by Nancy Brophy
“So, it’s active.”
“Yep and the name isn’t Adam Smith. It’s Henry J. Latham and lists the Mexico address and a social security number that’s legit.”
“Photo ID?”
“Not through the bank, but let’s run his name through motor vehicles and IRS and see what comes up.”
“I’m dialing Stillwater now.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Swallowtail Hollow
John hung up the phone as Czigany dashed into the bedroom to change clothes. Dare packed his bags, unhooked the computer and gathered medical equipment. Stillwater eyed the closed bedroom door, but instead of following her, filled Dare in on the details of Twylla’s call.
He and Czigany had some issues to discuss. Like how she could disavow any relationship with him the night before and kiss him like a long-lost lover today.
Observation, analysis and years of study gave him the ability to predict certain behaviors in people. But Cezi’s actions were all over the board. This was a helluva of a time for Psychology to let him down.
Dare’s words broke into his thoughts. “I’m going to step out onto the porch to make some calls. Why don’t you see if she needs a spotter?”
John shot him a look designed to silence him, but judging by Dare’s quirked lips, he’d added fuel to the fire.
Czigany’s arms were above her head as she shimmied out of the camisole top. At the sound of the door, she whirled to face him clutching the top to her chest. “What are you doing here?”
John sought words to answer her, but found himself fascinated by the dark nipple that played peek-a-boo behind the fabric as she shifted her weight, flashing him unintentionally.
Forcing his gaze away from her chest, he saw her flustered expression. “Dare went outside.” Her look of consternation faded, but her eyes darted around the room as though looking for spies who would report this to her family.
She didn’t trust him. She’d lowered her guard for sex but that had been only physical. In her mind, he was the opposition.
Perfect.
“Are you just going to stand there while I change clothes?”
“Well, yeah.” He folded his arms across his chest and relaxed against the wall. “And we’re going to talk.”
She pursed her lips and the air that escaped made a sputtering noise. “About?”
“Yesterday.” When she didn’t appear to follow his line of thought, he clarified, “Our little encounter in the lab.”
She shrugged and opened the closet door to shield her body from his eyes. “We agreed not to discuss that.”
“No.” He pushed off the wall and took several steps toward the bed. No way was he going to be in the room while she changed clothes and not have the benefits of viewing. “You didn’t want to discuss it.”
“And I still don’t.” She eyed the robe, tossed across the bed beyond reach.
“Tough noogies, gypsy girl.” He picked up the robe and held it hostage. Letting her hide her thoughts or her body was not part of his plan. “I have some things to say.”
Seeing her options limited, she grabbed a bra, swirled to keep her back to him. In her hurry to snap it into place, she struggled with the straps. Personally, he loved a front close and made a mental note. Her breasts were small, but firm with dark raspberry nipples like two delicate appetizers just right for nibbling. A teasing opening to what promised to be a very satisfying meal. He worked hard to keep the glee off his face.
“So speak.” Her grimace told him she expected the brush-off talk. In fact, if given an opening, she’d jump to the conclusion before he could counteract anything she thought.
The floral boy shorts that had been part of her pajamas clung to her curves and he waited with anticipation for her to bare her backside for his view. But she stymied him when she yanked a green sundress out of the closet and tossed it over her head.
Stay focused. “Why Huntsville? Washington DC has any number of good training facilities for forensics.”
The dress floated down her body, obscuring it. The zipper zoomed to the top, eliminating even a slight view of her back’s silky skin.
She avoided his eyes as she shucked her pajama bottoms and yanked a lacy pair of panties from her drawer, which she slid on surreptitiously. “There are schools everywhere. But I need to be close to home.” She slammed the underwear drawer shut. Two hot pink spots glowed on her cheeks.
“Pull up your dress,” he said, his voice huskier than normal. “I want to see your panties.” Folding his arms, he waited, hoping she would slowly raise her skirt to show him her pretty legs. He’d bet a month’s wages that the dark hair at the juncture of her thighs would be matted but discernable. If he fell on his knees and begged, maybe she’d allow him to have a little taste.
Czigany liked words. The hitch in her breathing and the rock hard points of her nipples trying to poke their way free told him she was interested. Would she do as he asked? Her teeth worried her lower lip.
“Do it,” he commanded. Her lips parted as her breath grew shallow. The mournful howl of a dog outside had her wrenching her head.
The next minute her brain kicked in. As quick as a hiccup she turned her back to him and dug for shoes on the floor of her closet. “Why do you care where I go to school?”
Nuts. Sometimes opportunity was merely a flash in a fleeting second. Then it was gone. He shifted his thoughts to the conversation at hand. She liked touch as much as words.
“If you don’t know anybody you’re going to be lonely.” He took several steps toward her to cage her in, but stopped when she held up her hand.
“I don’t know anybody in DC.”
“You know me.”
For the first time in several minutes she actually looked at him. Those expressive black eyes sought his, searching them as she evaluated his intentions.
Well, at least he had her attention. “Move in with me while you’re getting your degree. When you graduate I’ll help you get into the FBI.”
