Betrayals (Black Cipher Files series Book 2) (29 page)

The government, with all their resources, was after me.

Jordan pulled the seat belt across my middle and clicked it shut. Then he put the car into gear.

We rolled into traffic. And I wondered if we were being followed even now.

I wouldn’t care, except....

I had to consider Jordan. “You need to dump me off somewhere.”

“Right.” His lips tightened. “You really think I would leave you?”

“You need to protect yourself.” I rubbed shaky hands up and down my biceps.

He ignored me.

“Really this is for the best.” I had i.d. and credit cards in my new name. If I managed to retrieve my bolt bag, I could be in Cuba tomorrow.

“Whose best?” He drove without looking at me.

I kept my gaze on him as if by lasering him with my eyes, I could get him to agree. I took in his broad shoulders, the long, lean strength of his forearms muscles bunched as he gripped the steering wheel. “Yours.”

The silence in the car built. “What about the baby?”

The baby? Oops. I’d forgotten. Sort of.

He flinched at my instinctive reaction. “Yeah. That’s kind of what I thought.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself and then wondered if this was the way to get rid of him. If I acted cavalierly about the baby, he’d leave.

“With throwing up every five minutes, I thought perhaps the baby would be a little more present in your mind.” His tone was even, neutral but the disapproval was there. Below the surface.

“I guess I hadn’t really equated my physical problems with the baby.” This didn’t seem like a baby but more of an extended, and particularly ugly, flu bug. It’d been going on so long I’d just sort of resigned myself to the discomfort, rolled with it if you will.

Jordan didn’t say a word, just drove.

“Where are we going?”

Jordan just kept driving.

Fatigue smothered my thoughts, pulling me down into an abyss. My eyelids pressed down over my eyeballs. With almost physical effort, I pried them back open. My chin tipped down. I jerked.

“Rest. I’ll take care of you.”

Longing pulsed through me. Wouldn’t that be nice for a change? That wasn’t right. I was supposed to take care of him. I must have dozed because when he turned onto gravel, the sudden grating noise startled me awake.

Panic flashed through me. My arms curled around my stomach as my fingers fumbled for the seat belt. I forced a calm I was far from feeling and assessed our surroundings. He’d pulled the car up to an old clapboard house.

Big hydrangea bushes with flower balls in pale blue and white edged the house. A whimsical mailbox, painted to look like a birdhouse with a bluebird as the flag, sat on a post.

A huge American flag hung from the flagpole on the column supporting the overhang of the front porch. Two rockers and a tiny table with a pair of reading glasses and a paperback welcomed visitors.

“Relax.” His voice rumbled in my ear. “We’re at my mother and aunt’s house.”

I blinked. His mother and his aunt?

Oh no. I shook my head vehemently.

I wasn’t ready to meet his family. Shit. I looked down at myself. The sleeves of the black top were pushed up, revealing the yellowed bruises around my wrists. Angry red spots and black pigment splotches mottled my skin. I had no makeup on and my hair was rough from the hair dye. I looked terrible.

“
Tía Lupe
may be able to help you with your morning sickness.” His voice was flat in response to my obvious horror. He’d misunderstood.

“I can’t.” I tried to keep the hysteria out of my response, but based on his face I hadn’t come close.

A parody of a smile touched his mouth. “Yeah. Not exactly how I’d planned it either.”

Vulnerability curled through me. Two months ago, I would have been thrilled and apprehensive at the news that he’d planned for me to meet his family. Now I was flat out terrified. He needed to be getting further away from me, not drawing his family into more danger.

“You need to drop me somewhere anonymous and get far away from me.” My panic came through with a vehemence that surprised even him.

“I can’t do that.” Jordan slid out of the car and came around to open my door. Fluffy honeysuckle bushes surrounded the yard, enclosing the space and offering a serene privacy.

An old Pontiac le Baron boat was parked in the ruts, worn down to dirt, in the grass driveway. The garage door was closed.

“Garage door must be broken again,” Jordan murmured.

When we’d pulled in only a single lamp burned in the front living room. “It doesn't look like anyone is home.” I couldn’t keep the hope out of my voice.

