Laura Resnick - Fever Dream

Fictionwise

www.fictionwise.com

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or

distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper

print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe

fines or imprisonment.

CHAPTER ONE

The heat in Montedora City was sticky and oppressive, even after sundown. The dimly lighted bar wasn't

air-conditioned, and the ancient electric fans overhead, which groaned with each sluggish rotation, only

managed to push the hot, damp air around the room, as if trying to ensure that everyone enjoyed an equal

level of discomfort. Even the omnipresent flies seemed heat-stunned, for they had taken to buzzing in a

strange calypso rhythm, flying straight into the walls, and then falling to the floor, apparently unconscious.

Madeleine Barrington sipped glumly on her tepid rum and coke; the Andrews Sisters would never have

sung so cheerily about the drink if they could have tasted this one. Madeleine wished desperately for a

glass of mineral water with a slice of lemon, a cool, fragrant bath, and the comfort of a firm mattress and

clean sheets. But all of that, she acknowledged resignedly, was several thousand miles away in her

Manhattan apartment. And she was stuck in Montedora for another night.

A poor South American country, Montedora boasted only one real city, Montedora City, its chaotic

capital. Not exactly a tourist mecca, the entire city had only two or three big hotels. The Hotel Tigre,

which hadn't been decorated in nearly twenty years, was the best and safest of them; and it really wasn't

all that bad if you didn't mind threadbare towels, sagging beds, peeling paint, squeaking ceiling fans, bad

food, and sullen service.

Madeleine minded.

She took another sip of her drink and closed her eyes, sternly fighting the wave of depression which

threatened to engulf her. What a rotten day it had been. After spending twelve hours in miserable

discomfort at the airport, she had been informed that her flight, scheduled to take off this morning, had

finally been cancelled. The news had been disappointing enough, after a whole day of unexplained delays,

but then something worse happened. When she tried to reclaim her luggage, she was informed that it had

been mistakenly loaded onto another flight, and now no one knew where it was.

So here she was, stuck for another night in Montedora City, and she couldn't even change into a fresh set

of clothes. She couldn't even buy some, since—due to the curfew—all the shops had already closed by

the time she caught a taxi back into the city. Well, she supposed she could wash out her things in the

bathroom sink in her room.

She sighed and decided that she had better finish her drink in the Bar Tigre and go across the courtyard

to the reception desk, where she could get a room for the night. Perhaps the taxi-sized cockroach which

had shared her room last night would still be there. It could keep her company. She grimaced and

finished her drink. Then, although she was usually abstemious, she ordered another. She'd need a little

fortification if she was going to face one of those sullen desk clerks again. Not to mention the slightly

brown water in the bathroom.

“Make it a double, please,” she said to the bartender.

“Ah, you like?” The chubby man smiled.

“Actually, I'm trying to get the mosquitoes drunk,” she explained seriously.

He didn't get it.

It had not been a good week, and Madeleine regretted that another trip to Montedora would probably

be necessary before her goal was accomplished. Her grandfather had bought a huge plantation in this

country over fifty years ago and named it El Rancho Barrington. It hadn't been a bad investment at the

time; the year-round growing climate and rich soil produced tomatoes, sugarcane and other crops for

Barrington Food Products.

However, social, economic, and political conditions had changed considerably over the years.

Montedora had become unstable, for one thing; President Juan de la Veracruz was the country's third

military dictator in seven years. Moreover, the farm was only producing half of what it used to, due to

bad local management. Madeleine had been urging her father, Thackery Makepeace Barrington, to sell

the plantation for several years. Not only did she worry about losing the property to nationalization, but

she also firmly believed that Barrington Enterprises should support the U.S. agricultural economy rather

than operating a feudal estate in a foreign country.

Her father had finally listened to her. Having gotten him to agree, she had come here to Montedora to

review the property and the local management before putting El Rancho Barrington on the international

market.

It had been a grueling, lonesome, and depressing week, and she wished desperately that her flight home

hadn't been cancelled. She also wished she could feel more optimistic about her chances of getting out of

here tomorrow. The airport seemed more like a county fair on its last legs than an international flight

center.

