Jungle of Deceit

by Maureen A. Miller

  The first thing she noticed was that Mitch smelled clean. Soap, shampoo−and his skin emitted a cloud of humidity as if he had just stepped from the shower. She was aware of the man−of his physical attributes that were now concealed in a white T-shirt and jeans. As the door closed he moved in, and it appeared that he might reach for her, but at the last second he refrained.

  “Will you let me get dressed at least?”

  His eyes slid down her neck to the sheet gripped in a fist against her collarbone, he managed a weary smile. “If you must.”

  Alex disappeared into the bathroom and rushed to yank her clean clothes out of the dryer and put them on. They felt warm, and she glanced down to find the tank top remarkably white again. With her hands gripping the rim of the sink, she studied her reflection in the mirror, satisfied that her eyes were much more alert now and her blond hair possessed a vivid shine once again. She opened the bathroom door, ready for answers.

  ***

  Mitch rose from the loveseat at the site of Alex emerging from the bathroom. God, he wanted to touch her. He wanted to engulf her bare shoulders in his palms and draw her against his chest−and he wanted to kiss her again. Damn, he wanted to kiss her again. But one glimpse of her resolved expression told him there was little chance of that happening.

  He had spent the last sleepless hour cursing Nicholson to hell, and condemning his own sorry existence. Half of him wished he told the Chronicle to shove it and had quit before accepting that gig on the Newark dock. The other half, and the one that was winning the battle, thought he would have been a lesser man if he had not met Alexandra Langley.

  “Who are you?” Alex asked with arms crossed.

  She had been sleeping. A light from the kitchen dimly lit the room. It was hard to see her eyes in the murky glow.

  “Mitchell George Hasslet, the son of Marian and George Hasslet of Montvale, New Jersey.”

  “I’m not interested in cute right now.”

  “I don’t do cute,” he countered. “Why don’t you sit down, Alex? I’m going to be awhile.”

  Her eyebrow arched in interest and she sat on the loveseat adjacent to his, her fingers clasped between her knees.

  “My father was a journalist. He worked for the Star Ledger. My parents are retired now and living in Sarasota. I guess a turning point in my life was when my dad took me on a tour of the Ledger headquarters and I met the Staff Photographer. His office was covered with Super Bowl photographs and pictures of the Giants and Jets. Yeah, he had a lot of other pictures of presidents and such, but I was hooked when I saw Phil Simms−my idol at the time.”

  It was nearly imperceptible, but he thought he detected Alex’s shoulders relax. She exhaled slowly as if coming to the conclusion that he meant what he said, that they would be there awhile. Mitch relaxed too. He had never actually talked to anyone before about his family. With his career being a solitary one, he was never home long enough to maintain a friendship, and there was never anyone to converse with on anything deeper than a social level. It had not bothered him before.

  “I graduated from Penn State with a degree in visual journalism and started working for the Ledger thanks to some strings dad pulled. One thing led to another and I started traveling,” he hesitated. “Far.”

  He took Alex’s silence as a prompt to continue. “I hooked up with the Associated Press and next thing I knew, I was in the middle of turbulence abroad.”

  Recalling it now, Mitch realized that he didn’t miss it anymore. It was a lonely and cheerless world filled with drama. Every now and then inspiration could be drawn from a dramatic image of life struggling from the ashes. Those were the photos he sought. Those were the pictures that brought him acclaim−but they were few and far between.

  “One day,” he continued, “I took a photograph of something that I shouldn’t have, and that was the end of my career.”

  The anger welled up again, and the pain over that photograph ate at his soul.

  Alex held up her hand. “I know you were fired. I had limited time and access, but despite popular belief, I don’t just take on every schmuck the museum sends my way just to save my grant. I knew enough about you that I was intrigued. I was intrigued that someone with credentials such as yours would be on an insignificant and most likely poorly compensated project such as mine.”

