by Meg Tilly
The rest of the staff had departed, one after another, slowly whittled away, until it was just she and Tim, the cook. But Tim had found a new job and left the residence last Friday.
Maritza wiped down the sink, polished the chrome faucet, the cross handles, the toilet handle.
At least I have a job, and living on the premises means I don’t have to pay for rent, utilities, or food.
She sprayed Windex on the mirror and wiped it clean.
I will give it one more week, she decided as she tucked the cleaning supplies under the sink and stepped back into the hall.
The money she was owed had been deposited in her savings account, but there’d been a mix-up at the bank. It would be sorted out soon and she would be able to send her salary to her madre to pay for the expenses of her children, José and Alejandra. The thought of them caused an ache in her chest. They were growing up, so quickly, in El Salvador without her. Her babies, already four and six. How she missed holding their warm little bodies.
“What do you mean, she isn’t dead?” The voice exploded from behind the closed study doors.
Maritza froze midstep, fear surging through her.
“I paid top dollar to take care of this problem.”
There was a low, controlled murmur in response. Maritza couldn’t hear the words, but the flat ice-cold tone sent shivers up her spine.
“I’ve had it with this fucking incompetence. I’ll accompany you. Gonna take care of her personally, now. Want to make that bitch suffer for the extra hassle and expense she’s costing me. And no more mistakes. Understand?”
The low murmur again.
Santa María, Madre de Dios—footsteps were coming toward the door. Maritza forced movement into her legs, whirled, and ran. Not quick enough . . . Not quick enough . . . She heard the blast before she felt it. Loud, so loud. Falling, falling down. Heat, pain in her chest spreading outward. Vision blurring. Her sweet babies, her sweet, blessed babies. She held their faces in her mind. “Dios te salve, María, llena eres de gracia . . . El Señor es contigo . . . Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres . . . y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre . . . Jesús . . .”
Footsteps approaching.
“Santa María, Madre de Dios . . .”
Voices.
“Why did you shoot her?”
“She heard.”
Someone kicked her hard in the stomach. “Ruega por nosotros pecadores . . . ahora y . . .”
“Make her stop praying.”
Another kick, forcing blood and vomit upward and out. For a second she worried about the mess. No importa qué. “En la . . . hora de . . .”
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”
“Nuestra muerte.”
Another loud blast.
“Amén,” Maritza Elena Vásquez breathed out, and then darkness—blessed, sweet darkness—took her.
Thirty-two
MAGGIE WOKE DISCOMBOBULATED, unsure where she was. She wasn’t alone in the darkness. She was wrapped around a large male body, one leg flung over his thighs, her head on his chest. Her hand tightly gripped a fistful of his T-shirt, as if to keep him from leaving while she slept. The fresh, clean scent of him surrounded her.
Luke.
She was in Luke’s bed.
She was safe.
“Good morning.”
She could hear him, but she could feel his voice, too, in a visceral, tactile way, through muscle, sinew, and bone. Vibrations of his rumbling baritone made their way through his body to merge with the parts of her body in contact with his.
He was awake.
How long had he been lying there, letting her sleep in his arms? “What time is it?” Maggie asked.
“Mm . . .” He shifted slightly to look at a bedside clock, still keeping her tucked in the crook of his arm. “It’s three twenty-two in the morning.”
“Wow. We slept for . . .”
“Almost thirteen hours.”
“I’ve never slept so long in my life,” Maggie said. It was remarkable how comfortable she felt, lying there in his arms.
Actually, she was comfortable, except for the pressure in her bladder. “Um,” she said, reluctantly shifting from the warmth of his arms to a sitting position. “I need to use the . . . uh . . .”
“Facilities?” he asked with a grin.
“Yeah,” she said. “You want me to use the one in my room?”
“Nah,” he said, waving a magnanimous hand. “Feel free to defile mine.”
