by Rebecca York
The decision didn’t sit easily with her. She hated being pushed into a course of action without considering the consequences. But the alternative was abandoning Miguel or turning the job over to someone else. Since she didn’t know whom to trust with that kind of responsibility, she turned the van around and headed in the direction from which she’d come.
But no way was she going to park on the street again, she thought as she made a wide circle around the scene of the near disaster. Instead, she found the alley paralleling Miguel’s street and drove cautiously up the cracked pavement, squeezing past several trash cans as she looked for the third house on the left. All the yards were hidden behind high wooden fences with gates. The third gate was open a couple of inches, and she realized that must have been where Luis had slipped out. She just hadn’t been able to see it from where she’d been standing in the yard. As she turned off the headlights, her breath grew shallow. Driving back here was one thing. Getting out of the van again was quite another.
For several minutes, she sat with her hands clamped to the steering wheel, her eyes probing the darkness. Finally she pulled forward so that her door was as close as possible to the gate, and cut the engine. Then she picked up the gun, made a rapid exit from the van, and slipped into the backyard.
She entered the apartment to find Miguel was sitting slumped against the wall. His head jerked toward the door as she stepped inside.
“You... We have to get out of here,” she said.
He focused on her face, his eyes glinting. Probably she looked like she’d been crying, she realized suddenly, sorry that she hadn’t thought to check her appearance in the mirror.
“What happened?” he growled, pushing himself up straighter.
Before she could think of what to say, his gaze zeroed in on the revolver still clutched in her hand. “Tell me,” he commanded sharply, “have they found me?”
She didn’t know who “they” were. Probably not Los Tigres. “No,” she answered, then concluded from his tense expression that a one-syllable answer wouldn’t suffice. “Some members of a gang saw me park the van. They were waiting when I came out.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “I told you to get out of here. You should have taken my advice.”
“Yes. We’d better go,” she agreed.
“Where did you get the gun?”
“From Luis.”
His gaze bored into hers. “He gave it to you for protection?”
“Not exactly.”
Apparently she didn’t have to draw Miguel a picture of the encounter. “That boy! He is going to be sorry when I catch up with him,” he growled, although she could see that the long exchange was sapping his strength.
Jessie slipped the weapon back into her purse and gave him a few minutes to rest while she collected some toilet articles from the bathroom and stuck them inside a travel bag she found there. The bag went into a pillowcase, along with some extra clothing and the wallet lying on the floor beside the bed.
When she’d finished packing, she knelt beside Miguel, a T-shirt in her hand. He was dozing lightly. His eyes snapped open when she gently touched his arm.
“Let’s get you dressed,” she said briskly. Nurse Douglas. Only she was afraid she lacked some of the critical training. She might need some coaching from Dr. Diego.
“I can do it!” He managed to get the shirt over his head, then sagged against the wall, breathing hard. She helped with the sleeves, wanting to tell him that he didn’t have to prove anything to her. She was certain he wouldn’t welcome any discussion of the subject.
Getting his pants on was going to be harder, she decided as she knelt on the floor in front of him. But she’d always loved a challenge. Without comment, she bunched up the legs, slipped his feet through the bottoms, and worked the fabric upward. As she tugged the pants over his hips, she kept her eyes averted and her hands carefully away from the front of him. So it was several seconds before she realized that the elasticized waistband had gotten caught on the most prominent part of his lower anatomy.
He made a strangled sound and reached to free the pants. She reached at the same time, and their hands collided squarely over the stumbling block.
“Sorry,” she murmured, sure her face had turned the color of tomato soup.
“I will do it,” he said roughly.
She pulled her hand away and let him complete the task while she picked up his shoes and socks and sat back down on the floor in front of him. There was no danger of his seeing her face now. This should be the easy part, she told herself. Yet there was something very intimate about handling a man’s feet, she discovered. His were narrow and well shaped, with bluntly cut toenails and high arches. When her fingers moved against the sensitive flesh, his body twitched. It was a relief to finally announce, “All done.”
He answered with a grunt that might have been construed as thanks.
“You’ll have to walk to the van,” she told him as she got to her feet.
He closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall as if he were gathering strength for a trial by fire.
“Ready?” she asked.
“I suppose you have been told before that you are stubborn,” he answered without opening his eyes.
She shrugged. Apparently they had that trait in common. This time she had won—because he was simply too sick to fight her.
He leaned forward, his fingers gripping her arm. “Promise you won’t take me to the hospital.”
“I—” How could she agree to something like that? What if his life depended on hospitalization?
“Promise!” He lifted his head, and his gaze burned into her.
“All right. I promise,” she agreed, feeling trapped. Yet she understood that giving her word was the only way she could get him to cooperate. Because she couldn’t take too much of his scrutiny, she bent and slung an arm around his shoulder.
They were both silent as she grabbed the pillowcase and her purse before helping him to his feet. When they started across the small apartment, she realized it was going to be a longer trip than she’d anticipated—if he made it at all.
