Demon Lover (26 page)

"Oh, no. No, I couldn’t."

I’m trying my level best to destroy your son, Mrs. Younger. And you’re offering me a bed?

"I’m sure Chayne meant for you to stay here tonight," Madeline said softly, giving Julie a long, searching look. "He’d want you to stay."

Oh yes, he certainly would!

"And I’d like it if you would."

"I can’t impose like this. You weren’t expecting—"

"Nonsense. I have all kinds of space. You can have Dana’s old room. If you’ll excuse the decor—she was always silly about horses. But it’s closest to the bathroom. I’d give you Chayne’s—it has its own bathroom—but…" She laughed as she steered Julie down the hall. "Frankly, I have no idea when he’ll be popping in here again. It would be a little awkward if he arrived later tonight, wouldn’t it? Not that I think he’d mind finding a lovely young woman in his bed, but as his mother…"

Chayne won’t be coming back tonight, Mrs. Younger. Maybe not ever.

She was so tired, so defeated. It was hard to keep struggling to stay alert, easy to just let go, let herself be taken in hand.

"Here you are, dear. I think you’ll be comfortable in here. The bathroom is right across the hall. If there’s anything you need…"

Julie stood in the middle of the pleasant bedroom, swallowing hard, but the lump in her throat refused to budge. "Mrs. Younger—Maddy—" she lifted her hands helplessly "—I’m afraid I didn’t come prepared to spend the night." She gave a strangled laugh and wondered how much longer she was going to be able to hold back the tears. "I don’t have any clean clothes, or even a toothbrush, and I’m—"

"Oh, you poor girl. Of course you haven’t. Here, I know what you need." She steered an unresisting Julie across the hall and into the bathroom. "Now, you just… Wait a minute… Here." She bustled about, turning on faucets and opening cupboards while Julie stood as if mesmerized, staring at the cloud of steam rising from the bathtub.

"Bubble bath," Madeline announced, lacing the churning water with a flourish. "Does wonders for you when you’re really done in." She beamed at Julie through the fragrant mist. "I guess I have two miracle cures in my medicine chest. Now, you just hop right in here and soak away your troubles while I go find you a nightgown. Towels are right here… shampoo and toothpaste…toothbrush, hairbrush, lotion… Let’s see, have I forgotten anything?"

"I can’t imagine what," Julie murmured shakily, thinking,
My God. Yesterday I was bathing in the Gulf of California, drying in the sun, sleeping on palm branches under the stars in the arms of a smuggler.

* * *

Madeline had gone. Julie was alone except for the hollow–eyed stranger in the steam–fogged mirror. She stripped off her clothes—Chayne’s clothes—the dirt–smeared jeans and soft blue shirt, the sandals, the beautiful hand–woven belt. For just a moment she stood running the belt through her fingers, and then she dropped it onto the pile with the rest and folded the whole lot into a bundle.

She wouldn’t be wearing them again. Ever. It was over, the whole terrible ordeal. The whole incredible fantasy. Baja was a mirage, and like a mirage, it was already fading away

* * *

Julie woke in a strange bed, staring at a row of horses dancing across a windowsill. Sunlight poured between dainty hooves, ran down over the sill and into a puddle on the floor.

She was, for once, suddenly and completely awake, and she had no desire to lie in bed. She hadn’t expected to sleep at all and wished she hadn’t—it had been a sleep filled with nightmares and demons and restless fantasies.

A digital clock radio on the bedside table read 9:47. So she had slept longer than she intended after all. It was Saturday. The Pan American Exposition would be officially opening in downtown Los Angeles in exactly thirteen…now twelve minutes. Julie threw back the light blanket, sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She peered at the radio for a moment, coughed nervously and stretched out a hand. And drew it back.

She didn’t want to know.

But she had to know!

Resolutely she turned on the radio and found a continuous–news station.

Music. A commercial for a Las Vegas hotel. A station break.

Julie glanced at the clock and let her breath out slowly.

International news: a bombing in Paris; a plane crash in Japan; an anti–American demonstration in West Germany …

Julie found that she was drumming her fingers on the radio’s simulated wood case and stood up to pace restlessly. On the dresser lay a pile of clothing, neatly folded. More borrowed clothes. Very nice clothes. Gray linen slacks and a tailored shirt in a lovely shade of peach. Underwear. No bra, but a lace–edged camisole with a tiny blue bow. All just a little large, but not too bad a fit.

