Demon Lover (27 page)

"Oh, Colin," Julie whispered. "I know you do." She blinked back tears and turned her head to stare blindly through the window. "I’m sorry. You deserve an explanation, but… Look, please don’t ask me to talk about this now. I just can’t. I haven’t figured it out myself yet."

Colin released his breath in an exasperated gust and reached for the buttons on his tape deck. Dvorak’s Ninth Symphony swelled through the Cadillac’s air–conditioned interior, and Julie put her head back against the plush headrest and closed her eyes.

* * *

"Shall I come up?"

Julie blinked and sat up. For a minute she just stared through the windshield at the apartment building that had been her home now for what?…five, no,
six
years. She felt as though she had been away for at least that long. "No," she said vaguely. "That’s okay. I’m…"

"Julie? Maybe I’d better come with you."

She shook herself and said firmly, "No. Really, Colin, I  need to be alone right now. I’m fine."

"Sure?"

"Positive." She had begun to climb out of the car when Colin touched her arm.

"Will I see you tonight?" There was a curiously wary look in his eyes that she couldn’t recall having seen before.

"Not tonight, Colin. I really do need some time. There are some things I have to think about—straighten out in my mind. Do you mind?"

"Of course not. Well, yes." He smiled crookedly. "I missed you, you know. Worried about you."

He touched her cheek, an unusual gesture for him. Julie swallowed and whispered, "Colin, I—"

"I know. It’s okay." He leaned over to kiss her, and she moved so that his lips brushed her cheek. She heard his soft expulsion of breath as he sat back, shaking his head. "Julie, I don’t know where you’ve been or what’s happened to you this past week, but…you’ve changed."

Julie swallowed painfully. "Oh? How?"

"I don’t know. Yes, I do." He smiled suddenly, and this time she didn’t miss the sadness in his eyes. "You look like someone who’s just taken a tumble off the old balance beam."

Julie’s laugh had a brittle sound. "What a thing to say."

"A week ago," Colin said lightly, "you’d have said, ‘Colin, that’s a bunch of bullshit.’" He turned on the ignition. "Call you Monday?"

"Yes. Okay."

"All right, then. Call me if you need me. If you need anything."

"I will. And thank you."

The apartment smelled dusty and abandoned; the dishes she’d left in the sink a week ago had become life forms. Julie wrinkled her nose as she gingerly ran hot water over them, then wandered aimlessly around, trailing her fingers over her possessions as if that most concrete of senses, touch, might bring her back to where she had been before.

"Oh, Julie," she sighed, poking a finger into a potted palm’s bone–dry soil, "how did you ever get into a mess like this? How could you have gotten your nice neat life so screwed up?"

It had been so unexpected—a routine patrol. All right, she’d made a mistake, missing that turnoff. But it had only been a little mistake. Surely it didn’t deserve such terrible retribution.

She’d believed in blacks and whites, law and order, right and wrong, but most of all she’d believed in herself. She’d believed in her values, her instincts, her judgment, her integrity. She could have justified sharing an outlaw’s bed under the circumstances, but she could never, never rationalize falling in love with him. It couldn’t happen.

But it did.

And as a result, as even Colin had observed, she’d changed. She didn’t know who she was, but she knew she wasn’t Border Patrol Agent Maguire anymore. She didn’t know whether she was ever going to find herself again, but she did know one thing for sure: She was never going to be able to trust herself again. Ever.

The afternoon and evening stretched ahead. She had wanted to get home so badly, wanted to be alone, but now the apartment stifled and oppressed her. Twice she reached for the phone to call the station, and both times she hung up before she had even finished dialing.

She took a shower. Washed her hair. Went through everything in her closet trying to find something to wear.

Something pretty…

Why did he say I wouldn’t be comfortable in a dress?

Because I don’t even own a dress.

She hated her clothes. Everything. Underwear, pajamas, shoes, everything.

Obeying the kind of rash, angry impulse that had never been part of her emotional makeup before, she rummaged through the top drawer of her desk until she located the credit cards she never used—the department store cards she’d been generously offered and had blithely accepted when a new shopping mall opened up the previous year. Then, snatching up her car keys and purse, she slammed out of her apartment, leaving dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun.

