Nobody's Child

by Ann Major

  Eleven

  Cutter stared at the slowly turning blades of the ceiling fan and yawned, his mood that of utter boredom.

  Then a bolt of sheer-white lightning zigzagged from the low scudding clouds to the forest floor, jolted him out of his mood and startled the flock of parrots that had been chattering gaily in the nearby palms. Green wings fanned as they swooped from their perches, swooshing past the cabana with its crimson and purple cascades of bougainvillea to some perch of greater safety in the rain forest.

  The sun that had sparkled harshly on the bay all afternoon vanished in an instant. The sky was rapidly blackening; the still, humid sea air freshening. Seconds later the huge fanlike leaves of the banana trees and palms began to whip against the screened windows of the cabana. Thunder rumbled.

  At least now there would be a storm to watch.

  Not wanting to wake Cheyenne, Cutter carefully got out of bed. Tugging on the pair of jeans he found on the floor and slipping into a white, long-sleeved shirt, he stepped out onto the balcony, intending to watch the storm.

  A dozen pink orchids blazed from a bowl on the table by the wicker rocker. Only that morning he had picked them from a field that he and Cheyenne visited every morning.

  Three weeks.

  They had been trapped in this remote hellhole for three damn weeks.

  He heard Jeremy who’d made friends with some other kids shout from the pool when heavy tropical raindrops began pelting the tin roof and palm fronds. In the next instant the sweet, wet scent of rain permeated everything. The boys got out of the pool and dashed for shelter in a nearby cabana.

  Rain again.

  Damn.

  Down here it was like turning on a faucet.

  Sheets of rain began streaming from the tin roof into the gutters.

  Costa Rica.

  Land of beautiful travel posters.

  Land of orchids and coffee plantations.

  Land of mountain ranges, arid desert, seacoasts and resorts on both the Pacific and the Atlantic.

  Land of unending jungle with washed-out dirt roads and electric green foliage, land of actively smoldering volcanoes, swampy marshlands, dark, impenetrable fogs and ferocious. never-ceasing rains. At least, they were ferocious during the rainy season.

  The Costa Ricans were as mild as their habitat was violent. They had one expression to cover the multitude of unpleasant conditions, which their climate forced upon them, and that was pura vida. When it rained and wouldn’t stop, they would sigh and say, pura vida. When a plane couldn’t take off for days because of fog, they said pura vida.

  One gorgeous sunny day Cutter had rented their simple cabana on a hill because its balconies overlooked dense green jungle and a stunningly blue Pacific.

  Manuel Antonio National Park.

  The park had been touted as one of the world’s most beautiful, undeveloped paradises. It had lush green mountains covered with dense rain forests. A cool stream even flowed over the beach and emptied into the bathwater-calm ocean. The rain forest was inhabited by orange-and-purple crabs, three-toed tree sloths, iguanas and chipper squirrel monkeys. The snorkeling was great. So were the sunsets.

  When she’d first stepped out onto the balcony of the cabana and seen the beach, Cheyenne had sworn to him that she would never tire of the spectacular views.

  He, who’d never given a damn for views; who didn’t like being cut off from civilization, had grown mortally sick of everything in an hour.

  Cheyenne, who was more a beach person and nature person and a swimmer than he, who as a shell seeker loved to get up at dawn and prowl for shells, who loved exploring the rain forest with its exotic flora and fauna, had been maddeningly enthusiastic at first. She had shrieked with delight at every alstroemeria, anthurium, colorful crab or sloth. She had been dazzled by the thousands of varieties of orchids growing in a field near their cabana. But now, she was as sick of it all as he was. Jeremy, however, linked Costa Rica. He felt safe and was rapidly healing from the trauma of his kidnapping.

  Still, three weeks of black beans and rice and gallo pinto had them all yearning for American food. Three weeks of being cut off from his businesses had Cutter feeling bored and restless.

