Eye of the Storm (24 page)

"But you still pushed."

"I've built my entire adult life around finding and defending the truth. It's part of who I am."

"I know that. It's part of why I fell in love with you." But it was also the reason she was so afraid to be totally honest. Tate had told her to come clean with Reece. To be true to her past. But looking at him now, in the moonlight, she just couldn't. Couldn't admit to him that underneath all the polish and pretense, she was no better than the people he prosecuted every day.

"Something's wrong." He frowned down at her, his eyes probing.

"It's nothing really. It's just all of it, I guess. So much is happening and it's all happening too fast." Her stomach clenched with regret. He'd given her the opportunity, handed it to her on a silver platter, and still she couldn't take it.

He tipped her chin so that she was looking into his eyes. "I honestly don't know where we go from here, Simone. I won't pretend that sleeping together has solved everything. But maybe it's a beginning."

He leaned in to kiss her, his touch this time gentle, cherishing. There was a covenant in the connection. One she could not ignore. A part of her brain urged her to run, but her heart was stronger, and so she stayed.

She ran her hands along the sharp planes of his face, the friction of his beard stubble against her palms as erotic as if he were kissing her there. For the moment at least there was nothing standing between them. Not her past. Not their mistakes. Not their fear. Nothing. Here in the dark of Marguerite's house they were safe from everything that threatened to tear them apart.

She deepened the kiss, her hands exploring his shoulders and back, memorizing every inch of him. Knowing that later her memories might be all she had. He flipped her onto her back, his weight on top of her welcome. She inhaled the hot male smell of him, letting it drift through her body, filling her senses.

His hands found her breasts, his tender stroking sending sparks of joy skittering through her. This was where she wanted to be. This was where she belonged. Reece was home in a way that defied all she had done to subvert it. He was her safe place. And she'd be a fool to throw that away.

"I'm here," he whispered, as if reading her mind. And then he was there. Deep inside her, living, breathing, a part of her.

They moved in tandem, slowly at first and then faster, languid exploration giving way to deeper, darker needs. In and out, deeper and faster. Now. She wanted him now.

And he was there, hands joined with hers as the world broke again into raindrops of glittering silver, and she laughed as he held her close and they spiraled away toward the moon.

Later, much later, she awoke again. This time to complete darkness. The dark before dawn. As a little girl she'd always hated the hours before sunrise. She'd lain awake in the dark, shaking with fear. In a vague memory she recalled a woman, not her mother, trying to comfort her, telling her that soon it would be morning and everything would be all right.

But the woman had never understood—it wasn't the dark she was afraid of.

It was the light.

Morning always meant the death of her dreams.

ISABELLA STOOD on the lanai staring out at the garden, the flowers originally planted by her mother. She'd been home for almost twenty-four hours, but she still could not dispel the horror of Managua. Again her family had been threatened. And again there had been great loss, Isabella escaping only by the sheer determination of the men who served her.

From the street outside the palace, she'd made her way to the river, and Ramón. As Antonio had promised he'd been there with a boat, ferrying her away from the city. From there she'd been driven in three different cars, all of them traveling at breakneck speeds to assure that she was whisked safely into the mountains.

To
El Ojo de la Tormenta
.

But the valley gave her no peace of mind. Not this time. The cost had been too high. Antonio was dead, along with others. And to make matters worse, Manuel was claiming that it had been a coup attempt. The man had tried to kill her, and when he failed he had still tried to spin the night's events in his favor.

There had been no word from her brother, and she was beginning to worry. If something happened to him, none of this would be worth it. Not her survival, not her friends' deaths—none of it.

"There is no further word." Ramón walked out of the house, clicking his cell phone closed in the process.

"Nothing from Ortiz?" She turned to face the older man, her thoughts still back in Managua. The last she had seen of Ortiz, he had been standing in her bedroom, trying to prevent Manuel's killers from taking her out, his body thrown in front of the door as if he personally could stop the assault.

"There is no word. But we have no one left on the inside." There was the faintest hint of rebuke in his voice. Ramón was and always would be her father's man. And though technically the old man worked for her now, in many ways he still considered her a child. "I think we can presume him dead."

Isabella dipped her head. Ortiz would be missed. "We must compensate his family. Make sure that they want for nothing." She waved a hand toward the outbuildings of the compound. Somewhere beyond the main gate, Ortiz's wife, children and grandchildren were suffering.

Suffering because of her.

