The Accomplice

by Jeanne

The dark man strolls through the aisles of the neighborhood market. The baseball cap that he wears shadows his face. He pushes a cart in which he has placed a black leather case with a strap. He seems to be looking at the vegetables, but actually, he's studying the other shoppers.

The dark man is an egotist, a fact that he freely admits. But this doesn't mean he's unaware of other people. Quite the contrary. He's keenly observant when he needs to be, a necessary skill in his line of work. And now he's looking for something in particular. Or rather, someone.

It has to be a woman, of course. Preferably young and pretty. After all, he's only human. But above all, she has to be alone. In the store and in her life. He's gotten pretty good at telling.

Rachel wanders through the market in a daze. It's been over a month since David left, and still, she can't focus. She knows she shouldn't come here. It's much more expensive than the supermarket, but God knows she can't face that. The smallness of this market is a comfort, and she's willing to pay for it.

She's not hungry anyway. She's only here because she didn't want to go home. The colors of the vegetables seem cheerful to her, and she picks up a tomato, a pepper, a carrot, a squash. She thinks about how they will look in the blue bowl on her counter. Chances are they will sit there and rot.

The vegetables roll loosely into the corner of Rachel's shopping basket as she turns toward the checkout line. There's really nothing else she can think of to buy. She doesn't notice the dark man watching her. He's found what he wants, he thinks. There's no wedding band on her finger, no engagement ring. And unlike the other shoppers, she moves slowly, in no hurry to get home to a husband or children or anyone at all, except, perhaps, a rabbit, judging by the contents of her shopping basket. Then, too, she's pretty, maybe even very pretty. She doesn't know it, though, he thinks. That happens more often than you might imagine. Pretty women who walk with their heads bowed and their eyes down, unconscious of the admiring glances they might see if only they looked up.

Rachel leaves the market, and the dark man follows, settling the strap of his leather case against his shoulder. He walks closely behind her, but she doesn't notice until he reaches for her, and his fingers close around her arm. She turns toward him then with a gasp, and his fingers tighten as he says, "Don't make a sound." His other hand holds a gun, and when she sees that, the strength runs out of her body. Her fingers relax, and the shopping bag falls to the pavement, the vegetables rolling away across the parking lot. Her knees buckle, and she's in danger of falling, except that his tight grip on her arm holds her up.

"Walk to your car," he says, and she manages, somehow, to put one foot in front of the other. His own car, a rental, is parked in the far corner of the lot across the street. It will be days before they find it.

He opens the passenger door of the car for her, then closes it again when she is seated. You don't see gentlemanly conduct like that every day. He puts his leather case in the back seat and slides behind the wheel. It's difficult to handle the car and the gun at the same time, but he manages. Really, there's little choice. The woman clearly is in no condition to drive. And truthfully, he prefers it. He likes being in control.

Once they're on the freeway, he tucks the gun into the holster beneath his jacket and takes his cell phone from his pocket. She can't jump out of the car now, and it's unlikely she'll attack him. He calls the Republic Hotel and confirms his reservation for the Lone Star suite. These Texans, he thinks, shaking his head a little. The name he uses isn't his own, of course, but it's known at the hotel. He's stayed there before, and he's known to be very particular in his requirements. He likes to keep a low profile, so he asks to have a bellman meet him at the suite with the keys. He avoids the lobby that way.

He ends the call and turns to the woman beside him. She appears to be in shock. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Rachel," she answers, after a moment.

"I'm Miguel," he says. That's not his real name either, but it's his current favorite. "I need your help," he adds. "Everything will be fine as long as you obey me."

Rachel nods. There's not much she can say. When they reach the hotel, he takes her arm again and steers her to the elevator that takes them directly from the parking deck to the luxury suite level. She doesn't have to be told not to speak to the bellman.

The bellman accepts his generous tip and leaves them alone in the suite. Miguel turns on the television and surfs through the channels, in search of local news. When he finds what he's looking for, the news isn't good. There were three marks in the Dallas job. Only two of them are dead. The third is in critical condition at an area hospital. Miguel will have to stay in the city to see if the third man dies. If not, he'll have to go to the hospital and finish the job. This annoys him tremendously. It's not just the money, though clearly he can't expect full payment for a job he hasn't completed. It's more than that. His pride is at stake. He despises sloppy work.

Miguel turns off the television and orders dinner. Two steaks, he says, medium rare. That's what they eat in Texas. When the food arrives, he tells Rachel to eat. She takes a bite and chews. When he sees that she can't swallow, he takes her plate away and gives her a glass of wine. She's able to swallow that. It helps, a little.

