Double Impact: Never Say Die\No Way Back (18 page)

“That,” he whispered, “was pure instinct.”

“Do you always follow your instincts?”

“Whenever I can get away with it.”

“And you really think I'll let you get away with it?”

In answer, he gripped her hair, trapping her head against
the sacks, and kissed her again, longer, deeper. Pleasure leapt through her, a desire so sudden, so fierce, it left her voiceless.

“I think,” he murmured, “you want it as much as I do.”

With a gasp of outrage, she shoved him onto his back and climbed on top of him, pinning him beneath her. “Guy Barnard, you miserable jerk, I'm going to give you what you deserve.”

He laughed. “Are you now?”

“Yes, I am.”

“And what, exactly, do I deserve?”

For a moment she stared at him through the dust and gloom. Then, slowly, she lowered her face to his. “This,” she said softly.

The kiss was different this time. Warmer. Hungrier. She was a full and willing partner; he knew it and he responded. She didn't need to be warned that she was playing a dangerous game, that they were both hurtling toward the point of no return. She could already feel him swelling beneath her, could feel her own body aching to accommodate that new hardness. And the whole time she was kissing him, the whole time their bodies were pressed together, she was thinking,
I'm going to regret this. As sure as I breathe, I'm going to pay for this. But it feels so right….

She pulled away, fighting to catch her breath.

“Well!” said Guy, grinning up at her. “Miss Willy Maitland, I
am
surprised.”

She sat up, nervously shoving her hair back into place. “I never meant to do that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“It was a stupid thing to do.”

“Then why did you?”

“It was…” She looked him in the eye. “Pure instinct.”

He laughed. In fact, he fell backward laughing, rolling around on the sacks of rice. The truck hit a pothole, bouncing her up and down so hard, she collapsed onto the floor beside him.

And still he was laughing.

“You're a crazy man,” she said.

He threw an arm around her neck and pulled her warmly against him. “Only about you.”

 

I
N A BLACK LIMOUSINE WITH
tinted windows, Siang sat gripping the steering wheel and cursing the wretched highway—or what this country called a highway. He had never understood why communism and decent roads had to be mutually exclusive. And then there was the traffic, added to the annoyance of that government vehicle inspection. It had given him a moment's apprehension, the sight of the armed soldiers standing at the roadside. But it took only a few smooth words from the man in the back seat, the wave of a Soviet diplomatic passport, and they were allowed to move on without incident.

They continued west; a road sign confirmed it was the highway to Dien Bien Phu. A strange omen, Siang thought, that they should be headed for the town where the French had met defeat, where East had triumphed over West. Centuries before, an Asian scribe had written a prophetic statement.

Siang glanced in the rearview mirror, at the man in the
back seat.
He
wouldn't be thinking in terms of East versus West.
He
cared nothing about nations or motherlands or patriotism. Real power, he'd once told Siang, lay in the hands of individuals, special people who knew how to use it, to keep it, and
he
was going to keep it.

Siang had no doubt he would.

He remembered the day they'd first met in Happy Valley, at an American base the GIs had whimsically dubbed “the Golf Course.” It was 1967. Siang had a different name then. He was a slender boy of thirteen, barefoot, scratching out a hungry existence among all the other orphans. When he'd first seen the American, his initial impression was of hugeness. An enormous fleshy face, alarmingly red in the heat; boots made for a giant; hands that looked strong enough to snap a child's arm in two. The day was hot, and Siang was selling soft drinks. The man bought a Coca Cola, drank it down in a few gulps and handed the empty bottle back. As Siang took it, he felt the man's gaze studying him, measuring him. Then the man walked away.

The next day, and every day for a week, the American emerged from the GI compound to buy a Coca Cola. Though a dozen other children clamored for his business, each waving soft drinks, the man bought only from Siang.

At the end of the week, the man presented Siang with a brand-new shirt, three tins of corned beef and an astonishing amount of cash. He said he was leaving the valley early the next morning, and he asked the boy to hire the prettiest girl he could find and bring her to him for the night.

It was only a test, as Siang found out later. He passed it. In fact, the American seemed surprised when Siang appeared at the compound gate that evening with an extraor
dinarily beautiful girl. Obviously, the man had expected Siang to take the money and vanish.