Her only comfort was that the men who had died had known they were sacrificing for her father's sake, and had gone willingly. Her father had commanded incredible loyalty. The kind that had been prevalent in her country a century ago but had begun to die out with the coming of politicians and their treaties aimed at destroying the old way of life.

"It's already been taken care of." Ramón nodded but did not leave. Evidently he had more to say.

"What is it?" Isabella snapped, regretting the sharpness of her words immediately, but she was so tired.

"I think we need to talk about repercussions."

"From Manuel or the Americans?" There was no question that Manuel wanted her dead, but if the Americans thought she'd had something to do with Maurice Baxter's murder, she had no doubt that they too would want her to pay.

"I don't think that the government will do anything further. We are not seen as a threat directly. We both know the stories they are releasing are only a cover. Ortega is upset about the Americans and the pressure they are placing on the government to admit to being involved with the CIA man's death."

"But Manuel had nothing to do with it. Surely just denying it would serve his purpose."

"You were his lover,
carita
. The Americans will never believe you acted on your own."

"Even knowing about Sangre de Cristo?"

"They cannot afford to take a chance. They'll want Manuel to pay."

"Which is why he isn't openly blaming me."

"Exactly. He knows he'd be dealt a death blow in the backlash. Better to try and divert attention."

"Then I'm not sure I see how there is danger of repercussion—"

"You are a child in so many ways." Ramón cut her off, his voice sorrowful but not condemning. "If Manuel found out about the meeting, you can be certain the Americans know as well."

"But then why haven't they admitted as much?" She rubbed her temples, trying to stop the pounding in her head.

"Because they prefer to do a political dance on the surface while taking action well out of the public eye."

"Just like before." She spat the words out, anger making her speak her mind. "Perhaps they will send my father's killers. I would love nothing better than to face them."

"You have no proof that it was the Americans."

"It was definitely a gringo. I have eyes."

Ramón sighed. "And you cannot let it go."

"My father died in Sangre de Cristo because someone he trusted killed him. I remember this, I carry it here—" she pounded her heart "—always."

"I know it hurts, but there are more important things than vengeance."

"You and Antonio, you sound the same." She pushed back her hair. "I'm sorry. I meant nothing against Antonio. You know that I loved him. If I could change things..."

Ramón reached out to touch her shoulder. "Antonio did what he had to do to keep you safe. Had it been me, I'd have done the same."

Again she felt the swelling of tears, but she swallowed them whole. There was no room now for emotion. The time had passed for regrets. She must instead concentrate on the present.

"Have you heard from Carlos?" The question was cautious. As if Ramón were trying to gauge how truthful she would be with him. •

"I have heard nothing since I left Managua." And the silence was killing her, her fears blossoming more with each passing hour.

"Your brother is a cat, he will land on his feet." It was the closest Ramón had come to comforting her and Isabella appreciated the gesture.

"He is all I have, Ramón. My blood." She touched the crucifix. "My heart."

"I know,
carita
."

But she wondered how he could possibly understand.

Turning back to the garden, she gripped the railing, the metal cutting into her skin. In a matter of hours her web had not only tangled but broken, and now all she could do was wait to see where the strands would fall.

*****

"WHERE'S SIMONE?" Reece asked as he walked into the living room, rubbing a towel through his hair.

"She's gone," Martin said, looking up from the computer with a frown. "I figured you knew that."

He swallowed frustration, hot and bitter, as it rose in his throat. There hadn't been a chance to talk about last night. And now it was too late. He sorted through images of the night before, his mind settling on the morning. She'd stayed with him, waking in his arms. And then they'd made love one last time.

One last time.

The words echoed in his head.

God, there was so much he still wanted to say.

"She thought it would be easier for you." Marguerite came up behind him, holding two plates of scrambled eggs. She held one out to Martin, who grabbed it like he hadn't eaten in a week.

Reece, on the other hand, couldn't even stomach the idea of eating, and he waved Marguerite away. "Easier for her, you mean." He hated the way he sounded, but he couldn't believe she'd walked out on him—again.

"You don't mean that." Marguerite's wrinkled face drew into a frown.

"No, I don't." He sighed. "I just hate that she left without a word." The truth was, they'd exchanged more than words upstairs. Maybe she'd thought that was all they'd needed.

Maybe she was right.

But just at the moment he wanted nothing more than to tear out of the house after her.

"They'll be fine." Again Marguerite's voice was purposefully calming. "She and Tate share a difficult past. But they work well together. He won't let anything happen to her."

