Against the Wind Read online

  “I don’t.” He’d stopped outside a narrow door halfway down the hall. “But considering there’s no window and no other exit, I’ll take the chance. Unless you want me to come in?”

  She didn’t dignify that with an answer. She slammed the door behind her, noting with despair the lack of a simple lock. The room was small and dark and dirty, and she went through her ablutions hurriedly, washing her face and patting it dry with the loose tail of her cotton tunic. A sharp rap on the door made her jump, and a moment later Jake’s strong hand appeared through the crack with two dirty glasses.

  She accepted them without a word of thanks, slamming the door shut, half hoping she’d catch his wrist in it. But he was too fast for her, and she had to content herself with the noise it made.

  If she’d felt impotent and angry before, taking out her colored contact lenses made it far, far worse. She could see, but things tended to take on a blur around the edges, and the lack of sharpness to her vision tended to leave her feeling vulnerable and unarmed. Leaning over the small, dirty sink, she stared at her reflection, at the eyes that were now a chocolate brown rather than green in her narrow, exhausted face. She’d managed to wash the sweat streaks off, but beneath the golden tan the pallor of exhaustion and fright lurked. Her eyes were wide and far too expressive, and her pale mouth looked much too helpless. She gritted her teeth, hoping for a stronger look. It only made her look more frightened.

  Without warning the door opened. “Come along, lady,” Jake drawled. “Time for bed.”

  She turned to look up at him, blinking rapidly through her near-sighted eyes. “I don’t suppose you could find my extra pair of glasses either?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow. You won’t be needing to see anything tonight.”

  With a docility she hated, she followed him back down the hallway to the small room. “Are you alone on this floor?”

  “We’re alone,” he corrected. “And only in this wing. The others are within screaming distance.”

  “And will they respond if I scream?” She wouldn’t let him frighten her, she told herself fiercely.

  He shut the door behind them, leaning back against it, and a smile played about his mouth. “I was thinking you’d be happier if it was me screaming.”

  “I’d like that fine.”

  “Well, that’ll give you something to fantasize about while you’re trying to sleep,” he replied, unmoved. “You can daydream about getting your revenge on my unrepentant soul. In the meantime, take off your clothes.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Take off your clothes. I have no intention of sleeping with someone wearing all that. Nights are hot here.” He moved away from the door, and for a moment she considered running for it, then gave up the idea. He’d catch her before she was even halfway to the door. Those hazel eyes of his saw everything and more. He was rummaging through the rough-hewn dresser, and a moment later he tossed her a soft cotton shirt. “You can wear this. It should be cool enough.”

  “Go to hell, Murphy.”

  “Of course I can always undress you myself. You won’t like it, but then, pleasing you is not a very high priority with me right now.”

  She didn’t doubt him for a moment. “Could you leave the room?”

  “Not without tying you up, and you’d have a hell of a time changing with your wrists bound.”

  She tried again, a little desperately. “Could you turn your back?”

  He let out a weary, long-suffering sigh, and without a word turned his back. “Now,” he ordered.

  She stood very still in the center of the room, fighting against anger and fear and panic. Even with his back turned she felt vulnerable. She knew very well he would undress her if she refused; he certainly was going to tie her to the bed. The very thought was humiliating, and yet for some strange reason Murphy seemed to be trying to make it less so. His attitude was very matter-of-fact, free from sexual innuendoes or any other kind of sexual threat. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or offended.

  She had no choice. Slowly she began to undo the shirt, a button at a time, keeping her eyes downcast. Not that it would matter, she thought wryly. He could watch her if he wanted and there was nothing she could do about it. She’d just undress quickly and efficiently and put on the enveloping shirt he’d thrown at her, and if he was standing there peeking with a salacious grin on his face she wouldn’t have to see it.

  Without hesitation she pulled her shirt over her head, wincing slightly as her rib pained her. She reached for Jake’s shirt, determined to remove her bra only when she was modestly covered with the new clothing, when he moved quickly, and she had to accept the fact that he’d been watching her after all.

