Demon Lover (30 page)

"Morning, sunshine." The deep voice carried a warm note of laughter.

Julie gave an interrogative chirp and levered an eye open. "Morning?"

"Morning," Chayne said unequivocally.

Julie groaned and pulled the blanket up over her eyes. Fingers burrowed through her hair to massage her scalp with unsympathetic vigor. She groaned louder and attempted to impersonate a mole.

"Ah–hah!" Chayne’s deep voice became a clipped tenor. "The old dig–a–hole–in–the–mattress trick. All right, you leave me no choice."

His weight shifted as his voice retreated; Julie drifted blissfully, thinking he’d given up. And then gave a yelp of alarm—too late. "Chayne, what are you
doing?"

What he’d done was dive under the covers at the foot of the bed and capture her feet. She felt his warm breath on the pads of her toes, and then his moustache…his mouth…and his tongue.

"Chayne, that tickles!" She tried to jerk her foot away, but he held it firmly, kissing each toe delicately and deliberately before pressing his mouth into the sensitive arch. "Chayne—cut that out!"

His answer was a villain’s laugh as he transferred his attentions to her other foot and then the hollow behind that ankle. Julie could only wriggle helplessly as he kissed his way inch by inch up her legs. She began to struggle in earnest, laughing breathlessly, when he reached the inside of her knees. "Chayne, please. That’s…terrible."

"I know," he murmured, brushing his mouth up the inside of her thigh. "I haf vays to make you surrender."

"Chayne!"

"Now," he said blandly, sliding up over her quaking body and surfacing at her chin, "how’s that for a wake–up call?"

Julie lifted her head and focused balefully on laughing blue eyes. "You," she croaked accusingly, "are a
morning person."

"I know. Aren’t you glad?"

"Glad?"

"Yeah. You know what they say about opposites." He kissed her deeply, languidly, savoring the taste and texture of her mouth inside and out, and then stood up, taking the covers with him. "Come on—
up,"
he said thickly. "I’m burning the bacon."

He went out, leaving Julie to stretch luxuriously in the middle of the stripped bed, warmed by the fires in his eyes.

* * *

"Gee, if I’d known you were capable of this," Julie muttered as she surveyed her tiny kitchen a few minutes later, "I’m not sure I’d have been so willing to wait on you hand and foot down there." She yawned unabashedly and wandered into the kitchen to grope for the coffee pot.

Chayne laughed as he took her by the shoulders and steered her firmly to a stool at the counter—a counter now cleared and set for two. "In Baja? I don’t think you had much of a choice, do you?" He poured her coffee and guided her fingers to a moisture–beaded glass of orange juice. "Come on, drink up."

"Umm," Julie sighed, following orders. "I suppose not. There was a definite order to things, wasn’t there? Took some getting used to."

"I’ll bet it did."

She bristled. "I didn’t do too badly."

"No." Chayne chuckled. "Considering your meek and servile nature."

"You know," Julie mused between sips of coffee, "what amazed me was the way Rita just took it naturally. It seemed as second nature to her as breathing, to always think first of the men, to stay quiet and out of the way."

"It probably was natural. I’m sure she was raised that way."

"Yeah. It was kind of an awakening, realizing the whole world hasn’t achieved the degree of enlightenment we have."

"Enlightenment?" Chayne sounded amused.

"Of course." Julie peered suspiciously at him. "You’re laughing at me in a very smug and arrogant way. Are you a male chauvinist as well as a morning person?"

"I don’t know," he said placidly, setting a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of her. "I don’t think I’ve ever thought of myself in those terms at all."

Julie took a bite of eggs and blissfully closed her eyes. "My God. You’re
so
much better a cook than I am. I hereby absolve you of being a male chauvinist."

"And a morning person?"

"That will require a good deal more thought," she said severely, and then spoiled it with a gurgle of laughter as Chayne pressed a tickly kiss on the nape of her neck. He was dressed in his slacks and shirt and had shaved again; his skin was fresh and cool and smelled rather poignantly of soap. Julie felt a tremor of love like a small earthquake in her soul.

With his fingers lingering warmly on her neck, Chayne said, "I thought Rita seemed happy enough."

