Against the Wind (21 page)

“Well, he’s no longer any concern of ours,” Maddy had replied doubtfully.

Soledad smiled. “Perhaps not, as long as he stays in San Pablo.”

“Why would he leave?”

“I have no idea. But then, I have never understood the working of Carlos’s mind. Let us hope for both our sakes that he stays put. I wouldn’t think he’d be pleased at our
norteamericano
lifestyle. He wasn’t able to make use of your father’s death. He might not be adverse to having one of us take his place.”

Maddy shuddered. “Don’t even mention such a thing,
mamacita
. I have enough on my mind.” It had amused the two of them to call each other mother and daughter. Even though Soledad was actually two years younger
than her tall, slim stepdaughter, it entertained her to watch people’s reactions when she introduced her. Maddy had no objections. She would have claimed anyone as her mother rather than Helen.

Her house was cool and dark as she let herself in that afternoon, and the sea breeze brought a freshening to the dead air of late summer. Tossing the stack of letters on her glass-topped coffee table, Maddy headed straight for the refrigerator, kicking off her sandals as she went. A few minutes later she sank down on the sofa, her bare feet on the table in front of her, a can of Tab in her hand, as she flicked on the remote-control switch for the TV and began to delve through the bills, advertising, charity appeals, and circulars that comprised her mail. Dan Rather was off that night, and she paid little attention to his replacement, sorting through her mail with half a mind trying to decide whether to go for a walk before or after dinner, when a name caught her attention.

“The latest delegation from San Pablo arrived in Washington today, headed by General Anastasio Ortega, to try to talk the U.S. Congress into reinstating military aid for that besieged country. This will be the fourth such mission …”

Maddy stared at the TV, at the smiling, handsome face of Ortega, clad in his natty gray uniform glittering with medals and orders and not a weapon in sight, and her hands clenched into fists. He’d been the one in charge of the shelling of civilians in that aging hacienda, and now he was in Washington to bleat about the peaceful efforts of the Morosa government.

He must have heard her thoughts. “I plan a great many things for this visit,” he said smoothly. “I wish to set our case before your Congress, with all the true facts that have been ignored …”

True facts, Maddy sneered, taking a swig of her Tab.

“… and pay my respects to the widow and daughter of our national hero, Sam Lambert,” he continued smoothly.

Maddy grimaced. Soledad would be charmed to hear that.

But apparently Ortega had forgotten about Soledad. “I will be visiting with Senora Maxfield Henderson tomorrow afternoon, to present my government’s condolences on the death of her late husband and to talk over plans for a suitable memorial to this great man.”

This great man you wanted to kill, Maddy fumed. And with the suddenness of television news the story was over and gone, leaving Maddy feeling angry and just a little shaken.

She knew who would be on the phone when it rang shrilly in her ear a half an hour later. She hadn’t heard her voice since she walked out of the house in McLean six months ago, but she knew the peremptory tone of the ring.

“Hello, Mother,” she said politely.

“I assume you watched the news,” Helen said without preamble.

“I did.”

“Ortega wants to see you.”

“Ortega can go to hell.”

“Madelyn, do not be more difficult than you have been already. Now is your chance to do something positive for your beloved little Patronistas. I wouldn’t have thought La Patronita would let them down for a matter of pride.”

Maddy didn’t even ask how her mother had heard that nickname. She knew with sudden weariness that as usual her mother was pulling the right strings. She’d have to
come, just on the off-chance that bloodthirsty, murdering Ortega might see reason. “When do you want me?”

She could almost hear Helen purring at the other end of the line. “Anastasio is coming tomorrow afternoon with his party. There’ll be plenty of media around. I think you should be here to provide a united front. Come in the morning and I’ll have your room made ready.”

“I’ll be there at three tomorrow afternoon,” Maddy said. “And I’ll stay at the Sheraton.”

“But, darling, that’s so far away.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re being uncooperative,” Helen said in a dangerous voice.

“I’m being far more cooperative than you have any right to expect. Tomorrow at three.” And she hung up before her mother could say another word.