To Siang's astonishment, the man sent the girl away without even touching her. Instead, he asked the boy to stay—not as a lover, as Siang at first feared, but as an assistant. “I need someone I can trust,” the man said. “Someone I can train….”

Even now, after all these years, Siang still felt that young boy's sense of awe whenever he looked at the American. He glanced at the rearview mirror, at the face that had changed so little since that day they'd met in Happy Valley. The cheeks might be thicker and ruddier, but the eyes were the same, sharp and all-knowing. Just like the mind. Those eyes almost frightened him.

Siang turned his attention back to the road. The man in the back seat was humming a tune: “Yankee Doodle.” A whimsical choice, considering the Soviet passport he was carrying. Siang smiled at the irony of it all.

Nothing about the man was ever quite what it seemed.

I
T WAS LATE
in the day when the truck at last pulled to a halt. Willy, half-asleep among the rice sacks, rolled drowsily onto her back and struggled to clear her head. The signals her body was sending gave new meaning to the word
misery
. Every muscle ached; every bone felt shattered. The truck engine cut off. In the new silence, mosquitoes buzzed in the gloom, a gloom so thick she could scarcely breathe.

“Are you awake?” came a whisper. Guy's face, gleaming with sweat, appeared above her.

“What time is it?”

“Late afternoon. Five or so. My watch stopped.”

She sat up and her head swam in the heat. “Where are we?”

“Can't be sure. Near the border, I'd guess…” Guy stiffened as footsteps tramped toward them. Men's voices, speaking Vietnamese, moved closer.

The canvas flap was thrown open. Against the sudden glare of daylight, the faces of the two men staring in were black and featureless.

One of the men gestured for them to climb out. “You follow,” he ordered. “Say nothing.”

Willy at once scrambled out and dropped onto the spongy jungle floor. Guy followed her. They swayed for a moment, blinking dazedly, gulping in their first fresh air in hours. Chips of afternoon sunlight dappled the ground
at their feet. In the branches above, an invisible bird screeched out a warning.

The Vietnamese man motioned to them to move. They had just started into the woods when an engine roared to life. Willy turned in alarm to see the truck rattle away without them. She glanced at Guy and saw in his eyes the same thought that had crossed her mind,
There's no turning back now.

“No stop. Go, go!” said the Vietnamese.

They moved on into the forest.

The man obviously knew where he was going. Without a trail to guide him, he led them through a tangle of vines and trees to an isolated hut. A tattered U.S. Army blanket hung over the doorway. Inside, straw matting covered the earthen floor and a mosquito net, filmy as lace, draped a sleeping pallet. On a low table was set a modest meal of bananas, cracked coconuts and cold tea.

“You wait here,” said the man. “Long time, maybe.”

“Who are we waiting for?” asked Guy.

The man didn't answer; perhaps he didn't understand the question. He turned and, like a ghost, slipped into the forest.

For a long time, Willy and Guy lingered in the doorway, waiting, listening to the whispers of the jungle. They heard only the clattering of palms in the wind, the lonely cry of a bird.

How long would they wait? Willy wondered. Hours? Days? She stared up through the dense canopy at the last sunlight sparkling on the wet leaves. It would be dark soon. “I'm hungry,” she said, and she turned back into the gloom of the hut.

Together they devoured every banana, gnawed every sliver of coconut from its husk, drank down every drop of tea. In all her life, Willy had never tasted any meal quite
so splendid! At last, their stomachs full, their legs trembling with exhaustion, they crawled under the mosquito netting and, side by side, they fell asleep.

At dusk, it began to rain. It was a glorious downpour, monsoonlike in its ferocity, but it brought no relief from the heat. Willy, awake in the darkness, lay with her clothes steeped in sweat. In the shadows above, the mosquito net billowed and fell like a hovering ghost.

She clawed her way free of the netting. If she didn't get some air, she was going to smother.

She left Guy asleep on the pallet and went to the doorway, where she gulped in breaths of rain-drenched air. The swirl of cool mist was irresistible; she stepped out into the downpour.

All around her, the jungle clattered like a thousand cymbals. She shivered in the thunderous darkness as the water streamed down her face.

