Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  He knew what he needed, all right. He needed to believe the unguarded expression he sometimes saw in her eyes, before she covered it, wasn't desire. He needed to believe she wasn't becoming a little fond of him. He needed to believe she only shed her mask of perfection with him because she didn't care what he thought, rather than because she trusted him in some strange way, rather than because she, too, felt something inexplicable and unfamiliar happening between them. He needed to believe he didn't instinctively know her in a way he'd never known anyone else.

  And he didn't believe any of that.

  Damned if he knew what he did believe, though.

  He liked her like this, though—even her bad temper didn't bother him much when she was being herself instead of playing lady of the manor. Why the hell everyone else seemed satisfied with only knowing that one side of her baffled him, but he'd be damned if he'd let her pretend with him. And he was glad that she finally seemed ready to stop trying. It even made him able to find amusement in those moments when she fell back on old habits, eyeing him like a queen confronting an ill-mannered peasant or coolly but courteously dismissing the First Lady of Montedora.

  Yeah, despite all the water under the bridge, he was finding that he really liked his strong-willed, quick-thinking, occasionally imperious heiress a lot more than he had ever expected to.

  The intercom system buzzed. Madeleine twitched and woke up. She sat up and looked around groggily. He leaned forward and opened the glass partition.

  “Where are we?” she mumbled, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was nearly nightfall.

  “Yes, Miguel?” Ransom automatically added, “Don't look at me, keep your eyes on the road.”

  “We should be at Doragua in perhaps thirty minutes.”

  “Thanks.” The going had been typically slow, since rains and flooding had rutted the dirt road. Miguel had driven with care to keep from breaking an axle, and Madeleine had slept soundly through the gentle rocking of the past few hours.

  “A half hour from Doragua?” Madeleine murmured. “We're not making bad time.”

  She had spoken too soon. The road got increasingly worse, and the encroaching darkness made it harder to navigate. Then it started raining hard, making the muddy surface slippery and unstable. Water pooled in the ruts, creating quagmires in this, one of the nation's major rural roads. They had to get out four times on the way to Doragua, to dig the car out of bogs or push it back onto the road, and the trip wound up taking almost two hours longer than Miguel had predicted. Never one to shirk her duty, Madeleine had been willing to help with the dirty work, but the men insisted that she drive while they pushed. Consequently, Ransom and Miguel were covered with mud by the time they reached Doragua.

  The innkeeper at the Pension Doragua laughed good-naturedly when the rainsoaked blonde woman and her two filthy companions finally turned up that night. That was the only way to deal with trouble and inconvenience, the little man assured Madeleine, you must laugh at it; otherwise you would cry all the time. She supposed that was how Montedorans survived.

  Besides reserving three of the inn's eight rooms, Madeleine had also had the foresight to book dinner at the Pension Doragua, knowing that food might otherwise be unavailable. She had learned on her last trip to Montedora that most rural cafes and pensiones didn't keep extra fresh food on hand in case of unexpected customers. They were far too poor to risk buying anything they couldn't be guaranteed of selling before it spoiled.

  Instead of complimenting her on her foresight, Ransom grumbled something like, “I should have guessed,” before trudging off to the pension's only bathroom for a much-needed shower. The innkeeper's wife, Senora Gutierrez, spoke to Madeleine then, offering to wash all their dirty clothes—by hand, of course, since washing machines were a luxury of the very wealthy. She swore on the Cross that there would be enough morning sunshine to dry them tomorrow.

  Having accepted the woman's offer without bothering to haggle over the fee, Madeleine informed Miguel of the arrangement, then went to tap on the bathroom door. “Ransom?”

  “Yeah?” He opened the door and turned back to what he was doing—shaving.

  He was stripped to the waist, his back smooth and naked before her as he faced the little mirror above the ancient sink. His muscled shoulders gleamed beneath the electric light humming over his dark golden head. Madeleine swallowed and forgot what she wanted to say.

