Demon Lover (12 page)

Once the catch had been secured and turned over to the women, the men trooped back down the beach once more to scrub the fish stink and salt film from their bodies in the quiet waters of the bay.

The wind had dropped; the air was warm and moist and very still. The sun was setting behind the mountains at their backs; off across the violet water the islands had already disappeared in the haze of approaching night. Julie watched in bemusement as the men, even old Sebastien, splashed and cavorted in the water like schoolboys, the last coppery rays of the sun turning the moisture on their bodies to fire.

And behind her in the cook shed the women went quietly and efficiently about their work by the light of cooking fires and lamps.

My God, July thought.
This is the twentieth century! And I am a woman of my time. I know I’m the equal of any man. I do a man’s job as well as a man could. Yet this could be the Stone Age. How do they tolerate this? And why don’t I hate it more than I do?

For the truth was, Julie found it oddly comforting. She supposed there must be a kind of security in knowing what was expected of you—in having no doubts about the roles of male and female. It might be prehistoric, and she would certainly grow to resent it, just as she had resented the subservient role she’d been forced to play last night at supper. But somehow, for tonight, for this time and in this place, it was right. Even, in a primitive way, exciting…

As if at some prearranged signal, Juanita moved ponderously to a big iron bell mounted on a post just outside the ramada and gave the clapper several firm tugs. The men came back up the beach through the deepening twilight, laughing and shaking water from their hair. Rita and Linda began to heap food onto waiting plates, and Julie took the pile of towels Juanita silently handed her and went to stand beneath the gently swaying lantern at the entrance to the shelter.

Now an odd constraint came over the men. The lines dividing the realms of male and female cut both ways. These strong, intensely macho men might be the acknowledged lords and masters of this tiny universe, but the kitchen was the women’s domain, and the men were inclined to tread softly in it.

Julie received a polite and respectful "Gracias" from each one for the towel she offered, as did Rita and Juanita for each heaping plate, and Linda for each beer she served. The men ate with quiet concentration, talking among themselves of the wind and the tides and the day’s fishing. Except for those murmured "Thank yous," they ignored their women, as Chayne and Geraldo had ignored Rita the night before. And as Rita had done, the women moved like shadows among them, anticipating their needs and silently providing. And only when their menfolk were replete, pushing aside empty plates to reach for a fresh can of cerveza, only then did Juanita fill her own plate and indicate the rest of them might do the same. Even then, as they took their plates and retired to a shadowed table, their ears were alert for a call from their masters.

Julie found it impossible to eat. As she chewed mechanically on what might as well have been sawdust, she found it impossible, too, to keep her eyes from Chayne Younger. The image of his body, golden planes and dusky hollows rippling in the lantern light, seemed permanently etched on her retinas. Her gaze kept returning to those scars, constant reminders of violence that made an especially disturbing contrast to the hand that rested so gently on a small boy’s knee.

Carlito, being a male child, had taken his rightful place with the men. He sat on the tabletop between his father and Chayne, swinging his feet as he showed off the shells he had found that day. Each was a treasure proudly offered up on a small, grubby palm, and Chayne examined them all with the solemn concentration of a diamond broker.

Julie forgot to chew. Her eyes feasted on Chayne, on the lines of his neck and the way the dark hair curled on the nape of it, on the shadowed curve of his jaw, and on his mouth, relaxed and unexpectedly gentle.

And then he looked up, straight into her eyes.

Julie was devastated. Her throat closed, and she couldn’t breathe. Her skin felt hot—she was suffocating. And still she couldn’t break that contact. Her heart thundered in her ears, blocking out all other sound. Her perspective seemed to be shrinking, narrowing down to those twin beams of blue fire.

Somewhere, in a class on criminal psychology, probably, Julie remembered reading about the meaning and significance of direct eye contact. She knew it was a potent thing. Only modern, civilized man places a value on it and uses it as a measure of a man’s character. Animals and primitive people consider a direct stare a threat; some use it to establish dominance. And among some species a direct look alone is grounds for immediate attack. In her own experience she knew  exchanging a mutual stare, even with a close friend or family member, could be intense to the point of discomfort. Even in the most ordinary of circumstances, and with ordinary eyes. Here, with those eyes…

And then, abruptly, she was released. Chayne’s eyes dropped, focused instead on a lower point, on the small purple mark that spoiled the flawless skin of her breast just where its feminine roundness began. And only then did Julie realize her fingers were touching that brand, that her heart was knocking against them with a slow, drum–like cadence. Chayne’s lips curved in a sardonic little smile.

