Morgan's Rescue Page 5

  Wiping his mouth, Culver looked around Pilar’s serenely elegant office. It was atypical for Peru, he supposed. The furniture wasn’t the dark, ponderous Spanish style, and small plants lined the window, where sheer, pale green drapes had been drawn back to allow the north light to enter. The furniture was as graceful and diminutive as Pilar, the couch and two chairs leaving plenty of the floral, Victorian-design carpet visible. The walls also had been painted a pale green and were hung with prints of Amazonian orchids. He scowled.

  On a bookshelf across the room, he saw several framed photos. Pushing himself up, Culver moved toward them. A large gold frame held the photo of a black-haired girl with light brown eyes, smiling for the camera. She wore a pale pink dress with lace at the collar, and a dark pink ribbon held her hair back. Culver sensed something oddly familiar about the child, who he guessed must be around seven or eight. That smile. Culver’s fingers burned as he replaced the photograph on the shelf. It was Pilar’s smile. A bitter taste filled his mouth. Pilar’s child. She had married, obviously. Or had she?

  A sickening feeling invaded Culver as he took in the next photo, where a tall, gray-haired man held the same child, Pilar next to them, smiling. Happy. Looking around, Culver wondered where this man was. If, indeed, Pilar was married to him. Divorces didn’t go down well in South America. Women who tried to divorce their husbands could end up dead in the perverse macho traditions of the culture. Violence against South American women was a common, everyday occurrence. How had Pilar gotten away unscathed?

  Then Culver laughed bitterly at himself. Pilar had gotten away from him, hadn’t she? He’d been the one mortally wounded by their relationship, after all, not her. Setting the second photo back in place, Culver noted sounds coming from the hall then heard the shower running. A crazy urge to shed his clothes and join Pilar in that shower was nearly his undoing. Somehow, he had to get a tighter grip on his emotions. He would never have believed he still had this much feeling left for Pilar.

  It had hurt so damn much when she’d cried out like that as he gripped her arm. She was the last person on the face of this earth he wanted to hurt—even now. Quirking his mouth as he wandered into the kitchen and got himself a drink of water, Culver decided he was crazy. Pilar had hurt him, not the reverse. He’d loved her, and she had wounded him—forever.

  Returning to the living-room sofa with the glass of water in hand, Culver tried to be patient. Jet lag was pulling at him, and he was exhausted by the events of the past forty-eight hours. Suddenly the couch seemed so inviting that he put the glass aside and stretched out. Closing his eyes, he told himself that he was going to rest for only a moment.

  Pilar dressed hurriedly in a dark blue cotton shirtdress—one of a few simple outfits she kept in the closet at her office. She belted it with white leather, then slipped into comfortable white sandals. Her briefcase was packed. Where they were going, she wouldn’t be doing much paperwork. An hour had passed since Culver had blasted back into her lonely world, and her heart was still beating out of control, underscoring her surging emotions. Oh, why had he touched her? Memory of his roughened, caressing fingers moving across her body made her stop what she was doing and take a deep, unsteady breath.

  Culver appeared older, more mature, naturally, but also harder. The look he’d given her, so cold and unfeeling, was one she’d never seen from him. Pilar knew she deserved it, and accepted it with a confirmation of her guilt. It would serve neither of them for him to know the full truth. Ever. Turning, she picked up her briefcase, shut off the light and walked down the hall toward the living room.

  A sudden sound stopped her—and stirred a familiar chord deep within her. Snoring. It was Culver snoring! Her mouth curved tenderly for a moment. Whenever Culver slept on his back, he snored. How many times had he awakened her with his snoring? But with a nudge from her hand, he’d turn onto his side without waking and the snoring would stop. The memory was warm, filled with love. Pain flared on the heels of it. How many years had she slept alone? How many times had she awakened during the night and reached out for Culver’s comforting presence, only to find him a figment of some dream?