“Parlor light. No one ever uses the room, but it is always ready for company.” His affection for the tradition and his family was clear.

The back of the house was all lit up. That was where his mother and aunt lived.

“Is this where you grew up?”

He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Uh, no.”

Jordan faltered for a moment. I watched him visibly brace his shoulders. That little hesitation tore at my heart. He was ashamed of me.

“Come on. We need to get inside.”

Now it was my turn to hesitate. He’d been raised by his aunt and his mother. No father in the picture. No real role model, and yet he’d turned into one of the most honorable men I knew.

Initially, I’d been drawn by his looks. Who wouldn’t have been? But what had kept me with him for longer than any other man was his core sense of decency and moral compass. Those values had to come from these women.

They couldn’t possibly have anything positive to say about me. I’d rather spend another day in prison than hurt his family.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

“I know it’s a bad idea, but I’m fresh out of better ones.” His fingers held mine in an iron grip, yet his clasp was gentle. He rubbed his thumb over the pulse beating in my wrist and a long slow shiver shimmied up my spine, a sliver of desire I hadn’t felt in forever.

We headed for the back steps. At the top of the stairs, Jordan punched the back doorbell. The melody of an old Linda Ronstadt song chimed in the air.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Jordan,” he said softly.

“
Mi sobrino
.” She flung the screen door open and wrapped her arms tightly around him, eyes squeezed shut, a wide smile on her mouth.

His aunt. The woman in his arms was younger than I’d expected. She didn’t look a day over forty-five, but I knew she had to be older than that. His mother had been eighteen when she’d had Jordan. He’d been raised by his mother and her younger sister.

His aunt was dressed casually in a velour sweat suit in bright coral, her shiny pitch hair pulled back in a perky pony tail, her lips splashed with coral gloss that matched her sweat suit perfectly.

As she stepped back to let him in, she registered my presence. I clutched the wrought iron railing, my fingernails, ridged and bare, a sad contrast to the sparkly coat of coral polish on hers.

He quickly introduced me to his Aunt Guadalupe. “This is Staci,” he said as if he’d spoken of me before.

“Staci?” She blinked at me, for a moment her reaction clear. Oh, no, no, no.

Then she reached out and pulled me into the warmth of her kitchen. Sautéing beef, chilies, and onions simmered on the stove top, scenting the air.

“You poor thing,” she fussed, squeezing my hand in a strong grip, holding on longer than normal while her gaze held mine. I must have passed the first test. “Come in, come in.”

With a sense of relief, I said, “Nice to meet you.” In any other circumstance, meeting his aunt would be a thrill but I didn’t like bringing my troubles near this friendly woman.

“Where’s Mama?”

“At work.”

Jordan turned to Staci. “My mother and aunt built a multi-branch cleaning service from the ground up.” His pride in their accomplishment was evident by the smile beaming on his face.

“His mother, she always tells him, you can be anything you want, do anything you want, you have the blood of kings in you.”

Aunt Lupe had a melancholy look in her eyes as she rested her hand on Jordan’s forearm. “One day he says, mama, why can’t you be anything
you
want?”

“The rest is history.” Jordan clearly embarrassed by his aunt’s affection, sniffed appreciatively. “Something smells good.”

Overlaying dinner was the scent of drying herbs. They hung from a copper pot rack over the island counter, large bunches and small.

A huge smile converted her face from merely pretty to beautiful. “It’s been too long,” she admonished as she led us through the kitchen, passing an oval table with six chairs and a bay window alcove with cheery striped valances. A little television sat on the counter, the sound muted as the news was reported.

I had an impression of corner cabinets stuffed with china and candles. Pictures of saints and handcrafted folk art in tin staggered across walls painted a deep, chili pepper red.

She dragged me into what must be their main gathering place. A futon in eggplant, tossed with throw pillows in bright colors and geometric designs, faced an altar covered with a crudely woven serape, stacked with candles, a bowl with lemons, apples and scattered flowers, and a shallow bowl with incense. An 8 x 10 picture of Guadalupe, the dark-skinned Mary, presumably Aunt Lupe’s namesake, again in a tin frame, and a large tin crucifix held places of honor.

