by Joanna Wayne
She didn’t contradict him, but wine and a bath wouldn’t change the facts. At the very least, Carlos knew the answer to the mystery that had hung over Cape Diablo for thirty years.
At the worst, Raoul’s great-uncle had killed four people, including two innocent little girls. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind he was capable of it, not after she’d seen such murderous rage burn in his eyes.
“Let’s get out of here,” Raoul said, leading her to the door, “before Alma returns and we have to deal with her as well.”
Jaci looked back at the room one last time, and her gaze focused on the statue of St. Thomas, the same one that Carlos had raised against her. The perfect weapon. Convenient. Hard enough to crush a skull.
And with sharp edges on the jewels that could cut into the flesh and cause enough bleeding that it would spill onto the covers and the doll clutched in a small girl’s hands.
Jaci’s own blood ran cold at the new image.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Raoul asked.
“Yeah.” She was fine for now. But would Raoul be if evidence were found that incriminated his aging great-uncle in a crime that would send him to prison for the rest of his life?
THE PAIN HAD DULLED. NOW it was just a nagging ache that camped in the pit of Carlos’s stomach and hardened like a block of cement. He slapped a mosquito that was using his neck as its personal feeding trough, and wiped a stream of perspiration from his forehead.
He stopped and looked around. There wasn’t an inch of the island he didn’t know. Not a bog or a slough he hadn’t stepped into. Not a bird, snake or animal he didn’t recognize. Cape Diablo was his world, but he didn’t seem to belong here anymore.
He’d turned south when he left the villa. He’d passed the old servants’ quarters, and was already to the edge of a boggy swamp. Another hundred yards and he’d be at the deepwater cove that was once again a hotbed of drug smuggling activity.
Everything was spinning out of his control.
He’d made a mistake back at the villa. A very big mistake, but it could have been worse. He could have killed Jaci.
Then all the lies, all the secrets, all the horrible recollections that slithered through the black corners of his mind like a rattlesnake would have been for nothing.
Carlos leaned against the trunk of a cabbage palm and watched a purple gallinule that stared at him from a safe spot across a slough of greenish water. The bird belonged to the Gulf Islands the same way Carlos belonged to Cape Diablo.
Only the bird was a prisoner of his needs of survival. Carlos was a prisoner of fate.
He turned and started back to the boathouse, suddenly weary to the bone. He didn’t stop until he neared the villa and saw the señora and Enrique walking side by side toward the beach.
The weariness changed to anger. If Carlos were going to kill anyone, it should be Enrique. In fact, he should have killed him years and years ago.
RAOUL WAS IN THE APARTMENT above Jaci’s. She could hear thumping, as if he was moving furniture around. Jaci stood at the window, sipping the glass of chardonnay he’d poured for her, while troubling images played havoc with her reasoning abilities.
In spite of the images or the run-in with Carlos, Jaci wasn’t sorry she’d gone into the villa. She only wished she’d made it to the third floor to explore Alma’s quarters. Next time, Jaci consoled herself.
She was about to start the water for the hot bath Raoul had suggested when she spotted Alma walking across the courtyard, apparently returning from wherever she’d gone earlier.
Jaci was amazed again at how young she looked with her hair up, and dressed in normal clothes. She was walking fast, her thin arms swinging at her sides, her eyes straight ahead.
All of a sudden she slowed her pace and turned toward the pool, stopping at the edge to stare into the murky water. Her posture went rigid, except for her hands, which fisted and released in rapid succession.
There might be rules against guests wandering through the villa on their own, but there were none forbidding her to approach Alma Garcia in the courtyard.
Jaci was halfway across the courtyard when Alma stepped back from the pool. When she turned, Jaci got a clear look at her face. She was pasty-white and her eyes were wide open, though her stare was vacant, almost like that of a corpse.
A second later, Alma bolted and ran toward the villa, surprising Jaci with her speed.
