The Doctor's Guardian & Tempted By His Target

by Marie Ferrarella

  But she couldn’t have that. She couldn’t have any of that.

  Eyes glittering with unshed tears, she rolled away from the fire. Naked, and alone, and emptier than ever.

  When Isabel fell silent, Brandon breathed a sigh of relief, stifling the urge to grind his erection against the mattress.

  He’d listened to her bathe, his ears straining for every sound, imagination running wild. He wanted to hear her soft panting and sweet little gasps of pleasure. He wanted her sobbing with ecstasy, shuddering beneath him.

  That was impossible, so he tortured himself with solo fantasies. Although he doubted she was masturbating quietly, less than ten feet away from him, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The idea of her touching her pretty breasts, or fingering her slick, hot sex while she moaned his name, drove him over the edge.

  He wanted her so damned bad.

  Closing his eyes, he focused on controlling his breathing. His stiff arousal surged against the sheets, threatening to erupt. Kissing her had been a mistake. He wished he could erase the feel of her body and the taste of her mouth.

  Now he knew how good it would be between them.

  He forced himself to relax, calm down and consider his objective. Trust and integrity were huge in his line of work. He couldn’t throw his career away for one hot night. Getting romantically involved with a target was against the rules.

  She’d also be devastated when she found out who he really was. Sleeping with her under false pretenses was like … sexual warfare. It wasn’t moral, or ethical, or decent. He didn’t lie to women to get them in bed.

  He couldn’t have her. Bottom line.

  Normally he collected information that could be used against the target. Circumstantial evidence, background history, criminal connections. With Isabel, he’d started doing the opposite. He wanted to help exonerate her.

  Maybe if he cleared her name, they could meet again, start over. But it was far more likely that she’d hate him forever.

  Gritting his teeth, he punched the pillow under his head. No matter what, he was destined to do wrong by her.

  He was contractually obligated to betray her.

  When his blood had cooled, and the only sound coming from the main room was that of the crackling logs, he rose from the bed. Securing the blanket around his waist, he walked through the open doorway. Isabel was curled up on the floor, her hands tucked beneath her head, hair spilling across her bare shoulders.

  Their wet clothes hung on a string-line near the hearth, her panties next to his shorts. He’d never had a live-in girlfriend, and couldn’t recall a woman ever washing his clothes before. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

  Luckily, he’d transferred the important documents from his cargo pants to a hidden compartment in his backpack.

  Isabel didn’t wake when he knelt before her, scooping her off the ground. She was heavier than he’d figured, and her sleeping form made an unwieldy bundle. He could smell her hair and feel the silken heat of her skin as he carried her toward the bedroom. Hoping she wouldn’t rouse, he placed her on the mattress as gingerly as possible.

  He wanted to strip away the blanket and eat her with his eyes. But it was dark in the room, and he’d only just gained mastery over his desire. Studying her nude body while she slept was also an invasion of privacy.

  Clenching his jaw, he covered her with the bedsheets and walked away.

  After checking the lock and doing a final sweep of the premises, he settled down in the space she’d just inhabited. He didn’t toss another log on, as the room was warm enough and smoke gave away their presence. It wasn’t a big concern because most houses in Tapachula had cooking fires, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

  There was a damp washcloth hanging over the plastic bucket. On impulse, he brought the fabric to his nose and inhaled. It smelled like mild soap and cool water and Isabel. Longing welled up inside him, from a deeper place than lust. Wrapping the cloth around his fist, he pressed his lips to it, staring at the glowing embers until sleep overtook him.

  Chapter 10

  Isabel awoke to a strange sound.

  Opening her eyes, she realized that she was alone in the bedroom. The room was bright with early-morning light. Sitting up in bed, she clutched the sheet to her chest, listening for another sharp crack.

  It came, preceded by a faint hissing sound.