It's been a long day, and Miguel is tired. "Let's get some sleep," he says. "Take off your shoes," he tells her, and she obeys him.

Miguel lies on the bed and pats a spot on the mattress beside him. "You want me to sleep with you?" Rachel asks.

"If you don't," he says, "I'll have to tie you up. I can't have you wandering around in the night."

Rachel lies on the bed as far from Miguel as possible. "Take that off too," he says, tugging at the baggy sweater she wears over her jeans. She wears only a T-shirt underneath, and when she pulls the sweater off, he sees the bruises his fingers left on her arm. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Rachel curls on her side, facing away from Miguel. He turns out the light and reaches for her, pulling her against his body. When he touches her, she begins to shake. She's afraid that he'll be angry, but he doesn't seem to mind. He wraps his arms around her and holds her until, at last, she is still. In the night, he shifts, turning on his back. He draws her to him, settling her head on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. His fingers stroke lightly down her arm, where the bruises are. "Sorry," he says again, or does she dream it? Somehow, she manages to sleep.

***

In the morning, Miguel orders breakfast and all the newspapers the hotel has. The coverage in the papers and on television isn't encouraging. The third mark is still alive, though barely. All of the airports and train stations in the area are under surveillance. Bus stations too. Miguel shakes his head a little when he hears this. As if he would take the bus.

The worst part, though, is that someone saw him. The police describe the suspect as medium height, medium build, dark hair, dark eyes. He is, of course, considered armed and dangerous. There's a composite sketch too, which isn't very flattering. He winces a little each time he sees it. They have the hair right, though. The dark, unruly curls are quite distinctive. He could cut it, he supposes, but he doubts he will. He's rather vain about his hair.

Miguel watches Rachel's reaction to the news reports with interest. She knows who he is, he thinks. She guesses what he has done. She keeps her own counsel, though, more wary now than frightened. It's an improvement, he thinks.

At last, he can procrastinate no longer, and, with a sigh, he takes his laptop from the leather case and plugs it in. As little as he relishes the prospect, he knows he needs to contact his employer. And when he does, it's just as he expected. Though the job is two-thirds done, the employer doesn't see it that way. There's talk of reassigning the contract. "You just try it, motherfucker," Miguel mutters as he slams the laptop shut. His temper is a problem, always has been. You need a cool head in this business.

Miguel throws himself on the sofa and looks at Rachel. He's tired of work. It's time to have some fun. He picks up the telephone and calls the clothing boutique downstairs. When he asks for Sally Ann, it's obvious he's done this before. He tells her to pick out some things he'd like and send them up to the suite. She has all his sizes, and he trusts her taste. He asks her to hold on for a moment and turns to Rachel, his hand over the receiver. "What size are you?" he asks.

"Size?" she repeats dully.

"Yes, size," he confirms, a little impatiently. "Dresses, shoes, stockings, everything."

She gives him all her sizes, and he repeats them to Sally Ann, telling her that his friend needs some new clothes too. When he looks at Rachel's baggy sweater and faded jeans, he tells Sally Ann to send a wide selection. His friend needs lots of help.

When the bellman arrives with the clothes, Rachel sees why Miguel trusts Sally Ann's taste. She has sent them not random articles of clothing, but entire ensembles, with matching shoes, and, in Rachel's case, jewelry. There's a selection of undergarments too, tucked discreetly under the other clothes.

Miguel tells Rachel to try on the outfits. "Change in the bedroom," he says, "then come out here and let me see." He knows he's going to buy everything that Sally Ann sent, but it amuses him to watch Rachel model the clothes. And they do make a difference. There's one dress in particular, a simple black dress with a low-cut back. Rachel's creamy skin glows against the dark fabric, and her reddish-gold hair gleams. Miguel sees a dusting of freckles across her shoulders. The short skirt reveals surprisingly shapely legs.

Once the fashion show is over, Miguel paces through the suite. He is restless and easily bored, a liability in his line of work. He knows this, but he can't help himself. It's evening now, time for dinner. "Let's go out," he says to Rachel. "Put on the black dress." He wears some of the new clothes Sally Ann sent up for him. He makes sure that Rachel sees the gun in its holster before he buttons his jacket.

Miguel gives the cab driver the address of one of the city's finest restaurants. The dinner is a success, all things considered. No one recognizes them, and Rachel is able to eat a little. Miguel is in an expansive mood when they leave the restaurant. "Let's walk back," he says. "We need the fresh air."

