IN THE SMALL CLEARING, Craig Taylor caught the woman’s slender body as it crumpled in his arms. He laid her gently in the grass, then tenderly touched the spot where his fist had connected with flesh.
A breeze suddenly sprung up; the foliage around them rustled and whispered in the darkness. The sound of the crickets could be heard—in the distance if one listened, the pleasant trickle that was the sound of the stream.
Anger sliced through Craig with a jolt. Sometimes he was absolutely sure that the high brass sat on their brains. They had better have a damn good explanation for this one, he thought grimly. He had been right in the first place. Bombs in the Middle East would have been easier than the task of dragging an unwilling prisoner through the jungle.
Your own fault, old boy, he chastised himself harshly. Rule number one: Never fall in love with gorgeous, brave women about to be abducted and smuggled out of the country. Never, never, never make love to them. Never become the victim of the victim even when she is an enchantress.
Tense with anger, furious with himself, he jerked to his feet.
There was another flash of heat lightning disturbing the lush environ of the jungle—a final communication from Craig.
ON OUR WAY … STOP
The darkness of the night descended.
Craig hefted the inert bundle into his arms. He became a wraith of that darkness, moving in to move out.
In his tent he set Blair down, careful not to look at her face. He had to get moving and he didn’t remember how just hours ago they had shared the cot.
His hands trembled for an instant and he made them stop. He had to give her a sedative; he needed clear sailing for the hours to come. A great distance needed to be covered.
Almost impervious to pain himself, he winced as the needle pressed into her flesh. She released a soft whimper. No sound on earth had ever reached his ears with such reproach. He glanced quickly at her face, and then away. The soft skin, the waves of auburn hair that curled in luscious mounds of disarray around the fine, proud profile—for now he just couldn’t look at her. In drugged sleep her beauty was wistful, ethereal. It reminded him achingly of the trust she had given him, the trust that he, like a fool, had encouraged.
Tomorrow, he thought wryly, he would be facing more than wistful beauty; he would be in for one of the definite dangers the chief had guaranteed him—this woman’s wrath.
Though his thoughts plagued him, he moved mechanically, gathering the essentials. Seconds later he had her secured over his shoulder. Moving with all senses keenly alert, he sought out the jeep in the rear of the compound. A fifth sense warned him that someone was near; he tensed and stood perfectly still, trying to pinpoint the source of disturbance.
A soft whistle sounded and he breathed again, relaxing and proceeding.
Brad Shearer, almost invisible in black jeans and black T-shirt, awaited him at the jeep.
“I had a feeling you’d be moving out,” Brad said softly. “In a hurry. I stashed you a few extra provisions in the back of the jeep.”
“Thanks,” Craig returned briefly, depositing Blair in the passenger seat. She slumped instantly to the side. Brad responded automatically, adjusting her fallen head to a position of comfort. The gesture caused a constriction that clamped Craig’s throat.
“She’s a stunning woman,” Brad commented idly, pushing back a tendril of drooping auburn hair.
“Yeah,” Craig returned abruptly, hopping into the driver’s seat. “I’m popping it out of gear,” he told Brad. “Give me a push, will you? I don’t want to run the engine yet.”
“Sure.” Shearer pitched his weight against the vehicle. The jeep began to roll; both men heaved it along, Craig half in the vehicle, half out.
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
The distance between the rolling vehicle and the compound increased quickly. Out of earshot at last, Craig spurred the engine into action.
They were on the road.
Back at the compound Brad Shearer slipped into his tent. He smiled wryly. Craig Taylor—he had always been a little in awe of the man; he wasn’t considered quite human within the ranks of the special forces, a cat with nine lives and the ability to always land feet first. Just the power in the man’s damned golden gaze could quell trouble before it began.
But now he seemed to be in a slightly different predicament. If guerrillas were at large—which Brad could only assume to be the case although everything about this one was classified info—he had no doubt that Craig Taylor would make every right move. But that would be the least of Craig Taylor’s problems.
Brad had watched his comrade that night. It was normal to befriend the woman since he was guarding her, but there was more there than friendship. And Washington was full of rumors of Huntington’s daughter. Charming, pleasant, lovely, intelligent—but a demon caught by the tail if crossed.
Shearer was glad he wasn’t going to be around when that one blew. He chuckled softly as he stretched his length into his cot. There was some kind of saying, wasn’t there?
’Twas beauty killed the beast.
Craig’s thoughts were running along similar lines as he moved the jeep through jungle trails. He was alert to anything out of the norm in the landscape he traversed, but his instincts were such that his scanning of the terrain was an automatic thing, as much a part of his being as breathing. He was, unfortunately, quite able to think.
Theoretically tonight would be the worst. He would have to take constant care. Once they cleared land, he should be on easy street, maintaining direction, waiting for the allotted time to pass and the final destination to be reached.
Tonight he was flirting with the possibility of guerrilla snipers. But then again, tonight just might be the best of it. At least his hostage was out of it. Tomorrow she was sure to be pitching fits that would strain both man and professional training to the nth degree.
