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At last they approached the old Ford station wagon that was parked behind the cantina, but even then he was cautious. He raised the hood and used his cigarette lighter to examine the motor. Jane didn’t ask what he was looking for, because she had the chilling idea that she knew. He closed the hood as quietly as possible, evidently reassured.
“Get in, and get the keys out from under the seat.”
She opened the door. The dome light didn’t come on, but that was to be expected. Doing a little checking on her own, she peered over the back of the seat, holding her breath in case there was actually someone there. But the floorboard was empty, and her breath hissed out of her lungs in relief.
Leaning over, she swept her hand under the seat, searching for the keys. The other door opened, and the car swayed under Grant’s weight. “Hurry,” he snapped.
“I can’t find the keys!” Her scrabbling fingers found a lot of dirt, a few screws, a scrap of paper, but no keys. “Maybe this isn’t the right car!”
“It’ll have to do. Check again.”
She got down on the floor and reached as far under the seat as she could, sweeping her hands back and forth. “Nothing. Try under yours.”
He leaned down, extending his arm to search under his seat. Swearing softly, he pulled out a single key wired to a small length of wood. Muttering under his breath about damned people not being able to follow simple instructions, he put the key in the ignition and started the car.
Despite its age, the engine was quiet and smooth. Grant shifted into gear and backed out of the alley. He didn’t turn on the headlights until they were well away from the Blue Pelican and the well-lit main street.
Jane leaned back in the musty-smelling seat, unable to believe that at last they seemed to be well on their way. So much had happened since that morning that she’d lost her sense of time. It couldn’t be late; it was probably about ten o’clock, if that. She watched the road for a while, hypnotized by the way it unwound just ahead of the reach of their headlights, tired but unable to sleep. “Are we still going to Limon?”
“Why? Is that what you told your lover?”
Jane sat very still, clenching her teeth against the anger that shook her. All right, she’d try one more time. “He isn’t my lover, and I didn’t tell him anything. All I was trying to do was to stay untied until I could catch one of them off guard and get his gun.” She spat the words out evenly, but her chest was heaving as she tried to control her anger. “Just how do you think I got the pistol that you took away from me?”
She felt that was a point that he couldn’t ignore, but he did, shrugging it away. “Look, you don’t have to keep making explanations,” he said in a bored tone. “I’m not interested—”
“Stop the car!” she shouted, enraged.
“Don’t start pitching one of your fits,” he warned, slanting her a hard look.
Jane dived for the steering wheel, too angry to care if she caused them to crash. He pushed her off with one hand, cursing, but Jane ducked under his arm and caught the wheel, wrenching it violently toward her. Grant hit the brake, fighting to keep the car under control with one hand while he held Jane off with the other. She caught the wheel again and pulled it, and the car jolted violently as it hit the shoulder of the road.
Grant let go of her and wrestled with the car as it slewed back and forth on the narrow road. He braked sharply, finally bringing the car to a complete halt so he could give his full attention to Jane, but even before the car had completely stopped she threw the door open and jumped out. “I’ll get myself out of Costa Rica!” she yelled, slamming the door.
He got out of the car. “Jane, come back here,” he warned as she started walking off.
“I’m not going another mile with you, not another inch!”
“You’re going if I have to hog-tie you,” he said, coming after her, his stride measured.
She didn’t stop. “That’s your remedy for everything, isn’t it?” she sneered.
Without warning, he sprinted. He moved so fast that Jane didn’t have time to run. She gave a startled cry, twisting away as he reached her; his outstretched hand caught her blouse and Jane jerked as he stopped her. It was doubly infuriating to find herself so easily caught, and with a fresh burst of rage she threw herself away from him, twisting and doubling her lithe body, trying to break his grip.
He caught her wildly flailing arm and pinned it to her side. “Damn, woman, why do you have to do everything the hard way?” he panted.
“Let…go!” she shouted, but he wrapped his arms around her, holding her arms pinned down. She kicked and shrieked, but he was too strong; there was nothing she could do as he carried her back to the car.
But he had to release her with one arm so he could open the car door, and when he did she twisted violently, at the same time lifting her feet. The combination of the twist and the sudden addition of weight broke his grip, and
she slid under his arm. He grabbed for her again, his fingers hooking in the low neckline of the blouse. The fabric parted under the strain, tearing away from her shoulders.
Tears spurted from Jane’s eyes as she scrambled to cover her breasts, holding the ruined cloth over them. “Now look what you’ve done!” Turning away from him, she burst into sobs, her shoulders shaking.
The raw, hard sobs that tore from her throat were so violent that he dropped his outstretched arms. Wearily he rubbed his face. Why couldn’t she cry with sedate little sniffles, instead of these sobs that sounded as if she had been beaten? Despite everything that had happened, he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her head to his chest, stroke her dark hair and whisper that everything was going to be all right.
She whirled on him, wiping her face with one hand and clutching the ruined blouse to her breasts with the other. “Think about a few things!” she said hoarsely. “Think about how I got that pistol. And think about Turego. Remember when he came up behind you with the rifle, and I warned you? Did you notice, before you shot him, that his face was bloody? Do you remember the way his nose was bleeding? Do you think it was the altitude that made his nose bleed? You big, stupid, boneheaded jackass!” she bellowed, so beside herself with fury that she was shaking her fist under his nose. “Damn it, can’t you tell that I love you?”
Grant was as still as stone, not a muscle moving in his face, but he felt winded, as if he’d just taken a huge blow in the chest. Everything hit him at once, and he staggered under the weight of it. She was right. Turego’s face had been bloody, but he hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. He’d been so damned angry and jealous that he hadn’t been thinking at all, only reacting to what had looked like betrayal. Not only had she done some quick thinking to avoid being tied up, she’d charged to his rescue as soon as she could, and when he remembered the way she’d looked when she came through that door, so white and wild—Turego’s goons were probably lucky that he’d gotten free first. She loved him! He stared down at her, at the small fist that was waving dangerously close to his nose. She was utterly magnificent, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, her face filled with a temper that burned out of control, yelling at him like some banshee. She clutched that ridiculous scrap of cloth to her breasts with the hand that wasn’t threatening his profile. Indomitable. Courageous. Maddening. And so damned desirable that he was suddenly shaking with need.
