Demon Lover (8 page)

"How could I possibly? You don’t let me forget it, you enjoy it so!"

He gave a short, mirthless laugh and sat down on the bed to take off his shoes. He had already removed his shirt, and Julie eyed the bunching muscles in his scarred back with a curious mixture of fascination and dread. He looked up at her, a little smile tugging at his mouth.

"Don’t you?" he asked. "Enjoy your life? Is the price really so high? My bed for your life?"

He stood up abruptly to unfasten his pants, then sat back down to pull them off. When he stood again wearing only a pair of briefs, Julie gulped, tried to look away and found that she could not.

What was it about his body that seemed so threatening? He was only a man, not some strange alien beast; why did she stare at him with that mixture of fear and excitement while her heart pounded primitive warning cadences?
Primitive and savage, like a black panther. Perfectly proportioned, beautifully sculpted, marred by the touch of violence. Grace and power, passion held in check. Arrogance, sensuality…
It was all there in that lean, whipcord body.

"Well?" he said softly. "Which will it be?"

Julie gasped, "I’m thinking!"

He threw back his head and laughed, the first time she had heard sounds of real humor from him. "You remind me of that old Jack Benny bit where the robber says, ‘Your money or your life,’ and Benny’s reply is—"

"It’s not funny!" Julie quavered, breathing rapidly.

"No, I suppose it isn’t." He folded his arms across his chest and arranged his face in solemn lines, though his eyes still gleamed with amusement. "Julie. I’m not going to argue with you all night. And you know you can’t stand there all night. You really don’t have any choice." He came toward her, stalking her like—

Like a panther
, she couldn’t help but think.

He murmured softly, "Is it really so terrible, so frightening, the thought of sharing my bed?"

He was close enough to touch her now, and he did so, the backs of his fingers barely brushing the collar of her shirt, then the thin fabric that covered her breasts. She managed to control the gasp that tried to escape from her throat, but not the response of tiny nerve endings that brought her nipples springing into sharp relief under her shirt. Nor could she keep him from knowing; his fingers brushed lightly back and forth across the pebbly tips while his eyes held hers, demanding an answer.

Julie held her ground. The tension between them had become so vibrant it produced its own kind of calm, like the air just before a thunderstorm. "Why shouldn’t I be frightened of you?" she said in a voice that sounded as if it didn’t have quite enough air. "The sample I’ve had of your lovemaking wasn’t exactly gentle."

"Sample?" He frowned, then drew aside the neckline of her shirt and touched the mark on her breast. His eyes rested there for a long moment, then came back to touch her lips, her cheeks, and then return to her eyes. "That wasn’t lovemaking," he said softly. "Making love is a game for two." His hand rested warm on the curve of her neck and collarbone, his thumb stroking lightly up and down her throat. His voice was a lazy purr. "
If
we made love,
Guerita mia,
you would have nothing to be afraid of. You’d have as much to say—and do—about it as I would. And you’d enjoy it as much as I would."

Julie swallowed, feeling the movement of her throat against his thumb. He dropped his hand suddenly and turned away, and his voice was harsh when he said, "Do what you must to get ready, and come to bed, Julie. Don’t make me come after you."

He lit a cigarette, jerked back the woven Mexican blanket and top sheet and lay down on the bed, his head propped on his arm and one leg drawn up. He watched her, eyes narrowed against the smoke, and Julie looked back at him, frustrated and weary, sick to death of skirmishing with this man and coming out second best, worn out by the strange battle of wits and wills. She drew a deep breath and for the second time in twenty–four hours began to undress before the blue–eyed demon.

Stopping her with a sigh, he said, "Julie, unless you prefer to sleep in the raw, leave your shirt on."

"I don’t…understand." Her fingers had begun to shake. The bed, just a mattress on a crude wood frame, looked very small, and the demon seemed to take up a very large portion of it.

"No," he said flatly, "I don’t think you do." He crushed out his cigarette on the adobe wall beside the bed and pulled the sheet up to his waist. "I thought I’d made myself clear. I like my women willing. Forcing frightened virgins isn’t my idea of a good time."

"I’m not a virgin!" Julie rasped.
Good God, why did I say that?

