Angel Face (17 page)

Out of the range of his prying eyes, she examined herself. The cut on her hand had formed a seam that was the deep pink of normal healing. It didn’t look infected, but something was making her feverish. Carpenter had already diagnosed that much, and if her immune system couldn’t fight it off, she would have to find another way. Rain forests were pharmacies of natural medicines, but she didn’t know what to look for.

Silver could have helped her. What had happened to her friend?

Bathed in waning light, Angela realized that the ruby and orange twilight had nearly played itself out. In moments it would be dark, and the sharp screeches and roars coming out of the jungle were sobering reminders that it wasn’t safe. Most predators were nocturnal. They did their hunting after the sun went down. Why should the beasts of a Mexican rain forest be any different?

Or the beast in the next room?

A piercing cry made her jump. It was followed by a burst of staccato chatter that brought her dizzily to her feet. It sounded as if someone was laughing hysterically at her predicament, but it must be another denizen of the jungle. She imagined a spidery creature with eyes even bigger than hers.

A dozen or so hurricane lamps were clustered on a
wicker trunk next to the front door. She made her way over there with a great show of strength, aware that her hostage was deeply and darkly interested in everything she did. Next to the lamps were a box of foot-long matches and a container of what smelled like kerosene. She went at the task with the resolve of a disaster survivor.

The first lamp wouldn’t cooperate, and her shakiness made it difficult with the others, but when she had several of them glowing, she took a moment to regain her strength. She was becoming increasingly fragile, which was difficult to hide with him watching her every move.

Fortunately, the shutters gave her no trouble, but the front door had nothing more than a primitive chain lock.

“Grab a chair from the kitchen,” he said, anticipating her, “and wedge it up against the door.”

His tone was surly, but arguing would have taken too much energy. She needed her strength for better things.

“And those yellow candles on the bookshelf should be lit. They’re bug repellents.”

She did that, too.

“Now, where’s that food you were talking about?”

“Coming right up.”

She sounded dangerously cheerful. And when she returned from the kitchen, it was with a large platter of exotic fruits and vegetables that she’d found in the refrigerator, along with some soft corn tortillas, spicy shredded meat, and a pot of simmering, aromatic black beans. She also found a peppery green salsa and a pitcher of something that tasted like sangria.

Someone was going to feast tonight, and it wouldn’t be the beasts.

The fever had robbed her of an appetite, but she hadn’t eaten in over twenty-four hours, so she had to be hungry. He was hungry, too. She made a point to put the platter on the floor right in front him, and when he saw it, his
throat convulsed and saliva formed a bubble at the edge of his lips. He was starving, she realized. His mouth was watering involuntarily, and she could hear his stomach rumbling from where she sat.

She felt pangs of concern, even of sympathy, but she steeled herself against them. Someone had taught her to do that, too, to get the information no matter what it took or who got hurt.
You didn’t get second chances in this business,
they’d told her.
When the first one came, you acted
.

This was her opportunity. He needed what she had, and she could break him with that need. The essence of pungent Mexican spices, of ortega chilis, and of cilantro floated up with the steam coming off the platter, and hunger stirred within Angela, despite her listlessness. She was desperately thirsty, and the ripe, juicy fruit made her throat constrict. There were mangos, crimson blood oranges, bananas, and exotic melons.

Greedily she tore off a section of orange and licked the juice that dripped from its pulp. The sharp, sweet flavor stung her cracked lips and made her jaws tighten and burn. She sucked out the remaining juice and struggled to eat what was left of the section. Her shuddering body was in shock and barely knew what to do with the food, but she’d never tasted anything so delicious.

The melons dripped juice, too. A stream of pale green ran down her arm as she nibbled on a slice of honeydew. Her swollen throat wouldn’t allow for anything but tiny bites, and it was impossible to swallow all the nectar. Within seconds, her aching mouth had filled to the brim and run over, and even though she knew the juice was oozing in embarrassing ways, she wasn’t fast enough to catch it with her tongue.

Her lips trembled as she licked the sweetness from them and felt a cool trickle under her chin. She caught it with her fingers and discovered a pool of wetness in the hollow
of her throat. Melon juice had formed its own spillway, and the crevice between her breasts had become its sluice. Dizzily she looked down and wondered what to do.