TWO THOUSAND MILES SOUTH of Baltimore, in the country of San Marcos, a man with lean cheeks and hard eyes touched a finger to his face, then turned his head from one side to the other as he inspected his reflection in the mirror. The tiny scars just in front of his ears were healed now—like the scars at the sides of his nose, and below his eyes. They had been made with surgical precision by a master craftsman. And they were all but invisible.
The larger wounds that marred the back of his neck were still a little red, but they were hidden by hair that reached his collar. Delicately, he fingered one of the slashes. Every week, it was less noticeable to his touch. Soon, even these scars would be undetectable to all but the most intimate of explorations, and he could put the next phase of his plan into action.
He smiled, pleased with his appearance. Pleased with Miguel Valero’s work. The doctor had fashioned a wonderful face. And now he was the only one left who could prove that Carlos Jurado was not dead; that Carlos Jurado had turned himself into another man.
As he thought of the last barrier to complete success, the satisfaction he felt evaporated like spit on a blazing sidewalk. His hand balled into a fist that he almost smashed against the mirror. But prudence stopped him.
He gave a bark of laughter. There was no need to get angry, no need to push his blood pressure up. He had men looking for Valero. Competent men. They had almost caught up with him once in Mexico, even though he had changed his name and gotten false papers. A woman had betrayed him. And someone would betray him again—if the price was right.
As JESSIE GUIDED MIGUEL into the darkness of the stairwell, every instinct urged her to hurry. But she had to let him set the pace as they hobbled slowly up the steps. When they finally made it to the yard, he stood still, breathing heavily, and she wondered if he could go on. But he was made of strong stuff. In a few moments, he began to move again slowly but dog
gedly.
“Perdón, ” he murmured as he stumbled on a patch of loose paving. Jessie struggled to stay on her own feet as his weight came down on her shoulder.
“It’s all right,” she said, hoping she had kept the fear out of her voice. This was the worst part—being in the dark, exposed and defenseless. It felt like hours before they reached the van, and all the while she kept imagining menacing shapes coming at them from the shadows.
As Miguel leaned against the vehicle, she opened the side door.
“You can lie down in back.”
He sucked in a breath and blew it out. “I can sit in the front seat.”
She might have taken the time to argue, if she hadn’t heard the sound of feet coming toward them along the pavement. In a panic, she pushed Miguel into the back seat, scrambled in behind him, and slammed the door. Seconds later she was in the driver’s seat, shoving the key into the ignition. The moment the engine came to life, she bulleted down the alleyway, almost taking out a cluster of trash cans on her left.
When she reached the street, she spared a glance in the rearview mirror. Two boys were running toward the van—two boys wearing gang colors.
With a frantic moan, she pulled out into the street and made a tire-screeching getaway worthy of a Hollywood stuntman.
Not until she’d traveled several miles did she glance behind her again. Miguel was propped in the corner, his knuckles white where he clutched the shoulder strap for support.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“More or less. What happened?”
“I saw them. Two of the boys from the gang—Los Tigres.”
“They are bad. And now they’re your enemies, I think.”
She wasn’t sure how to answer as she sped into the night.
“Another stone weighing down my conscience,” he muttered.
“It isn’t your fault.”
“Of course it is,” he snapped.
They rode in silence for several minutes before he asked, “Where are we going?”
“My house.”
“No.”
“At the moment, you don’t have much choice.” Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea, but she couldn’t think of anything better.
Their eyes met in the rearview mirror as she left the harbor area and headed up I-95 toward Catonsville. She broke the contact first, because she had to watch the road. But she felt his gaze like a laser drilling into the back of her head.
By the time she reached the red brick rancher she’d bought when she came to Baltimore, he was asleep, lying on his side with his feet jammed against the end of the seat.
He didn’t stir when she pulled up beside the kitchen door and cut the engine. Quietly she climbed into the back and eased down onto the floor, looking at his flushed face in the dim glow from the overhead light. He’d worsened visibly in the time it had taken her to get him out of his apartment and drive home. She suddenly realized how much responsibility she’d taken on by bringing him here.
Gently, she pressed the back of her hand to his hot cheek, stroking the stubble of his heavy beard. He hadn’t shaved in several days. How long had he been sick?
The dark lashes fluttered open, his eyes registering confusion—then alarm—until they focused on her and held like a compass fixed on magnetic north.
As she saw his expression soften, she felt a dangerous warmth well up inside her and knew she was getting too close to a man who could hurt her badly.
“Let’s go inside. You’ll feel better in bed,” she managed, the last part coming out in a little croak.
He pushed himself up and his eyes locked with hers for a moment. She was the first to look away. Awkwardly she helped him slide off the seat and exit the van. It was slow going into the house—even slower than before.
“What do you need before you sleep?” she asked.
“Bathroom...water...aspirin,” he gasped.
