by Rebecca York
“What are you thinking?”
“Now I know how you got mixed up with me. You have strong instincts to help people.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But, in your case, it was a lot more than that. You know as well as I do that there was something simmering between us from the first moment we saw each other.”
“Yes.”
She appreciated the honesty, but she didn’t like the look on his face. Suddenly defensive, she blurted out, “Maybe you think I do this all the time. Actually, my marriage made me pretty cautious about men.”
“Querida, you don’t have to explain anything to me.”
Too wound up for prudence, she plunged ahead. “Maybe it will boost your Latin ego to know that I haven’t been with anyone else since my divorce.”
Her vision blurred as she jumped up from the table and began rinsing out her bowl. He came up behind her, turned her, and gathered her into his arms.
“My angel,” he said in a broken voice. “My angel.” Pulling her close, he rocked her against him, his hand stroking over her hair and across her back. Softly, he spoke endearments in Spanish, then moved his lips against her cheek. “I’ve been alone too long. It seems I’ve forgotten how to communicate.”
“What do you want to communicate?” she whispered, knowing that if she spoke more loudly, her voice would crack.
“I want you to know that I cherish this time with you. I want you to know that making love with you was...everything I imagined it would be and more.”
“Oh, yes.” She nodded her agreement, moving her cheek against his.
“But I am not a free man—not in the way you think of freedom. No matter how much I want to stay with you, I can’t do it.”
She lifted her face to his. “Miguel, everybody has choices. Let me help you.”
“You have. I was very sick. I think you saved my life.”
“I don’t want to just patch you up and send you back into battle—whatever that battle is. Let me help you get out of trouble.”
“It’s not simple. A powerful man—a ruthless man—wants me out of the way.”
“Why?”
“I know his face,” he said with a harsh growl.
“Carlos Jurado.”
He cursed aloud in Spanish. “I should never have spoken that name. I told you to forget it.”
“I—”
He gripped her shoulders. “What else did I say when I was delirious?”
She swallowed, wanting to minimize his anxiety. Yet she knew she couldn’t expect him to be open with her unless she set the precedent. “Well... the part about your sister Anna getting killed. And I know you’ve been on the run since the fall.”
He nodded tightly.
“And you didn’t do anything criminal in San Marcos.” He hadn’t exactly said that, she thought as she held her breath.
“No. I did not.” His gaze was steady, his words firm, and she knew for certain that he was telling the truth.
“I have friends who can help you.”
“I doubt it.”
“At least tell me you’ll think about it.”
He sighed. “Okay.”
“Was Luis right? Are you in the country illegally?” she asked. “Or did you tell Officer Waverly the truth?”
“Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
He gave her a fierce look. “Jessie, I will not go into long explanations.”
She clasped his upper arms, wanting to demand more information—and wanting to push for assurances that he’d let her help him get out of trouble. She sensed, though, that if she leaned any harder, he’d leave.
“You need to rest,” she whispered. “We both do.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his face relaxing.
“Promise me I won’t wake up and find you’ve run out on me.”
He hesitated, then nodded tightly.
She felt some of the tension ease out of her chest.
Instead of heading for the bedroom, he started clearing the table.
“You don’t have to do that,” she objected.
He shrugged. “I wanted to.”
She gave a little nod, glad that he was feeling better, yet sensing that he was hiding behind the domestic activity.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked quietly as he turned away from the sink.
“Yes.” She saw his nostrils flare. “You have been sleeping in T-shirts and sweatpants. I want to see you in a nightgown.”
“Miguel. We shouldn’t. I mean, you’re supposed to be taking it easy....”
“I know. I promise to be good. But I want the pleasure of seeing you in something sexy.”
Unable to deny him anything, she gave a little nod. Then, turning, she went down the hall, opened a dresser drawer, and pulled out an ecru silk gown with spaghetti straps that she’d bought on impulse when she’d been shopping for underwear. Quickly she changed in the bathroom, then brushed her hair and put on a little makeup.
When she returned to the bedroom, he had straightened the covers. The look in his eyes when he turned and saw her stole the breath from her lungs. “You are so beautiful.”
“Am I?”
“Oh, yes.”
When he held out his arms, she came into them, cleaved to him as he embraced her. She wanted this, and not just for tonight—but for the rest of their lives.
He wanted the same thing. She was certain by the way he held her, moved his lips against her cheek, her neck. But she knew he wouldn’t admit it yet. They would have to take things one step at a time. So she settled into his arms and closed her eyes, telling herself that all she needed was enough time.
When she awoke, it was still dark. But she was alone in bed. She lay rigid under the covers, listening to the stealthy sound of someone moving about the room. Miguel? What was he doing in the dark?
Then the mattress shifted and he slipped into the warmth of the bedcovers, his body chilled from his early-morning excursion.
She lay quietly, trying to keep her breathing steady, trying to make him think that she didn’t know he’d been sneaking around. Then one of his hands settled on the bodice of her gown to caress her breasts through the thin fabric, and she couldn’t hold back a little sound in her throat.
