Within Reach

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Lunch is in the backpack.”

  After eating they stretched out again on the blanket. “This place doesn’t compare to France and Switzerland, does it?” Rafael asked quietly. Just his luck—a poor, barely educated boy from Mexico in love with a rich girl who had lived in places he’d only read about. Their lives had been so different; they might as well be from separate planets.

  “The desert is beautiful. So are you.”

  “I don’t understand you, Krista. Why are you interested in me?”

  She wanted to cry. He didn’t trust her motives, didn’t trust her. He thought she was all pretense, that she didn’t understand real feelings, real emotion. He thought she was using him, amusing herself with the lowly border-patrol agent. “I’m very easy to understand, Rafael, but you’re looking for things to complicate the issue. You have this image of me as being easily amused and easily bored. You think I’m fickle and frivolous. You think I don’t have real feelings, that everything’s just a whim, a game. Yes, we’re different, but we have to be. People’s personalities don’t have to match, Rafael. They have to complement each other. Forget that you were poor and I am rich. That doesn’t matter. You’re strong and dependable. You’re a man I could rely on. You’re serious and quiet, and you have a calming effect on me. I’m usually pretty cheerful; if we had time, maybe I could make you smile a little more often.”

  “Smiles don’t mean a whole lot, do they? They don’t mean you’re happy. You smile a lot, but you’re not very happy. You hide behind your smiles.”

  “I know. I found out years ago that it was easier to smile than to admit to anyone how unhappy I was. It’s a defense mechanism. You hide behind that wall of ice, and I smile. But for now, Rafael, the smiles are real. I am happy.” She moved over next to him, using his arm as a pillow for her head. “I could probably fall asleep right here,” she said with a yawn.

  “Go ahead. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.” And until then he would watch her, commit everything about her to memory, so that in the empty nights ahead he could close his eyes and remember.

  She did sleep, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks in the late-afternoon sun. Rafael pulled her closer, then checked to make sure the backpack was within reach. Inside it was the trash from their lunch, and in a zippered pouch was a compact Colt .38. He was a cautious man.

  A cautious man. His innate sense of caution had saved his life more than once. He could tell when things weren’t right, could feel it, and was smart enough to pay attention to his intuition. So why had he ignored it with Krista? There had been warning signs all around her, and he had ignored them. He had seen her, considered the consequences of having her, recognized the futility of loving her, then proceeded as if there were no obstacles.

  There was no doubt that he would have to pay the price for reaching for the unattainable, but he couldn’t regret it. The hours he’d spent with Krista were too precious to regret.

  It was odd how different they were. In her typically confident way Krista considered their mutual attraction the most important thing. She saw no reason to let backgrounds interfere; those were no problem. Rafael, though, put far more importance on those backgrounds, on the differences that could separate them, rather than on the attraction that could bring them together.

  Never having been refused anything by her wealthy father, except his love, Krista saw no reason why she shouldn’t take what she wanted. Having been deprived of many of life’s basic necessities, Rafael was naturally reluctant to take what was offered. He saw no way their relationship could succeed, and the investigation he was conducting made a hopeless situation impossible. He had so little time with her.

  So little time.

  The investigation. Rafael scowled as it pushed its way to the front of his mind. Damn Art McLaren. Why hadn’t he been contented with the money he made from the oil wells, the cattle, the farming? Why did he have to start smuggling? Even under the best of circumstances a relationship with Krista would have been difficult, because they were so different. Thanks to Art it was damned near impossible.

  Two months ago, when Martin Thompson had introduced Rafael to Richard Houseman and told him that he would be working with the DEA agent, Rafael had seen it as just another job. The object of the investigation then had been Jack Marshall, McLaren’s foreman, but it hadn’t taken long to learn that Marshall was reporting to McLaren, though they had no proof.

  Art was smart. He was also so arrogant that his people conducted business openly, sometimes sending small loads of drugs through the local shipping office, sometimes bringing them into the country through the border checkpoint. But two months later the DEA still had no proof to connect Art directly to the drugs. And Rafael’s job had been greatly complicated by Krista’s arrival. By her beauty and her smile and her love, and most of all by his own love.

  “Krista.”

  She snuggled closer to him.

  “Wake up, cariña. It’s time to go.”

  “Hold me just a little longer.”

  “I will, when we go home. It’s getting dark, and we need to go.”

  She let him pull her to her feet, then sleepily watched him shake out the blanket. “You told me not to tell you this,” she said when he finished folding the blanket, “and I realize it really doesn’t matter much, but I do love you, Rafael.”

  Black eyes stared into hers. “How can you say it doesn’t matter?” he asked, his voice pitched low in disbelief.

  “Well, of course it matters; it matters like hell to me. But it can’t change things. You still can’t get involved with me, and my loving you can’t change that. I just…I wanted you to know.”

  He stroked her face with infinite tenderness. “If things could be different…I will cherish your love, Krista, as I cherish you.” He very gently kissed her lips. “Maybe someday…” he murmured to himself. After she’d learned how he had used her, after he’d helped destroy her father, when he was free to return her love—she would hate him. She would probably hate him for the rest of her life.