She led him the few steps to the bathroom, wondering if it was safe to leave him alone. Knowing he wouldn’t allow her help, she waited in the hall until she heard the sound of water running. She found him leaning on the sink, supporting himself on his elbows, splashing cold water onto his face. He followed by scooping some into his mouth from the faucet.
“Miguel?”
“I am fine!” he retorted, his words slurred. When she touched the side of his neck, his skin felt as if it were on fire. Maybe the aspirin would help. Opening the medicine cabinet, she shook two tablets out of the bottle.
“Here.”
He stared at the medication, then shook his head stiffly. “Did Carlos Jurado buy you, the way he bought Juanita?”
“Who?”
“Carlos—” He stopped abruptly, his expression confused.
“That’s the man you’re hiding from?” she asked quickly, pressing for information.
He nodded.
“Is he a cop?”
“I wish.” The observation was followed by a gritty laugh.
“Why is he after you?”
“I know his name, and I know his secret!”
“Which is?”
His eyes narrowed. “If you want to stay alive, do not ask me questions! He killed everyone at the clinic. Everyone except me.”
“When?”
“October.”
Six months ago. A long time to live like a fugitive. Was it really true, or was Miguel in the grip of some paranoid delusion brought on by his illness?
At the rec center, she’d taken care of a child with a high fever—a little boy who had started hallucinating. He’d thought monsters were under the sickroom bed, and there had been no way to calm him. Yet Miguel’s case was different. She had no doubt that something real—something terrible—had happened to him.
He blinked, as if trying to figure out where he was and what she was doing there. So much for the moment of connection they’d shared in the van; or perhaps it had only been her imagination.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m Jessie Douglas. You’re at my house. You’re safe here. Remember?”
He gave a little nod, but she didn’t know whether he believed her. She’d brought him home because it had seemed like the best alternative. Now she realized just how dangerous a situation she’d set up. What if he decided she was the enemy? Restraining a hysterical little boy was one thing. Defending herself against a large, aggressive man was quite another.
“You’ll feel better if you take the aspirin,” she said carefully, wishing she could get him into a tub of cool water. That might help lower his fever, but she doubted he’d let her take off his clothes and bathe him—even if she thought she was up to it.
To her relief, he finally accepted the aspirin, then allowed her to steer him into the only room in the house with a bed—her bedroom. Flopping onto the spread, he lay with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. Jessie straightened his legs and removed his shoes and socks. She was tugging on the waistband of his sweatpants when his eyes came open. The look he gave her made her jerk her hand away. A little smile played around his mouth as his gaze slid over her, starting with her mouth, caressing her breasts, ending below her waist. She felt every nuance as if he’d actually touched her.
“Don’t,” she said in a weak voice.
“I wanted to take you to bed the first time I met you,” he said thickly, his hand capturing hers. “And now, here you are, undressing me.”
“I—”
“You wanted it, too. I saw the way you looked at me.”
“Don’t say that,” she protested, fighting the fluttery sensation in her stomach.
“Why not? It’s true.” His speech was slurred slightly,.,his brain apparently incapable of censoring his words or his actions. “You have the face of an angel. And a very sexy body. That night we had dinner, I could hardly keep my hands off you.”
His thumb stroked her palm seductively, sending prickles of sensation across her skin and up her arm.
“Do I?” she asked, her own voice unsteady.
�
�Yes.” His eyes drifted closed, and his breathing became more quiet. Just like that, he had fallen asleep.
Shaking herself, she pulled from his grasp. Forget about his pants, she told herself as she began to tug the covers out of the way.
The movement jerked him awake again, and a deeply puzzled expression flitted across his face. “I thought...” He was silent for several moments, regarding her gravely. Then he said, “You fuss too much, Anna. You must learn to relax.”
An unexpected stab of disappointment pierced through her. Was he talking to her or to someone else?
Setting her jaw, she fought for perspective. Her reactions were absurd. He might be lying in her bed, but she had no right to be jealous. If he had told the truth earlier, Anna had died violently. At the clinic he had talked about?
He lay very still, and she realized he’d slipped back into sleep. He kept doing that—then waking up, confused. He was getting worse, and she wondered if she could handle this by herself.
Leaving her purse and the pillowcase full of clothing beside him, she went into the spare room she used as an office and flipped through her Rolodex. It was late for calls, she realized, as she found Katie’s number. But she didn’t have many options. It was either call her friends or call an ambulance and break the promise Miguel had wrung from her.
After several moments’ hesitation, she dialed the number.
Katie answered on the second ring.
“I know it’s late,” Jessie apologized quickly. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No. As a matter of fact, Mac’s on a research trip and I was sitting here watching a dumb movie. What can I do for you?”
Jessie dragged in a quick breath and let it out in a rush. She’d been hoping Mac would volunteer to come along.
“Jessie?”
“There’s a medical emergency. Something confidential,” she added, wanting to make things clear from the outset. “I have a guy here who’s pretty sick.” She cleared her throat. “But he insists that he won’t go to the hospital.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a fugitive from somewhere in Latin America.”
“Is he in trouble with the law?”