  She was unprepared, and for a moment she thought he was going back on his promise not to rape her. She shrieked, but the hands that caught her arms were gentle, not rough, and up close she could see that the expression on his dark, shuttered face was a deep, concerned anger, not unbridled lust.

  “How did this happen?” His voice was low and gravelly as his long, warm fingers delicately probed her rib cage beneath the lacy bra.

  She winced, looked down, and winced again. A large purple bruise had stained her ribs, spreading from where Enrique’s rifle barrel had connected. The sight of his long, dark fingers moving gently against the bruise gave her an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach, one she told herself was pain.

  She still hadn’t answered, and he looked up. It must have been her nearsightedness that made him look like that, she thought. Surely Jake Murphy no longer cared that much for her. He didn’t even know who she was.

  “Who did it?” There was no way she could not answer. His voice sounded calm, matter-of-fact as he probed the bruise, and she wondered if she’d imagined that sudden, blinding rage. “Was it Carlos?”

  “No. Enrique, when I came through the gate. I dropped my hands for a moment. Maybe he thought I was going for a gun or something.”

  “Or maybe he didn’t.” His hands left her, and he reached down for the shirt, tossing it to her. “I don’t think it’s broken. Cracked maybe. We’ll see how you feel tomorrow. If you want I can tape it for you.”

  “What about Dr. Milsom?”

  “At this hour Doc isn’t much use to anyone.” He turned his back then, moving toward the narrow, deepset window to look out into the darkness. He stood there, motionless, as Maddy quickly made use of the time to pull the clean shirt over her head.

  It hurt her rib to snake her arm under and unclasp the bra. She dropped it on the floor, undid her jeans, and slid them down her legs. The shirt came well below her hips, affording her modesty enough, she supposed. She looked back at Jake’s back, opened her mouth to tell him she was ready, then closed it again. He looked dark and removed there in the corner by the window, almost as if he’d forgotten she was there. Why couldn’t she find comfort in the notion?

  She picked up her discarded clothes and began folding them, and at the sound Murphy turned back to her. There was a sudden, constrained silence. “If I promised not to leave, not to try to escape, would you not tie me?” she found herself asking in a quiet voice.

  He shook his head. “I can’t take that chance.”

  “But you could put a guard outside the door. …”

  “There already is one. You’re too persuasive, lady,” he said gently, and she thought she could see real regret in those fathomless eyes of his. “Lie down.”

  He had a coil of thin rope in his hands, and as he advanced on her she knew a sudden moment of panic. “Don’t do this, Murphy. Please, I—”

  The last trace of sympathy left his impassive face. “Do you want me to have to gag you? Lie down.”

  Being tied was bad enough; she thought if he gagged her she’d go mad. It would do her no good to fight, it would only make it worse.

  Without another word she lay down on the narrow bed, pulling the cotton shirt down toward her knees. With quick, quiet efficiency he tied her wrists to one plain bedpost, leavi
ng the bonds loose enough not to inhibit circulation.

  Her eyes met his for a long, silent moment. “I’ll never forgive you for this,” she said.

  “No, I don’t expect you will.” He rose to his full height, looking down at her. “There’ll be a guard at your door so I wouldn’t try anything foolish if I were you.”

  “Where are you going?” If his presence was infuriating, his absence was terrifying.

  “A question of discipline,” he said in a deceptively mild voice.

  Ramon, her mind shrieked. “Don’t kill him.”

  Murphy’s smile wasn’t the slightest bit reassuring. “I’ll try not to.” And then he was gone.

  She heard the low murmur of voices outside her door, assuring her that she did indeed have a guard. And if it was Luis or Carlos, the last thing she wanted was to have either of them come in and find her bound and helpless in Jake Murphy’s bed.

  Except that she wasn’t particularly helpless or tightly bound. If she worked at it for any length of time she could unfasten the loose knots at her wrists. He hadn’t tied her ankles, and she could scrunch up and around into a kneeling position and work on the ropes with her teeth and …

  She dismissed the idea. Where would she go at this hour? Jake had taken her neatly folded clothes with him, and she didn’t fancy wandering around that gloomy old fortress dressed in panties and a loose shirt. That expression on his face as he left the room hadn’t augured well for Ramon. Maddy certainly didn’t want to risk having anyone else’s blood on her hands. What would he do to that poor, tired boy? And even if she managed to free her hands for comfort, Jake would only tie her up again.