Blair’s drooping form suddenly moved again; her head careened to his lap, spilling a wealth of auburn silk over his knees. She moaned slightly, and shifted, casting a slender hand limply against his thigh and beneath her cheek.
Clenching his teeth so tightly that his jaw ached, Craig drove on. So trusting …
Despite better judgment, she had always come to him. He was painfully aware that she had said things to him that she had shared with no one, things she had kept inside, things which in giving spoke eloquently of her heart.
He should have stopped it, never have allowed it to grow. No, he couldn’t have stopped it, he had been an addict of a drug more potent than any other.
But now it was time to pay the piper. He would never forget her eyes when she saw him in the clearing—the scorn, the horror, the contempt, the scathing rage that altered their gleaming brilliance to glacial emeralds. She thought he was a terrorist, of course. But if she cared for him, she should have had some faith.
He was wounded, and so he reverted to anger again. He also doubted that she was going to feel much better in the eventuality that safety was reached and that she was told the truth of her abduction and his true vocation. Because a certain truth would still be there to her—he had sought her out with a specific plan.
He quirked his lips in a grim, mirthless smile. Why was he worrying about eventualities now anyway? He was going to have to deal with the coming days. And he might as well determine to harden right now; it was going to be a battle of wills from here on and no matter what the hell he was thinking, he had to be the consistent victor. A mask must be worn that couldn’t be allowed to slip.
The hum of the wheels, the grind of the engine, and the ceaseless reiteration of his own thoughts followed Craig through the jungle. Hours passed. Still Blair slept on. And then the first lap of the journey was accomplished without incident; a rendezvous point was reached. But there was no one to meet them as Craig drove the jeep into the foliage that banked the river. Steeling himself, he shifted his leg and rested Blair’s head against the empty seat. Moving just a few feet, he found what he sought.
A boat. Of sorts.
Barco de vela—a sailboat to the natives. One that would blend right in with any other native vessel traveling the river—chipped, cracked, peeling—the furled sails a dingy, tattered gray.
The vessel rested against a dilapidated dock. Catching the lead line, Craig hopped aboard, senses once more alert. He wasn’t expecting trouble at this point, but …
It looked like, an old wooden crate, Craig judged, but it would move. It was fixed with a motor, one of the best available he was sure. “Well, this is it,” he murmured to himself. “A castle to house my princess.”
He didn’t take time to check supplies or the galley that adjoined the sleeping quarters in the one-room cabin. He wanted to get away under cover of darkness.
He returned to the jeep, collected Blair, and lifted her onto his shoulder, desperately trying to raise a clinical barrier. With his free hand he stooped for his duffel bag and the “CARE” package that Brad had supplied.
In the morning, he knew, the jeep would be gone, as if it had never been. Someone else, who had no knowledge of its recent passengers, would simply be assigned to pick it up.
Activity in the jungle would be unchanged. The crickets would keep chirping, snakes would slither along the branches of the trees, birds would call. Life would go on.
Craig carried Blair down to the cabin and laid her on the wide single bed that fit against the starboard side. He kept his eyes from her face, but quickly removed her boots to offer her a modicum of comfort. The sun should be high in the sky before she awakened, he thought. Time enough for him to start their water journey, hopefully time for him to catch a little sleep.
Craig released the lines. Like a ghost ship, the dilapidated barco de vela moved into the river current under power of the motor that was designed to wheeze like a sick sea serpent despite its technical wizardry.
Road to river; river to coast. Their journey had begun.
In time Craig felt he had gone sufficient distance to cast anchor near the shoreline and catch a little sleep. Securing the boat, he slipped down the splintering ladder to the cabin.
His princess slept on, her face sweetly at peace.
Sighing, Craig laid his length beside her, noticing gratefully that the Agency had decided clean sheets would not be a giveaway. He pulled a blanket of rough native wool over the woman, folded his hands behind his head, and tried to sleep.
The effort was ludicrous. He would be better off on the planks than here beside her, when all natural instincts decreed that he should reach out and touch her, curl her soft frame into his ….
But he couldn’t do that. Not when he knew she would loathe the touch she had once surrendered all to, not when she was unaware, a victim of his sedative.
And so he stared up at a new ceiling—one of ragged, peeling planking. He listened to the soft sound of her even breathing, felt her slightest stir, her warmth so close to his.
Time ticked by. In her sleep she shifted. She inched closer to him, her body naturally gravitating to his heat—following a natural urge against which her mind would rebel.
Craig tensed every muscle. Then with a long exhalation of breath he cast an arm around her and hugged her to his chest. She adjusted again accordingly, fitting snugly into his muscled length.
He would be up long before she, Craig knew. He couldn’t deny himself this night. And yet, as he finally dozed, he knew his hostage would deplore the intimate scene if she knew of its existence.
But he also knew that he was far more her hostage than she was his.