The radio droned on. Commercials again. Julie drew the nightgown Madeline had given her off over her head and began to dress. She was bending over to roll up her pant legs when the local newscast began.

"Los Angeles police and federal agents today announced they have broken up a plot to sabotage the opening of the Pan American Exposition. In a daring predawn raid on an East Los Angeles warehouse, federal agents, assisted by an L.A.P.D. SWAT team, arrested an unspecified number of Latin American nationals and large quantities of weapons and explosives. Police believe the Latin Americans to be members of a terrorist organization known as the Central American Liberation Front, or CALF. A police department spokesman indicated that the timely and bloodless roundup was a complete success, and credited the work of undercover agents for preventing—quote—great tragedy and significant loss of life—unquote. Meanwhile, at the convention center in downtown Los Angeles, the first Pan American Exposition—"

Julie turned off the radio and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. She discovered she was trembling and began to rock back and forth, hugging herself.

It’s over. It’s over. Thank God. He wasn't hurt. Oh God.

She had to get back to headquarters and find out what was going on. She hated being so out of things.

She’d leave as soon as possible. Madeline would understand her anxiousness to get home now that she was rested.

Madeline. Chayne’s mother. Oh God, how will I ever tell his mother?

She couldn’t tell her. She wouldn’t. Someone else would tell her eventually.

But how was she going to get home?

Of course. Colin. I’ll call Colin.

Pasting a bright smile on her face, Julie went to find her hostess. She found her in the living room, sitting cross–legged on the carpet in front of the television set and eating a peach. In sweat pants and a tee shirt, her hair secured haphazardly atop her head with a rubber band, she looked much younger than Julie figured she must be.

"Julie!" Madeline popped the last bite of peach into her mouth and hastily wiped her fingers on the towel draped around her neck before waving Julie over. "Good morning! You’ve caught me, I’m afraid. What good it does me to spend time on these ridiculous aerobics if I immediately thereafter stuff my face, I really don’t know. Pour yourself some coffee and come join me. The exercise show is over, mercifully—not that you need bother with that. No, I mean help yourself to a peach—they’re especially delicious this year. My own tree."

Julie accepted a peach from the bowl Madeline extended and sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa. "Maddy…"

"Here, you’ll need a napkin. These are so good and juicy." She waved a hand at the television screen. "This is interesting, Julie. They’re covering the opening of the Exposition live. I’m quite interested in folk art and dancing, particularly Indian and Mexican, so I’m finding this fascinating. Are you at all interested in the Expo?"

The peach, heavy with nectar, soft and warm as a small living thing, lay in Julie’s hands like a lump of clay. "No," she rasped, clearing her throat. "Not really."

"Oh—now this is really lovely. Watch this, Julie."

On the screen a group of young girls in folk costumes formed shifting patterns, a colorful swirl of ribbons and flowers and smiling faces. Julie saw only a blur.

The scene became smaller, a monitor in a studio control booth. An announcer turned from it to the camera and intoned, "We will return to our continuing coverage of the Pan American Exposition, coming to you live from the convention center in downtown Los Angeles, but first, this update on that late–breaking story out of East Los Angeles."

"Oh, now what," Madeline cried in exasperation. "I did want to see that dance. Did you know— Julie? Dear, what is it?"

Julie found herself on her feet, hands clasped together and pressed to her lips. The peach rolled away across the carpet.

"…We go now to Rob Rivera at the Federal Building for this live report. Come in, Rob."

"Thank you, and what a story it is, Chris! A story that began in the wilds of Baja California and ended this morning just before dawn in an East Los Angeles warehouse. The daring raid by federal agents and Los Angeles police resulted in the arrest of more than twenty illegal aliens suspected of being members of an international terrorist organization. Also recovered in that raid were large quantities of explosives and weapons, and three vehicles rigged with explosives. In other words, car bombs. Considering the firepower and training of the suspects, many of whom are thought to have been suicide raiders, the bloodless roundup is nothing short of miraculous. Police have been lavish in their praise of federal undercover agents…"

"Julie, dear—are you all right?"

