Against the Wind (27 page)

Jake only smiled. “How will you do that if I’m going to murder you,
mi amor?”

She was momentarily nonplussed. “I’ll haunt you,” she said finally.

Jake’s smile grew, and there was an unexpected flash of tenderness in it. “You already do,” he said. “Inside, Maddy.”

Still trying to decipher that sudden softening, she went.

Damn her, he thought savagely. How could she believe such a thing? How could she have loved him, as she swore she had, for fourteen long years, how could she have lain in his arms and looked up at him as if he were the best thing that had ever happened to her in her entire life, and then believe it? She was a miserable, self-centered, cold-hearted bitch without an ounce of trust, love, or loyalty in her tall, skinny, unbearably gorgeous body.

Of course, she had reason to be scared, he added with an effort at fairness. She was sitting across the room from him right now, trying not to watch as he downed glass after glass of whiskey, trying to look interested in the three-year-old copy of
Time
magazine that was scarcely readable in the dim kerosene lamp light, trying not to let her panic show. She was tough, with more heart in her than anyone he’d ever met, but she’d been through too damned much.

She had reason enough not to trust him. He’d never been honest with her; scratch that, he thought, taking another drink. He’d never been straightforward or frank with her. He’d always been honest.

But he’d brought her up there, with her believing it
was refuge from Carlos, and instead delivered her into Carlos’s hands. How was she to know that Carlos was the least of her worries? And he’d let her go on thinking he was working for Ortega, and she knew almost as well as he did how ruthless the leader of the Gray Shirts really was.

But still. Despite all the logic in the world telling her otherwise, she should have trusted him. That she could even begin to think he would ever hurt her, much less kill her, was a breach of faith far more devastating than anything he’d ever done to her. He still couldn’t quite believe she’d think he was capable of doing such a thing. But that furtive, defiant look in her wide brown eyes told him she thought just that.

He drained the whiskey glass, rising on perfectly steady feet and heading for a refill. The damned stuff must be watered down. He hadn’t yet begun to feel the numbness he was seeking. He wanted to drink himself into a stupor, be so blind drunk that she no longer had the ability to twist his gut into a knot, to turn him almost crazy with wanting. He didn’t care if she ran out when he was too drunk to do anything about it. He almost hoped she would. Then at least she might not hate him quite so much, if she were able to salvage some of her self-respect from this whole wretched mess.

She looked up then, her face perfectly composed, and if he didn’t know her so well he would have thought she hadn’t a care in the world. But the doomed anger played around the corners of her mouth, and her hands were restless on the ancient magazine.

“Having another drink?” she inquired in a deceptively pleasant tone of voice.

Jake responded with a savage grin. “Of course. Any objections?”

“I wouldn’t want your aim to be off because of too much liquor,” she said tranquilly. “I would prefer a fast, clean death.”

He almost threw the glass at her. His long fingers tightened around the glass, and it took all his self-control to meet that calmness with a cool distance of his own. “I never miss,” he said.

Maddy nodded, bending down to peruse the magazine again, and he could see her tender, fragile nape beneath the tousled dark-brown curls. Her nape had always done strange things to him. He remembered when she was seventeen and he’d done everything he could to keep his hands off her, from telling himself he was a dirty old man to having her mother arrange a date with the boy of her dreams. But her nape when she wore her hair in braids had always had the power to unman him or just the opposite.

He wanted to set the drink down, cross the room, and press his mouth against that vulnerable skin. He wanted to shake her until she cried, until she told him she knew he could never hurt her. He wanted to hold her in his arms and lose the nightmare of revenge and justice that was destroying everything he’d ever wanted. He didn’t move, just stood there, watching her with a hunger that she couldn’t even recognize.

She looked up again, her eyes blandly curious. “Did you ever sleep with my mother?”

Hell, where had that come from? He did set the drink down, keeping his face carefully neutral. “No. Why do you ask?”

“Because you slept with my stepmother. I knew that loyalty to Sam wouldn’t stop you, and I remember my mother was particularly passionate in her dislike of you. It seemed a logical assumption.”

