BEAUTIFUL STRANGER Read online

  * * *

  Rigidness lay on Robert's spine, making him stiff as he walked down the block to the house his sister had pointed out to him, where Mario had lived. Three little girls, none over five, played in the cold afternoon without shoes. As he passed, they stopped what they were doing to watch him, little tummies hanging out beneath shirts that were too short, and he had a pained image of a C.A.R.E. ad.

  He knew there'd be no help there, and went instead to the house next door, one that had a handful of weary daffodils coming up in one corner. From across the street, a pack of boys in black clothes and ducktails slick with gel watched him, smoking expertly, blowing clouds of smoke from unsmiling mouths. He ignored them and knocked on the door of the little house.

  The woman who answered was short and stout, maybe in her late fifties or early sixties, and she greeted him in Spanish. He started to talk, but she waved a hand holding a dish towel, dismissing him. She didn't speak English, she said, and closed the door.

  It felt like a fool's errand, but he knocked on the doors at every house along the block, those boys watching flat-eyed and hard. No luck. The one or two willing to talk to a stranger remembered Mario and his mother, but no one knew where they'd gone. Disappeared. Maybe, they said, ask the lady next door.

  Trudging through the cold, entering the bleak yards, seeing the defensive faces poking out of doors opened only a crack, depressed him. Each step took him a little deeper into his old world, reminded him all too clearly of another time. From within the walls of one house came the sound of a violent argument, a woman screaming epithets shrilly, and he winced involuntarily. An empty tequila bottle lay in the gutter. A pit bull, tied with a rope to a fence post, tried to take his leg off as he passed, and he heard music spilling out from within, the slightly doomed laughter of a drunken party at five in the afternoon of a weekday.

  A car drove down the street slowly, an ordinary Pontiac, the radio booming out a rap song. Two men, in their early twenties, looked at him as they passed. Indian, these two, not that it mattered. Everybody here was as doomed as everyone else.

  Out of luck, he paused, then approached the boys. "D'you know Mario Trujillo?" he asked.

  A snicker from one. "Who wants to know?" asked another, the leader, with burly shoulders.

  "Me," he said. They were trying to be tough, but there was an advantage to growing up in a place like this. He was as tough or tougher.

  "He moved away, man. Months ago."

  "Anybody know where?"

  "I'd like to know," said the one sitting. Sharply handsome, a face like a coyote. Fresh, dark tattoo on his neck. "You find out, you let me know, eh?"

  Robert had been about to ask if any of them spoke Spanish, since the old woman was his only lead. Now he met that hard-edged gaze, saw the hopelessness, the rage in that boy's eyes, and thought of Crystal, living here, facing this boy every day, and he felt sick to his stomach.

  For a long moment he met those murderous eyes, letting the boy see he wasn't afraid, then he raised a chin and left them, walking across the street to his sister's house. "Come on," he said to Marissa. "I struck out."

  She jumped up, eager to escape. "Later," he said to Alicia.

  She waved.

  Outside, Marissa said, "You struck out?"

  "Yeah." He waved at the street. "Nobody knows or none of them are talking. Only one who might know only speaks Spanish."

  "I speak Spanish."

  Startled, he looked down. "You do?"

  A wry grin across her pretty red mouth. "That boarding school my parents sent me to? Barcelona, remember?"

  He couldn't help it; he grinned.

  "You want to go back there?"

  "Why not?" He shrugged. "But let's drive over there. It's only down the street, but those little bad dudes are just looking for trouble and you might be just the morsel they'd jump on."

  The old woman frowned when she opened the door to Robert again, and started rattling off something in Spanish. Marissa smiled and said something in a soft voice, respectful and calming. The woman smiled, waved them inside, to rooms as brightly colored as the external house was dull. Bright pictures adorned the walls, and a smell of something delicious filled the air. She chattered to Marissa, ignoring Robert completely, and Marissa translated when she thought it was important. "She doesn't like to talk with those boys looking on," she said. "They're the ones who beat up Mario, beat him bad…" She listened a little longer. "His mother was scared and left in the middle of the night, but she sent a note the next day so our friend wouldn't worry that Mario died."

