Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  “And did you?”

  He grinned. “Nah, I gave them to the Salvation Army. And I kept one. The one I wear to—”

  “Weddings and funerals.”

  “But nowhere else.”

  “All the same, Mr. Ransom, a new tie wouldn't hurt.”

  His smile was lazy. His eyes gleamed with amusement as she gave his tie a distasteful glance. “You don't have to say ‘mister.'”

  She had forgotten his innate charm. It had been a long time since he had bothered using it for her benefit. “I ... don't know your first name,” she admitted.

  “Nobody knows my first name. Just call me Ransom.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Well, my family know it, obviously. Hardly anyone else though.”

  “How is that possible?” She frowned. “Isn't it on your driver's license, your bank statements, your passport?”

  “Just my first two initials.”

  “But why the mystery?”

  “This, from the woman who said, ‘No names.'”

  He was teasing, not at all bitter or angry right now, but she still felt her stomach drop. She passed over his mention of the past and asked, “Why is your name such a secret?”

  “Because I don't like it.”

  “That's all?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You don't like it?”

  “That's right.”

  “But lots of people don't like their names.”

  “They didn't get stuck with my name.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ah-ah.” He grinned again. “I'm not that easily caught, Maddie.”

  “Well, really.”

  Strangely, she was enjoying herself. This was the last place on earth she would have expected to find her spirits bubbling like French champagne; the last man on earth she would have expected to ever again find flirting with her; the last man on earth she should be flirting with in return. It should feel dangerous—and perhaps it did, with that tingling sense of danger that Ransom exuded so unconsciously—but mostly, it felt right.

  “More champagne?” he asked.

  “No thanks. I never drink more than one.”

  “Never say never.”

  She took a huge risk and said, “I got into big trouble the last time I drank more than one.”

  It was the first time she had voluntarily referred to that night. Their eyes met. His expression softened. His voice dropped when he asked, “And was it really so awful?”

  Her heart started pounding again. He'd looked like this before. Afterwards. After waking her up to make love again, his head resting near hers on the pillow, his eyes tender, his voice husky. She remembered his gentleness and suddenly ached for it, exhausted from being at constant odds with him.

  “No.” Her voice was weak, betraying her. “It wasn't ... awful.”

  Whatever he saw in her eyes, he obviously decided that this wasn't the moment—or the place—to demand more from her. He distanced himself again with a wry smile. “Not awful? Wow. How can I control my ego after a compliment like that? It wasn't awful.”

  She smiled, relieved that he had chosen not to push—at least for now. “I never noticed you controlling your ego before. Why start now?”

  He winced. “You really know how to direct your barbs, Miss Barrington. Been practicing long?”

  “It's a hereditary trait.”

  “I don't believe you. Your father seemed like a pushover.”

  “My father?”

  “Well, ‘pushover’ may be an exaggeration.”

  “Delusion, I'd say.”

  “But I kinda liked him.”

  “That's funny. He liked you, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How do you know?”

  He'd caught her. “Well...”

  “You talked about me, didn't you?”

  She brazened it out. “Naturally.”

  “What did you say?”

  Her lips twitched, which amazed her. “I denied everything, of course.”

  He laughed. “And then?”

  “And then he said he thought you were a good man who could be trusted, despite your atrocious manners. Or words to that effect.”

  “Yeah, he's all right, your old man,” Ransom said magnanimously.

  “I'm sure he'll be thrilled when I relay your compliment to him.”

  “He expects a lot from you, though, doesn't he?”

  “Don't all fathers?”

  “All fathers don't expect their daughters to be dutiful enough to risk their safety in pursuit of business, or to learn to run multi-million dollar empires.”

  “He should expect it of me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can do it.”

  “Don't you think there's a limit to what he should expect of you?”

  “Why? Because I'm a woman?” Before he could respond, she chided, “Don't be sexist, Ransom. You're too intelligent for that.”