"Happy?" And just like that her own happiness cracked and fear and pain began to seep through, like a sulphurous miasma. Ducking her head, she said in a low voice, "Rita wasn’t happy."

"No?" Chayne glanced at her as he took the stool beside her. "What makes you say that?"

"Didn’t you notice? She was scared to death for Geraldo. I think she knew, or at least suspected, he was involved in something." She put down her fork, her appetite gone. It was all back, swirling around her like a suffocating yellow fog— the helplessness and terror, the uncertainty, the frustration. The guilt. "Chayne, what happened to them? Where are they? Rita and Carlos, I mean."

Chayne raised his eyebrows. "Where are they? Back home in Guadalajara, I should imagine."

"And Geraldo? Did your organization’s clean sweep include the entire Baja connection?"

She had tried to keep her voice detached and impersonal, but he heard the little break in it and touched her cheek with a gentle and loving finger. "Where did you get this sudden sympathy for lawbreakers? I seem to recall you saying something about ‘no excuse for breaking the law.’"

Where indeed?
She felt so cold she wondered if he could feel it with the tip of his finger where it traced across her lips. She shrugged, and the hand fell away.

"No," he said with a slight smile. "That’s your department–—smuggling. As far as Geraldo is concerned, I hope by this time he’s back in Guadalajara and planning to be more careful where he moonlights in the future."

"Moonlights? I don’t understand."

"Geraldo teaches history at a high school in Guadalajara, Julie. A couple of years ago, presented with a growing family, he decided his income needed supplementing. He started spending his summers with Sebastien, and running illegals for Gabriel. It made a nice change for his family, and a nice piece of change, too. That was okay until this year, when he found there’d been some changes. For one thing, there was Pepe. Then they got the camper, and Gabriel’s deliveries started to include things like guns. And explosives."

Chayne pushed his plate aside and reached for his coffee cup. He wasn’t looking at her now, but she caught the cold steel glitter of his eyes, and perhaps for the very first time she felt a visceral awareness of what the man she loved did for a living. It was so much worse than organized law enforcement. He was all alone, fighting a war with no rules, with only his wits for weapons, and no backup if it all went sour. She shivered involuntarily, and to cover it began to gather up the plates.

"Geraldo got worried," Chayne was continuing. "He managed to get word to the authorities, the Mexican equivalent of the FBI, and they immediately suspected terrorist activity and got in touch with SAT." He shrugged, grinning. "Don’t ask me to tell you how I got myself invited to the party. I’ve told you more than I should as it is."

"It’s okay," Julie said vaguely, frowning at her hand as she fiddled with the silverware. She cleared her throat and cast Chayne a quick look. "They won’t be in danger, will they? Won’t Geraldo be suspected of—"

"Our people are keeping an eye on them," Chayne said quietly. "Just to be sure."

"I see."

But would they ever be sure? Julie was silent, seeing all over again the fear in Rita’s eyes and wondering if it was still there and how long it would be before it was completely gone. Fear for those you love is so much more terrible than fear for yourself.

"Chayne," she said in a low, tense voice, "how did you get into this?"

"Into SAT? I was recruited—after ‘Nam. It was the right timing, all the way around. World terrorism was on the increase, and I was at loose ends." For the first time since Baja, Julie heard that short, grim laugh. It made her wince with unexpected pain, and she felt an urge to touch him, to smooth away those strain lines around his mouth and eyes.

As if to do so might help to erase the confusion in her own heart.

Chayne shrugged and added matter–of–factly, "They liked my war record, I suppose, and the fact that I’m a certified pilot. And of course my Latin American upbringing."

"Latin American upbringing?" So that explained his proficiency in Spanish.

He turned to smile at her, and she was relieved to see that his eyes were again a clear cloudless blue. "Yeah. I practically grew up in Mexico and Central America. Spoke only Spanish until I was five. My father was an archaeologist—Mayan civilizations. My mother followed him around, but her interests were in a little more recent era. She’s written a couple of books on Mexican and Central American folk art, music, that sort of thing." He took out a cigarette and lit it. "I’m surprised she didn’t mention it."

"She did," Julie said tightly. Her throat ached with remembering. Would she ever be able to talk about that nightmarish morning? Could she ever tell him what it had been like to watch on television as he was taken away in handcuffs; what she had felt, thinking she would never see him again, knowing she had helped put him away, knowing she was right to have done so, and hating herself, damning herself, for it?