The dying fire settled in on itself with a crackling hiss and a shower of sparks. As if at a signal, the men rose and stretched and rubbed full bellies and moved closer to its warmth. And now, relaxed and mellow, the necessities of life satisfied, they called their womenfolk to them. It was time to look to the fulfillment of more abstract needs.

The old people murmured their good–nights and faded into the night. Geraldo settled himself with his son in his lap and his wife at his knee. At a command from Pepe, Linda produced a guitar, which he took and embraced with the tenderness of a lover, cradling it to his naked chest as he tuned it. He struck several chords, rich and heavy as the night air, and throwing back his head, tossed a laughing challenge at Linda.

Pepe had a broad, handsome face, with thick, heavy hair and a moustache that accented the sensuality of his mouth. His eyes could be cruel and cold, but now they were only dusky shadows. His teeth shone white as he picked out the first notes of a folk dance and then cleverly turned the rhythms and harmonies to a more modern beat. Linda, responding to the game and the mood, struck a dramatic flamenco pose and then launched into a parody of an exotic dance that was straight out of a Tijuana strip joint. The girl was not a professional dancer, and her body lacked flexibility and grace, but she had that instinctive sexual magnetism that in these circumstances was as pervasive and discomfiting as smoke.

Geraldo’s laughter held a touch of embarrassment, but he began to clap in time to the music. Chayne stood at the edge of the firelight, his arms crossed on his chest, watching with lazy amusement. Julie had moved to stand beside and a little behind him, not quite certain what he would expect of her, not sure what to do next. Everything—the fire, the song, the dance, even the air, heavy and cloying—seemed to conspire to aid her in her planned seduction. But far from feeling in control of events, she felt like a novice on roller skates, off–balance and in imminent danger of a painful tumble.

Chayne spoke softly. She gave a violent start and whispered, "What? I’m sorry…"

It was the first time he’d spoken to her since that morning, and the sound of his voice rasped across raw nerves, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Belatedly remembering she was supposed to appear to be getting drunk, she took a hasty and ill–advised gulp of beer and erupted in a fit of desperate coughing.

In the midst of her distress she felt Chayne’s hands on her waist holding her through the paroxysms. When she’d regained a measure of control, he drew her back against his chest and crossed his arms over her breasts. She felt his body jerk with silent laughter. Bending to nuzzle the hollow of her neck, he whispered, "Easy, Guerita. Don’t overdo it."

Still winded by her bout of choking, Julie couldn’t have answered anyway. She brought her hands up to cling to the brawny arms across her breasts, sure that without their support her legs would not have held her up. She was completely surrounded by heated, hair–roughened man; he filled all her senses—the unique male scent of him in her nostrils; the sound of his heart reverberating in her ears; silky–crisp hair prickling her naked back; blue denim and sinew chafing the backs of her thighs. He was all around her; in another moment she would be absorbed—

"Hey! Guerita!"

Julie stiffened and opened her eyes. The nickname, which she had almost grown to like when it was spoken in Chayne’s deep drawl, seemed crude and vulgar on Pepe’s lips.

"Come on, Blondie—let’s see what you can do. Your turn to dance for us, eh?"

Licking her lips in panic, Julie looked around the half circle of faces like a trapped animal. They were all watching her, Linda waiting expectantly, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on her body and a devilish gleam in her eyes. Pepe’s eyes were hot, his mouth cruel; Geraldo’s face held heavy–lidded amusement. Only Rita looked across the head of her sleeping child with dark compassionate eyes. Rita—her only ally. She couldn’t see Chayne’s face, but surely he’d be the first to find enjoyment in her humiliation. How they would all relish reducing their captive cop to such a state!

