Shattered Lullaby

by Rebecca York

  “Yes. I checked the relatives on his mother’s side. I even checked old friends of her family, people who might have known him before he went back to San Marcos. Nobody has heard from him since before—” The speaker cleared his throat and ended the sentence differently. “Since last winter.”

  Jurado held back the curse that hovered at the edges of his lips. His operative in Washington knew too much. He needed to be replaced with someone more manageable.

  “I can cast the net wider,” the man on the other end of the line said quickly. “I can investigate in a larger circle around the city.”

  Jurado hesitated. Really, the bastard could be anywhere in the States. Yet, when he read between the lines, the report told him that Dr. Valero was on the East Coast—probably near the city where he was born. “All right,” he growled. “Widen the search.”

  “It’s going to be expensive,” the voice on the other end of the line warned.

  “I don’t care about the expense. I want him dead.” And you, too, Jurado added silently.

  JESSIE STACKED THE DISHES in the dishwasher, then wiped her hands on the sides of her jeans.

  Two days ago a barrier between herself and Miguel had shattered. They’d kissed, and she’d discovered how much he needed her. And not just physically, although passion had flared between them like lighter fluid on hot coals.

  It was more than that. She knew it, and he knew it too, damn him. But nothing had been the same since he’d awakened this morning. She could feel him detaching himself the way he had before; could feel him getting ready to leave. And there was nothing she could do about it. The realization brought a mixture of anger, sadness, frustration—and determination.

  Two months ago, she’d been hurt, and finally she’d begun to doubt her own perceptions. This time, she understood him better. She knew what game he was playing. And she wasn’t going to let him win it. This time, she wanted to hold on to what they were creating together and build on it.

  Yet all she’d done was be a good little girl. She’d brought the man a bowl of chicken soup and changed his sheets—then let him take control of the conversation.

  He’d gotten them chatting about the weather, for heaven’s sake. And she’d let him get away with it.

  Viciously she swiped at the kitchen counters with a sponge, then furiously dried them with a paper towel. With a grimace, she tossed the paper towel in the trash and turned toward the back of the house where Miguel was lurking. Really, what did she have to lose by confronting him? He couldn’t make things worse than they already were.

  Purposefully, she marched down the hall to the bedroom, then stopped short, her heart lurching inside her chest when she saw that the bed was empty.

  Panic swept over her. He was gone! Damn him. She had been waiting for it to happen, and now her worst fears were confirmed.

  Then she caught the scent of soap and steam coming from the bathroom. He was taking his sweet time in there. He should be back in bed. Damn the man. Didn’t he have any sense?

  What a question. She knew he didn’t!

  All the anxiety of the past few days gathered into a knot inside her chest—then burst with the force of a grenade. Rushing headlong to the end of the hall, she pounded on the bathroom door.

  “Miguel!”

  “In a minute.”

  “Now!” She threw open the door with a ferocity that shocked her.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she shouted, then stopped short as her eyes focused on the man.

  “I’m shaving,” he said, calmly half turning his head as he spoke. He was standing naked, his back to her, his dark hair tousled from a towel drying and his face partially covered with lather as he raised his hand to scrape dark stubble from his left cheek.

  “You’re supposed to be back in bed.”

  “I am almost finished.” He dipped the razor in the waterfilled sink before starting on the other side of his face. “Are you planning to stand there watching?” he asked, a quizzical note in his voice.

  She didn’t answer, didn’t move as the razor took away the lather and the dark stubble from his face. He looked better. Healthier.

  The air inside the little room was thick with steam from the shower. It held her fast, enveloped her in a palpable intimacy as if the world had shrunk in size, trapping the two of them in an enchanted mist.

  He finished shaving, then bent to rinse his face, drawing her gaze to the olive skin of his waist and lean hips. Straightening, he sought her eyes in the mirror. For an endless time, neither of them moved or spoke while the steamy air around them thickened with tension.

  “I think there is an American saying about ‘getting out while the getting is good.’ You should take that advice,” he said, the warning in his voice abrading her nerve endings.

  Was it only a warning? Or did she hear a note of challenge, too?

  She moistened her suddenly dry lips with her tongue, noticing him watch the tiny movement. Unconsciously she rolled her shoulder to ease some of the tension knotting her muscles. When she saw his gaze drop to the front of her T-shirt, she realized the action had thrust her breasts toward him.

  All at once, she remembered the wet heat of his mouth on her. Judging by the look on his face, she knew he was remembering, too. An arrow of hot sensation shot through her body, lodging at her center.

  He was right; she shouldn’t have invaded his privacy. Certainly she should turn and leave. Yet her brain wasn’t telling her feet to back away.

  She dared a glance into his eyes and saw a fierce, aching hunger that stole the breath from her lungs.

  “I am going to turn around in a few seconds,” he cautioned. “And if you are not out of here when I do, then we’ll both be in trouble.”