  Releasing a little sigh, Pilar told herself to get moving. She had much to do before they left Lima. As she stepped quietly into the living room, she saw Culver’s long frame draped across the couch. He was asleep, his thick arms crossing his chest, one leg dangling over the end of the couch, the other sprawled out next to it. In sleep, he looked less harsh. Less threatening, Pilar realized. She knew she should wake him, but something begged her not to do it just yet.

  As if an invisible cord tied her to him, Pilar moved even closer, to within a few feet of the couch. Culver slept deeply, his snoring ragged. No longer were his lips pressed into a dark slash of accusation. This mouth was the one she remembered, the one she’d kissed hundreds of times in their short, torrid months together in the jungle. For the first time Pilar remembered Culver’s smile, and the feeling it inspired in her, as if the sun itself were smiling down at her.

  As he slept, an errant lock of dark hair had curled slightly on Culver’s now-smooth brow. No longer was he scowling. How wonderful he looked while sleeping! Pilar stood, feeling her heart tear open as she absorbed his less-threatening pose. The ache to reach out and nudge that strand of hair back into place was powerful. Swallowing hard, she moved to the end of the couch. She couldn’t touch him. She mustn’t. She could never kiss that wonderful mouth again.

  “Culver?” His name came out so softly that Pilar thought it couldn’t possibly awaken him.

  Instantly, Culver sat up, his reflexes slow with grogginess. As soon as he saw Pilar, he froze. She stood hands clasped in front of her, in a tastefully conservative blue dress. Her hair was sleek, falling to a slight wave just below her shoulders—a magnificent cape to frame her oval, dusky features. Culver frowned and rubbed his face savagely.

  “I must have dozed off,” he growled thickly.

  “The flight to Peru is long,” Pilar whispered, a catch in her voice. Automatically, her fingers had risen to rest against the base of her throat as she stared down at him. The white cotton shirt was stretched to its limits across his broad back and shoulders as Culver sat, his hands draped across his knees. She tried to smile, but didn’t succeed. “We need to get going.”

  “Yeah,” he rumbled, pushing himself to a standing position. How lovely Pilar looked in the simple, yet businesslike dress. Well, wasn’t she a business-woman? Somehow, her wilder side and love of horses didn’t jibe with what she wore now. Then he saw the edge of a dark leather thong, mostly hidden by the collar of her dress.

  “You still wear that jaguar amulet?” The words were out before he could stop them. He saw the shock on Pilar’s face.

  “Why…yes, I do.” Nervously, she fingered the leather thong. Had Culver forgotten nothing about her? Maria, her mother, had been a jaguar priestess to her people—a woman of great healing power and authority. The jaguar ruled the jungles, respected as much as it was feared by the Quechua people. When Pilar was born, she had been given the amulet, a small leather pouch that contained the hair of a jaguar her mother had faced in the jungle and mesmerized with her song of power. The jaguar had allowed her to take hair from its coat, proof that Maria had met a jaguar and, more importantly, lived to tell about it. The Indians respected anyone who assumed his or her power from an animal protector. Pilar had grown up knowing the jaguar was her spirit guardian, watching over her as long as she wore the medicine bag.

  Culver managed a grimace. “I haven’t forgotten much at all,” he admitted thickly, as if in response to her unspoken question.

  Pilar forced herself to move, to reorient back to the present. “Come on. My car is in the garage.”

  “Let’s take my rental car.”

  Pilar agreed with a nod, deciding it wasn’t worth arguing over.

  Culver moved to her side and picked up her briefcase.

  “You don’t have to do that,” she protested.

  “I wa
nt to.” He gave her a look that warned her he wasn’t in the mood for arguments.

  Opening the door, Pilar hurried through and locked it behind Culver. “I’ll drive,” he said firmly, walking toward the barn area, where he’d parked the large, dark green Buick in the shade. He and small cars didn’t get along, Culver acknowledged as he put Pilar’s bag in the trunk and managed to fold his bulk into the luxury car. It was still siesta time—five o’clock. The sun was hanging very low in the west, and the verdant slopes of the mountains were spectacular as they drove down the long dirt road that would eventually take them to the highway.

