Demon Lover (15 page)

"You
fool!
You stupid bloody little
cop!
What did you think you were going to do, huh? Stupid—"

Julie went quite still, except for the breath sobbing through her lungs. "Go ahead," she screamed. "Kill me!"

"
Kill
you? You nitwit, don’t you know I’ve saved your life? Or the tide did. Where did you think you were going? And why? What kind of stupid, bloody idiot would try to take a boat out in this? Don’t you know what’s going on here? Look around us. This is a
chubasco!
A typhoon!"

Chubasco.
Julie had heard the word at dinner. The men had talked of the
chubasco
. She hadn’t been listening. She’d been too preoccupied to try to figure out the meaning of an unfamiliar word.
Chubasco. A Baja typhoon.

"Why, Julie?" His voice rasped in her ear. "What made you try such a foolish thing? I told you I’d keep you alive. Didn’t you trust me?"

"Trust you?" Julie blinked away the rain that seemed to be trying to drown her and stared into that dark, angry face. "Keep me alive? And kill how many others? How many innocent people!"

"What the hell are you—"

"I had to get away. I have to tell them! I have to—"

"Julie, for God’s sake, what are you talking about?"

"I know who you are. I know what you all are. I know what you’re planning to do. I had to stop you. I have to—" She was struggling again, twisting from side to side beneath him, sobbing with helplessness and frustration.

His body, his face, his voice had all gone ominously still. "What do you know, Julie?" She could barely hear him above the storm.

"Terrorists!" She sputtered and almost choked on the torrent. "You’re terrorists. You’re going to sabotage the Expo. Kill—"

"How do you know that, Julie? Who told you?"

"I heard you! I heard you and the others in the camper. This morning."

"Clever little cop. " Chayne almost spat the word. "Nothing but a cop after all, is that it, Julie? You’ve been planning this getaway since this morning?"

Julie nodded, panting, shaking water from her eyes. "
Yes.
Yes! I planned it. The whole thing."

"The whole thing?’" His voice was, if possible, even quieter. "Meaning tonight. That was a setup, is that what you’re saying?"

"Yes! That’s exactly what I’m saying." Her voice came rapidly, breathlessly, cruelly, trying to do with words what she was unable to do with her hands—wound. "Of course it was a setup. You don’t think that was real, do you? What do you think I am? Do you really think I could give myself to a terrorist? I needed you off my back. I needed you off guard. I needed you
asleep!
Yes, I planned it. And you fell for it—
El Demonio
!" She stopped, out of breath. The tension stretched like an elastic band—tension in his hands, in his body, in the air.

It was a shock, almost, when he said with grim amusement, "Yes, I fell for it. But then, so did you."

"What—"

"You planned it—and fell right into your own trap, didn’t you, Guerita." He moved suddenly upon her, shifting his legs, thrusting hers apart almost casually and driving his body hard against hers.

She gave a sharp cry as she felt the pressure of him on the part of her that was still sensitive from earlier assaults. "
No.
It was an act! Playacting! I was lying. It didn’t mean anything."

He gave a cold, ruthless laugh and ground himself against her. Not even the layers of clothing between them could keep the pressure from building intolerably, making her ache and throb.

"You just may be right about that—it’s too soon to tell. And you might have been lying, Guerita—but your body damn sure wasn’t!"

She began to whimper with fear and frustration— frustration at her inability to fight her need of him; fear of his ability to ignite such a terrible need in her. Fear of that awesome explosion of desire he had just sent boiling through her.

"Yeah," his voice rasped in her ear, "you wanted me to make love to you, Julie. You needed me…just like you need me now. This plan of yours was an excuse, wasn’t it?"

"No!"

"Just an excuse…a justification, so you could have what you wanted without compromising your cop code."

"
No
! No, that’s your ego; you can’t believe—"

"I’ll tell you what I believe, Guerita. I believe
this."

His mouth came down out of the rain and wind and turbulence, savagely, ruthlessly, breaking her lips, forcing her mouth open with sheer brute strength, stabbing deep inside her with his tongue. He drew back, surveyed her rain–and tear–wet face and then renewed the assault. It was less a rape and more a seduction, but no less ruthless. His mouth moved with calculated sensuality over hers, his tongue and lips sliding over every part of her mouth, inside and out, evoking unimaginable intimacies, stripping her of all reason. She was panting, trembling, arching her body unconsciously against him, her head turning from side to side, trying to escape that exquisite torture, trying to keep herself from responding.