Madeline Younger’s concerned face swam into focus as the reporter’s voice faded into background noise, garbled and meaningless.

"What? I, um…" Julie cleared her throat and dropped to her knees to retrieve the peach. "I’m sorry—it’s bruised. I hope I haven’t made a mess on the carpet."

"Don’t worry about the peach. For heaven’s sake, come and sit down. You look as pale as it’s possible to look with such a gorgeous tan."

Cool fingers closed on Julie’s wrist and drew her gently but firmly to the sofa. "Now," Madeline said firmly, still holding her hand, "tell me. If you can, of course. Is it this terrorist thing they’re talking about?"

"Maddy," Julie said unsteadily, "I have to tell you—"

"Oh, my goodness," Madeline interrupted, dropping Julie’s hand and jumping up to reach for the volume knob. "I see. Oh, yes—I do see."

The image on the screen had become jerky and fragmented as the mini–cam was jostled by a pushing, shoving crowd of reporters and photographers. Through this gauntlet of cameras and microphones, a phalanx of plainclothes officers escorted a group of dark, handcuffed men.

"…feared that provisions for the safety of the prisoners would be inadequate, I think, Chris. This was a suicide mission, according to our information, so I’m sure they’re going to have to provide a twenty–four–hour guard. And until that can be arranged, the terrorists are being held in isolation here at the Federal Building. There will be a press conference—"

The picture lurched wildly and then righted itself. And then, either by sheer chance or perhaps because the cameraman, too, had found himself inexplicably compelled, it zoomed in tight and focused on one dark face. For several blinding, heart–stopping moments a pair of eyes looked straight into the camera. Eyes of shocking blue. Demon’s eyes, wild and fierce.

"Oh, dear," said Madeline softly, and covered her mouth with her hand.

Julie was transfixed. It was a blind–side attack for which there was absolutely no defense, and it cut through the ice around her heart like a laser. The television screen blurred and shimmered with rainbow colors and then abruptly went dark.

"Oh, dear," Madeline said again, turning, her hand still on the knob. "Chayne is not going to like that." And then she gasped, "Why, Julie!"

"I’m so sorry," Julie said in a small drowned voice as she pressed the back of her hand to her nose and struggled for control. "I didn’t know how to tell you."

Madeline started to say something and then stopped. She gave Julie a long and very thoughtful look, then sat down beside her and picked up her cold, clammy hand.

"Now I see," she said gently. "I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusion. I just assumed you—oh, well. Oh
damn!"
She jumped to her feet while Julie wiped her cheeks and stared at her in amazement. Far from being distraught with grief and anxiety, she seemed angry.

"Oh…men!" That elegant woman, so uncharacteristically and comically attired, with a silly tuft of ponytail quivering on top of her head, raised her clenched fists in an eloquent and ageless gesture of frustration. "Why do they behave like such
jackasses?"

* * *

"Colin," Julie sighed, leaning her head back against the headrest, "it was really nice of you to do this."

"That’s the third time you’ve said that since we left Ramona," Colin Redmond replied. From under her lashes, Julie saw the creases in his cheeks deepen as he smiled wryly.

"I mean it. I’m very grateful. And I’m sorry about your golf game. Did they really beep you out there on the course?"

"When people tell my service it’s a matter of life and death, they usually do that, Julie. They’re funny that way."

"Please, Colin, don’t be sarcastic. Not now. And I did not say that."

He threw her a look but didn’t reply. He was angry—she could read the signs—but all he said, in that terribly calm lawyer’s murmur, was, "Care to tell me what’s going on?"

"No," Julie said. Then she repented. He
had
given up his Saturday in order to bail her out; the least she could do was try to explain. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. "I wish I knew," she said at last.

Colin threw her a look. "You might start with where you’ve been all week." When she didn’t reply immediately, he added, "All your station would say was that you were on vacation."

Julie let out a high bark of laughter and then swallowed it when Colin snapped her another look. "I’m sorry," she murmured, contrite. "Did you really call and ask about me?" It was Colin’s turn to laugh without humor and Julie’s to throw him a startled glance.

"Of course I called. You stood me up and then dropped off the face of the earth. What did you expect me to do?" His fine, well–kept hands flexed and shifted on the steering wheel. "I care about you."