Demon Lover (4 page)

How strange it felt to be on her feet again! Julie longed to indulge in a few limbering and stretching exercises, but the man’s eyes, heavy lidded and insolent, followed her every move, and she had to be content with shaking her feet, bending her knees and rubbing the small of her back. Still, it was good to be able to move at all.

The trip to the lavatory left her feeling better equipped to deal with her captor. She had been thinking. It had occurred to her that this smuggler was not as vicious as he wanted his partners to think he was. Perhaps, if she pretended to be a compliant hostage, even this hardened pro could be outwitted. There was just a chance that, if she bided her time, she might be able to catch him off guard and escape. Maybe. At worst she would buy herself time. And time had suddenly become very precious to her.

He was waiting for her, standing with his elbow propped on the loft, his hand dangling over the edge of the mattress. In the other hand he held a can of beer. His eyes followed her as she approached him, trembling with apprehension.

She took a breath and asked bluntly, "What are you going to do with me?"

His eyebrows rose, and he took a deep swallow of beer. "That’s a damn good question," he muttered indistinctly, but unmistakably in English.

American. Of course.
She should have known. But he was very fluent in Spanish, and that accent was good—quite unidentifiable. He must have an excellent ear. And it wasn’t that unusual to find American mercenaries involved in international smuggling. Illegal aliens were probably only the least evil this gang dealt in.

She lifted her chin a little and stared at him, waiting. He was gazing intently at the front of her blouse, at her breasts—or her badge—but he seemed more preoccupied than lustful.

"Got to get rid of that uniform," he muttered thickly.

A hiss of indrawn breath gave away her fear; she cut it off by clamping resolutely down on her lower lip with her teeth.
Please God, don’t let me scream when he touches me.
But he made no move at all, just went on staring at her chest. Finally, with trembling fingers, Julie reached for the top button.

He stood quietly watching her over the beer can, only his eyes moving as they followed her fingers down the front of her shirt. She pulled it open and tugged it from the waistband of her trousers, noticing as she did that her belt with all her paraphernalia had disappeared along with her shoes. She let her shirt drop onto the camper’s dusty linoleum floor, then shut her eyes, quickly unhooked her bra and dropped it on top of the shirt.

She couldn’t bring herself to look at him—blue–eyed demon!—but she was determined not to cower. She was an agent of the United States government. And she knew her body was nothing to be ashamed of—firm and well conditioned, breasts high and full. But she also knew that as she stripped away her clothes she stripped away the protective plumage that made her an officer of the law rather than a woman. Her shoes, her belt, her gun—all gone. And now her shirt with its badge and insignia—her identity as Agent Maguire of the Border Patrol—lay in a meaningless pile at her feet. She was just plain Julie now—a woman, on the small side, helpless against a bigger, stronger male.

A sudden movement jerked her eyes to his face. He had lowered the beer can; she saw his Adam’s apple move convulsively as he swallowed. His eyes rested almost lazily on her breasts.

It’s so hot.
Julie was half–suffocating, and she felt as though her skin was burning where his eyes touched it.
Blue fire.
Last night she’d thought of that, even in the middle of the nightmare. Now, as she stared defiantly at that dark, dangerous face, at the wide shoulders and powerful arms glistening with sweat, at the hairy, masculine chest and ragged scar, a pounding began under her ribs, and cold, quivering weakness spread from the pit of her stomach down into her legs.

Just butterflies, she said to herself, trying to maintain a hold on her self–control.
God, I’m scared. Who wouldn’t be? But after all, it’s only sex. It’s not important. Staying alive is.

The smuggler spoke, breaking an interminable silence. "Look," he said in a gravelly voice, "can we dispense with this? I mean—" he gave a crooked smile and gestured toward her with the beer can "—if it’s really what you want, I’ll do my best to oblige. Just don’t expect too much. I’m pretty tired."

As Julie stared at him without comprehension he gave a brief, dry snort of laughter and rubbed at his eyes with the dangling hand. "In fact, I’m damn tired. I’ve got to get some sleep…deal with you later…"  He thrust the half–empty can of
cerveza
into Julie’s nerveless hand and levered himself into the loft. He unlaced his shoes and let them drop, one at a time, to the floor. "Don’t think I need to tie you up again, do you?"