* * *

At ten o’clock Monday morning Julie walked into Border Patrol headquarters through the front door and swept by the startled receptionist. She was wearing high–heeled sandals, a gray linen skirt and a sleeveless crochet–knit top in peach and gray. She’d discovered she liked peach; after her weekend shopping spree she now had quite a lot of it, including a satin teddy with lace trim.

Her dress uniform, neatly folded, was under one arm. In her hands she held her dress uniform hat and a long white envelope.

She plowed through the swinging lobby doors and down the hall, ignoring all greetings, questions and exclamations, then paused at the chief patrol agent’s door just long enough to rap twice before she pushed it open and barged in.

Chief Dalton wasn’t alone. Momentum carried Julie past the visitor before she registered his presence.

"Ah! I was just about to call you," the chief said mildly, gesturing past her with his glasses. "Someone here to see you."

But Julie had already turned to stone.

"Hello, Julie," Chayne said.

C
hayne.

Here. Not a prisoner, but at ease in the visitor’s armchair, one neatly shod foot resting across one razor–creased pant leg. Chayne, wearing the signature three–piece banker’s gray pinstripe suit of the standard issue federal–type agent, hair freshly trimmed, jaws so clean–shaven they looked polished.
Chayne.

It couldn’t be, but it was. There was the little scar on his chin that looked like a dimple, and, of course, those incredible cobalt eyes.

Julie’s heart took off, soaring like a sea gull into the sun.

"Agent Maguire," Chief Dalton said with an unmistakable air of satisfaction, "meet Special Agent Chayne Younger."

"We’ve met." She knew it must have been she who spoke, though she could have sworn her lips never moved. She was caught in the whirlpool of those eyes.

Chayne…a government agent.

Her heart tumbled slowly from the heights and landed in her chest, cold and lifeless.

There was a rushing sound in her ears. She shook her head, but her voice remained distant and tinny. "Not Border Patrol?"

"No," Chayne said softly.

"Mr. Younger is with SAT." The chief sounded oddly disembodied, like a voice from offstage.

"SAT," Julie repeated woodenly.

"Special Antiterrorist Team."

"Justice Department?"

"State." Chayne watched her with narrowed eyes. "We’re a coalition of international units. We coordinate with the Justice Department from time to time. Like now."

"I see." The world had begun to tilt alarmingly. She put her hand on the desk to steady it and found she was still holding her hat and the envelope. She stared at them without comprehension.

"Julie," Chayne’s voice rumbled, "sit down."

"Yes, sit down, Maguire," Chief Dalton said cheerfully. "We’d like to commend you for your part in the success of this operation. Mr. Younger tells me you handled yourself with poise and courage in a difficult situation. And, of course, we’ll answer any questions you may have."

The icy shell that had paralyzed her cracked and blew into a million pieces. Rage boiled through her, bringing with it warmth and blinding pain. With iron control, enunciating clearly, she said, "You deducted a week’s vacation. Is that correct?"

The chief looked startled. He glanced at Chayne, but
his
eyes were still fixed on Julie. "Ah, well." The chief cleared his throat and put his fingertips together with careful precision. "We’ll see what we can do to reinstate it, of course. Please understand that it was the best we could come up with at the time. When Agent Younger told us you’d stumbled into the middle of this—"

"Told you?"

"Yes. Well, in a manner of speaking. Left a little note in this." He opened a drawer and took something out, put his fist into it to display it, then dropped it onto the blotter. It was her cap. The knit cap she’d pulled on over her beacon hair that long–ago night in a starry desert ravine.

"The chopper crew picked it up," Dalton said with an air of restrained triumph.

And why not triumph? They all must be hugging themselves with delight over the way it’s all come off.

Julie cleared her throat once more, carefully avoiding Chayne’s intent gaze. "So, you knew where I was?"

"I did, yes. And, of course, the chopper crew."

"Why wasn’t I told about this operation?" Her voice kept failing her. It felt ancient and rusty.

"Well, Maguire, it was a need–to–know situation, and I’m sure you must be aware that the success of an undercover operation of this nature depends on absolute secrecy. We had no way of knowing you were going to walk into the middle of it. Agent Younger had spent weeks—months—working out a route that would avoid our patrols. Just how in the hell—"

"A foul–up," Julie snapped, standing up abruptly. "Pure and simple." She dumped her uniform on the desk, added the hat to the pile and topped it off with the envelope. "I stopped by to give you this. It‘s my resignation. You’ll find my badge in there, too, along with a lost–weapons report."

