She ran her hands down his back to his hips and dug her fingers into the taut muscles there, causing him to grow even harder. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to make her come one more time, around him. He was going to have to find condoms. If he had to fly down to Panama to get them, he’d do it.
She rocked her hips against him and he caught his breath. He understood what she meant when she’d said she was afraid feeling so good would kill her. She kneaded his buttocks, then drew her hands around and between them until she could wrap her fingers around him. She squeezed and stroked the length of him, and dying from the excruciating pleasure of her touch began to seem like a real possibility.
She stroked him again, again. He propped himself up on his arms, intending to roll off her, but she took advantage of the space between them to tighten her hold on him. He closed his eyes, wondering if this was her revenge for what he’d done to her, and if it was, thinking that revenge could be awfully sweet...and then he stopped thinking altogether and gave himself over to the sensations building inside him, the pressure, the heat, the need. He held back as long as he could, then succumbed in a wrenching release that convinced him for at least as long as it lasted that he was madly in love with Emmie.
After his body unclenched, after he sank back onto her, not caring that both of them were damp and sticky and spent, after he remembered how to breathe and his heart settled back into its normal rhythm, he decided that he was still madly in love with her.
“We aren’t strangers,” he whispered, brushing her lips with a light kiss. “This feels right because it is right.”
She reached up and pushed a lock of hair back from his brow. It was such a thoughtful, caring gesture he had to kiss her again. Then he eased off her, pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room to the pitcher and basin. Two clean towels lay folded beneath the bowl. He soaked one with water and carried it back to the bed.
She watched him as he swabbed her belly clean, her eyes wide and shining. He realized part of the shine was from tears rimming along her lashes. “Are you okay?” he asked, wondering what could have her so upset.
“I’m fine.”
“You look sad.”
“No. This is just—I never met anyone like you before, Michael. I never expected someone like you to come into my life. It’s...a little scary, that’s all.”
“I shouldn’t have rushed you,” he apologized. Sure, she felt overwhelmed, making love with him barely twenty-four hours after they’d met. She could have said no, he reminded himself—but still, maybe she felt he’d railroaded her.
“I think...” She sighed, her eyes still glistening but clear and steady as she gazed up at him. “I think I’m in love with you.”
He smiled. “That’s no reason to be scared.”
“Actually—” she allowed herself a smile, too “—I think it’s a very good reason to be scared.”
He returned to the dresser for the dry towel and brought it back. He dabbed her skin dry, then ran the towel over himself. “I won’t hurt you, Emmie.” He could feel his smile melt away as the gravity of his words struck him. “You have my word. I won’t hurt you.”
“Then I won’t be scared,” she said.
They didn’t talk much as they dressed. He wondered if it was true that he wouldn’t hurt her, if he could finish his business with Gallard and Cortez and come back to her without hurting her. He wondered what she would think if she knew his real reason for being in San Pablo, whether she would think he was a hero or a fool, or maybe both.
But he’d promised not to hurt her, and he would do whatever he had to to keep that promise.
They emerged from their room to discover that the Jeep had stopped steaming. The engine was cool to the touch, and the radiator barely hissed when he unscrewed the cap. He prevailed on the innkeeper for a jug of water, then filled the radiator, helped Emmie into her seat and gave the jug back to the old woman. He returned to the Jeep and climbed in behind the wheel. “Cross your fingers,” he muttered before twisting the key.
The engine purred. The gear stick moved fluidly from gear to gear. Michael shot her a cocky grin as he cruised down the road.
“Can you remember how to get to the inn?” he asked as they approached the street where the Cesares lived.
“I think so.”
“We can meet there whenever you want.”
Her cheeks flushed an adorable pink and she laughed quietly. “I have to teach tomorrow.”
“I’ve got things to do tomorrow, too.” He slowed to a stop in front of the Cesares’ house. “How about after you’re done teaching?”
“Before supper, you mean? Or after?”
“Before, during and after. Whenever you say. Just tell me, and I’ll be there.”
A shaky sigh escaped her. “God, don’t tempt me.”
“Before, during and after, then,” he said with a chuckle.
“No.” She eyed him evenly. “After teaching. I can get there by four. But I really should be back at the Cesare house for supper.”
“Whatever you say. I’ll be at the inn by four, waiting.” It didn’t matter what Gallard had on the agenda for tomorrow. If Emmie could meet him at four, he would stop whatever he was doing and be there for her.
If that meant he loved her, he didn’t find the thought scary at all. In fact, he found it exhilarating.
“I DON’T GIVE A DAMN what you’ve got in mind,” Gallard growled, stabbing his eggs and sausage with the tines of his fork. They were seated at one of the outdoor tables at the cantina, working their way through breakfast. Michael’s coffee tasted strong enough to strip the enamel off his teeth—which was fine with him. “You’re wasting time diddling around with that chick,” Gallard lectured. “We’re here on a mission, Mike, and don’t you forget it.”
“She’s not a chick,” Michael retorted, then grinned, realizing that defending Emmie to Gallard would be a waste of breath. In truth, he didn’t care what Gallard thought about Emmie. As far as he was concerned, there was no need for Gallard’s and Emmie’s paths to intersect. “We can’t go out hunting for Cortez until the clutch in the Jeep is fixed.”