He couldn’t believe he’d blurted those words. Live with him? That wasn’t what he’d meant. Living together was more of a commitment than he could make. His throat closed off. Suddenly, he was one unable to breathe. Could he reach into the air and erase the words that hung there. What had he been thinking? Of course he knew where his thoughts had been. And they hadn’t been with his big head.
But he’d forgotten how astute she was. As clearly as if he’d announced he was a lily-livered fool, she saw the unspoken words in his eyes. And to make matters worse, judging by the storm of anger gathering in her eyes, he’d lit the fuse of her internal firecracker.
“Get out.”
Instead he reached for her. “No. We have to discuss this. That didn’t come out the way I meant.”
A baseball bat he’d never noticed was in her hands and she looked mad enough to use it. He backed, not because he couldn’t take her, he could. But she wasn’t a terrorist, only a woman whose opinion differed wildly from his.
She swung. He grabbed the bat, yanking it away from her, which gave her time to grab a jar from the vanity table. She wasn’t fast, but she had a deadly aim and he ducked before the heavy porcelain hit the wall behind him. In the precise spot where his head had been. With an arm like a rocket launcher, the jar shattered. He opened the door.
“Let me explain what I meant.” Her only response was the sound of another container following the first. He pulled the door closed as the crash sounded on the other side. “Can we talk about this?”
This time she answered him. “What is there to talk about? You want me to move in with you, so you can have a whore close by. I get it.”
The bedroom door flung open. John hoped it meant peace, but quickly saw it was only because she lacked sufficient weapons to hurl at him. She swooped up a metal lamp, jerking the cord from the wall and fired it like a bullet at him.
John placed his hands in front of him. His years of hand-to-hand combat meant someone would probably get hurt if he had to ta
ke her down. But he’d left her an edge he hadn’t meant to give her. Free from the confines of the bedroom she now snagged a ten-inch chef’s knife from the kitchen counter and began to advance on him.
“Get out!”
“I wasn’t thinking of you like that. I want a real relationship with you.” He’d reached the front door and eased it open to make a quick escape if he couldn’t talk her down.
“Leave and take your team with you. To you I’m a dirty gypsy. I don’t need your help. I never did.”
“Not true.” But he was already on the porch. Dare snapped his phone closed and stuck it in his pocket when Cezi slammed the door so hard the windows rattled.
“Czigany, I…” He was in too deep now. “…really like you,” John ended lamely.
From the other side of the door, she hurled her final insult, “If all the world and love were young, and truth in every shepherd’s tongue, these pretty pleasures might me move to live with thee and be thy love.”
Dare let out a low whistle. “She spouts poetry when she’s angry? Quite a girl.”
“Shut up,” John grumbled, wondering how to get back inside without being knifed.
Dare took him by the arm and propelled him off the porch. “Let her cool down.”
John jerked his arm out of Dare’s grip, determined to see this through, but then thought better of it. “Yeah, you’re right.”
Dare raised an eyebrow. “So tell me what technique you’re using that converts a happy woman into a knife-welding, poetry spouting, screaming banshee?”
For the first time, John understood how D’Sean could end up running naked down a hotel hallway with a woman firing a gun at him. He also had complete clarity on how his entire group would enjoy every salacious detail of the past few minutes. “It’s a gift,” he said, knowing nothing he could say would help.
Dare flung an arm over his shoulder. “Normally I’d say, she’ll come around, but with that tepid ‘I really like you,’ you’re going to need more than patience.”
John laughed ruefully. Where was his brain? What woman would have been awed by ‘I really like you’? But he did like her. Oh, hell. Who was he kidding? He loved her. He wanted to live with her. If this was love, no wonder he’d avoided it all his life. Another thought struck him. “That was a poem? What poem?”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Cezi slumped on the floor like a discarded rag doll, her back pressed against the front door. He’d made her ache, made her blood pulse, made her breasts and the junction between her legs throb. She’d come so close to raising her dress and showing him her panties when he’d asked. The worst thing was she wanted to do it. And not because of the smoldering fire in his eyes.
The only thing that had prevented it was the certain knowledge that doing so meant he’d devalue her. And in turn her family would devalue her. Or worse.
Move in with him. Gypsy women didn’t have that luxury. Not like twenty-first century Americans. Her daughter, should she ever have one, would have more freedom. Maybe.
I really like you.
But he had to think about it before he could even complete the sentence. She threw her head back, banging it against the wall. Well, that was one way to knock some sense into her.
Not the smart way. She rubbed her scalp. It all got down to one thing.
He was gajikané. Their beliefs were not Romani.
She wished she could talk to Rolf. Rolf. She’d completely forgotten about him. She’d sent Stillwater away without seeing Rolf. Tears welled in her eyes and slowly slid down her cheek.
Men were so damn difficult. Especially the ones you loved.
# # #
Luca opened the door to Rolf’s bedroom and stood aside to allow Dare and John to enter. Rolf looked bad. A thin sheen of sweat covered his skin, his usual striking coloring washed out. Even his black hair looked as gray as his skin.
A bandage circled his abdomen from nipples to hips. His chest hair had been shaved for functionality not visual appeal, leaving clumps of thick hair next to bare patches of skin.
