He started pulling her socks back on her feet. “What else, then?”
“I was...” Her voice trembled away. She snatched her hands away from him and clenched them tightly in her lap. “I was never like that before,” she said at last, aware of his tension. “The things you and I did, the things I felt, the things I said and asked for ... No one had ever ... I mean, I had never...”
She watched in shaken silence while he put her shoes back on her feet and tied them. Her sensible yet elegant shoes, now smeared with mud and dust and god-only-knew what else.
Still crouching before her, he looked up and met her gaze. And now those emerald green eyes were unusually soft and serious and—she realized with astonishment—vulnerable.
“Me, neither,” he said quietly.
“No?” she asked with barely enough breath to carry the sound.
He rested one hand on her thigh. “No.”
“I thought...” Nervous and embarrassed, she forced herself to continue. “I thought maybe you were always like that.”
“Not like that. It was special.” He rose to his feet and then perched next to her on the hard scooter seat. His manner had changed since the start of this painful discussion. He was gentle now, approachable. “And I wanted to wake up with you. That morning and ... other mornings, too.”
“I c ... I couldn't,” she blurted.
He took her hand in his. “Why?”
“I was so embarrassed. I—I didn't know myself. I didn't know the woman who had been so ... so ... who had been like that with you. With a stranger. With anyone. It wasn't me.”
“Yes, it was,” he insisted. “It was one of the very best parts of you.”
Suddenly needing to tell someone—to tell him—about those devastating moments, she said, “I woke up at dawn. I could see you, see the way we'd wrecked the room, see myself in the mirror...” She shook her head. “I didn't know you. I didn't know myself. I was so ... I was so shocked. I couldn't believe what I had found in myself, what you had found in me. I was scared.” She remembered dawn creeping across the shabby room, the stranger in bed beside her, unfamiliar street sounds coming through the window. “Scared and embarrassed and ashamed and horrified...”
He squeezed her hand. “I wish you had woken me. I wish you had told me.”
“How could I? I didn't know you. I didn't know you at all, Ransom.” She took a deep breath and admitted, “And the truth is, I never did intend to tell you my name. When I went to your room, I had already decided that if you insisted, I'd make one up. I never wanted anyone to know that Madeleine Barrington had had a one-night stand.” Sensing his hurt, she finally looked at him. “I'm sorry.”
He met her eyes in sad acknowledgement, then gently brushed her hair off her face. “That night, I thought we had a great beginning. But maybe it was the worst beginning we could have had.”
“Maybe. I don't know. Maybe it would have just happened the next time we met, because I ... Whenever I see you, I want...”
“So do I,” he whispered. “All the time.”
He didn't move at all, and she knew he was trying to let her decide, without pressure, what she wanted their relationship to be. And she suddenly knew that she didn't even need to think about it.
“My name,” she said slowly, “is Madeleine Elizabeth Barrington. I'm thirty-one years old. I live at 74 East—”
His kiss stopped the rest of her words.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They lay together inside one of the little brick buildings, listening to the rain outside. It was coming down in sheets, and the roof leaked. They had scrambled around wildly when the storm began, seeking an island of dryness within the schoolhouse, laughing as cold water hit their naked bodies every time they settled in a new corner. Now, sprawled out in the last remaining dry area, they held each other and talked in lazy whispers. They had found a few candles someone had left here, and they'd lit one so they could see each other. Ransom had bought two ponchos when stocking up on supplies this morning; they had spread one across the hard wooden floor and were using the other as a blanket. But it was cool at night this high up, especially with the rain, and only Ransom's body heat kept Madeleine warm enough now.
“You know,” he murmured, “you're so rich and I make decent money, and yet we've only ever made love in hovels.”
She smiled and burrowed closer to him. She liked hearing him say “made love” and didn't wonder why. It just sounded right. “I wouldn't exactly call the Hotel Tigre a hovel.”
“Oh, wouldn't you, Lady Madeleine?”
“All right, it's a hovel.” She was too content to argue.
After a moment, he said, “I'm sorry about this morning.”
“Which particular part of this morning?”
“The part where I left you alone in a village I knew was dangerous.”
“Oh, that,” she said dismissively, eyes closed.
He jostled her. “Yes, that. You could have been hurt.”
“You stopped anything from happening.”
“Well, there are some fights that it's smarter to avoid. But the point is—”
“You were angry about something or other—”
“I was thinking about sex,” he admitted wryly.
“And so you—”
“Made a stupid mistake. And risked your safety.” He was silent for a long moment before adding, as if to himself, “I've got to keep my head clear.”
She propped herself up on an elbow and looked down into his face. “And will it stay clear...” She kissed him lightly. “...now that you know...” She kissed him again. “...that you can have me...” And again. “...whenever you want me?”
His answer was silent, but very satisfying.
She winced when he was done. “You need a shave.”
He ran a hand over his jaw. His eyes widened. “I sure do. Sorry.”
She stretched languidly, then lay with her cheek against his shoulder. His fingers gently kneaded the back of her neck. She practically purred with pleasure.