  “Now that probably is the first compliment you've paid me.”

  “It just slipped out. I'll try to be more careful in the future.”

  He grinned and was about to respond when dinner was announced. He gave both their champagne glasses to one of the obsequious waiters, then took her elbow. “The dining room is—”

  “Ah, Miss Barrington! Ransom!” Veracruz pounced on them as they passed by. “Please, Carlos, not now! We will discuss this later!” he said to the thin military man talking with him.

  Madeleine felt Ransom tense beside her. She looked at him in surprise. His expression changed, subtly but unmistakably, as he gazed at the man with Veracruz. Something predatory and angry flared in his eyes. The hand on her elbow tightened, pulling her against him. His body radiated danger, menace, readiness.

  Disoriented by this sudden and overwhelming change in Ransom, when he had been so relaxed and charming a moment ago, Madeleine barely heard Veracruz telling the thin man that he had guests to entertain. A moment later, Veracruz took Madeleine's free hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm, and insisted she and Ransom sit with him at dinner.

  She felt Ransom's reluctance to release her, but he only shook his head very slightly when she looked inquisitively at him. Covering her confusion, she absently responded to Veracruz's inane comments as he led her into a vast and lavishly furnished dining room. Veracruz sat at the head of the long table, seating Madeleine to his right and directing Ransom to sit to his left. The thin man took a seat next to Madeleine. The wooden set of Ransom's features told her that he wasn't entirely pleased about the seating arrangements.

  “Ah, forgive me, Madeleine. I may call you Madeleine, may I not?” Veracruz smiled assuredly at her. “Allow me to introduce you to your dinner companion. Miss Madeleine Barrington of the United States, General Carlos Escalante.”

  Madeleine called on years of self-discipline to keep her expression politely pleasant as she acknowledged the introduction. She began to understand Ransom's reaction: Escalante was the head of the Seguridores, the powerful and terrifying entity so frequently denounced by Montedoran exiles, the US State Department, and the international press. Who knew how many men's deaths had been ordered by Escalante?

  Madeleine felt selfishly glad that Ransom had implemented such thorough security measures here at the Palace. She didn't doubt that every rebel and political dissident in the entire country would like to have a clear shot at this table right now. Seated between the two most powerful (and hated) men in Montedora, Madeleine discovered that her back suddenly felt very vulnerable. She lost her appetite for dinner even as the first course was placed before her.

  Still, this might be her only opportunity to speak to Veracruz, and she mustn't waste it. Summoning her will power, she resolutely applied herself to business. Upon accepting the President's invitation to stay at the Palace, Madeleine had realized that Veracruz's influence could help her in dealing with the multitude of complex and contradictory regulations, not to mention petty officials, which could impede t
he smooth sale of El Rancho Barrington to the Germans. She hoped, before dinner was over, to get the President to give her the right to invoke his name in her business dealings down here; perhaps he could even be convinced to promise his support if she should need it. There was, of course, no reason why he should cooperate, but Madeleine was determined to cover all her bases when so much was at stake.

  As dinner progressed through soup, salad, and entrees, Ransom couldn't suppress his own growing amusement. Madeleine was smooth, all right, smoother than twelve-year-old bourbon or satin sheets. The woman sure as hell knew how to work a table. She hadn't even blinked upon being introduced to Escalante, though she must certainly know his reputation. Nor did she rise to the bait as he questioned her repeatedly about American foreign policy in Montedora, American economic imperialism, or the insolent lies of the American press. Ransom had been tempted to come to her rescue at first, but seeing how smoothly she set Escalante down, time after time, he wound up just sitting back and watching with considerable enjoyment. Oh, yes, the woman had class.

  She worked her magic on Veracruz with equal skill. By the end of dinner, without knowing quite why he'd done it, the President had offered her the right to freely invoke his name in order to facilitate her business dealings here in Montedora. The poor slob had even promised to come to her aid, if necessary. Ransom was starting to think that Madeleine, if discovered by the government, could someday turn out to be the USA's most effective secret weapon.