  She had been warned, but she stood her ground, swallowing hard as he slowly turned to face her. She bad known from the look in his eyes what she would see. Still, she wasn’t quite prepared for the wave of masculine potency emanating from him. His eyes seemed to burn with an inner fire, and his body was gloriously, fully aroused. Yet he made no move to close the distance between them. As she watched his fingers clench and unclench, she knew that he would not reach for her unless she made the first move.

  Quickly, before she could tell herself she was doing the wrong thing, she found the hem of her T-shirt, pulled it over her head, and tossed it onto the floor. With shaking fingers she unhooked the clasp of her bra and sent it to join the shirt. Then, in one smooth motion, she slid her jeans and panties down her legs and kicked them away so that she was as naked as he.

  He stared at her, unmoving, and for a terrible moment she thought that she had made a mistake. God, what was she thinking?

  Then she saw the fire in his eyes flare. “I knew you would be beautiful,” he said in Spanish, ending with a low sound of need as he closed the distance between them and swept her into his embrace.

  The shock of his naked body against hers was almost too much to bear. A low sob welled in her throat, as her hands caressed his back, his shoulders, slid down to his narrow waist and over his firm buttocks. His hands moved over her in the same frantic rhythm. Then the two of them were rocking together, clinging, finding each other’s mouths in a kiss that was more desperate than erotic—more savage than civilized.

  He kissed her with a driving need that made her heart stop, then start again, beating in frantic time to the blood pounding through her veins.

  When his mouth lifted, his breathing was ragged, and the skin of his face was stretched taut. “Tell me to stop,” he growled. “I can still stop if I hear you say no.”

  Wordlessly, she shook her head, then lifted her hand to stroke the harsh planes of his cheeks.

  For heartbeats they stared into each other’s eyes. Then his hand moved between them, cupping her breast, his fingers stroking back and forth across the hardened tip. There were no coherent words to express what was happening between them, only the low sounds and breathy exclamations of two people caught in a spiral of hunger f
or each other.

  She forgot where they were. Forgot any sense of caution. Forgot everything but the taste of him, the feel of his hands and mouth on her hot flesh, the joy of being with him like this.

  “Please, I need you,” she gasped. “Please.”

  She heard him draw in a shaky breath. Lifting his head, he looked around as if he were coming out of a dream. “Not here. Not like this.”

  She was too dazed to understand what he was saying.

  “Come to bed, my angel,” he whispered, taking her hand and tugging her toward the door. He led her down the hall to the bedroom, to the newly made bed, and held the covers aside so that she could slip between the sheets. Then he joined her, folding her close and dropping tiny kisses over her face and neck and shoulders before returning to her mouth for a long, lingering kiss as his hands stroked her breasts.

  When he looked at her, his eyes were dark and smoldering. When she tried to speak, he pressed his thumb gently against her lips. “I have dreamed of all the ways I wanted to touch you and kiss you,” he said in a thick voice, then lowered his head to one distended nipple.

  Her breath hitched as he began to draw on her, while his hand sought the other peak, mirroring the action.

  She couldn’t speak; she could only lie against the pillows, her hand caressing the back of his head as he sent a wave of heat shimmering though her.

  When his mouth returned to hers, it was infinitely gentle and tender as he alternated kisses with passionate Spanish endearments while his hands moved down her body, stroking and caressing their way to the center of her desire. The surge of sensation as he touched her there was so intense that a low whimper welled in her throat.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Let me hear your pleasure. Let me know how much you like my touch.”

  She did as he asked, because she had no choice. He was a man who knew how to please a woman, how to draw out each measure of gratification almost beyond endurance. Sensation built on top of sensation until she was clinging to him, calling his name, begging him to fill the empty ache inside her.

  Then, finally, he levered his body over hers, and she guided him into her. He made a hoarse sound deep in his chest, telling her that he felt what she did—the stunning intensity of joining.

  “Miguel,” she whispered.

  “My angel,” he answered, his eyes burning into hers.

  Her hand moved, gliding over the planes of his face and his lips as if touch could help her remember this moment—a moment more vivid than any other in her life. Then he began to move, and she was lost to anything but the power of this man—in her, over her, surrounding her.

  He set the rhythm, taking her with him on a journey that she knew was too intense to last for long. The tempo quickened, lifting her to a higher place where the air burned in her lungs. She clung to him, feeling tears gather in her eyes as she approached a summit of fulfillment beyond any previous imaginings.

  She felt her whole body contract, then break apart in a shattering climax that seemed to send her hurtling through the universe. She heard his shout of satisfaction as he followed her, pursued her, claimed her as his own, then brought her back to earth with him.

  The glow slowly faded from her body as her breathing returned to almost normal. Shifting his weight off her, he gathered her close, skimming his lips over her hair, her damp face, her mouth.

  She wanted to tell him how wonderful it had been for her, but she was afraid that she would burst into tears, so she simply held on to him, her lips moving against his neck and shoulder.

  When the cool air on her damp skin made her shiver, he reached to pull the covers over them and settled beside her.

  As the silence stretched, she understood that neither of them was sure what to say. Everything had changed. And yet, at the same time, nothing had changed.

  JESSIE LAY BESIDE Miguel, dozing off and on, glad to keep him close to her.

