LED ASTRAY

by Sandra Brown

  And he was certain no man, not even his brother, had kissed her with the same degree of intimacy he had. No one knew her taste like he did.

  Abruptly his mind snapped to attention. What the hell was he doing? What kind of a sorry son of a bitch was he? His brother was dead and here he was thinking about what sex with Jenny was like.

  "We'll be landing soon," he said gruffly to cover his own guilt and confusion.

  "Then I'd better repair my face."

  "Your face is lovely."

  Her head whipped around. In spite of his disgust with him­self for his previous train of thought, Cage couldn't keep him­self from looking at her.

  She gazed back into his eyes, realizing that no one had thanked him for all the necessary details he had attended to. He had taken on the unwelcome tasks without having even been asked to. "You've been a tremendous help through all this, Cage. With your parents. With me." She laid her hand on his arm. "I'm glad we have you."

  "I'm glad you have me, too," he said with a soft smile.

  He'd been right not to tell her he had been her lover that night. The old selfish Cage wouldn't have let his brother take the credit for the joy he had given Jenny that night. But this new changed Cage would continue letting her think she had been with Hal to spare her from having to heap shame onto tragedy.

  * * *

  The capital city of Monterico was noisy, nasty, and hot.

  Concrete-and-steel skeletons were grim reminders that buildings had once stood where now there was only ruin. Piles of rubble made some streets impassable. Political slogans, painted on in blood red, screamed the grisly story of civil war from every available billboard.

  Soldiers, wearing fatigue pants and combat boots and tank tops, patrolled the streets. Their expressions were surly, their attitude arrogant and rude. The civilian population was cowed, their eyes watchful and afraid, their movements furtive, as they went about their workday activities.

  Jenny had never seen such a depressing place. She began to feel an empathy with Hal's cause and to experience some of his determination to correct this wrong and put an end to this suppression of the human spirit.

  Whithers, the State Department official who had met them in Mexico City, was a disappointment. Jenny had expected a Gregory Peck type whose very carriage proclaimed authority and commanded obedience. Mr. Whithers looked like he couldn't withstand a strong wind, much less adversity from a government hostile to the United States. He looked far from authoritarian and commanding in his wrinkled seersucker suit. She could visualize him being the butt of cruel jests, rather than posing any threat to a military junta.

  But he had been kind and sensitive to their grief as he walked Cage and her through the crowded airport to the plane that would carry them to Monterico. He had treated her with deference.

  Jenny let Cage do most of the talking. But while he took official matters into his own hands, he never let his attention slip from her. She was never far from him; he was constantly at her side, usually with a protective arm around her shoulders or a tender hand beneath her elbow.

  She drew on his strength, relied on it without apology. Lord, what would she do without it? She wondered why people didn't credit Cage with having any sensitivity.

  "Cage Hendren doesn't give a damn about anybody or any­thing." That was how people saw him.

  But they were wrong. He cared a great deal. About his brother. And he couldn't have been kinder to her.

  Upon their arrival in Monterico, Jenny, Cage, and Mr. Whithers had been packed into the backseat of an aging Ford. In the front seat were a driver and a soldier with a Soviet AK-47 tucked beneath his arm. Every time Jenny looked at the automatic weapon, shivers went down her spine.

  The driver and his partner represented the government cur­rently in control of the country. They made no effort to dis­guise their contempt for their passengers.

  After a circuitous journey through the city, they were finally deposited in front of a building that had formally housed a bank. Now it served as government headquarters. A goat was tethered to one of the columns of the building's facade. He seemed as ill tempered and hostile as the other residents of Monterico.

  Inside, overhead fans vainly tried to circulate the thick, sti­fling air. But at least the former bank lobby provided a repose from the scorching sun. Jenny's blouse was sticking to her back. Cage had long since taken off his jacket and tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

  They were ungraciously shown a seat by a soldier who poked his rifle toward a dilapidated couch and grunted what they assumed was an order for them to sit down. Mr. Whithers was ushered in to confer with the military commander. He was agitatedly mopping his brow with a handkerchief when he left the office a few minutes later. "Washington will hear about this," he said indignantly.