  Mitch tried to laugh, but his mouth didn’t endorse the gesture. “I don’t know whether to be offended by the schmuck comment, or flattered that you were intrigued by me.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Mitch. I want to know what you were doing with my group. Why would Solis call you a mole? Tell me that your being here is legitimate. Tell me that.” She leaned forward and now he could see a flash in her eyes reflected from the kitchen light. “Tell me, Mitch. Why did Phillip send you down here?”

  Mitch sat back and hooked an ankle over his knee, trying to act casual, but his nerves were getting the best of him. “That’s a question that even I don’t know the answer to.” He unlatched the ankle and hunched forward with elbows on knees. “Alex, I was on a dock in Newark, assigned to photograph a shipment leaving the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities.”

  Alex’s eyes widened, but Mitch persisted. “I thought it was a lame assignment. I mean, everything was crated up. Who wants pictures of a bunch of wooden containers? But the editor said that it was a pricey exhibit and that I should just shut up and do my job. So I did it. I was pissed, but I did it. And guess what happened? That shipment was stolen before my very exclusive eyes by a bunch of commandos. The crates were airlifted on two helicopters, and as I was trying to do my job, some damn guerilla with a repulsive scar smashed my jaw and gave me this lovely face you’re studying so intently.”

  Alex snapped at his observation and leaned back once again, nodding for him to continue.

  “Next thing I know, I wake up on the tar, and a friggin limousine pulls up next to me. And guess who is in it? The illustrious director of the Museum of Historical Art and Antiquities.”

  “Phillip?” she recoiled. “Was he radioed by the police about the heist?”

  Mitch shook his head and let loose a humorless chuckle. “The police had not arrived yet. I was the only person there−alive−capable of calling the police, which I asked him to do. But−” the absurdity of it all struck him again. “But the man addressed me by my name.”

  Alex spread her palms out, wanting more.

  “He took me into the back of that limo and said he knew I was assigned to shoot the transportation of his shipment and that I was the only person who could visually identify the militia that stole it. He wanted me to go to Guatemala where they tracked the shipment to. He acknowledged that it would be hard to locate, but if I was able to recognize some of the soldiers, I could contact him and he would bring authorities in to back me up.”

  Mitch cupped his head in his hands realizing how ridiculous it all sounded. He looked Alex in the eye. “I’m not proud. He tempted me with money, and more important, reinstatement with the AP. Jesus, Alex, I was half conscious−”

  You were lucid enough to get on the plane the next morning.

  Phillip’s words mocked him.

  “I don’t know. The guy pushed buttons, and I didn’t resist. Maybe I wanted a thrill.” Mitch snorted. “I guess I got one.”

  “Do you think there is any reason in the world I should buy any of this?”

  No. None at all. If he had the answers, then he could possibly defend himself. But there was no justification.

  “No, I guess not.” He stood and moved towards the door, but hesitated when a soft glow filled the room behind him. Alex had turned on the end table lamp and she stood up.

  “Look at me.” She commanded with fists curled at her sides.

  He had wanted to see her eyes, well now he did and they were radiant with ire. This was the Alexandra Langley he was first introduced to beside a defective Jeep−a woman who walked a perilous tightrope with anger to the left and optimism to the right.

  �
�You came into my camp,” she said. “I trusted you. You had ulterior motives which could have jeopardized my men.”

  He wanted to argue that he didn’t, but Alex took a step towards him and he sensed the height of her rage by her trembling arms.

  “But, was kissing me necessary for your cover, Mitch?”

  Ahhh.

  Mitch kept his hand on the doorknob. He felt like someone was using steel-toed boots to stomp grapes inside his stomach. “No, Alex. That was not part of my cover.”

  “You thought you were coming down here to meet up with Franklin Langley. What an appealing turn of events for you that I ended up being female. Your mission suddenly didn’t look so bad, did it? Walk around the jungle−see if you recognize any guerillas along the way−and get some ass while you’re at it. Not a bad deal at all.”

  “Don’t do this, Alex.” His voice was low.