“There are still things we could be doing.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve done plenty of them already,” Michael said, pausing to swallow a forkful of fried plantain. “I found out Cortez is living in the hills west of town. He’s been going down to Aranal for supplies. If he were east or north of town, he’d be going to Puerto Bianca, so I figure he’s gone into hiding west of town. He can’t show his face around here. He assaulted a girl.”
Gallard stopped chewing. His jaw slack, he gaped at Michael in amazement. “Where did you learn all this?”
“I’ve been working,” Michael said mildly, shoveling another chunk of plantain onto his fork. “What have you been up to?”
Gallard continued to stare at him. “He assaulted a girl?”
“As best I can tell. No one actually came out and said it—they were all too busy cursing his evil soul. But that was the gist of it.”
Gallard added his own curse on Cortez, then resumed eating. “This is not good, Michael.”
“Why not?”
“If the guy committed an assault, we might not be able to get him out of the country. The local constabulary might not allow him out if they’ve got charges pending against him.”
“If they wanted to arrest him, they would have done it by now.”
“They may not want to go head-to-head with him. It could be he’s paid them off. As long as he’s floating around in the hills somewhere, out of sight, they don’t have to deal with him. If we try to move him across the border, they might feel obligated to do their jobs—or to protect him, if he paid them enough. This could get messy, Mike.”
Michael acknowledged Gallard’s point with a nod. “What do you think we should do?”
“Maybe we could have a chat with a local officer of the law, find out Cortez’s status and see what they’re willing to let us do. The cops are bribable in
San Pablo, aren’t they?”
Michael laughed. “They’re in uniform. Of course they’re bribable.”
“Then we’ll bring money with us.”
They finished their breakfast in silence. Michael tried not to let thoughts of Emmie creep in to fill his mind. She blurred his concentration, sucked the energy out of his brain and sent it to another, equally vital, organ. She made him want to concentrate only on his watch, marking the minutes until four o’clock arrived and he could be with her again.
Gallard was going to need him to navigate a discussion with the local police, and he couldn’t afford to be distracted by X-rated notions of a sensitive blond schoolteacher with trusting blue eyes. Shrugging resolutely, he gulped down the rest of his coffee, winced at its potency and followed Gallard from the cantina.
The cuartel de policía overlooked the main plaza where he’d danced with Emmie Saturday night. He ordered himself not to think about her as he and Gallard strolled across the square to the station house, which looked only a little less like a fortress than the banco next door. The front room resembled Michael’s idea of an American police station from fifty years ago—jangling telephones, piles of paperwork stacked on clunky wooden desks and tabletops, an abundance of people and a pathetic lack of computers.
Gallard nudged him forward. A doe-eyed young clerk peered up at him, her smile coquettish. In brisk Spanish, he told her he and his friend needed to speak to el capitán. She was still wearing a flirty half smile as she turned from her desk and sauntered through the bustling room. Her skirt clung snugly to her rear end, which shimmied with each step.
Michael remained unmoved. He glanced at Gallard, who scowled but tracked her with his gaze. “I asked to speak to the precinct captain,” Michael told him in a near whisper. “I don’t want to speak to some low-level guy. The street cops are likely to take a bribe and then do nothing.”
“If we’ve got to skip-step around immigration, the captain might have more juice,” Gallard agreed in an equally muted voice.
The voluptuous clerk returned with a stocky, balding man in tow. He had on the tan uniform of the local police; a large brass badge glimmered above his breast pocket, and a thick, mean-looking revolver was strapped into a holster that circled his shoulder. He appeared a bit past his prime but still powerful.
Michael shook the captain’s hand, introduced himself and Gallard and asked if they could go somewhere private to talk. “¿Ustedes americanos?” the captain asked.
“Sí.”
The captain beckoned them to follow him through the teeming room and down a hall to an office. Once they were inside, he closed the door, shutting out the front room’s cacophony. He gestured to two chairs, then took his seat on the leather armchair behind the desk and nodded.
“Tell him we’re looking for Edouardo Cortez,” Gallard coached Michael. “See if that pushes a button.”
Michael asked the question. The captain sat straighter in his chair. “Why are you looking for him? Are you friends of his?”
Michael translated for Gallard. “Tell him the truth,” Gallard urged.
“He jumped bail in California,” Michael told the captain. “We heard he was in San Pablo. We’ve come here to bring him back to California.”
The captain eyed them speculatively. He leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers together, clearly trying to decide whether he believed Michael.
“He was arrested for dealing in illegal arms,” Michael continued. “A bail bondsman is out a million dollars because he fled the country. We want him back in America so he can stand trial.”
“You don’t want to kill him?” the captain asked.
Michael shook his head. “We just want to take him back to stand trial.”
“That’s a pity,” the captain muttered. “Around here, we’d rather see him dead.”
Michael quickly translated for Gallard, who laughed. Michael didn’t think there was anything funny about wanting Cortez dead. “Why do you say that?” Michael asked the captain.