  "About what?" Cage demanded.

  Standing with his feet spaced widely apart, his jacket slung over his shoulder by a crooked finger, his shirt open to reveal that breath-snatching chest, and virtually growling through clenched teeth, he looked more fearsome than any of the sol­diers.

  Mr. Whithers explained to them that Hal's body hadn't yet reached the city. "The village where the … uh…"

  "Execution," Cage provided bluntly.

  "Yes, well, the village where it took place is sealed off by guerrilla fighting. But they expect the body to be delivered by nightfall," he rushed to add reassuringly.

  "Nightfall!" Jenny exclaimed. Spending one afternoon in this war-torn place was a dismal prospect.

  "I'm afraid so, Miss Fletcher." Mr. Whithers cast a nervous glance toward Cage. "It might be sooner. No one seems to know for certain."

  "What are we supposed to do in the meantime?" she asked.

  He cleared his throat and swallowed. "Wait."

  And they did. For endless hours that ticked by with mo­notonous sluggishness. They weren't allowed to leave the building. When Mr. Whithers used all his diplomatic power to get them food and drink, they were brought stale ham sandwiches and glasses of rusty tepid water.

  "No doubt these are leftovers from the prison camps," Cage said and with scathing disgust tossed the offensive sandwich into the nearest overflowing trash can. Jenny couldn't eat hers either. The ham had a slightly greenish cast. But they drank the water out of fear of dehydration. They sweltered in the afternoon heat while the soldiers propped themselves and their rifles against the walls and took their siestas.

  Cage paced, incessantly cursing and mouthing epithets about Monterico in general and their guards in particular. Jenny's light hair and green eyes were a novelty in this coun­try, where most of the populace was of Latin descent. Cage was aware of that even if she wasn't. Every time one of the cocky soldiers cast a speculative glance in her direction, Cage's eyes narrowed dangerously.

  The guards weren't aware that he was fluent in Spanish and when one guffawed a crude remark about Jenny to his buddy, Cage went storming toward the soldier, his hands bailed into fists. Mr. Whithers grabbed him by the sleeve.

  "For godsake, man, don't do anything stupid. Otherwise we might have three bodies to ship home to your parents."

  Whithers was right, of course, and Cage belligerently re­turned to his seat on the couch. He clasped Jenny's hand hard. "Don't leave my sight for an instant, for any reason."

  Just as the sun was sinking over the top of the dense jungle in the distance, a large military truck rumbled up the street and wheezed to a halt outside the government building. The driver and his cohorts came out of it leisurely, lighting up cigarettes, joking among themselves, stretching after what must have been a long, dusty ride. The one with the biggest belly and highest rank waddled into the commander's office.

  "This must be it," Mr. Whithers said hopefully.

  He was right. The commander came out of his office, waving a sheaf of papers, beckoning them to follow him outside. The canvas flaps at the back of the truck were flung aside and the commander heaved himself up. Whithers followed. Then Cage.

  "No," he s
aid to Jenny, when she placed her foot on the tailgate.

  "But, Cage—"

  "No," he repeated firmly.

  Inside the truck there were four caskets. Hal was in the third one they opened. Jenny knew by the expression on Cage's face when the top was pried off. As though someone had stamped a new expression on his face, it changed drastically. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, baring his teeth. Whithers asked him a brief question and he nodded.

  When his eyes opened, they roved the interior of the truck as though he couldn't bring himself to look down at his brother again. But eventually he did. And his face softened and tears sprang into his eyes. He extended his hand and lov­ingly touched his brother's face.

  Then the commander issued a curt order in rapid Spanish and the casket was resealed. Cage and Whithers were prodded out of the truck and four soldiers were ordered up into it to lift the coffin out.

  The moment Cage jumped out of the truck, he put his arms around Jenny. Until then, she hadn't realized she was crying. "Get us out of here," he said to Whithers, who hovered nearby. "Have them take the coffin to the airport and let's leave immediately."

  Whithers rushed off to do Cage's bidding. Placing a finger beneath her chin, Cage lifted Jenny's head. "Are you all right?"