But she couldn’t.
She couldn’t
. She gave a wild moan of despair and surrendered, opening to him, searching for him, lifting her head to meet him.

He gave a low, triumphant chuckle and growled against her mouth, "Yeah, that’s right.
Tell me the truth."

He released her hands and she reached for his neck. His own arms encircled her, and he rolled over onto his side, pulling her with him. His hand came between their bodies, tearing urgently at snaps and zippers. And then suddenly it stilled. Stilled, then stroked slowly across her ribs beneath her shirt. His tongue licked gently at the insides of her mouth and then withdrew. His lips soothed her swollen ones, and he gave a long sigh.

"Not here," he said harshly against her ear. "Not here. We’d probably drown." Easing himself away from her, he sat up, then took her hand and got to his feet, pulling her after him.

"Come on, up—let’s get out of this!" He had to shout to make himself heard against the roar of the chubasco. Julie was shocked to realize she’d forgotten the storm; it had faded before the turbulence of her own emotions.

J
ULIE WAS A
strong person, proud of her physical conditioning and stamina. Her job required it to a certain extent, but it had been a part of her makeup for much longer, ever since her childhood passion for gymnastics. She used her strength and endurance as a means of being competitive with men—she always scored among the highest in the patrol during the annual physical fitness exams.

But she knew when she had reached her limit. The cumulative effects of traumas both physical and emotional had wiped out all her reserves. She had as strong a will as anyone, but her legs simply wouldn’t obey it. They buckled, and she sat abruptly back down on the sand.

"Come on, Julie—get up. We’ve got to get off this beach!" She stared up at the dark form looming over her, blinked water from her eyes and slowly shook her head. Chayne lifted his hands in exasperation, then leaned down and scooped her up in his arms like a rag doll. The next thing Julie knew she was upside down over his shoulder, held securely by a band of solid muscle across her thighs.

Her dignity was offended. He was treating her like a sack of beans! Under the circumstances, dignity might have seemed a frivolous thing to make an issue of, but Julie was long past being rational. She began to kick and squirm and pound on Chayne’s unyielding back with her fists.

"Put…me…
down…
you
bas—"

The rest of the expletive was a squawk of outrage as a  hand connected resoundingly with her bottom. Julie considered the vulnerability of her position and elected to shut up.

Flung over his shoulder that way, it was difficult for her to tell where Chayne was going. She had assumed he was taking her back to the hut, but instead of going back down the beach and over the rocks, he seemed to be tramping steadily uphill, into the wind.

And then the wind dropped as they came into the lee of a mountain or cliff, and Chayne stooped to lower her feet to the ground. He gave her a gentle swat on the bottom and said crisply, "In you go. Watch your head."

It was a cave—a fearsome, almost tangible blackness in an already stygian night. Julie found herself making little whimpering noises of fear deep in her throat as she slid her hands along cold wet granite, feeling her way. The darkness was like cloth over her face; she kept feeling as though she ought to be able to claw at it and pull it away. Only the presence of Chayne’s hand on her waist and the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck kept her from crying like a child with a nightmare.

They had probably gone only a few yards—though it seemed like a mile—before Chayne gave her a reassuring squeeze and said, "Hold on, Julie, just give me a minute."

When his hands left her waist she began to shiver uncontrollably. "Are there…are there any s–s–snakes in here?" she quavered through chattering teeth.

"I don’t know," he drawled, sounding relaxed and amused. "We’ll find out in a minute."

Julie heard the hiss of his cigarette lighter—such a tiny feather of light, and yet so brilliant after all that darkness that she blinked and shielded her eyes. Blessed light! And blessed peace and quiet, too—the storm seemed far away. Here it was quiet and warm and safe.

"No snakes," Chayne announced cheerfully. "At least, not in the immediate vicinity. Watch your step and come on in."

The lighter clicked off and Julie gave a little cry of protest. "Can’t we build a fire? Light a torch?"

