Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  Everything inside her trembled when she thought about sex with Ransom. At its best, she had known sex as a passionate, pleasurable act—until Ransom. With him, it was something more; and she was someone more.

  She thought of herself struggling blindly with him on this ragged cot in this stinking cell, greedy and shameless and eager. Hungry and yearning and torn apart by emotion. Pierced by tenderness when he kissed her, erotically charged when he held her down and smothered her cries, soaring with pleasure and power when he shuddered and trembled in her arms. Even now, she'd be so much more comfortable pretending that she wasn't really that wildly emotional, abandoned woman. But she knew he'd never let her pretend, and she couldn't slip away from him anonymously this time.

  Even now, she'd be so much more comfortable pretending it was all him, and nothing to do with her. But she knew from the things he'd said tonight that this heat between them bewildered him, too. It wasn't just him or just her; it was them.

  She wasn't sure what she thought about that. What did it really mean? And why this man, who was so different from everything she'd ever known or looked for in a man? He was irreverent and impertinent, frequently ill-mannered, resentful of authority, contemptuous of courtesy, dismissive of elegance, and, yes, cavalier about sex.

  And what about the woman with whom it was “over?” Had it really been “just sex” for her? Or had Ransom broken her heart? No point in asking; even if he knew, she doubted he'd ever tell her.

  She sighed restlessly, wishing she felt in control of her relationship with Ransom, and somehow sensing that her inability to control him was precisely what made him so special.

  * * * *

  Madeleine's restless sigh cut through Ransom like a knife. She'd been so silent for so long. Nothing but a brief question about when they'd leave, and then that sigh.

  Did she want to slip away from him again?

  The only thing he hated more than that thought was the heartache and panic he felt after thinking it.

  Why this woman, dammit?

  Yeah, the sex was incredible. No denying it. More incredible than before, which he wouldn't have believed was possible if he hadn't actually experienced it. It kind of scared him, because he was honest—and experienced—enough to admit he'd probably never get over it. After this, nothing else—no other woman—would ever be enough again.

  Fuck.

  For a moment, he wished he'd never met her.

  And then he buried his face in her fragrant hair and thanked fate and all the gods and all his lucky stars that he'd met her, and that he'd found her again after losing her.

  But why her, dammit? Why this elusive, arrogant, stubborn, and secretly vulnerable woman? Why this woman, who was never impressed by the things that impressed other women, and who unfailingly zeroed in on the things he least wanted her to notice?

  He'd like to pretend it was just the great sex they shared that enthralled him, but he was too honest for that. It was the way he felt after sex that really terrified him.

  Hell, he wasn't some heartless sonofabitch who fucked and forgot women. He'd never been the type to just roll over and fall asleep afterwards. And he'd always felt some kind of affection, or he wouldn't be in bed with the woman in the first place.

  But he'd never felt so tender that his throat hurt, so exposed and vulnerable that the wrong look or words from his bedmate could crush him. He'd never before felt like he'd be happy to just lie here and hold her forever. He'd never wanted to ask a woman everything about herself, and just listen to her pillow talk all night long. He'd never felt that he'd gladly give everything, including his life, just to keep her safe—he, who knew quite well what it meant to put his life on the line for someone else.

  And while he lay here feeling like this, was she lying there wishing she could escape from him again?

  God, he wanted a cigarette! But the soldiers had taken those away, too, after beating him senseless.

  Thinking of the beating reminded him of his aches and pains. He was hurt worse than he'd admitted to Madeleine. And all of that hugging and heavy breathing they'd done tonight hadn't helped his ribs any, though he didn't regret a moment of it. He inhaled deeply and winced. Yeah, he was hurt, but not enough to interfere with what he had to do tonight.

  Madeleine shifted restlessly, distracting him. His arm tightened involuntarily around her waist, as if he were afraid she'd try to disappear on him again.

  Like last time.

  He suddenly had to know. He had to ask.

