Angel Face

by Suzanne Forster

  She took the risk of opening the cloth and trying to keep it on while she splashed herself. Her back was to him, and he could see nothing except the shimmer of her long, dark hair and the hopeless struggle this was becoming for her. She knew it, too, and finally she heaved a sigh and stood.

  There were some large rocks on the near side of the stream. She angled herself toward them, allowing him no more than a three-quarter view of her, and it was there that she removed the cloth. As she tossed it onto the rocks, she glanced at him again. It was the most guileless, hopeful glance he’d ever seen. It turned him inside out, that sweet expression. She was part embarrassed, part resigned to the situation, and part surrendered to his male opinion of her beauty.

  He hoped she could see it in his eyes. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  She dipped down again and began to wash herself, splashing until she was thoroughly drenched. Before she was done, she soaked her hair and tossed it back, letting the water stream over her. But when she reached for the towel, still in a semicrouch, something apparently caught her eye, possibly her own reflection. The towel stayed where it was, and so did she, peering into the shallow depths. The water barely rippled as she stretched herself over its surface and submerged. She momentarily disappeared from sight, but he could see a pale form, floating on the bottom. Her hair flowed on the surface, becoming part of the current.

  He wanted to join her. He’d never wanted anything quite that much, but it felt like that would be an intrusion. She needed time to cleanse and reconnect with herself, maybe. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand female needs any better than the next guy, but he had intruded on her enough already, just by watching.

  She rose up finally, dripping, and he remembered how she’d returned to the hut last night, naked and wet and breathtakingly bold, enticing him while he was restrained. What a wild creature she’d been then. So different than this strange, shy mermaid, but both of them attracted him. His body was already hardening, despite the excesses of the night before. It was trying to get him laid again when what his mind seemed to want was to gather her up in his arms and hold her. Surely that would ease his pain, because there was an ache in him that felt like no amount of doctoring could ever fix it.

  He was under her spell, totally, hopelessly. He was completely out of his mind. Was this what she did to all men? More than once he had wondered how he was supposed to save her, and this morning was no exception. He wasn’t worried about jaguars. He could have backed one off with a look. He was worried about tonight, tomorrow, the future. They couldn’t stay here. They had to go back.

  He had no idea how he was going to exonerate her, and if he was to get brutally honest with himself, he couldn’t have explained why he wanted to. Because she could reach for his soul with her eyes? Because she brought out the hero complex in him, as she apparently did all men? That poor sucker, Adam, would never have believed she could hurt him. He would have eaten straight strychnine from her fingertips.

  Jordan’s mind reflected back to the moment when she’d whispered that she needed nothing less than his mortal soul to be sure he wouldn’t betray her. What was that besides a bargain with the devil? And a losing bargain, at that. Maybe he could write it off to delirium, but should he? If he was going to take her word over the CIA’s, then he had to believe that someone was trying to frame her, kill her, or both, which meant they would probably come after him, too.

  Everything considered, he had a fair amount at risk—his credibility, maybe his sanity, and most likely his life—and all for a woman who couldn’t remember whether she was a serial killer or not. She swore he’d been nothing more than a study subject to her, that his name was not on a death list, that she in fact had no death list. And he believed her. Only he didn’t know how to justify his belief. He didn’t know how to justify any of it. That sounded crazy. It probably was crazy, but that realization didn’t seem to count for much at the moment.

  If he made the wrong decision, he could pay for it with his life, but he didn’t give a damn. He didn’t put any value on the consequences, because it felt like there was something more important here, something he barely understood. Belief, perhaps. Believing in another human being, believing in himself and his gut. There was a part of him telling him to take this woman’s side. Was that his heart, the pump he’d made a career out of repairing?

  He knew what hearts could do, they could circulate blood to nourish the body and brain, but could they tell you what was good or bad? It was like a mechanic suddenly believing the engine that ran the car was also capable of driving it. And yet he could feel a tugging in his chest that pulled him toward her, told him to help her, that she needed help more than anyone he’d ever known.

  “Water’s great. You should go in.”

  He’d been so lost in his thoughts he hadn’t realized she’d walked up to him. She was wrapped snugly in the cloth and looking radiantly alive. Her face was rosy pink and so was the rest of her.

  “You have beautiful thighs,” he told her.

  Her smile lit up the sky, and he had his answer. That was why he was going to do it, for something as simple as this, a smile. He wanted to see her do that again. And he wanted to give her many more reasons to.

  THE landing field looked like something commandeered by guerrilla forces, the kind who liked to ransack the fort after they’d routed the enemy. The tower had no windows that weren’t broken and seemingly no equipment, although there were no airplanes, either, so perhaps equipment wasn’t necessary.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” Angela didn’t want to appear ungrateful for Jordan’s help, but she couldn’t imagine making it off the field, much less getting all the way home.

  “Has to be, according to the map.” He turned the pickup truck toward a hangar that stood across the rotting tarmac, although stood was optimistic. Rusted tin sheeting hung on a tilting metal frame that looked as if it were vertical only by the grace of the rain forest gods.

