by Dee Davis
Madeline paused, knowing that this was the reason he’d come out to talk with her, and wanting to get it right. “He was sick. That’s the only way I would ever have had the chance to meet him. The sick and the infirm took the yard with the women.”
“What was wrong with him?” he turned to face her, his eyes turning silver in the moonlight.
“They thought it was malaria. But he was already getting better when I met him. It was my first time outside. I’d been in solitary, and I wasn’t exactly the best of company. But your brother can be quite persistent when he’s of a mind.”
She could see Drake smile. “Yes, he can.”
“Anyway,” she continued, “he was a little scary looking. His beard was matted and he was filthy. I was actually a little afraid of him. But then he offered me a square of chocolate. I’ve no idea where he got it, but I hadn’t eaten in days and it was amazingly good. And he just sat with me. Waiting until I calmed down. Until I wasn’t afraid anymore.”
“Sounds like my brother.” Drake nodded. “I remember when I was a kid, I used to believe there were monsters under the bed. I’d make my dad let me keep the bathroom light on to keep them from coming out. Anyway, one night in the middle of the night, the lightbulb burned out. I was too scared to get out of bed. So I just lay there freaking out, certain that I was about to get eaten. Tucker heard me, and he came in and sat with me all night. Even after I fell asleep.”
“He was that way with me, too. A guardian angel. At first he only talked in Spanish, but my command of the language was basically limited to curse words and totally useless sentences like ‘Te gusta invierno?’ ”
“Do you like winter?” he repeated.
“Yeah, for some reason my fifth-grade teacher thought the question would be useful for a kid growing up in the Louisiana heat. We learned the appropriate responses, too, but that’s about as far as it went. So finally, Andrés tried his English. Which was surprisingly good, although occasionally flawed. I can see now that it was part of the act. But his friendship wasn’t a lie. It was a lifeline. I don’t think I’d have made it in there without him.”
“You’re stronger than you think you are.”
“Yes, but San Mateo isn’t the kind of place that’s easy to survive. The prisoners are people the Colombian government wants to pretend don’t exist. It makes places like Abu Ghraib look like Disneyland. Most people who go into San Mateo never come out. It’s easy to lose hope. I think that’s what happened with your brother,” she said, thinking about that last day.
“I think he decided to give me the card because he knew no one was coming for him. And he thought maybe I still had a chance. I begged him to keep it. But he refused. He said it was too late, that he was on borrowed time.” She sucked in a breath, tears threatening. “Then the guard called for him. He’d recovered from the malaria, so he was being transferred back to his original cell. I stood there, watching him go, feeling like my whole world was leaving with him. I never saw him again.”
“Did you ever try to go back? To check on him?”
“No. I guess I was too busy with my own problems.” She sighed. “Not very commendable, is it?”
“It’s what he wanted you to do. Get the hell out of San Mateo. Get on with your life.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think he meant signing on with Hector Ortiz.”
Madeline held her breath, wondering if she’d gone too far, said too much. She had no experience with real relationships. Her only friend in the last three years had been a fellow prisoner she’d talked to once a day for fifteen minutes, and most of that had turned out to be lies. So what the hell did she know?
“Probably not,” he answered, his eyes filled with tenderness. “But considering the circumstances, I think he’d have understood.”
She nodded, tears welling again. She’d never met anyone who made her feel so vulnerable and so safe all at the same time.
“Madeline,” he said, his eyes searching hers, “I don’t know what’s happening here. And I can’t make any promises. I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow or the day after that. I only know that right here, right now, I want you.”
She wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her. It was as if she’d never really lived before. As if somehow he’d breathed new life into her. And it scared her to death. Yet she couldn’t walk away.
“I want you, too,” she whispered, the words raspy as her breath caught in her throat.
With a crooked smile, he swung her into his arms and carried her inside to his bedroom, letting her body slide against him as he released her, the friction only heightening her building desire.
After closing the door, he framed her face with his hands, his mouth slanting over hers, his lips taking possession, slowly, as if savoring the taste of her, cherishing the union. And with a little murmur, she opened to him, all signs of gentleness disappearing as their passion ignited, consuming them in a fire so hot she could feel her skin flush with desire.
She felt her nipples tighten as her body demanded more, and with a groan she threaded her fingers through his hair, drawing him closer, her tongue dancing against his, thrusting and withdrawing, taking and giving.
Reaching for the hem of her cotton sundress, he pulled it up and over her head, the thin material billowing as it fell to the floor. His shirt followed and then his pants, the two of them coming together again, their mouths greedy as they explored each other with lips and hands.
She tipped back her head, gasping, as he took her breast into his mouth. His teeth closed around her nipple, sending spirals of heat coursing through her, tightening until she burned with need. He sucked slowly, his thumb and forefinger stroking the other breast as she closed her eyes, the soft silk of his hair caressing her skin.
His tongue circled hot and needy as his hand slipped down her belly, stroking, teasing as his fingers circled the soft hair at the apex of her thighs. And then they dipped inside, the contact sending her arching against him, struggling to breathe. And still he sucked and stroked, holding her against him, playing her like a cherished instrument, the strings pulled tight as each carefully chosen note built upon the others.