"What did you think of my mother?"

They were facing each other on the stools, knee to knee, but not touching. Chayne’s eyes caressed her, but after one quick, pain–filled glance, Julie avoided them. It was like trying to look at the sun. "She’s wonderful."

"She is, isn’t she? I thought you’d like her."

Julie swallowed, but the muscles in her throat felt stiff and cramped. Why, in God’s name, did she suddenly feel like crying? Was it remembering that night and morning she had spent in Chayne’s mother’s house? Was she like a child, whose tears are renewed by the retelling of his trauma? And how could Chayne not notice?

Because the tears were all on the inside. Outwardly she was still icily calm. "Your father," she said in a flat voice, striving to retain control. "Where is he?"

"He died several years ago. He was a lot older than my mother, and a lifetime of neglecting his health in tropical jungles finally caught up with him."

"You have sisters." 

"Two. Both a lot younger than I am. Born after my parents settled here in California. Both married."

"Maddy mentioned grandchildren."

"Right. Three. Two boys and a girl."

"I guess that’s why—" Her voice caught, and she coughed to cover it.

"Why what?"

"Why you seemed— You were so good with Carlito."

"Yeah, I suppose so." His voice was as quiet as hers now, searching and cautious as he sensed the tension in her.

"I left your clothes at your mother’s," Julie said rapidly. If she kept talking trivialities, maybe she could hide the turbulence that was building inside her.

Wary now, and watchful, Chayne murmured, "That’s okay."

"I didn’t intend to leave them for her to take care of. They were filthy."

"It’s okay." His tone was dry, but concern darkened his eyes. "I expect she’s used to that."

"I left the belt there, too, in case you were wondering."

"Belt?"

"Yes, the one you—"

"Oh, yes. The belt."

"I thought you’d want it back. It was— You must have bought it for someone."

"I did."

"Oh."

"My mother."

"Oh."

"Julie." She’d been staring down at her hands but hadn’t really noticed they’d curled into fists until Chayne touched them. "Come on, Julie," he said with a trace of gravel in his voice. "You’ve been slipping away from me for the last fifteen minutes. What’s wrong?"

Wrong? Oh God, Chayne, everything’s wrong!

But how could she tell him, when she was so confused herself? On the one hand, she was frozen stiff with fear—fear for him, fear of losing him to the hazards of his profession, terror of the prospect of life without him. But at the same time her insides were a seething mass of guilt and self–loathing for having fallen in love with him at all.

She sniffed and pulled her hands from his in order to wipe her cheeks. "Nothing," she said thickly. "Just remembering. Hey, look—" She hopped abruptly off the stool. "It’s late. I’ll go get dressed."

"Julie—"

But she had already fled to the bedroom, untying her kimono as she ran. She knew he wouldn’t let it go, knew he’d come after her. But at that moment she knew only that she had to get away, if only for a moment, from those intent, searching eyes. Eyes full of wariness and love.

I don’t want to hurt him!

"Julie, you’re running away from me again." He stopped in the bedroom doorway, transfixed. "Good Lord, what is that you’re wearing?"

She tossed the kimono onto the bed and glared at him over her shoulder. Any other time the look on his face would have made her mouth go dry, but now she lifted her chin and snapped, "It’s a teddy."

Chayne coughed and ran a hand through his hair. "Uh–huh. Well, if you don’t want me to take it off of you, you’d better cover it up—quick!"

"Oh, for God’s sake," she grated between clenched teeth, "is that all you can think about?" She shivered, although she wasn’t cold.

Chayne’s voice was very soft, and very near. "Not so long ago we were thinking along the same lines."

"Please. Don’t. Just…don’t."

"I see." His voice was light but with a warning edge of anger. "The honeymoon’s over already, and we aren’t even married yet."

Julie could feel the warmth of him behind her, his presence wafting across her nerves like fingers on guitar strings. Married? What was he trying to do to her?

"Don’t, " she said again with bitter anguish.

"Julie, for God’s sake—don’t do this to me again. Don’t turn away from me. Don’t shut me out. Tell me what the devil is wrong."