Angel Face

by Suzanne Forster

  Irresistible. That word had been her cross. Perhaps they saw an angel, but they fantasized a harlot, and they punished her for both. That was why she’d changed herself and tried to make herself severely plain. She didn’t know how else to escape the face, or the fate, she’d been born with.

  And now this man was looking at her the way they did.

  What does he see?

  Not a vision of irresistibility. Angela could barely look at herself, much less imagine how he found anything to be attracted to. Her skin was slick with juice and her clothing was pasted to her body. Dark hair was strewn all over her head. She looked like something that had crawled in from the jungle night, although maybe he liked his women that way.

  But in her secret heart, she must have been counting on him to see through her physical appearance to who she really was, and tell her he didn’t believe any of it. She couldn’t have killed those doctors. Such monstrous impulses were not hidden inside Angela Lowe. Other than her foster father, she had hurt no one. She wanted him to say all that and mean it. But he didn’t.

  She felt a welling of despair that made no sense. She knew him so well, perhaps better than he knew himself. How could she not have known that he would fail her, too?

  The platter of food nearly spilled as she shoved it aside. Once again, she was being punished for her looks when she hadn’t even used them yet. She had not. She had not used her looks. But she would now.

  “You’d be better off killing me,” he said, “because if I ever get loose—”

  She pulled her blouse away from her body, aware that she was dripping wet, and that a faint smile had settled itself on her quavering lips. She was shaking everywhere, deep inside, shaking with purpose. Her fingers tasted of tart, fruity sangria as one by one, she dipped them into her mouth and licked them clean, allowing herself to imagine cool things like dripping ice cream cones and icy grape Popsicles. She caught hints of melon and orange juice on her skin, too, and something that was making her even woozier, maybe the wine.

  Her mouth was watering copiously, but a strange lethargy had crept into her movements. Rather than fight it, she gave in and rocked her head in slow motion, languorously, like a cat. The sensation was rather pleasant, and it would have been so easy to drift off into dreamland. She dipped her fingers again, grooming herself with little noises of contentment. She was a cat, about to take a nap.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The cat started, blinked, and ignored the disruption. The inside of her paws were a little sticky, and they had to be readied so she could clean her throat and chest. Didn’t he know that cats were fastidious creatures?

  Not until she was thoroughly good and ready, did she meet his eyes.

  She didn’t flinch as his gaze burned into hers. This was what he expected, so let him deal with it. Let him deal with it until it hurt. And it would. It would hurt because she wasn’t done yet.

  Locked with him in visual battle, she undid the remaining button on her blouse and let it fall from her shoulders. She felt the gentle caress of the night air on her skin, and the utter boldness of what she’d done. After a moment, she gathered up her blouse and wrung the wetness from it. Her naked breasts glistened and burned in the fire from the lanterns.

  “You had better not let me loose,” he warned harshly.

  Her intention had been to put the shirt back on, but that wasn’t going to happen now. A raw power flowed between them that made her arms weak, useless. He glared at her for one incendiary second, and she watched his throat convulse again and his head rear back.

  She could only imagine the current that arced through his body. He was a man sentenced to the electric chair. A cord in his neck jerked like a spring under stress, and his thighs were shaking. His skin gleamed from the strain, but he wouldn’t give in to it. He ravaged every naked inch of her with his eyes, brutally exposing her.

  A drop of perspiration rolled toward her breasts, and she stopped it with her fingers.

  “Never let me loose,” he snarled. “Never.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ANGELA swayed, certain she was going to faint. There was no way to avoid his frightening warning. And no way to respond. She was hot and thirsty, terribly hot. Only half aware of what she was doing, she dipped her fingers in the sangria and began to wash herself. The coolness against her scorching skin made her shudder. It was merciful relief to a body headed toward the boiling point.

  Her vision was beginning to blur at the edges, but somehow he held her where she was. There was a physical grip in his expression that wouldn’t let her go. Curious, she glanced down and saw what he was reacting to. The sangria was dripping and running in streamlets over her breasts. She looked like a siren, emerging from the sea, and to her surprise, it was quite beautiful.

  She heard him groan, and her head came up dizzily. He’d averted his eyes, refusing to look at her, and the sound he made was as much torment as rage. Had she won? Had he reached the breaking point? This was the time to act, but there was a current running inside her, too.

  She picked up the platter and set it in front of him, offering the food, offering herself.

  Taste the melon, she thought. Taste it and know the real meaning of the word irresistible.

  She broke off a chunk of the fruit and felt its juice run down her arm. If he took a bite, he would never be able to stop, and then she would have him. She offered it to him and watched his throat spasm. He tried to refuse, but he couldn’t. He was starving. Every nerve ending screamed at him to eat.

  “Bitch,” he whispered.

  Angel, she thought. Angel . . . taste the fruit and see.

  And he did. From her fingers. He got a small section of pale green melon between his teeth before his lips closed, catching her fingers. Angela felt a sound forming in her throat but it never got out. She didn’t pull away, either, even though her stomach tumbled and fell. How strange and incredibly intimate it was, feeding a man, having her fingers in his mouth.