It was a vain hope that all the flights might be booked. It was a vain hope that her plane might crash over the Grand Canyon. And it was a vain hope that the taxi drivers would refuse to take her into Virginia, the limousine drivers would be on strike, and the rental agencies be out to lunch. At quarter of three Maddy pulled into her mother’s spacious driveway, the clumsy American car ending a few feet beyond the front door with a screech of power brakes.

It was sheer luck that she hadn’t rammed into one of the myriad television vans outside the house. Her hands were trembling slightly as she climbed out of the seat and headed toward the house, and she told herself it was the near miss with the unaccustomed vehicle that made her nervous. But she knew it wasn’t.

It was going to take every bit of her self-control not to jump, screaming, on Ortega’s compact little body and try to rip his eyes out. He would doubtless be surrounded by
brawny Gray Shirts imported for the purpose. Hadn’t Helen mentioned his party? No doubt consisting of bodyguards and more bodyguards. He certainly didn’t need a translator.

With a move that was now almost characteristic she reached down and touched the medallion through the light cotton shirt. The heavy warmth of it soothed her, reminded her to be patient as she walked through the door and definitely not to cry.

Her mother and Ortega were out on the terrace, the swimming pool shimmering in the background, a horde of reporters, cameras, microphones stuck in front of them. Her stepfather was off to one side, observing all this with a pleased expression, and for a moment Maddy watched them.

Suddenly it was all too much. Not for the sake of a thousand homeless refugees could she stand by and make polite conversation with that murderer. There had to be some other way, but right now she had no stomach for any way at all. Wheeling around, she headed back toward the front door.

The rapid buzz of San Pablan Spanish carried to her, and without hesitation she took a detour, moving toward the library and the french doors that led out into the curving driveway. It was bound to be deserted at this moment. Everyone was out drooling over Helen Henderson’s carefully staged photo opportunity.

The room was not quite as empty as she could have hoped. Slamming the door shut behind her, she headed over to the french doors that were open to the early-autumn breeze. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw a gray-shirted figure rise from the chair behind the desk, and she almost broke into a run, instinctive panic taking
over at the sight of that hated uniform. Then she stopped motionless by the door, before turning—to look directly into Jake Murphy’s distant, unreadable eyes above the uniform of their enemy.

He caught up with her by the huge rental car. She had her hand on the door, ready to yank it open, dive inside, and lock him and everything that had ever betrayed her out, when his hand closed over hers, strong and hard and pitiless, yanking her around to confront a face she had thought never to see again and now wished to God she didn’t have to.

He looked no different from when she had first seen him six months ago, a little older perhaps, a little colder, and those hazel eyes of his looked right through her without tenderness, mercy, or remembrance. That last night in the San Pablo highlands might never have happened. Or maybe she’d just been the spoils of war, she thought bitterly.

“Get your hands off me,” she said in a low, controlled voice.

She should have known better than to have thought he’d take orders from her. His long fingers kept their tight grip, almost but not quite cutting off the circulation of blood. She’d have bruises there tomorrow. Bruises to remind her.

“Get in the car.” His voice was low and rough, with
that gravelly texture she remembered all too well. The sound of it was another slice of pain, but she never flinched.

“That’s exactly what I was planning to do,” she said with great dignity. “If you’ll just let go of me and step away, I’ll be more than happy to leave.”

“Get in the car, Maddy,” he repeated, never loosening his grip, “and slide over to the passenger side.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You don’t have any choice in the matter, do you?” he countered, unmoved. “But no, you’re not going anywhere with me. We’re just going to have a little talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I think you’ll find that you do. Get in the car, Maddy. There’s no one around, and I wouldn’t think twice about forcing you.” His tone of voice was deceptively polite.

“You already are forcing me.”

“There’s force and there’s force,” he observed pleasantly, and his fingers tightened a fraction on the slender bones of her wrist.

She had no choice. The metal of the car door felt warm beneath her cold, sweating fingers. She opened it and slid in, along the absurdly luxurious bench seat, with Jake following her, and when she reached the far edge of the bench seat he released her.

