"Maybe they won't wonder about the absence of response to all the fun today," Rio said, a second thought. "Kind of interesting that no one else seems to have noticed all that gunfire."
"Paid off," Kimmer concluded. She gave her backpack a disgusted look. "Boy, do we have guns to clean. Too bad I never even got a hand on mine." Both his and hers, sitting in the wet backpack, undrawn. "Hey, you want that Glock?"
He just looked at her. She broke into laughter. "Okay, we'll let that one rust." But her expression grew more thoughtful; with a glance, she directed Rio's glance over to the side, where their usual parking place was taken by a light blue sedan of an unremarkable make—something British, Rio thought.
"Do we know that car?" he asked.
"We don't," Kimmer said, her voice hardening somewhat. She, too, had had her fill of the unexpected on this restrictive job—and like him she wasn't assuming this car didn't represent more of it.
She grabbed her backpack and stalked toward the house. Rio hesitated, mouth open on the suggestion that they try to make themselves less untidy...and closed it again, watching the panty line sway back and forth with those determined steps.
Rio caught up in time to reach for the front door as she pulled it open. When she stopped short, he ran up against her back—and when he saw what she'd seen, he understood why.
The green uniform of two Guardia Civil officers, in discussion with Marina and Jurdan in the spacious entry area.
Right. And here they were. Wet, bloodied, battered, and wearing makeshift clothing.
"This must be about the airport thing," Kimmer said, catching her balance and moving into the house as though they'd returned fresh and invigorated from their lunch.
"I was just telling the officers that you would be out all afternoon," Marina said, her voice strained to the point of incredulousness.
"That was the plan," Rio agreed, and added deadpan, "We had a sprinkler system accident."
"You seem...prone to accidents." The officer spoke English, but barely. The other, to judge from the look on his face, didn't speak it at all.
"Excitement wherever we go." Kimmer casually dropped her wet backpack at the foot of the stairs. "I thought we had things all arranged? We're making a statement through Haritz Zabala, the Doña's lawyer?"
"As I have told the gentlemen," Marina said stiffly. No doubt she was old enough to remember the excesses of the Guardia Civil under Francisco Franco's rule, although the policing body had gentled since then.
"Exactly," said the officer, eyeing Kimmer's face. "We had expected to have the statement before now. We came to make sure there was no misunderstanding."
Bullshit. You came to intimidate us.
Well, to try.
But Rio got the message: they didn't like how things were being handled. They didn't quite buy what they were being told. And although they were knuckling under to the influence of the Doña and her lawyer, they were also waiting to pounce if they found the slightest excuse.
He didn't really blame them. This was their turf. He and Kimmer had not only made a mess, they didn't quite add up. The whole "run away at the airport" thing would only have been a complete success if they hadn't been caught.
As they wouldn't have been, if he'd followed Kimmer promptly to the airport as she'd expected.
Rio winced inside—but he also eyed Jurdan, who avoided his gaze. Jurdan, who had yet to report back that he'd spoken to the girl about that incident.
"The statement was to be made by the end of the day," Kimmer said. "But if there's a misunderstanding, it's easy enough to clear up. We'll have Señor Zabala call your station right away."
"I would hate to think," Marina added, "that you came out here over such a simple thing."
Rio shot her a look. We're dealing with it. Don't push them.
But the officer said gruffly, "No need to bother Señor Zabala. It would be soon enough if your statement reaches us by day's end."
For a moment Rio thought Marina might qualify the statement by noting the day ended at midnight—Kimmer must have thought so, too, because she affected great relief and said, "Thank you. That makes things so much easier. And I wonder if we could possibly excuse ourselves to go clean up? We might as well take advantage of our bad luck to go deal with the statements earlier than expected."
In other words, now you're only delaying the thing you want to happen. Said with a convincingly rueful smile, as if he and Kimmer hadn't, in fact, just been engaged in a firefight on the docks.
With any luck, they'll never know it happened.