He chuckled softly, once again without real amusement. What a strange, almost bitter man he seemed at times. "You might as well be. As I said, making love takes two equal players. Rape—or seduction, for that matter—is too much trouble for too little reward. Turn out the lantern when you come to bed. And relax—you’re perfectly safe. I won’t lay a hand on you."

"Am I supposed to believe that?" Julie cried, her voice high and incredulous.

Another dry chuckle shook his chest, and he lifted an eyebrow sardonically. "Of course not. I lie, remember?" And he calmly turned on his side, away from her.

Her movements felt wooden and jerky as she turned off the lantern and took off her belt, jeans and sandals, then groped her way to the bed. It was a feeling she seemed to be having a lot lately.

She lay stiff as a post, staring wide–eyed at the underside of the thatched roof. She concentrated on matching her breathing to his, as if doing so might be a kind of camouflage.

"Julie, stop shivering so we can both go to sleep." His voice was a deep, husky drawl. "You’re shaking the whole bed."

She muttered, "I’m sorry," and went right on shaking.

He turned over and raised himself on one elbow. She could feel his presence looming over her in the dark. "Why are you still nervous?"

"Why shouldn’t I be?"

"I told you, you’re perfectly safe. Don’t you believe me?"

Safe?
Would she ever be safe again? "No. I guess I don’t."

A soft chuckle. "Why not? Do you think you’re so irresistible I won’t be able to control myself?" She was silent, and he settled back with a sigh. "Julie, I’m not an adolescent with overactive glands; and at the risk of bruising your ego, you are not irresistible. So unless you have a problem, we should both sleep like babies." He yawned noisily. "
Buenas noches, Guerita
."

Julie lay very still, wondering if that odd little pain she was feeling could possibly come from a bruised ego.

My God, he’s done it again. I’ve done it again! How does he manage to make me lose my head, damn it? I can’t afford it.

She wasn’t sleepy. She was keyed up and on edge, and so conscious of the warm body next to her she hardly dared to breathe for fear she might touch him by mistake. The air around her seemed alive with tension. Where was it coming from? Certainly not from him. Already his breathing had taken on the deep, natural rhythm of sleep. Why had she ever doubted his self–control? She had certainly seen enough evidence of it already. So the tension was coming from her. What was she afraid of?

Am I afraid of myself? Oh, Julie…

She lay awake, fighting sleep now, afraid to fall asleep lest she gravitate toward that magnetic body in unconsciousness. She tried to think, to concentrate on doing her job.

She forced herself to think about the conversation overheard outside the hut.
Gabriel. Someone named Gabriel is bringing a "shipment" to be delivered to Los Angeles in August. And it’s important that it be there in time for—

In time for the Exposition. In August. In Los Angeles. They could only mean the Pan American Exposition.

In the darkness, Julie shook her head, wide awake and steeped in the irony of it. Here she was supposed to be transferred to the Los Angeles station for the month of August in order to help control the expected increase in contraband traffic during the Exposition, and through a blunder, an accident of fate, she’d managed to find her way to the source of that traffic.

She’d been given, she realized, a rare opportunity. If she played this game right she could break up what appeared to be a very extensive smuggling operation. Excitement washed over her and then receded, leaving her feeling frustrated and helpless. Standing in her way was one coyote with the body of a panther, the eyes of a demon, and the mesmerizing touch of a sorcerer.

S
OMEWHERE, NOT FAR
away, a rooster was crowing, and closer by, a soft, irregular creaking. Julie couldn’t identify the source of the creaking, and so it became an irritant that would not let her sleep. She made a querulous sound of protest, and a soft voice answered, "Good morning."

A man’s voice, husky with amusement.

She forced one eye open. A tall, dark man with no shirt on stood beside the bed peering into a small mirror propped on a shelf, shaving by the light of a lantern. The razor made a faint scraping noise.

"Oh," she said fuzzily. "It’s you."

He glanced down at her, his eyes a cool, clear blue above dark skin streaked with white. "Who were you expecting?"

"Are you making that noise?"

He raised his eyebrows and lifted his razor interrogatively.

Julie shook her head and closed her eyes again. "Uh–uh… something’s creaking."

There was the sound of water swishing. "The shutter, I guess," he said, his voice muffled. "The wind has picked up today. Sorry it woke you."