  They were lingering over coffee when Veracruz turned amorous and Escalante ran out of patience.

  “But surely,” Veracruz murmured, grasping one of Madeleine's hands before she had time to pull it out of reach, “you can arrange to stay in Montedora a little longer? I would so like to show you my country estate. It is so much more modern than this ... mausoleum.” He waved at their surroundings.

  “Sadly, sir, I can't stay,” Madeleine said. “I'm afraid I'm expected home as soon as my business here is concluded.”

  “We shall see.” Veracruz caressed her hand. “And how is it that a beautiful, charming woman like yourself is still not married? Is there no man who is man enough for you?”

  “She's engaged,” Ransom said shortly, even though Preston didn't exactly strike him as “man enough.”

  “I don't believe El Presidente was asking you,” Escalante said.

  “Engaged? Really?” Veracruz asked Madeleine.

  She had long ago learned to recognize when dishonesty was the better part of valor, so she said, “Yes. And he's a very jealous man, sir.” She tried to remove her hand from Veracruz's. She didn't quite succeed.

  “We montedoranos are jealous of our women, too,” he told Madeleine. “But we are also men who see what we want—and take it!” His accompanying gesture was dramatic.

  Madeleine blinked innocently at him. Ransom was torn between anger and amusement. Escalante frowned and cleared his throat; he had clearly had enough of socializing.

  “Your Excellency, though I regret to be the one to say it, the hour of the curfew approaches. Some of your guests should be warned,” he said.

  Gazing into Madeleine's face, Veracruz grunted in acknowledgement.

  “And you and I still have important matters to discuss, Your Excellency,” Escalante added.

  When Veracruz didn't respond, Ransom could have sworn that Escalante started grinding his teeth. Ransom blinked innocently at him and said, “I don't think El Presidente wishes to discuss any more business tonight.”

  Glancing toward the far end of the table, where Senora Veracruz was watching her husband and Madeleine with venomous interest, Escalante said, “You seem to have made yet another enemy tonight, Mr. Ransom. How very foolish of you.” Rising from his chair with the grace of a serpent, Escalante announced the approach of the curfew hour and suggested that the guests prepare to depart. Then, with eyes as cold as a snake's, he said goodnight to Ransom, Madeleine, and Veracruz.

  When the party broke up, Ransom tore Madeleine away from Veracruz and sent her up to her room, telling her he'd follow her up shortly. True to his word, he knocked on her door barely ten minutes later. Since she was expecting him, she hadn't undressed.

  “You overdid it,” he said without preamble, brushing past her to enter her room. “I think Veracruz is hopelessly in love.”

  “Just a little drunk, I think.”

  He sighed. “Well, don't worry about a late-night visit. I just finished explaining to him that, as your bodyguard, I have insisted that you activate the motion sensors at both entrances to your bedroom.”

  “I could have tactfully taken care of any unexpected visit, but thank you.”

  He believed her, and it annoyed him. “Uh-huh.”

  Sensing his mood, she ventured, “I suppose this isn't precisely the sort of danger you expected to have to protect me from.”

  “Oh, I expected it. Especially when you turned on the charm at dinner.” He looked and sounded cynically amused. “I've felt the force of it myself, remember.”

  “No, you haven't,” she snapped, surprised at the sudden anger that flooded her. “I never tried to manipulate you.”

  “Didn't you?”

  “No! If I had been clear-headed enough to manipulate you, do you honestly think I'd have—” She stopped, practically falling over her own words.

  “What?” he said. When she didn't answer, he stepped forward, radiating sudden tension. “What? Gone to bed with me?”

  “Yes,” she hissed.

  They gaped at each other in surprised silence. After an awkward interval, too proud to look away, she added quietly, “Tonight was ... business. That's all.”

  “Do you always do business like that?”