"There’s nothing quite as entertaining as an embarrassed cop…"

Julie tightened her grip on Chayne’s arms, silently pleading. To her relief and astonishment, his voice rumbled up through his chest and out over her head.

"Sorry, my friends. I don’t share my women. This little blond one dances for me alone."

There was laughter and some good–natured cajoling, but the steel bands across her chest held tight. Julie knew she’d never felt safer and more protected in her life than she did at that moment, in the circle of those arms, and the thought filled her with confusion and despair.

They are demon’s arms! Coyote’s arms. He’s a terrorist, a smuggler, a pirate, a criminal. Oh, Julie…

Pepe shrugged, accepting defeat, and held out the guitar. "Okay, my friend, you play now. I want to play another instrument." He caught Linda around the knees and tumbled her, laughing and squealing, into his lap. He buried his face against her neck, his hands roaming freely and lasciviously over her voluptuous body. Julie closed her eyes on the uncomfortable sight.

Chayne had released her to take the guitar; now he settled himself on the ground near the dying coals, his back against a post, and drew her down and once more into the circle of his arms. He placed the guitar across her chest and leaned his head forward so his lips were just above her ear. With the first soft chords her head fell backward of its own volition to rest in the hollow of his neck.

The night was warm; the wind, which had picked up again, made a lonely, sighing sound in the thatched roof overhead, and the dying fire hissed softly. Chayne’s fingers stroked and caressed the strings of the Spanish guitar, making music that seemed a part of the night. At first, while he played old Spanish love ballads, Rita and Geraldo sang along, smiling at each other across the head of their son. When he switched to American folk songs, they hummed softly, nodding now and then over a tune they recognized. At some point Pepe and Linda slipped quietly away. Julie relaxed, lulled by the night and the music and the strange, exotic drug that was Chayne Younger’s nearness.

He’d been playing the song for some time before she recognized it. Only when he began to whistle the melody, stirring the fine hair on her temple, did she remember the words:

Send me a letter,

Send it by mail;

Send it in care of

The Birmingham Jail…

A chuckle rumbled through Chayne’s chest. He set the guitar aside, and Julie reluctantly opened her eyes. Rita and Geraldo had taken their son home to bed. She and Chayne were alone.

The spell was broken. Chayne murmured, "Game’s over, Guerita—I guess we can go home now," and took her by the arms, easing her away from him. Her back felt chilled where the night wind cooled the perspiration from the conjunction of their bodies. Chayne stretched until his joints popped, then got to his feet and pulled Julie up beside him. Looking down at her through veiled eyes, he drawled, "You did a nice job tonight, for a cop."

Julie bristled automatically and snapped, "Thanks a bunch!" before she remembered it wasn’t in her best interests to quarrel with him, and lowered her lashes and murmured, "I’m a fast learner."

"Uh–huh," Chayne said sardonically. "Looks like you’ve had a few lessons, too."

"What? Oh, you mean the clothes." She knew very well what he meant. His eyes were fastened on the place where the mounds of her breasts disappeared beneath the clinging fabric. An insidious glow of pleasure blossomed in her chest at the frank admiration on his face, and she shrugged, aware the gesture would deepen the neckline of the tank top. "Well, Linda was kind enough to offer, and I thought, since I was playing the part… Do you like it?"

"It’s…effective," Chayne said dryly. He moved away from her to pick up the last remaining lantern.

Julie licked her lips and said unsteadily, "Chayne?"

He turned, eyebrows raised. "Yes?"

"Do you— Are you quite sure we aren’t being watched?"

He was silent for a moment, a quizzical tilt to his mouth. "Why?"

Julie gave another shrug and looked away. Her mouth was so dry—her voice sounded hoarse to her own ears. "Oh… I just wondered if it’s safe to stop the playacting until we get back to our—to the hut. Shouldn’t we play this out a little longer? Just in case anyone— What if Geraldo comes back?"

"Just in case," Chayne said, nodding thoughtfully. "How do we play, Julie Maguire? Like this?" He snaked an arm around her neck and drew her hard against his side. She looked up at him, half–fearful, but his face was hidden in shadow.

"Uh, sure. That… that’s fine."

"Or is this more what you had in mind?"