Light was beginning to filter through the curtains that entirely covered one wall. Despite the lingering gloom, she could see him clearly. His black hair was wildly tousled, his naked torso formidable as he half turned to meet her gaze. Those obsidian eyes glinted down at her from beneath frowning brows. His mouth was straight, expressionless beneath that villainous mustache. He looked poised for action, yet he was looking at her as if waiting for her to say something. Perhaps he expected her to moan about how wonderful it had been for her as she invited him to continue? She snorted to herself. Not hardly, to use her students’ vernacular. She would let him make love to her—it seemed only fair, under the circumstances—but she didn’t intend to enjoy it. And she meant to make that clear.
“Well, go ahead,” she said, glaring at him. He lifted his eyebrows at her without saying anything. Lora’s scowl darkened, losing nothing because of the bright red flush that suffused her skin. This man had just performed an extremely intimate act on her, and yet he was looking at her as if she were a bug on a pin.
“If you’re going to do it, do it and get it over with. I won’t stop you.” She wasn’t being quite fair, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. Intellectually, she realized that he was hardly to blame for her humiliation—she had initiated the contact, however much it pained her to admit it—but that didn’t lessen her hostility toward him. He probably felt she owed him . . . Well, she would pay in the coin he expected, but she wouldn’t enjoy it and she would let him know it.
“Generous.” The word was dry. His eyes, as they swept over her before returning to meet hers, were hooded. “But don’t strain yourself to be nice, babe. I like my women hungry. Like you were earlier . . . ” His mouth curved into a nasty smile.
She flinched at the reminder of how she had been, feeling humiliation burn into her flesh. He smiled grimly at her reaction, then got out of bed without regard for his nakedness or her eyes on him, and began to dress.
IX
It was barely past dawn, but sunlight was already filtering brightly into the compound when they left Ortega’s fortress some half hour later. The procedure for leaving was the same as entering: armed men watched from different vantage points about the grounds as Lora was blindfolded and then Max drove away. Lora did not protest the blindfold; after what had happened between them, she was speaking to Max only when absolutely necessary. He was speaking to her even less than that. He had, perhaps, grunted twice at her since ordering her to get dressed as he did so himself. Shame was the uppermost of the emotions keeping her silent; from the grim set of his mouth, he was just plain mad.
Lora took the blindfold off herself, finally. After nearly forty minutes of driving, during which Max said not one word to indicate that they were safely away, Lora finally got the idea that he would leave her to swelter under the blasted sarape all day if she didn’t do something about it. He gave her a single hard look as she emerged, blinking, from the swathing folds of cloth, and turned his attention back to the narrow road. Lora cast him a glance of loathing, and turned her attention to the view outside her window. If he was going to sulk, why, that was fine with her. Sulking was exactly what she felt like doing herself.
It was a beautiful morning. Water droplets glistened like diamonds on the deep green of the jungle foliage. The road twisted through the densest part of the rain forest, climbing steadily into the mountains all the while. Parrots and a multitude of smaller birds that Lora could not identify squawked ovehead, their brilliant plummage gleaming in the sunlight as they fluttered from tree to tree. More tarantulas scuttled across the road. Lora counted three before they had driven more than ten miles. The encroaching undergrowth on either side of the road rustled intermittently, and Lora did not like to imagine what kind of animal might be causing the movements. Like nearly everything else associated with this man and the nightmare trip he had forced her on, it was probably better not to know.
The car was slowing. Lora saw that they were approaching a rickety wooden bridge. The thing was only wide enough to permit one car to pass at a time, and it looked as if it was as old as Mexico.
“You’re not going to drive across that, are you?” The first civil words that she had spoken to him that morning squeaked from her lips as she stared, appalled, at the bridge that wasn’t more than twenty feet from their front tires.
He said nothing, just shot her a narrow-eyed look from those glittering eyes. Lora glared at him, folded her arms, and determined not to say another word. Even if he was bent on killing them—which, from the looks of that bridge, he was—she would endure it in bitter silence.