“I don’t have to do that,” Maggie said, hopping off the bed and heading toward the bathroom, his warm chuckle following in her wake.
When she returned, he got up and went in.
Maggie stood by the bed. What should she do? If she got back into his warm, comfy bed, he might think it was an invitation to continue what she had started on his sofa yesterday. It was weird how time had morphed. Yesterday felt like a long time ago. So much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Her mind flashed to Luke flipping the dead man onto his back, his arm flopping outward from his body, fingers curling gently upward.
She blew out a long, slow breath. A tremor ran through her. Let it go. It’s over and done with.
She heard the toilet flush. If she left and went back to her room, would it seem rude? Or would it be a relief for him to get her out of his hair?
Now the water was running in the sink. What to do? What to do? The sounds of the water ceased, followed by his footsteps approaching the door. And then he was there. His long, lean, muscled body silhouetted in the bathroom doorway.
“I was wondering,” he said, running a hand through his tousled, dark hair, “if I could ask you for a favor.”
“Anything,” Maggie said, and just saying the word “anything” to this virile, strong, sexy man caused heat to pool in her breasts, her abdomen, and down lower.
“I am ravenously hungry,” he said, “and have been lusting after a slice of your chocolate cake for what seems like an eternity.”
* * *
• • •
“LIFE,” LUKE SAID, carefully scraping the last crumbs of chocolate cake off his plate with the back of his fork, “doesn’t get any better than this.”
“You can have another piece,” Maggie said, biting into a ripped-off hunk of one of his baguettes, slathered with locally churned organic butter, a wedge of four-year-aged cheddar in her other hand. She hadn’t wanted to eat, but once Luke got her to force down the first couple of mouthfuls, her nausea seemed to calm. Her body’s survival mechanisms had kicked in and she was now eating with relish while Luke watched with quiet satisfaction.
“I want more cake, believe me,” Luke said, “but I’m trying to muster up a little restraint, seeing as how I’ve already had seconds. It’s time for something savory.” He slid the chopping board closer, cut a length of baguette, and slit it down the middle. He smeared on a thin layer of butter, then some truly decadent French triple-crème Pierre Robert, and finished off his creation with paper-thin slices of prosciutto.
“Ah,” she said, “I see you are going the multicultural route. I, however, am a purist and am sticking with locally produced goods.”
She was still a bit pale, but he was relieved she was feeling up to a little lighthearted banter.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Luke said, handing over his sandwich to her.
It was only a sandwich, but there was something so erotic about watching her hold it, two-handed, fitting her mouth around the end. Even the action of her teeth biting down turned him on, which didn’t make any kind of sense.
“Mmm . . .” Maggie moaned. “So good.”
Luke shifted in his seat, needing to make a discreet adjustment. “Finish it off,” he said, mesmerized. “I’ll make another.”
“Twist my arm,” Maggie said, oblivious to the effect she was having on
his nether regions. She took another bite. “Best thing ever.”
He enjoyed the view as she chewed and swallowed. She lifted the loaded baguette up to her mouth again and then paused, a look of consternation on her face. “What?” she asked.
“What, what?” Luke replied, startled out of his reverie.
“Do I have something on my face?” She put the baguette down and wiped her napkin across the corners of her mouth.
“No,” Luke said, forcing himself to look away. “I was just daydreaming.” He broke off another length of baguette and started slicing it open.
“Luke,” Maggie said, her voice hesitant, “can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He scooped up a dollop of butter.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said this morning. When Eve asked about that police officer acting so starstruck, you mentioned being in the Special Forces, based out of Fort Campbell. But that wouldn’t explain why he was ‘yes-sir-ing’ you all over the place, unless he’d been stationed at Fort Campbell at the same time. Then I thought, no, he’s too young. Maybe his dad was, and the young cop met you that way.” She paused and took another bite of her sandwich. Tipped her head, thinking it through. “But that explanation didn’t make sense because he didn’t know you. He said, ‘It was a real honor to meet you.’”