  “Why...” He stopped cold, his chest aching. Shit. He still couldn't say the words, couldn't ask. Not right now. So he asked instead, “What are you thinking about?”

  “I was wondering ... what your first name is,” Madeleine said, changing her mind at the very last moment. There were some things she just wasn't ready to ask, she realized sadly. Not now. Not when she felt so exposed and vulnerable that the wrong words could crush her.

  She felt his puff of laughter in her hair. “Not telling.”

  “Come on.”

  “No way.”

  “But—”

  “Forget it. Sex hasn't made me that soft-headed.”

  “Hmmph.” After a moment, she asked, “Have you ever been married?”

  “Married?” he repeated. She heard his surprise.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No. Obviously not.”

  “There's nothing obvious about it.”

  “If I'd ever gotten married, then I'd have a wife now and I wouldn't be in bed with you—if we can call this thing a bed.”

  “You could be divorced.”

  “No, I couldn't,” he said dismissively.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I swore to love, honor, and cherish a woman until I died, then that's what I would do.”

  “People change,” she murmured, thinking of half a dozen divorcing couples she knew. Sometimes it seemed like she had merely skipped her first marriage. “And no one can see into the future.”

  “That's true. But I believe in keeping promises. And marriage is a pretty important promise.” He stroked her hip. “When did Preston ask you to marry him?”

  “About a month ago,” she answered, surprised. “Why?”

  “And you've been thinking it over ever since then, right?”

  “I told you, I've decided not to—”

  “What I mean is, you treated it seriously.”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Maybe you waited because you know marriage isn't like...” He searched for an example. “Isn't like your ranch here. It's not something you keep while it's convenient, and then get rid of one day because it's become too much trouble.”

  “My ranch!” She sat bolt upright, forgetting their discussion as the realization hit her. “The Germans!”

  “When are they due?”

  “Tomorrow. Late morning, I think.”

  “Depending on when the coup is announced, their flight may not even come into Montedora. And if it does, they'll turn around and leave as soon as they realize what's happening. Unless they're idiots.” He leaned his forehead against her arm and added, “But I don't think they'll find out what's happened to you, either way.”

  “My family will be frantic,” she said, finally thinking about something beyond this cell. “Yours, too, I imagine.”

  She felt him nod against her arm. Wondering at her emotions, she kissed his forehead and stroked his hair. Amidst her fear and uncertainty and—yes—arousal, she was aware of something strange and surprising, something she hadn't thought about until now. That eternal sense of aloneness, the hollow burden she had carried all her life, was missing. Gone. Vanished.

  It wasn't just that he was with her now. She realized with a mixture of fear and relief that, for better or worse, Ransom really knew her. And no matter how uncomfortable and scary and potentially painful that was, it was also, in its way, the most extraordinary feeling she'd ever known. However much it weakened her in dealing with him, it gave her strength when
she thought of everything else she must now face, if she was to survive.

  “We're gonna make it,” he whispered, sitting up next to her. “I promise.”

  She wished she could see his expression, but the soft kiss he pressed to her cheek was warm and reassuring. It gave her enough courage to push her fear aside and tease him.

  “You promise?” she repeated. “Didn't you also promise never to touch me again?”

  “Oh, that was different,” he said easily, his hands moving over her boldly as he started pulling her back down into the mattress with him.

  “Different how?” She nuzzled him and realized he needed a shave.

  “I was lying.”

  She heard the laughter in his voice and smiled.

  * * * *

  Her body was still flushed with pleasure, her heart still trembling with tenderness as she pulled her clothes on in the dark. Strange that his extreme gentleness left her even weaker than his roughness had. Shaky and distracted and confused, she tried to concentrate.

  She sat down on the cot for a moment. Lying there, once again wearing his pants and shoes, he found her hand.

  “You can do this,” he said.

  “I can do this.” She called upon years of self-discipline.

  He squeezed her hand.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  “Yeah.” As she rose from the cot, he murmured, “Take your time. Do it when you're ready.”