“Another, senorita?” the bartender asked, noticing she had finished her second drink.

She probably shouldn't. She never had three drinks in an evening. But what else was she going to do? Go

check into a shabby room and stare at its four walls? Re-read the two books she had brought from home

and already finished? Review the paperwork which made her despair of ever being able to sell El Rancho

Barrington?

“Yes, I'll have another,” she said.

She felt her elegant dress of thin silk clinging to her back, and her brow was damp with moisture. She

pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and pressed it delicately to her overheated face. She was

sweating. Amazing. She never sweated. It was one of the many things her sisters disliked about her.

Oh, she knew they loved her, but there were a lot of things about her they didn't like. In fact, she

supposed the same thing could be said about almost everyone who knew her. The uneasy, slightly snide

jokes about her magna cum laude degree from Princeton, her mastery of every area of the enormous

family business, her fastidious personal appearance, and her general competence were legion. The more

she proved herself, the less affection she seemed to inspire.

Sitting here alone in a strange, seedy bar at the ends of the earth, she had to admit that, despite a large

family, a prominent social position, and a vast personal acquaintance, there was no one she could call

long-distance right now to simply say she was feeling lonely and demoralized. She wasn't that close to

anyone.

She was thirty years old, healthy, wealthy, and socially and professionally successful. And, as she

downed another swallow of flat coke and cheap rum, she felt ... empty.

What had gotten into her? It must be the heat. She should stop being so appallingly maudlin. Thank

goodness there was no one around to see her in this condition—sweaty, cranky, and wallowing in

self-pity. She never permitted people to see her this way. She never permitted herself to feel this way.

Fortunately, the bartender didn't seem to care, and the three other patrons of Bar Tigre were all involved

in a poker game in the corner.

Still, she was a disciplined woman who never gave in to despondency. There was a dirty, cracked mirror

lining the wall behind the bar. She looked up at it, staring forcefully into her own eyes, and ordered

herself to feel capable and confident, as usual.

That was when she saw him staring at her.

* * * *

Feeling uncharacteristically moody after his final day at the Presidential Palace, Ransom walked through

the dark, muggy, filthy streets of Montedora City. He had dismissed his chauffeur-driven car twenty

minutes ago, wanting to clear his head with an evening stroll. Besides, despite the danger which lurked in

the city's streets after dark, Ransom figured Miguel's driving was more likely to kill him than any mugger.

What a hell of a job this had been. Ransom liked working for Marino Security International, and he had

willingly accepted this assignment to recommend and implement new security measures for President

Juan de la Veracruz. He'd done his duty here, but he wouldn't be sorry to say goodbye to this miserable,

oppressed country and its squabbling, egocentric rulers.

The assignment was finally over. Today he had finished reviewing the new security measures, and his

written report would be done by the end of the month. Veracruz had invited him to spend the night at the

Palace, but he had declined, preferring the quiet privacy of his shabby hotel room to the ostentatious

glitter of the Palace, where everyone seemed to scheme and plot even in their sleep.

Ah, well. It was over. Tomorrow morning, the President's private car would pick Ransom up and take

him to a military airfield, where the President's private plane would fly him back to the States.

He could hardly wait. He wanted some time off. He wanted some decent company, after putting up with

Veracruz and his cronies. He wanted to get a little pleasure out of life after being stuck in Montedora for

over a month. He wanted to undress and relax, after wearing a tie at yet another formal dinner tonight;

ever since leaving the Secret Service, he seldom wore a tie for anything but weddings and funerals. He

wanted someone to soothe his guilty conscience about having worked so hard to help preserve the

power, position, and lifestyle of a greedy dictator. Despite the moral ambivalence he felt about it,

Ransom had done a damn good job here; and because of that, he wanted a reward.

He pushed open the door of the Bar Tigre and saw the answer to all of his wants and needs sitting right

there at the bar.

She was very beautiful, almost intimidatingly so. But he'd never been easily intimidated, so he stalked

forward, eyes fixed on her.