  The weekend was heavenly. Krista wished that it could last forever, but Rafael was adamant that it had to end, and she could do nothing to change his mind. Her attempts to do so only created stress between them, so she reluctantly accepted that this was the last time he would let her be with him. But not even that knowledge could dampen her pleasure in the hours they were together. They made love Saturday night, spent Sunday morning lazing in bed, and Sunday evening Rafael took her to dinner, again in San Ignacio. The weekend was heavenly. Krista wished that it could last forever, but Rafael was adamant that it had to end, and she could do nothing to change his mind. Her attempts to do so only created stress between them, so she reluctantly accepted that this was the last time he would let her be with him. But not even that knowledge could dampen her pleasure in the hours they were together. They made love Saturday night, spent Sunday morning lazing in bed, and Sunday evening Rafael took her to dinner, again in San Ignacio.

  They both avoided mentioning the goodbye that was inevitable until they returned to Rafael’s house after dinner. She picked up her car on the way home, parking it next to the Bronco. By mutual consent and without words, they went inside and directly to the bedroom, where they made love for the last time. It was wonderful, as usual, though tinged with a bittersweet pain that brought tears to Krista’s eyes. She snuggled in Rafael’s embrace for a few minutes when it was over then withdrew and began dressing. Her fingers fumbled over the zipper of her skirt and the buttons of her blouse; at last he pushed her hands out of the way and fastened the buttons for her.

  “You can stay in bed,” she said, trying desperately to control the quaver in her voice.

  “I’ll walk you to the car.” He slipped into his jeans and thrust his bare feet into his tennis shoes while Krista gathered her things.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in a low, sad voice when they reached the Mustang.

  “So am I.” She wiped at a tear that seeped from the corner of one e
ye. “I’m very glad I met you, Rafael Contreras.”

  He wished he could tell her that in a few months he would be free to come to her, free to return her love. But in a few months she probably wouldn’t want him. The event that would free him would cost him her love. So he remained silent and gathered Krista in his arms, holding her to his chest, stroking her hair, leaving light kisses on her forehead.

  “I won’t ask you why.” She raised her eyes to meet his, and he saw the moistness that gleamed there. She was unable to mask the pain. “I know you care for me, so you must have a good reason. I won’t ask you what it is, Rafael, but I just want to tell you that it isn’t fair. It isn’t fair at all.”

  “No, Krista, it isn’t.” His eyes were as empty as the night around them. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  “I know.”

  “I will cherish the memories of these days, querida.” His voice was thick and raspy, full of longing and desire and his own pain.

  She pressed her cheek to his bare chest, and he felt the trickle of tears. “I love you, Rafael,” she whispered. “I’ll always love you.” His arms tightened around her, and she savored the feel of them for the last time, then stepped back. Gently she kissed him, tasting his mouth, silently saying goodbye. Then she moved to get into her car.

  “Goodbye, cariña.”

  “Not goodbye, Rafael. I won’t say goodbye.” She looked up at him once more, then started the engine and managed somehow to smile sweetly in spite of her tears. “Maybe someday…”

  They were the words he had muttered yesterday, before they left the mountain. The only hope left to either of them. Maybe someday…

  “McLaren’s daughter’s been sending regular shipments to New York since she got here. Any idea what they are?”

  Martin Thompson shrugged, and Rafael remained silent. Richard Houseman waited a moment, then directed the question specifically to Rafael. “Contreras?”

  “I don’t know. She designs clothes; her work is in New York. But she isn’t involved with her father’s business.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know her.”

  “And just how well did you get to know her during the half hour you were at her party?” Thompson jeered. “Maybe we ought to get Darren Carter in here. He dated her. He really knows her.”

  Houseman took the man seriously; he missed the undertone that signified that Thompson was needling Rafael. “We’ve got enough people involved in this as it is. I’d rather not bring anyone else in.”

  Rafael ignored his boss and turned his cold gaze on the DEA agent. “Krista has little to do with her father. McLaren might use her, but it would be without her knowledge.”

  “I’ll find out about those shipments she’s made. She could be working with Art on this. From everything we’ve heard in the city, she’s almost too good to be true. She doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t use drugs, doesn’t even sleep around. No one would suspect her of being involved.” Except Houseman himself. “How did Art McLaren raise a daughter like that?”

  “He had very little to do with it.” Rafael rose to his feet and went to stare out the window. Over a week had passed since Krista had left his house. Over a week, and he missed her as much as, even more than, the night when she drove away. A couple of times, usually late at night when he couldn’t sleep because his bed felt so empty, he had considered what he would have to do to get her back in his life. It wouldn’t take much—quit his job, tell her father about the investigation into his smuggling, go against everything he believed in. Sometimes it didn’t seem like too much to ask.

  Then his common sense would reassert itself. How could he live with himself if he threw away his ethics and beliefs and saved Art McLaren just so he could have Krista? And his heart would always answer: how could he live without her? Ethics and beliefs did nothing to ease the pain inside him or to fill the emptiness of his life.