  The dim, spare light bulb had attracted a small swarm of mosquitoes, and it wouldn’t take long before they found the succulent flesh awaiting them on the bed. Maneuvering with her long legs, Maddy slid under the rough-woven sheet, catching the hem with her teeth and pulling it up around her neck. She would be a mass of welts before morning. Well, if that was the worst thing she would suffer that night she’d be doing well.

  Her eyes felt gritty and tired, and she closed them, listening to the cacophony of the night, the hum of insects, the chatter of the night birds, the distant sound of an occasional human voice and the soft swish of the wind through the trees. The smell of the air was damp and sultry, perfumed by the overgrown flowers from the garden below and strangely sensuous. And there she was, half dressed, lying like a trussed chicken in Jake Murphy’s bed.

  It was too ridiculous to worry about. Hunching up, she rested her head against her arms, closing her eyes in sudden weariness. Tomorrow everything would make sense. Tomorrow she would see her father, tomorrow Jake would apologize profusely, and tomorrow she’d be on her way, back to La Mensa and eventually L.A. Wouldn’t she?

  There were no guarantees, but she couldn’t allow herself to panic. Despite Jake’s threat she knew quite well she wouldn’t see him until tomorrow. She’d have a relatively undisturbed night’s sleep, if she could just ignore the uncomfortable position. The thick cotton cover was hot, but the mosquitoes would be worse. Ignoring the brightness of the dim light bulb, she willed herself to sleep.

  Willing herself to sleep did her as much good as would winning the Irish sweeptstakes in her current situation. An hour later she was lying there, eyes wide, staring at the bare light bulb, when she heard the hushed mumble of conversation, the quiet scrape of the door.

  He didn’t look like a man who’d just killed a teenage boy. But looks could be deceiving. Jake moved closer to her in the dimly lit room, his face impassive. “Still awake?”

  “Did you kill him?”

  He smiled, a wry, self-deprecating smile, and held out his hands. They were cut, bruised and swollen, but their significance was momentarily lost on Maddy. “No, I didn’t kill him.”

  “What happened to your hands?” It came out sounding far too concerned, but Jake ignored it as he began unbuttoning the loose khaki field shirt.

  “I thought I told you. A minor problem of discipline.”

  “You beat him up?” She was horrified.

  “Better than killing him.” Jake dropped the large, ugly-looking gun on the table beside the bed. “He deserved far worse.”

  “For God’s sake!” she cried. “He’s just a kid!”

  “Old enough to know better.” The knife clattered to the table beside the gun, the shirt was tossed in the corner, and he began undoing his belt.

  “All he did was fall asleep. You didn’t have to hurt him.”

  Murphy dropped the belt on the floor, then sat down on the bed to remove his boots. “I didn’t hurt Ramon. I sent him to bed.”

  “But then … what happened to your hands?”

  He turned to look at her, and in the dim light his eyes were cool and distant. He said only one word. “Enrique.”

  There was no reply she could make to that. He’d risen again, his hands on his zipper, and she let out a small shriek of protest. He ignored it, stripping his pants off, flicking off the overhead light and climbing into bed with her.

  She lay very still, waiting for the assault she knew would come. There was no way she could fight him, no way she could stop him from doing what he wanted. She lay there, rigid, waiting.

  She had a long time to wait. The tropical darkness closed around them like a velvet shawl, warm and soft and silent. He made no move, no sound as the minutes ticked by, until finally Maddy realized that he wasn’t going to touch her, wasn’t going to do anything more than fall asleep beside her.

  Slowly, bit by bit, her tensed muscles began to relax. He lay very still, his breathing even, but she knew he was as wide awake as she was. His body jerked suddenly, then was still again, and the silence lengthened.