The car crept onto the narrow planks. As the structure was forced to bear the combined weight of the orange Volkswagen and two adult humans it groaned loudly. Lora knew she must have whitened; her nails bit into her upper arms through the windbreaker and shirt as she fought to stifle a terrified protest. The car crept forward, the moan intensified, the bridge swayed . . . Lora shut her eyes.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” The unexpected sound of Max’s voice made Lora’s eyes fly open again. She found that his expression was as unfriendly as his tone, but it was surprisingly comforting just to hear his voice, under the hair-raising circumstances. “The damned bridge is perfectly safe. I’ve crossed it before, in a lot heavier vehicles than this.”
“But it’s—moaning.” Lora was too worried about falling into the swirling brown waters of the river far below to remember that she was not speaking to him. She was all in favor of letting bygones be bygones—at least until they reached solid ground again.
“It’s something in the structure of the bridge. I tell you, it’s perfectly safe.”
“So you say.” The words were muttered under her breath, but from the glinty-eyed look he shot her, he heard. Lora said nothing else, barely breathing until the Volkswagen reached the other side and crawled safely on into the jungle.
She drew in a deep breath, then frowned. Just around the first turn past the bridge two vehicles were parked at the side of the road, a nondescript brown sedan and a battered pickup truck. Except for the vehicles in Ortega’s fortress, Lora had not seen another car along this road since they had left Palenque. Something about them, parked end to end and seemingly deserted in this impenetrable jungle, seemed odd to her. What . . .
Without warning, what appeared to be an entire platoon of armed men burst from the jungle, forming a line across the road and aiming their weapons at the Volkswagen. Lora uttered a little choked scream, ducking her head instinctively beneath the dash. Were they police or terrorists or maybe more bandidos? They would certainly start shooting at any second. . . . She gritted her teeth and prayed that she would not be struck by any stray bullets as she waited for the fusillade to start. The car was slowing. Max pulled off the road just behind the other vehicles and stopped the car. Lora sat up, eyes huge as the armed men—she saw now that there were only four, armed with large pistols like the one Max had stuck in his jeans—surrounded the car.
“Max, do you know them? What do we do?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She prayed that they were friends of his—until she remembered Ortega and had second thoughts. His friends were as scary as his enemies, to her at least. The men outside were looking in through the windows at them now. They stood, one on either side of the VW and two in front of it. Their weapons were ready. . . .
“You drive straight down this road for maybe another twenty miles and you’ll run into 190. It’s a major highway, and it’ll take you anywhere you want to go. When you get to a town, you can ask directions back to Cancun. I wouldn’t suggest going back the way we came. Especially not the way you drive.”
“But—but—” Lora spluttered. The huge black man on the driver’s side of the car tapped on the window with the barrel of his pistol and gestured for Max to get out. Max nodded once, curtly, then turned back to Lora. She was looking at him, horrified.
“You’re not going to just leave, are you? We’re in the middle of the jungle. What if something happens? The car br
eaks down, or . . .” Her voice rose as she considered the possibilities. Her eyes, as she looked from the huge black man glaring in through the window to Max, were enormous.
He shook his head impatiently, “You’ll be all right. I’ve got to go. Lora . . .” he hesitated, then with a muttered “Hell!” swooped over her. Before she knew what was happening, he had her pinned back against the seat and his mouth was on hers, hard and hot and almost brutal in its demand. His hand was rough and warm on her breast. Lora’s senses exploded. She forgot the men outside the car, her anger with Max, everything as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with a hunger that had been building inside her forever. . . .
It was over almost before it began. Max lifted himself away from her, his hands moving to open the door. Lora blinked at him. She was still in shock from that kiss.
“One more thing, Lora: Don’t go to the police.” Without another word he was out of the car, slamming the door behind him.
Lora sat stunned for an instant longer, then scooted into the driver’s seat and feverishly rolled down the window.
“Max!”
He walked on as if he hadn’t heard.
“Max!”