In truth, the gunfire hadn't been shockingly obvious in the grand scheme of the dock hustle and bustle. And they'd left the final thugboy tied to the anchor port with his pants, already coming to his senses but his mouth too full of what was left of Kimmer's shirt to cry for help.
And the Basajaun sure weren't likely to report the incident.
What they were likely to do about two not-so-average tourists who had eluded their grasp a second time...that was a big unknown. As Kimmer had noted, they might well feel they now had a point to make.
Rio had no doubt they'd make themselves clear.
~~~
The Guardia Civil officers had barely closed the door behind themselves when the phone rang faintly in the background. Kimmer paid it no attention, reaching for her backpack and ready to hit the shower and the closet—but Marina held up her hand. "I put a call in to the Doña as they arrived," she said. "She may wish to speak to you."
Within moments, a young woman emerged from the kitchen. Larraitz. "The Doña," she said, and then hesitated just long enough to smile at Rio, the faintest of flushes on her round cheeks.
Give it up, Kimmer told her silently as Marina led the way to her office. And then to her surprise the young woman looked her way, the swiftest of glances. It held challenge and secret triumph, and Kimmer found herself taking a step forward, responding to that challenge instinctively. "You," she said.
So eloquent.
"¿Que?" the girl said, so prettily.
Kimmer didn't hesitate. She switched to Spanish and went for the throat. "You," she repeated. "You interfered with our plans. You made great trouble for me." She smiled, and not nicely. "And you tried to take what's mine."
"No, no no!" the young woman said, and even then she glanced at Rio for help, big Bambi eyes in full action.
Rio, wisely, said nothing. Even his expression said nothing—unless you were Kimmer, and knew him well enough to know the very lack of response meant he'd decided the young woman—Larraitz—had earned what she was facing.
Seeing no help there, Larraitz insisted, "It was a misunderstanding. I thought—"
"You thought nothing," Kimmer said. "You thought about what you wanted, and interfered with our plans, and you tried to take what's mine."
"You could have taken a cab!" Larraitz burst out, and big brown Bambi had turned to deer in the headlights.
Jurdan stepped between them. "The Doña," he said, somewhat hastily. "She waits." And he broke away from them to chide the young woman, escorting her back to the kitchen with extended emphasis. And with, to Kimmer's keen eye, a completely besotted air.
No wonder he'd been protecting her.
Right. They'd talk later, then. Oh, yes.
She entered the office, Rio at her side, and took the proffered phone from Marina's hand. "Doña," she said. "I'm sorry you were inconvenienced by this misunderstanding. It's being handled."
"Nonsense," said the older woman. Her voice on the line had that same odd echoing quality as before, and Kimmer found herself just as discomfited by her inability to read the nuances of those words. "I am already a poor hostess, restricted from travel while the doctors argue over my test results; I'm not so doddering that I don't recognize that what you have encountered is on my behalf. Are you sure all is well? Marina mentioned your appearance."
"The Basajaun made another try for us," Kimmer said bluntly, hoping for enough of a reaction to overcome her blindness to this
woman.
No such luck. "Again!" the Doña exclaimed. "Have you gained any sense of their purpose?"
"We know exactly what they want—to trade us for the antiquity."
The Doña's silence of reaction was only momentary. "They know, then."
"Unquestionably. We've discussed it; we wonder if it might not be time to drop our pretense and make it clear that we're here to protect your interests." In fact, she and Rio hadn't had drawn breath to talk about it yet. No chance, what with the fleeing, fighting, diving, swimming, and dripping their way home.
Then again, they hardly had to—he'd made his feelings clear about the scenario from the start.
The Doña didn't even hesitate. "Correct me if I'm mistaken, but you are at least a day away from complete security measures."
"Probably several," Kimmer admitted. "Though we'll have partial security in place by tomorrow afternoon."
"Then, no. It is not to be discussed. Now, tell me what happened."
Kimmer did. She patiently answered questions, stopped for interruptions, and squelched her surprise that the Doña wanted details. She didn't mention the torn blouse; she didn't mention that Rio was packing around a bullet that had nearly bounced off him anyway.