  Cutter had chosen Costa Rica as the place to hide because his first instinct had been to flee to Indonesia or France. It was Paul who had advised him to pick a less obvious place.

  “Other than Mexico, the very last place Hernando would think you’d choose is some country in Central America.”

  “I don’t have any businesses down there or even any friends.”

  “My point exactly,” Paul had persisted. “And neither does Hernando.”

  “I still prefer Europe.”

  “Costa Rica is supposed to be the Switzerland of Central America. It doesn’t even have an army. Like I said, Hernando never sets foot there.”

  Cutter had reluctantly sent his corporate jet, three look-alike decoys posing as himself, Cheyenne, and Jeremy, along with Paul O’Connor to the south of France to lay a trap for Hernando at Cutter’s seaside villa. Cutter had then had false passports made for the three of them to come to Costa Rica. They were passing themselves off as an executive and family who needed to study Spanish before he took a job in Argentina.

  Jeremy had balked at all the Spanish, so Cutter enrolled him in karate lessons in an attempt to restore his confidence. The lessons had been in Spanish, but Jeremy had kicked and chopped with the best of the other kids.

  The posh language school in the center of San José had lasted a mere week.

  Bad idea.

  It had been impossible for Cutter to concentrate on Spanish when he’d constantly been on the lookout for Hernando. All three of them had quickly tired of San José and its bad buses, smog and terrible traffic. Not to mention the endless grammar lessons. Besides, Cutter had been easily spooked in the crowded city. On several occasions when they’d picked Jeremy up at karate, Cutter had been almost sure someone was following them. So, he’d decided a remote jungle cabana cut off from the more populated parts of the country by mountains and impassable dirt roads would be a better hiding place.

  The phone buzzed from the sitting room.

  He dashed back inside and caught it.

  “Lord. O’Connor here.”

  Usually Paul used first names and at least said hello. Why was he so damned formal all of a sudden?

  “Lord—”

  Heavy bursts of static broke up Paul’s tense voice.

  “You’ll have to speak up. We’ve got a bad connection.”

  “We’ve got him. You’re safe. You can come home.”

  Cutter wanted more than terse generalities. He needed details. “Paul, how the devil did you manage—”

  Lightning crashed, and Paul’s voice exploded in static. Then there was silence.

  “Paul—” Cutter yelled.

  Nothing.

  Not even a damned dial tone.

  Miserable country.

  Feeling frustrated but elated, too, Cutter set the phone down and went back out to watch the rain.

  The storm no longer seemed so oppressive. In the morning, or whenever the rain stopped, maybe some time in the next century, he thought cynically, they could leave.

  Paul had Hernando.

  Cutter couldn’t believe it had been so easy.

  Cutter heard a sound from the bedroom. Next he caught the murmur of light, fluid footsteps as Cheyenne padded across the tile floor and opened the balcony door.

  “What are you doing out there?” she whispered.

  He turned. “Watching the rain.”

  “Bored again?” she teased, mussing her red hair with her fingers.

  He found himself feasting on the shower of thick burning auburn as it tumbled against her slim white throat and creamy shoulders. She was wearing an ivory cotton gown, cut low and made of gauzy stuff that was revealingly transparent. Just looking at her brought such pleasure that he found himself feasting on the curve of her breasts and pouting nipples.
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br />   She had asked if he was bored.

  “Not now.”

  She blushed. “Who called?”

  “Paul. With good news.”

  “He’s got him?”

  “Yes.”

  Her face lit up. “You mean—”

  “We’re safe.”

  “I can’t believe it.” 0

  His muscles tensed. “Cheyenne, we can go home.”

  Her green eyes seemed very large; her lips very wet. “I just can’t believe it.”

  Neither could he. But he didn’t tell her that. “You are so beautiful.”

  “Say it,” she whispered, slightly breathless now, coming nearer. “I want to hear it again, right now, now that we’re safe and everything is really going to be all right.”

  “I thought you’d be sick of hearing it.”

