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She climbed down and, taking the assortment of threadbare towels from the bathroom, she soaked all but the two largest and thickest with the cheap cleaning fluid. From beside the two-burner gas stove, she’d taken the box of matches and a candle she’d found next to the stove.
“I’m going to need your help,” she’d said to her daughter.
Elena had nodded solemnly and looked up at the open metal grate as if she already knew what her mother needed her to do.
JAKE FOUND the discarded wet towels still reeking of smoke a few blocks from the motel.
But just when he was starting to think Isabella might not be as dumb as he’d first thought, she disappointed him. She made a serious mistake. She tried to flag down a bus.
Didn’t she realize Ramon’s men would stop and search the bus as soon as they realized she wasn’t in the motel room? Apparently not. Either that, or the bus was the best plan she could come up with on short notice.
He wondered how she’d gotten this far as he watched her from a distance, debating what to do. He didn’t have to debate long.
The roar of an engine preceded the dust-colored van he’d seen parked behind the church earlier. One of Ramon’s men was driving, another riding shotgun. Jake guessed the others were in the back. He wondered where Ramon was.
He looked back at the bus and the two figures running to catch up with the slowing vehicle. Dust churned up under the wheels, the tiny sun-soaked particles sparkling against the desolate background.
Jake swore as the van careened around the corner, headed straight for him and the bus. Isabella Montenegro and the kid had just run out of luck.
He lifted the rifle from under the serape he wore and, taking careful aim, squeezed off a shot. Boom. The right front tire blew. The van began to rock and reel out of control. One of the men hurled himself out the passenger side of the van just before it hit a low rock wall with a resounding crash. Steam billowed up from the badly crumpled front end and the engine died with a final groan.
Jake turned. The bus had stopped, the door open. But Isabella and the child were no longer next to it. Had she foolishly gotten in, thinking there was safety in numbers? Surely not.
Off to his right, he caught a glimpse of movement and saw a woman running with a child in her arms. He had to give the woman her due. She could move flat-out when she had to.
He ducked into an alley. He’d cut her off and get her to hell out of this town before she got herself and the kid killed. Or worse, got him killed as well.
ISABELLA ROUNDED a corner at a run, the sound of the gunshots and the crash still ringing in her ears, and skidded to a stop at the sight of the man blocking the alley.
He stood in the middle of the narrow alleyway, boots apart, arms at his side, just yards from her. He wore a serape. She could make out enough of the short-barreled rifle’s shape under the thick woven cloth to know he was armed. She knew he was dangerous because she recognized him.
He wore a hat pulled down low. It shaded his face, as did the sunless alley. But she didn’t need to see his face clearly to know who he was.
Right now, he looked like one of those gunfighter heroes from an old spaghetti western. But she didn’t fool herself that this man was any kind of hero.
From the instant she saw him, it happened within seconds. She stopped running and shot a look over her shoulder. She could hear curses and running footfalls and knew Calderone’s men were close behind her.
She hugged Elena to her and swung her gaze back to the man blocking the alley. FBI agent Jake Cantrell.
He hadn’t moved, but he looked like he could in an instant. And would. She heard Calderone’s men, close now. Any moment they’d come around the corner of the building but suddenly they seemed less dangerous than the man facing her.
She started to turn and run back toward Calderone’s men, but didn’t get two strides before strong fingers closed over her arm and jerked her and Elena into a recessed doorway.
“Don’t make a sound,” Jake Cantrell warned as he flattened them against the wall with his body.
She could feel the solid steel of the rifle barrel pressed against one breast, the business end tucked up under her chin, cold and deadly. “Silencio,” she whispered to Elena.
She couldn’t see Jake’s face because of the way he had her pinned to the wall with his body and his weapon. But she could feel the coarse fabric of the serape against her cheek and the stark incongruity of the cold rifle barrel and the warmth where his body pressed against hers. She could also smell him. Dust. Sweat. Cedar. Soap. And an undentifiable dangerous male scent that filled her senses like an admonition.