  He swallowed hard, and she knew how painful it must be. He probably got little more than juice, but he was hungry, greedy. He wanted it all. She felt the sharp edges of his teeth, some gentle suction, and an enveloping warmth. His tongue lathed searchingly, making sure he got every last drop. Lord, the sensations he was creating in her already plummeting belly. He could have bitten her, but he didn’t. Instead, he licked the juice from her fingers and then from his lips.

  Now is the time to stop. Now, while he still wants more.

  His jaw muscles sucked in as she drew back. He glared at her with hell’s own eyes, but he opened his mouth again. He wanted more!

  She broke off another chunk of melon. Her hand wavered.

  No, Angela! Eat it yourself. Don’t give it to him. Eat it and walk away. Leave him desperate for more. Make him beg.

  She was torn between wanting to feed him and wanting to break him, and part of her conflict was confusion. She didn’t know what was pleasure and what was torture anymore. It all felt the same. But the voice in her head was drowning everything else out.

  You need his cooperation, you fool. Feed his imagination, not his body. Feed his need! You know exactly what to do.

  The melon was crushed between her fingers and oozing down her arm. She caught the juice with her tongue and heard him groan out an obscenity.

  Not enough. It isn’t enough. Go in for the kill!

  She studied the platter of food and dipped her finger into a mound of black beans that turned out to be so spicy they brought moisture to her upper lip. Fruit seemed the safer choice, she decided, handling the bumpy blood oranges and the smooth mangos in turn . . . until the bananas caught her eye.

  She pulled one from the bunch, smelled it and rubbed it against her cheek, aware of how firm and cool it was. Her intention was to peel it, but as she began, she realized how quiet it had become.

  Even the howler monkeys had gone silent.

  She was inches from a fully aroused man. He was close enough to touch, close enough
to break with a touch, and God how she wanted that. She wanted the victory that only his surrender could bring. He was a strong and stubborn adversary, but he was also tied up. She could do anything she wanted, take total advantage of the situation. But something held her back: the angry desperation in his face. And it was desperation. She couldn’t stare into that thrilling turmoil and not respond. Her poor, weak heart thumped so hard it made her woozy. Pounding blood rocked her forward. She reached out to steady herself.

  Cool. His skin was beautifully cool. Was that his arm she’d touched?

  She shuddered and inched closer, close enough to lay her head on his shoulder. He was as smooth and naked as the stones in the stream . . . or was she dreaming?

  He made a rough, guttural sound, but she barely noticed. This was too good. He was like chilled wine, and she was burning up, the flame that lit the lanterns. She caressed herself against his chest, rubbed her flushed cheeks back and forth. Her breasts brushed over his bicep and even that was cool. How lovely it would be to bathe in this silvery pool and swim like a fish.

  “What do you want from me?” he rasped. “What the hell do you want?”

  He was ready to bargain, but Angela wasn’t certain she had the strength to go through with it. She was at the breaking point, too. What she wanted from him was information and cooperation, especially that. She desperately needed his cooperation. But what chance did she have of getting it really? He was going to refuse her, and worse, he was going to laugh at her. Nothing would have surprised her the way he seemed to loathe her.

  Stop this nonsense! an inner voice raged. You don’t need this man’s love and devotion. You only need his help.

  The breeze had dropped off, and the air in the hut was hot and wet. She pushed herself away from him and gulped it in like water. If she could get some oxygen to her brain, maybe she could shake off the lethargy. There was nothing in life she cared about at the moment except lying down to sleep. And even though it felt like she would never wake up, that might be a blessing. Her blouse was damp and icy cold. She tugged it on anyway and couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Who sent you down here?” she asked him. “How did you find out that I was in Mexico?”

  His silence confirmed her fears. This was going to be difficult. “Are you working with Silver? Did she help you set me up?”

  He wouldn’t even look at her, and that could only mean one thing.

  “I can’t believe Silver would do this,” she whispered. “Is she part of the conspiracy?”

  Angela had said the word aloud. There was a conspiracy against her, people who wanted her dead, only she didn’t know how many or who they were. She was too tired and heartsick to hide her reaction. Tears welled and her throat ached with a fire that made her exhale sharply.

  It sounded as if she’d been struck, and he looked up.

  “Are you in it with her?” she asked him.

  “Angela, if that’s what I’m supposed to call you, I don’t know anyone named Silver. And I sure as hell don’t know about any conspiracy to kill you.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because you have a death list, and I’m on it. You’re killing doctors.”

  She would have risen but wasn’t sure she could stand. “Whoever told you that lied to you. There is no death list!”

  “And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

  His contempt was withering. It took everything out of her. “They told you I wiped my own memory, right? You said it was in the dossier. I’m a threat to them. They want to get rid of me because of what I know.”

  When he didn’t respond immediately, she plunged on, despite the strange sound that was whirring in her ears. Someone was chattering and laughing hysterically, but she couldn’t tell if it was jungle music or some demented creature in her head. She heard voices, too. There was someone talking to her, always talking to her.

  “I could have killed you at any point,” she argued. “I could kill you now, but I’m sitting here explaining myself to you. Doesn’t that prove I’m not a serial killer?”

