Paper Moon (32 page)

And water. A solid wall of it slammed into the two of them, bowling them over like duckpins. Gasping and sputtering, Caroline scrambled like a blind crab on the sand, uncertain if she was headed for dry land or water. Suddenly, a pair of strong arms hauled her out of the fierce clutch of the receding wave and to her feet.

“Wha—” The sharp press of Blaine's arm against her abdomen forced the remainder of her water-filled gasp out.

“Easy, sweet.” Dragging her beyond the reach of the rogue wave, he brought her upright, turning her to face him. “Are you okay?”

He was soaked to the skin, like her, and covered with sand.

Rivulets of water caressed his jaw where her hand had been only moments before. Just like an old Hollywood movie except— “This wasn't in the script,” she coughed. At his bewildered look, she explained, tugging up her shorts before the weight of the water soaking them pulled them to her knees. “I saw this in a movie, and it didn't turn out like this. Lancaster and Kerr never wound up bottom over teacups.”

Blaine's beautiful, deep laugh filled the air. Grabbing her up, he swung her around until he nearly lost his balance in the sand.

“I love you, Caroline Spencer. I love this woman!” he shouted, drawing Caroline's attention to the pool attendant on the other side of the decorative concrete wall. “Isn't she beautiful?”

The image Caroline had seen in the elevator flashed through her mind. Now soaked and sand-covered? She looked at Blaine with incredulity, an old adage striking her with equal wonder. Love really
was
blind.

Whether the pool boy understood or not, he nodded, his white smile glinting in stark contrast to his tropical brown skin and crop of raven black hair.

“How about a quick shower and breakfast, sweet Caroline?”

Sweet Caroline. Music to her ears. Caroline nodded. “Sounds good to me. Let me fetch my shoes.”

As miraculous as the love she'd found, her
huaraches
had been tossed by the rogue wave onto what was now dry beach, but the shells were scattered everywhere.

“You can't take them with you anyway,” Blaine consoled her, playing Prince Charming as he helped her on with her slippers after they'd both rinsed off under the beachfront shower.

Swathed in oversized beach towels, they ambled arm in arm into the hotel. Some of the guests were lining up for one of the bus tours as they entered the elevator. Offloading guests met Caroline and Blaine with knowing smiles. Did the glow she felt inside show that much—or did they just look ridiculous?

Caroline glanced at her mirror image. Maybe a little of both, she decided, too happy to care. At the door to her room, she unzipped the pocket of her shorts and got out her key. She could well imagine what the girls would say.

“Meet you in half an hour?” Blaine said as the green light signaled it was okay to open it.

“Sure.” Since love was blind, that was plenty of time. “Unless the girls hog the shower,” she said over her shoulder.

He kissed her smile and pushed the door further open. “What the—”

Caroline turned to see what had shocked him and caught her breath. The room was a wreck. Suitcases were tossed around, souvenirs dumped from their bags, clothes strewn everywhere.

Alarm pummeled Caroline's voice as she started inside. “Annie?

Karen?”

Blaine grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

He stepped past her and glanced through the open door of the bathroom. Seeing no one, he moved farther into the room, stepping over the scattered items. Caroline held her breath.
Dear God,
let the girls be safe.

Opening the door to the adjoining room, Blaine dashed inside. A moment later he was back, face blanched. “Mine's been tossed too.”

“Where are the girls?” Caroline hardly recognized her voice—or Blaine's.

“Gone.”

CHAPTER
25

“Señora,
think,” Hector Rodriguez urged. “Did anyone give you or the girls anything to take back to the States?”

“What about that guy John?” Manny suggested. “Or one of his friends.”

At least in dry clothes, if not freshly showered, Caroline sat on the edge of the bed staring at the upside-down lettering on her T-shirt that read “Relax! God's in Charge,” as though expecting some divine answer to the question. But nothing surfaced from the disbelief spin-drying her brain.

Hector Fuentes was with the World Customs Organization, and the Mohawk “kid,” who'd taken an interest in Annie, was actually Manuel Santos, a United States postal inspector. Agents under Manny's Mexican counterpart, a short mustachioed gentleman by the name of José Caro, searched the hotel rooms from top to bottom for clues as to what happened to the girls.

“It wouldn't have to be big,” Hector said.

Postal inspectors. A light came on in the dark confusion of Caroline's brain. “There was a card.” She glanced sideways at Blaine's chiseled countenance. They'd both been walking, talking statues since their return to the hotel.

“Tell us about the card,” Hector prompted.

“John Chandler gave Karen a birthday card to post in the States to his mother.”

Blaine swore. “She knew better than that.” He referred to Karen, but the piercing look he gave Caroline left no doubt that he meant her too.

“He asked for it back, but Karen lost it. It . . . it had twenty dollars in it.”

“Karen lost it?” Manny repeated.

Caroline nodded. “So we bought another one yesterday and gave it to John last night at the disco.”

“Then he split before I knew it,” the younger agent lamented.

“I sent Caro's men to Chandler's hotel and stuck with the girls.”

Caroline couldn't believe Manny was an undercover agent, much less that he was almost thirty. Nothing was what it seemed, and what
was
real, she wished with all her heart was not.