  “No. Say it again.”

  This demand of hers had become a sacred ritual and part of their mating dance.

  The rain had become a torrential downpour. It was falling in drenching sheets, pounding the corrugated roof of their cabana, gushing down the metal gutters and out the spouts. Slick, wet curtains surrounded them. The road to the beach was a river.

  For once he didn’t care. Being with her on the balcony was like standing in the middle of a waterfall. Suddenly, as the gleaming curtains of water roared around them, he found the view very beautiful.

  “I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t give a damn if you were born poor. I didn’t come back...just for Jeremy. I came back for you. I should have told you that—from the first.”

  Humid mists from the rain enveloped them. Her white gown grew damp and began to stick to her body, so that she looked sexier than ever.

  Why was it they always seemed to be making love in the rain?

  “Again,” she insisted, licking a droplet of spray from her lips.

  “I love you. Only you, Cheyenne. Forever. Always.”

  “A-g-gain—” she drawled playfully, Texas style, coming toward him, her hips undulating.

  “When you married Martin, I thought I’d die.”

  “I loved only you even then,” she confessed. “Only you. All those years. Even when I thought you hated me.”

  “We were such fools.”

  Her face seemed to go pale in the shadowy gray light. God, what eyes she had! he thought, great melting dark green eyes that made him lose his soul. Not that she hadn’t always possessed it.

  “A-gain—” she pleaded.

  She stood within inches of him now.

  The pulse in his throat had begun beating very fast. Her mere nearness was enough to send him over the edge.

  “There’s only one way to end this game,” he growled huskily, seizing her, kissing her savagely.

  Her lips parted immediately.

  And soon he couldn’t stop.

  He was glad Jeremy was gone and couldn’t possibly get back home in this downpour. The cabana was terribly small, he realized as he lifted her and carried her inside. The walls suddenly seemed to press in on them. After all it was only four tiny rooms linked by a hall.

  As he lowered her to their bed, he knew that it had never been like this with anybody before. He had never felt so hot, so crazily involved with any woman.

  She was his wife. The mother of his child.

  Ever since he’d first declared his love for her in her mother’s shack, Cutter had been possessed by love. Every time they did it, the sex got hotter, and his feelings grew deeper.

  He wanted to kiss her for a long time, to explore her mouth, to draw out their lovemaking. But her fingers were tearing his shirt apart and pulling the zipper of his jeans down.

  She was hungry. Too hungry to wait.

  Still kissing her, Cutter lifted her gown and tore it off. Soon their garments dripped from the end of the bed and littered the floor. They lay together on top of the sheets, he savoring the slick warmth of her naked curves, she the rough texture of the black whorls of hair that covered his chest. She tried to speak, but his mouth closed over hers. Hushing her, he fused their bodies together.

  Her arms came around his neck, her lips trembling beneath his as his passion raged out of control and swept them ever deeper into a wild, dark storm that was all their own.

  Afterward, when it was over, they lay quietly, their arms circling each other as they listened to the hammering rain. From time to time she stirred against him, but only to nestle closer under the sheets and blankets or to brush her lips against his cheek.

  He loved her.

  And she loved him.

  They were safe.

  At last.

  The warm, sweet night rain swirled around the cabana and cut them off from the world. In that moment Costa Rica seemed almost a paradise.

  He fell asleep again, thinking the danger was over, that they could go home in the morning, that never again would he hear the annoying words, pura vida, that they would be together forever.

  That they would live happily ever after like couples in fairy tales.

  Some time during the night they both awoke to a nightmare at the very same instant. They held each other until they fell asleep again.

  Later he woke up again to the rumble of a plane flying low over the dark, rain-swept jungle.

  Unable to believe that anybody could be fool enough to fly in weather like this, Cutter went back to sleep.

  His first inkling of danger was when he awoke alone, and it was noon.

  Sunshine was blasting into the empty cabana.

  Someone was banging on the door.