  The heat and humidity had wreaked havoc here, too. Angela found it difficult to breathe, the air was so hot. She wished they’d thought to bring something from the hut to drink. They had a long journey ahead, and she doubted there would be a beverage service on the charter. She told herself the hot tickle in her throat was from thirst, not fear. She was leaving behind the sense of refuge and rebirth she felt when she first arrived. But this was the right thing they were doing, better than running to the farthest ends of the earth and never returning, which had been her plan.

  “I have a plane chartered and paid for, so it had better be the right place,” Jordan was saying. “Of course, we were supposed to fly out yesterday.”

  While they were driving, he’d told her about his private detective friend who made arrangements for the hut and the plane. As a precaution, the detective had found a place for them to stay when they got back to the States. The rickety pickup bought by Jordan himself had broken down twice, giving Angela the opportunity to demonstrate mechanical skills she didn’t know she had.

  She’d deduced by the noise the engine made that it was the fan belt. Jordan, the expert on hydraulics, insisted it was the water pump and patched up that instead. When the truck immediately broke down again, she tightened the fan belt, and he thanked her grudgingly for her help.

  Angela jumped as the hangar door gave out an ungodly screech and began to roll up, creaking and shuddering loudly. It was the kind of racket that caused pain deep in your jaw and made you want to cover your ears. But she’d already caught a glimpse of some dirty sandals on the other side of the door, and she had a bad feeling they might belong to their charter pilot.

  She grabbed her battered backpack and let herself out of the truck. Jordan went to help raise the door, and as it rolled up, Angela was greatly relieved to see a relatively normal-looking older man, whose grease-spattered face and grimy overalls suggested that he’d been working on the small aircraft parked in the hangar. Not a guerrilla, she noted. He didn’t even appear to be
Hispanic.

  “You the folks who chartered a plane to California?” The man’s lips flattened against a mouthful of strong white teeth. It might have been a grin, but Angela wasn’t sure.

  “You’re out of luck,” he said cheerfully. “That plane’s long gone.”

  He was grinning.

  “This is an emergency,” Jordan said, “a dire emergency. The lady and I have to get to California as soon as possible.”

  “I could maybe get one of you there in my Piper Arrow.” He checked out Angela with an eager glance. “Let’s see now. She couldn’t weigh very much, could she, even with that suitcase she’s carrying. All righty then, I’ll take you both, but that’ll be—”

  His grin brightened, rivaling a tooth whitener commercial. “Let’s say five grand, shall we? Twenty five hundred each?”

  More evidence for Angela’s no-good-men theory. He looked normal, but looks couldn’t be trusted.

  “The charter was prepaid.” Jordan dug through his pockets, apparently searching for the paperwork. He turned to Angela, but she couldn’t help him. She’d found nothing but a wallet and car keys when she went through his clothing.

  “I don’t know anything about a prepaid charter.” The other man chuckled, growing chummier by the moment, “but if you need to get to California today, I’m your man. I even take American Express.”

  He wiped his face with his forearm, smearing grease to his eyebrows. “You get my point, I guess. I’m your only man.”

  Angela and Jordan exchanged glances. His expression said exactly what she felt. They were in a Mexican jungle, driving a pickup that wouldn’t make it another mile. What choice did they have?

  “When do we leave?” Jordan asked.

  “Soon’s I get my baby here fixed.” The pilot pointed to his plane, which was sitting on blocks in the hangar. It didn’t look much more travel-worthy than the pickup.

  “What’s the problem?” Angela asked.

  “Timing,” the pilot muttered.

  “Is that anything like a fan belt?” she asked. “I might be able to help you with that.”

  Angela found the exchange amusing. Jordan did not. He gave the man his American Express card, watched grimly as the transaction was processed, then went to get what few belongings he and Angela had from the truck. It was high noon, and the sun was straight overhead. There was no relief anywhere from the sweltering heat and humidity. At least the hut had been surrounded by trees, Angela thought. There’d been some shade and an ocean breeze. This was brutal.

  Angela had found some clean clothes in one of the dresser drawers at the hut. She tugged at the neck of her T-shirt, watching Jordan pull off his shirt and mop his brow with it. When he was done, he artfully arranged the white cotton on his head like a desert nomad. She considered trying the same trick, but thought better of taking her shirt off. She’d probably done enough stripping this millenium.

  Staring at his broad back, she realized what was happening, and her thoughts grew pensive. They were leaving, and she was already feeling the loss of something she never had. Him. Her one good man. She didn’t understand why he’d agreed to help her, and more, why he would be willing to put himself in such jeopardy. If a CIA agent had said the damning things about Jordan that had been said about her, she might not be so quick to help, especially if Jordan were the prime suspect for multiple murders and he was believed to be after her. But what haunted her most now that they were actually going back was the premonition that she might somehow be the cause of his death and that they would have been right about her.

  Jordan was on his way back to her, and the sunlight had turned his hair ice white and made his eyes as blue as the blazing sky. He wasn’t capable of killing, she told herself. But she knew that wasn’t true. Anyone was, if pushed far enough. Anyone. What would he do if he found out the truth? she wondered. The only thing she had not been able to tell him.