  “Jake,” she said softly, half convinced he was asleep.

  He wasn’t. “What?”

  “Do you remember the night of my birthday? When you picked me up at the country club? I was with Eric Thompson, and you took me away from him and drove me home in my VW and kissed me.”

  There was a long silence from the man lying beside her, and she waited. “Lady,” he said finally, wearily, “stop trying to convince me. Anyone could know about that night.”

  “But how? I never told anyone.”

  She could feel the shift of the mattress as he turned to look at her, and in the murky darkness she could feel his eyes on her. “But I did,” he replied.

  There was no answer she could make to that, none that she cared to make. Clearly the high point of her adolescence was nothing more than a locker room joke to him. He probably wouldn’t even believe her when her father recognized her. He must have some deep-rooted need not to know her. The thought was little consolation in the lonely darkness of the night.

  The scratching sound brought her suddenly, rudely awake, and she jerked, the rope catching her arms painfully. She could tell that the man beside her was similarly alert, waiting, listening, for that sound to come again.

  They weren’t disappointed. Someone was at the door, turning and twisting the knob, and Maddy realized with sudden surprise that Jake had locked it when he’d returned last night. She lay there, unmoving, waiting, as she felt Jake sit up and reach for his gun.

  And then the voice came. A soft, quiet, slightly drunken voice. Definitely pleading, definitely female. “Let me in, Jake. I’m so frightened and lonely. Please, darling. I don’t want to be alone. Let me in.” And definitely no one but Soledad Lambert.

  The moon had risen, illuminating the small bedroom and Jake’s wary figure. He sat there, motionless, and then his hand left the gun, and he sank down in the bed again.

  “Please, Jake, let me in. No one’s ever found out about you and me, you know we’d be safe. Please, baby. I need you so much. I don’t want to be alone tonight. I—I can’t be alone tonight. Please, Jake. Just one last time.”

  Maddy turned her head then, to look directly into Jake Murphy’s moon-silvered eyes. She said not a word, her contempt visible enough in her dark eyes and the curl o
f her lip. He met that gaze, without repentance, without apology, as the eerie, pleading voice came again.

  “Please, mi amor. I know you’re in there. Don’t shut me out, baby. Let me in.” Her voice was getting louder, rising drunkenly, and the soft scratching on the door was turning to a pounding.

  Jake sat up again, pushing the covers aside, when another voice joined Soledad’s. “Come on, Soledad,” Richard Feldman’s light voice said. “Come back to my room. Jake’s asleep. Leave him alone.”

  “But I don’t want to go with you,” she said petulantly. “I want Jake.”

  “But Jake doesn’t want you, Soledad,” he said gently. “You know that.”

  “Of course he wants me. He’s just afraid Sam will find out. But Sam wouldn’t care. He’d want me to be taken care of.” The pounding began at the door again, louder this time.

  “He’s asleep, Soledad. Come back with me. I have some brandy in my room, and it’s very quiet there. You’ll be able to sleep.”

  “But I don’t want …” Her voice trailed off down the hall, as Richard Feldman obviously led her away. El Nabo he might be called, but he was good at diverting drunken women, Maddy thought with gratitude.

  She turned back to Jake’s still figure. “You bastard. You conscienceless, miserable basard. To sleep with his wife, while all the time he trusted you, treated you far better than he ever treated his own children, loved you …”

  “I don’t owe you any explanations,” he broke in harshly. “And I’m not about to give them to you. You have no right to judge me, lady. It’s none of your damned business.”

  “You can’t even defend yourself,” she said in a bitter voice. “I don’t understand how you can call yourself his friend.”

  “I’ve heard enough,” he said, and before she realized what he was doing his mouth stopped hers quite effectively, silencing the angry, bitter words as he kissed her. His body half covered hers, and with her arms tied she couldn’t dodge or avoid him. His strong hand caught her chin, holding her head still for the driving onslaught of his kiss, his tongue dipping deep into her mouth, plunging, plundering, hurting and destroying the last tiny bit of hope she had left. And for the first time that day tears came to her eyes.