“Do you have a family somewhere?” she asked after a while. “A mother who worries about you?”
“I did have a mother,” he replied. “She died a long time ago.”
She slid her arm around his waist, careful of his tender ribs. “When?”
“When I was a kid.”
“Do you remember her well?”
“Kind of.” He sighed and added, “My dad loved her to death, I remember that. He's never re-married.”
“There's just you and your dad?”
“And my little brother. He's a sportswriter now.”
“And this?” she asked, fingering the old scar she had noticed the first time they'd ever slept together. A patch of silvery skin on his belly. “What's this from?”
“Oh, that. I was shot there.”
“Shot!” She sat bolt upright and stared, appalled.
He grinned at her. “It's all right. I lived.”
“Who shot you? How did it happen? My God, you were shot?”
“My very first day on active duty with the Service,” he said ruefully. “I set a new record.”
“What happened?” She resisted the hands which tried to pull her back down. “Tell me.”
“I joined a field office out west. The guys picked me up at the airport. But instead of taking me straight back to the office, they took me on a call to investigate some counterfeiters. Things went wrong, and I didn't duck fast enough.”
There was more to it than that, of course, and she forced it out of him. Funnily enough, he liked telling her. He liked talking to her. And listening to her. And lying quietly with her in his arms. And looking at her. And just knowing she was near.
As the rain pattered around them, he told her things he hadn't talked about in years, and even a few things he'd never told anybody before. He told her what he could remember of his mother, as well as stories about his wild teenage years—including a couple of minor arrests during college that the Secret Service never found
out about. And about the chain of maturing experiences that led to his decision to apply to the Service as a young man.
“It was a mission I believed in. Not just protecting the President, which was pretty important in itself, but also protecting his opponents. I helped keep dissenters alive, and surely that's what the American political system is all about—challenges and choices at every free election. Candidates on the far left and far right all had a right to be heard, and I was part of the team that made sure they lived long enough to have their say.”
And, of course, she asked why he had finally quit after nine years. The answer was both simple and complex: burn-out.
“It was all the accumulated years of a lifestyle that left no room for a life. Changing my sleep cycle every three weeks, combining that with jet lag from hopping across time zones all around the world on a weekly, or even daily, basis. Years of waking up every day and wondering, ‘What time is it? Morning or night? What day is it? And where the hell am I?’
“I missed every important event in my family for years. I was home so seldom that my phone was disconnected one time and I didn't know about it for two months. And women...” He shook his head. “I once dated a woman for a year and only actually got together with her eight or ten times that whole year.
“I could have asked for a desk job or a field office assignment,” he admitted, “but I was a speedfreak in those days. I wanted to guard the President and his family. I wanted to ‘get that gun’ before it took him out.”
He shrugged, stroking her smooth back. “And so I burned out. Resigned. Went home to my father's house and just fished for three months. Nothing else. Just slept ten hours a night and sat by the lake with my rod all day.”
He told her about finally answering Joe Marino's phone calls after three months of ignoring them, feeling ready at last to return to the world after his long, peaceful rest. He'd been successful at Marino Security and loved his job. “I feel like hell about this business with Doby Dune, though.”
“Maybe Marino's lawyers can work it out.”
“I sure hope so.”
And, because he wanted to know everything about her, he asked about her past, her work, her memories and plans and life. And he no longer wondered about her loneliness on the night they'd met.
“You know,” he pointed out, when she told him all about her family, “you could disappoint them—all of them—and they'd go on living, Maddie.”
“Ah, but would I?” she asked with new honesty. “How would I get along if they all found out I wasn't...”
“Perfect?”
“Well ... yes.”
“I know you're not perfect, and I let you have your wicked way with me anyhow.”
“Are you suggesting I do this with everyone?”
He laughed. “No.”
“Well, then—”
He rolled her over onto her back and met her gaze in the candlelight, serious now. “You don't need to be perfect,” he said forcefully. “Don't you know what an amazing woman you are?” She gazed back at him uncertainly. “I don't know any woman who could handle all the things I've seen you handle, Maddie, and that includes handling me at my worst. You've got guts and brains and heart. If I was ever in trouble, I'd always want you on my side. And I know damn well that you make mistakes and do things you're ashamed of and lose your temper and get scared. But it doesn't make you any less amazing to me.”
Her answer was better than words.
* * * *
The mid-morning air was fresh and crisp, heavily scented with rain and greenery. Ransom awoke slowly, stretching with contentment, wincing slightly at his many aches and pains. Then he reached for Madeleine without even thinking about it, as if he always woke up next to her.
The space at his side was empty.
His eyes snapped open. Yes, she was definitely gone. He sat bolt upright, experiencing a horrible flood of deja vu.
“Maddie?” he called hoarsely.
“Out here!” she called back.
He sagged with relief, heart still pounding. Madeleine appeared in the doorway a moment later, fully dressed. She was smiling.
“I decided to let you sleep. You were dead to the world,” she said.
