Water From the Moon (2 page)

"This is an absurdity! It is unacceptable!" Sanchez got to his feet, shouting. "It is an outrage! You capitalists led us to believe you would help us, and now this… It is impossible!" He broke into impassioned Spanish, his knowledge of English lost in his fury.

Cameron shifted imperceptibly in his chair, his fingers tightening around the mechanical pencil in his hand. He wanted to loosen his tie, mop his brow, run a hand through his hair—anything to relieve his sudden state of tension. It jolted him to realize that Smith Industries’ research into the state of Zaragozan politics had put so little weight on the unstable and dangerous personality of Zaragoza’s leader, and that the State Department, whose warnings he’d chosen to ignore, had been right: Sanchez was not, and had never been, interested in the long range income potential of strategic metals mining. His only interest was in the immediate and substantial cash value that Cameron Smith himself represented. He was a crucial commodity to be sold, a pawn in Sanchez’s struggle to further tighten his hold on Zaragoza. Cameron rose.

"Señor Presidente," he said quietly, "this offer is fair. If it does not meet with your approval, we have nothing more to discuss. Good day."

He turned, ruing the restless whim that had brought him here and the honesty that wouldn’t let him get out of here on a promise that would be a lie.

Warily he eyed the soldiers positioned around the room. It took all the iron in him not to appear nervous, not to lick his lips, not to reach for a glass of water to wet his dry throat. Command. Control. Manipulation. He must play this situation out the way his old man had taught him, the way he’d learned, finally, on his own: never let ’em see you sweat.

Without hurrying, he gathered his papers into his briefcase. He kept his face carefully blank, letting himself show none of the repugnance he felt for the president’s behavior. Then he moved casually to the door, noting, as he did so, the guard in the corner speaking quietly into a radio. His heart skipped a beat, his nerves tightened, his jaw clenched. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

Just breathe, he told himself. Forget fear. You’ll make it.

Feeling for the cell phone in his inside jacket pocket, he went through the heavy wooden door of Sanchez’s office and gave the waiting cameras a sardonic smile, then shook his head "No comment" at the reporters. They followed him anyway, across the carpeted balcony, down the twenty–seven steps to the parquet floor below, across that to the massive double doors that led out of the government building. He mustn’t let it get to him, mustn’t think about what Sanchez could do to him. Nothing would happen inside; it would be outside, when he was in the crowd….

He could smell it in the mob of reporters, the camera crews, like vultures, waiting. They knew the outcome of his meeting, they knew…. Through the windows on either side of the doors he could see the crowd gathered in the square, shouting, waving things. They knew, too.

Don’t think, he cautioned himself. Just move.

Reaching the capitol’s entrance, he pulled out his cell, punched the number that should bring his military–trained driver inside to meet him. No answer.
Shit.
Behind him he sensed rather than saw a few of Sanchez’s troops gathering. No going back. Ahead of him, the capitol’s doors were opened for him by deferential soldiers. He forced himself to stride through them, across the veranda to smell the rising heat, the protesters, the frenzy of Sanchez’s political machine. It was only two hundred feet to where his limousine would—should—be waiting. He took an involuntary half step toward the side of the building, instinctively seeking the shelter of shadows. He wanted to shut his eyes, then open them and find the car there. But it wasn’t, so he scanned the area quickly, looking for a means of escape. The SEAL training he’d done against his father’s wishes while he was in the Navy kept him calm, focused—as ready as he’d ever be to face the crowd below when Sanchez’s soldiers closed ranks behind him, cutting off a return to the capitol building’s interior.

Shit.
No way out unless he could somehow sink into and through the mob below…

Forcing himself to keep his breathing even, he began to descend the two flights of concreted steps that would take him into the square in front of the capitol. He’d received threats of one kind or another ever since he could remember; they went with the territory of coming from old money and of being extraordinarily wealthy in his own right. This was different. Before today the threats against his person had always been distant, intangible things that someone else dealt with. Now, for the first time in his life, Cameron knew he was in a situation from which he might not emerge.

His grip on his briefcase tightened. Damn the arrogance that had allowed him to think he could get away with walking into Sanchez’s offices without a bodyguard and an army to back him up. Just because he knew he was more valuable to Sanchez’s Zaragoza alive and free didn’t mean El Presidente did.