  The striped blanket she’d been using as a toga was tangled around her ankles. She wrapped it around her body and walked to the window, curious. Brandon was outside, stripped to the waist, chopping wood. The cargo pants she’d washed last night rode low on his hips and his chest glistened with perspiration. While she watched, he drew back the ax and let it sing through the air, splitting a thick log.

  She backed away from the window, her throat dry. It wasn’t fair for a man to be so relentlessly good-looking. Shivering, she walked into the main room. The fire had burned down to ash, and he’d replaced the wash water with a fresh bucket. Noticing the ladle hanging by the hearth, she dipped it into the bucket, getting herself a cool drink.

  The clothes on the line were still damp. They’d probably dry faster in the sun, now that the rain had passed. With a small sigh, she grabbed her messenger bag and returned to the bedroom for a quick morning toilette. There she noticed a small pine chest at the foot of the bed. She hadn’t seen it yesterday.

  Opening the lid, she found a threadbare quilt, a few candles and a Spanish-language Bible. Under the quilt, she hit the jackpot: a pair of huarache sandals and an embroidered tunic. Eyes widening, she brought out the traditional garment, called a huipil. It was turquoise with dark blue flowers, and quite beautiful.

  Letting the blanket drop, she donned the colorful tunic, which cinched in at the waist and covered her to midthigh. It was supposed to be worn with a long skirt, but she could pair it with pants once hers were dry. Smiling, she tried on the soft leather sandals. Like the huipil, they were only a little too large.

  She fashioned her hair into two braids and strapped her dagger to her thigh, delighted by her new duds. A few years ago, she wouldn’t have felt this good wearing a designer dress and expensive heels.

  Brandon stopped chopping wood as soon as she came outside. He did a double take, his gaze lingering on her bare legs. She was acutely aware of her nudity beneath the tunic. “Wow. You look like an Aztec princess.”

  She blushed, shaking her head. “I’m not even Mexican.”

  “You could pass, in that outfit.”

  “I suppose you could call me a mestizo,’“ she said, using the word for mixed race. “My mother is South American.”

  He nodded, resuming his task. There was more tension between them now, along with an unspoken agreement to avoid intimacy. He must have carried her to the bedroom last night, choosing once again to take on the role of guardian. A part of her hoped he’d slept, but she also entertained a vindictive wish that he’d stayed up, aching for her.

  She made use of the outhouse and strolled the grounds of the small farm. There was an empty goat pen and a full chicken coop. She picked up the basket by the door and ventured inside, collecting a half-dozen eggs. Emerging triumphant, she marveled at her station in life. She’d really gone country.

  “What are you going to do with those?” Brandon asked.

  “Boil them. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  She built up the fire a little and put water on to heat, rummaging through the goods they’d bought at the market. Soon they had a light breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, goat cheese and warm tortillas. Brandon seemed to appreciate the meal, even though it was meatless. They could have beef jerky and fresh fruit for lunch.

  Before sitting down to eat, he’d washed up and put on a shirt. The bruise under his eye had faded into a faint smudge, and the cut above appeared to be healing well. “What happened to your bandage?” she asked.

  “It fell off.”

  Finishing her last bite of tortilla, she grabbed the first aid kit from her bag. Al
though he insisted he didn’t need it, she dabbed a bit of antibiotic ointment on the wound and applied a smaller bandage.

  After breakfast, she transferred the clothesline to a sunny spot outside, and he covered their tracks by dousing the fire. He also replaced the wood they’d burned and stacked more in neat piles. His hard work was a payment for their stay. She did her part, making the bed and tidying up the place while he kept his eye on the road.

  “Do you want to try to walk?” she asked, feeling uneasy. It was frustrating to be stuck here, mere miles from Guatemala, at a sexual stalemate.

  “I doubt we could make it by nightfall.”

  “What about bikes? Or another motorcycle?”

  “Assuming we could find either kind of transportation for a decent price, we’d still be on the road alone, exposed.”

