by Janzen, Tara
Now she was going to use that information to her advantage in every conceivable way. Yes, she’d promised him Josh, but she wasn’t going to lead Josh to slaughter. Not if Carlos Delgado appreciated the early warning, and not if she could convince the minister of Josh’s value.
But the biggest “if” of all was Josh. Would he remember? Would he understand the hidden message? And if he did understand, would he care enough to come? The love they’d shared had been fleeting, barely a memory now, but their friendship had been inviolate—until the night he betrayed her.
Nikki slid back in her chair and covered her face with her hands. Please come, Josh. Please come back to me . . . and when this is over, please forgive me.
* * *
Mustache or no mustache? Josh leaned forward over the sink and eyed the sleek line of whiskers above his mouth. Bright Panamanian sunshine streamed through the bathroom window, warming his shower-damp skin. Morning birds chirped and sang in the mango trees edging the courtyard of his rented bungalow. He whistled along with them as he tied a towel around his waist.
A few more weeks and he’d have a regular set of handlebars, he thought, but he went ahead, lifting the scissors and starting to cut. The mustache had served its purpose. It had turned him from Josh Rios into Juan Alonso for the week necessary to track down the last informant he needed to bring General Travinas to his knees. Lord, what a sordid life the bastard had led.
A knock on the door stopped him in mid-snip. “Señor Rios?”
“Come on in, Quico,” Josh hollered over his shoulder, recognizing the teenager’s voice. “Go ahead and put it all on the patio table. Did you find the newspapers?”
“Did I find them yesterday morning? And the morning before that? Did I find them last week?”
Josh grinned into the mirror. The boy was getting cheeky. “Yes, you found them last week, but I wasn’t here yesterday or the day before. I’ll never know if you found those papers.”
“But, señor, I put them right—” He stopped suddenly, realizing Josh was teasing him. “They are right where I put them, on your bedside table, and from the mess they are in, I would guess you also found them, maybe even slept with them.”
Josh chuckled. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Your favorite. Coffee and sweet rolls, pan dulce.” Quico’s voice faded as he walked out to the patio.
“And what’s happening in the world?” Josh raised his voice as he lathered his face.
“Trouble. Always trouble.” Quico walked back through the open doors, carrying one of the newspapers.
“Anyplace in particular?”
“In America everybody is getting richer, some people too rich. You’re throwing them in jail. Strange kind of trouble.” He paused for a moment, scanning the front page. “No more trouble in Panama, but San Simeon has big trouble, very big trouble.”
Josh stopped shaving and slowly lowered his razor to the sink. “What paper is that?” He wiped the shaving cream off his face.
“The Post.”
“Let me see it. Go get the Times.” He took the paper and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. The headline had him swearing under his breath: “Travinas Declares Martial Law, Ousts Cabinet.” The front page byline was painfully predictable—Nikki Kydd—and the dateline told him the story had broken the day after he’d gone searching for his underground informant. The damn thing was four days old, and he was sitting in Panama.
Quico came rushing back in with the Times.
“Forget it,” Josh said. He didn’t need any more old news. He reached into the pocket of the pants hanging on the towel rack and pulled out a wad of bills. He shoved them into Quico’s hand. “Go get all the local papers, today’s edition and yesterday’s if you can find them. Go quickly.”
Josh watched the boy disappear through the courtyard, then returned his attention to the newspaper. He skimmed the article, getting angrier with each successive paragraph. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if Travinas had somehow gotten wind of the story he’d been working on for the last three years. The truth was enough to panic anybody into cracking down, especially if that truth was grade A blackmail material in unfriendly hands. A lot of the people Josh had dealt with wanted revenge against Travinas, but any one of the few who didn’t might have decided to play both sides against the middle by telling the general a man named Rios was digging into his past.
Under those conditions, Josh wouldn’t give two bits for the value of his life in San Simeon. Luckily he didn’t need to return to San Simeon. A man in Panama had given him the final details of Travinas’s cryptic history.
But his anger had another, deeper cause, one that he couldn’t control, had never been able to control. Nikki Kydd, the young woman whose love and betrayal had marked his turning point from a boy into a man. There had never been another like her, and she was still neck deep in the hottest water in Central America.
Remembered pain tightened his mouth into a grim line. The weeks he’d spent looking for her had left permanent scars on his heart. The long days filled with dead ends, the even longer nights of fear, had turned his carefree existence into a battleground where hope always lost out to reality. He’d left messages in a dozen of the places he’d expected her to go, but she had kept running and he hadn’t been able to catch her. In the end her total rejection of him as a friend, a partner, and a lover had forced him to leave San Simeon. Leave or go crazy.
Three years later, the choice was still clear in his mind. He focused again on the newspaper in his hands. Three years later, she still had the power to wound.
He read the article again, more slowly this time. The story unfolded line after line, speaking to him on a personal as well as a political and journalistic level. Nikki was good, the best. Despite her intense hatred of Travinas, she kept to the facts.