Her flaxen blond hair was starting to wilt in the heat, its fine tendrils clinging to her neck and shoulders as

she pressed a lace-edged handkerchief to her cheeks and forehead. Her wide eyes were a rich, deep,

royal blue, fringed by long, curling lashes. Her skin was as fair as a pearl, as smooth and perfect as

alabaster, as firm and enticing as ripe, young fruit. She wore an expensive-looking dress of thin, dark

purple silk with a high neck and a belted waist. It left her shoulders bare, and the hem stopped just above

her knees, revealing long, shapely legs. Her simple bracelet and matching earrings were gold, and her

shoes had probably cost two hundred dollars.

He wondered what a woman like her was doing in a place like this. Her fine, aristocratic bone structure

and perfect posture confirmed his impression that she was a class act. What was she doing sitting alone in

Bar Tigre? She obviously wasn't a prostitute. No woman from the embassy staff would venture out alone

after curfew, Peace Corps workers didn't dress like that, and, as far as he knew, hardly any foreigners

did business in Montedora City anymore. They'd all pulled out after the last coup.

If she was a traveller, she sure didn't seem to be enjoying herself. He had seldom seen such a bleak

expression. What was she thinking about?

Whatever it was, it made her look into the mirror with a flash of cold fire. God, she was gorgeous!

Whoever she was, whatever she was doing here, he was half-willing to believe she had been sent by the

angels, expressly for him, to be his comfort and his reward. Except, of course, that Ransom's just

desserts were more likely to come from some place other than heaven.

Their eyes met in the mirror. He smiled slowly. No, this woman hadn't been sent by angels. There was

too much challenge in her gaze. She had been sent by someone who understood Ransom very well,

indeed. He never liked anything to be too easy.

Hot as hell, he loosened his tie, undid a couple of his buttons, and joined her at the bar.

* * * *

Madeleine glanced askance at the man who had looked her up and down so boldly, then sat beside her

at the bar without even asking.

“Hi, there,” he said easily.

“Good evening.” She held his gaze for a moment, letting him know that she wasn't shy or flustered, but

that she definitely wasn't interested in talking to him. Then she accepted another rum and coke from the

bartender.

“It's on me,” the man said when the bartender asked her for payment.

She said, “No, thank you. I—”

“Then do you want to buy me one?” he asked.

She frowned. “But—”

“Thanks! Senor, the lady's buying my drink. Make it a beer.”

She looked at the stranger with rising irritation. “Excuse me, but I'm—”

“You're American, aren't you?”

“Yes. But—”

“So am I.”

“Yes, I can tell. However—”

“You staying at the Hotel Tigre?”

She glared at him. “Your technique is very clumsy,” she said rudely.

“I know. I usually have to rely on charm and sex appeal.”

To her surprise, she laughed. It must be the rum.

He grinned. An undeniably sexy grin. “That's better.”

“Better than what?” Why was she talking to this man?

“Better than the expression you had on your face when I walked through that door. You looked like you

were thinking of jumping off a bridge.”

“No, I wasn't.”

“You looked like you were moping about being all alone in this rotten city on such a miserable night.”

“Well...” She paid for his beer, suddenly glad for the company. Talking to anyone, even this impertinent

stranger, seemed better than being alone with her thoughts.

He raised his glass. “Here's to golden days and purple nights, both of which have been in short supply

lately.”

“As you say.” She clinked her glass against his, wondering what his version of a purple night would be.

Probably a waterbed motel, a few “adult” videos, and the sort of woman whom Mother would describe

as “obvious.”

“Had any purple nights, lately?” he asked, his amazingly green eyes sparkling at her.

“I don't believe so.”

“Nice accent. You sound like a debutante.”

“Please, don't say that.” Visions filled her head of the silly, overdressed girls she had never been able to

understand or emulate.

“Ah, a working woman, huh?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

He shrugged easily. “Okay. No shop talk. It's been that kind of a day for me, too.”