As they stroll down the street, Rachel glances at their reflections in the shop windows they pass. She hardly recognizes herself in the expensive new clothes. And Miguel. He is undeniably handsome, she thinks, with his dark looks and lean, graceful body. She is just stealing another glance at him when he turns to her abruptly and pulls her close. "Kiss me," he whispers, as his arms encircle her, "and make it look real."

Rachel's hands rise to Miguel's chest, and she tries to push him away, but it's no use. His arms are like steel bands around her, every muscle and sinew taut. As he bends toward her, she glances over his shoulder and sees the reason for their sudden embrace. Two cops walking the beat are coming toward them. Miguel has his back to them now, but he can see their reflections in the shop windows. Rachel draws breath to call out to them, but Miguel's lips stop her cry. His mouth is hard, insistent. There's not the slightest chance he'll let her go. The cops pass by, giving them an envious glance.

As the footsteps draw away from them, Miguel's eyes close, and he lets his fingertips trail down Rachel's back. God, he thinks, this woman is so sweet, so soft. He could just eat her. His mouth eases its pressure on hers for a moment, and his tongue licks against her lips. He has to taste her. Rachel's hands cease their pressure against Miguel's chest and slip upwards around his neck. Against her will, her body relaxes, leaning into him so that he feels every curve of her flesh. She can't give into him, she thinks. She won't. But when she tries, once more, to pull away, he simply whispers, "No." He takes her bottom lip gently between his teeth. "Open," he says, and she obeys him.

Rachel's mouth intoxicates Miguel. His tongue delves into her, tasting all her sweetness, wanting more, wanting everything. His arms tighten around her, pressing her body against his. He cannot get her close enough.

Rachel's arms are twined just as tightly around Miguel now. She can't let him go, can't even remember why she wanted to. Her mouth opens wider at his insistence. She is surrendering everything to him, and she wants him to take more. Don't stop, she begs him silently. Don't let me go.

But that's just what he does. He pulls away and glances at the cops, far down the block now. "That was close," he says with a smile. He reaches for her hand, but Rachel pulls it away, angry at how her body has betrayed her. Miguel laughs at her a little and captures her hand in his. He leads her through the dark streets, back to the hotel.

***

Rachel is dreaming. It's a very pleasant dream. In the dream, strong arms surround her, cradling her against a hard, lean body. She feels treasured, cherished, like some precious, fragile thing. Warm breath touches the nape of her neck as a deep voice whispers to her. She can almost make out the words, but not quite. When the voice stops, she feels lips against her skin, and teeth that nip at her earlobe, but gently, very gently, so that she doesn't wake.

A hand slides under her T shirt and slowly up, until the warm palm cups her breast. The knowing fingers stroke and knead until she sighs with pleasure. They find her taut nipple and pinch ever so gently, sending a pulse through her that ends in a delicious throb between her legs. Her hips rock against the body that cradles her, and in that moment, she wants only to surrender to the dream lover, to taste the delights he promises.

Rachel hears herself moaning and struggles toward consciousness. When she opens her eyes, she doesn't know where she is at first. The faint light from the window reveals the outlines of the suite, and when she recognizes her surroundings, she becomes aware of something else. The arms that encircle her, the fingers that stroke, the voice that whispers, all are real. Her dream lover is Miguel.

Rachel slaps angrily at Miguel's hand and tries to scramble away from him. But he won't let her go. "Don't tell me you didn't like it," he says, pulling her back to him. "I know you did." He gathers her into his arms, and when he presses his body against hers, she can feel that he's as hard as iron. "Go back to sleep," he murmurs against her hair. She closes her eyes again, but sleep is a long time coming.

***

In the morning, the news is good, at least from Miguel's perspective. The third mark died in the night. There's nothing to keep Miguel in Dallas any longer. But leaving is no simple matter. With the airport and train station under surveillance, the only way out is by car. But he knows from the news reports that there are roadblocks in every direction outside Dallas. That's where Rachel comes in.

"You're going to drive me down to Laredo," he tells her, "and across the border into Mexico."

"Why don't you drive yourself?" she asks. "You can have my car." Of course he can have the car, she thinks. He takes whatever he wants.

"Unfortunately," he says, "that won't be possible. Because of the roadblocks," he explains. "I'll have to hide in the trunk." He's done this before, and he doesn't relish the prospect of doing it again. It's not that he's claustrophobic, but this is a decidedly uncomfortable way to travel. And incredibly dull.

Risky too, he thinks. He'll be at Rachel's mercy. There's really nothing to stop her from driving to the nearest police station. He gives her a little speech that's designed to make her think twice before she does this. He'll be armed, he reminds her. And if anyone other than Rachel opens the trunk, he'll kill that person, no questions asked. Then he'll find Rachel. And he'll punish her.

The speech sounds convincing enough, Miguel thinks, but it feels perfunctory. He doesn't really believe that Rachel will betray him. He's not sure why, but he's seen this sort of thing before. There's something powerfully attractive about breaking the law, something deeply exciting. And when you're forced to do it, you can't be held responsible. Complicity without guilt is the best of both worlds, Miguel thinks. Then, too, Rachel is drawn to him. He doesn't underestimate the importance of that attraction. Such things have served him well in the past.

Miguel is right to trust his intuition. Rachel doesn't betray him. Police officers stop the car at two roadblocks, but since there's nothing suspicious about Rachel, the officers wave them through quickly. Several hours after their journey begins, the border patrol stops them at the Rio Grande, but it's only a momentary delay, entirely routine. After all, the flow of drugs and illegal aliens moves in the opposite direction. There's no reason to search a car driving into Mexico.

It's dark by the time Rachel finds the motel where Miguel has told her to go. She parks in a secluded spot behind the building and opens the trunk. Miguel groans as he pulls himself upright. He's so stiff and sore from the cramped quarters that Rachel has to help him out. In the motel room, he heads straight for the shower. He stands under the spray for a long time, hoping that the heat will loosen his knotted muscles.

At last, Miguel emerges from the shower and wraps a towel around his waist. He steps into the bedroom and throws himself, face down, on the bed. The shower helped a little, but God, he's still sore.

Rachel looks at Miguel stretched out on the bed. His curly hair is still damp from the shower, and his skin is very dark against the white towel. He flexes the muscles in his powerful arms and shoulders, trying to ease the discomfort. He's left his gun out of reach, on the bureau. Now would be the perfect time for Rachel to escape. But she doesn't even try. Instead, she moves toward Miguel and sits beside him on the bed.

Miguel's eyes are closed, but he feels the mattress dip when Rachel sits beside him. There's a pause, and then he feels her hands on his shoulders. They are soft but strong, and deliciously cool against his hot skin. Without a word, Rachel begins to knead the aching muscles in his back. Her hands release the tension from his neck, and soothe the cramps in his shoulders. They move down his body slowly and deliberately, easing the soreness. When she reaches the towel that circles his waist, Miguel whispers, "Don't stop." Rachel loosens the towel, and when she opens it, Miguel lies naked under her touch.

Miguel feels Rachel's hands slide down his back to his buttocks. Her fingers stroke and knead. The touch that soothed him before arouses him now. His breath comes a little faster, and there's a pleasurable tightness in his groin, the beginning of his erection. Rachel lingers only a moment and then moves on, stroking down to his powerful thighs and muscular calves, then working her way back up, ever so slowly. When her hands leave his thighs, Miguel tenses a little, expecting to feel them again on his buttocks. But he doesn't. He feels her mouth instead.

Rachel kisses the smooth skin of Miguel's ass and nips at him a little, taking the flesh gently between her teeth. He's moaning softly now, moving restlessly under her, but she won't stop, no matter what he does. He's in her power, and she loves it. Her tongue licks slowly down his spine, then darts teasingly between the cheeks of his ass. Suddenly, it's too much for him. Groaning, he pulls away from her mouth, turning on his back. His penis stands out from his body, hard and eager. "Touch me," he says, and taking her hand, he curls her fingers around his shaft. His hand covers hers, guiding her strokes until their fingers milk a single drop of semen from his erection. It glistens for a moment, then Rachel bends down and licks it, savoring his taste and the pleasure she gives him.

Rachel pulls away then, standing by the bed and looking down at Miguel. His dark eyes blaze with desire as she begins to undress. Slowly, teasingly, she uncovers her breasts. Her nipples are erect. He wants to lick them. She pushes her jeans and panties down and steps out of them. She runs her hands lightly down her body while he watches. His obvious hunger arouses her. He's been in charge since the beginning, she thinks. But that's about to change. She wants to see him lose control. She wants to *make* him lose control.