  She nodded in agreement. Her funds were already low, and they probably couldn’t rent bikes on a holiday.

  “It would be less risky to wait for a bus or an opportunity to hitchhike tomorrow.” Remembering her map of the city, she retrieved the square of paper from her bag and spread it out on the table. “Here’s the bus station,” she said, tapping her finger on it. Other local landmarks were represented, along with a few businesses. The parade route was highlighted in orange. It started at the graveyard and proceeded through the center of town. “The cemetery is just over this hill,” she said, pointing to an area behind the hacienda. “A crowd will be gathered there most of the day.”

  “To do what?”

  “Decorate the grave sites. If I remember correctly, they make offerings to the dead. Favorite foods and drinks.”

  He arched a brow. “Do they eat it?”

  She smiled, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I think it’s more symbolic.”

  “Let’s go check it out.”

  “Really?” she said, surprised.

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “It’s only a few miles, and we can stay off the main roads. I saw a trail out back.”

  “The goat trail.” She’d seen the narrow dirt path, too. “Maybe it’s a shortcut.”

  Anything was better than staying inside the cramped cabin, trying to ignore the tension between them. She couldn’t pretend her desire didn’t exist; it was obvious in every furtive glance she gave him.

  Isabel got ready to leave, grabbing her still-damp pants from the clothesline and putting them on under her tunic. She also folded the blanket she’d used and replaced it in the crate. Everything else she left hanging, hoping it would dry by the time they returned. The only item she couldn’t find was the strip of linen she’d used as a washcloth.

  Brandon brought his backpack, which held bottled water and a picnic lunch, among other things. He had the gun on him, which bothered her. She’d chosen to train with a knife because it was less deadly. Her intention had been to defend herself, not endanger human lives. On that front, she’d failed, and failed, and failed.

  They took off toward the rolling hills, the sun peeking through the clouds. It was a warm, humid day, but not unpleasant. Isabel had grown accustomed to the tropical climate and bore it better than Brandon, who perspired in a manly, endearing sort of way.

  “Damn,” he said, wiping his forehead. “You look like a hothouse flower and I’m dripping with sweat.”

  She waved off the compliment, and his concerns, conjuring a detailed image of him chopping wood. “I like sweat.”

  “Do you have a stinky sock fetish, too?” “No,” she said, laughing. “In that case, thanks for washing my clothes.” “You’re welcome.”

  They fell into a charged silence, saving their energy for the climb. She felt self-conscious about her domestic behavior and wondered if it seemed desperate. Her dad’s groupies were like that, needy and overeager. At every concert, thousands of manic, half-naked women had screamed his name.

  She’d never understood why he’d loved them more than her.

  The hills gave way to a lush green valley, where the air was cooler. Birds chirped and spider monkeys chattered in the trees, as if excited about the festivities. At the base of the valley there was a large cemetery. A crowd had gathered, leaving a trail of marigold petals in their wake, and vendors had set up stands to sell a variety of goods.

  Brandon and Isabel paused, surveying the scene from a distance. It looked like a county fair at a graveyard. “What’s that orange stuff for?”

  “The flower petals lead the dead home for a short visit.”

  He shifted the weight of his backpack, his expression dubious. “This is an odd holiday.”

  Isabel smiled and shrugged, agreeing that the celebration had quirky elements. But it was also reverent and meaningful, despite the gaiety. “It’s just their way of honoring loved ones who’ve passed away.”

  They didn’t see any of Carranza’s men, hoping to send them to the underworld, so they continued down into the valley. The day was sunny and bright, and the colorful decorations created a happy chaos. Hundreds of noisy revelers made it simple to blend in and disappear. They were probably safer here than at the cabin.

  For the first hour, they walked through the busy cemetery, studying the decorated grave sites. Many were adorned with handpicked flowers, letters from family members and children’s crafts. Others were laden with food and drink.