Chief Dalton coughed and glanced sideways at Chayne. Julie could feel Chayne’s eyes burning into her and steadfastly avoided them.

"Uh…" the chief muttered, sounding unhappy, "for Pete’s sake, Maguire, this isn’t necessary. We all make mistakes, and you acquitted yourself commendably."

And then Julie saw the other uniform on the desk. The one in a little pile with a pair of dusty shoes, a heavy leather belt and a gun. Her field uniform. She could see the nametag on the shirt pocket.

It was, somehow, the last straw. She made a strangled sound and headed blindly for the door.

"Maguire," the chief began, "the uniforms are yours."

"Keep them," Julie shouted, and stormed out.

She had reached her car by the time Chayne caught her. He took her arm in a painful grip and whirled her around to face him.

"Julie, we have to talk."

"Don’t touch me." She ripped herself from his grasp, breathing like someone who had just run a marathon, doubled over with the struggle to draw air into her lungs. "I don’t… have anything to say to you. I don’t…want to hear you. I don’t want to see you. Ever."

"Julie—"

"Get away from me and let me go." She was shaking, her face ravaged by her efforts to hold hysteria at bay. The car door resisted her efforts to open it; her hands didn’t seem to be working right.

"Where the hell do you think you’re going?"

The door sprang open, and she scrambled into the driver’s seat, fumbling for the keys.

"You’re hysterical."

"You think so? This is calm. If you don’t get away from me, I’ll show you hysteria."

His body held the car door open. "You’re in no condition to drive."

"Oh yeah? Watch me." The engine fired. Chayne leaped out of the way as she threw the stick shift into first gear and peeled out, tires squealing. Before the door slammed itself shut on the turn into the street, she heard him swear violently: "Damned bloody idiot! You’re going to kill yourself!"

He was right, of course; she was in no condition to drive home. As soon as she was out of sight of the station she turned into a side street and killed the motor, then sat shivering and shaking, waiting for the shock to subside.

Chayne…an undercover agent. Not an outlaw, not a smuggler, not a terrorist. A federal officer.

Why hadn’t she known? How could she not have guessed? It explained so many things—made sense of all the puzzles. Why hadn’t she been able to put it all together?

Because I was blinded by a pair of demon eyes.

She could see them even now, as clear and deceiving as a mirage. And they still had the power to twist her heart, fever her skin and send pulses throbbing through her body.

He’s not an outlaw! It’s all right. It’s all right.

The mirage shivered and faded, leaving her cold, aching and empty. For of course it wasn’t all right. As far as Julie was concerned, it made no difference at all. It didn’t change what she’d done.

Oh, Chayne, why couldn’t you have told me? You could have spared me all of this.

But even if she could manage to forgive him, she knew that she could never, never, forgive herself.

* * *

"Well, Julie—" Ice cubes clinked as Colin drained his glass and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table. "I have to admit, that’s quite a story." He clasped his hands together between his knees and fixed her with a steady gaze. "Is that all of it?"

"Isn’t that enough?" Julie stood and paced restlessly, rubbing her upper arms.

"Oh, without a doubt…without a doubt. So why do I have this impression you’re not telling me everything?"

"Because you’re a lawyer," Julie snapped crossly. "That makes you cynical."

Colin shook his head, a little half smile pulling at his mouth. "Julie, knock it off. We’ve been friends for too long, and I know you too well. You got knocked off your pins down there in Baja, and don’t try to tell me it was because of being captured by smugglers, or terrorists. Whatever. You’ve been in law enforcement for a long time. You’ve handled yourself in dangerous situations before."

He was silent for a long time. Julie moved to the window, keeping her back to him. His voice, when it came, was cautious. "This agent—Chayne. Did you sleep with him?" That was followed by a quickly muttered, "Good Lord, I sound like a prosecutor. Forget I asked that." He rose abruptly and came to stand behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "Come on, Julie. Forget it—put the whole thing behind you. Don’t you know the cure for falling off a balance beam? Get right back on."