Luke shrugged and started spreading the butter, aware of her studying him.
“And another thing. Last night, as I was drifting off, I had an image flash before me. I was going to ask you about it, but I must have fallen asleep. When that guy was rushing toward me with the knife, I thought you must have shot him with the other guy’s gun. Picked it up or something. But you couldn’t have, because you didn’t bend over. You were dragging me backward.”
Maggie was speaking in a calm and logical manner, but Luke could see the slight tremor running through her body, the paleness and strain on her face, as she sorted through memories.
“And then I thought, well, maybe Luke had a gun? But that didn’t make sense. Even if you owned a gun, you were out on a peaceful evening stroll. Why on earth would you bring a gun along for that? And then Eve came charging out of the house, freaking out, and the cops came and we had to move here and I forgot all about it.”
“Until now,” Luke said quietly.
“Yes, until now.”
Luke placed his butter knife carefully on the table. “All good observations and questions.”
“Did you have a gun?” Maggie asked, her eyes dark, face serious.
Luke nodded.
Maggie sank slightly back in her chair. She turned her head to look toward the windows, even though there was nothing to see out there, just the reflection of them inside. Beyond that, dark night surrounded them.
What is she thinking?
“I have an authorization to carry,” Luke said, both hands on the table, palms down.
“Um-hm,” Maggie said with a nod, but she was still not looking at him.
The room was silent. Just the barely there hum of the refrigerator and the sound of their breathing.
“I didn’t point out the discrepancies because my sister was already extremely upset this morning, but there has to be more to the story than you told us.”
“Maggie, I am a baker.”
She shook her head. “I should have known. So many signs—this home, for one. Baking bread isn’t that lucrative. So how did you earn the money? And yes, I know you were in the Special Forces, but that is hardly lucrative enough to afford all of this.” Her voice was starting to rise, as was the color in her cheeks. “I hope to hell you weren’t involved in anything illegal, but I have to tell you, the more I think about it, the more worried I get. Luke, why the need for over-the-top security around this place? ‘Habit,’ you said. But this is not a mere choice of whether you like ketchup with your eggs! This kind of setup takes a great deal of effort.”
He started to open his mouth, but she cut him off.
“Don’t you blame it on your military background. My dad was in the army, and all my parents have is a good, old-fashioned lock on the door. This is Solace Island, and yet you have a six-foot-high fence around the perimeter, cameras at the gate and at the doors.”
“Maggie . . . ”
She whirled to face him. “Don’t ‘Maggie’ me,” she said, eyes blazing.
“I didn’t think it was relevant. That was my life before; this is now—”
“Excuse me,” she interrupted, “but from my point of view? There is a big difference between deciding to date a cozy, albeit sexy-as-hell, bread baker and a . . . a . . . gun-packing . . .” She waved her hands around in frustration and then threw them up in the air. “This is ridiculous. I know nothing about you. Is Luke Benson even your real name? Or is it some alias—”
“It’s my name—”
She gave a short, brittle laugh. “No need to act like that’s such a stretch. If you want me to trust you, if you want to build on this friendship”—friendship? Definitely not the direction he was hoping to steer things toward—“then you need to stop being so damned secretive. Who are you really? Huh? How did you injure your leg?”
“Gunshot wound.”
“Gunshot wound?” she squeaked, her eyebrows springing upward.
He nodded.
“Terrific.” Clearly she did not think it was terrific. “So that’s why there’s all this security. You’re in some kind of trouble.” She shook her head, then sighed as if she was suddenly weary. “Is there a tie to the men who were after me?”
“No,” he said. “That was a one-off, and the shooter’s dead.”
She studied his face intently, as if she knew there was still more to the story. “And the shooter was?”
“My fiancée’s boyfriend.”
She digested that comment. Squared her shoulders. “Did you kill him?” she asked.