  He scrutinized the way she was tilted over her crossed legs, the way her eyelashes drooped and her breasts clung to her blouse. “You don’t want to kill me, you want me under your control. That’s what you want, control.”

  You’re wrong, she thought. I want you to believe me. I want you to help me. I need someone like you on my side. There is no one else.

  Someone had once told her that if what you wanted was vulnerability from others, you had to be vulnerable first. If you wanted revelation, you had to reveal yourself. Just moments ago when she thought Silver had betrayed her, she couldn’t hide her pain, and he had responded. Would he help her if she let him see who she really was, all the carnage, the horror?

  No! He’ll think you’re insane. He already does think you’re insane. They all do.

  God, who was screaming? And why couldn’t she breathe? It felt like she was being burned at the stake. The skin on her body was blistering, and she didn’t understand what was happening, only that she wanted to lie down and sleep. When she closed her eyes, what she remembered was how cool he was, how strong. His shoulder had been her pillow, and she wanted to rest there again.

  She swayed forward but caught herself.

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  She couldn’t see him clearly. He kept moving, blurring into surreal images.

  “Where are you?” she asked him.

  “Angela, untie me, for God’s sake. I’m a doctor. I can help you. You’re running a dangerously high fever. You need to bring it down as quickly as possible.”

  He’ll use your weakness against you! You will betray yourself!

  “I need the stream,” she said, shivering. “I need the stones.”

  “No! Don’t go outside. Untie me! Angela—”

  But she was already struggling to her feet and pulling off her clothing. She was spurred by the frenzy that comes from survival. It was her last burst of energy. Her sodden blouse dropped to the floor, her shorts fell with a yank of the zipper, and her panties went next. The clothing lay on the threshold as she rushed out into the screaming night. Someone was yelling at her, but she paid no attention. She had to get to the stream. She would die if she didn’t.

  THEY were lined up against the wall, six tall, steel-haired men, all of them shirtless and wearing blindfolds. It was a firing squad, and she had the gun. Bullets cracked, and the air stank of gunpowder. Bodies were dropping. It was like blowing out candles on a cake. She was desperate to get them all while she still had enough breath! But as she fired on the last prisoner, his blindfold dropped, and she saw that it was a woman. They were all women.

  The dead bodies on the ground were her.

  TERI Benson awoke with a gasp, and the medical journal she was reading crashed to the floor. Her chest was tight, and her stomach rolled as she sat up. An anxiety dream, she reasoned, probably stress-induced. It could even be something as simple as too much coffee, except that she never touched caffeine. She rarely, if ever, experienced stress, either, despite the fact that every Tom, Dick, and Harriet on surgical rotation was eyeing her like a vulture and clearly expecting her to crack under the pressure.

  Her pocket pager was firing. She unhooked it from her belt, startled to discover that she’d slept through a prior page, seconds earlier. That had never happened before, but the beeping may have triggered the gunshots in her dream. It was midnight, and according to the digital display, she was being summoned to the Trauma Center for the first time that evening. But not the last, she was sure.

  Most heart attacks occurred during the early hours of the morning. This time of night it was usually the unwitting casualties of hot sex, vehicular accidents, or addicts who’d overdosed. Not career-making cases. Not heart valve repair. Nor bypass. Not hardly.

  By the time her feet hit the on-call room’s floor, she’d whipped her shoulder-length hair back with a band, dabbed some baking soda on her teeth, and washed them with
her tongue. She kept a box of Arm & Hammer beside the bed, along with a tube of cherry Chapstick, because it tasted good and because the hospital’s air conditioning dried her out. She already had her shoes on, but she always took the white coat off and snapped the wrinkles out before she hung it up, no matter how exhausted she was. It was a matter of hygiene as much as professionalism.

  A massive keychain jangled at her waist as she dashed out the door and locked it behind her. Lately she was spending as much time in the on-call room as she was in her efficiency apartment, and she kept the huge canvas tote that held most all her earthly possessions there. Besides, it was the only way to get any privacy. She had no interest in letting the vultures know what she was up to.

  The journal article she’d been reading described the latest advances in valve repair and replacement, featuring Jordan Carpenter’s revolutionary techniques. But far more interesting was a People magazine spread she’d found that delved into his surprisingly checkered past. A neighboring teenage girl had allegedly killed herself over him after he ended their relationship, and in his medical school days, there was a mysterious feud with a wealthy classmate, but no reason was given for the dispute.

  And now he’d disappeared. Carpenter was still among the missing, and since they hadn’t been able to reschedule his valve replacement for the following day, Teri would be assisting Steve Lloyd, who’d been making noises like he might ask her to take over. She intended to be ready.

  The corridor assailed Teri with hospital activity. By the time she hit the corridor the Trauma Center was on, she’d brushed off two interns and broken into a run. It bothered her that she’d fallen asleep. She rarely needed more than a couple of hours, and that was only after she’d done her extensive reading. She didn’t like the idea of being unexpectedly stressed or fatigued, and she particularly didn’t like the idea of having limits. That was for ordinary people.

  “What’s the problem?” Teri asked as she dashed into the blue-lit room.

  Steve Lloyd was already there, suited up and ready to operate, should it come to that.