“And you’re very logical.” It was a statement, not a question. Logic had told her that he was going to kill her, and emotion, love, and other euphemisms wouldn’t sway that belief.

Maddy smiled, a remote smile. “When all else fails logic has its uses. You’re sure you didn’t sleep with Helen?”

“I’m sure.”

“Did you try?” She probed further. How did she know he was holding something back? He thought he’d learned how to school his features and voice to betray nothing.

“No.”

“You hesitated before you answered,” she observed. “That means you aren’t telling me the whole truth.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“But there’s something else, isn’t there, Jake? You may as well tell me. We both know it won’t have a chance of getting any farther than this room.”

“I did not try to sleep with your mother, Maddy,” he said.

Her smile broadened. “But she tried to sleep with you?” she guessed.

There was no way out of it. “Yes.”

“And you turned her down?”

“Yes.”

Maddy leaned back with a triumphant smile. “That explains a very great deal. No wonder she hated you so much. How very noble of you, Jake. My mother was a very attractive woman fourteen years ago. She’s still an attractive woman, for that matter, and you turned down her importunate advances. I’m glad you had that much loyalty to my father.” Her voice was cool and biting, and suddenly Jake wanted to wipe that distant smile from her face.

“I didn’t have that much loyalty to your father. He wouldn’t have given a damn if I’d slept with Helen. I told her no because of you.”

If he’d hoped to jar her he failed. That smile stayed firmly in place as she nodded knowingly. “That explains why she slapped me the night of my birthday. Outflanked by her own daughter. It’s little wonder she resented me.”

“She slapped you the night of your birthday?” Why would a tiny incident of fourteen years ago suddenly send him into a rage? he wondered absently. Maybe it was easier to think of the past than this hideous coil of the present.

She was looking at him curiously now, and for a moment he wondered whether common sense had gotten past that damnable logic of hers. But then she clearly dismissed the possibility. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Jake,” she said. “Nothing does.”

Jake stomped out to the kitchen. One of the many bones of contention between Carlos and himself had been Carlos’s penchant for beating up his women. For the first time in his life Jake could understand the temptation. The last thing in the world he was going to do was kill Maddy Lambert, but he’d sure as hell like to crack her across the chops one time.

Maddy watched him go. He’d only be out in the kitchen for a moment, hardly long enough for her to make it to the pathway. She looked down at the magazine in her lap, at the angry face of the Ayatollah Khomeini glaring at the western world, and contemplated her cowardice.

She wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. She wasn’t going to beg, or plead, or cry, or cower. She was going to look him squarely in the eyes when he shot her,
and she wasn’t going to flinch. Pray God she wasn’t going to flinch.

But she wasn’t going to run away either. She didn’t want him hunting her down in the moonlight like a fox chasing a rabbit. She didn’t want to end up rolling down a hillside with a bullet in her back, and she didn’t even want to escape. A world where Jake Murphy could calmly, cold-bloodedly kill the woman who loved him was no place she wanted to be. It was all that simple.

She could tell him, of course. Tell him she loved him, even though he was going to kill her. It might make it a little harder for him. Then again, it might make it easier. He seemed to have spent his life pushing love away. Killing her might make some strange sort of sense to him in the end.

He had been very cool and distant as he sat across from her all evening, drinking a really astounding amount of whiskey without showing it. She could feel his eyes on her, assessing her, and she told herself he was checking out a suitable target. Whenever she’d meet his gaze his eyes would suddenly go blank. But not before she’d surprised a hungry sort of expression that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand.

She’d lost count of the drinks, and so, probably, had he. “Is that going to be your last one?” she questioned sharply when he reappeared, determined to goad him.

“Why?” He didn’t take his seat again, he moved closer to her chair, and his tall, lean body towered over her.

