Demon Lover (7 page)

"Now," he said harshly, "you’ll do fine." He took her hand and led her like a child to the door.

"Wait—" Julie protested, stumbling a little on legs that felt like rubber. "I can’t—my hair—"

He gave her a swift, impatient glance. "Perfect—looks like you just got out of bed. Come on. Let’s not keep our audience waiting."

His voice was dry and cool, but although he himself appeared completely unaffected, he was not altogether unsympathetic. At the door he slipped an arm around her waist to help her make the long step to the ground, and he kept it there for support as they crossed the uneven ground.

Julie wasn’t in any condition to be observant as she stumbled through the dark in the curve of the smuggler’s unyielding arm. She had an impression of soft velvety skies, stars glimmering on water, the smell of the sea, and a hundred small unidentifiable night sounds. A beautiful, romantic night, under different circumstances. Few dwellings, and those small and widely spaced, flimsily built, with pale light and soft voices escaping through cracks and unglazed windows. A remote and primitive place. There would be no help for her here.

They stopped at the open door of an adobe not much larger than her parents’ garage back in Canoga Park. Good smells drifted out to them through the lighted rectangle, making Julie’s stomach turn painfully under her ribs. As he answered a greeting from within, Chayne gave her arm a warning squeeze and stepped across the threshold, pulling her after him.

For a moment she was disoriented; the scene of calm domesticity was so normal, so ordinary that it seemed unreal. It was like a dream in which the familiar and commonplace becomes interwoven with the fantastic. Dutiful wife at a small gas stove, lifting her head to cast a look of quickly veiled curiosity before turning back to stir a steaming pot; shirt–sleeved husband at the table sipping coffee, lifting his hand and smiling a welcome. They might have been suburban neighbors getting together for a friendly backyard barbecue.

But the adobe was lit by a kerosene lantern, its floor was hard–packed earth, and sea–scented breezes blew in through the unshuttered windows, setting the lamp swaying so that it cast weird, moving shadows. A child of indeterminate age and gender slept in the middle of a double bed in the corner, arms flung wide and soft lips innocently parted, oblivious to this late–night disturbance in his quarters.

The man—the smuggler Geraldo—could he really be the same man who had stood vigil beside the camper in a starlit desert ravine and later talked of killing her as casually as a suburban husband plots the disposal of a pesky gopher? Here in the presence of his wife and child there was none of the vulgar language Julie had heard him use outside the camper window, though he did subject her to a long stare full of speculation as he traded pleasantries with Chayne and waved him jovially to a chair.

The woman—his wife, Rita—did she know what her husband did when he went away to the north in the camper? Or did she only suspect and try to put the dangerous and worrisome thoughts out of her mind? She seemed like any young housewife of Hispanic ancestry in jeans, sandals, flower print cotton blouse and hair cut in an up–to–date style. She might have been about to dash off to a PTA meeting, or to pick up the children from piano lessons.

Reality and fantasy turned topsy–turvy. And Julie was like a child, lost in a nightmare.

She felt a hand on her shoulder pushing her into a chair and sat woodenly, remembering to keep her eyes lowered. While Chayne and Geraldo made meaningless man–talk across her, ignoring her presence, she covertly watched the woman at the stove through her lashes.

What story has she been told to explain me? Or does Señor Chayne often bring home "bedmates"? Will she think me some sort of groupie or camp follower, and hold me in contempt? If she knows the truth, will she hate and fear me as a possible danger to her husband? Or might she, possibly, be a friend? Was it she who sent me the belt? And how will I ever know if I’m not allowed to talk to anyone?

Why shouldn’t I talk to her? What possible harm could it do?
Resentfully, Julie watched the woman move silently between the stove and the table, bringing plates of crisp fried fish and tortillas and bowls of steaming seafood chowder. The loneliness she’d felt earlier in the camper seemed to swamp her; it became desperately important, somehow, that she have a friend in this godforsaken place.

The woman placed Julie’s bowl before her. Quickly, before she could turn back to the stove, Julie touched her hand and said clearly, "Muchas gracias."

For a brief instant the woman’s dark eyes widened and looked directly into hers—a pleasant, open glance—and then she nodded and murmured, "De nada," and turned away.