He looked around groggily. “Shit.”
“Has anyone ever told you how charming you are first thing in the morning?” she asked.
He ignored her wholly unjustified sarcasm. “We were supposed to keep watch last night.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “Well, as you can see, we're still alive.”
He shoved aside the poncho covering him, stood up, and walked naked to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked as he passed her.
“To take a leak.”
“Don't you want your clothes?”
“Why?” he shot back. “Do we have visitors?”
“I wish we had some coffee,” she muttered as he walked away.
He had a cigarette when he returned to the schoolhouse, and that made him feel better. He got dressed, then went outside and washed his face and hands in a puddle of rainwater. When he made some mildly civil remark to Madeleine, she offered him the rest of the bread he'd bought yesterday, as well as an orange.
While he ate, she scattered the remains of her own bread across the schoolyard as an offering for the scarlet macaw. It watched her with interest, then swooped down and examined her leavings.
Ransom drank some water, then unpacked the twelve-band radio. They listened to an English language news broadcast while Madeleine continued watching the bird.
Word of the rebellion had finally reached the outside world. The Doristas had taken the town of Doragua after a full day of heavy fighting, the BBC informed the world.
“I hope the Gutierrezes are all right,” Madeleine said.
“They're not army, government, Seguridores, drug dealers, or the upper crust, so the Doristas will probably leave them alone—except for possibly taking some provisions from them,” Ransom replied, tossing some bread toward the macaw.
Escalante had seized power in a silent coup, the news broadcaster said. The Presidential Guard, having been formally dismissed, had mounted a counter-offensive on the Presidential Palace last night, in an attempt to free Veracruz. Fighting continued today. Casualties were heavy, and no one now knew the fate of Veracruz and his family.
“Jesus,” Ransom said.
“It's so hard to believe,” Madeleine said pensively. “People we saw a couple of days ago might be dead now.”
He took her hand. She scooted closer to him.
It was believed that the Doristas, upon learning of the chaos in the capital, would use this opportunity to launch the nation-wide rebellion which pundits had been speculating about for months now. As for the LPM, Montedora's secondary, hard-left rebel faction, no one knew their plans, their strength, or their deployment at this time, though it was a safe bet that their response to Escalante's coup would be violent opposition.
“What a mess,” Ransom said, turning off the radio at last.
“I wonder what's happened to Martinez,” Madeleine murmured.
Ransom recalled their conversation with the nervous minister. “He's halfway to Wyoming by now, if he's smart. Come on, let's hit the road. I want to cover as much ground as possible today, and the roads will be bad.”
“The roads will be bad,” Madeleine repeated. “What a surprise.”
He smiled and helped her to her feet. “Got your gun?”
She nodded and patted the automatic, which was concealed beneath the billowing poncho she had donned in the cool morning air. “I'm almost getting used to it.”
“Good.” He draped his own poncho over the scooter seat. “Too bad we can't take the bird with us. I think he has a crush on you.”
The macaw preened nearby, occasionally eyeing Madeleine as if to make sure he still had her attention.
Ransom started loading up the scooter. He noticed Madeleine walking off toward the bushes. “Where are you going?”
It made him laugh to hear her clipped, aristocratic voice utter those words. “Here. Don't forget this.” He tossed the toilet paper to her, reminding her to bury it when she was done, rather than leave litter in the jungle. She nodded and disappeared.
He'd had no coffee this morning, he longed for a decent meal, his body ached, and they were still a long way from home, but Ransom felt great today, all the same. He didn't bother to wonder why. Somehow, at this moment, his life just felt right.
But he wanted to get to that border. He wanted to be there now. If Escalante was under attack in the capital and Doragua was now in the hands of the Doristas, he and Madeleine probably didn't have to worry about the army and the Seguridores anymore; they'd be too busy fighting a civil war to pursue two escaped Americans. But Ransom knew how fast law and order broke down in a situation like this. Madeleine wouldn't be safe until he could get her to the Argentine authorities. And the knowledge of her vulnerability here was like a spur in his gut, urging him to haste. He wished desperately there were some way to get her to safety immediately, even if it meant staying behind without her.
However, he still saw no alternative but to ride to the border on this coughing motor scooter and these muddy roads. And the sooner they got on the road, the—
He lost his train of thought the moment he heard Madeleine scream.
He never remembered racing across the schoolyard or plunging into the bush directly behind the little buildings. He never remembered anything before the moment he saw Madeleine struggling with a hairy young Montedoran.
He pulled out the Colt .45 before they even saw him and shouted, “Let her go! Now!”
Something crashed into his skull. He cursed himself for an idiot, for a lovesick fool. He knew better than to simply plunge ahead without checking for ... He hit the ground and lost consciousness.
* * * *
Madeleine was holding Ransom's head in her lap when he woke up. He'd only been unconscious for a few minutes, and she prayed to God that he wasn't badly hurt. He wasn't bleeding, but she knew that that didn't mean anything.
He opened his eyes slowly, looked up into her face, and murmured, “My head.”
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