Jaci walked to the pool and peered into the water to see what had frightened Alma. There was nothing there but the usual muck.
A boat horn sounded in the distance. It was likely Bull bringing the supplies and mail. Jaci rushed back inside for the package containing the doll.
“I’m off to the dock to meet the supply boat,” she yelled loudly enough for Raoul to hear in the upstairs apartment.
“I’m right behind you.”
HER OLD LUNGS WERE BURNING by the time she reached the third floor. She fell onto her worn sofa and held both hands against her heart to keep it from bursting right out of her chest. She closed her eyes tight, but still she saw Andres’s small son lying on the bottom of the pool.
Carlos claimed she was losing her mind to the pills and the drugs. But how else did he expect her to survive? He didn’t understand. Thankfully, Enrique did.
Her hands shook as she opened the drawer by her bed and unlocked the metal box where she kept the stash Enrique had replenished.
If she was going mad, it wasn’t from the drugs, but from Jaci and people like her who wouldn’t just go away and leave her and Carlos alone.
They wanted answers, but answers wouldn’t change anything. Nothing could ever undo what had happened that night. That’s why she had to get rid of them. That’s why she had to get rid of all of them, even Carlos.
One day she might have to get rid of Enrique, as well. But not yet. She needed his strength—and his drugs.
BULL LIFTED A BOX OF groceries onto the deck. “These are yours, Carlos.”
The old man stooped on the edge of the dock and did a quick inspection of the contents. “Where’s the rest of my order?”
“Didn’t come in.”
“I told you I needed it.”
“It didn’t come in,” Bull said again, this time with an edge that meant he was through talking about it.
Carlos wasn’t, but he didn’t want to say more with Raoul and Jaci standing around.
“And these are your groceries, Jaci. Oh, yeah, and you got this letter, too.” Bull pulled a big brown envelope from the mailbag inside his boat. “Looks official.”
“Thanks, and I have something for you to post with FedEx the minute you get back to the mainland. It’s extremely important that it gets to the addressee in the morning.”
“You got it. How long you figure to be out here?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Yeah, well, you take care of yourself. There’s a storm brewing in the Gulf. You’re going to get some rain tonight and plenty of it.”
A big storm was brewing, that was for sure, but Bull didn’t know the half of it. Carlos picked up his box and moved to where he could read over Jaci’s shoulder. The letter was from the university lab. He waited for her to open it, but she just stuck it in the bag with her groceries.
Raoul reached for the box Carlos was holding. “Here, I’ll carry those up the steps for you.”
“I’m not helpless yet. You’d be better off helping the lady you’re so worried about.”
“I’ll get hers, too, as soon as I get these up the stairs for you.”
Carlos gave up the box. He wasn’t really mad at Raoul, at least not since he’d cooled off a bit. If he’d been in his nephew’s shoes up in the villa this afternoon, he’d have likely reacted the same way.
But he wasn’t. He was in his own shoes. Worn shoes that had walked too many miles over the same damn, swampy turf.
He waited until Jaci left the dock, then walked down to the supply boat for a private word with Bull. He needed the necessary supplies to carr
y out his plans. Things were heating up fast.
He slid his hand into his jacket pocket and wrapped it around the pistol. That was his backup plan. If all else failed, it wouldn’t.
JACI FOUND A PRIVATE SPOT, hidden away in a thick cluster of mangroves, before ripping open the brown envelope. She fully expected the report to verify her suspicions that Alma had broken into her apartment and likely taken the note about Mac, which had never shown up.
There was no way she’d gone to Everglades City and murdered the former policeman, but she might have given the information to someone who had.
The first words leaped out at Jaci, even though they were not part of the official report: “You lucked out. But be very careful out there in Weirdsville!”
The note was from a fellow forensics student who worked in the lab. Jaci scanned the report quickly, searching for pertinent points. The most shocking part of the report had nothing to do with Alma Garcia.