Julie took a deep, satisfied breath and picked up her spoon. Silence had fallen over the table. She glanced up to find Chayne gazing at her, his eyes flinty, and her heart began to knock against her ribs. She lifted her chin slightly and looked back at him.

"The Señorita is very quiet tonight," Geraldo said with a smirk. "I think she must be tired—from the long journey."

Teeth flashed white in Chayne’s dark face, but the smile didn’t blunt the cold steel in his eyes. "Yes. The Señorita is very tired," he said softly. "So tired I am afraid she has lost her appetite.
Es verdad, Guerita?"

Under the force of his gaze Julie felt her anger and defiance waver. The battle of wills was brief—no contest, really. She swallowed miserably, dropped her eyes and slowly laid her spoon beside her bowl. Fragrant steam rose to her nostrils as she whispered "Sí, Señor," and her stomach rumbled in rude denial.

I hate him.

Geraldo roared with laughter, and Chayne chuckled and picked up his own spoon.

"It sounds as if your appetite is returning," he said pleasantly. "Perhaps by the time Geraldo and I have finished you will have recovered enough to eat. Do you think so,
Guerita mia?
It would be a shame if you could not enjoy this delicious soup. After such an exhausting day you will need to recover your strength."

I really hate him.

Julie felt those terrible eyes on her, and her skin burned hot under his gaze. It burned where his beard had chafed it and where his lips had branded it. Her throat swelled shut until she really couldn’t eat a bite. She felt like a child being punished in front of company, only her parents had never treated her so cruelly. She thought she would strangle on her rage and frustration, her hatred and humiliation. She wanted to hurl the bowl of hot soup into that devil’s face, to rake it with her fingernails, to leave
her
mark!

Whatever you do, don’t fight me.

Julie heard the quiet voice even through the clamor of her own fury, almost as if he had actually spoken. She closed her eyes, breathing evenly and fighting for self–control. She didn’t hate him. She was an officer of the law, and he was a breaker of the law. Hate was unprofessional. He had done it to her again.

But I am going to get out of this. I am going to beat him. For now I have to go along with his act. An act, that’s all it is. He warned me.

She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t.

But she knew she would. All she had to do was consider the alternative.

Around her the masculine small talk had resumed. With her eyes closed, Julie savored the wonderful smells while her stomach gnawed on itself and complained aloud at the ill treatment. This is good for you; adversity builds character, she insisted silently.

Presently she heard a spoon clatter against crockery and felt a touch on her chin.

"Feeling better now,
Guerita mia?"

She opened her eyes, almost drowned in a vivid blue gaze, and quickly lowered them again. She nodded and felt the pressure of his knuckle under her chin, lifting it.

"Do you want to eat now?"

Again she nodded.

"What did you say?" His voice was soft but steely.

"Yes, please," she whispered in English.

"Ah–ah—where are your manners? Speak Spanish for our hosts."

Julie mentally ground her teeth, but managed to keep her eyes downcast and her tone meek. She was learning. "
Sí, Señor. Por favor.
"

The demon sat back, magnanimous in his victory, beaming at her as she pulled her cooled soup toward her and began to eat. She was hungry enough that she didn’t even care that he watched her every bite with a smug, proprietary air. The soup was delicious—mildly spiced with green chili peppers that spread warmth through her as the hearty seafood filled her empty belly. She ate in silence, and the rest of the meal passed without incident. Rita had retired to a chair beside the bed, where she sat quietly alert to the needs of the men at the table. Chayne and Geraldo talked of fishing and tides and weather, while Julie ate until she could eat no more.

At last Chayne’s chair scraped on the hard dirt and he stood up. Julie obeyed his gesture and got to her feet to stand meekly behind him while he expressed his thanks to Rita and said good night. Julie dared a look at Rita over her shoulder and received a brief smile in return. She knew better than to speak again, but the smile was a small encouragement.

"I’ll walk you home," Geraldo said expansively as the two men stood in the doorway lighting cigarettes.

"’Sta bien
." Chayne clapped him on the shoulder, and the two smugglers moved into the night, leaving Julie to stumble along behind. The dogs, the voices and the guitar were silent now, and the only lights still burning were in Geraldo’s house and one other, set a little farther inland beyond the parked camper. Another adobe, even smaller than Geraldo’s. As they approached it Chayne turned to Julie and said quietly, "Go inside. Geraldo and I have things to talk about."