Julie shook her head dumbly.

"This camper is doing…oh, I’d say about thirty. At that speed you might be able to jump out and survive without serious injury, but then you’d be stuck in the middle of the desert without shoes or water." He swung his legs around and lay back, his head sinking into the shadows. Almost immediately he sat forward again, his eyes burning holes into her before narrowing with wry amusement. "Of course, you could always find a way to dispatch me in my sleep—if you prefer my friends’ company to mine. Pepe and Geraldo would probably even be happy to give you a hand if you asked them. Especially if you were dressed like that."

There was a low chuckle and a mumbled "
Buenas noches, Guerita
." In a very few minutes Julie heard only deep, even breathing, and then, to her complete disbelief, a gentle snore.

S
HE BENT SLOWLY
and picked up her clothing, bemused to note that her muscles were weak, her joints stiff and creaky. Adrenaline, she supposed; it made you feel like Superman while it was there, but had a way of leaving you unpleasantly sick and trembly when it deserted you.

Her fingers were still too shaky to deal with bra hooks and buttons, so she put the shirt on and drew it together in the front, hugging it against her body as she eased herself into the dining booth across from the sink. It was one of those clever arrangements that could be converted from two benches and a table into a bed; Julie felt so shaken she considered making it up, curling into a ball and escaping back into the oblivion of sleep.

But she couldn’t afford to sleep—she needed a clear head. She had to think.

It was too hot to think. There was a large window beside the table, tightly shuttered now. Julie cranked open the slatted shades and drew back the pane to let in both light and air. The air was hot, but at least it was fresh, and it stirred her hair, cooling the sweat on her neck and forehead. The view was disappointing, utterly barren and desolate, but she didn’t really see it, anyway.

She was unbelievably shaken.

She’d been reacting like a woman, not an agent. From the start, through this whole mess, she’d behaved like a pathetic, helpless female rather than a responsible, highly trained law officer. Why had she let him get to her on such a primitive level? Why?

She pressed her fingers to her lips, staring out at the blurred landscape and listening to the sounds of deep, exhausted sleep. While he was asleep she should be exploring every inch of this camper, looking for ways to regain control of the situation.

If only I could find my belt, my shoes.

Shoes. A perfect example. It had bothered her that he’d removed her shoes. And why? Because the loss of her shoes lessened her chances of escape? No. She made a derisive noise and rubbed agitatedly at her forehead. Because of the thought that he had touched her…that his fingers had touched her bare feet while she slept. She had never felt so terribly vulnerable, so afraid. So utterly at the mercy of a man.

Oh, but that’s not true. You have.

"Oh God." She whispered it aloud, stunned by the memory.
I really thought I’d forgotten that.

It had been so long ago. She had been just a kid, a nervous, naive sophomore cheerleader on her first real date. And with a
senior
. A football player. His name, she remembered, was Carl. Carl Swenson. She’d been so thrilled, and all her friends had been so jealous. And she’d been so stupid. So inexperienced. No one had told her about people like Carl Swenson.

But that had been a very long time ago. She was all grown up now. It couldn’t be the same…could it?

Julie laughed, a shaky, incredulous little ripple. She’d actually forgotten that dreadful night. She’d been lucky, she supposed, that her gymnastics training had made her so strong. Carl hadn’t expected such determined resistance. But even so, she’d been bruised and frightened, too humiliated to reveal what had really happened, too demoralized to cope with the lies Carl had spread about her. And she hadn’t trusted any boy enough to accept another date until after she’d been through some police–science classes. Until she had learned a little more about men.

Funny. Colin always told her she was afraid of men. Colin was fond of indulging in amateur psychology. Julie had laughed at that particular diagnosis. "Come on now, Colin," she had said. "I work with men every day. Some of my best friends are men. I’ve probably arrested hundreds of men—by out–talking, outwitting, outrunning, and even, on a couple of memorable occasions, out–shooting them. Afraid of men? Colin, darling, do you actually think I’m afraid of you?"