“You are awake,” he said in a thick voice.
“Um.” His hand was cold, and she shivered.
“I should let you sleep. But I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“I’m glad you can’t.” In a quick motion, she pulled the gown over her head and turned back to him, her mouth finding his in the darkness while her body rocked against him. In the sleep-warmed bed they kissed and caressed each other, building to a slow, delicious coupling that left her limp and sated.
Snuggling close, she dozed again in the circle of his arms.
When she awoke a second time, it was to the sound of pounding on the front door.
Miguel was out of bed before she realized what was happening. In the dim light, she saw him reaching into the pillowcase for his spare clothing and pull on a pair of jeans. Then he pulled a black T-shirt over his head.
The pounding grew louder, more insistent. “Ms. Douglas?” a man’s voice called. “Ms. Douglas, open the door.”
Chapter Seven
“Go!” Miguel ordered. “Go to the door. But make them wait until I can get out of here.”
In the early-morning light, she saw him pull on his tennis shoes and tie them with deft movements as the knocking sounded again.
“I’m not dressed!” she called, trying to keep her voice steady. Her gown had disappeared. Crossing to the dresser, she pulled on a pair of panties before grabbing her robe and shoving her arms through the sleeves with jerky movements.
As she fumbled to tie the belt, she saw Miguel looking at her with an expression that made her heart melt. She should go to the door, she knew. Instead, she crossed the few feet of space between them and pulled him close. He hugged her to him, and she closed her eyes. For a timeless moment
she convinced herself that if they simply stood locked in a tight embrace, the world would leave them alone. Maybe he thought the same thing, because he held her with a fierceness that squeezed the breath from her lungs.
“Jessie,” he breathed, his lips moving over her face, across her forehead, into her hair.
But nothing and no one could shut out reality. The knocking came again—louder, sharper.
Miguel turned her loose, and she hurried down the hall in her bare feet. “Who is it?” she called.
“INS.”
“Who? Say it again.”
“The Immigration and Naturalization Service. Open the door, ma‘am.”
“I—” She pulled her robe tightly closed, wishing she’d put on her gown again after making love.
“Ms. Douglas, we have a search warrant. Quit stalling, or we’ll break down the door.”
“Please, don’t do that.” With shaky fingers, she unbolted the lock. Two large men pushed their way into the house, forcing her to step back quickly or get mowed over.
One was tall with thinning blond hair, the other was shorter and dark, with a military haircut and Latin features. They wore business suits, yet it was obvious they didn’t belong in a corporate boardroom. Their eyes were hard and their faces were set in grim lines. Arms folded across her chest, she faced them. “What’s the meaning of—of getting me out of bed at this hour in the morning?”
“We have reason to believe you are harboring an illegal alien at this address,” the blond one answered.
“What reason?” she demanded.
“A report from the local police with regard to an attempted theft of a van belonging to the Light Street Foundation,” his partner retorted.
Jessie swallowed as understanding dawned. She had Officer Waverly to thank for this! After the scene in the driveway, he’d checked out the vehicle registration and found out it wasn’t hers. Then he’d alerted the INS.
Feigning a calm she didn’t feel, she raised her chin and asked, “Can I see some identification?”
“Of course.” The blond one reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather case, which he flipped open. Inside was a plastic-laminated card with his picture and name—Daniel Fader. The other one also produced his identification. He was Ramón Martinez. Undoubtedly his Spanish came in handy for interrogating suspects from south of the border. “And here’s our warrant,” he added, unfolding an official-looking piece of paper.
Switching on the light, she scanned the sheet, her pulse pounding as she tried to focus on the words. She was saved from her pretense at reading when she caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. Turning, she found that Fader had already started down the hall to the back of the house.
“Wait, you can‘t—”
“I’m afraid we can,” Martinez contradicted.
Without bothering to argue, she hurried to catch up with the agent, who was already poking his head into the den. When he found nothing, he continued down the hall to the bedroom where she and Miguel had been sleeping.
Worrying her lower lip, Jessie followed him into the room—and found that it was empty. The covers on the bed were pulled up, and the basket of laundry that she’d left to be sorted was dumped in a pile on the far side of the bed. Only one pillow—hers—showed the indentation of a head.
When Fader lifted the spread and got down on his knees to look under the bed, she cringed, remembering the gun. Apparently it was now gone, because the agent straightened and turned before trotting over to the closet and flinging open the door.
Stepping inside, he roughly shoved her clothes out of the way and felt along the back wall. Then he exited the room and joined his partner, who was inspecting the bathroom. The sink was clean. And only Jessie’s toilet articles were in evidence. Even the towel Miguel had used the night before appeared to be missing.
With a shiver, she realized what he’d been doing while she slept—clearing all evidence of his presence, just in case. Had he been planning to leave all along, or had the agents made the decision for him?
The men exchanged glances, then moved back toward the front of the house. Martinez poked into closets, then opened the basement door and went downstairs to see if Miguel might be hiding behind the furnace.