It was not a pretty picture. Her blouse had come untied, and it was creeping off her shoulder. She wasn’t wearing a bra because of the heat, and on one side, the gauzy material was stuck fast to a glistening breast. The other side was billowing like a sail in sultry trade winds. As far as she could tell, there was just one button holding the whole mess together, and her arm was wet and tacky up to the elbow.

As she woozily assessed the damage, her eyelids drooped and a feeling of heavy, dreamy languor overcame her. She swayed forward and caught herself, afraid to look up, afraid the room would begin to spin. What she needed was a shower, but she couldn’t seem to move, especially the way everything else was moving. The melon juice had hit her like liquor.

There wasn’t much she could do but wait out the weak spell and pray this one would pass. Her head filled with a rush of noise, and she wondered if it was real or imagined. It sounded like rain on the roof or a flock of birds. Reduced to the coping skills of near infancy, she tried sucking the stickiness from her fingers. Cats managed to clean their entire bodies with their tongue, didn’t they? Of course, cats didn’t eat melons. She hadn’t thought to bring any water, and the hut’s water probably wasn’t safe to drink, so she dipped her hand in the pitcher of sangria and looked up, dimly aware that he was watching.

And had been watching
all
this time.

She hadn’t thought to bring napkins, either.

She drew out her hand and let it drip. But really, what could you do with wet fingers besides wipe them on your clothes or put them in your mouth? And her clothes were wet enough.

He didn’t seem to appreciate her situation. In fact, his
blazing eyes were fixed on her drip-drying hand, and Angela didn’t know what to do with it.

A snarl of frustration startled her, and she realized it was him, struggling to speak. The room began to sway, and she held on, mentally dropping anchor. Maybe it was her state of mind, but he looked as predatory as the creatures prowling outside the hut, and she probably would have felt safer with them. His jaw muscles were torturously knotted, and the way his throat was working, it looked as if he’d been trying to eat the fruit right along with her.

But this wasn’t just simple hunger. She had aroused an appetite for more things than melon, and he was a man of strong appetites. She’d seen that in the aurora borealis on her computer screen. His brain scans had signaled powerful drives and passions. She’d seen calm blue pools throw purple flares and his reward pathways pulse with crimson rivers. She’d been a witness to even his most private impulses, and if she’d read them correctly, the septal nucleus, which was the brain’s arousal center, must be on fire right now.

It had enthralled her.
He
was enthralling her, although his ever-darkening features were a stark contrast to his vibrant mind. The falling light was thick with rising disquiet. It crackled like wires in danger of shorting out. It was there in his stony jaw and his heavily corded biceps, and every sense Angela had was engaged. She could see him, taste him in the stinging juice on her tongue, even smell him.

“This is your specialty, isn’t it? Turning men into drooling idiots?”

His voice was raw, dry, accusing. She needn’t have worried about making him want what she had. He wanted it badly. If he was hungry for anything right now, it was a sticky-fingered female in a wet blouse. He was devouring her with his mind, but he looked as if he didn’t like
the taste of this exotic feast very much. He didn’t like it, only he couldn’t stop himself.

Angela had seen it before, this primal struggle that men went through. She’d seen it all her life. And it had spelled disaster. The men who wanted her were racked with conflict, and in some cases, they’d found it easier to make her responsible for their obsession with forbidden fruit. Her foster father had tried to make her responsible for everything, even the pain he caused others. And it had always struck her as tragic that society still encouraged its males to covet youth and innocence, even when it was off limits, and then tragically, some of them took it a step further. They blamed the victim.

“What was I supposed to do?” they said. “She was irresistible.”

Irresistible.
That word had been her cross. Perhaps they saw an angel, but they fantasized a harlot, and they punished her for both. That was why she’d changed herself and tried to make herself severely plain. She didn’t know how else to escape the face, or the fate, she’d been born with.

And now this man was looking at her the way they did.

What does he see?

Not a vision of irresistibility. Angela could barely look at herself, much less imagine how he found anything to be attracted to. Her skin was slick with juice and her clothing was pasted to her body. Dark hair was strewn all over her head. She looked like something that had crawled in from the jungle night, although maybe he liked his women that way.

But in her secret heart, she must have been counting on him to see through her physical appearance to who she really was, and tell her he didn’t believe any of it. She couldn’t have killed those doctors. Such monstrous impulses were not hidden inside Angela Lowe. Other than
her foster father, she had hurt no one. She wanted him to say all that and mean it. But he didn’t.

She felt a welling of despair that made no sense. She knew him so well, perhaps better than he knew himself. How could she not have known that he would fail her, too?

The platter of food nearly spilled as she shoved it aside. Once again, she was being punished for her looks when she hadn’t even used them yet. She had not. She had not used her looks. But she would now.

“You’d be better off killing me,” he said, “because if I ever get loose—”

She pulled her blouse away from her body, aware that she was dripping wet, and that a faint smile had settled itself on her quavering lips. She was shaking everywhere, deep inside, shaking with purpose. Her fingers tasted of tart, fruity sangria as one by one, she dipped them into her mouth and licked them clean, allowing herself to imagine cool things like dripping ice cream cones and icy grape Popsicles. She caught hints of melon and orange juice on her skin, too, and something that was making her even woozier, maybe the wine.

Her mouth was watering copiously, but a strange lethargy had crept into her movements. Rather than fight it, she gave in and rocked her head in slow motion, languorously, like a cat. The sensation was rather pleasant, and it would have been so easy to drift off into dreamland. She dipped her fingers again, grooming herself with little noises of contentment. She was a cat, about to take a nap.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The cat started, blinked, and ignored the disruption. The inside of her paws were a little sticky, and they had to be readied so she could clean her throat and chest. Didn’t he know that cats were fastidious creatures?

Not until she was thoroughly good and ready, did she meet his eyes.

She didn’t flinch as his gaze burned into hers. This was what he expected, so let him deal with it. Let him deal with it until it hurt. And it would. It would hurt because she wasn’t done yet.

Locked with him in visual battle, she undid the remaining button on her blouse and let it fall from her shoulders. She felt the gentle caress of the night air on her skin, and the utter boldness of what she’d done. After a moment, she gathered up her blouse and wrung the wetness from it. Her naked breasts glistened and burned in the fire from the lanterns.

“You had better not let me loose,” he warned harshly.

Her intention had been to put the shirt back on, but that wasn’t going to happen now. A raw power flowed between them that made her arms weak, useless. He glared at her for one incendiary second, and she watched his throat convulse again and his head rear back.

She could only imagine the current that arced through his body. He was a man sentenced to the electric chair. A cord in his neck jerked like a spring under stress, and his thighs were shaking. His skin gleamed from the strain, but he wouldn’t give in to it. He ravaged every naked inch of her with his eyes, brutally exposing her.

A drop of perspiration rolled toward her breasts, and she stopped it with her fingers.

“Never let me loose,”
he snarled.
“Never.”

A
NGELA
swayed, certain she was going to faint. There was no way to avoid his frightening warning. And no way to respond. She was hot and thirsty, terribly hot. Only half aware of what she was doing, she dipped her fingers in the sangria and began to wash herself. The coolness against her scorching skin made her shudder. It was merciful relief to a body headed toward the boiling point.

Her vision was beginning to blur at the edges, but somehow he held her where she was. There was a physical grip in his expression that wouldn’t let her go. Curious, she glanced down and saw what he was reacting to. The sangria was dripping and running in streamlets over her breasts. She looked like a siren, emerging from the sea, and to her surprise, it was quite beautiful.

She heard him groan, and her head came up dizzily. He’d averted his eyes, refusing to look at her, and the sound he made was as much torment as rage. Had she won? Had he reached the breaking point? This was the time to act, but there was a current running inside her, too.

She picked up the platter and set it in front of him, offering the food, offering herself.

Taste the melon,
she thought.
Taste it and know the real meaning of the word
irresistible.

She broke off a chunk of the fruit and felt its juice run down her arm. If he took a bite, he would never be able to stop, and then she would have him. She offered it to him and watched his throat spasm. He tried to refuse, but he couldn’t. He was starving. Every nerve ending screamed at him to eat.

“Bitch,” he whispered.

Angel,
she thought.
Angel . . . taste the fruit and see.

And he did. From her fingers. He got a small section of pale green melon between his teeth before his lips closed, catching her fingers. Angela felt a sound forming in her throat but it never got out. She didn’t pull away, either, even though her stomach tumbled and fell. How strange and incredibly intimate it was, feeding a man, having her fingers in his mouth.

