Dangerous to Hold Page 8

  When he’d confirmed the date of the drop and set up the extraction, Jake would tell her what to expect. Until then, he’d just have to put up with her scorn, even if it did sting every bit as bad as any ant bite he’d ever experienced. The sister needed to go back to the convent and get a few more lessons in forgiveness for her fellow man, he thought.

  And she damn well needed to get back in that black habit.

  Jake’s jaw tightened as his gaze dropped to the swell of creamy flesh showing above the loosened neckline of her blouse. The image that had greeted him when he carried Eduard into the hut flashed into his mind.

  Sister Sarah, with her arms raised to hold the fall of blond hair off her neck.

  Her neck arched, as if in invitation.

  Her blouse molded around high, firm breasts that Jake had no business noticing.

  Sweat popped out on his brow. He edged past her, grabbed one of the tin plates and stalked toward the door.

  “I’ll go get the mud.”

  Chapter 6

  By midmorning, the primitive sutures and soothing mud had done their job. The swelling from the ant stings had disappeared, the cut remained closed, and Sarah felt competent enough to wrap Eduard’s arm in a strip of light gauze bandage she’d found in the bountiful knapsack.

  When the boy fell into a light doze, the gringo tugged on his wrinkled spare shirt and left the little hut—to check on the status of his so-called business activities, Sarah supposed.

  By noon, Eduard showed little effect from his injury, other than his bandaged arm. The younger children, who’d remained quiet and subdued until now, began to get restive. Sarah tried her best to divide her attention between the three of them, but found herself running out of stories and energy and patience. When the gringo returned some time later to check on them, she greeted him with something very close to relief.

  One dark brow arched, but he refrained from commenting on her change of attitude. “How’s your patient?” he asked, ducking his head to step closer to the hammock.

  “Your patient, you mean,” she said with a small, frazzled smile. “He’s doing fine.”

  “Good enough for me to take him outside?”

  “S.”

  They both swung around at the soft affirmative, startled to hear Eduard speak.

  He didn’t say anything more. He just swung his thin legs over the edge of the hammock and sat up, his injured arm cradled in the makeshift sling Sarah had fashioned from a strip torn from the mosquito netting. Sarah started to protest, but Eduard looked at her with a silent plea.

  “He has to make the pee-pee,” Ricci informed them, with a three-year-old’s utter lack of reticence.

  The gringo laughed and strode over to help the boy out of the hammock. “Then maybe we’d better take a trip before lunch. Come on, Squirt. You too.”

  Sarah bit her lip, marveling at the careful yet assured way he handled Eduard. Ricci trailed happily out the door after them.

  “Me, also,” Teresa chirped. Red skirts swirling, she jumped up and ran out before Sarah could stop her.

  Oh, well, let him handle her for a while. He certainly seemed capable of it, Sarah thought wearily. Sinking down on the handy crate, she stared at her grubby hands. Although she’d washed as best she could, mud rimmed her nails. She flipped her hands over once or twice, examining them. The long, polished tips she used to spend so much time and money on were gone, as was the smooth, tanned skin. A spasm of regret for her former life shot through her. Sarah clenched her hands into fists.

  She leaned her head back against the wall of the hut and closed her eyes, wishing herself away from this place, away from the children who were more responsibility than she’d ever dreamed they could be. Away from the man who overnight seemed to have become the center of her universe.

  He was unlike any of the men she’d ever known, Sarah thought resentfully. So different from the suave, urbane men she’d charmed and flirted with. And he was a universe away from the laughing Frenchman she’d fallen in love with.

  Eyes closed, Sarah waited for the familiar pain that came with any memory of André. A ripple of hurt eddied through her, but it lacked the intensity of the waves that had swamped her in past weeks. And André’s image seemed less sharp, less vivid, than before.

  Instead, a different image imprinted itself in precise detail on the inside of Sarah’s lids. Hard-eyed. Lean-hipped. Broad chest bare under the unbuttoned edges of the wrinkled khaki shirt. In her mind’s eye, Sarah noted the swirls of black hair scattered lightly across the gringo’s pectorals. The soft black pelt narrowed to a thin line as it angled down his chest and traced its way over a flat stomach, then disappeared into his waistband. A sudden, insidious desire to run her fingertip along that line of dark hair snaked through Sarah.

  When she realized where her thoughts and her mental image had taken her, Sarah’s eyes flew open. Startled, she sat bolt upright on the crate. Good Lord! She had to be more stressed than she realized. She couldn’t feel anything remotely resembling physical attraction for a man like him. This liquid heat curling low in her stomach had nothing to do with him. Nothing! She was just tired. Just stressed by all she’d been through. Or maybe she was feeling something like the hostage dependency syndrome that formed a frequent topic of conversation at the dinner parties she’d hosted or attended. Among the Washington elite, international terrorism and diplomatic kidnappings were a very real concern. The State Department even offered courses on dealing with captors to senior officials traveling abroad.

  That was all that was between her and this mercenary, she reasoned, a sort of sick dependency relationship. Circumstance had thrown her into his company. Some lingering shreds of conscience had led him to offer what protection he could to a fellow countryman. But Sarah couldn’t let herself forget why he was here. She couldn’t let herself become emotionally dependent on him. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow herself to feel any attraction for him.