  * * * *

  Alvarez didn't like guarding prisoners, and he especially didn't like working the night shift. This was the dullest assignment in Doragua. And his new partner, Rivera, a skinny kid from some obscure mountain village, was as about as interesting as overcooked rice. Instead of playing cards or talking about women, Rivera used these dreary hours to try to teach himself to read. He'd gotten some silly-looking book from the local mission last month, and he routinely spent these dull night-duty hours poring over it, squinting at its pages in the dim light given off by the overhead lamp. The only relief from the monotony was when the kid drove Alvarez crazy by doing his reading exercises aloud.

  Alvarez sighed and picked his teeth, trying to stay awake. He much preferred patrolling the streets, especially in daylight when the pretty girls were out, shopping with their mamas or flirting with single men (upon being transferred far away from his family, Alvarez had prudently removed his wedding ring). However, without enough money or black market goods to pay the necessary bribes, he couldn't count on getting the assignment of his choice. So he was stuck guarding prisoners until his finances improved.

  Bored beyond measure, Alvarez got up and paced around the guardroom. This was the hardest part of the shift, these empty hours before dawn. No man was meant to be awake and working at this ungodly time of night.

  He could amuse himself with that pretty blond woman locked up inside Cell Three tonight, he supposed. When he had relieved Blanco from duty, Blanco had said the woman would be easy, if she could be separated from the man.

  Alvarez considered it. No, he decided, it might be too risky. He wasn't worried about the American man imprisoned with the woman, despite Blanco's warnings; Blanco was a fool and a coward. Alvarez had already heard that the American had been too badly beaten during his arrest to cause any more trouble. Upon seeing the prisoner before the sun went down, Alvarez realized that it was true. There was a pile of bloody rags on the floor, a deep cut on the man's forehead, and dark, ugly bruises forming on his battered face and his naked torso. No, he wouldn't be hard to handle if Alvarez decided to take the woman away from him.

  But the Seguridores ... Alvarez almost shivered. Though he had once shot someone for calling him a coward, he was honestly afraid of the Seguridores. Any sane man would be. And their orders to him had been very clear: the prisoners were not to be pestered or damaged. General Escalante—Escalante himself!—expected to receive them in prime condition.

  Even if you didn't beat them, sometimes it was fun to goad prisoners; it was a way to relieve the boredom. But these were Escalante's prisoners. Special. Off-limits. And so Alvarez had left the heavy steel door closed, not even peeking at them through the little eye-level security flap. A couple of hours ago, he'd heard the bedsprings squeaking a bit and wondered if the man was fucking the woman. He had gotten up to look, but Rivera had timidly reminded him they were told not to bother the prisoners. Alvarez had felt like punching him, but he had sat back down, afraid the kid might cause trouble. Anyhow, the squeaking was over almost as soon as it began, and the man hadn't made any noise, so maybe they weren't doing anything after all. The man was probably in too much pain to think about screwing.

  Still, it seemed a shame to waste such a pretty woman. Someone ought to enjoy her tonight. She'd be dead in a few days, anyhow. No one came out of Seguridore headquarters once they'd been taken inside.

  But what if she resisted? What if he had to knock her around a little? Women could be so difficult sometimes. Would the Seguridores punish him if the woman got a little damaged tonight? And what about Rivera? Would the kid make trouble for him?

  Alvarez was scratching himself in indecision when the woman's screams erupted from inside the cell. He jumped like a scalded cat. Rivera dropped his book. They looked at each other in confusion. The woman kept screaming. Loud, horrified, awful screams.

  Alvarez picked up the flashlight on the desk, went to Cell Three, and opened the security flap. It was, of course, very dark inside the cell. He couldn't see anything. The woman's screams were piercing. He started shouting at her to shut up. She came up to the door, still screaming. She babbled at him in English. He shouted that he didn't understand. She tried to say something in Spanish. Her Spanish was awful. Rivera was hopping around behind him, demanding to know what was wrong. Finally, Alvarez heard a recognizable word come out of the woman's mouth.