  “Once we get to the hotel, we’ll talk about our plans to rescue Morgan,” he said, glancing at Pilar. She sat stiffly in the seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  “Why not now? The hotel could be bugged.”

  He shrugged. “I thought you said you trusted Hector.”

  “I trust him, but the government has moles. He said that himself.”

  “It’s a thought,” Culver murmured, slowing down for a Stop sign. The four-lane highway into Lima wasn’t busy at this time of day. Most people stopped work and rested for siesta, and Culver had always thought it a good idea. After all, who was worth anything brainwise after two or three o’clock on any given day, anyway? The South Americans had it right on this one. He pulled onto the highway and accelerated. Turning on the air-conditioning, he said, “This mission is dangerous. You know that.”

  “No one knows it better than I do. Ramirez has killed people at our village because we wouldn’t bend to his demands.”

  “He’s a sadist,” Culver growled. He gave her a worried look. “I told Hector I didn’t like his plan of sending you into Ramirez’s fortress alone to locate Morgan.”

  “I don’t like it, either, but it’s not an option, is it? Who else can do it? They certainly won’t let you in.” She opened her hands to convey her helpless feeling.

  His own hands tightened on the steering wheel. Culver was nearly oblivious to the natural beauty surrounding them. The blue Pacific shimmered off to their left, since Lima occupied prime beachfront property. But Culver’s heart was centered on Pilar and her wonderful low, breathy voice. As she leaned forward slightly, the cascade of her hair hid her expression, and he longed to reach over, push those thick, silky strands behind her delicate ear.

  “How someone as murdering and black as Ramirez has survived this long is beyond me,” he said grimly. “The last time I locked horns with that bastard was when I was with you, eight years ago.”

  Pilar felt faint. Was Culver going to bring up their past? She prayed he would not. She wasn’t sure she could stand it. “He continues to be the most powerful drug lord in Peru,” she said in a halting voice. “His methods haven’t changed. He still prefers rape and tortures.”

  Culver felt anger. “I don’t know if I can let you go into that compound… .”

  At his harsh tone, Pilar twisted to look in his direction. Culver’s face was set, his mouth a hard line. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged, his voice taut. “No woman deserves that sort of treatment. Not even you.”

  The coldness of his voice shattered her. Pilar turned away, pretending to look out at the landscape flashing by. The implication in his tone was clear: she deserved something—something bad—for leaving his side when he’d been near death. Knotting her hands in her lap, she held back any response. Even if Culver knew the whole truth, he wouldn’t understand.

  “I saw a couple of pictures in your office,” Culver muttered. He glanced at her profile, clean and somehow innocent. “Who are they?”

  A lump formed in her throat, and Pilar felt herself go cold with fear. Moisture sprung to her palms. “They…” She struggled to breathe. “They are my daughter and my husband.”

  “I thought so.”

  The syllables were like shards of glass being ground into her flesh, hurting her as nothing else could. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to even be alive in that moment.

  “When did you get married?” Culver hated himself for asking. It was none of his business, but he had to know.

  “Uh…eight years ago.” Pilar squeezed her eyes shut, the anguish too much to bear.

  “What’s his name?” he demanded harshly.

  “Fernando.”

  “But you still use your last name, Martinez. Why?” He felt the pressure of anger and betrayal in his chest. Eight years ago, he had loved Pilar, while she’d had this man on the side, hidden from him. She had lied to him with her body, with the kisses and looks he could have sworn were for him alone.

  Touching her brow, Pilar whispered, “Fernando died of a heart attack two years ago. I—I took my name back at that time.”

  “And the girl? She’s yours?”

  A knifelike pain stabbed her heart. “Yes, Rane is my daughter.”

  Compressing his lips, Culver stared straight ahead. He heard the tears choking Pilar’s voice and wondered about them. Could she possibly feel any remorse over what she’d done to him? The picture congealed before him, and Culver realized he’d been some kind of lovesick fool to have fallen in love with Pilar. She had been two-timing him. He was sure Fernando hadn’t known about him, either.