  “Like what?” She was angry again. “All I did was listen to his silly stories, ask him questions about himself, and let his ego reign. I didn't flirt with him. I didn't lead him on.”

  “But you let him...” He stopped, not quite sure what she had done. Certainly she had discouraged the President from touching her. Certainly she had tactfully turned aside his advances and invitations.

  “Yes! I let him think what he wanted to think. So what? I didn't put those thoughts in his head. They were his own.” Suddenly exhausted, she sighed and slumped down on the bed. “All his own.”

  He stared. She was upset, no doubt about it. It was unlike her to slump. She usually held herself as straight as a queen. She suddenly looked vulnerable and soft. So soft.

  “You don't know,” she said wearily. “What man would know?”

  “Know what?” he prodded.

  “Know what it's like to be condescended to, disregarded, and overlooked because of your gender. Know what it's like to suffer sexual advances no matter how clearly you've stated that you don't want them. Know what it's like to give in to the temptation to trade on a man's libido, in order to get the job done, because it won't get done any other way.” She ran a hand across her face, lowered her head, and wearily rubbed her neck. “You'd have to be a woman to know.”

  He sat down on the bed, too. She had surprised him. He had never expected her of all women to confess to frustrations like this. Not Madeleine, who used her influence with such regal confidence, who bore her responsibilities with such determined focus. Not Maddie, who could scorch earth with the cold fire of her angry gaze.

  He suddenly remembered meeting her for the first time. The look she had given him had made it clear she didn't welcome his company, his advances. He hadn't cared. He'd seen her and wanted her, and he'd be damned if he'd leave her alone just because she wanted him to. She'd tried to tell him she didn't want to share a drink with him, and he'd bulldozed right over her objections. And however willing she had been in his bed, he had been the one who talked her into sharing it.

  For the first time, he began to realize that their mutual history was not as one-sided as he had always thought. Scarcely aware of his actions, he placed a hand on her neck, squeezed it gently, and said, “I'm sorry, Maddie.” Apologies didn't come easil
y to him; perhaps that was because he made them with such painful sincerity.

  Madeleine turned her head and looked at him in surprise. He studied her face. It was the face she didn't like to show anyone: distressed, weary, vulnerable. And, to his amazement, a little messy. He smiled. She had smudged her eye make-up when she'd run a hand across her face.

  Seeing his expression, she frowned. “What?”

  “You've got a black smudge now.” He stilled her hand as she scrubbed at her cheek. “Leave it there. I like it.”

  “You have very odd taste, Ransom.”

  “Especially when it comes to women.”

  She laughed ruefully. “Touche. I was right; you pricked me, after all.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Look, how about a ceasefire until morning?”

  “Okay. About tomorrow—what time do you want to leave?”

  “Eight o'clock?”

  “That's fine by me.”

  “Good.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  They ran out of words then, but the silence was speaking. Her scent. His heat. Her soft sigh. His tension.

  Their eyes met. The gentle whir of the overhead fan, the soft give of the mattress beneath them, and the shadows of a tropical night reminded them both—with sudden, crashing intensity—of the night that had so impetuously wreaked havoc on each other's lives.

  Ransom drew in a sharp breath, suddenly there again, except that he had been so long without her. So very long...

  God, to touch her again. To hold her and kiss her and bury himself in her. To hear her sighs, her murmurs, the deep moan of her satisfaction. To feel her caresses, her skin against his skin, her hand in his, her cheek against his shoulder, her legs entwined with his...

  It would be worth his job, his career, his self-respect. Right now, it seemed worth the next billion years in purgatory. Hungry for her, for her warmth, for the sweetness of her kiss, he found himself leaning toward her, his lips parting in anticipation, his heart pounding as the rich blue of her eyes darkened with sudden passion and her breath caught shakily.

  “Nooooooo!”

  Her cry was shrill and quavering as she slid off the bed, staggered away, and tripped on something. Filled with predatory heat, he shot to his feet, ready to go after her.