Chayne gave a dry chuckle. "No, I don’t think we’ll light any fires in here. But I’ve got a battery lantern. Just a minute."

The lantern came on, a harsher light that took some getting used to. Once her eyes had adjusted, Julie saw why there would be no fire, why Chayne had known about this place: Against the granite boulders at the far end of the cave was a neat stack of smallish wooden boxes stamped in large black letters, danger—explosives.

"Why did you bring me here?" Julie had her back to Chayne, unable, for some reason, to take her eyes off those boxes. "Instead of back to the hut, I mean."

He snorted, preoccupied with what he was doing. "Right now I wouldn’t give even money that there’s a roof on that hut."

"What about the others?" Julie had a vision of the little boy, Carlos, sweetly sleeping in his parents’ bed. Was he sleeping now? Or huddled in a roofless adobe, frightened and cold.

"The others?" Chayne’s voice was sardonic. "Don’t tell me you care."

"The little boy—"

"Geraldo will take good care of him. Rita, too. It’s not your concern."

"Not my concern. Well, he’s doing a terrific thing for his family, isn’t he? Involving them in this?" Julie’s voice broke and she flung her arm out to encompass the cave, the stored explosives. Chayne. "He’s a terrorist! How can a terrorist care for or about anyone?"

"Not a terrorist, Julie," Chayne said quietly. "You’re wrong about that. Just smugglers, that’s all."

"Just smugglers who smuggle terrorists! In my book that makes you all terrorists. Chayne—" She whirled to face him. "You told me you weren’t a killer. How can you say that? How can you do this? How can you— They plan to kill hundreds of people. Children!"

She was crying again, hating the display of weakness. Chayne was on one knee beside a wooden chest, sorting through what seemed to be emergency stores—blankets, medical supplies. Julie gazed down at his dark head, rain–wet and shimmering through her tear–glaze. She sniffled loudly and said in a small, drowned voice, "Chayne, you’re going to have to kill me."

His head jerked up. A little half smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it? I’ll admit I felt like it earlier tonight, when I found you’d gone, but I’d probably settle for a good spanking."

Julie gazed at him steadily. "I’ll keep trying, you know. I’m an officer of the law—the Federal Government. In order to stop me, you’re going to have to kill me. I can’t let it happen. I’ll keep trying to stop you."

Chayne dusted his hands and leaned an arm across his knee. He watched the tears chase each other down her cheeks in flinty–eyed silence for a moment and then said softly, "Suppose you do manage to get away, Julie. Suppose you even make it to the authorities. What are you going to tell them? That a bunch of terrorists are going to hit the Pan American Exposition? Can you tell them where, Julie? Or when? Which of the different Expo locations will they hit? Which hotel? Which stadium? Which convention center?"

"We’ll stop you at the border!"

"Will you? Do you know where the crossing will be? Even if you stopped this squad, don’t you know that terrorists never put all their eggs in one basket? Along all of those hundreds of miles of desert border, will you stop them all? Julie, don’t you think Expo security knows the danger of terrorist attack? They try to plan for just that kind of scenario, but the fact is, suicide squads are almost impossible to combat."

"Suicide squads?"

"That’s right, Julie. So you see, you really don’t know enough to be of much use. There really isn’t anything you can do."

She stood silently crying. After a moment he stood up. "Come on, out of those wet clothes."

She swiped a hand angrily across her face. "Not on your life."

He chuckled, that dry, humorless sound he made so often. "Come on, don’t make me use force—or gentler persuasion. You’re soaking wet, and I can’t have you getting sick. You take them off or I will. Maybe you’d prefer that."

"I’d rather die than have you touch me!" Julie said dramatically.

Chayne threw back his head and laughed with real amusement. "I thought we’d disposed of that little fiction down there on the beach."

Julie glared sullenly at him. "Turn off the lantern."

His voice still husky with mirth, Chayne murmured, "Soon, Julie. Soon. When I’ve got us properly bedded down. But not,
Guerita bonita
, to protect your modesty. I’m going to count to three."

Julie turned her back and untied her belt, then hung it over a rock. Her clammy shirt followed. And she hesitated, head bowed, hands on the button fly of her jeans.