Lord stared after him in disbelief as he walked over to the brown sedan and got into the backseat. Two of the armed men got in beside him, and the two others slid into the front seat. None of them so much as glanced her way. Then the engine turned over, and a second after that the sedan was moving off down the road. . . .
“Bastard!” Lora glared after it until it disappeared around a bend and a muted roar from somewhere close at hand reminded her of where she was. Hastily, she rolled up the window and locked both doors, shivering with dread. She was alone . . . She should be glad. She was glad. Her ordeal was over. She was free, free, free . . . And alive and unharmed. Her captor had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared. Except for the pickup truck abandoned beside the road, and the fact that she was alone in a tiny Volkswagen in the middle of the Mexican jungle, the whole thing might never have happened. She had never dreamed that he would vanish, just like that. In the beginning, when she had visualized getting rid of him, she had pictured something dramatic, like a police shoot-out. And after a while, she hadn’t even pictured that. For the better part of a day, she was chagrined to realize, she hadn’t even really wanted to be rid of him. She had almost liked him, more than liked him in fact. And she had wanted his body. . . .
That last thought brought memories of the morning with it. Lora felt embarrassed heat steal over her skin. What kind of woman was she, to be sitting here in the middle of nowhere mooning over a man who had terrorized and abused her? Well, maybe not abused, she temporized, then realized that she was trying to find excuses for him. He had kidnapped her, tried to strangle her, tied her up, and threatened her with death. If that was not abuse, what was? she demanded of herself. There was something wrong with her not to be utterly, devoutly thankful that he was gone. Something very wrong. So she would never see him again. So what? She should be celebrating instead of feeling as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach. What horrible twist of her personality had he tapped to make her feel this way about him, a brutal, lawless criminal? She shuddered at the idea of a dark side to herself that she had never before faced. Then the solution occurred to her, and she seized on it thankfully. Stockholm Syndrome, she repeated to herself. Stockholm Syndrome.
By the time she reached Route 190, the Pan-American Highway, without incident—no thanks to Max!—she was furious. She had been manipulated from the word go. Clearly Max was no murderer, at least not unless circumstances forced him to it. But he had wanted to make sure that she would not go to the police with what she knew. His last words to her proved it. After that searing kiss, all he could think of to say by way of farewell was, “Don’t go to the police.” That was why he had kissed her, probably why he had done what he had to her body that morning. Remembering her avid response both times, she squirmed, and her temper grew even hotter. He must be very sure of himself now, she thought, turning south without even thinking about where she was going. He was probably congratulating himself for his handling of a sex-hungry, old maid school teacher, who after being exposed to his brand of body heat would never even dream of betraying him by going to the police.
Like hell! she thought furiously, and glared at the road as if it were Max until she reached the town of Comitán. The small colonial community set into the side of a mountain was charmingly picturesque, but Lora probably would have driven straight through without even noticing if it had not come to her attention that the car was almost out of gas. Accordingly, she pulled off the highway and drove through the town, looking for a Pemex station. She finally found one after negotiating a maze of torturously steep streets. It was near the town square, and Lora looked at the peculiar six-sided building in the center of the square opposite without much interest as she waited for the attendant to come out and attend his customer. Probably some kind of church . . . Mañana, mañana, she thought, and vowed to go home as soon as she could get a plane. She was sick of this lunatic country. . . .
“Sí, señorita?” The attendant was a Mexican Indian not much taller than the roof of the VW. As he peered in at her, the inevitable sombrero on his head reminded her all too vividly of Max. At least she had the dratted hat to remember him by . . . It was still in the backseat, along with the crumpled sarape.
“Fill it up,” she snapped, angered anew at the reminder. At his look of imcomprehension, she realized what she had said, and sighed.
“Por favor,” she began laboriously, but he had already gotten the idea. With a questioning look at her, the attendant picked up the nozzle attached to the ancient gas pump and gestured at the cap over her gas tank. Lora nodded, relieved.
He began to unscrew the cap, and she was just settling back in the seat when a horrible thought occurred to her.
