Fever Dreams Read online

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  Copyright ©1997 by Laura Resnick

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  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.

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  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 mor
e 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.