Rachel moves back to the bed and straddles Miguel. She's in charge now, and though she's wet and ready for him, she wants to make him wait. She grasps his erection and rubs herself against it. God, it feels good. His hands rise to her breasts, stroking the flesh he longs to suck. She lets him enter her, just a little, just enough to tease. But a little isn't enough for either of them. He strains upward, and when he penetrates her, she knows that she was wrong. It's not about control. It's about pleasure. Total erotic pleasure.

Miguel's hands move to Rachel's hips, forcing her down as he enters her completely. God, she feels incredible. Hot and slick and tight. She rocks against him a little, and the movement makes him groan. His hand slides between them, and his fingers find her swollen clit. When he strokes her, she cries out at the sudden pleasure. She touches her nipples, pinching them as her hips rock faster and faster. The friction of his fingers and the pressure of his cock buried deep inside her overwhelm the last vestige of Rachel's control. She throws her head back and surrenders, shuddering with pleasure as the orgasm shakes her to her very core.

Watching Rachel come is a powerful aphrodisiac. Miguel craves his own release now, needs it badly. But not yet, he thinks. Not yet. It's all he can do to hold back, but he does it.

Miguel pulls Rachel down to lie beside him and takes her in his arms. He's going to do what he wanted to do the very first time he kissed her. "I'm going to eat you," he says, and he begins with her mouth.

Rachel's mouth is as sweet as Miguel remembers. It opens eagerly to him, and he tastes her deeply. His kisses trail down her throat, down to the soft flesh he craves. He tries to restrain himself, but he can't. His lips close around the tight bud of her nipple, and when his tongue grazes against her, she arches toward him, twining her fingers in his hair. "More," she breathes, and he crushes her to him, devouring her with his kisses.

More is what they both must have. There's no turning back now. Miguel kneels on the bed and spreads Rachel's legs, opening her to his deepest, most intimate kiss. This is what he's hungered for, he thinks, as he samples her sweet essence. More, he must have more, and his hands slip beneath her, digging into her buttocks as he raises her to his hungry mouth. His tongue caresses her clit with loving attention, then dips inside her hot, wet recesses. Rachel's head tosses on the pillow, and a rosy flush spreads over her creamy skin. "Miguel," she cries, and she is begging him. "Take me," she pleads. "Take me now."

When Miguel hears the need in Rachel's voice, the last of his restraint crumbles. There's nothing gentle about the way he enters her, but she welcomes his roughness with her fierce embrace. He thrusts into her almost savagely, and she moves with him as their bodies find the timeless rhythm of desire. The pleasure rushes toward them, sweeping everything before it. Do they cry out? He doesn't know. He hears only the pounding of his heart as their bodies strain together. Harder and faster he thrusts into her, his body demanding the release so long denied. He's close, very close, on the brink of surrender, but she must surrender first. "Now, Rachel," he whispers, and, once again, she obeys him, holding on to him so tightly that he feels the climax shuddering through her. Her pleasure is the thing he can't resist. He gives in to it then, lets it wash over him until his own pleasure, so strong, so urgent, overwhelms him, and he releases deep inside her, whispering words of tenderness that are strange to him, but right, he thinks, right for Rachel, sweet Rachel, who draws him close and showers him with kisses.

***

How quickly the hours are passing, Rachel thinks. She wants to hold each moment of that night, treasure each instant, but time rushes heedlessly on. She reaches for Miguel again and again. His body is like some wonderful drug. She can't get enough of him. He laughs a little at her insistence, but, really, he doesn't mind. And when at last she dozes, he rouses her again, as hungry for her as she is for him.

In the quiet moments, they talk a little. He tells her about Barcelona, where he grew up. And she tells him about David, her lover -- ex-lover -- who left her so abruptly, with no warning and no explanation. Miguel thinks that David has behaved very badly. "Do you want me to kill him?" he asks.

Rachel considers the offer, but the punishment seems extreme, even for David. "I guess not," she says. "But thanks."

When the room grows light, they fall silent. They both know what comes next. They dress quietly, and Rachel picks up the car keys, wondering how she will say good bye.

"You could stay with me for a while," Miguel tells her. He makes the suggestion lightly, but she hears the hope in his voice.

Rachel shakes her head a little sadly. She doesn't need a crystal ball to know how things will end for him. "Better not," she says. "Buena suerte," she adds. It's one of the few phrases she recalls from high school Spanish.

Miguel nods. He understands. He reaches out and touches her cheek gently with his fingertips. "David is an idiot," he says, and she feels such a rush of tenderness for him that she almost stays. But she doesn't. It's the right decision, isn't it?