  CHAPTER 22

  “JORDAN, let me come with you, please.”

  Angela’s voice cut into him. Her emotion was so raw it hurt to hear. She was sitting at the desk in the Long Beach hotel room that had been reserved by his detective friend, Mitch Ryder. Her pensive gaze was misted with hints of blue and green, reflections of the floral print sundress she wore.

  Mitch had given them his assurance that the hotel was secure, but Angela wasn’t convinced. She wasn’t afraid to stay there alone, but for some reason she didn’t want Jordan to go.

  “You’re the one who’s vulnerable,” he told her. “They’re after you, not me.”

  “I can’t just sit here and wait while you confront a CIA agent named Firestarter. I’m frightened.”

  A khaki jacket hung on the back of the bar stool where Jordan stood. He slipped it on, surprised at the fit. There’d been a satchel full of clothing and supplies waiting for them when they checked in, as well as a rental car. Mitch had even been able to scrounge up Jordan’s pager, the tiny, annoying device that had saved more lives than Jordan could count. Jordan had decided on the spot that the detective was underpaid.

  “Nothing will happen to me,” he assured Angela. “I’m just going to have a little talk with the agent, that’s all.”

  “Then why do you need a gun?”

  “Because Mitch thought it would be smart, a precaution.” The SIGPro nine-millimeter she spoke of was on the coffee table that fronted the room’s one homey touch, an overstuffed couch. Like most males, Jordan had been intrigued by guns in his youth, and he still knew most of the makes, but he’d never carried one. Fortunately, Mitch had made sure there was a weapon in the satchel, and he’d given Jordan a crash course in gun safety before Jordan left for Mexico.

  A banging noise startled both of them. Jordan vaulted the couch and swept up the gun. He was halfway to the front door when he realized what it was. The room had a tiny kitchenette with a refrigerator.

  “The icemaker,” he said. “It just dumped the tray.”

  “God, that was terrifying.” Angela rose and crossed a bedroom just big enough for the king bed, small couch, and writing desk. There was a bathroom the size of the closet, and strangely enough, the drapes and bedspread were done in a similar bird of paradise fabric as the grass hut in Mexico. Maybe Mitch had connections with a hotel franchise for runaways.

  Angela hesitated at the bed, as if she wasn’t quite sure where to go next. Jordan slipped the handgun inside his jacket. Quietly, he came up behind her, although something kept him from touching her. He didn’t want to startle her again.

  “Would you rather I left the gun with you?” he asked.

  “It wouldn’t do me any good. I’ve never shot one.”

  Now he reached for her and turned her around. “If anyone knows how to use a gun, you do, Angela. I’m sure of that.”

  She gave him a stricken look. It was almost as if he were accusing her of something.

  “I didn’t mean that—”

  “It’s just that I can’t remember.”

  “I know, I know, I should never have said it.” This was not the woman who cut off his shirt in the jungle. This was the one who was desolate over Birdy’s clipped wings. The problem was, he was never quite sure who he was dealing with, and right now he didn’t need the confusion.

  “Angela, it’s going to be all right. Let me go. Let me help you.”

  “Jordan, please tell me why you’re doing this.”

  “I’ve asked myself that very question.”

  She tugged on his lapel. “It’s important! I have to know. Too many people have been hurt.”

  This was not the time for his trademark irony, he realized. She was palpably sad, and he had helped make her that way. “I wish I could tell you.”

  She nodded, resigned. But he couldn’t stand to see her so unhappy.

  He touched her mouth, and the softness made his voice drop low. “When I first saw your picture, I knew I’d seen you before, but I couldn’t figure out where. And then I realized it wasn’t just me,” he told her. “I wasn’t the only one
who’d seen you before. I was in the company of every eight-year-old kid who had ever stared up at the clouds and caught a glimpse of heaven.”

  “Heaven?”

  “When little boys dream of angels, this is the face they see, Angela. Do I need a better reason for doing anything?”

  Her breathing lost its rhythm. “What a lovely thing to say.”

  “I guess you could blame it on Firestarter. He supplied the picture.”

  “The one in my dossier? But I thought he told you I was a serial killer.”

  “He did. He impressed that on me very strongly.”

  “And that made you think of angels?”

  The moment seemed to call for a shrug. “It did.”

  “Lucky me.”

  She laughed, and they were in each other’s arms, holding on, holding on. If only we could hold on, he thought. But she broke away abruptly.

  “Call me the minute you talk to this Firestarter person. Use a pay phone if you have to.” A hesitation. “What kind of an operative would call himself Firestarter?”

  “One with half his face burned off, I guess.”

  “And he did it himself? He started the fire?”

  Jordan didn’t have an answer for that. “Avoid the phone unless there’s an emergency,” he told her. “The same with the pager, but don’t hesitate to call me if you have to.”

  He took her hands, actually intending to leave this time. But she was sighing, fighting tears. She seemed much more concerned for him than she was for herself, but he had to wonder what was really frightening her. He hoped to God it wasn’t the same foreboding that had taken hold of him. He was haunted by what he might find out when he met with Firestarter.