“I know,
mi Tía. Apesadumbrado
.” Jordan looked like a little boy who’d stolen cookies before dinner.

“English,” she said sharply. “We are American.”

He nodded.

Aunt Lupe settled me on the sofa. “Drinks?
Agua fresca
, perhaps? I have some strawberry, just made.”

He looked at the green cast of my skin and took a deep breath, preparing, I thought, for the eruption to follow. “Can you make her a tea? She needs something for nausea.”

The wide smile slipped significantly from his aunt’s face. She eyed me again more closely, her expression hopeful. “Nausea? Like a flu?”

Jordan hesitated. “Pregnancy,
Tía
.”

“She’s pregnant?” Her mouth flattened, and her eyes narrowed. Coral tipped fingers gripped her generous hips.

Jordan didn’t make any excuses. In truth, there weren’t any excuses to make. We’d known what we were doing.

Except admitting the truth to your mother and aunt, the women who’d raised you, who’d instilled their values and morals in you, was a lot more difficult than actually making the decision to eighty-six the condom.

Oops.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

He replied somberly, “We just found out.”

Aunt Lupe bustled into the kitchen, as if the task could take her mind off the reason for her services. First she put the kettle on the burner and lit the flame.

“Let’s get you fixed up.” Aunt Lupe went to her cupboard and pulled out an oversize fishing tackle box. In each of the drawers were loose dried herbs, little tags on the drawers carefully marked and labeled in her neat print.

She pulled out a mortar and pestle, scooping herbs from several of the drawers into the marble bowl. She replaced the fishing tackle box in the cabinet. Making the sign of the cross, she hummed softly and ground the herbs. Using a small plastic scoop, she tipped the herb mixture into empty, open tea bags then stapled them shut.

After pouring the steaming water over one of the tea bags, she eased down on the futon next to me. After dipping her thumb in the oil in the brass brazier, she gently swabbed my forehead and behind my ears, the scented oil a little slimy on my skin.

Then Lupe handed me a delicate ceramic tea cup. “Drink this three times a day until you have passed your twelfth week. It should help you keep the food down.”

I smiled tentatively. “Thank you.”

“If you have any
antojos
, cravings, satisfy them.” She wagged her finger at me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Aunt Lupe handed me the rest of the tea bags in a brown paper lunch bag, and kept her eagle eye on me while she made sure I actually drank the tea.

As she watched, a frown crinkled her brows as if she was trying to place how she knew me. Suddenly, her eyes widened as my identity hit her.

“You,” she pointed at me. “Rest. In about half an hour, you can have some food.”

I nodded sleepily and sank back against the futon's pillows.

“You,” she pointed at Jordan. “Come set the table.”

That was aunt speak for ‘grilling time’, but Jordan didn’t object. Obviously it was futile.

THIRTY-FOUR

“She is the one.”

Jordan hesitated.

“The one you were keeping from us.” His aunt paced around the kitchen, her Nike cross trainers squeaking against the worn linoleum.

“
Si
.” He fell back into the language his mother and aunt had always used when he was in trouble.

“English,” she snapped again.

“Sorry.”

His aunt waved toward the little old 13" that was always on. “She is also the one on the television.”

Shit. “Yes.”

“Did she do those things?”

That was his aunt. She never assumed. He’d gotten in trouble for fighting at school. A lot. Being the son and only man, therefore head of the house at an early age, in a primarily Hispanic neighborhood, he’d defended the honor of their unorthodox family frequently and effectively.

Tía Lupe
had always been the voice of reason, the soul of neutrality waiting for all the facts and his version of events before she judged.

But what did he say?

In some respects, Staci was guilty of the things reported.

How did he justify to his aunt with her innate sense of right and wrong an issue even he had problems dealing with?

“It’s complicated.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said gently.
Tía Lupe
opened a can of tomatoes and dumped them into the sauté pan.

“She’s being falsely accused of some things. Others....” he trailed off. He really didn’t want to detail Staci’s activities. Especially since she would be a part of his family. Assuming they could get this current situation behind them. And assuming he could convince her to stay with him.