"Me too," Julie murmured, rubbing her eyes. "I’m not a morning person."

Chayne gave a soft chuckle and patted his face with a small white towel. "So I see."

Julie gazed at him, still trying to focus her eyes. "Oh— You’ve got one there, too."

"Got what where?"

"A scar. On your chin."

He touched it, smiling lopsidedly. "So I have."

"It looks like a dimple."

His laughter exploded as he turned to reach for a shirt that hung on a nail beside the bed. Julie watched the pull and tug of the muscles in his arm and across his ribs and mumbled sleepily, "You look different."

"I think you’d better either go back to sleep or have some coffee," he said dryly, buttoning his shirt. "Rita should have some ready by now." He had turned to the door when Julie stopped him with a cry of protest.

"What now?"

She sat up, fully awake at last. "Where are you going?"

"To breakfast and then fishing. Why?"

Trying to keep the dismay out of her voice and the blush out of her cheeks, Julie said, "Are you just going to leave me here?"

He leaned against the door and gazed at her quizzically with his head tilted, as if he were having trouble hearing her.

"I mean," Julie stammered, "what about food? Aren’t you going to bring me something to eat? And," she cried furiously, "there’s not even a bathroom in here! Are you going to walk me to the john, or just put me on a long leash? Stop laughing, damn you! Do you think it’s funny that I have to ask you every time I want to go to the bathroom?"

She was sitting cross–legged in the middle of the bed, quivering with embarrassment and indignation. If she’d had anything more lethal at hand than a pillow she’d have hurled it at his head. When he continued to shake with silent laughter she muttered resentfully, "You really love to humiliate me, don’t you?"

"You know, I believe I do. There’s nothing quite as entertaining as an embarrassed cop." His voice was dry, but as his gaze slipped almost unintentionally from her flushed cheeks to her throat and then continued on down the deep slash of the shirt’s neckline, she saw something kindle in those brilliant eyes that made her wish she could pull the bedclothes up to her chin. He sighed regretfully and straightened, shaking his head. "But you aren’t confined to this room, and I’ve no intention of waiting on you hand and foot. The john is a short walk in that direction, and Rita’s house is in the other. And I’m sure she’d welcome a little help with the cooking."

Julie gave her head a bewildered shake. "I don’t understand. I thought I was a prisoner here."

His face and voice were bland enough, but his eyes were hard. "Oh, you’re a prisoner, all right. But you’re free to come and go as you please. And if that seems like a contradiction, just remember that you’re bordered on three sides by desert, and that there’s no way on earth you could carry enough water to get you to the nearest settlement. And," he added, seeing the thought in her mind, "I’ve taken the precaution of removing a few vital components from the truck’s engine. Of course," he purred, "there’s always the sea. But even if you could manage to launch one of the fishing boats by yourself, I wouldn’t recommend it, darling. You’re the lady who wants to live, remember?" He waited, but Julie only glared mulishly at him, and after a moment he touched two fingers to his temple in a mocking salute and murmured, "
Buenos dias, Guerita
," and left her.

Buenos dias. The Spanish equivalent of "Have a nice day." Damn him. And why does he always call me that—Guerita?

It wasn’t an expression she was familiar with.
Guero
, she knew, meant "fair" or "blond," and the diminutive, technically, meant "small blond one." Or…
Blondie. Well, of course.

He was calling her Blondie. Not so different from Cottontop or Dandelion. Her father had called her Blondie when she was very small.

She found that she was smiling, inexplicably cheered.

Once her jailer had gone Julie could hardly wait to be up and dressed and out of doors. This freedom might be only an illusion, but after the day and night she’d spent confined in that horrible camper, even an illusion was to be savored.

In the doorway of the adobe she stood with her head thrown back, glorying in the feel of the sun on her throat and on her toes, bare in the borrowed huaraches. A warm wind laden with strange, pungent odors whipped around the corner of the hut and ruffled her hair before scurrying on like a mischievous child, raising dust on its way to the water. Julie lifted her arms high in a bone–cracking stretch and almost laughed aloud with delight in being alive, breathing in great gulps of perfumed air, reveling in the aching brilliance of morning sun on the water—