“What the hell are you doing?” called a sleepy voice. She turned and saw Guy in the doorway.

She laughed. “I'm taking a shower!”

“With your clothes on?”

“It's lovely out here! Come on, before it stops!”

He hesitated, then plunged outside after her.

“Doesn't it feel wonderful?” she cried, throwing her arms out to welcome the raindrops. “I couldn't take the heat any longer. God, I couldn't even stand the smell of my own clothes.”

“You think that's bad? Just wait till the mildew sets in.” Turning his face to the sky, he let out a satisfied growl. “Now
this
is the way we were meant to take a shower. The way the kids do it. When I was here during the war, I used to get a kick out of seeing 'em run around without their clothes on. Nothing cuter than all those little
brown bodies dancing in the rain. No shame, no embarrassment.”

“The way it should be.”

“That's right,” he said. Softly he added, “The way it should be.”

All at once, Willy felt him watching her. She turned and stared back. The palms clattered, and the rain beat its tattoo on the leaves. Without a word, he came toward her, stood so close to her, she could feel the heat rippling between them. Yet she didn't move, didn't speak. The rain streaming down her face was as warm as teardrops.

“So what are we doing with our clothes on?” he murmured.

She shook her head. “This isn't supposed to happen.”

“Maybe it is.”

“A one-night stand—that's all it'd be—”

“Better once than never.”

“And then you'll be gone.”

“You don't know that. I don't know that.”

“I do know it. You'll be gone….”

She started to turn away, but he pulled her back, twisted her around to face him. At the first meeting of their lips, she knew it was over, the battle lost.

Better once than never,
she thought as her last shred of resistance fell away.
Better to have you once and lose you than to always wonder how it might have been.
Reaching up, she threw her arms around his neck and met his kiss with her own, just as hungry, just as fierce. Their bodies pressed together so tightly, their fever heat mingled through the damp clothes.

He was already fumbling for the buttons of her blouse. She trembled as the fabric slid away and rain trickled down her bare shoulders. Then the warmth of his hand closed
around her breast, and she was shivering not with cold but with desire.

Together they stumbled into the darkness of the hut. They were tugging desperately at each other's clothes now, flinging the wet garments into oblivion. When at last they faced each other with no barriers, no defenses, he pulled her face up and gently pressed his lips to hers. No kiss had ever pierced so true to her soul. The darkness swam around her; the earth gave way. She let him lower her to the pallet and felt the mosquito net whisper down around them.

Making love in the clouds,
she thought as the whiteness billowed above. Then she closed her eyes and lost all sense of where she was. There was only the pounding of the rain and the magical touch of Guy's hands, his mouth. It had been so long since a man had made love to her, so long since she'd bared herself to the pleasure. The pain. And there
would
be pain after it was over, after he was gone from her life. With a man like Guy, the ending was inevitable.

She ignored those whispers of warning; she had drifted beyond all reach of salvation. She pulled him down against her, and whispered, “Now. Please.”

He was already struggling against his own needs, his own urgencies. Her quiet plea slashed away his last thread of control.

“I give up,” he groaned. Seizing her hands, he pinned her arms above her head, trapping her, his willing captive, beneath him.

His hardness filled her so completely, it made her catch her breath in astonishment. But her surprise quickly melted into pleasure. She was moving against him now, and he against her, both of them driving that blessed ache to new heights of agony.

The world fell away; the night seemed to swirl with mist
and magic. They brought each other to the very edge, and there they lingered, between pleasure and torment, unwilling to surrender to the inevitable. Then the jungle sounds of beating rain, of groaning trees were joined by their cries as they plummeted over the brink.

Even when she fell back to earth, she was still floating. In the darkness above, the netting billowed like parachute silk falling through the emptiness of space.

There was no need to speak; it was enough just to lie together, limbs entwined, and listen to the rhythms of the night.

Gently, Guy stroked a tangled lock of hair off her cheek. “Why did you say that?” he asked.

“Say what?”

“That I'd be gone. That I'd leave you.”

She pulled away and rolled onto her back. “Because you will.”

“Do you want me to?”