Fingerprints from a Miami arrest in a barroom brawl thirty-five years ago were an exact match for the large primary prints on the book. Enrique Lopez was not who he claimed.
“What are you reading, señorita? Perhaps a letter from your lover?”
Her breath caught in her throat as Enrique approached, and she folded the report quickly and stuffed it back into the envelope. “No. It’s just some information.”
Enrique stepped closer and a tingle of fear skittered up her spine. She’d been uneasy around him from the start, had felt his story of how he’d become friends with Carlos and Alma didn’t ring true. Her instincts had been right on target.
“You are a very beautiful woman, Señorita Jaci. Much too beautiful to spend so much time alone.”
He stepped even closer, into her space, and trailed a finger down her arm. Her skin crawled at his touch. “I appreciate the compliment, Enrique, but I really have to go.”
“That’s too bad. I was hoping we could get to know each other better.”
She backed away a step. “Perhaps later.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were afraid of me.”
“Why would I be?”
He reached over and wrapped his hand around her wrist. He didn’t squeeze, but she felt the power in his grip all the same.
“Maybe you are afraid of hot-blooded Hispanic men.”
“Maybe.” Especially ones who pretended to be someone they weren’t.
“Let me take you for a ride in my boat. One night in the moonlight and you will forget this Raoul who follows you around like a puppy dog.”
Or she’d end up sinking to the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico. “There’s not supposed to be moonlight tonight. I hear there’s a storm brewing.”
“There’s always my room in the villa. Just the two of us. And a bottle of very good tequila.”
“Sorry, I’m really busy this afternoon and tonight.”
“Then it is my loss. I’m leaving early in the morning.”
He let go of her arm, and she wasted no time in getting out of there.
She was certain Carlos knew Enrique’s true identity, but just as sure Raoul didn’t, and she couldn’t wait to fill him in.
He was waiting on the dock when she stepped into the clearing. “Where in the devil did you disappear to?” he demanded. “I told you I didn’t want you going off by yourself.”
“I was only standing in the shade, reading a very interesting report I got back from the lab.”
“Good news?”
“Surprising news. I’ll tell you all about it when we get back to the pool house.”
“No way.” He grabbed her arm. “I hate those waiting games. What gives?”
“Enrique Lopez isn’t Enrique Lopez.”
“So who is he?”
“Rodolfo Norberto. Medina Santiago’s long-dead brother.”
Raoul muttered a curse under his breath. “Are you sure?”
“The fingerprints are a perfect match. Apparently his death was faked to allow him to escape his country after his father was overthrown.”
She gave him the rest of the details on the way back to her apartment. He realized the same as she had that Carlos had to know the man’s real identify, but Raoul was as confused as she was as to what Enrique’s presence on the island meant.
Alma was back at her window when they reached the courtyard. It was weird, but all of a sudden Jaci had the strange feeling that while the Santiago girls were most surely dead, Medina Santiago was alive. And that the woman in the window knew where she was.
RAOUL TWISTED IN THE SHEETS AND tried to get comfortable on the lumpiest mattress he’d ever endured. But even if he’d been cradled in a featherbed, he doubted he’d be asleep, not with the wind and rain battering the windows. Or with the even more troublesome storm shaking his insides to the core.
He’d come here to talk his great-uncle into getting the medical care that might save his life. Now Raoul was so caught up in Jaci, he could barely think of Carlos or anything else.
Lightning lit the sky like fireworks, and a clap of thunder rattled the windows in the pool house. Raoul wondered if Jaci was asleep, or if was she lying awake as he was, listening to the storm, thinking of him, wanting him the way he wanted her.
And he did want her, wanted to hold her, to kiss her again and again, to feel her body next to his, to… God help him, he wanted to make love with her. He wanted it so badly he could taste it.
He’d had two years of thinking he had no right to feel anything. But whether or not he had the right, he was so hungry for Jaci right now it was all he could do not to barge into her room and sweep her up in his arms.