He looked into her clear-eyed gaze. “Indirectly,” he replied. He could hear the sharp intake of her breath. “Didn’t mean to. After Jasper shot me, he ran, yanked Adyna out of the room.”
“Adyna was your ex?”
“Yeah. I should have let them go. Blockheaded stupidity on my part. Didn’t have all the information. Was convinced he’d forced himself on her physically and was making her run against her will. So I followed them in my truck.”
“Had he?” Maggie said, concern in her eyes, but she hadn’t heard the rest of the story. How it ended.
He made himself continue. “No. It had been an elaborate con from the start, and I was the dupe. She wasn’t in love with me. Didn’t even like me, according to the journals I found.” He shrugged, trying to keep the mask of indifference from slipping. He was just reciting a story—nothing to do with him—even though the telling of it was causing adrenaline to ricochet through his veins. “Anyway, they took off; I followed in pursuit. The roads were slick, rain thundering down, visibility was poor. Jasper’s Porsche skidded out of control, smashed through the guardrail.”
Luke could still hear Adyna’s ear-piercing scream as the vehicle spun out of control, into the oncoming traffic. The Porsche had slammed head-on into a fully loaded fuel truck, and her scream cut off.
“By the time I jumped out of my truck and ran across the freeway, it was too late—the explosion was too big, the flames too intense. Nothing anyone could do. Adyna, her lover, the driver of the truck: all dead.” Luke blew out a breath. “The trucker had three kids.” He broke off. He’d helped the man’s family financially, but how does one compensate for the death of a father?
“That wasn’t your fault,” Maggie said with complete certainty in her voice.
“If I hadn’t chased them—”
“Not your fault,” she repeated firmly. The ice maker in the freezer dumped a load of ice into the bin, the noise loud in the silent kitchen. “So, why’d you end up on Solace?”
He didn’t an
swer.
“Luke,” she said, her voice soft, persuasive.
Luke looked at her, this strong, beautiful woman he hoped would become part of his future, and made a decision. “All right,” he said. “Where should I start?”
“At the beginning,” she said, an encouraging smile curving the corners of her lips.
He paused. It was an unfamiliar situation he was navigating, revealing his past. “I graduated from high school and enlisted in the army, served for three years, and was in the SF pipeline for another two,” Luke said.
“Special Forces.” Maggie nodded. “Go on.”
“As you know, I was based at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. I was part of the Fifth Special Forces Group Airborne. It was”—he reached for a word that would be true, but not overwhelm her— “intense.” His voice was even, calm. He was in control, even though images, smells, sounds from that time were rising up to bombard him. He took a moment, focused on keeping his breath even.
She was watching him closely, compassion on her face. “I can’t even imagine,” she said.
He was glad she couldn’t.
“I was proud to serve my country. When I was deployed, it became even clearer to me, the necessity of the fight, the need to keep America strong. To keep in place the everyday freedoms and privileges that so many civilians take for granted.”
“So why did you stop?”
More memories assailed him. “A member of our team, Teddy, slipped up. And the ODA is only as strong as the weakest link.”
“ODA?”
“Sorry. Stands for Operational Detachment Alpha—consists of twelve Special Forces soldiers, all cross-trained in different skills and languages. Two officers, ten sergeants. He was an officer. A good man.”
“What happened to him?”
“Dead. Along with eight other members of our team.”
“Oh, Luke.”
He felt her hand cover his. The coolness of her fingers soothed.
“He’d been in the field seven years longer than me and was starting to buckle under the strain. Nonstop deployment. We all noticed the strain, the fraying around the edges. He’d just found out the week prior that his wife had filed for divorce. Had two small children that he adored. Needless to say, he was gutted. No way for him to go back and sort things out. His focus was off, and he accidentally triggered an improvised explosive device. Boom. Colt, Gunner, and I were left standing. Ian was in pieces, but still alive. He didn’t make it through the night, though.” He let out a shaky breath.