Keep moving
, he thought.
Keep your wits about you. Look for the opening. There’s
always
an opening.
Look, damn it, look!
I’ll be damned if I’ll die here.

He took a step, and the crowd pressed in on him, a confusion of fists, sticks and signs waving in his face. Hands snatched at the fabric of his suit, and when he wrenched away it tore. Something wet exploded against him, spattering his face, filling his nostrils with its stench. He could smell the odor of mob violence, unadulterated behind the halfhearted attempts of the government police to keep the mob at bay.

Glass shattered at Cameron’s feet, fragments spraying up to spear his trousers. A Minicam appeared in his face, then was swept aside as he passed. A rock hit his head, and he swayed dizzily. Sticky moisture oozed down through his hair to drip onto the collar of his shirt. Blood.

He felt disconnected from himself, an observer watching himself stumble forward seeking an exit as the mob began chanting. Then he was no longer an observer but part of the melee again, shoved from hand to hand, hearing… what? A motor’s roar? An air horn, definitely. Its voice was deafening. Around him, people screamed and scattered. He turned to witness the cause of the disturbance and stopped dead, his features immobilized by disbelief.

Movement seemed almost suspended around him, people sweeping by in slow motion. He would not—could not—believe what looked like his salvation as a classic, white 1965 Shelby Cobra screamed to a halt beside him. He’d always wanted a Cobra but had never found anyone willing to part with one. Funny thing to think about now.

Simultaneously a voice yelled, "Get in!" and a panicked protester sent him sprawling against the little car. Fiberglass. It was fiberglass. Not a classic, a clone.

For a split second he focused on a pair of disturbingly familiar violet eyes above a pair of aviator glasses. Then rough hands reached for him, grabbed him, dragged him headfirst into the car. The engine roared, and they were off. Cameron clutched at the seat, trying to hang on and turn right side up, while beneath him tires shrieked and the Cobra leaped forward. Ahead of it, people and animals scattered in a leaves–before–the–wind motif.

Gears shifted, and the car careened around a corner, grazing a fruit stand, and emptying some of its contents over him. A hand reached over to grab his belt, holding on to his sliding body.

Sound became different. They had left the buildings and the screaming crowd behind. Once again Cameron attempted to right himself, and his head bumped something soft: a thigh. His eyes lighted on the speedometer as the Cobra left stone pavement for dirt road. Sixty miles an hour and climbing. He swallowed past his stomach, which was currently sitting in his throat, gathered his strength and shifted fully into his seat. His head throbbed, and he reached for his seat belt with unsteady hands. He blinked dizzily and swallowed until his stomach was back where it belonged. Unwilling to move and threaten the status quo, yet remembering those eyes, he let his gaze shift sideways. All he could see was a blue baseball cap, mirrored sunglasses, a slightly crooked nose, a wide mouth and a square chin. Even after all this time, he should have known: Casie.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he yelled over the wind, torn between his delight in the car of his youthful dreams and his fear that his once–beloved Acasia might manage to kill them both.

Acasia grinned at him cheerfully, knowing exactly what he was thinking. "Didn’t you need a lift?"

"Not one that travels at the speed of sound."

The car flew over a pothole and landed with a whump on the other side. Cameron’s head snapped back. If they hit just one rut or rock wrong… An olive–drab Jeep sped toward them, shrouding them in dust as it passed. Its driver braked hard and changed direction fast. They were being pursued.

Three more Jeeps roared after the first, skidding in the rutted road as they turned around to join the chase. A volley of machine–gun fire splattered a warning in the dust behind them, and Cameron decided abruptly that this was no time to worry about Acasia’s driving.

"Want me to slow down?" his savior asked. Cameron cursed explicitly, and her smile widened. "Right." She grinned and put the gas pedal to the floor.

They swerved sharply around some pigs in the road, and Cameron shut his eyes and gripped the seat hard. Deep ravines bordered the road, and they skidded close, too close—

"You get a good rate for dead businessmen, do you?" he yelled.