“Señora.”
Hector handed her a worn newspaper and pointed out the headlines. “As you can see, it was not twenty dollars in that card, but $50,000 or more.”

Caroline read enough to see that a priceless stamp collection had been stolen in Mexico City. She handed the paper to Blaine. This couldn't be happening. She'd read about horror stories involving tourists and contraband, but Karen and Annie weren't just good kids; they were chaperoned by their parents.

“Why didn't you say something about the card?” Blaine shoved the paper back at Hector, but his accusing glare was for Caroline.

He raked his fingers through his salt-stiffened hair and stared at the ceiling as if begging for a patience that wouldn't come. “How could you be so thoughtless?”

“It was just a birthday card for his mother. He said he didn't trust the Mexican postal service to get it there on time. I thought it was sweet.”

“I knew there was something wrong about that kid. But you,”

Blaine derided, “you had to see the good in everyone.” He pivoted, like a loaded gun with no viable target, aiming some of the blame at Hector. “And where were you when all this was going down?”

Caroline refused to let him see the hurt, how his derision shattered her. She remained as she was, hoping her stare was as cold as she felt inside. She was determined not to take it again. Not from Frank or from any man . . . even Blaine. There was nothing to be gained by starting a shouting match on who could have done what when. What was done was done. It was time to pray for God to reveal anything she might have overlooked and for guidance now.

“Waiting for them to make a move,” the inspector replied, a far cry from the happy-go-lucky tour guide he'd pretended to be. “We knew he'd pass the goods along, but not when.”

“We'd hoped to intercept it at customs,” Manny informed them. “Find out who gave the goods to the girls and get the address so that agents stateside could catch Rocha's accomplice there.”

“But you can be sure Jorge Rocha is at the center of this,”

Inspector Caro said from the adjacent doorway.

“If you know who is behind this, then why not arrest him?”

“Because we need witnesses,
señor,”
Caro replied, immune to Blaine's accusing tone. “He has slipped through our fingers many times.”

“So why aren't you combing the streets, looking for the girls?”

“Or the beach,” Caroline added. After an inventory, she'd found the girls had taken their swimsuits—wherever they were.

“I have officers investigating their disappearance as we speak.

We are checking all the tour services and the beach.” Caro gave Caroline a sympathetic look. “It is a good sign that there was no evidence of struggle.”

How could they tell?
she wondered, taking in the disarray of the room.

“They took time to change clothes—”

“Or had changed and were going to join us on the beach when the room was invaded,” Blaine inserted, deflating Caroline's hope.

Despite his wildfire of accusation, Caroline felt the same pain and panic that grazed Blaine's face.

“And the maid did not hear anything unusual,” the inspector pointed out, unaffected in the line of Blaine's fire. “There is no blood on the scene.”

Blood.
The mention of the word curdled in Caroline's stomach.

She closed her eyes.
God help us,
she prayed for the umpteenth time
.

“Caroline! We just heard.” Dana rushed by the guard at the door to where Caroline sat on the bed and hugged her.

Randy was right behind her. “Blaine,” he said, seizing the man's hand in a stiff handshake. “What can we do?”

“Is it kidnappers?” Dana asked, searching the faces of the investigators. She stopped at Manny, incredulity breaking on her face.

“
You're
a cop?”

He made a grimace of a smile. “I look young for my age.”

Little by little, Dana and Randy were filled in. John and Javier Rocha were suspected couriers for a contraband organization under a thug named Jorge Rocha. No, Jorge didn't bother with drugs. He dealt with black-market collectibles. John and Javier evaded crossing the border with the goods by cajoling naive young women to do the job for them. Their game fell apart when Karen evidently lost the package with a valuable collector's stamp in it.

Now, Karen and Annie were missing.

“But we have no sign that the girls' disappearance has anything to do with the stamp,” Caro pointed out. “At least, not yet.”

“Still, they wouldn't have gone anywhere without telling us,”

Caroline insisted. “I know my Annie.”

“And I know my Karen,” Blaine said. “She's unpredictable, rebellious . . .” He exhaled heavily, giving up the rest of his assessment. “I don't know what to do with her.” Razor-sharp emotion tore at his voice. “I don't know what to do, period.”

Caroline resisted the urge to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but she needed to say what was on the T-shirt she'd grabbed in the frenzy to dress. “Relax. God's in charge. All we can do now is pray for God's speed.”

Blaine shoved his hands into the pockets of the slacks he'd hastily donned in the time it took the authorities to respond to his alert. “You pray,” he challenged. “I'm going out on the streets to see if they went off on their own.”

“We have men on the str—” the Mexican inspector started.

“It beats just sitting here, waiting.” Blaine pivoted toward the door without a glance at Caroline.

Randy fell in beside him. “I'll go with you, buddy. Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

If Blaine wouldn't accept God's help, at least he had a godly man with him in Randy, Caroline thought, staring at the door long after it closed behind them.

The manager brought breakfast for two to Caroline as well as a fruit and cheese tray for the detectives. “We are all at the hotel praying for your
chiquitas,”
the manager told them in heavily accented English.