She didn't answer. What difference would it make, after all, to bare her soul? And did he really want to hear the truth: that after tonight, she would probably do anything to keep him, to make him love her?

“Willy?”

She turned away. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because I want to talk about it.”

“Well, I don't.” She sat up and hugged her knees protectively against her chest. “It doesn't do anyone any good, all this babbling about what comes next, where do we go from here. I've been through it before.”

“You really don't trust men, do you?”

She laughed. “Should I?”

“Is it all because your old man walked out on you? Or was it something else? A bad love affair? What?”

“You could say all of the above.”

“I see.” There was a long silence. She shivered at the touch of his hand stroking her naked back. “Who else has left you? Besides your father?”

“Just a man I loved. Someone who said he loved me.”

“And he didn't.”

“Oh, I suppose he did, in his way.” She shrugged. “Not a very permanent way.”

“If it's only temporary, it's not love.”

“Now that sounds like the title of a song.” She laughed.

“A lousy song.”

At once, she fell silent. She pressed her forehead to her knees. “You're right. A lousy song.”

“Other people manage to get over rotten love affairs….”

“Oh, I got over it.” She raised her head and stared up at the netting. “Took only a month to fall in love with him. And over a year to watch him walk away. One thing I've learned is that it doesn't fall apart in a day. Most lovers don't just get up and walk out the door. They do it by inches, step by step, and every single one hurts. First they start out with, ‘Who needs to get married, it's just a piece of paper.' And then, at the end, they tell you, ‘I need more space.' Then it's ‘How can anyone promise forever?' Maybe it was better the way my dad did it. No excuses. He just walked out the door.”

“There's no such thing as a good way to leave someone.”

“You're right.” She pushed aside the netting and swung her feet out. “That's why I don't let it happen to me anymore.”

“How do you avoid it?”

“I don't give any man the chance to leave me.”

“Meaning you walk away first?”

“Men do it all the time.”

“Some men.”

Including you,
she thought with a distinct twinge of bitterness. “So how did you walk away from your girlfriend, Guy? Did you leave before or after you found out she was pregnant?”

“That was an unusual situation.”

“It always is.”

“We'd broken up months before. I didn't hear about the kid till after he was born. By then there was nothing I could do, nothing I could change. Ginny was already married to another man.”

“Oh.” She paused. “That made it simple.”

“Simple?” For the first time she heard his anger, and she longed to take back her awful words, longed to cleanse the bitterness from his voice. “You've got some crazy notion that men are all the same,” he said. “All of us trying to claw our way free of responsibility, never looking back at the people we've hurt. Let me tell you something, Willy. Having a Y chromosome doesn't make someone a lousy human being.”

“I shouldn't have said that,” she said, gently touching his hand. “I'm sorry.”

He lay quietly in the shadows, staring up at the ceiling. “Sam's three years old now. I've seen him a grand total of twice, once on Ginny's front porch, once on the playground at his preschool. I went over there to get a look at him, to see what kind of kid he was, whether he looked happy. I guess the teachers must've reported it. Not long after, Ginny called me, screaming bloody murder. Said I was messing with her marriage. Even threatened to slap me with a restraining order. I haven't been near him since….” He paused to clear his throat. “I guess I realized I wouldn't be doing him any favors anyways, trying to shove my way into his life. Sam already has a father—a
good one, from what I hear. And it would've hurt everyone if I'd tried to fight it out in court. Maybe later, when he's older, I'll find a way to tell him. To let him know how much I wanted to be part of his life.”

And my life?
she thought with sudden sadness.
You won't be part of it, either, will you?

She rose to her feet and groped around in the darkness for her scattered clothes. “Here's a little advice, Guy,” she said over her shoulder. “Don't ever give up on your son. Take it from a kid who's been left behind. Daddies are a precious commodity.”

“I know.” he said softly. He paused, then said, “You'll never get over it, will you? Your father walking out.”

She shook out her wet blouse. “There are some things a kid can't ever forget.”

“Or forgive.”

Outside, the rain had softened to a whisper. In the thatching above, insects rustled. “Do you think I should forgive him?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose I could forgive him for hurting
me.
But not for hurting my mother. Not when I remember what she went through just to—” Her voice died in midsentence.