  Robert said, "Where did they go?"

  Marissa repeated the question, and Robert understood the answer. "Denver."

  * * *

  By the time they emerged from the woman's house, the snow was falling in earnest, a very heavy wet snow that melted as soon as it touched the ground, at least here. Robert eyed it darkly. If it had been clear, he would have headed back to Denver tonight. Everything about this city depressed him. He'd never been happy here, not for even an hour.

  "I bet Red Creek is socked in by now," Marissa said, zipping her jacket while they waited for the truck's heater to kick in. "One of those springtime blizzards that make everything green."

  He nodded, an ache in his chest. "Wish we were there instead of here."

  There was nothing to do but find a room and hope the snow let up by morning. He drove into a better part of town, down a road with a strip of decent motels, and pulled into one of them, a faceless chain. "This all right?"

  "Sure."

  He turned off the engine and took his wallet out of the glove box, suddenly aware of the long night that stretched ahead of them, of the warmth of her body next to him, the silence that seemed to give him space. Two rooms would be better. Nothing he'd said in Red Creek was any different—whatever was between them was too intense, too much. He felt it licking the base of his spine now, winding around his belly. He wanted, so badly, to just escape his thoughts, and Marissa would make it easy.

  And he knew it was a big mistake, second round, but he suddenly turned and found her mouth, kissed her deep and found her not only accepting, but encouraging it, her hands coming up around his face, her fingers cold against his temple. It was just what he'd thought—a place of refuge, of peace, of escape. Sliding his hand around beneath her hair, to the warmth of her neck, he pressed his forehead against hers. "You don't have a lot of sense sometimes, you know it?"

  "Go get a room, Robert. We'll think about being sensible tomorrow."

  He was a lot of things, but no one had ever called him stupid. "Be right back."

  But by the time he carried both of their bags up to the second floor, letting Marissa go in ahead of him, all he felt was numb.

  "At least it's good and warm," she said, and he had a bad moment, thinking of what she must be used to. There was nothing fancy about this place. It was comfortably clean and utilitarian, with a generic oil painting of the desert.

  He dropped the bags and settled hard on the edge of the bed, suddenly winded. His head felt too heavy for his neck, and he rested his elbows on his thighs, rubbed his face. It had been a long drive, and the end had been discouraging.

  She put a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you lie down for a little while? I'll call for some food of some kind."

  "There's no room service, Marissa," he said. Wearily he reached for his boots and pulled them off, falling sideways on the bed.

  She chuckled, pulling open a drawer to get the phone book, which she pulled out and showed him. "Chinese? Pizza?" It was fat and heavy, and she had to put it on the desk to flip it open, ruffling through pages to find the restaurant section. "Here we go. Just about anything you could want. Hmmm. What are you in the mood for?"

  "I don't care." Putting a hand over his eyes, he felt sleep lapping at his consciousness, and told himself to at least get under the covers so he wouldn't be cold and wake up stiff, but couldn't seem to get that far. Behind his eyelids, flashes of hard boy eyes and a
tequila bottle in a gutter came and went, interspersed with the smell of onions and a bit of a song in Spanish. Distantly he heard her moving around, felt the give of the bed when she settled next to him, and the cradle of the blanket falling over both of them. He managed to shift enough to pull her close, her head on his shoulder, before he fell all the way asleep.

  * * *

  She awakened by degrees. Her toes were cold and she drew them up, only then becoming aware of Robert's shoulder beneath her cheek. His arm must surely have fallen asleep, she thought, and started to move, but he stopped her. "Don't go."

  A ripple of heat moved through her body at the sound of his voice, husky and a little raw, the wounds from his youth showing more clearly than he probably would have liked. His hands moved on her, sliding down her arms, her back, his other hand covering a breast, cupping it tenderly as if it held some magic power. And maybe it did.