Acasia grinned and stuck her tongue between her teeth in concentration. She maneuvered the car back and forth across the road, avoiding ruts and pursuing Jeeps alike. The latter faded in the distance, outclassed by the sporty competition, and Acasia slowed the Cobra to a relatively sedate speed. Lifting a hand from the wheel, she removed her hat and rubbed the sweat from her forehead. Yellow hair glinted in the sun when she turned to toss her hat on the floor at Cameron’s feet. She slid her sunglasses down her nose and winked at him. "Nice day, isn’t it?"

Cameron choked. "After sixteen years, you couldn’t come up with a better line than that?"

The mirrored lenses back in place, she turned toward him, her lips pursed. "I could ask you which regret you’re down here chasing," she began, but a sudden jolt garbled the words.

"What?" Cameron called, rubbing his shoulder where it had connected with the car door.

"I said…" Acasia began again, then stopped herself. Drive, don’t judge, she admonished herself. He’s a job, not an old friend. Keep it light. "Nothing," she said, and jerked the steering wheel, making the car veer more firmly than necessary around a large rock. A pair of scarlet macaws took flight out of the jungle, their brilliant red–yellow–and–blue wings spread wide. "I asked if you were enjoying the scenery."

"Scenery’s great. You’re a helluva tour guide." Cameron braced a hand against the dashboard, wedging himself into his seat as firmly as possible. It had been a long time since he’d felt this sort of run–for–your–life exhilaration. But then, it had been a long time since he’d driven anywhere with Acasia. "What are you doing here?"

"What?"

"I said, what are you doing here?"

"In Zaragoza?"

"Yes."

Acasia glanced at him, then back at the road. She could tell him, but it was easier and more distancing to be flippant—and ninety–eight percent truthful. "Someone told me you needed a nanny, and I’m in the business."

Cameron didn’t like what she was implying, but they could argue about that later. "You hardly remind me of Mary Poppins."

He squeezed her leg, and she smiled, feeling a warmth that did not come from the humid air. She didn’t want him here—Zaragoza posed too much risk to him—but oh, he looked good! He felt good, too. She’d missed him. She cast a glance down at the hand spreading heat deep into her thigh. She should have known better than to believe this could be a simple, everyday rescue. There was nothing "everyday" about it—or about the man beside her.

If we had more time… she thought wistfully.

But they didn’t. Right now she had to get Cameron through the jungle and out of Zaragoza. He was her responsibility. Her job. Period.

Job, she thought viciously. The word was an obscenity.

In front of them, the track began to narrow, and she turned the wheel to bring them onto a worn path barely wide enough to admit the car. Tall grasses closed in around them, and the scent of hot tropical vegetation was everywhere.

Tension dripped in the air, as thick as the moisture that trickled down Cameron’s neck. He hadn’t noticed the discomfort before Acasia had stiffened beneath his touch, but now… One thing she’d never done was shut herself away from him. He pulled back. But that was then. It had been a long time…. Change was inevitable.

He shrugged regretfully and turned his attention to less difficult concerns. His shirt was sticky and uncomfortably bloody on his neck. He undid his tie and his collar button and gingerly checked his head wound. It was a mess, but not deep, hardly more than a scratch compared with what it might have been—thanks to Acasia.

He eyed her again, watching silently as she negotiated the lane that was growing so rutted it was nearly impassable. Cool under pressure, prickly, thorny, playing the ice queen. Same old Casie—almost. He remembered the first time he’d ever seen her. She’d flirted with similar odds then, too, insinuating herself between two mobs of angry students who’d been about to come to blows—or worse—over politics and religion. She’d been matter–of–fact about it, defusing the potentially volatile situation with a furious,
"This isn’t going to happen, nobody dies today, understand?"
then ducking quickly out of the limelight when the shocked private school students realized what they were doing. He’d found her crying later in a delayed reaction, her hands shaking too badly to open her locker, and for the first time ever he’d found himself involved in someone else’s life, opening his arms and his heart to her without thought—or preparation. To his family’s dismay, they’d become friends—and, eventually, more.

Sixteen years of unfinished business sat in the seat beside him, calmly maneuvering him out of one set of volatile circumstances and, most likely, into another. Cameron eyed Acasia with a faint sense of bitterness, with regret, with curiosity. He’d like…