Julie nodded and went inside the hut, closing the door after her. She was struck immediately by a wave of dismay that almost distracted her from her purpose. Again.

I can’t stay here with him.
She sank limply back against the door.

"Gabriel was here today," she heard Geraldo say in a low voice.

The door was wood but not solid; it seemed to be made of slats or poles nailed to a frame, and the murmuring voices came to her clearly through the cracks. All thoughts of exploring her prison were pushed aside, and she held her breath, listening in earnest.

Chayne’s voice said sharply, "Today? Why didn’t he wait?"

"He had to get back to La Paz. He was supposed to be in Mazatlan by tomorrow. Any news of the shipment?"

A brief silence—perhaps a shrug?—and Chayne’s voice again. "It’s nearly August. We’re running out of time, amigo."

A placid chuckle, the scrape of feet on gravel. "You talk like a gringo, amigo. Be patient."

"Time, damn it. The Exposition—"

Geraldo’s soothing murmur cut him off. "Don’t worry. You know Gabriel will have the shipment here in plenty of time for the opening. And until he delivers it there is nothing for us to do but wait."

There was a murmur Julie couldn’t quite hear as the two men moved a little distance back down the path, and then Geraldo laughed. "
Manana, mi amigo. Manana! Buenas noches."

Julie was barely able to spring away to the far side of the hut before the door crashed back and Chayne came in, scowling. He stopped when he saw her, then came on, his frown deepening.

"What are you doing?"

Julie stammered, backing away. "Nothing! I was just waiting for you."

"Listening?"

"No, I—"

"Of course you were," he muttered, throwing her one more brief look of acute distaste and raking a hand through his hair. "You’re an agent. You can’t help it, I suppose." He seemed out of sorts, upset. Julie swallowed uncertainly, afraid of angering him further.

"You’d have been better occupied getting yourself into bed," he said acidly. "That was as much privacy as you’re going to get."

Julie stared at him. "Into what bed? Just where in the hell am I supposed to sleep?"

His back was toward her, his voice an impatient growl. "Don’t be stupid."

"I’m not stupid," Julie said tersely. "There is only one bed."

"That’s right," he muttered without looking up. He had begun to take things out of his pockets and put them on a low stool beside the bed.

"You said—" That traitorous quaver was in her voice again, and she fought to control it. "You told me I wouldn’t be sharing your bed. You said—"

"Don’t be an idiot," he snarled, turning on her, his eyes shooting sparks. "What do I have to do to make you understand the danger you’re in? You’re a cop! The only reason you’re not mummifying in some desert gully right now is because you happen to be both female and pretty, and I have been celibate for what to my compatriots is an unreasonable length of time. How would it look if I asked for another bed?"

"You said it would be up to me," Julie said, breathing hard. "You
lied."

He gave an incredulous snort. "In the catalogue of my sins that’s hardly a big–ticket item."

"Why did you bother to lie to me?" Julie said bitterly. "I couldn’t have done anything about it anyway. Why did you let me think—"

"Look, damn it, in a manner of speaking I suppose it is up to you. You can always take the floor. Take your chances with the lizards and scorpions."

They stared at each other in furious silence. Julie gave up first.

"Why are you being so cruel?" she whispered, not trusting her voice. "Why did you bother to save my life?"

He made that sound of annoyance and looked away. Then he looked back at her. "Am I being cruel?" His voice was quiet. "I didn’t mean to be."

"Oh, sure. And I suppose you didn’t mean to be a while ago, either."

"At dinner."

"Yes, at dinner. That was cruel. And unnecessary. What did I do that was so terrible that you had to humiliate me like that?"

He tightened his mouth and veiled his eyes, giving his face a cold, hostile look, like a mask. "You disobeyed me."

"Disobeyed? What am I? Your chattel? Your slave?"

His voice was cold. "No—just my prisoner. But even if you weren’t, you’ve got to get used to the idea that there is no such thing as women’s lib or equal rights here. Either way, I have the power to insist on obedience. In your case, it amounts to the power of life or death. Don’t forget that."