  It was on his lips to ask her why she’d done it. How she could have. Culver would have bet his life then that Pilar was not only an innocent, but completely honest with him. Face it, he told himself, you took one look and it was all over. He’d fallen as surely as if someone had struck him with a sledgehammer. In truth, Culver knew little about Pilar. They’d had the CIA mission to complete, and their days had been spent on guard, with only occasional nights of torrid embraces whenever they could feel safe enough. They hadn’t made love all that many times due to the danger that had always surrounded them. And Culver vividly remembered each of those melting experiences. Any other woman’s kisses paled in comparison to the rich depth of those he’d shared with Pilar. He’d shared his soul with her. She’d sold his soul to the devil.

  Tears flooded into Pilar’s tightly shut eyes as she kept her face carefully positioned so that Culver wouldn’t suspect the depth of her heartbreak. Even now, despite what she’d done to Culver, he seemed protective of her. He’d stepped in front of her and taken a bullet meant for her eight years ago—and had nearly died in the process. She’d left him in the hospital. Alone. Her lips parted, the lower one trembling as tears wet her lashes before she forced them back once more. How long she could hold their destroyed dreams and shattered hopes at bay, Pilar did not know.

  Finally, their approach to Lima claimed Culver’s attention. Driving in the frantic traffic of Peru’s capital always felt like dodging stampeding bulls. The Hotel of the Andes was one of the finest in Lima, and as they drove up to the elegant entranceway, a porter in a light gray uniform met them, opening Pilar’s door with a flourish. The young man smiled and welcomed her. Nodding, Pilar climbed quickly up the white marble steps, with many tourists, mostly North Americans, bustling around her.

  Gripping her shoulder bag, she reminded herself to stay on guard. They were government agents and therefore potential targets. She gazed out at the thick traffic clogging one of Lima’s main arteries, the avenue in front of the hotel. It was seven o’clock; siesta was over. Those who had rested through the afternoon’s heat were back at work. Sometime between ten and midnight, everyone would eat dinner. Pilar wasn’t hungry in the physical sense, but as she looked at Culver, she felt like a sponge, dried out by lack of emotional sustenance. Somehow, simply gazing at Culver’s imposing, implacable figure fed her renewed life.

  How long had she felt depressed? Pilar was stunned to realize she’d been living beneath a dark cloud ever since she’d left Culver. She’d thought she’d recouped, moved on. Certainly Rane had provided a bright patch in what she now could see as an otherwise dreary world. As Culver walked toward her, she could see him looking around, all his senses on alert, as hers were. He had the look of a condor, with his regal power and watchfulness.

 
Culver fluidly moved up the steps toward Pilar. Without thinking, he started to reach for her arm, to lead her into the hotel. At the instant panic in her eyes, he dropped his hand.

  “Come on,” he muttered, stepping through the door.

  The lobby was spacious and sumptuous, with sparkling crystal chandeliers highlighting the thick gold carpeting and white marble surrounding the registration area, where three clerks, dressed impeccably in the gray uniforms, waited. Pilar stood quietly at Culver’s side as he checked himself in under the assumed name printed on his passport: John Kensington. Pilar smiled to herself at the inappropriate plainness of the name for someone with such an imposing presence.

  Once registered, Culver shook his head at the porter and lifted his suitcase in his left hand. He looked at Pilar. “Come on,” he said.

  Pilar walked at his shoulder to the elevator, feeling a different type of tension around Culver as the doors slid open and they stepped aboard. He pushed the button for the fifth floor and they began to ascend.

  “I don’t like this place,” he growled, watching the numbers light up in sequence as the elevator rose.

  “Hector thought it would be safe.”

  He sent her a derisive look. “You keep saying that.”

  She glared at him. “He’s been like a father to me. He’s always been there for me.”

  With a nod, Culver watched the doors open, then looked both ways down the hall before easing out of the elevator. “Stay behind me,” he ordered.

  Pilar was mystified by his sudden caution. She was about to protest when she heard the slight click of a door opening behind her. Turning, she saw a man with a submachine gun step into the hallway from one of the rooms.