“No shop talk,” she agreed, surprised at herself. She was never this blunt. Perhaps it was the heat. Or

perhaps it was the man himself. It was funny how easily she had accepted his presence at her side,

strange how comfortable she felt with him. She'd heard about such things, about people who told their

most intimate secrets to a stranger, comforted by the anonymity, freed by the lack of a shared past and

all the baggage it carried. That probably explained it.

God, it was hot! She had never known such debilitating heat. It played tricks on her mind and heightened

her senses. She was very aware of the stranger's body heat, his musky scent, the subtle sound of his

breathing.

He was a good-looking man, though not at all the sort of man she would ever date. About six feet tall, he

was slim without being skinny, muscular and athletic-looking without being bulky. His thick hair was light

brown, streaked wildly with a dozen shades of gold. One rebellious lock hung over his forehead, and he

occasionally brushed it out of his eyes as he quietly enjoyed his beer at her side.

His brows and lashes were dark, framing astonishingly bright green eyes which virtually twinkled with

interest and energy. His long, lean face revealed two heart-stopping dimples when he smiled, and his

mouth was full and wide. A slightly crooked nose and a faint scar at his temple gave him a certain

roughness and added to his rakish air.

His clothes were ordinary. Indeed, in a less generous mood, Madeleine would have called them

cheap—khaki pants, an old leather belt, scuffed shoes, a factory-made shirt, and a tie that some woman

had given him. He couldn't possibly have chosen that wine-colored background and paisley design for

himself.

“A woman gave you that tie,” she said without thinking.

His brows moved in surprise. “That's right. How did you know?”

“I'll bet it's your only tie, except for the black one you wear at weddings and funerals.”

He smiled, studying her with interest. “Have you been peeking in my closet?”

“Men are so predictable.”

“Really? Then tell me what my briefs look like.”

“Oh, I'm not an expert on underwear.”

“Just ties.”

“It doesn't look like you. And it doesn't match your shirt. You wouldn't wear it if you owned a few

more.” She realized what she had just said. “Sorry. That was rude.” She frowned. “I'm never rude.”

“Never say never.”

“No, I'm never rude.” She blinked at him. “But I just was, wasn't I?”

“It's the heat,” he assured her blandly.

She pushed her drink away. “I think I've had too much to drink.”

He removed his tie and put it in his pocket. “I hate this damn thing, to tell the truth.”

“Who was she?” None of her business. She shouldn't have asked, but she wanted to know.

“The woman who gave it to me?” He shrugged. “Just someone.”

“She wanted you more than you wanted her,” Madeleine surmised. Funny how freeing it was to say the

things she always knew but usually never mentioned.

He peered into her glass. “Are you reading tea leaves or something?”

She shrugged. “It wasn't hard to guess.”

He was the sort of man women wanted. Not her, of course. Madeleine had very refined tastes, and this

stranger was anything but refined. His shoulder muscles bulged against the cotton of his shirt. His pants

were as tight as a plastic wrap around his narrow hips and hard thighs. He had stalked toward that

barstool like a predatory cat. And his gaze, as he continued looking at her, was undeniably sexual, yet full

of enough humor and curiosity to make a woman feel singled out, special, and admired.

“Women love that sort of thing,” she murmured. She took another sip of her rum, then remembered she

had decided not to drink any more.

“What sort of thing?” he asked, propping his cheek on his fist.

He had very nice hands. Long, strong, slim, and neat. They were darkly tanned, like his face and arms.

She noticed another scar on the heel of his hand.

“You're either a soldier of fortune or very clumsy,” she said.

“Hmmm?”

She pointed to his scar. He clearly didn't understand what she meant. Emboldened by his comfortable

response to whatever inappropriate thing she said, she reached over and traced the scar on his hand.

“Oh, that.” His voice was husky.

“And this one.” She reached up to his temple. He went very still, looking into her face as she traced the

fine, white line that disappeared into his hair. “And your nose...” She ran her finger down its bridge. “It

goes a little sideways.” Her own voice sounded raspy to her. She suddenly wanted to run her fingertip

across his full lower lip, too. But there was no scar there, so she pulled her hand away.