He swallowed hard, and she knew how painful it must be. He probably got little more than juice, but he was hungry, greedy. He wanted it all. She felt the sharp edges of his teeth, some gentle suction, and an enveloping warmth. His tongue lathed searchingly, making sure he got every last drop. Lord, the sensations he was creating in her already plummeting belly. He could have bitten her, but he didn’t. Instead, he licked the juice from her fingers and then from his lips.

Now is the time to stop. Now, while he still wants more.

His jaw muscles sucked in as she drew back. He glared at her with hell’s own eyes, but he opened his mouth again. He wanted more!

She broke off another chunk of melon. Her hand wavered.

No, Angela! Eat it yourself. Don’t give it to him. Eat it
and walk away. Leave him desperate for more. Make him beg.

She was torn between wanting to feed him and wanting to break him, and part of her conflict was confusion. She didn’t know what was pleasure and what was torture anymore. It all felt the same. But the voice in her head was drowning everything else out.

You need his cooperation, you fool. Feed his imagination, not his body. Feed his need! You know exactly what to do.

The melon was crushed between her fingers and oozing down her arm. She caught the juice with her tongue and heard him groan out an obscenity.

Not enough. It isn’t enough. Go in for the kill!

She studied the platter of food and dipped her finger into a mound of black beans that turned out to be so spicy they brought moisture to her upper lip. Fruit seemed the safer choice, she decided, handling the bumpy blood oranges and the smooth mangos in turn . . . until the bananas caught her eye.

She pulled one from the bunch, smelled it and rubbed it against her cheek, aware of how firm and cool it was. Her intention was to peel it, but as she began, she realized how quiet it had become.

Even the howler monkeys had gone silent.

She was inches from a fully aroused man. He was close enough to touch,
close enough to break with a touch
, and God how she wanted that. She wanted the victory that only his surrender could bring. He was a strong and stubborn adversary, but he was also tied up. She could do anything she wanted, take total advantage of the situation. But something held her back: the angry desperation in his face. And it was desperation. She couldn’t stare into that thrilling turmoil and not respond. Her poor, weak heart thumped so hard it made her woozy. Pounding blood rocked her forward. She reached out to steady herself.

Cool. His skin was beautifully cool. Was that his arm she’d touched?

She shuddered and inched closer, close enough to lay her head on his shoulder. He was as smooth and naked as the stones in the stream . . . or was she dreaming?

He made a rough, guttural sound, but she barely noticed. This was too good. He was like chilled wine, and she was burning up, the flame that lit the lanterns. She caressed herself against his chest, rubbed her flushed cheeks back and forth. Her breasts brushed over his bicep and even that was cool. How lovely it would be to bathe in this silvery pool and swim like a fish.

“What do you want from me?” he rasped. “What the hell do you want?”

He was ready to bargain, but Angela wasn’t certain she had the strength to go through with it. She was at the breaking point, too. What she wanted from him was information and cooperation, especially that. She desperately needed his cooperation. But what chance did she have of getting it really? He was going to refuse her, and worse, he was going to laugh at her. Nothing would have surprised her the way he seemed to loathe her.

Stop this nonsense!
an inner voice raged.
You don’t need this man’s love and devotion. You only need his help.

The breeze had dropped off, and the air in the hut was hot and wet. She pushed herself away from him and gulped it in like water. If she could get some oxygen to her brain, maybe she could shake off the lethargy. There was nothing in life she cared about at the moment except lying down to sleep. And even though it felt like she would never wake up, that might be a blessing. Her blouse was damp and icy cold. She tugged it on anyway and couldn’t stop shivering.

“Who sent you down here?” she asked him. “How did you find out that I was in Mexico?”

His silence confirmed her fears. This was going to be
difficult. “Are you working with Silver? Did she help you set me up?”

He wouldn’t even look at her, and that could only mean one thing.

“I can’t believe Silver would do this,” she whispered. “Is she part of the conspiracy?”

Angela had said the word aloud. There
was
a conspiracy against her, people who wanted her dead, only she didn’t know how many or who they were. She was too tired and heartsick to hide her reaction. Tears welled and her throat ached with a fire that made her exhale sharply.

It sounded as if she’d been struck, and he looked up.

“Are you in it with her?” she asked him.

“Angela, if that’s what I’m supposed to call you, I don’t know anyone named Silver. And I sure as hell don’t know about any conspiracy to kill you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you have a death list, and I’m on it. You’re killing doctors.”