But by the second reading, those facts started to unravel a bit around the edges. Everything was in place, almost too neatly. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled a washcloth off the sink, using it to wipe away a stray dab of soap. Beginning at the top, he combed through the story again, searching for the details causing him unease. He found one in the second column, in a quote from a minor official, or so the article said. Josh recognized the name for another reason. The man, or a man with the same name, had been a friend of theirs. He’d owned a cantina they’d frequented, and Josh doubted if the congenial saloon keeper had switched loyalties and become one of Travinas’s followers.
Coincidence, he decided, in spite of his natural journalistic aversion to coincidence. But two paragraphs down he found another memory-jolting sentence, and one more in the next column. The wording in all of them was subtle, the implication almost imperceptible, yet as he read the lines again, the hint of a plea became clear.
Plea for what? And to whom? Nikki was too careful a writer for the hidden meaning to be a result of sloppy work. She’d been sending a message to someone. Only that person—and another who knew her as well as he did himself—would understand.
A knot of fear slowly formed in his gut, making it impossible for him to concentrate. In disgust, he strode into the bedroom and tossed the paper on the bed. He was overreacting, seeing mysteries where none existed. He’d be better off if he, too, kept to the facts. He had only two: she was still in San Simeon and the country was falling down around her ears.
He grabbed his pants and walked over to the dresser for clean underwear. Over the years he’d followed her career through half a dozen newspapers until she’d landed a permanent position at the Post. He’d sent her a card, in a fit of weakness, the first time she made the front page, but she hadn’t replied, or if she had, the letter had never reached him. Now Nikki Kydd only did front-page stories.
He zipped his pants, then almost resentfully picked up the paper and snapped it open. Leaning over the nightstand, he underlined the statements he thought could be part of a message, and he felt more like a fool with every stroke of his pen. Until he put them all together.
He w
asn’t imagining things. Nikki was sending a message, and she was sending it to him. Slowly he sank down on the bed, the paper spread between his knees. The message spoke of trouble, of need, of a friendship she’d never forgotten, and if he twisted the words ever so slightly, maybe also of love.
He lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes. He’d missed her for so long, and now she wanted him back. He shook his head, the hint of a wry smile lifting a corner of his mouth. She sure had lousy timing.
Quico came running back in from the patio, a half a dozen papers in his arms. “I found them all, Josh. Today’s and yesterday’s.”
Josh looked up, then checked his watch. “No time now, amigo. Stuff them in my satchel and go ask your mama how much I owe her.”
“You’re leaving?” Disappointment stopped the boy in his tracks.
“ ‘Fraid so. I’ve got a long overdue date with a lady.”
“A woman?” Quico asked, as if that was a most unacceptable reason for leaving a good buddy.
A woman? Josh repeated silently. He didn’t really know. In some ways she’d been old beyond her years, even at seventeen and eighteen, and the night she’d made love with him had transcended any and all boundaries of age or experience. But to leave him without a word? He didn’t know if that had been the act of a frightened girl or a calculating woman. It was time to find out.
Six
The city was coming apart at the seams, seething with revolt and defiance. Fires burned in the barrio, their flames brightening the night sky to the east of the Plaza District. Any day now, Nikki knew the fires would be burning right outside the Paloma Grand Hotel, the smoke blackening the white marble columns and darkening the view from her second floor apartment. The crowds were already spilling into the downtown area, armed with rocks and slogans.
Honking her horn and swearing in short bursts, she maneuvered her Chevy through the throng of people in the street. Three days in the jungle had left her in no mood to do vehicular battle. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically, running on empty in all departments except for an overabundance of nervous energy. Two blocks from the Paloma, she gave up on driving and pulled over to the curb. She’d have to walk.
The moment she stopped, a rock bounced off the hood of the car. She flinched at the thudding sound, feeling her first pang of fear. Damn Delgado for keeping her hanging around Sulaco all day. She should have left the northern village where he was holed up early that morning. She should have been home long before the nightly riots began, but he’d made it clear from the beginning that if she wanted to deal with him, it would be on his terms and on his schedule. He had a country to claim.
Without any facts to back her up, and despite his gratitude for her warning phone call, she’d had a difficult time convincing him that it was in his best interest to make sure nothing happened to Joshua Rios. But she’d done it. She had all of her players in place: her mother on the brink of freedom; Travinas pacing his office day in and day out, waiting for word of Josh’s arrival; and Delgado ready to use his men to cover the supposed hostage exchange and ensure everyone’s safety. The only player missing was Josh. Her week-long attempts to contact him through his newspaper had resulted in nothing. No one knew where he was, but neither had there been any news of his death.
Nikki reached over to the passenger seat and slipped the strap of her duffel bag over her shoulder. She sat for a moment, eyeing the moving crowd and waiting for a break. When it came, she got out of the car and was immediately swept into the mass of shouting humanity.
* * *
Josh stood in the shadows at the south end of the Paloma’s entrance. For two days he’d been watching the hotel, calling her apartment, and keeping a low profile, all the while fighting the sinking feeling that he was too late. If she didn’t show up that night, he’d have to blow his cover and start some serious looking. He didn’t dare wait any longer if she was in trouble, because nobody he’d ever met knew more about getting into trouble than Nikki Kydd.