  He swiped the razor down his face a few times, then noticed her intent gaze. “I always shave at night. Don't like holding a razor against my throat first thing in the morning,” he said, as if he supposed that was why she was staring at him.

  “Oh.”

  It seemed a very intimate thing, watching a man shave. Watching this man shave. And looking at his strong, straight back, his lightly furred chest, his washboard stomach muscles ... He'd been fully dressed every time she'd seen him since the Hotel Tigre. It suddenly seemed like it had happened only moments ago. Like it could happen again. Like it should happen again. He'd welcome it, wouldn't he? It was what he wanted, wasn't it, despite the anger and the bitterness? She could cross the space between them right now, wrap her arms around him, and rest her cheek against his shoulder. He would know, he would understand. He would respond. All the magic, all the warmth, all the heat she had known with him, and only with him, would blossom between them again.

  And afterwards?

  Oh, hell. Afterwards. Yes, there had to be an afterwards, didn't there?

  “Did you come here just to watch me shave, milady?” Ransom asked dryly, keeping his eyes on his reflection as he shaved under his chin.

  “Oh, um ... No. Actually. No. If you'll give me your dirty clothes, Senora Gutierrez will wash them.”

  He glanced doubtfully down at his mud-caked trousers. “I think it might be kinder to just bury them.”

  “She claims she can make them look brand new. At least, that's what I think she said. My Spanish is very weak.”

  He shrugged. “What the hell, it's my favorite shirt. Why not see if she can work miracles?” He scooped the shirt off the floor, where he had dropped it earlier, and handed it to Madeleine. She held it gingerly away from her.

  He had removed the gun and holster at his ankle before digging the car out of mud for the first time two hours ago. She saw it now, along with his big gun, resting on a little table beside the mirror. As she stood watching, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. The sound of that zipper heated her cheeks with a rush of searing memories.

  He hesitated and caught her gaze again. He looked both teasing and amused. “You've already seen all there is to see, but maybe you'd rather, uh...” He nodded toward the hallway.

  “What?” She blinked at him, then realized what he meant. “Oh! Yes! Of course! Excuse me.” She backed into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her, feeling embarrassed and uncharacteristically gauche.

  Already seen all there was to see?

  She had done a lot more than see it, as he well knew. And as she waited for him to finish undressing, she knew that he remembered it all as well as she did.

  The door opened a moment later. He had wrapped a towel around his hips. She suspected it was more for her benefit than his; she doubted he had become modest since their first meeting. She looked down at the towel before she could stop herself. Its presence didn't stop her from remembering his body in every detail. When their eyes met again, she knew he knew it. She grabbed the trousers he handed her, abruptly turned, and fled down the hallway, belatedly realizing that she was clutching his absolutely filthy pants to her chest. She didn't remember until she was downstairs that she had also meant to tell him dinner would be ready in thirty minutes.

  * * * *

  The storm finally took out the electrical power, and Senor Gutierrez didn't think they'd get it back before morning. The senora posted kerosene lanterns around the inn and upon the few simple dining tables outside on the covered veranda. The rain eventually settled into a gentle downpou
r, drumming lightly on the roof and freshening the night air.

  Washed and wearing dry clothes, Madeleine, Miguel, and Ransom enjoyed a simple dinner in the now-cool evening air. When Senor Gutierrez joined them after their meal and started asking about the car and where they had come from, Miguel readily admitted to working for Veracruz. He boasted of Ransom's exploits, too, until Ransom cut him short with unusual curtness. Neither Miguel nor the old man were daunted by this, and Miguel spent the next hour regaling the senor and his family with amusing stories about working for the inhabitants of the Palace.

  Madeleine had no trouble guessing the reason for Ransom's curtness. Three men had stopped for dinner at the pension just as he came downstairs after his shower, and she could tell that something about them worried him. Nor did she think it was merely their rudeness which bothered Ransom. Despite not having called ahead, the two men were angry that the wealthy foreigners and their driver were getting a hearty meal while they had to settle for beans and rice. Ransom had come to the aid of a flustered Senora Gutierrez, putting the men in their place with a few clipped words.