Another clap of thunder rumbled, even louder than before, followed by pitiful yelping. What the devil? Surely Tamale hadn’t gotten left out in the pouring rain.
Raoul went to the window and searched for the dog, catching a quick glimpse of him when lightning zigzagged across the sky. The yelp changed to a howl—a pitiful one, as if he were sick or hurt.
Opening the door, Raoul called to him from the covered loggia. The dog tried to come, but was apparently tangled up in something.
Raoul couldn’t just leave him there. He wiggled into his jeans, grabbed his windbreaker and a flashlight, and half ran, half slipped down the wet steps.
It didn’t take but a second to find the problem. Tamale had gotten caught up in a piece of metal filigree. His right front paw was stuck in one of the holes, and a twisted extension had become caught on the trunk of one of the palm trees.
“Take it easy, boy. I know it hurts, but give me a second and I’ll get you free.”
The dog whimpered, but stood perfectly still while Raoul bent the metal and extricated the paw.
Tamale shook, sending a spray of water into Raoul’s face. Not that it mattered; he couldn’t have been any wetter. He’d planned to take the poor mutt inside with him, but Tamale raced off, obviously heading to his usual port in a storm.
Raoul walked back toward the pool house. Jaci’s door was open, and she was standing there in that same yellow nightshirt she’d had on the first night he’d ever seen her.
“Raoul Lazario to the rescue?” she asked, her voice all but drowned out by the wind and rain.
“Something like that.”
“Come in and dry off.”
His heart slammed against his chest, but as much as he wanted to take her up on that offer, he knew his limitations.
“If I come in, I may not leave.”
She didn’t answer, just reached out, grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.
Chapter Thirteen
“I’ll grab a towel,” Jaci said, in a voice that sounded husky even to her own ears. “You strip.”
By the time she returned, Raoul’s windbreaker was in a wet ball on the tile floor, and streams of water were dripping down his bare chest to disappear beneath the waistband of the partially unzipped jeans.
Raoul stopped unzipping, no doubt aware that she was staring, possibly drooling—so hot for him that she was findi
ng it hard to breathe. There was probably an explanation for her sudden loss of control. She couldn’t care less what it was.
She swallowed hard, then stepped in close. She wrapped the towel around his head and rubbed briskly, leaving his thick, dark hair damp and wildly disheveled. He kissed her neck as she moved the towel to his chest to capture the water collecting on the ends of the short, wiry hairs.
It was every inch a man’s chest. Muscled. Hard. Gorgeous. She ran her tongue over one nipple, catching a droplet of water.
He moaned, and the thrill of turning him on like that was as heady as her own desire. The towel slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor. She splayed her hands across Raoul’s chest and he fitted his over hers, letting their fingers entwine.
One second they were staring into each other’s eyes, the next his arms were around her, his fingers tangled in her hair. And then his mouth found hers.
She melted into the kiss, holding nothing back. She loved the taste of him, the mingling of their breaths, the feel of his tongue tangling with hers. The wetness from his jeans soaked into her nightshirt and right through to her bare skin, a seductive reminder that she was wearing nothing under it.
She wanted Raoul. Wanted every inch of him with a hunger she hadn’t known existed. “You’re getting me all wet,” she whispered, pulling away. “The jeans have got to go.”
Her gaze locked on his zipper and his erection pressing hard against the denim. She tried to grasp the tab, but her wet, shaky fingers slipped, brushing against his arousal. She ran her thumbs up and down the denim-clad length of him, loving that he writhed at her touch.
“I’ll get the zipper,” Raoul whispered, his mouth at her ear, nibbling and sucking her earlobe.
She struggled to help, but it was the first time she’d ever tried peeling wet jeans off a man who had swelled to gigantic proportions. It went much too slowly, but finally the jeans fell, along with every inhibition she’d ever had.
He pulled her against his naked body, and a million new and wanton sensations coursed through her. She held on tight as he kissed her lips, her neck, the soft swell of cleavage.