He moved a little closer. “Yeah. Broke my nose a couple of times.”

“How?”

“Fighting.”

“You must have quite a temper.”

His smile made her catch her breath. “Nah. I'm a pussycat.”

“You're flirting with me,” she said in surprise.

“It's either you or those three guys in the corner, and I don't think they'd like my tie.” His teasing gaze

was perceptive. “You don't like flirting?”

“I'm ... unaccustomed to it, shall we say.”

“We can say whatever you like. But you must live in a guarded tower if you're not used to men flirting

with you.”

“A guarded tower?” She grew pensive and took another sip of her drink. “A guarded tower,” she

repeated.

“Are you married?” he asked quietly.

She blinked. “No.” No guard needed. She was the tower.

“Oh. Okay.”

“Why? Would you get up and leave if I said yes?”

“No. There's no harm in talking. But I wouldn't...”

“Wouldn't what?” What else did this flirtatious, impertinent stranger intend?

He shrugged and looked around the room. “If you'd said yes, I wouldn't ask you to dance.”

“We can't dance. There's no dance floor.”

He grinned again. “No dance floor? Damn. And we sure don't want to break the rules in a fine, upscale

establishment like the Bar Tigre, do we?” He slid off his stool and took her hand without asking. No one

ever touched her without asking. “Come on. There's an empty space, there's music, and there's a

handsome guy like me. What more do you need?”

There was indeed music, though she had hardly noticed it until a moment ago. Blaring out from the dusty

speaker of an ancient radio, which the bartender obligingly turned up, the rumba had a scratchy, tinny

sound.

“How's your rumba?” the man asked, taking her in his arms.

“It needs work.”

“Now's your chance.”

He made her laugh, because he couldn't rumba any better than she could, but he sure knew how to enjoy

trying. Anyhow, a man that graceful, that comfortable with his body, could fake it pretty well. She was

giggling when the dance ended. Absurd.

“I never giggle,” she said fastidiously, her hands still imprisoned by his.

“You should. It makes you look pretty.”

He sounded so sincere that she flushed. She had been lavishly complimented in the most elegant phrases,

and by the most sophisticated of men, but it must be fifteen years since the last time she had felt shy and

tongue-tied in the face of a man's honeyed words. “Oh.”

The music changed. The new song was a slow, sensual Latin melody with a languid, suggestive beat.

Madeleine nervously tried to pull away. The stranger held fast to her hands. She looked up, and their

gazes locked. He tilted his head a little, and the suggestion of a smile played around his full lips, making

the corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly. He looked four, maybe five years older than herself. His eyes

narrowed and beckoned to her from behind their fringe of dark lashes, his expression a combination of

laughter, challenge, and sexual foreplay.

“One more dance,” he murmured.

“Um...”

“I dare you.”

“Dare me?” She stepped into his arms.

He nodded. “I knew you wouldn't resist a challenge. Comfortable?”

She drew in a steadying breath but didn't respond. He'd pulled her much closer for this dance than he

had for their rumba. She braced a hand against his hard shoulder, trying to keep her distance.

“Don't you sweat?” he asked.

“I am sweating.”

The hand at her waist moved up and down her back in slow, exploratory caress. She shivered and

moved forward a little, seeking to escape its pressure. The movement brought her breasts into contact

with his chest. He pressed her closer and drew his palm slowly across her shoulders, then back down to

her waist.

“Barely sweating,” he concluded. “And it's hot enough to suffocate tonight.”

Her back burned where he'd touched her. Her waist vibrated under the light pressure of his hand. To her

extreme embarrassment, her nipples were growing hard where they pressed against his chest. She

wondered desperately if he could feel them.

Their eyes met. His had lost their teasing look and were growing heavy-lidded and sleepy. It made him

look softer. It made her want to touch his cheek, stroke his hair, nuzzle him. She stiffened and tried to

pull away.