And she didn't anticipate it when the Doña said, "You see? It is true, what I said before."
Kimmer floundered for a response, until she finally said, "Doña?"
"Instead of acting to protect himself, your Rio compromised himself from concern for you. There, in the Gardens, where you could have stopped this brutality before it started."
She wanted to say but there were innocent people there who could have been hurt and she wanted to say but we trusted each other to deal with whatever came up and we did.
But part of her knew that the Doña was right—that if Rio hadn't been worried for her, he would reacted to his thugboy's appearance with decisive finality.
Or he would at least have been free to try.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
CHAPTER 11
"She won't budge," Kimmer told Rio, kicking the bedroom door closed behind her. She'd grabbed a plump first aid kit from the kitchen, prowling long enough to know that Larraitz had gone into hiding. Finally, pleasantly tangy ice teas also in hand, she'd taken her booty upstairs. Rio was just emerging from the shared bathroom, toweling his hair. "It's all about keeping the cover. Tourists, we are."
"Tourists having a really bad vacation," Rio grumbled, and winced. The damn bullet must feel like hell. "Maybe we should take watch this evening anyway. Things are too busy around this town."
"Watch," Kimmer agreed. "Quietly." She handed him his ice-tea-no-lemon; he downed it in big manly gulps, trickles escaping to run down his chin.
She dumped the first aid kit on her bed and glanced at his casual nakedness. "Warning, warning—I asked for light sandwiches, in a room service way."
"I'm sure I can find clothes around here somewhere." He grinned, blotted his chin, and went into the bathroom long enough to hang up the towel. The view from behind, Kimmer thought darkly, would have been a lot nicer without that dark red punch-hole and the bruise spreading high in the muscle inside his shoulder. He said, "When you're clean—"
"We'll deal with your back. If I touch you now, I'll infect it with thugboy germs."
"Thugboy, eh?" Rio's voice held a grin. "I like it." When he emerged, he wore a pair of cut-offs, and paused so she could indicate her approval.
She gave him polite golf clap and—finally, thank God—it was her turn. She pulled off her still-damp thugboy shirt and dropped it, kicked off her unsalvageable pants and left them on the floor.
Tea in hand, she stalked into the bathroom, full of simmering irritation—at the situation, at their logistically tied hands, at the fact that she'd waste time with the police statement.
It helped to scrub every trace of thugboy off her skin. A quick towel dry and she tamed her hair into place with brush and product. The foggy mirror gave her misty glimpses of the worry settled between her eyes and at the corner of her mouth; it showed her peeks of the bruises that clothing had hidden—bruises that this stupid restrictive Kimberly and Richard cover had given her.
And we came out lucky at that.
The Basajaun might not be sophisticated terrorists, but they were ruthless enough, determined enough. Kimmer had no doubt there'd be retribution for the day's work. If she and Rio hadn't planned to lock this place down tight with the Monaco grounds security specialists, she'd have called someone in specifically to keep watch against the Basajaun.
As it was, they'd get a nasty surprise if they came down on this place.
The mirror finally showed her a clear patch—Kimmer Reed, revealed—and she switched off the hair dryer.
That's when she heard voices.
Rio's voice. A woman's voice. That woman's voice.
Kimmer snatched a towel, made a hasty wrap of it, and burst out into Rio's room. The young woman froze like a deer—Rio barely grabbed the sandwich tray from her hands as it tipped downward. In Spanish, Kimmer said, "I still need to talk to you—"
The young woman squeaked and fled.
Rio cast Kimmer a look—head tipped, brow raised, body language warring between amusement and exasperation.
"Oh, fine," Kimmer muttered, and turned on her heel to reach her own room, where she made short work of getting dressed. There, she also found her own food tray—tea refill, irresistible little crab-filled finger sandwiches—and ate her way through several of them before wandering back into Rio's room with her half-empty glass.
"She was trying to apologize for the airport mix-up when you...appeared," Rio told her, as if there hadn't been any gap in the conversation. "She misunderstood our situation, she didn't realize it would be a problem at the airport, yada yada. She'd been coached in it, but she looked sincere enough." He hesitated, rubbing a hand across his chin. "Or maybe that was more big-brown-eyes action."