She looked up at him objectively for a moment. It was beyond her comprehension how she could still find him attractive, but she obviously could. That old masochistic streak acting up again, she told herself with an attempt at wryness. Those faded jeans hugged his long legs, hanging low on his hips in a way that any other time would have
had her foaming at the mouth. The pearl snaps on the denim shirt were open partway down, exposing his San Pablo-tanned chest, and the silver ring gleamed in contrast against the dark skin. He’d somehow found time to shave that day, but his face was lean and shadowed with exhaustion, his mouth grim, his forehead and cheeks creased with lines. The eyes that looked down at her were opaque and unreadable. The eyes of a murderer? Or an executioner? She still hadn’t told him what he needed to know. If he believed she held something back he’d keep her alive. If he started to believe she was telling the truth there’d be no reason not to kill her and get it done with.

His hair was darker, not as sun-streaked, and it curled around his collar. “I’m sorry you cut your hair,” she found herself saying. It amazed her almost as much as it amazed him, and he ran a hand through it almost absently.

“The Gray Shirts have rules,” he said.

“I’m sure they do. Are you going back to them?”

“I would think my cover’s been blown.”

She put the magazine down, for the first time giving him her full attention. “Why did you do it, Jake? Why did you turn to the Gray Shirts, betray my father? Why … ?”

“What makes you think I betrayed your father? At the time I had little choice. The only way I could salvage any hope of peace for the people of San Pablo was to find out what I could from Ortega. And the only way I could do that was to pretend to take their offer of amnesty when I woke up in that hospital bed.”

“A likely story.” She snorted. “You’ve got an excuse for everything, don’t you? An excuse for leaving me, an excuse for betraying your friends, probably an excuse for the massacre at Den Phui. What’s your excuse going to
be when you kill me? It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it?”

“If you don’t watch your mouth it’s going to be something I’ll greatly enjoy,” he grated.

She didn’t doubt him for a moment. “Then where will you go when you’re finished here? Once you’ve found the map?”

“I’m not sure.” He took another drink of the whiskey. “Carlos will take it back to San Pablo.”

“Why doesn’t he simply destroy it? Surely it’s too dangerous a thing to be kept around.”

Jake shrugged. “He’s not alone in this. There are others concerned who aren’t necessarily going to take his word for it that it’s been destroyed. They’re going to want to see for themselves.”

“But you won’t be going back to San Pablo.”

“No.”

“Never?”

“Never.” He finished the drink in one gulp, then set the glass down with a sharp snap on the bookcase beside her.

“But what, dear Jake, if they find my body?” she inquired sweetly. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to be out of the country? Sally knows I went off with you; if I don’t return she might start to suspect something. And Soledad is no fool. If I just disappear she’d make a fuss.”

“Are you suggesting I shouldn’t kill you?” he inquired pleasantly.

“Oh, heavens, no,” Maddy said. “I wouldn’t waste my breath. I just thought you might consider the consequences. You might try Canada.”

“If I didn’t go to Canada during Vietnam I’m not going now.”

“Would you have gone? I assumed you’d enlisted.” For a moment she was distracted from the problem at hand.

“I enlisted when I had no choice. I had just finished college and there was nothing to stop them from taking me.” He was still watching her out of those unfathomable eyes.

She sat very still. She wasn’t going to let him frighten her, she told herself. She’d deny him that pleasure, or that pain, whichever it was. She’d die like Sam Lambert’s daughter, boldly, bravely.

“Are you going to kill me now, Jake?” she questioned softly.

There was sudden light in his eyes, a flash of emotion that looked like raw fury. He looked like he was about to hit her, and in sudden panic Maddy reminded herself that Jake would never hit her. But how could she think that? Of course he’d hit her. He was about to kill her.

Jake’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile that didn’t reach the anger in his eyes. “Sounds like a good idea,” he said pleasantly, taking the gun from the back of his jeans. “Get up.”

There was no avoiding the command in his gruff voice. Slowly Maddy rose. She wouldn’t be afraid, she wouldn’t be afraid.

Jake was smiling lazily now, the same smile that had always melted Maddy’s resolve. “But we don’t have to be in any hurry, now, do we? Carlos won’t be back till tomorrow morning. It won’t take me long to bury you. In the meantime we may as well enjoy ourselves.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Damn that sudden stammer!