Then, just when she thought she couldn’t stand it a moment longer, he lifted her up, and she wrapped her legs around him as he thrust against her, teasing her with his heat and his strength. Her body contracting with need, she pressed closer, gyrating her hips, sliding against him, up and down, up and down, until her muscles contracted in ecstasy, the building friction making her moan against his throat.
“More,” she whispered. “I want more.”
Shifting so that his hands were under her legs, he carried her to the bed and laid her against the sheets, their momentary separation sending need pulsing through her. And then he was there beside her, throbbing and hard, and she took him in her mouth, pulling and sucking, her tongue tracing the length of him, feeling him grow harder as she caressed him with her lips.
Then, with an earthy growl, he pulled her up, her body sliding against his until his hands framed her face as he took control. His kiss was hard and demanding, his body arching against hers. And with a smile, she sat up, running her hands down her breasts, over her stomach, and between her legs. Then she slid her body onto his, letting him watch as she started to move, still caressing her breasts, smiling as she felt the familiar tension begin to grow.
This man made her crazy. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone—ever. She needed him like breathing, and the idea should have frightened her, but instead she found it empowering. She moved slowly, laving him with her body, each stroke driving her higher, closer and closer to the edge. She tightened around him as she slid up and down, feeling him grow harder inside her. Cupping his balls with her hand, she squeezed gently as she rode him, watching his eyes flash with pleasure.
And then he grabbed her hips, rolling the two of them over, straddling her as he drove inside her, taking control, their rhythm increasing as he began to move faster. She lifte
d her hips, taking him deeper, her passion reaching a fever pitch. Without breaking rhythm, he reached between her legs, his thumb rasping against her clitoris, the added friction sending her bucking against him, forcing him deeper still.
Pleasure built until it was almost unbearable, and she teetered on the brink. Wrapping her arms around him, she opened her legs wider, wanting more, needing more. And as if sensing her need, his thumb moved faster as he thrust harder and harder.
She screamed his name as she felt his muscles tighten, as he thrust against her one last time, and then her body exploded into spasms of release. Sensation rocked through her, stripping her of everything but a pleasure so pure it was almost more than she could bear. And then suddenly he was there, his hand closing around hers. And there was nothing but the two of them. One body. One soul. Two halves of a whole.
Later, much later, she drifted on the edge of sleep, her contractions subsiding until they were only gentle undulations, their bodies still connected as he held her cradled in his arms. She wanted to hold him inside her forever. To stop time and engrave this memory in her heart.
She, of all people, recognized how precious their connection was. But nothing lasted forever. And there had been no promises made. No covenant between them. It was just one night.
One incredibly special night.
With a sigh, she nestled her head against his chest, letting the soft sound of the breeze lull her into sleep.
It was dark, and although he could hear the ocean, he couldn’t see it. He turned in a circle, trying to verify position, to remember where exactly he was. The jungle was thick here, the trees twisted and bent, making forward progress difficult. From somewhere off to his right, monkeys chittered, their cries angry and alarmed. His senses were on high alert, and he pushed through the undergrowth, heedless of the branches and thorns.
Then suddenly the trees started to thin, the floor of the jungle opening out into a statue-lined clearing, an ancient altar standing sentry in the center. He walked forward, slowly, eyes searching for signs of danger, while another part of his mind tried to place the architecture. Chibcha, maybe Muiscas. Definitely Pre-Colombian.
He walked forward slowly, the eyes of the statues seeming to follow as he moved. The altar stone was placed on the back of a carved jaguar, golden eyes glowing eerily in the half-light. As he got closer he realized with a start that someone or something was lying on the stone. His heart slammed in his chest as he inched his way closer, his mind struggling to make sense of what he saw.
The body was lifeless, lying on its stomach, one hand thrown carelessly over the side of the altar stone, blood dripping from the fingertips. Stepping closer still, Drake recognized the hair, the shape of the head, and his stomach dropped as his mind presented the irrefutable conclusion.
Tucker.
Anger mixed with pain as he ran forward, praying that he was wrong. He reached out, hand trembling as he clasped the shoulders, turning the body over.
And then suddenly everything shifted, masculine features turning to feminine. Cassandra’s eyes mocked him, blood dripping from the wound where he’d shot her. “There’s no such thing as a happy ending,” she taunted. And then she was gone. Instead soft black curls spilled over the stone altar, lifeless brown eyes staring up at the overhanging canopy of trees.
“Madeline,” he screamed, his heart twisting as bile rose in his throat. “Madeline. No.”
Hands tore at him, and he tried to fight them off; he wouldn’t let them hurt her. Whirling around, he tried to find his enemy, but the clearing was empty, the wind whispering his name.
“Drake… Drake… Drake.”
His eyes flickered open, the altar and the ruins vanishing into the shadows of the bedroom.
“Drake, it’s me. Madeline. Can you hear me?” She shook him gently, her face creased with worry. “You were having a nightmare. But it’s over now. Everything is okay.”
He sucked in a ragged breath, the vision of her body, beaten and bloody, still etched into his brain.