He lay flat on his back, a sheet covering him from the waist down. No pillow. Only his black eyes held life, a seething volatile anger.
“Are you comfortable?” Dare asked, after they’d been introduced.
“Hell, no.” His weak voice was so low that both men leaned forward to hear his words. “But better than being strapped down.” With his long index finger, he pointed toward the floor.
Straps that ran under the bed lay partially exposed.
“Why?” the men asked in unison.
A low growl followed by a scowling glare at his father. “Healer’s orders.”
Dare looked at Luca. “Will it bother you if I examine him?”
Luca’s face was tight. With a curt bob of the head, he gave his consent. At the same time, he stretched out his hand and flipped the lock on the door, crossed the room and stepped out onto the deck.
Dare eased the homemade bandage loose and slowly unwrapped it. John raised Rolf’s shoulders and supported his weight while Dare revealed the angry, red wound.
Beyond basic first aid, John wasn’t medically trained, but he knew an ugly infection when he saw one. Gently he lowered Rolf to the bed while Dare propped his bag on the dresser and dug through the contents.
“Set up the IV stand.” Dare handed John the metal bars. “The first thing we need to do is get some antibiotics in you.”
After John set up the stand, he raised Rolf’s head and placed a pillow underneath from the stack on the dresser. Then he raised Rolf’s knees and added another pillow to ease his back. Within minutes, Rolf’s facial features relaxed.
“Where’s Cezi?” Rolf asked when John leaned close.
He debated a lie, but instead simply said, “I pissed her off.”
A gruff chuckle came from the patient. “Badly?”
“Enough to have her spouting angry-girl poetry at me.”
From his position across the room, Dare mildly interjected, “I’d hardly call Sir Walter Raleigh, angry-girl poetry.”
“Whatever.”
Rolf sniggered. “I’m sure her tone conveyed more than the words.” While the words were sympathetic, his tone was anything but.
The men worked quietly for a few minutes, before Rolf broke the silence. “So, here’s what everyone wants to know.” John raised an eyebrow in expectation. “Are we under FBI surveillance?”
Good question. That’s what he’d want to know, too, if he were in the same position. “Not that I know of. My team investigated Swallowtail Hollow.”
“What’d that tell you?”
“No one has ever been born, died or married here. According to the report I received, fewer than twenty men have social security numbers and no one pays individual taxes. How come?”
Rolf shrugged and then winced at the pain. His hand automatically reached for the wound, but Dare stopped him with a touch.
“Gypsies, man. We fly under the radar. The Hollow pays taxes for everyone.” He was quiet for a minute watching Dare gently touch the skin surrounding the inflamed area. “But neither are we standing in line for a Government handout. None of us drain social security or the public education system. We take care of our own.” His tone was defensive, but the defiance in his eyes as he stared straight at John said it all.
John nodded in agreement. “You marry young.” He stepped aside to let Dare stick a thermometer gun into Rolf’s ear.
“Sure. We need numbers to survive.” The red number glowed one-hundred and three degrees. Not surprising with the wound he’d received. Dare prevented his expression from being seen by the patient, but John read his look loud and clear - keep him distracted.
He moved to the far side of the bed and sat in a chair. “How come you’re not married?”
Rolf scoffed. “Like Cezi, the claiming dance has no appeal to me.”
“The claiming dance?” John worked at keeping his voice level. What was this? Reality TV at its worst? After the winning tango, t
he couple gets to waltz down the aisle?
“It’s how gypsies declare their mate. A couple times a year, we have a big bonfire and a young woman ready for marriage dances. If a man joins her and it suits the families, the bandolier invokes the vows. The females don’t wear a white dress and the minister doesn’t double as an Elvis impersonator, but it’s marriage for life, none the less.”
They danced. Someone spoke a few words and they would be bound together forever? “Does that work? What if you’re not happy?”
Rolf snorted. “Marriage and happiness don’t go hand-in-hand. We needed big families to survive when we first came over from the old country. Now that’s not so true, so this generation is marrying older.”
“Cezi claims fidelity isn’t expected.”
“Oh,” he puffed and waved his hand dismissively. “She’s just sensitive because of her job. The only reason men stray is the sex thing.”
The hair on John’s arms rose. “The sex thing?”
The corner of Rolf’s lips thinned as though irritated he had to explain the obvious. “The lower half of the body is marimé.”
Marimé? Hadn’t Cezi told him the same thing? Somehow he hadn’t figured sex into this picture. “Polluted? How?”
Rolf’s mouth scrunched, contorted in pain. Dare had lanced the wound to drain the puss. “Unclean is a better word,” he choked out. In a minute he appeared to breathe easier. “Gypsy sex is traditional.”
John hung onto every word, unsure where Rolf was headed.
“You know,” Rolf said. “Missionary position in the dark. Nothing, and I mean nothing, off the beaten path. And you better be thinking about babies when you’re doing it.”
John laughed, then frowned. Rolf continued. “Listen. Most of the men don’t lack for willing bed partners, but we do our duty. We knock up our wives. We provide for our family, but only a lucky few find true love. Most believe love’s overrated.”
