Demon Lover (19 page)

He was poised there behind her, the shovel raised ready to cut the fleeing reptile in half. His face was terrible, frightening. Julie found her heart was beating again; it hammered painfully against her ribs. She touched the sleeve of his shirt, and he lowered the shovel, then turned to look down at her, moving his head slowly, as if his neck were stiff.

The look in Chayne’s eyes stunned her. For an instant it was as if she could see clear to the center of his soul. Then the door slammed shut, too quickly for her to identify what she had seen there. She was left frightened and upset, shattered and fragmented without knowing why. She only knew that she hurt. Everywhere. Her heart, her chest, her throat, her face, her fingers where they touched his sleeve.

"What is it?" Chayne growled hoarsely. "Are you—it didn’t bite you, did it?"

"No. It didn’t bite me."

"Are you going to pass out? You look—"

"I’m fine."

"You don’t look fine. You look like hell!"

"Well, so do you!"

He dropped the shovel and pulled her into his arms. She went without resistance, but her body felt cold and rigid.

"What’s wrong, Julie?" Chayne murmured into her hair. "Are you so afraid of snakes?"

"No," she said woodenly. "I’m not afraid of them at all."

"Then what, damn it? You looked terrified!"

Julie pulled away from him and wiped a hand across her dry eyes. "I was. I am," she said in a tight, bleak voice. "I don’t know who I am anymore."

"Julie—"

"I didn’t want you to kill it."

"Julie—"

"I don’t know why."

"Because U.S. Border Patrol Agent Maguire would have killed it—is that what you’re saying?" Chayne’s voice was soft. "Don’t worry about it. This place does that to you. You begin to feel like an interloper. Human beings shouldn’t be here at all."

"Well, I sure as hell shouldn’t!" she shouted, angry all at once.

"No," Chayne murmured, unperturbed. "You shouldn’t."

"You bring me to this godforsaken place, I’m a prisoner among a bunch of terrorists, I’m a stranger to myself and everybody else—and you ask me what’s
wrong?"

He took her arms and moved closer to her. "I’m not a stranger, am I?"

Julie gave a high bark of desperate laughter and stared at the buttons on his shirt, avoiding his eyes, knowing to look into them would only make her hurt again. "You’re the strangest of all," she whispered. "I don’t know who you are. I don’t even know who I am anymore."

"Come here." He sat down in the soft grass beside the wall and drew her down with him, settling her between his thighs. His arms enfolded her and held her firmly against his chest "Now," he said roughly, "tell me why it bothers you so much."

When she couldn’t speak, he bent to nuzzle at the back of her neck, murmuring persuasively, "Come on, Julie, what do you find so reprehensible about being with me?"

"It’s
wrong
," she said hoarsely, and cleared her throat loudly, angrily.

"What’s wrong?"

"It’s all wrong, damn it—and either you know that perfectly well or you’re an insensitive S.O.B."

"All wrong?" Chayne said into the hair behind her ear. His voice was very quiet. "Was it wrong to save your life?"

"That’s not what I meant and you know it. That was… window dressing—playacting!"

"And when the playacting stopped, you used sex as a weapon against me. Was
that
wrong, Julie?"

"No! Yes. I don’t know! I had to—it was the only weapon I had."

"So it’s not wrong to use sex as a means to an end, but it’s wrong if it only feels good?"

"Damn you."

"You say that a lot." He sounded amused.

"I mean it," Julie said between her teeth. And then she abruptly relaxed, letting her head drop forward. "Of course it was wrong," she moaned softly. "But you paid me back in spades, didn’t you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Just look at me. I can’t even think straight. All you do is look at me—"

"And that’s wrong too, I suppose?"

"Yes!" She could feel his lips against her skin, his breath warm on her neck.

"Why?"

"You know why—because of who I am, who you are."

"Cop is cop and crook is crook and never the twain shall meet? I thought you said you don’t know who you are—or who I am?"

"Don’t mock me, Chayne. And don’t confuse me. I told you I can’t think straight."

"I’ll agree with that. You’d have to be pretty confused to find anything wrong with this. I feel good when I make love—"

"Not—"

"
Shush
. When I make
love
to you. And you feel good—"

"That’s what’s wrong with it!"

