Demon Lover by Kathleen Creighton Read Free Book Online

window, which didn’t seem right, somehow.
    Before she could sort out why it didn’t, the camper door opened and her captor entered carrying a kerosene lantern and a small bundle of clothing. He gave her a quick, hard glance and set both the lantern and the bundle on the table. The angle of the light cast sinister shadows on his face and gave his eyes an unearthly glow.
    "Good—you’re awake. I’ve brought you some clothes. There’s probably enough water left in the tank for a shower. I suggest you use it. It will be a while before you get another."
    "What’s the matter with the clothes I have on?" Julie asked sullenly.
    "Aside from the fact that you’ve been sweating in them for two days, the sooner these people forget you’re an agent of the United States government, the better." He gazed down at her somberly, his eyes hooded. "I suggest you forget it, too, if you want to save your pretty neck. It’s time for you to get into your role and stay there."
    Julie opened her mouth to retort, thought better of it and swallowed. "I’m not sure I know how. What’s expected of me? I haven’t had much experience being cowed and subservient."
    He didn’t smile. "Keep your eyes down, unless you can get rid of that speculative, calculating gleam. You haven’t a thought of escape, remember? Don’t speak to me unless I speak to you first, and don’t speak to anyone else unless I give you permission. And no matter what I do, you take it. With good or bad grace, I don’t care. But don’t fight me. Got it?"
    Julie was almost choking with rage and could only nod stiffly.
    "Geraldo’s wife Rita is fixing something for us to eat. I expect you’re hungry. I hope you can swallow with all of that pride and anger swelling up your throat. Rita is a very good cook."
    Julie looked up, surprised to hear a note of amusement in his voice, but he had turned and was ducking back through the camper door. She sat for a moment, plucking at the soft material of a much–washed and worn cotton shirt and glaring at the space the demon had just vacated. Then, her shoulders sagging with resignation, she held up the articles in the pile, one at a time. The shirt was a man’s, but it was clean and would be comfortable. There were faded denim jeans that looked as if they’d fit her if she rolled up the pant legs. A pair of huaraches—sandals. There was a pair of cotton panties, very plain and serviceable and bleached to bone white, but no bra. She would have to do without while she rinsed out her own things, but the shirt was soft, unlike her stiff uniform blouse, which was already chafing her nipples painfully.
    There was a bar of soap, used; a comb; even, miraculously, a toothbrush. After the day and night she had just endured it seemed an impossible luxury. She had no qualms at all about the likelihood that it was also used; the bottle of tequila would serve quite nicely as a disinfectant.
    She picked up the last item and sat pulling it through her fingers and blinking back treacherous tears. It was a belt, hand–woven in turquoise, red and black in typical Mexican folk art style, a splash of vivid color in the pile of neutral, bleached–out clothing. Its presence in the pile touched her—proof that somewhere in this desolate place, in the middle of a smuggler’s nest, there was a person with enough sensitivity and human insight to know how much she needed this small gesture of kindness, this one tiny touch of beauty. Warmed and strengthened, Julie folded the belt, placed it almost reverently on top of the pile and stood up.
    She was dressed and waiting long before Chayne finally came for her, and so hungry that she had to hug her arms across her empty belly to ease its ravenous churning.
    "Stand up," he said with typical lack of ceremony after he had shut the door firmly behind him.
    Julie eased herself out of the booth and stood up,  overcome by an uncharacteristic self–consciousness. She shifted uncertainly as he studied her in