“Wait!” she cried, hanging out the door and gesturing wildly at him to stop.
He frowned, perplexed, staring at her with the nozzle in one hand and her gas cap in the other.
Lora climbed out of the car. “I don’t have any money! That swine stole my money!”
She had been talking more to herself than the attendant, and seeing his bewilderment she shook her head, took the gas cap from his unresisting hand, and screwed it firmly back in place.
“No gas!” she said loudly, shaking her head.
He stared at her as if she was loco as she got back in the car and started the engine, a furious scowl darkening her face.
“That tears it!” she muttered as she put the car in gear, then leaned out to call to the attendant who stood staring bemusedly after her with the nozzle still in his hand. “La policía! Where?”
He frowned, took a step backward, and pointed down the street.
“Gracias,” Lora called, then pulled out into the dizzyingly steep street to look for the police station among the collection of colonial dwellings that dotted the hills.
X
“So you were kidnapped, señorita?” The boredom in the round-faced young policeman’s voice was unmistakable.
Lora gritted her teeth and tried to hold on to her patience. Her temper was still flaring, and this Mexican bureaucrat’s attitude was doing nothing to smother the flames.
“Yes, I was kidnapped.”
“There has been no report of such a crime occurring.”
“I am making the report. Now.”
“Ahhh.” He scratched his chin with the eraser of his pencil, stared at the pile of paperwork on the desk in front of him, and then looked up at her without much interest through the small window separating the reception area from the inside of the police station.
“You want to report your own kidnapping, señorita?”
Put that way it sounded ridiculous. Lora glowered. “Yes!” she gritted.
The policeman sighed, turning to call something over his shoulder to an unseen confederate. There was an answering guffaw. Then the man in fron
t of her got wearily to his feet and opened a small door at the side for her to enter.
“I will take a report, señorita.” He gestured for her to take a rickety wooden chair placed at a right angle to his desk just beneath the reception window.
Lora sat down, trying not to look at the other two officers who were staring at her with undisguised curiosity. Was a blond norteamericana in too-tight jeans and a hot pink t-shirt really such an oddity? Lora thought about it, and decided that ones who wanted to report their own kidnapping must be. She tried to ignore the blatant stares, looking at everything except the two men as the officer taking the report laboriously located paper and pencil. The cinderblock walls, with their untidy bulletin boards and cheap framed prints, held little of interest. Her eyes returned to the two men again. They were still staring avidly. She tried a new tactic: staring boldly back. To her chagrin, this only seemed to increase their interest. The work in front of them was forgotten as they drank in every detail of her appearance. Flustered, wishing she had not surrendered to the baking heat and left her windbreaker in the car, Lora looked at the walls again.
“Now, señorita, suppose you tell me of this kidnap.” The officer interviewing her sighed.
Looking into his disinterested brown eyes, Lora felt the first faltering of her resolve. Maybe she should just forget it. . . . Incredibly, she was beginning to feel guilty—as though she was somehow betraying Max, the no-good swine. . . .
“Señorita?” the officer prompted.
Second thoughts were hitting her like bricks in the head. Her eyes wandered desperately around the room again as she tried to untangle her snarled emotions. Despite her fury, which was not so much over the stolen money as it was over being used by a master manipulator—and so easily, too!—Lora found that she could no longer launch into the story that would set the police—maybe a lot of police—on Max’s trail. She would just forget the whole thing . . . Chalk it up as an interesting experience and go home. Mind made up, she swung her eyes back around to the patiently waiting officer—and did a double take. There, on the bulletin board behind the desk of the very man she was talking to, was a full face photo of Max. It was a blurry, black and white picture and not very good, but there was no mistaking the dark face with its square chin—unshaven then, too—and narrowed eyes beneath thick frowning brows. There was no mistaking the slightly crooked nose, or the hard, straight mouth below the fierce black mustache . . . It was a wanted poster! The truth burst in Lora’s brain like a bomb.
Wild Orchids Page 12