He resisted. Not enough to force her to stay in his arms; just enough to give her time to realize that she

didn't really want to pull away after all. He shifted the hand that held hers and laced his fingers with hers.

She complied willingly and let him draw her even closer, so that their hips pressed together as he slid one

leg between her thighs.

He lowered his head. She felt his cheek against hers, hard and slightly rough with his five o'clock shadow.

She felt him nuzzle her hair, inhaling its fragrance, and she quivered against him, closing her eyes.

“Relax,” he murmured, sensing her tension. “Don't you ever let your spine sag?”

“Never.”

“Never say never,” he whispered. His hand slid up her back to gently knead the tight muscles between

her shoulder blades.

She sighed and slid her arm around his neck, running her fingers through the soft hair at his nape again

and again. He was a feast of different textures: warm, smooth skin; slightly abrasive stubble; hard, bulging

muscle beneath damp cotton; silky soft hair; soothing, stimulating hands.

His strong, clever fingers unlocked all the secrets she carried between her shoulders. All the anger she

never showed, all the fears she kept hidden, all the weariness she never gave into; he freed it all and let it

flow between them. She sighed and pillowed her head on his shoulder, wondering at his skill, his

understanding. It was as if this perfect stranger knew things about her that no one in her life had even

guessed.

Wanting to hold him with both arms, wanting both his hands to be free to touch her, she pulled her other

hand out of his grasp and slid it around his shoulder. He responded by embracing her fully and letting his

hands roam freely over her shoulders, back, and waist.

The intensity of his touch increased, his warm hands releasing other, more deeply buried instincts. She

clung to him, feeling the depth of her loneliness, wondering how she could bear it if he stopped touching

her. Her belly throbbed with desire, with a pulsing, insistent need to be even closer to him.

The song ended. The chirpy voice of the d.j. intruded on this drowsy, magical feeling. Madeleine raised

her head. The man in her arms stilled, then caressed her cheek lightly before tilting her chin so that their

eyes met.

“Ask me up to your room,” he whispered, his eyes glowing with lush, emerald highlights, his voice thick

with promise.

“I can't.”

His expression didn't change. “I won't hurt you.”

“I ... believe you.” Crazily enough, she did. No man who touched her like this, who looked so tender,

who teased so sweetly would be cruel or selfish.

“I've got condoms.” Seeing her flush, he pointed out, “Well, it makes a difference. I thought that might be

why you—”

“No. I mean, I haven't got a room.”

He gave a short puff of laughter. “Then come up to my room.”

“Uh, I...” She lowered her gaze, confused and astonished. She was actually considering it! She,

Madeleine Barrington, was actually considering accompanying this total stranger to his hotel room and

going to bed with him.

She had only gone to bed with three men in her whole life, and she knew everything about them, their

families, and even their trust funds before taking the leap. She never slept with a man unless she had

dated him seriously and exclusively for months.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, his voice both familiar and unfamiliar, both comforting and

disturbing.

“I'm...”

Her behavior tonight would shock everyone she'd ever known. She was always the model of propriety,

good sense, and self-control.

“It's okay to be nervous,” he said. “We are strangers, after all.” He pressed his forehead against hers and

closed his eyes. “But I don't feel like a stranger with you. And I want you. I want you like ... like it's my

first time all over again.”

She trembled in response to the hot longing in his voice. He smelled sharp and tangy, and his breath was

a little faster than before. Of its own volition, her hand moved to cup his cheek. He turned his head and

pressed a kiss into her palm. His lips were hot and damp.

She started breathing like a swimmer, struggling for fast pants of heavy, humid air. The music started

again. She ignored it, focusing on the man who held her in his arms.

Who would ever know? She was all alone here at the ends of the earth. She could be someone else for a

night in Montedora City, someone wild and irresponsible, someone free and driven only by instincts.

There was no one here to see her break down and, for once in her life, do something sordid,

unconventional, unwise, and wholly out of character. She was so tired of being perfect, so tired of being

Madeleine Barrington. And tonight, she was so lonely. She couldn't bear the thought of being alone. She

Laura Resnick - Fever Dream

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: