rumored to be a major drug-producing nation, but it’s still a poor country. All the money goes to the cartels, I suppose.”
“It is a place where men are killed for resisting the military police who force them to manufacture narcotics. Women are given as rewards to the soldiers for their brutality and schools are closed so that the children may work in the coca fields. Yet this is the place you want to help me go back to?” Her hand curved protectively over her abdomen. “The place you would have me raise my child?”
“I just assumed—”
“You assumed wrong! I escaped San Ynez at the risk of my own death to give my child—Eduardo’s child—the life it deserves. I will not go back.” Her vehemence surprised her. Until now, she had assumed she would have to return to San Ynez, with Eduardo gone.
Poor Eduardo, who would never see his child.
Now, even considering going back to her homeland, to the violence, the madness of drugs, the death, made her stomach roll. She’d come to America for her child; she would stay for her child. Somehow.
The ranger’s expression twisted as understanding set in. “You don’t have residency in the U.S.” Statement, not question.
“I am carrying the child of an American. That is all the residency I need.”
He shook his head slowly. “I’m no immigration lawyer, but I don’t think so. You’ll be deported.”
“Not if they can’t find me.” She angled her head, feeling superior now that she’d finally found an argument he couldn’t counter. He was the police, bound by his law. He would not help her. She just hoped he wouldn’t arrest her, either. “So, Ranger, do you still want to help me?”
He cocked his head to the side as he studied her for a long moment with intense eyes, then to her surprise, said seriously, “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Del flexed his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove west, squinting into a sun so strong that tinted windows and aviator sunglasses both couldn’t stop the glare. Elisa didn’t seem to be bothered, though. She sat upright in the passenger seat, eyes forward and hands folded demurely in her lap. On the surface she looked harmless enough, even a little bit vulnerable, with the slight bulge in her midsection and the crinkles of worry at the corners of her eyes. Underneath, he suspected she was an entirely different woman. He sensed strength in her, more metaphysical than physical, and pride that could make her stubborn as a jackass.
Unfortunately, he also sensed she had good reason to be stubborn. He mentally sorted through the few facts he could recall about San Ynez, and the picture he put together wasn’t pretty. The current government had taken power in a bloody coup and had quickly thrown an immature, but growing, nation into a state of economic infancy. Industry had been abandoned for the cultivation of narcotics; education ground to a halt; tourist attractions were converted into terrorist training facilities. All in the name of profit.
No wonder Elisa didn’t want to go back.
She’d had a chance here, in the U.S.—a chance he’d taken away.
He glanced at her surreptitiously, found her almond complexion paled to alabaster and her expression frozen into a picture of complacency through what he figured had to be sheer willpower, as exhausted as she seemed to be.
Her gaze flicked toward him and he quickly looked away. Every time he caught a glimpse of her he found more to admire—her high, arching cheekbones, the dense brush of lashes over dark, feline eyes, the deep, wine color of her lips.
A horn blared close by. Too close. Looking toward the sound, Del realized his rearview mirror was just about scraping the side window of the pickup truck in the next lane. Adrenaline flooded his system in a hot surge. He jerked the steering wheel to the right, and the Land Rover lurched back to his half of the highway.
He’d been staring, he realized. And not at the road. The fight-or-flight instinct that had heated his blood cooled to lukewarm embarrassment. The driver of the pickup flipped a rude gesture at him, and Del waved pathetically in return.
At least Elisa hadn’t noticed his lapse. She turned to him and blinked slowly, almost dazedly.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Her rs rolled together in a sensual purr that pulled his own vocal chords tight as high wires. When was the last time he noticed anything about a woman other than whether or not her face matched one of the dozens of wanted flyers that crossed his desk each day?
He couldn’t remember.
That bothered him. Maybe he’d gotten a little obsessive about his job. Lost perspective. But it bothered him even more that this woman was the one he chose to finally notice. A woman as out of reach to him as the moon to a howling coyote.
So where was he taking her?
Not to his place. Not when he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. And not when he was under investigation for the death of her fiancé, for chrisakes. That kind of complication neither of them needed.
On the other hand, he couldn’t just dump her at some cheap hotel alone. She needed clean clothes, a decent meal and maybe a little help from someone with some influence who would talk to the Immigration and Naturalization Service.
He blew out a sigh. She needed Gene Randolph.
Fifteen minutes later Del braked to a stop at the wrought-iron gate in front of the Randolph estate. When he lowered the window to punch the security code into the console, a small sound escaped the woman next to him. He hesitated, frowning at the deepening creases in her forehead. “You okay? You going to be sick again?”
“No,” she said, breathlessly, and he wasn’t sure if she meant no, she was not okay, or no, she was not going to be sick again.
“This is your home?” she asked.
He glanced at the sprawling grounds beyond the gate. An automatic irrigation system kept the lawn emerald green even in the most arid conditions. Grand oaks shaded the path to the house, surrounded by flowering crepe myrtle in red, pink and white, beds of Mexican heather and trellises covered with climbing yellow roses in full bloom. “No.” Not on a ranger’s salary. “It belongs to a friend.”
Her hand trembled on the door handle. He frowned.
“This is the Randolph estate,” he explained. “Gene Randolph, maybe you heard of him? Two-term governor of Texas a while back.”
“Diós,” she muttered. “Un político.”
She clutched her tattered olive bag with her left hand and made the sign of the cross with the right. When she turned to him, all hints of dazedness had vanished from her eyes, replaced by sharp, clear fear. “Please let me go. I cannot stay here.”
Chapter 3
“You got something against politicians?” Del asked. The words sounded casual, but the look that accompanied them made Elisa’s stomach churn. This time the illness had little to do with her pregnancy.
She was defenseless against that sharp, gray gaze of his. It pierced the armor of aloofness in which she’d cloaked herself, like a knife through an overripe mango. The ranger’s eyes cut to the core