  Muerto!

  Dead!

  The American man was dead?

  Escalante's special prisoner had died in their care? Alvarez felt his bowels turn to water. Fear made him want to vomit. The Seguridores wouldn't ask questions when they found out. No, they would simply shoot him.

  “What'll we do? Mother of God, he's dead! Oh, no, what'll we do?” Rivera shouted.

  It's not fair, Alvarez thought desperately. I wasn't the one who beat him!

  The woman kept screaming. Muerto! Muerto! Muerto!

  Alvarez thought his head would explode. “He's not dead!” he snapped. “He can't be!”

  “You said he was badly beaten!” Rivera fretted. “He died! He died, and the Seguridores will blame us!”

  “He's not dead! She's just a stupid woman! Maybe he fainted or something.”

  “They'll kill us,” Rivera cried. “The Seguridores will kill us!”

  “Shut up!” Alvarez flashed his light around the cell. He thought he saw the man lying on the bed. “I can't see! I can't see! This stupid woman is in the way! Do you speak any English?”

  “No!”

  “How can we tell this stupid woman to get out of the way?”

  Her Spanish was improving. She screamed, “You killed him!” with bad grammar but unmistakable meaning.

  Alvarez wanted to throw up. He unholstered his Colt .45 and ordered Rivera to unlock the cell door. A moment later, he shoved the woman out of his way, telling Rivera to keep an eye on her. She flung herself at the kid, screaming and weeping. Alvarez flashed his light toward the bed. The man was lying there, still and pale as death.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, Mother of God, blessed Virgin, please, please let it not be so, please, don't—

  He saw the man move suddenly, but he never saw the blow that knocked him unconscious.

  * * * *

  Madeleine had managed to maneuver the second guard so that his back was to Ransom. This was the part of the plan that Ransom hated. No matter how many times he timed it in his mind, it always worked out to eight seconds between the moment he made his first move and the moment he reached the second guard. And Madeleine was vulnerable for those eigh
t seconds. Anything could happen.

  But she'd done everything exactly as planned, and things went as smooth as glass. With his back to the dark cell and Madeleine's well-feigned hysteria distracting him, the second guard never realized until the very last second that something had gone wrong. And then Ransom drove the butt of Alvarez's gun into his head.

  Madeleine's screams stopped abruptly. Ransom stripped the skinny guard of his shirt, holster, and gun, threw him into the cell with Alvarez, and closed and locked the door.

  “That worked like a charm,” he said, rather pleased.

  “Oh, my God.”

  She looked like she was going to be sick. “Not now,” he told her, tossing her the cell door keys. “Check the other cells, just in case someone else is locked up in here.”

  Pale and shaking, she did as ordered while he slipped into the skinny soldier's shirt and buckled on his holster. He secured the Colt .45 to his side, then searched the room for more weapons and ammunition, all the while keeping his eye on the door. The guards had left two Russian AK 47s lying carelessly against the wall. Ransom took the loaded magazine out of one, stuffing it into his pocket, then grabbed the other rifle. The desk yielded up a few useful items: more ammunition, another gun, and cigarettes. Ransom smelled the packet as ardently as a lover, then stuffed it in his pocket.

  “You're stealing their cigarettes?” Madeleine said disbelievingly, coming into the center of the room.

  “They stole mine,” he pointed out. “Cells all empty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here, take this.” He handed her the gun he'd found inside the desk.

  “What is it?” She didn't reach out to take it from him.

  “A Browning automatic. God only knows who they stole it from. It's in good condition, though.”

  “I don't want it.”

  “Take it,” he said firmly. “If we're separated, or if something happens to me, I don't want you to be defenseless.”

  “Oh, God,” she muttered, taking the gun with an expression of profound loathing.

  He gave her two extra magazines for it, both loaded. He showed her how to load and fire the gun, and how the safety worked. “Don't aim,” he instructed. “Just point it like you'd point your finger, and fire. Go for the torso.”