder.

  “Which way?” Cal glanced over his shoulder at Kayla as he slowed the motorcycle to a stop at a fork in the narrow mountain road.

  She loosened her hold around his waist and took the tourist map out of her fanny pack, comparing it one more time with the crudely hand-drawn map the San Salustiano woman had given her back in Boston.

  The island was nearly one hundred and fifty miles long and about half as wide. The roads that wound up into the mountains were crumbling in disrepair. They’d been riding steadily upward all morning, stopping only for a quick lunch of bread and cheese that Kayla had thought to tuck into the bag behind the seat,

  “Left. Definitely left.” To her surprise, Cal hadn’t argued when she’d told him she’d navigate. She’d been prepared to cite examples of her innate ability to tell direction. But he’d simply handed her the map.

  He’d looked exhausted when they met out in front of the hotel lobby that morning, and she’d had to wonder if he’d slept as badly as she had.

  She’d tossed and turned all night long, and when she had slept, her dreams had been filled with disturbing images—Cal’s hard, powerful body pinning her to the bed as he gazed down into her eyes. Long, slow, soft, steamy kisses that made her melt, kisses that built in intensity and urgency until they were neither slow nor soft.

  And then she struggled beneath him, asking him to stop. He didn’t answer, and when she looked at him, his face had changed. He wasn’t Cal any longer, and the fear nearly smothered her.

  She’d awakened with a start, sitting up in bed, drenched with sweat. She’d spent the remainder of the night with the light on, slipping in and out of a dreamless, restless sleep.

  Cal waited as she zipped the maps back into her fanny pack, and when she once again put her arms around his waist, he put the bike in gear, lifting his feet off the ground and repositioning them on the footrests.