“He’s a monster,” the captain said. “He’s done damage here. We tried to arrest him, but he got away. My men are not as brave as you two. They’re afraid of him. They know he has guns and he’ll use them.”
That should have made Michael afraid, too. He hadn’t come to San Pablo to get into a gunfight with a monster. But he wanted Cortez brought to justice, and that desire, that need to avenge his brother’s death, was stronger than fear. “We need to know,” he told the captain, “that if we go after him, you and your people won’t stop us from taking him out of the country.”
The captain laughed. “We’ll throw you a parade if you take him out of the country! You’ll be heroes.” He leaned forward, once again sizing up Michael and Gallard, this time with respect gleaming in his eyes. “Do you need assistance? Perhaps I could find one or two officers brave enough to back you up if you go after him.”
Michael relayed that information to Gallard. “Tell him we accept his backup. We’ll let him know when we’re going to make our move, and we’ll take whatever manpower he can spare.”
The thought that a couple of courageous cops would escort them when they went after Cortez eliminated the last of Michael’s fear. He was also encouraged that they wouldn’t have to bribe the officers. This was going to go well. He and Gallard would get the son of a bitch and take him back to California.
And then Michael could go back to thinking only of Emmie Kenyon.
EMMIE’S LIFE HAD CHANGED the day she told her parents she was going to San Pablo. It had changed again when Martin told her he didn’t think they ought to get married after all.
Those had been monumental changes—changes that marked her growing up, becoming her own person, determining her own destiny. Those changes had pulled the props out from under her—but she’d discovered that without those old, familiar props she could still stand quite nicely on her own. The changes had been traumatic, but she’d emerged a better person.
Now Michael had changed her life yet again. In a mere flicker of time, it seemed, she had suddenly figured out what love meant, what it felt like, how it energized her and elevated her and illuminated the entire world with its shimmering glow. Emmie was in love, and she would never be the woman she’d been just days ago.
They met every day at four, at the inn. Michael was always there, and he always had something with him—a bottle of wine, a bag of plums, a rose wrapped in paper so she wouldn’t prick herself on the thorns. And condoms. They were difficult to come by, he’d told her, his eyes glinting wickedly, so he felt they ought to value each one, and make each time as splendid as possible. It would be a crime of nature if they wasted a single condom.
He could be so funny, joking about birth control—and a moment later he could be serious, talking to her about California, describing the ragged shoreline and the vast silver storms of the Pacific Ocean, the placid valley where he’d grown up, the deserts and forests and the exotic beauty of San Francisco. He couldn’t believe she’d never been to California. “That will have to change,” he’d insisted.
They made love. Sweet, surging love. Fierce, fiery love. She learned the textures of his skin, smooth and warm and golden, and the thickness of his hair. She learned that brushing her fingertips over his mouth made him groan, and that kissing his sternum had a particularly arousing effect on him. She learned his scars—the faint line under his chin, from when he’d tumbled off his bicycle as a child, and the pale seam along his thumb, from when he’d gotten his first pocketknife and tried to whittle a tree limb into a toothpick, but he’d whittled a bit of his thumb, instead. She learned the scars on his soul, too: his brother’s death, his parents’ turbulent marriage, his father’s unspoken bitterness over losing one son to the streets and the other to the uppermost levels of academia.
She still enjoyed teaching. Her students were still immensely important to her. But now she had something else to live for.
Michael.
“I want to spend the night
with you,” he said Friday afternoon. “I want to hear if you snore.”
“I don’t snore,” she told him, giving him a playful poke in the arm.
“Prove it. Spend the night with me.”
“Tonight?”
He nodded.
She wanted to spend the night with him, too. She wanted to feel his arms around her all night, and his legs woven through hers. She wanted to feel his breath on her nape, slow and even, like a lullaby. She wanted to see what he looked like with a layer of moonlight spread across his skin. She wanted their dreams to merge.
But what would the Cesares think? Would they be shocked? Would they kick her out of their home?
For Michael she would face their disapproval. “I have to tell the Cesares,” she said, because she knew Señora Cesare would worry herself sick if Emmie simply stayed out all night. “And I have to get a change of clothes.”
“No problem.”
Not for him, perhaps. For her—no, it wouldn’t be a problem, either. She had learned to stand on her own two feet. She was twenty-five years old, an adult living her own life, and while she had great respect for the Cesares, she would not deny the yearnings of her heart for them.
He walked her to the Cesares’ house, then left her there to return to the room he shared with his research associate in the alley behind the pharmacy, having promised that he would meet her back at the inn within an hour. She ventured into the house cautiously, hoping Senora Cesare wouldn’t chastise her. She could stand up to the steely matriarch, but she would prefer to avoid a fight.
“We’re taking an excursion,” she told the señora in explanation for her planned absence that night. “Michael and I thought we would take a little trip, so I won’t be home until tomorrow.” A little trip, she thought wryly, wishing she didn’t have to dress up the truth. Well, that was the truth. They were taking a little trip into the darkest, most passionate part of the night.
“You love Miguel, eh?” Señora Cesare said with a nod. “He seems like a good man, but there’s always a risk when a woman loves a man.”
Found: One Son Page 12