The running footfalls stopped at the mouth of the alley. She could hear just enough of the hurried discussion among Calderone’s men to know that they were desperate to find her and Elena. Ramon was furious, and if they came back without the woman and child—
Jake lifted her chin a little with the end of the rifle barrel.
Her fear made enough room for a pulse of anger. Why did he feel he had to threaten her further? Wasn’t holding her at gunpoint sufficient? Holding her against a rough rock wall with his body and his weapon?
But she concealed the anger quickly, just as she’d learned to do with Julio.
Calderone’s men moved on, running again, the sound of their retreat finally drowned out by the pounding of her heart and the terror and repressed rage thrumming through her bloodstream.
Jake Cantrell had them now. From the frying pan into the fire. Calderone’s men had frightened her, but nothing like this cold, calculating man. A man who’d betrayed his partner. His country. A man who had no mercy. No honor.
The anger tried to surface again, but she held it at bay. How wonderful it would have been to let it out. Like releasing a wild beast that had been caged too long. To finally not feel defenseless.
He leaned back a little as if to listen, his body easing off hers and Elena’s, but the rifle barrel still against her throat, his body still hard and unyielding.
She let her gaze rise to his face, getting her first good look at him.
She let out a gasp, feeling as if she’d been struck. It was the same visage as the one in the locket. But it wasn’t his face that turned her blood to ice water, leaving her shocked and scared to her very bones.
It was his eyes.
He shifted his gaze to hers. Her heart thundered in her ears and her mouth went dry as she looked into the deep green depths of Jake Cantrell’s eyes. The most unusual green she’d ever seen. But not unfamiliar. Dear God, no.
Chapter Four
Jake felt her gaze and looked down into the woman’s face. Shock ricocheted through him. Stunned, he stared at her, his heart flopping like a fish inside his chest.
In the faxed photo, she’d resembled Abby Diaz enough to make him hurt. But now, he could clearly see the dissimilarities. The not-so-subtle differences. Differences that should have quickly convinced him the woman wasn’t Abby Diaz.
Yet when he looked into her dark eyes he felt a jolt that shocked him to his soul. Something intimately familiar. Abby. My God, she was alive.
Her name came to his lips, his arms ached to hold her to him while his heart surged with joy. For just an instant, Abby Diaz was alive again and standing before him. And for that instant, he was fooled.
Then he saw something he should have seen immediately. She stared back at him with a cold blankness. She didn’t know him!
He searched her gaze. Nothing. No reaction. No lover’s affirmation. Nothing but fear.
He groaned inwardly. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted her to be Abby. Or how much it hurt that she wasn’t. He’d even thought he saw something in this woman, felt something.
Slowly, he touched his fingers to her face, the lump in his throat making it impossible to speak. He jerked back, the tiny shock of electricity startling him. What a fool he was. It was nothing more than dry-wind static, something common in his part of Texas. But for just an instant, he’d thought it was something more.
He quickly brushed her long, dark, luxurious hair back from her cheek—and saw the tiny tell-tale scars. How much more proof did he need that she wasn’t Abby?
And yet he gazed deep into her dark eyes again. Still hoping. But he saw nothing, no intimate connection. No hint of the woman he’d known. He could see now that she lacked Abby’s fire. That irresistible aura of excitement that made the air around her crackle. That made his body ache and his skin feverish for her touch.
He’d been wrong. This woman wasn’t Abby Diaz.
Still she held just enough resemblance to Abby to make him ache. Whoever was behind this had picked the perfect woman for the deception. She was about Abby’s height. Five-four. And she had that same slight build. The same womanly curves.
But her face was different in ways he couldn’t quite define. She had the same wide, exotic dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the full, bow-shaped, sensuous mouth. The surgeons had done an incredible job, but they hadn’t been able to make her look like his Abby. Not entirely.
He shook his head and flashed her a bitter smile. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you really were Abby Diaz.”
“I am Isabella Montenegro.”