  “This guy’s ready to party,” Brandon said, gesturing to a six pack of Modelo resting against a headstone.

  She laughed, twining her arm through his. They must have passed dozens of shot glasses, but she hadn’t felt tempted to partake. Perhaps all of her longing was wrapped up in him. When her gaze moved to the next site over, her humor evaporated.

  Many of the graves had no markers; simple wooden crosses were common. This one had an engraved headstone that read Nuestra Bebe. A pair of tiny pink booties had been placed on the grassy mound.

  “Oh,” she breathed, covering her mouth with one hand.

  He pulled her closer, hugging her head to his chest. After a quiet moment, they continued toward the front entrance, their footsteps a little heavier. Outside the gate, vendors were selling marigold bouquets, fresh-baked bread and glass-encased candles. There was a communal altar set up for almas perdidas.

  “What does that mean?” Brandon asked, glancing at the sign above the altar.

  “Lost souls,” Isabel translated. “It’s a place to pay tribute to loved ones who are missing or buried elsewhere.”

  He took a few dollars out of his pocket, approaching the candle vendor. “Do you want one?”

  “Why not?” she murmured, her stomach churning.

  He chose a white candle and she picked a purple one. Together, they walked toward the altar, placing the candles side by side. He lit both with a long match from the table. Isabel supposed it was customary to recite a short prayer when making an offering, but she didn’t know what to say. She stared at the flame until her eyes watered.

  Brandon didn’t speak, either. He glanced skyward in silent contemplation and then looked at her, gauging her reaction. When another woman came to the altar to light her candle, they stepped aside.

  He bought a sample of pan de muerto, placing the sweet bread in his backpack. “Are you ready to have our picnic?”

  Although she wasn’t hungry, she said yes. They left the graveyard the same way they came, via goat path, and found a shady tree on a gentle slope to spread out the quilt she’d brought. Sitting down together, they drank cool water, admiring the view. There were lush green hills as far as the eye could see.

  “Who was your candle for?” she asked, curious.

  He stretched out with his hands behind his head, looking up at the arching tree branches. “A buddy of mine.”

  She studied his face. “How close?”

  “One of my best friends. We grew up together.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Combat fire in Iraq. Earlier this year.” “I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you?”

  “Of course,” she said, shame coloring her cheeks. None of her friends h
ad died fighting for their country. Most of her acquaintances had been too busy wasting their own lives to worry about saving others. “That’s awful.”

  He stared back at her for a moment, pensive. “We were supposed to take a surfing trip as soon as his tour ended.”

  “Is that why you came alone?”

  “I think so. I couldn’t bear to replace him.”

  “Do you ever feel guilty?” she asked, her heart pounding with anxiety. “For being alive, I mean?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I feel guilty for not going. We both talked about enlisting but he was the only one who followed through.”

  She ran her palm over the blades of grass beside the blanket, feeling the soft prickle.

  “Who was your candle for?” he asked. “My dad.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “Nothing heroic,” she said with a bitter smile. “Tell me about it.”

  She stared out into the distance, unsure where to start. “I told you that he got remarried, right?” “Right.”

  “My mom got remarried, too, when I was fourteen. I resented my dad for never visiting and made no effort to get along with my stepdad. I started skipping school to surf, experimenting with drugs. And boys.”

  His brows rose. “How did that go over?”

  “Not well. By the time I turned sixteen, I was totally out of control. My mom didn’t know what to do with me. She finally sent me to my dad’s.”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “I thought it was,” she said, plucking a blade of grass and twisting it around her finger. “He had a different lifestyle. Late-night parties and jet-setting. Even when he was there, he wasn’t really there. And I entered the picture at the worst possible time.”

  “Why?”

  “His second marriage was already on the rocks. He was battling addiction and she begged him to go to rehab. The only thing I cared about was surfing, and getting high, so my presence created more problems. Right before I graduated I got kicked out of school. They argued about it, and he went on a drug binge. She left him.”