  She rose up a little to kiss him, lightly touching her lips to his, and then again, slowly, tasting bitter memories and deep regret and a child's sorrow there on the man's wide, mobile mouth. As they kissed, he unbuttoned her shirt, hands urgent and tender at once, and opened his mouth to her tongue, drawing her in, as he slid his palms beneath her shirt and stroked her skin, her back and sides, over and over, restlessly.

  She moved over him, straddling his hips and straightening so that she could unbutton his shirt. His face was grave, his eyes unreadable and dark, but he let her reveal him, his hands resting on her thighs as she finished, pulled his shirttails from his jeans and exposed his dark chest with its record of brutality. She skimmed her fingers over the arch of his ribs, traced the stylized cross with its sad message, touched his scars and the little tattoos across his shoulder. There was a looping pattern around his belly button, and she smiled. "This," she said, "is really sexy." And she bent to kiss it, tracing it with the tip of her tongue, dipping lightly into that small dark hollow until his hands were on her shoulders, hauling her upward to his mouth. He held her head as she sprawled over him, their bellies pressed together naked, and kissed her with that fierce hunger she'd tasted once before, kindled it in her. Their bodies slid and moved and pressed, heat to heat, as their tongues and mouths and teeth expressed what was to come.

  Marissa pulled up, sitting on him, and shed her shirt, then her bra, and was gratified by the sharp fire in his eyes, his urgent move to touch her. He flipped them over and captured her wrists, pulling them over her head with one hand as he came down to kiss her breasts, kiss and lick and sup, the dark circle of nipple and the sides and the valley between, settling at last on the pointed tip, his teeth scraping lightly, his tongue swirling, the sweet, explosive pressure. Urgently he turned his head, still holding her wrists in one big hand, and looked down to the fastening of her jeans so he could get them off, and for once, Marissa was not self-conscious as he managed the trick. She lifted her hips to help him and he skimmed everything down her legs, to her ankles where she could kick them off. So she was naked. And he was not, and it didn't matter how she looked in her own eyes or in the eyes of the world, or if this body was not the best he'd ever seen, because right now she only saw him, saw the fall of his braid as he turned back, saw the graveness of his face as he touched her thighs, slid his fingers between and touched her.

  Just right. She made a guttural cry and broke out of his grip, reaching for that long rope of hair so she could pull him to her, and he came, his mouth sealing hers, his fingers working their magic. "You have to get undressed," she gasped, shivering now with the heat in her.

  He raised his head, looked her in the eye. "It's going to be worse this time," he said in a husky voice. "You ready?"

  She knew what he meant. That as intimate, as terrifying as it had been in her room that night, this was a lot deeper. She nodded.

  Without hurry, he straightened, first taking off the unbuttoned shirt and tossing it off the bed, then working on his jeans and shorts and socks, which all went over the side in a heap. A hitch caught in her throat at the sight of all of him, kneeling in ropy strength beside her, and he raised his hands, his eyes on hers, and pulled the rubber band off his braid, deftly working his hands through it to let the slippery, heavy mass of it free.

  Marissa could barely breathe. There were no flickering candles now, only the plain light of a basic-issue lamp. He stood on his knees beside her, looking down, and she was as vulnerable as she'd ever been. She opened her arms and whispered, "Come inside, Robert."

  He moved, gathering her, their limbs entwining, and still he poised, staring hard at her. "It's me here, Marissa. Me."

  "And it's me, Robert," she said. "Do you see me?"

  "Yes." He slid into her, his eyes as intense and blazing as anything she'd ever seen. "I see you."

  She arched and pulled him down, wrapping her limbs around him. "I see you," she whispered over his mouth. "I see you."

  And they started to move, falling into that other world, and Marissa felt tears on her face as he took the refuge she offered, as she breathed his nearness, reached for the shattering intimacy that grew and grew, sober and beautiful and humbling. Each move, each kiss, each exchange of breath took them deeper into it, until Marissa felt that light between them burning from blue to white, brilliant and enveloping, and far more than she could ever have anticipated.