She would have risen but wasn’t sure she could stand. “Whoever told you that lied to you. There
is
no death list!”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

His contempt was withering. It took everything out of her. “They told you I wiped my own memory, right? You said it was in the dossier. I’m a threat to them. They want to get rid of me because of what I know.”

When he didn’t respond immediately, she plunged on, despite the strange sound that was whirring in her ears. Someone was chattering and laughing hysterically, but she couldn’t tell if it was jungle music or some demented creature in her head. She heard voices, too. There was someone talking to her, always talking to her.

“I could have killed you at any point,” she argued. “I could kill you now, but I’m sitting here explaining myself to you. Doesn’t that prove I’m not a serial killer?”

He scrutinized the way she was tilted over her crossed legs, the way her eyelashes drooped and her breasts clung to her blouse. “You don’t want to kill me, you want me under your control. That’s what you want, control.”

You’re wrong
, she thought.
I want you to believe me. I want you to help me. I need someone like you on my side. There is no one else.

Someone had once told her that if what you wanted was vulnerability from others, you had to be vulnerable first. If you wanted revelation, you had to reveal yourself. Just moments ago when she thought Silver had betrayed her, she couldn’t hide her pain, and he had responded. Would he help her if she let him see who she really was, all the carnage, the horror?

No! He’ll think you’re insane. He already does think you’re insane. They all do.

God, who was screaming? And why couldn’t she breathe? It felt like she was being burned at the stake. The skin on her body was blistering, and she didn’t understand what was happening, only that she wanted to lie down and sleep. When she closed her eyes, what she remembered was how cool he was, how strong. His shoulder had been her pillow, and she wanted to rest there again.

She swayed forward but caught herself.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

She couldn’t see him clearly. He kept moving, blurring into surreal images.

“Where are you?” she asked him.

“Angela, untie me, for God’s sake. I’m a doctor. I can help you. You’re running a dangerously high fever. You need to bring it down as quickly as possible.”

He’ll use your weakness against you! You will betray yourself!

“I need the stream,” she said, shivering. “I need the stones.”

“No! Don’t go outside. Untie me! Angela—”

But she was already struggling to her feet and pulling off her clothing. She was spurred by the frenzy that comes from survival. It was her last burst of energy. Her sodden blouse dropped to the floor, her shorts fell with a yank of the zipper, and her panties went next. The clothing lay on the threshold as she rushed out into the screaming night. Someone was yelling at her, but she paid no attention. She had to get to the stream. She would die if she didn’t.

T
HEY
were lined up against the wall, six tall, steel-haired men, all of them shirtless and wearing blindfolds. It was a firing squad, and she had the gun. Bullets cracked, and the air stank of gunpowder. Bodies were dropping. It was like blowing out candles on a cake. She was desperate to get them all while she still had enough breath! But as she fired on the last prisoner, his blindfold dropped, and she saw that it was a woman. They were all women.

The dead bodies on the ground were her.

T
ERI
Benson awoke with a gasp, and the medical journal she was reading crashed to the floor. Her chest was tight, and her stomach rolled as she sat up. An anxiety dream, she reasoned, probably stress-induced. It could even be something as simple as too much coffee, except that she never touched caffeine. She rarely, if ever, experienced stress, either, despite the fact that every Tom, Dick, and Harriet on surgical rotation was eyeing her like a vulture and clearly expecting her to crack under the pressure.

Her pocket pager was firing. She unhooked it from her belt, startled to discover that she’d slept through a prior page, seconds earlier. That had
never
happened before, but the beeping may have triggered the gunshots in her
dream. It was midnight, and according to the digital display, she was being summoned to the Trauma Center for the first time that evening. But not the last, she was sure.

Most heart attacks occurred during the early hours of the morning. This time of night it was usually the unwitting casualties of hot sex, vehicular accidents, or addicts who’d overdosed. Not career-making cases. Not heart valve repair. Nor bypass. Not hardly.

By the time her feet hit the on-call room’s floor, she’d whipped her shoulder-length hair back with a band, dabbed some baking soda on her teeth, and washed them with her tongue. She kept a box of Arm & Hammer beside the bed, along with a tube of cherry Chapstick, because it tasted good and because the hospital’s air conditioning dried her out. She already had her shoes on, but she always took the white coat off and snapped the wrinkles out before she hung it up, no matter how exhausted she was. It was a matter of hygiene as much as professionalism.