  "Was he … is his face…"

  "No," he said smiling gently and brushing back her hair. "He looks untouched, like he's sleeping. Incredibly young. Very peaceful."

  She heaved a sob and buried her face in the collar of his shirt. He bent his head down low over hers and held her close. His hands smoothed her back. Despite her confused feelings for Hal, he was like a brother. She had lived with them long enough to feel that kind of kinship with him. Cage knew what she was suffering. He felt like a part of himself was in that casket.

  Whithers cleared his throat loudly and uncomfortably. "Uh, Mr. Hendren." When Cage lifted his head and looked at him, he said hurriedly, "They're taking your brother's body to the airport now." He indicated a rickety pickup truck that was jostling its cargo as it lumbered up a hill, its gears grinding.

  "Good. I want to get Jenny the hell out of here. We can be in Mexico City by—"

  "There's, uh, a problem."

  Cage was already in motion. He stopped and wheeled around, bringing Jenny, who he had by the arm, with him. "What kind of problem?" he asked with a glower.

  Whithers shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. "They won't let a plane take off after dark."

  "What?!" Cage exploded. The sun had set by now. The dusk was impenetrable, the way only a tropical dusk can be.

  "Security precautions," Whithers explained. "They won't turn on the landing strip lights after nightfall. If you'll recall, the runways were camouflaged when we landed today."

  "Yeah, yeah, I remember," Cage said irritably, raking a hand through his hair. "When can we leave?"

  "First thing in the morning."

  "If we don't, I'm going to raise hell. I can fight dirty, too, by God. They've yet to meet a guerrilla fighter meaner than me." His warning carried with it jabbing thrusts of his index finger. "And if they think I'm going to subject Jenny to a night in that bank building, they're wrong!"

  "No, no, that won't be necessary. They've made arrange­ments with a local hotel for us to spend the night."

  "I'll bet they have," Cage spat. "We'll find our own hotel."

  But the selection was limited and as it ended up they stayed where the government officials had assigned them in the first place. If the rooms were as sad as the lobby, Jenny thought, they were in for an uncomfortable night. The furniture was dusty and stained. The fans overhead turned desultorily. The drapes were shabby and their hems straggled to the scarred floor. A rack of magazines had been there so long the covers were faded and dust obscured the titles.

  "Not exactly the Fairmont," Cage said from the side of his month. The lobby was patrolled not by brisk bellmen, but by sardonic soldiers carrying automatic rifles.

  After a conference with the unkempt concierge, Whithers handed them each a key. "We're all on the same floor," he said happily.

  "Terrific. I'll have room service bring up champagne and caviar and we'll have a party."

  Whithers actually looked hurt by Cage's snideness. "Miss Fletcher, you're in three nineteen."

  Cage intercepted the key before it could be passed to Jenny and checked the number on his own. "Miss Fletcher is in three twenty-five with me. Come on, Jenny." Cage took her arm and led her across the lobby toward the stairs, opting to walk up rather than take the elevator. It if was in the same derelict condition as everything else in this godforsaken country, he wouldn't risk their lives by using it.

  "But they were specific about the rooms," Whithers pro­tested, trotting after them like a pesky puppy. "We were assigned rooms."

  "To hell with that and them. Do you think I'm going to leave Jenny alone and at their mercy? Think again, man."

  "But this is a breach of our agreement."

  "I don't give a damn if this breach in your agreement brings on World War III!"

  "I seriously doubt if they'd do anything to harm Miss Fletcher. After all, they're not savages."

  Cage spun around and glared at the other man so hard, the state official shrank back. "She stays with me."

  There was no arguing with the finality with which Cage spoke those four words.

  Room three twenty-five was as hot and stuffy and dusty as all of Monterico seemed to be. Cage turned the lamp down low. He crossed to the window and checked outside. Just as he suspected, three stories below, they were being watched by two soldiers, distinguishable only by the glow of their ciga­rettes in the dark. He left the window open but adjusted the louvered shutters to give them a measure of privacy. Some of the cooler night air filtered in, making the hotel room at least livable.

  "Whithers said they're sending up dinner."