  But Madeleine was sure there was some other reason why he had quietly told her not to leave his sight until the men had gone, and why he looked at them every few minutes with an expression that should have frozen their livers. She also noticed that he made sure they saw the gun holstered at his side. Surely those men would have to be suicidal to cause any trouble here tonight.

  Fortunately, the men left soon after finishing their meal. When Madeleine felt ready for bed, Ransom took her to her room, checked the windows, then gave her his electronic pager and told her to keep her door locked.

  “Do you think those men will come back?”

  “No, not really,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “But I don't want to take any chances.”

  “Do you think they're bandits?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. Or rebels. Or drug runners.”

  “What makes you th—”

  “They were armed, and—”

  “Really? I didn't see—”

  “I did.”

  “Oh.”

  “And...” He shrugged again. “Call it instinct.”

  She nodded pensively. She had learned to believe in his instincts.

  He hesitated. “Will you be all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  She spoke again as he turned to go. “Ransom?”

  “Yeah?”

  Their eyes met. There were a dozen things she ought to say to him. She finally settled on, “I'm glad you're here.”

  He looked surprised for a moment. Then he grinned. “So am I, God help me.” He was laughing softly when he closed the door.

  She stared after it, wanting to call him back. Then she heard the sharp rap of his knuckles on its wooden surface.

  “Lock it!” he ordered.

  She did.

  * * * *

  Ransom did a thorough patrol of the surrounding property after putting Madeleine to bed. Everything seemed quiet. Damp from the light rain, he went back inside. In such a hot climate, there was no question of closing the hotel's windows, not even with tonight's rainfall. Nevertheless, Ransom double-checked the entire first floor of the inn after Senor Gutierrez finished locking up for the night. When he was done, he found Miguel waiting for him in the empty bar with two glasses of whiskey.

  “Would you like a nightgown?” Miguel offered.

  “Nightcap,” Ransom corrected dryly. “Sure. Thanks.”

  They sat down to drink. Ransom lit up a cigarette, pleased that he hadn't smoked so many today. The rain pattered lightly outside the window, and the fan spun lazily overhead. The place looked soft and serene in the lantern light.

  “You are different since you came back to Montedora,” Miguel said, with the honesty borne of strong liquor shared after dark in a strange place.

  “Different how?” Ransom challenged.

  “You never used to be afraid.”

  That surprised him. He raised both eyebrows and fixed Miguel with one of his meaner stares.

  “Afraid?” Ransom could make his voice as chilly as Madeleine's when he chose.

  Miguel shook his head. “Not like that, amigo. I mean for her.”

  Ransom felt his stomach drop. He tightened his hand around his glass of whiskey and studied it, avoiding Miguel's eyes.

  What could he say? It was bad enough that it was true, even worse that he'd let it show. Yes, he was afraid for her. Whether it was the hot panic he'd felt when she'd exposed herself to the escaping bombers last night, or the cold fear he'd known tonight when he'd found those three hard-eyed men arriving here for dinner, he was being tormented by feelings he'd never before experienced. And he feared, too, that his emotions would endanger Madeleine, because the first requirement of any good bodyguard was a clear, cool head.

  “She's a very special woman,” Miguel said kindly. “I congratulate you.”

  “There's nothing to congratulate me for,” Ransom snapped.

  “Ahhhh...” Miguel grinned. “So that's why she got three rooms.”

  “It's a purely professional relationship, kid,” Ransom said firmly. He took a belt of the whiskey and let it burn its way down his throat. It was strong stuff, and a little bitter.

  “You know better than that,” Miguel chided. “And so does she. I can see it when you look at each other.”

  “Oh, you can, can you?” Wow, what a gift for repartee I'm demonstrating, he thought sourly.

  “And she trusts you.”

  He remembered the way she had fled from his touch two nights ago. Trusted him? “I don't think she does. Not that way.” He sighed and added more honestly, “I think I made sure she wouldn't.”