  “Let’s have lunch, Rafe,” Houseman suggested. He didn’t bother to invite Martin Thompson; the older man would make it more difficult for him to talk to Contreras. He sensed a definite dislike between the two men, and it made him uneasy. Jobs like this always went off better when the people involved got along and worked well together. But whatever Thompson’s dislike for the younger man, he had recommended Rafael as the “best damned agent” he’d ever worked with. Thompson might not like the man, but he respected his abilities, and that was certainly worth something.

  Rafael reluctantly agreed to the invitation. They went to the Blue Parrot, where a loud lunch crowd of oil-field and construction workers made it possible to carry on a conversation without fear of being overheard. As soon as they had been served, Houseman bluntly asked, “How well do you know Krista?”

  Rafael stared at the roast-beef sandwich in front of him. He didn’t want to answer; he resented any prying into his personal life, and Krista was a very personal part of his life. But he knew he had to answer, so he did, coldly. “Well.”

  Richard Houseman used eating as an excuse to think before he went on. He didn’t want to offend the obviously angry man across from him, but he needed to know more. “How well?”

  He got no answer.

  “Well enough to say for certain that she couldn’t be involved with Art’s schemes? Well enough to want to believe anything she tells you without looking for the truth? Well enough to lie to protect her, or to sabotage this investigation so she won’t be hurt?”

  Rafael raised his head and looked at him. Beneath the bronze of his cheeks was a dull red signifying that Houseman had gone too far. No one had ever accused Rafael of being dishonest or corrupt. “I know her better than I know anyone in this town, this state or this country. What I want to believe has nothing to do with it. She has no idea what her father does to earn all that money.”

  “Would she care?”

  Again Rafael chose not to reply; the answer seemed obvious enough to him.

  “What if she is involved, Rafe? What are you going to do about it?”

  “It isn’t going to happen.”

  “But what if she is?”

  Rafael was stubborn. “She isn’t.”

  Houseman lost his temper. “What makes you so damned sure?” he demanded, leaning forward to snap the question.

  “I am.”

  Rafael’s calm, arrogant answer grated on Houseman’s nerves, but he decided to accept it for now. The man just might know what he was talking about. “Is she staying at her dad’s place?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of relationship does she have with the old man?”

  “A lousy one.”

  Houseman’s blue eyes gleamed at that information. “Lousy enough that she might help us?”

  “No.” Rafael had eaten as much of the sandwich as his stomach could handle; his anger had destroyed his hunger. “Leave her out of this. She’s done nothing to interest you. She knows nothing about her father. You’re not going to drag her into it, Houseman. You’re not going to ask her to help destroy the only family she’s got.”

  That was the most Rafael had ever said at one time to Richard. He was impressed. He was also certain that there was more to Rafael’s relationship than he was letting on to anyone. He knew her far better than Thompson, or even Richard himself, had suspected. That could be a big help in the future.

  Rafael returned to headquarters to pick up his truck, then went out into the desert to patrol. Richard went to the small shipping office, hoping to pry from the clerk a little information about the frequent packages Krista was sending to New York. His luck was better than he expected. In line in front of him, the only other customer in the place was Krista McLaren, in the flesh.

  And what luscious flesh it was, he thought with a sly grin. No wonder Contreras was so protective of the woman; she was one of the prettiest Richard had seen in a long time.

  “That’ll be thirteen dollars and fifty-five cents, Miss McLaren,” the clerk said, completing the usual paperwork. “Our business has certainly improved
since you came here.”

  Paying the man, she laughed pleasantly. “As long as I’m here and my job’s in New York, I’ll be relying on you to help me out.”

  Richard leaned on the counter, barely able to read the name and address on the box. “Miss McLaren,” he said with a warm, friendly smile. “You must be Krista McLaren.”

  She glanced up, and her smile faltered. “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m Richard Houseman.”

  “Nice to meet you.” She turned back to the clerk as he counted out her change. While she was occupied, Richard speculatively studied the box she was sending off. It was large, taped securely, looked innocent enough—and probably was, he admitted. The shipping rates were set by weight, and at only thirteen fifty-five the box wasn’t heavy enough to be of interest to him. It probably just held patterns or drawings or fabric—whatever designers needed for designing, he decided with a measure of disappointment.

  Krista left the office, and Houseman muttered some excuse to the clerk before following her out. “Ever since I got into town I’ve been hearing about you. I was beginning to think I’d never meet you.”

  She stopped beside the Mustang, wondering how to get rid of him politely. “I stay busy.”

  Busy with what? he wondered. Her job? Rafe Contreras? Or her father’s illicit operations? “I understand you’re from New York. That’s where I’m permanently assigned.”

  Krista’s attention was caught by the word “assigned.” “Are you with the border patrol?”

  “Yeah,” he lied. “Just temporarily.”

  “I have a few friends who work there—Jim Stone and Darren Carter.”

  Richard noticed that she didn’t mention Contreras. He wondered why. “I haven’t really gotten to know any of them yet, besides Thompson and Rafe.”

  “Rafael,” she corrected him quickly, then blushed. She hadn’t intended to say his name. Funny—it had been over a week, but there was still a sharp pain in her stomach when she even spoke his name. She couldn’t imagine what seeing him would do to her.