Still on edge but feeling more confident, Jessie followed Fader into the kitchen. The room was neat and orderly, with only one glass on the drainboard.
Martinez came back and held out his hands, palms up, indicating he hadn’t found what he was looking for.
“When did he leave?” his partner growled.
“Who?”
“Your boyfriend, Miguel Diego.”
Silently she cursed Officer Waverly and his damn report. “Miguel left a couple of days ago,” she said, investing the lie with as much conviction as she could.
“To go home?”
She shrugged and leaned back against the wall for support.
“When are you getting together again?”
She gave another shrug.
“Let’s have his address.”
“I believe he gave it to Officer Waverly. I don’t have the house number memorized,” she retorted.
“According to Waverly, the two of you looked pretty friendly. Are you saying you hardly know him?”
“I don’t have to answer questions like that,” she replied evenly, wondering if it was true, wondering if these men had the power to arrest her. But for what?
Both agents gave her a long look during which she stood without moving.
“You’re not exactly being cooperative,” Fader said. “Are you trying to make us believe you have an intimate relationship with a man you hardly know?”
She stiffened, pretty sure that Waverly had described the passionate kiss in front of the window.
“Maybe I should call a lawyer before we continue this discussion,” she answered, careful not to let her anger show.
The agent regarded her consideringly, probably trying to decide whether she was bluffing. Finally, he straightened. “Okay. That’s all for now, but we may be back with some more questions.”
Not trusting herself to answer, she simply nodded.
The two men wheeled, and she followed them down the hall. When they’d left, she shot the bolt, then stood leaning heavily against the door, her body trembling in reaction.
Several minutes passed before she felt able to push herself away from the door. First she looked out the window to make sure the agents were gone. No one was out front, but they could be waiting around the corner to follow her when she left, she thought as she made her way back to the bedroom.
“Miguel?” she called softly.
No one answered. Still, she went methodically back through the house anyway, looking for—praying for—signs of his presence. Her heart squeezed when she saw a strand of dark hair on the floor beside the sink. Stooping, she gently picked it up and wound it around her finger as she wandered slowly back to the bedroom. Everything of Miguel had vanished. But as she looked around, she saw now that the bedroom window was not quite closed. When she peered outside, she spotted a pair of footprints in the dark soil of the flower bed. Luckily, Fader hadn’t thought to make an inspection of the grounds.
With a little catch in her breath, she sank to the surface of the bed, rolled onto her side, and hugged her arms around her knees. Over the past few days, Miguel had been a constant presence here. Now there was a great cavity at the center of her world. Turning her face into the sheet, she breathed in his scent. They’d slept here together. Made love here. And it had been so good—so incredibly good that she’d dared to hope that it was the beginning of something important
But what had it really meant to him? Would he even call and let her know he was all right? she wondered. Or was this the end? The very abrupt end. Like last time—only worse.
With a broken breath, she pressed her cheek against the pillow and wrapped her arms around her shoulders because he wasn’t there to hold her.
The silence of the house s
eemed to press in upon her. Chilled to the bone, she pulled the covers over herself and stayed there for a long time, trying to get warm.
But she couldn’t hide forever. And anyway, she was making too many assumptions, she told herself with a kind of forced optimism. She didn’t know what Miguel intended. Maybe he would contact her when he thought it was safe.
Clinging to that thought for dear life, she got up and began to get dressed. But whether she heard from Miguel today or not, it was Monday morning. This was one of the days she worked at the rec center, and she was better off going through her caseload than hanging around the house, brooding.
On the way downtown, she found herself thinking about detouring from her regular route and heading toward Miguel’s apartment. Swerving onto a side street, she looked in the rearview mirror to make sure the INS agents weren’t behind her.
That thought was pretty paranoid. But if they wanted Miguel badly enough, they might follow her. She didn’t see any sign of them, but she wasn’t going to take a chance on doing something stupid—this morning of all mornings.
So, after driving around the block, she pulled into a gas station and filled her tank, then headed straight to work. The blacktop parking lot was deserted as she pulled into her assigned space at the corner of the redbrick building that had once been a school. For a moment she couldn’t figure out why no one else was around. Then it hit her. The men from the INS had barged into her house at dawn, and it was still pretty early in the morning. Glancing at her watch, she saw that nobody would be in the office for at least half an hour.
Well, that meant she could get more done, she decided as she cut the engine and climbed out of the car. Pulling her keys from her purse, she unlocked the padlock that secured the entrance. The heavy door creaked on metal hinges as she pulled it open. Over the rasping sound, she thought for a moment that she heard someone call her name.
Miguel?
Pivoting, she stared around the parking lot but saw no one. With a sigh, she told herself to stop looking for him around every corner as she turned back into the building. The interior was dark and silent, the hallway lit only by early-morning sunlight filtering through the dirty windows on either side of the door. To her right was the gym—a shadowy, forbidding cavern where an ax murderer might be hiding. When she realized she was standing with her back pressed against the door, she sighed. She was in a pretty fragile emotional state if going to her own office made her feel like the victim in a slasher movie.