  “How?”

  “You're too young for this story.” He finished his drink.

  “Me? I'm the man who keeps the First Lady smiling, Ransom,” Miguel said with sudden bitterness. “A woman my mother's age.”

  “Sorry, I didn't mean—”

  “I know.” Miguel sighed, then looked at Ransom with resolve. “I didn't want to speak of either woman, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. I meant only to say that I like you very much, Ransom. I am glad you came to Montedora.”

  “Well ... thanks.” Feeling self-conscious, Ransom stubbed out his cigarette and added honestly, “I like you, too.”

  “I know. You have been good to me. And never condescending.”

  “You're too bright and too capable for me to condescend—”

  “Many do, and you must know it,” Miguel interrupted brusquely. “The wealthy of Montedora. The pitying foreigners I drive around for the President.” He frowned. “It is the pity that I have hated most of all.”

  “Yeah,” Ransom said slowly, wondering at Miguel's mood. “Pity can cripple a man more than contempt or adversity.”

  “And hopelessness, too.”

  “Hopelessness most of all.” He felt a little lightheaded. That was damn strong whiskey.

  “Yes. You would understand this. That's why I wanted to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  Miguel blinked and seemed to come awake suddenly. He smiled. “That I have always admired you, and that I like the lady.” He stood up a little unsteadily. Ransom wondered if the kid had had too much to drink tonight. Or maybe it was the rain that was making Miguel so melancholy.

  “Off to bed?” he asked, feeling rather tired himself all of a sudden.

  Miguel nodded. “Yes. To bed. Goodnight, Ransom.”

  “G'night.”

  “Goodnight.”

  Frowning slightly, Ransom watched the young man go upstairs. Something wasn't right. Something was ... Oh, hell. He was too tired to worry about Miguel's problems tonight. He had enough of his own.

  * * * *

  He awoke at dawn, stiff and uncomfortable and disoriented. His eyelids felt as if they'd been glued shut. What had woken him?

  He finally figured it out. There wa
s a soft, repetitive, abrasive sound. Somewhere nearby. Swish-swish, swish-swish. It took him back to his early childhood, to the mother he could hardly remember, sweeping the kitchen after supper while he and his brother sat doing their homework at the kitchen table. Swish-swish, swish-swish. A comforting, homey sound, full of vague but good memories.

  What was such a sound doing in his room at dawn?

  He forced one eye open. He saw a flat wooden surface. Ah, so that's what the hard thing under his cheek was. Wood.

  Where the hell was his pillow? In fact, where the hell was his bed?

  He blinked his other eye open and picked up his head. He immediately felt sick.

  Oh, shit. He didn't want to be sick. He swallowed and held absolutely still, waiting for the feeling to subside.

  By the time it did, he realized he wasn't in his room. He was sitting on a hard wooden chair in the bar, his head and arms resting on the table.

  How the hell had he managed to fall asleep in this position?

  His tongue felt furry, and his mouth tasted foul. His head hurt. The nausea was fading, but not disappearing. Surely he hadn't gotten stinking drunk last night? Not only was that unlike him, but surely he wouldn't have done anything so abysmally stupid while guarding Madeleine?

  He thought back. The effort made his head hurt.

  No, he'd only had one beer at dinner, then one glass of whiskey with Miguel. He remembered that the whiskey had been strong and slightly bitter, but still...

  Oh, shit, he thought again, as things started coming together. He stood up slowly, and the way the room whirled seemed to confirm his suspicions.

  He'd been drugged.

  “Buenas dias, senor.”

  Ransom looked over his shoulder and found the source of the sound which had awoken him. A girl, about ten or twelve years old, was sweeping the barroom floor. She smiled hesitantly at him. He tried to smile back, but she apparently didn't find the effort very reassuring.

  “Donde esta el senor?” He asked for Gutierrez in a gravelly voice, his mind working slowly. Who drugged the whiskey? And why?