“Give me the keys.”

“I thought you said we weren’t going anywhere.”

“We’re not. But it’s too hot to sit here with the windows closed, and I sure as hell don’t want anyone overhearing us. I’m going to turn on the car and the air conditioning,” he explained patiently.

“You’ve gotten pretty soft since you’ve joined Morosa’s band of cutthroats,” she scoffed. “I don’t remember any air conditioning in Puente del Norte.”

“No, there wasn’t any,” he said, starting the car and the air conditioner before turning to her. “I’m not about to make excuses to you, Maddy.”

Why not? she felt her heart cry out, and quickly squashed it down. Why did he have to look so very wonderful to her, when she hated him? He’d cut some but not all of that glorious hair, so that it now trailed over the collar of his uniform. His uniform, she reminded herself, withdrawing even more. His face was tanned and austere, as withdrawn as her own, and his hazel eyes looked even more bleak. It took her a moment to realize that the last time she’d seen those hazel eyes she’d been lying beneath him, his eyes hooded and slightly glazed as he’d looked down at her. …

Now was hardly the time for erotic memories, she reminded herself. That Jake had died in San Pablo. The man beside her was nothing more than a … what? She didn’t really know.

“What do you want from me, Jake?” she demanded wearily. “If you don’t want to explain, why did you even want to see me? You must have known my mother sent for me.”

“I asked her to.”

“Why? I presume after six months that it wasn’t a sudden upsurge of love?”

“No.”

“Then what?” Her voice sounded admirably distant and collected. Her father would have been proud of her. But what would her father have thought of the turncoat sitting next to her?

Jake leaned back against the powder-blue upholstered seat, and the fluffy luxury of the big car looked absurd against his whipcord toughness and military bearing.
Damn, she hated that uniform. “Sam sent something back with you,” he said.

“You know that he did. A candy box with a videotape that I delivered to Senator O’Malley. It was instrumental in getting almost all military aid to San Pablo cut.” She couldn’t keep a note of triumph out of her voice.

“He sent something else too. I want to know what and where it is, and I want you to give it to me.” His voice and face were implacable.

“I wish I knew what you were talking about, just so I could tell you to go to hell,” Maddy said. “But I don’t.”

“Sam sent more than the candy box home with you. He sent something that would incriminate the Patronistas. I have a pretty good idea what it is, but it won’t do us any good until we find it.”

“We? When did you and Morosa and Ortega suddenly become we? Doesn’t it bother you that Ortega is responsible for the death of your friends?”

“What friends?”

“Richard Feldman, Dr. Milsom, Luis, Enrique, Jorge…”

“Only Richard died in the shelling,” Jake corrected her. “And that was his choice.”

“I’m sure it was. What did you do, give him the choice of betraying his principles once more and fighting for the Gray Shirts or dying? I’d imagine he’d choose dying quite happily. Since you betrayed him.”

“You’re so very sure of yourself and what you imagine happened,” Jake said wearily. “And I don’t have the time or the inclination right now to set you straight. You’re having too good a time hating me as it is. I just want what Sam gave you. A book, another box, a letter.”

Oh, Jake, I’m not having a good time hating you, she mourned. Not a good time at all. She could feel tears at
the back of her eyes, and quickly she blinked them away to glare at him fiercely. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jake. You should know as well as I do that I didn’t see Sam after that morning visit. You didn’t choose to let me, even though my father was on his deathbed, calling for me.”

“No, I didn’t choose to let you,” he replied heavily. “For reasons I’m not about to go into. For Pete’s sake, Maddy, give me a straight answer! Did someone bring you something? From Sam, perhaps?”

For a moment Maddy thought of the medallion that lay against her skin, then dismissed it. It was nothing more than a disk of solid metal, and it had nothing to do with this damnable tangle of politics. It had been a gift of love from a distant father, and there was no way she was going to give it up to Jake Murphy.

“Sam gave me nothing but the candy box,” she said firmly, meeting his eyes then wished she hadn’t. Jake’s eyes had always been able to see everything, and they saw through her right now.