  "If it's anything like lunch, I can hardly wait," Jenny said, listlessly dropping her handbag onto the bed and flopping down on its edge. There was a definite droop to her shoulders, but Cage was glad to see she was still capable of humor.

  "Take your shoes off and lie down."

  "Maybe I'll just rest a minute," she said weakly and lay down. The bedspread had a red florid print that seemed to gobble her small form alive.

  A half hour later a soldier knocked once on the door, then swung it open to carry in a tray. Jenny, who had been dozing jackknifed into a sitting position on the bed. Her skirt slid back to the top of her thighs. The soldier leered at her.

  Cage, disregarding Whither's warning, grabbed the tray and shoved the soldier outside. He snapped closed the flimsy lock and braced a chair beneath the doorknob. Such measures wouldn't stop a round of AK-47 bullets, but it made him feel better to show even that much defiance.

  "Dinner" was a dish comprised of rice, chicken, beans, and enough hot peppers to bring tears to Jenny's eyes. She didn't feel like eating anyway and after only two bites set her fork down.

  "Eat," Cage commanded, pointing at her plate.

  "I'm not hungry."

  "Eat it anyway. Anything that doesn't move, that is."

  He was unrelenting and she forced down half the portion, picking out the stringy pieces of chicken. Murky red wine accompanied the meal. Cage poured some from the foggy carafe, tested it, and made a face. "I think they clean commodes with this."

  "Is this the lush of La Bota County speaking?"

  "Is that what they call me?" he asked, arching one brow.

  "Sometimes."

  He poured her a glass of the wine. She took it but looked at him as if to say, "What am I supposed to do with this?"

  "Drink it," he said, answering her unspoken question. "I don't trust the water, and believe me, no germ could live long in that brew," he said of the wine.

  She sipped, made a face that he laughed at, and sipped again. She managed only five swallows. "That's all I can take," she said, shuddering at the bitter aftertaste.

  Cage placed th
e tray with their dirty dishes on the floor near the door. He listened there for a long moment, but he didn't think anyone was monitoring them. At least not just outside the door. But he knew that sentinels must have been posted near the elevator and stairs.

  "Do you suppose the shower works?" Jenny asked, venturing into the bathroom.

  "Try it out."

  "Do you think I'll catch an infection?"

  He laughed. "At this point, we'll have to chance it." He lifted his soiled shirt away from his chest. "I have no choice."

  "I guess I don't either," she said, glancing at her reflection in the wavy mirror.

  Closing the door between them, she peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower stall. Ordinarily she wouldn't have considered setting her bare foot in such a mildew-ridden cubicle, but as Cage had said, she didn't have much choice. It was either use the shower or live with herself grimy and dusty.

  Surprisingly the water that rained down on her was hot, and the soap was a United States export. She even used it to wash her hair in lieu of shampoo.

  After she had dried herself off, she was in a dilemma as to what to put on. She had to rinse out her underclothes and blouse or she wouldn't be able to force herself to put them on again in the morning. She settled on wearing her full slip to sleep in and put her suit jacket over it for modesty's sake. It was a ridiculous looking outfit, but it would have to do.

  She hand-laundered her lingerie in the sink and hung the panties, stockings, brassiere and blouse on the only towel rack available. Switching off the light, she opened the door.

  Her hesitant eyes met Cage's curious ones across the room. Self-consciously she fingered the buttons on her jacket as she kept it pulled over her breasts. Her bare toes bashfully curled downward. Had Cage ever seen her with wet hair? "I, uh … there was only one towel. I'm sorry."

  "I'll air dry." He smiled and made his voice sound flippant and light, but his eyes were on the deep lace border of her slip just above her knees.

  She moved toward the bed and he brushed past her on his way into the bathroom. Once the door was closed behind him, she remembered her intimate apparel hanging up to dry. Scald­ing color rushed to her cheeks. Which was foolish. They had lived in the same house. When he was home from college, their clothes had been washed together. One couldn't go into the laundry room without seeing a garment belonging to some­body else. Cage had seen her in nighties and robes and in various stages of dishabille on numerous occasions.