The Agent's Secret Child. B.J. Daniels
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Cantrell had them now. From the frying pan into the fire. Calderone’s men had frightened her, but nothing like this cold, calculating man. A man who’d betrayed his partner. His country. A man who had no mercy. No honor.
The anger tried to surface again, but she held it at bay. How wonderful it would have been to let it out. Like releasing a wild beast that had been caged too long. To finally not feel defenseless.
He leaned back a little as if to listen, his body easing off hers and Elena’s, but the rifle barrel still against her throat, his body still hard and unyielding.
She let her gaze rise to his face, getting her first good look at him.
She let out a gasp, feeling as if she’d been struck. It was the same visage as the one in the locket. But it wasn’t his face that turned her blood to ice water, leaving her shocked and scared to her very bones.
It was his eyes.
He shifted his gaze to hers. Her heart thundered in her ears and her mouth went dry as she looked into the deep green depths of Jake Cantrell’s eyes. The most unusual green she’d ever seen. But not unfamiliar. Dear God, no.
Chapter Four
Jake felt her gaze and looked down into the woman’s face. Shock ricocheted through him. Stunned, he stared at her, his heart flopping like a fish inside his chest.
In the faxed photo, she’d resembled Abby Diaz enough to make him hurt. But now, he could clearly see the dissimilarities. The not-so-subtle differences. Differences that should have quickly convinced him the woman wasn’t Abby Diaz.
Yet when he looked into her dark eyes he felt a jolt that shocked him to his soul. Something intimately familiar. Abby. My God, she was alive.
Her name came to his lips, his arms ached to hold her to him while his heart surged with joy. For just an instant, Abby Diaz was alive again and standing before him. And for that instant, he was fooled.
Then he saw something he should have seen immediately. She stared back at him with a cold blankness. She didn’t know him!
He searched her gaze. Nothing. No reaction. No lover’s affirmation. Nothing but fear.
He groaned inwardly. He hadn’t realized how badly he’d wanted her to be Abby. Or how much it hurt that she wasn’t. He’d even thought he saw something in this woman, felt something.
Slowly, he touched his fingers to her face, the lump in his throat making it impossible to speak. He jerked back, the tiny shock of electricity startling him. What a fool he was. It was nothing more than dry-wind static, something common in his part of Texas. But for just an instant, he’d thought it was something more.
He quickly brushed her long, dark, luxurious hair back from her cheek—and saw the tiny tell-tale scars. How much more proof did he need that she wasn’t Abby?
And yet he gazed deep into her dark eyes again. Still hoping. But he saw nothing, no intimate connection. No hint of the woman he’d known. He could see now that she lacked Abby’s fire. That irresistible aura of excitement that made the air around her crackle. That made his body ache and his skin feverish for her touch.
He’d been wrong. This woman wasn’t Abby Diaz.
Still she held just enough resemblance to Abby to make him ache. Whoever was behind this had picked the perfect woman for the deception. She was about Abby’s height. Five-four. And she had that same slight build. The same womanly curves.
But her face was different in ways he couldn’t quite define. She had the same wide, exotic dark eyes, the high cheekbones, the full, bow-shaped, sensuous mouth. The surgeons had done an incredible job, but they hadn’t been able to make her look like his Abby. Not entirely.
He shook his head and flashed her a bitter smile. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you really were Abby Diaz.”
“I am Isabella Montenegro.”
Her voice lacked Abby’s spirit and fire and yet he thought he heard Abby in it. Her gaze met his for only an instant, then the dark lashes quickly dropped, the movement submissive, yielding. Nothing like Abby.
He yearned to see Abby’s passion flare in those eyes. Anger. Defiance. Pride. Desire. All the things that were missing from this woman. Mostly he ached to see the passion that had smoldered in the depths of Abby’s dark eyes. Passion that could ignite in an instant and set his loins on fire with just a glare.
When the woman lifted her gaze again, it held no spark. Only surrender. He felt a wave of regret. Of guilt, all over again, for his loss.
“What do you want with us?” she asked in a small, meek voice.
He shifted his gaze to the child. A curtain of thick black hair hid her face as she ducked her head shyly into her mother’s shoulder. If this woman really was her mother.
“Come on,” he said, motioning with the rifle before taking the woman’s arm again. “I’m getting you out of here.” He’d expected her to at least ask where he was taking her, but she didn’t. She came without even a second’s resistance. Without even a word of argument or question. Nothing like Abby.
He smiled bitterly again. She might resemble Abby, but she damned sure didn’t act like her. Abby had always given him a run for his money. God, how he missed her. He felt sorry for this woman. She was out of her league.
He spotted Calderone’s men about to search a passing motor home and quickly ushered Isabella and Elena in the other direction, back toward the vehicle he had waiting. The little girl ran along side her mother, her hand in the woman’s. Neither turned to look back, to see if he was still there. They were obviously used to following orders. It made him wonder who they were and how their lives had reached this point.
He walked with the rifle in his hands but hidden under the serape, expecting an ambush, planning for it, almost welcoming it. A release for the anger building like a time bomb inside him. Who had cooked up this charade? Why? Not that it mattered. He swore to himself: he’d find out who was behind it and make them regret it.
The nondescript club-cab Ford pickup was parked on the far edge of town. It had a small camper shell on the back, a sliding window between the two, the opening large enough to crawl through, Mexican plates on the bumpers and a handmade sign on the side that read Umberto’s Produce with a Nuevo Laredo phone number. The kind of pickup that would get little notice in this part of Mexico.
He’d thrown a mattress in the back, a blanket and a cooler with food and water, along with several large boxes of produce that hid everything else.
The woman stopped only long enough to pick up the little girl and the worn rag doll she’d dropped. Behind them, Jake heard gunfire and voices raised in anger. He kept moving, the woman in front of him, the child in her arms.
When they finally reached the truck, he put down the tailgate, moved the produce and motioned for the two to get in. For the first time, he noticed how exhausted the woman looked. The child had fallen asleep in her arms and Isabella looked as if only determination kept her standing. He figured she hadn’t gotten much more sleep last night than he had.
Was it possible she was only a pawn in this?
He slipped the rifle into the built-in sling inside his serape and reached for the little girl.
The woman stepped back, hugging the napping child to her. Their gazes met and he saw her distrust, her fear. She didn’t want to hand over the girl.
But she would. He saw that in her eyes as well. Because she knew she had no other choice. And she was a woman who accepted that.
He took Elena from her, keeping his eye on the woman. But he didn’t have to worry about her making a run for it. Or trying anything. Even if it had been her nature to do something daring, he had the feeling that she wouldn’t have done anything that jeopardized the girl’s life. Nor would she leave the child behind, even to save herself.
Maybe Elena really