  But Cheyenne was gone.

  Twelve

  As Cheyenne studied the two-mile crescent of utterly deserted, white sand, she felt happy. Happier than she’d ever been.

  Not because she was the first shell seeker and she had the beach all to herself.

  Nor because there was no better time to look for shells than after a storm.

  No. Cheyenne felt that singular sparkling happiness of a woman who knew at last that she was well loved. She couldn’t stop thinking of Cutter and their night of steamy passion. She kept remembering the way he had looked as he’d lain sleeping this morning with his hooded eyes closed and his luxuriant black hair crisp and dark against the white pillow. For a long while she had stood beside the bed, savoring his carved profile. Then she’d watched the gentle rise and fall of his massive, bronzed chest and remembered how virile and strong he’d seemed when he’d wrapped her in his arms and pressed his body into hers. She had taken pleasure that he looked younger and more relaxed this morning than he ever had before. That the cynical lines on either side of his sensual mouth had all but vanished. That he had looked almost happy and at peace, as if what they had shared together meant everything to him.

  Last night had been the first time that they had made love without fear. Without dread of José.

  She closed her eyes, remembering all the things Cutter had done to her, remembering how his tongue had dipped inside her navel, how he had held her down, how his hands had roamed over her until he’d thoroughly aroused her. He had told her he loved her dozens of times, in dozens of ways. He’d shown her, too.

  All her life she had been starved for love, and this bright morning was the first that she could look forward to sharing her future with the man she loved and who loved her.

  Blushing, she pushed her wanton, but much-cherished memories from her mind. Then she lifted her white skirts above her slender ankles and ran lightly across the lagoon. Once she reached high, dry sand on the other side, she stood there, listening to the peaceful lapping of the surf at the shore.

  In the golden darkness she could see the shadows of the fishing boats anchored offshore. One of them was a huge Cigarette boat, which she hadn’t seen before. Some rich tourist perhaps.

  The park was officially closed. Usually she came here in the afternoon with Cutter and Jeremy and the other tourists. Jeremy loved the iguanas that ventured shyly out of the jungle onto the beach because they reminded him of the dinosaurs i
n Jurassic Park, his favorite movie. She usually swam a mile or two while he and Cutter read or explored the sea caves. She loved it here, especially now that she felt safe. The scene before her was quiet, peaceful—normal, like her life was going to be.

  Millions of shells littered the beach.

  As she ran toward them, she knew that even though the danger was past, Cutter wouldn’t have let her come alone if he’d been awake.

  As she leaned down and gathered her first glistening, pearly treasure, she told herself she’d be back in bed long before he ever knew she had gone.

  As she picked up another shell, a small black shape suddenly flashed across the beach.

  She stopped to watch as a white-faced monkey raced into the jungle.

  Something had scared it.

  As she studied the silent wall of palms and mangrove trees that ran parallel to the beach, a nearby snake, sensing some unseen danger, slithered from beneath the gnarled tangle of mangrove roots into the black jungle.

  Something gleamed from the trees. For no reason at all the vision seemed sinister. She blinked once, and then squinted, but whatever had been there, was gone.

  The sun went behind a cloud, and a strange, cold wind swept across the cove without making a ripple on the water. Then it gusted up the beach and tore through the rain forest. Suddenly, like a wild creature, she, too, sensed an alien dangerous presence.

  The wind died.

  Once again the rain forest loomed dense and dark, like an impenetrable wall, imprisoning her. As she watched and listened, the dark green fringe of jungle grew quieter.

  Too quiet.

  Suddenly the beach with its glistening shells felt too deserted and lonely for her to enjoy her solitary walk.

  Spooked, she began edging back toward the lagoon and the road on the other side of it, retracing her steps.

  A monkey howled from the trees, its shrill solitary voice a warning.

  Shivering, she rubbed her bare arms and told herself she was being ridiculous.

  She forced herself to kneel down and pick up another shell.