"What?"

"It’s wrong to feel like this when I don’t—"

"Don’t what, Julie?"

"I don’t love you!"

But her mind had recoiled. She had glimpsed the truth and rejected it with desperate vehemence.
I can’t love you,
she added, but only silently.

Chayne held her tightly, holding them both very still, as if listening to the echo of her denial. Then she felt him shrug.

"So it’s a question of morals," he said lightly. "Ah… middle–class morality."

"Don’t mock my morality just because you have none at all."

"And how do you know I have no morals? I thought you didn’t know me at all." His calm, unruffled voice was a mellow counterpoint to her anger; it irritated her beyond bearing.

"Damn you," she whispered impotently, giving up.

"That was assured a long time ago," Chayne chuckled against her ear. "And if being with me damns you, the damage has already been done, hasn’t it?" He kissed the side of her neck and slid his mouth across her collarbone to her shoulder, moving clothing out of the way as he went. Julie moaned softly and turned her head toward him.

"What did you say?" Chayne asked.

"Nothing. I didn’t say anything. I don’t think I like this conversation."

"Neither do I. But I think I know how to bring it to a mutually satisfying conclusion."

"How?"

"Like this." His mouth came down on hers with gentle fervor.

The truth welled slowly up in her like milk coming to a boil, and before she could stop it, it had spilled over into her consciousness. He felt the tremor in her mouth and drew away. She didn’t open her eyes, but felt his hot gaze on her upturned face.

"Julie," she heard him whisper with an odd kind of urgency, "believe me—it’s all right."

* * *

They slept that night under stars that Julie never saw. Like an exhausted child, she fell asleep over her plate of chicken stew, and she didn’t even know when Chayne took the spoon from her fingers and carried her to a makeshift bed of palm fronds in an adobe hut without a roof.

J
ULIE WOKE GRADUALLY
and with reluctance, acquainting herself with first one sensation and then another, fitting each like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle into her consciousness. There were gaps in the puzzle, missing memories, pieces she had to locate and ease painstakingly into their proper places.

The bed was springy but not soft; it crackled and whispered when she moved. Neither mattress nor sand…

Then she remembered. Palm fronds, roof thatch gathered up from the beach where the wind had tossed it. The rain–soaked mattresses were drying out there now; Chayne had helped carry them down to the sand. By mid–afternoon yesterday the beach had resembled a huge rummage sale, with bedding and clothing spread everywhere under the sun. By evening almost everything was dry except the mattresses, so they had gathered up the fallen fronds and made temporary beds of them.

I’m slipping back in time, Julie thought as she rubbed her cheek sleepily on the sheet, listening to the crackle under it. Last night I slept on tree branches, like a gorilla. The night before that I slept in a cave.

There was warmth on her face, and light. Too much of it, in fact. Sunlight. Another puzzle piece accounted for it. The truck had returned in mid–afternoon with a load of cardon wood, but there had been time and fronds enough to re–thatch only one room before dark. Chayne had insisted on doing Geraldo’s hut first, for Carlito’s sake.

Chayne.

Julie squirmed with irritation. The sun on her face was only one of several discomforts that would soon drive her from her primitive but comfortable nest. She was hungry. And she had to go to the bathroom.

You should have taken care of that before you went to bed.
She could almost hear her mother’s voice. Funny, she couldn’t even recall going to bed. There’d been a fire on the beach; she remembered watching the flames and listening to Pepe’s guitar while she ate. She hadn’t realized how tired she was; very tired indeed if Chayne had carried her here and put her to bed without waking her.

Chayne, Chayne, Chayne!

He was dead center in her every thought, a part of every puzzle piece, a subliminal essence that lingered in her awakening senses. She could almost feel him on her skin, in her pores. Had he held her last night while she slept? Beside her the bed was rumpled and tossed, but empty.

I miss him.

Where would he be now? With the other men, of course: fishing, or cutting palm fronds, or fixing roofs. Why should she expect to wake and find him beside her? It was late—he had let her oversleep.

But she missed him.

Impossible.
Her mind snapped shut like a trap, keeping the thought locked safely inside. It was too outrageous and intolerable to look at so early in the morning.