"I still want to talk to her," Kimmer said. "Because I'll know. We can't afford to have her playing more Climb the American Tourist games while we're at this."
"No, we can't." Rio set down his drained-dry glass, and took hers. "But let's get this thing from my back before you go find her, huh?"
Kimmer winced. Guilt, guilt, guilt. "Be right back." She swooped into her room long enough grab up the first aid kit, snagging a damp towel on her way out again. Rio lay stretched on the bed, his toes dragging off the end.
She'd expected to find tension along the strong muscle of his back—signs of anticipation. But he didn't react when she dropped the first aid kit on the far side of the bed and hesitated, running a gentle hand across the knotted scar tissue where there'd once been a kidney. Then she climbed atop the bed—atop him—and sat just below that scar.
"Hope that thing comes with really big tweezers," he said, face-down words indistinct, as she unzipped the neat canvas first aid kit.
"Improvisation is our friend," Kimmer said, pulling out alcohol wipes and gauze pads and tiny packets of—bless them—surgical scrub, which she put to quick use, staining his skin. She found the tweezers, decided they'd do, and swiped them down with alcohol. "Here comes."
His hands, up by his shoulders, closed down on the bed covers. His back tensed beneath her. But the bullet wasn't far beneath the skin; hadn't tumbled away on its own erratic course. Just needed a steady hand and a good fast ripping Band-aid effect.
Oh God, my hand's not steady. Since when isn't my hand steady?
She swallowed hard.
"Kimmer?" The pillow muffled his voice. "Just do it, Kimmer. Because it's gonna feel so good when it's not there anymore."
Right. Of course. But still she felt the hot prickle of sweat between her shoulder blades, and still her hand hesitated, a willful thing. "Right," she said out loud. "Just doing it." Not such a big deal. A very deep splinter. A very deep, fat, metal splinter.
But still his body went rigid when she probed that angry hole; still he gave a little grunt of protest. Still she lost t
he precarious grip she had on the thing, and his knuckles went white as she went back in for it. In the end it took more than poking and probing; she had to use a finger as well, steadying the bullet so the tweezers could tease it upward.
And by then she was shaking. She poured the surgical antiseptic right into the wound, letting it sit for a moment before dabbing most of it up and taping a gauze square slathered with antibiotic ointment to his back. Rio sighed with relief and she shoved the first aid kit away, leaning forward to lie over his body, damp chest to his damp back. Draped there.
"Hey," he said, and he sounded sleepy in the aftermath of it all. "Hey...it's okay, Kimmer."
"Should have taken you to a hospital."
For the Doña had been right. She cared too much. Here she was, light-headed over a simple procedure, one which hadn't held any risk and which hadn't hurt Rio nearly as badly as it might have.
Hell, not so long ago she'd shot him. Kimmer balled her hands into fists. Not so long ago, she'd simply done what she had to do.
Just that suddenly, she wasn't at all sure she could do it again.
"Hey," he said. "C'mere." And he tipped himself up so she had two choices—fall off his back, or ease into the space he'd made up front. She took the invitation, spooning up in front of him. He folded his arm back over her and snuggled up against her rear, and his gentle erection nudged her even as his breathing quickly deepened, tickling the fine feathering of hair behind her ear.
Relief flooded her as she realized—he took his flight meds. However she'd hurt him, it hadn't been as bad as it could have been.
Quick anger followed; she almost turned to give him a good smack. You should have told me, Oafboy!
But she didn't. She slipped from his arms and smoothed his short, bright hair back and kissed his temple.
And then she headed downstairs to find Larraitz.
~~~
"She's gone?" Kimmer repeated, unaffected by Jurdan's obvious remorse. It was a little too obvious. "You mean you sent her home?"
"I—" he said. And, more miserably, "Yes."
She couldn't help but throw her hands up. "You knew I wanted to talk to her. Don't even try to tell me you didn't know that."
Making the Rules Page 11