“We’re safe,” she whispered, reaching for his hand. “In Magdalena. Remember?”
Reality came flooding back. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, pushing away the last vestiges of the dream.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her eyes still wide with concern.
“Yeah,” he said, still feeling a little shaky. “I just thought… I thought…”
“Whatever you thought, it wasn’t true,” she soothed as she squeezed his hand. “It was just a dream.”
He nodded, recognizing the truth, but unable to let go of the images. “I thought you were dead. I was in the jungle, trying to find something, and I wound up in a clearing with an altar. And there was a body and I thought it was Tucker but when I turned it over it was you.”
“But I’m here,” she said, reaching up to stroke his face. “And I’m fine.”
“I know. It’s stupid.”
“No. It’s not. You’re just going through a lot right now.”
“Yeah, well, we’re leaving in a couple of hours, so I don’t think now’s the best time for a meltdown.” He hated himself for his own weakness, and even more for having shown it to her.
“Drake”—her smile was gentle—“even superheroes have their moments. It’s just your mind’s way of coping.”
“You make it sound so clinical.” He smiled, beginning to feel a little better.
“Well, when you think about it, it is. I mean, dreams are just the mind’s way of letting off steam. Dealing with issues we can’t or won’t deal with in real life. Only sometimes the subconscious can get a bit carried away.”
“You’re right. It was just a dream. And I’m fine.” He leaned back against the pillows, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.
“Well, I’m here, if you need me,” she said, her hand still cupping his face.
And suddenly he felt guilty. There were so many reasons why there couldn’t be anything permanent between them. Her situation. His job. She was an asset and he’d allowed himself to get involved. To care. But it couldn’t go any further and she deserved to know the truth.
“Look, Madeline,” he said, summoning his courage, “we need to talk.”
“No.” She shook her head, her fingers moving to cover his lips. “We don’t. I understand that this isn’t anything more than what it is. I needed you and you needed me. And nothing else matters. So for now, let’s just leave it as it is. Okay?”
Her eyes pleaded with him, and with a guttural groan, he gave in to his own desire, rolling over and pinning her to the mattress. Their gazes met and held, the worry in her eyes replaced with something more primitive. Passion. Basal and earthy. Chemistry at its most elemental.
His mouth slanted over hers, his kiss possessive. He wanted her. And she opened to him. Asking nothing in return. It humbled him. And excited him. And created feelings he wasn’t even sure he understood. But he knew one thing; he needed her. And he’d be a fool to turn away from so precious a gift.
He pulled her back into the soft comfort of the bed, determined to show her with his mouth and body and hands all the things he couldn’t find voice to say. And she answered him in kind, the two of them delighting again in the discovery of each other, tasting and exploring, kissing and teasing, his body responding to hers as the fears and anxiety about his brother were pushed aside in the wake of their rising passion.
He braced himself above her, marveling at the beauty of her face, the brown depths of her eyes, the tiny mole at the corner of her mouth. This was a woman a man could lose himself in. And at the moment, that’s all he wanted.
With a single thrust he was inside her, his body establishing a rhythm. She arched against him, taking him deeper, her body rising to meet his, their movements building in tempo and complexity until there was nothing but the two of them.
He closed his eyes, and let himself go, surrendering to the moment. And together they found release, the world breaking apart in a frenzy, his climax beyond anything he’d e
ver believed possible. And in that moment of ecstasy, he found sanctuary, and rejoiced in the fact that, at least for the moment, she’d helped him hold the monsters at bay.
Bogotá, Colombia
“Montague is dead, and Petrov failed to run Madeline to ground,” Ortiz said, grinding his teeth as he stared out into the rainswept streets of Bogotá. On the other end of the telephone line, Michael Brecht was silent. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. Of course.” There was a rebuke in his tone, the master reminding the student of the nature of their relationship. “I was already aware of the situation.”
“And are you aware that she’s disappeared? Probably on her way back to the States? If she makes it there, not even your network can get to her.” Agitated, Ortiz crossed over to the credenza in his office and poured himself a drink.
“Must I remind you,” Brecht said, “that she’s your problem, not mine? As I told you in the beginning, I’ve arranged things so that no one can possibly trace your activities to me or my organization.”
“So what are you saying?” Ortiz tightened his fingers around the glass. “You’re cutting me loose?”
“No. Quite the opposite. I still consider you an asset, Hector. And because of that I’m calling to let you know where she’s gone. Although I’ll admit it makes no sense at all to me.”
“Where is she?” He slammed the glass down, the liquid inside sloshing the papers on his desk.
“She’s gone back to San Mateo. At least, she’s in Magdalena.”
“Are you certain?” Ortiz asked, his stomach tightening with dread.
“Absolutely. I told you I have an inside source. And even though they’ve ostensibly gone dark, he can still track their location. Any idea why she’d want to go back to that hellhole?”
“None at all,” Ortiz lied. “Maybe to clear herself. I don’t know.”
“Well, whatever the reason, it’s a godsend for you. A final chance to remove her from the equation once and for all. Shall I send Petrov?”