She scrambled off of the makeshift bed, feeling out of sorts and vaguely angry without knowing why. She usually woke on a note of optimism—if a bit slowly—but this morning she felt cross and restless.

She knew what she needed—a good, exhausting workout followed by a hot shower.

She wanted to shampoo her hair, do her nails. She wanted her own underwear, darn it!

The door creaked slowly open. Julie jerked around, her heart out of control, but it was only Rita. The other woman put her sleek dark head tentatively around the corner and then, seeing Julie was awake, smiled apologetically and entered, carrying a plate covered with a napkin, a thermos tucked under her arm.

"Excuse me, I hope I haven’t disturbed you. Señor Chayne—"

"Of course you haven’t disturbed me," Julie said quickly, making room on the little table beside the bed. "You didn’t have to bring me breakfast in bed. I should have been up hours ago. Why did you let me sleep?"

Rita displayed an unexpected dimple. "Señor Chayne’s orders. But I thought you would be hungry—you didn’t eat much last night."

"I guess I must have been tired," Julie murmured, yawning. She raked a hand through her white–gold curls and sat on the edge of the bed. Rita poured steaming black coffee from the thermos and handed it to her.

"Gracias."

"De nada."
Rita hesitated, looking shy and uncertain, then turned to go. As she did, her feet encountered the little pile of clothing Chayne had discarded on the floor beside the bed when he’d undressed Julie last night—jeans, huaraches and the brightly colored hand–woven belt. He’d left her wearing the big, soft shirt and cotton panties. Rita stooped to pick up the clothes, an automatic, habitual housewife’s gesture, and laid them carefully across the foot of the bed. She fingered the belt admiringly as she placed it on top of the pile. "This is very nice. Very pretty."

"Um!" Julie swallowed scalding coffee and set her cup down abruptly. "I meant to thank you for that. For all of the clothes you let me borrow, but especially for the belt. It’s really beautiful. It meant a lot to me. More than you know. I hope—" She broke off. Rita was gazing at her with a puzzled frown, slowly shaking her head. "What is it?"

"You want to thank me for the belt? I don’t understand."

"Didn’t you give me the belt? But I thought— Then where did it come from?"

"
Quién sabe?"
Rita lifted her shoulders. "I have never seen it before. Who knows where Señor Chayne found it?"

"Chayne! But I thought you—"

Rita shook her head emphatically. "Señor Chayne came to me the night you arrived to borrow something for you to wear." She showed the dimple again. "‘Something pretty,’ he said. But not a dress—he thought you would not be comfortable wearing a dress." She lifted her hands apologetically. "But it happened I was doing my washing, and there was nothing I could give him except some, you know—" she gestured with a hand toward her own body "—some underthings." The dimple came and went, making her look younger, almost impish. "Señor Chayne couldn’t use my bra, he said it would be too big for you. And of course my jeans were too big, too." She patted her round, feminine hips and laughed softly. "So all I could give him were the panties and the sandals. The other clothes are his own. And the belt." She touched it, smiling. "I don’t know where he got it, but it is ‘something pretty.’
Es verdad?"

She went out, leaving Julie silent and motionless. She didn’t know why Rita’s revelation had rocked her so; she could feel herself slowly growing as cold as the waters of the gulf.

That wretched man. No—demon! Why? Why is he doing this to me? Doesn’t he know it’s killing me inside? What good is it if he saved my life and destroys everything I am?

Julie rose slowly and walked to the tiny clouded mirror that stood on a crude wooden shelf hung on the whitewashed adobe wall. Eyes like burned holes stared back at her out of a white, pinched–looking face.

I look like a lost child, she thought in amazement. She’d seen that look so many times in the glare of a spotlight at a dark and lonely desert checkpoint. A lost, terrified child….

I can’t be in love with him—I can‘t. Just because the sound of his voice makes me forget what I was. Just because his touch makes me forget who I am….

It was just a stupid physical reaction. So he was an attractive man. That was no reason to lose her head! Just because she had never met a man with walnut skin and cobalt eyes, a man who moved like a panther and beguiled like a demon; just because in all her life she had never met anyone who could ignite fires with his fingers…