Her voice lacked Abby’s spirit and fire and yet he thought he heard Abby in it. Her gaze met his for only an instant, then the dark lashes quickly dropped, the movement submissive, yielding. Nothing like Abby.
He yearned to see Abby’s passion flare in those eyes. Anger. Defiance. Pride. Desire. All the things that were missing from this woman. Mostly he ached to see the passion that had smoldered in the depths of Abby’s dark eyes. Passion that could ignite in an instant and set his loins on fire with just a glare.
When the woman lifted her gaze again, it held no spark. Only surrender. He felt a wave of regret. Of guilt, all over again, for his loss.
“What do you want with us?” she asked in a small, meek voice.
He shifted his gaze to the child. A curtain of thick black hair hid her face as she ducked her head shyly into her mother’s shoulder. If this woman really was her mother.
“Come on,” he said, motioning with the rifle before taking the woman’s arm again. “I’m getting you out of here.” He’d expected her to at least ask where he was taking her, but she didn’t. She came without even a second’s resistance. Without even a word of argument or question. Nothing like Abby.
He smiled bitterly again. She might resemble Abby, but she damned sure didn’t act like her. Abby had always given him a run for his money. God, how he missed her. He felt sorry for this woman. She was out of her league.
He spotted Calderone’s men about to search a passing motor home and quickly ushered Isabella and Elena in the other direction, back toward the vehicle he had waiting. The little girl ran along side her mother, her hand in the woman’s. Neither turned to look back, to see if he was still there. They were obviously used to following orders. It made him wonder who they were and how their lives had reached this point.
He walked with the rifle in his hands but hidden under the serape, expecting an ambush, planning for it, almost welcoming it. A release for the anger building like a time bomb inside him. Who had cooked up this charade? Why? Not that it mattered. He swore to himself: he’d find out who was behind it and make them regret it.
The nondescript club-cab Ford pickup was parked on the far edge of town. It had a small camper shell on the back, a sliding window between the two, the opening large enough to crawl through, Mexican plates on the bumpers and a handmade sign on the side that read Umberto’s Produce with a Nuevo Laredo phone number. The kind of pickup that would get little notice in this part of Mexico.
He’d thrown a mattress in the back, a blanket and a cooler with food and water, along with several large boxes of produce that hid everything else.
The woman stopped only long enough to pick up the little girl and the worn rag doll she’d dropped. Behind them, Jake heard gunfire and voices raised in anger. He kept moving, the woman in front of him, the child in her arms.
When they finally reached the truck, he put down the tailgate, moved the produce and motioned for the two to get in. For the first time, he noticed how exhausted the woman looked. The child had fallen asleep in her arms and Isabella looked as if only determination kept her standing. He figured she hadn’t gotten much more sleep last night than he had.
Was it possible she was only a pawn in this?
He slipped the rifle into the built-in sling inside his serape and reached for the little girl.
The woman stepped back, hugging the napping child to her. Their gazes met and he saw her distrust, her fear. She didn’t want to hand over the girl.
But she would. He saw that in her eyes as well. Because she knew she had no other choice. And she was a woman who accepted that.
He took Elena from her, keeping his eye on the woman. But he didn’t have to worry about her making a run for it. Or trying anything. Even if it had been her nature to do something daring, he had the feeling that she wouldn’t have done anything that jeopardized the girl’s life. Nor would she leave the child behind, even to save herself.
Maybe Elena really was her daughter.
He laid the sleeping little girl on the mattress, her arm locked around her doll. Her hair fell away from her face. He’d been struck by the adorable innocence of her face in the fax photo, but in person, she was even more striking. She had a face like an angel. He’d never seen a more beautiful child.
The dark lashes fluttered against skin lighter than her mother’s. Suddenly the eyes flashed open. He jerked back in shock. They were green. A deep, dark, emerald green. So like his own.
If Abby had lived— If their child had been a little girl— If she’d gotten her father’s green eyes and her mother’s coloring— Then she might have looked exactly like Elena Montenegro.