And he had smiled in that gently superior way of his, puffed his pipe and replied, "Oh, no—but that’s why you like me. You feel safe. You never lose your balance with me."

There had been, she remembered, a puzzling trace of sadness in his eyes. But they had argued the topic all evening, and by the end of it she’d forgotten that, too, and so had never asked him what he meant.

Afraid of men.
Colin had offered the theory that her entire career was a product of her phobia, that she had sought a field which would put her on an equal footing with men, where she could be "one of the boys" and therefore not have to deal with them on a male–female basis at all. Bunk, she had told him, but using a cruder word. Stick to contracts and courtrooms. If I need a shrink I’ll go to a doctor, not a lawyer.

But now… Maybe she should have paid more attention to Colin’s half–baked ideas, because even though she wasn’t afraid of men in general, she was certainly afraid of this one. And not because he was a smuggler, either; she’d handled dangerous, even desperate, men before. But this man had stripped her of her hard–won status; had dominated her—yes, damn it, admit it!—in that particular way that a man dominates a woman. And he had done so almost without laying a hand on her.

He was dangerous. He kept her off–balance. She must keep her wits about her if she was to have any chance at all of getting out of this mess. It was high time she got back into uniform, got her professional head on straight and got back to work.

There was very little food in the camper. Very little, at least, that Julie felt up to eating. The refrigerator held only
cerveza
and some cornmeal tortillas that looked homemade.

The cupboards displayed a variety of cans, but the idea of searching for an opener and refueling on cold refried beans in the hot, swaying camper made her feel nauseated. She settled for a can of beer and a dry tortilla, tearing bite–sized pieces from the latter and chewing absently as she gazed out at the seemingly endless plain of dried mud and sand.

Off in the distance she caught the glimmer of water—a mirage, she supposed. She couldn’t imagine what water could be out there in that direction—east, if they were, as she knew they must be, heading south. She had no way of knowing where they were, or how far they’d come while she slept. Except for an occasional recreational foray into Tijuana she had never been to Baja California. But surely it couldn’t all be as empty as this?

With both hunger and thirst assuaged, Julie turned her energies to a thorough search of the cabin. She made no effort to be covert. If the smuggler woke up and caught her at it, what could he do? Or say? He probably expected her to search—which meant, of course, that her chances of finding anything useful were slim to none. Still, she had to look.

Except for the fact that the camper was very dirty, understandable considering that it had recently transported a dozen or so human beings an unknown distance, she discovered nothing useful. Though she did notice something that puzzled her. The lower cupboards were very shallow. There appeared to be a great deal of dead space between the backs of the cupboards and the wall of the camper. Secret compartments? What else did this vehicle transport across international borders? Drugs? Guns? Intrigued, Julie carefully cleared out one cupboard and crawled into it head–and–shoulders deep, painstakingly feeling every centimeter and nail and crack for signs of an opening. She tapped softly with her knuckles. Definitely hollow. The access must be from the outside. She gave up and sat back on her heels.

"Finding anything?"

Julie gave a violent jerk and said, "Oh…God."

"What’s the matter? Did I startle you?" The smuggler was sitting up, legs dangling and upper body hunched forward to accommodate the loft’s low ceiling.

"Yes," Julie said tartly, "you did. I thought you were asleep."

"Obviously. Aren’t you glad I waited until you’d backed out of there? If you’d jumped like that inside the cupboard you’d have hurt yourself." He yawned, erasing an unrepentant grin. "That was one hell of a guilty start."

"Why should I feel guilty?" Julie muttered, scowling at the dirt on her hands. "You knew I’d look." She realized belatedly that her uniform shirt still hung unbuttoned, and that her bra was lying conspicuously on the Formica tabletop. Shifting so her back was turned toward the smuggler, she hurriedly did up her buttons, snatched the bra and wadded it into a ball.

"Yeah, I did." He jumped down lightly from the loft, reminding Julie of nothing so much as a black panther leaving his daytime nest in a tree. "Find what you were looking for?"

She backed into the dining booth, out of his way, tucking the bra into the crack in the upholstered seat. "Of course not. You knew I wouldn’t. Is it really necessary to keep my shoes?"