  When they finished and lay tangled, she put her arms around his neck and held him close, letting the hot tears run down her face unashamed, because she had been transformed and she knew it, and there was no turning back now. And he did not turn away, as she had half feared he would, only lifted his head and saw her tears and kissed them, took them into his mouth as if they were some sacred fluid, then kissed her mouth gently, returning them to her, a salty sweetness.

  It didn't matter, Marissa thought, weak and depleted and pierced clear through, that she hadn't known him very long, that they were from wildly different worlds, that he was never going to be able to let her in and take what she offered. She'd found him, her man, the one she'd been looking for. Not because the sex was good or because she loved that slippery hair falling over her, or because he needed her. Because she knew this soul, because there was a right alignment in the world with them.

  Or maybe it was simpler than that. There was no reason. It just was.

  * * *

  Chapter 14

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  Robert was the one who insisted they had to have food several hours later. They'd been insatiable, touching, kissing, joining, until both of them were wrung out and trembling. Even as he pulled away from her, he felt little sparks of longing, a wish to fall to it again, just in case there was never another chance. But it had been a very, very long time since lunch, and he was bone empty and dying of thirst, and she had to be, too.

  On knees that were just slightly unstable, he stood up and pulled the phone book back to the bed. "What do you want?" he asked, flipping through the listings.

  "Chinese," she said, her head resting on her upper arm. "Japanese. Italian, Mexican and American. All of it. Right now."

  He chuckled. "Pizza's pretty hearty and fast. The works?"

  "Yes. And some of those little breadsticks. And something to drink. I'm dying." She scowled. "I don't like soda, though."

  "You like wine."

  "I don't think the pizza joint will be delivering a bottle of wine."

  "Yeah, but somebody else might." He dialed the pizza number and ordered, then flipped back through the Yellow Pages for an upscale liquor store and picked up the phone and dialed the cab company. "What kind of wine?" he asked.

  "Something deep and red and Italian," she said, stretching luxuriously. Her shoulder, smooth and white, gave him lustful visions. "Valpolicella."

  He gave directions to the dispatcher, named the liquor store closest to the motel according to the Yellow Pages and hung up. Putting the phone aside, he said, "You are not to get dressed, understand? I'll keep the deliveries at the door."

  "Greedy, greedy," she said. "I was going to take a shower.
"

  "Wouldn't you rather wait and share it with me?"

  She gave him that sensual, knowing grin that was so at odds with her daily teacher look. "I could be convinced."

  "Yeah?" He lifted an eyebrow. "How?"

  "I'll think of something." With a sigh she asked, "What time is it?"

  He could just see the digital clock they'd knocked on the floor. "Almost eleven."

  She laughed. "Really? My, how time flies." She touched his knee. "Don't you want to call Crystal?"

  "Nah. I told her I wouldn't. She'll hear the lies in my voice."

  "Ah. What does she think you're doing?"

  He put on his shorts and jeans in preparation for the deliveries, and tugged a wad of bills out of his front pocket and started counting them. "Tyler wants me to do the stained glass in the house restoration, and I told Crystal I was coming to check out this church window down here, at a pueblo." He settled a pile of rumpled bills on the desk. "She knows it's a story, but I'm hoping she thinks it's so I can get off and be alone with you, check things out without hurting her feelings."

  "Is she okay with that?"

  He nodded.

  Marissa sobered, lifting up on one elbow. "And is that why you asked me to come along?"

  "No." He picked up her hand, grinning ruefully, his blood light in his veins. "Believe it or not, I thought we'd have separate rooms. I just didn't really want to be alone in this."

  "That was the right answer," she said, her eyelids falling to cover the brilliance in them. Her gaze must have touched on his inner arm, because she lifted a finger and dragged it down the uneven, raised scar on the inside of his forearm. "What happened here?"

  "Wrecked a car," he said regretfully. "Wasn't even drunk. Just stupid." He frowned, remembering that night. "For a while, when I came out of the army, I didn't much care if I lived or died. The world just seemed like a really bad place and nothing I could do would ever change it."