The crowd pressed up to the hotel’s portico, and he had to struggle to hold his ground. Someone stepped on his foot. Another man fell against his back. Josh swore at each accidental assault, but when a sharp elbow caught him in the side, he reacted instinctively, grabbing the thin arm and wrenching it backward. Only the man’s stricken face kept him from perpetrating his own accident and breaking the bone.
With a muttered curse, he released the man into the receding crowd. His nerves were raw from waiting and worrying. He reached inside his satchel and pulled a cheroot out of a thin metal case, a habit he’d picked up the last time he’d been looking for her. He struck a match on the stone wall at his back.
Inhaling deeply, he returned his gaze to the hotel entrance, then searched the street. The cloud of smoke caused him to squint, impairing his vision for a moment, but when it cleared he saw her. His cupped hands still in front of him; his breath caught in his throat.
Nikki . . . Her name whispered across his mind. Feelings he thought he had controlled welled up inside him, sharper and more painful than his memories. Not taking his eyes off her, he drew in a slow, deep breath. He should have come back for her a long time ago, a long, long time ago.
The match burned down to his fingers, and with a soft curse, he dropped it on the ground. When he looked up, she had disappeared.
“Dammit,” he muttered, throwing down the cheroot and plunging into the mob.
Nikki stumbled along with the crowd, getting jostled and jolted. If she didn’t come up with a quick move soon, she’d end up in front of the palace or, more likely, in front of a barricade of riot-control troops—and those were the up-side possibilities. On the down side, she could end up trampled to death.
In the way of unruly masses, the mob heaved to the right, bringing her closer to the Paloma. Nikki made her break, shoving through the cordon of men surrounding her, and was shoved right back. A blow to her shoulder made her grimace with pain. She tightened her mouth and kept pushing. Suddenly a hand circled her wrist and jerked her sideways. She stumbled, but the hand kept her from falling, and the relentless grip kept her moving toward the Paloma, pulling her ever closer to the tall man making an opening through the crowd. In seconds she was under the protection of his arm.
She held her duffel close to her chest and wrapped her other hand around the man’s belt, clinging to her free ride. His long, powerful legs strode forcefully forward. She matched her steps to his, stretching her own stride, feeling his thigh moving against hers and his heavy boots coming down next to her tennis shoes.
Half a minute later, he’d accomplished the impossible. He’d gotten her free of the worst of the crowd. She glanced up with words of gratitude on her lips, but they died instantly, replaced by a gasp of disbelief.
Josh looked down at her, a small grin twisting his mouth despite his grim expression. His arm tightened around her shoulders as he fought their way back toward the Paloma, pushing through the yelling, shoving men. At the side entrance to the hotel’s garden courtyard, he ducked under an iron-grilled archway and swept her around in his arms, so her back was against the high adobe wall.
The sounds of the riot faded to a rumbling backdrop, softened by the intensity of his gaze. He stared at her for a long moment, towering over her, his chest heaving as hard as her own. Then he cupped her face in his hands and slowly lowered his forehead to rest on hers. He held her, his thumbs tracing the contours of her cheeks.
A thousand emotions collided in her heart as her eyes drifted closed. Only the wall and his touch kept her knees from buckling with shock. Their breath mingled in soft gasps for air. He’d come back to her. Against the odds, he’d evaded Brazia’s deadly grasp and returned to her. The last of her nervous energy drained out of her with the weakness of relief.
Josh felt her shuddering sigh in the pressure of her breasts rising against his chest. Her skin was soft, and damp from the humid air, her hair a mass of tangled silk around his fingers. He’d missed her. Lord, how he’d missed her. Wi
thout a word he tilted her head back and let his mouth slide down to hers, teasing his memories of love back to life.
The sweet invasion stole her last coherent thought, left her helpless, caught in a trap of unexpected tenderness. Her hands met at the back of his neck, her fingers tunneling through the hair lying across his collar. He groaned and pressed her harder against the garden wall.
The overpowering strength of him swept her further from reality. She clung to him out of need. He’d come back to her as a lover, not as a friend, and until that moment she hadn’t realized how desperately she needed both. She had been alone so long.
“Nikki, Nikki,” he whispered, kissing the side of her nose, the corners of her lips. Then he slipped his tongue inside her mouth to taste the rich sweetness that was hers alone.
He’d made a mistake. Josh knew that the instant her lips parted and sent a shaft of desire spiraling through his body. The longing for her had been pent up for too many years, through too many sleepless nights. His hands slid down to her breasts, then back up under her arms, lifting her higher against him. He wanted everything she had to give, everything she’d given him once—the mindless passion, the complete forgetting of self and the finding of each other. He wanted to discover the woman inside the girl he’d loved.
He wanted to unbutton her shirt and slip his hand inside. But now was not the time, and the Paloma garden wasn’t a safe place to linger, not with her body and her every touch distracting him beyond reason. Reluctantly, he tore his mouth away, ending the kiss with a soft groan.