"You know as well as I do that she doesn't need anyone to take care of her, Marguerite. Not Tate—not me." He wasn't proud of the way he sounded, but it hurt that she didn't need him.

"You're wrong." Marguerite had rescued the plate of eggs and was offering it to him again. "She does have needs. And you, my friend, are the only man she believes can fill them. Just because she has gone today, does not mean she has no intention of coming back. The most important gift you can give her is to be here waiting when she does."

He took the plate, still not wanting to eat but realizing she'd keep offering until he took it. Moving over to the table, he dropped down into a chair and stirred the eggs under the pretense of eating them. "On some level I know that you're right. It's just that I'm not used to sitting on the bench, you know?"

"So now we get to the real problem." Marguerite smiled, walking over to the window. "You are not comfortable with the shift of power. Until now it has been all about you, no?"

He started to deny it, but deep inside he knew that she was right. It hadn't been his intention certainly, but he'd been the one to leave the house every day, expecting that she'd be there when he came home. He hadn't exactly been Archie Bunker, but still, he hadn't really given a lot of thought to what her life was like.

"But she always seemed happy." He said it aloud, as if Marguerite had been listening to his internal conversation.

"And I'm sure she was," Marguerite said. "But there is more to a relationship than contentment. There is the excitement and adventure of discovering each other. And to have that fulfillment you must be partners in every sense of the word."

"Maybe Simone left you behind so that you could learn a thing or two from Marguerite," Martin laughed.

Reece chucked the towel at him, and for a moment he thought he'd hit something, the sound of breaking glass filling the air. Then he saw Marguerite whirl around and dive away from the window.

A second report left no question as to what they were hearing. "Get down," Marguerite yelled, crawling toward Martin, who was frozen in his chair. She yanked his arm, and without comment he dropped to the floor, eyes wide.

Reece followed suit, just as the plate of eggs he'd left on the table shattered into pieces, a bullet meant, no doubt, for him slamming into the table.

"There's a panic room in the basement." Marguerite motioned toward the kitchen. "The door's in there. If we can make it, we'll be safe." She crawled forward, then stopped as the gunman, seemingly aware of their intent, peppered the doorway with bullets.

"And you thought Simone was going to have all the excitement." Martin, apparently, was finally with the program, his fear dissipating in a rush of adrenaline.

"What we need is a diversion."

Marguerite nodded her agreement, reaching for a floor lamp. Lifting carefully, she slid the lamp across the floor until it was just at the edge of the window. "When I move it in front of the window, you go."

There was no room for argument.

Marguerite lifted the lamp higher, its shade wavering in front of the window. Reece motioned for Martin to move and he scuttled crablike into the hallway and on into the kitchen. The metal lamp clanged as the shooter targeted it, the shade spinning off to fly across the room. Marguerite dropped the base and bent double, running across the room.

Reece moved into the hallway and was turning to follow Martin when he heard something fall. Spinning back around, he saw Maiguerite on the floor clutching her stomach, and in seconds he was back, his arms around her, pulling her across the floor.

"Let me go," she said. "You need to get to the panic room. Simone will never forgive me if something happens to you."

"Well, she won't forgive me if something happens to you, either. So we go together. All right?"

Realizing he wasn't going to give in, Marguerite nodded, and they moved forward, inching their way along the hallway. Marguerite held one fist against the wound in her stomach in a seemingly futile attempt to stanch the blood. Her shirt was soaked with it, leaving Reece afraid to think about what that might mean.

Moving closer to the kitchen and the now open doorway to the basement, Reece could see his brother already moving down the stairs. "We're almost there," he whispered, sliding his hands under her arms and knees, preparing to pick her up for the final dash across to the basement. But before he could stand up, all hell broke loose in the kitchen.

The door splintered from the impact of gunfire, this time the volley clearly caused by a machine gun. Whoever this guy was, he meant business. There was no question of running now. They'd have to crawl.

But first they needed another distraction. The towel he'd thrown at his brother lay at the edge of the hallway, still partly in the living room. Reece reached forward and grabbed it, moving quickly back into the hallway.

Armed with the towel, he motioned Marguerite to join him at the entrance to the kitchen. Martin was back now, standing in the doorway to the basement, waving for them to come on. Reece tossed the towel toward Martin, a bullet catching it neatly as it arced its way across the room.

"Damn." Martin's voice mirrored the frustration Reece was feeling.

Marguerite was leaning against the wall now, her breathing labored. It was clear that she was losing too much blood.