The pain was unbearable. The doubts were worse. Isn’t this what the person behind this horrible deception had hoped for? That he’d be beguiled by this woman and her child? That he’d question whether she was Abby? Whether this beautiful little girl could be his? Or worse, wish it were so?
Anger swept over him. A grass fire of fury. Quick and deadly, all-encompassing.
“Get in,” he ordered the woman, his mood explosive. It was all he could do not to grab her and shake the truth out of her. But the frightened look in her eyes stopped him.
She hurriedly climbed into the back of the pickup with the child, keeping her head down, her eyes averted from his.
He slid the boxes of produce over to hide the two of them from view through the narrow camper-shell window, then slammed the tailgate, closed the top, and stood for a moment, fighting for control. But his body shook like an oak in a gale, trembling from the inside out.
As he walked around to the driver’s door of the truck, he slammed a fist into the side of the camper, making the pickup rock and denting the metal. No sound came within. But then, he hadn’t expected one.
His hand ached, funneling some of his energy into physical pain rather than anger as he climbed into the pickup, slid in the key and started the engine. Prudence forced him to drive calmly, carefully, not to draw attention or suspicion by peeling out in the gravel or driving as fast and erratically as he’d have liked.
He felt as if he might explode if he didn’t let off some of the pressure. But still he drove slowly. Out past the last adobe building. Out to the paved two-lane blacktop. He turned onto it and headed toward the Texas border. The road would fork fifteen miles ahead, the fork to the right going to the closest border crossing at Piedras Negras, the left continuing on north to Cuidad Acuna.
In his rearview mirror he watched a beater of an old car approaching fast. He slid down a little, keeping his face shaded by the hat and his itchy foot from flattening the gas pedal. The speedometer wavered at forty-five when the car swept up beside him. He could feel the gazes of whoever was inside, just as he could feel the trigger of the double-barreled shotgun he’d pulled onto his lap.
He pretended to pay no attention to the car beside him. He pretended to sing loudly with the radio, turning up the Texas station, blasting redneck noise.
After a moment, the car sped on past. Four men inside. Ramon and three of his goons. Jake wondered about the other men he’d seen guarding the motel. Where were they? Or had he taken them out in the van crash?
He watched the car disappear into the flat, tan desert horizon and kept the pickup at forty-five, letting it lumber along as he turned down the radio and listened to the soft murmur of voices behind him in the camper.
His Spanish was rusty. Abby had been fluent because of her Spanish grandmother, who’d raised her. She’d often reverted to Spanish when she was angry. He’d learned from her. But it had been a long time. He’d forgotten a lot.
“There’s food and water in the cooler for you,” he said over his shoulder.
After a moment’s silence, the woman said, “Thank you.”
The little girl said something in Spanish he didn’t catch.
He turned up the radio and tried not to think about them. Or what they might have been discussing. Unfortunately, he couldn’t forget the trusting, fearless look on the little girl’s face as she’d opened her big green eyes to meet his.
ISABELLA HAD HOPED Elena would fall back to sleep and let her alone so she could think. Her head ached from exhaustion and fear and confusion.
“I told you he would come to save us,” Elena whispered in Spanish next to her.
She didn’t have the heart to tell her daughter that Jake Cantrell hadn’t necessarily saved them. More than likely they were just prisoners of a different man now. But still prisoners. Possibly worse. If what she’d read from the information in the envelope about the man was true, she and Elena could be in worse trouble than they had been before.
“I told you he was my daddy,” Elena said, daring Isabella to disagree.
She didn’t have the energy. Nor the conviction. There had been so little she’d understood about her marriage to Julio. Or her past, the one he’d filled in for her after the fire.
But the moment she’d looked into Jake Cantrell’s eyes she’d known one clear truth.
Jake Cantrell was Elena’s father.
She’d seen her daughter in the deep green of his eyes. But also in the familiar way his brow furrowed in a narrowed frown. In the intense intelligence she’d glimpsed behind all that green. In the small telltale mannerisms that genetics passed from one generation to the next.