  “How can I not?” She nearly pleaded, which hurt him all the more. “What you’ve told me is absurd, yes, but it doesn’t qualify for being deceitful. I see no reason that you couldn’t divulge all this up front. Hell, I would have helped.”

  “That’s just it,” he countered. “Phillip knew you would have helped. He gave strict orders not to tell you anything.”

  Screw it, he needed to touch her. His fingers brushed her forearm and her whole body shuddered at the contact. He did not retreat and wrapped his hand gently around the arm as if administering to the broken limb of a fawn.

  “Alex, I don’t buy the whole story myself. I feel like−”

  She allowed her arm to remain in his grasp and looked up at him with the eyes of an animal in captivity−terrified, but ready to use her instinctive defenses.

  “You feel like what?”

  “I feel like I have been sent down here to protect you.”

  Alex grunted and looked away. “Yeah right. And what credentials would you have for that−or do you have another occupation I’m not aware of? Next you’ll confess to being a Navy SEAL or something.”

  He deserved her mistrust. He should have been upfront from the beginning, but when he stood on that dock, he didn’t know of Alexandra Langley. He accepted the proposal of a cagey museum director under the misguided belief that that the man could rectify his destroyed career. After having met Alex, he agreed with Nicholson’s rationalization to keep her ignorant to the heist. It was the safest option for her. He was wrong.

  Mitch took hold of her other arm before she could withdraw. Her eyes widened and her muscles restricted.

  “We can argue about this for the next few hours,” he said. “But I need to get something straight first.”

  His head descended and his lips claimed hers all before she had time to react. After the initial shock she yanked back and tried to draw free.

  “No.” She made a hoarse sound of denial.

  Mitch kept his grip tight enough to secure her, but loose enough to avoid pain. His head was still down low so that when he spoke, his breath dusted against her lips.

  “Listen to me, Alex. With all the mystery and distrust−you need to know that was real.” He released her arm, but did not back away.

  Ever one for a challenge, Alex did not withdraw either. She stared him down with spiteful eyes, but those eyes betrayed her as they slipped to his mouth and lingered there. He could feel their caress and for a moment had to close his own to force the blood to flow back to his brain.

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Yes. I kissed you because I needed to connect with you. I wanted to feel you. Kissing you is like rubbing the bottle and having the genie appear. On the outside the world sees the beautiful and intelligent archeologist, but when I rub your lips, Alex, the woman emerges. And she is beyond exquisite.”

  She defied his glance, but after a moment her willpower was betrayed as her eyes returned to his mouth.

  “You don’t trust me, Alex, but I think you trust this.”

  His hand climbed up into her hair, gently tugging on it so that he could descend and hold her mouth captive with a methodic swipe of his lips. The caress turned lethargic, wearing down her resistance and torturing his. He sensed the first signs of a response in a strangled whimper at the bottom of her throat. Her hands landed on his biceps, pushing−grabbing−whichever it was, he was not going to let go, not when she began to return his kisses. Not when her lips parted and accepted his demand for a deeper union. Not when her body swayed forward to rub against his.

  Mitch trailed his hand down her spine and scooped her hip, drawing her flush against him. He felt her arms slide up and link behind his neck as she kissed him with hunger now, sounding almost as if she was crying. She was punishing him with her passion, but the persecution cheated her. She continued to mate with his mouth in a way that broke him and debilitated him with lust. He pulled back, uncertain.

  “Alex?” he whispered.

  In the dim light she blinked, her pupils so large he barely saw the verdant eclipse at their rims.

  “I hurt.”

  It was a simple and desperate testimony that could scope anything from the pain she felt over the jeopardy imposed on her students to her entrapment in a cave several stories underground. Maybe it was the soreness that his attraction caused her, or simply it was an ache she carried with her every day of her life.

  He rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. The words formed on his lips and spilled over. “I hurt too.”

  Her forehead brushed his in a slight nod.

  “I sense that,” she whispered. “Mitch, I don’t trust very easily. I can’t trust you, and yet I can’t stand here and deny that I’m attracted to you.”

  “Quite the quandary.” He rubbed his palm over the small of her back, trying to soothe and disregard the sting of her mistrust.

  Alex withdrew from his embrace and placed a hand to her forehead, pacing the small seating area. She stopped and looked at him with a wide, sober gaze. “I want to sleep with you right now. I want a physical release. I want heat and passion and−” her voice cracked.

  Mitch closed in and raised her chin with his hooked finger and smiled down at the anxious eyes. “I want to make love to you.”

  Alex whimpered her denial. “Don’t say that.”

  He kept her chin raised and gently kissed her. When he drew back he noticed that her eyes remained closed and there were telltale pools of moisture at the corners. He dipped down and brushed his lips over the arc of her cheekbone.

  “So there are three reasons why this won’t happen right now.”

  Alex gaped up at him. “Why?”

  “One,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t have anything on me to ummm−for ummm−protection.”

  “At the moment I’m not rational enough to care about that, Mitch. Our lifespan may be very short-lived. I am not sticking around in this hell. I’m prepared to risk getting killed in order to escape, so protection isn’t first on my list.”

  That declaration did little to alleviate the grape-stompers in his stomach.

  “Okay. I agree on that account, but two−” He couldn’t resist. He needed the fortification of her lips before proceeding. The fact that they responded to his touch nearly undid him. “Two,” he croaked. “Baby, as much as I want you, I’m about to pass out on my feet. I have spent the past couple hours worrying about you and trying to figure out their little washer/dryer tower. Last night in the jungle I had to stay awake until the guards made their circuit, and then after taking them out there was no luxury of rest. And the night before that−” Even reciting the events, the grey cloud of oblivion started to worm its way into his head, marring his vision, “I just don’t know when I slept last−and Alex, when this happens between us, you are getting one hundred percent from me.”

  A dent formed between her eyebrows. “And the third reason?”

  “The third reason,” his voice dropped real low, “is that I will wait until you want to make love to me instead of looking for a release.”

  Alex’s lips formed a small o.
She opened her mouth to respond, but snapped it shut again. After a deep breath she managed, “You’re a pain in my ass.”

  “I know,” he grinned. “But you’re getting used to it.”

  They shared a smile as if it was a sip of the finest wine, but it only lasted a second and Mitch was the first to break it. “Alex, I have an awkward question.”

  She looked up.

  “Can I sleep with you?”

  “But I thought you just said−”

  “Can I sleep in your bed?” he hesitated. “With you? Just sleep. You’ll realize just how exhausted I am if I’m in bed with you and I don’t try anything.”

  “Who’s to say I won’t try anything?” Her eyes sparked.

  “Well, then don’t take my snoring personally.”

  Taking his hand, Alex linked her fingers with his. It sent a jolt up his arm that fissured into his chest. Christ, it would be his luck to suffer a heart attack at this moment. What a strange sensation the simple connection of their hands had caused.

  He had slept with women during the job−exotic women in exotic countries. He once even managed to keep a girlfriend for a brief spell at home. But in all his recollection, he realized that he had never held a woman’s hand. Not even on a date in college. How was that possible? It was making him weak. The electronic pulses from his palm to his chest were debilitating. He actually had to rely on that link to make it the few paces to the bed, where he stretched out atop the covers and fell asleep before he could whisper the words, “Thank you.”

  ***

  He slept.

  Alex couldn’t take her eyes off the man in bed with her. His dark eyelashes twitched as some creature of the netherworld tormented his slumber. During those moments she would place her palm against his chest to soothe him, but the texture of his muscles beneath the thin cotton shirt enticed her. He was so solid−a vista of muscles she had never climbed. She stared at his lips until heat rose in her cheeks. The light shadow of stubble around them made him look dangerous−only the danger was to her heart, not her body.

  He wanted to make love to her.

  He had lied to her.

  She found it so hard to trust, and yet here was a man who entrusted her with the most vulnerable act of all. Sleep.