  Some time later, she knew he was awake again.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  His hand found hers. “Good. But—”

  She didn’t let him finish, cutting him off with a quick shake of her head. “Don’t tell me you’ve put me in danger by making love to me. And don’t tell me you’re going to leave as soon as you feel strong enough to walk around the house a couple of times,” she ordered in a strained voice.

  “I have put you in danger,” he growled. “I should have left before I gave in to my baser instincts.”

  “Is that how it was for you—base?”

  His face contorted as she threw the word back at him. “No. It was...” He cleared his throat, then continued more strongly, “It was the best thing that has happened in my life in a long, long time.”

  “It was that way for me, too.”

  His hands tightened on her. “That changes nothing.”

  “Yes, it does! Nothing’s going to happen to me because we finally showed each other how we feel.”

  His expression didn’t alter. “Something already happened. A police officer saw me trying to steal your van. What if he comes back to see if I try any more tricks?”

  “You were borrowing the van!” she exclaimed, ignoring his question.

  “Yes, I was going to call and tell you where to pick it up. But Officer Waverly would not believe it. To him, I’m just another guy from the barrio who shouldn’t be sleeping with a nice woman like you.”

  Her fingers opened and closed over his. “Don’t. We know that’s not true.”

  When he didn’t reply, she laid her head against his shoul- , der. She wanted to be close to him. Getting into an argument about Officer Waverly and the van wasn’t what she had in mind. After a few moments, she sat up and managed a little smile. “What we both need is some dinner.”

  The relieved look he gave her made her chest tighten. Sliding out of bed, she reached for the robe on the back of the closet door. In the kitchen she opened the refrigerator and inspected the casseroles she’d stowed there like a squirrel storing nuts for a cold spell, working off her anxiety while Miguel slept.

  Deciding on the beef stew with red wine, she set the Dutch oven on the burner and toasted some of the soda bread she’d taken from the freezer. She was stirring the pot when she heard a noise behind her. Turning, she saw Miguel standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of jeans.

  His eyes lit up as he inhaled the aroma coming from the bubbling liquid. “That smells wonderful. What is it?”

  “Just beef stew,” she answered, ladling some into two bowls.

  “You made it?” He reached eagerly for a bowl and took a spoonful while he was still standing at the counter. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in years.”

  “You’re hungry!”

  “And I know good food when I taste it,” he replied, carrying the bowl to the table and spooning up several more bites. “You are a wonderful cook. Did your mother teach you?”

  She laughed as she sat down across from him. “Mom didn’t come into the kitchen much except to confer with the cook. I started teaching myself after I got married,” she answered.

  “Yes. You said you were married. For two years.”

  So he remembered that detail! She took a deep breath. “I told you I was divorced and that I’d gotten a degree in social work before coming to Baltimore. I didn’t tell you about my family. I guess I come from what most people would call a privileged background. I lived in Grosse Point, the high-rent suburb of Detroit. I went to private schools. Dartmouth University. I majored in Spanish just because I enjoyed it. I knew I wouldn’t need to support myself—especially after I met Jack.”

  She gave Miguel a quick look, then continued in a rush. “He was everything my parents wanted for me. Everything I was taught I wanted—a solid upper-crust citizen who jumped right into the fast lane at his father’s bank. Things started falling apart after about a year, when I realized that I was utterly bored by my new life.

  “But my husband didn’t want me to work. He wanted me to stay home and decorate the house
, take tennis lessons at the country club and dazzle his business friends with my beauty and charm. I tried to be the wife he wanted, but I felt as if my life didn’t mean anything. I felt trapped, and I didn’t know what to do about it.”

  “You could have had children.”

  “That’s what my mother said. That’s what she did. It’s not that I didn’t want a family. But maybe I sensed that Jack was the wrong father for my children. Or maybe I was afraid that I’d end up reliving my mother’s frustrations.”

  She saw Miguel watching her intently and found herself clutching the mug of tea in her hands. She didn’t usually talk much about what had led to her divorce. Now she wanted him to understand.

  “We started having arguments. We had one just before he left for a business trip to St. Louis. I wanted to patch things up, so I decided to surprise him by flying out there and meeting him at his hotel. I walked in on him—” she gulped “—in bed with another woman.”

  Miguel made a low exclamation.

  “It’s okay. It made me understand that I was trying to hang on to a marriage that wasn’t worth saving.”

  “It must have hurt,” he said, reaching across the table to press his fingers over hers.

  “It did, but it set me free to think about what I really wanted out of life. I went for counseling. And career counseling, too. I have a trust fund from my grandmother, so I could afford to go back to school and get my master’s degree. Then I found this great job with the Light Street Foundation. I mostly live on my salary, although I do cheat a little. Like I used my trust-fund money for a down payment on this house.”

  He gave her fingers a squeeze, then withdrew his hand. “It sounds as if you turned your life around.”

  “I think I made the right choices for myself. I’m happy with my job and how I live. Happier than I ever was growing up. Or in my marriage. I like being able to make a difference in people’s lives.”

  “Good,” he said, but his expression was indrawn.