  She didn’t even like him! He was scruffy, and unshaven, and as dangerous as any of the men he associated with, and…and she had no idea what his life was like outside this jungle. For all she knew, he had a wife and a houseful of kids tucked away in New Jersey. Which might explain why he was so good with Teresa and Ricci and Eduard.

  The thought sent a rush of mingled pain and determination through Sarah. She’d made a fool of herself once, and hurt a lot of people in the process, herself included. She wouldn’t do it again.

  Nor, she decided with a rush of determination as she glanced around the hut, would she sit here any longer like some weak, gutless wimp, totally dependent on a man she couldn’t allow herself to trust. She was Sarah Chandler, she reminded herself. Daughter of one of the most powerful men in Washington. A personality of some force in her own right for many years. Her reputation might be a bit tarnished these days, and her self-esteem a little dented, but, dammit, she wasn’t stupid, and she wasn’t going to wallow in her misery any longer. She’d done that once, with disastrous results. Once she’d tried to find an antidote to her shame and hurt in alcohol. Once she’d lost control of herself to the point that she’d plowed her Mercedes into the side of a D.C. metro transit bus. Not again. Never again.

  Surging to her feet, Sarah marched over to the stack of clothing, hers and Teresa’s, folded neatly atop one of the crates. Within moments, she’d shed her borrowed clothes and the suffocating black robe enfolded her from head to toe. She tied the limp strings of the wimple at the base of her neck, making sure no tendrils of hair escaped it or the black veil. Drawing in a deep breath, she headed for the door.

  The reminder that the men outside would expect her to exercise her supposed medical skills made her pause with one hand on the warped wooden door. After her near panic with Eduard, however, Sarah had had time to reflect. She realized that there couldn’t be any serious injuries or maladies awaiting her treatment in the camp. If there were, she would have been forced to attend to them before now. Two weeks with Maria had taught her how to administer pe
nicillin, if necessary, and treat minor jungle ills. Assuming that they even had any medical supplies in camp. After the fiasco with the needle, Sarah wondered.

  As soon as she stepped outside, she felt an immediate sense of relief. Air marginally cooler than that inside the hut swirled through the clearing. The camouflage net strung across the camp like some huge, rippling parachute provided a measure of shade. She waited while her vision adjusted after the dimness of the shack, then peered around the littered clearing. Debris from the abandoned, tumbledown huts lay interspersed with empty tins and crates the rebels had discarded. The packhorses cropped desultorily beside the stream. Sarah caught a flash of red in the bright, dappled sunlight and lifted her skirts to head for Teresa.

  The black-robed figure was halfway across the clearing before Jake saw her. Surprised and furious that she would disobey his order to stay inside, he jumped up and strode to meet her. Before she could get a word out of her mouth, he grasped her arm and spun her around.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Get back in the hut.”

  She pulled her arm free. “No.”

  “No?” He stared at her, clearly taken aback. “What do you mean, no?”

  “No.”

  “Look here, Sister Sarah—”

  “No, you look. I’m tired of not being able to breathe in that stifling shack. I’m tired of being afraid to face these men. And I’m particularly tired of the way you say that.”

  Jake reared back, astounded at the sudden attack. “The way I say what?”

  “The way you say ‘Sister Sarah.’ In that half-mocking, half-patronizing tone.”

  He glanced from Sarah to the hut and back to Sarah again, trying to figure out just what the hell had happened in the fifteen minutes or so since he’d left her alone.

  “I can’t stay inside any longer,” she told him, her eyes luminous in their intensity. “I have to get out. I have to move around. I won’t allow myself to be more of a prisoner than I am.”

  “Let’s just review our options here,” Jake growled. “I could damn well drag you back to the hut.” In fact, he thought, it would give him a good deal of satisfaction at this moment to pick little Sister Sarah up, carry her back inside, and dump her on her keister.

  “You could,” she acknowledged, her gaze locked with his.

  He jerked his chin toward the children squatting by the stream. “Or I suppose you think I could just stand guard over you and the kids, like some medieval knight protecting his lady.”

  One delicately arched brow told him just how little she considered him a knight in shining armor.

  “Or I could let you live with the consequences of your sudden spurt of independence, which is…” Out of the corner of one eye, Jake caught sight of the beefy, pig-faced lieutenant strolling across the clearing toward them. “Which is what I’ll have to do. We just ran out of options, lady.”

  Jake slanted her a quick look, relieved to see that she at least had the sense to wipe the determined expression from her face and dull the impact of her vivid eyes.

  The man called Enrique stopped beside them. Hooking his hands in his belt, he rocked back on his heels and gave the sister a narrow, appraising glance. “So, gringo, your little religiosa has decided to make an appearance?”

  “The heat in the shack grew too much for her,” Jake replied with a shrug. “She needs air.”

  “Or perhaps occupation for her hands, eh?”

  Jake saw her swallow quickly, then firm her lips. “Perhaps,” he agreed, accepting the inevitable.

  The lieutenant lifted a hand to scratch his chest. “When the men get back from patrol, I will tell them to bring their complaints to her. Myself, I’m healthy as a horse. Although…” His big paw stilled its absent movement. “Maybe I’ll find a pain somewhere that needs attention, eh?”

  “I’d suggest you stay healthy until Che gets back,” Jake drawled. “He left you in charge of the camp, remember? And me in charge of the woman.”

  Enrique didn’t miss the unsubtle reminder. He eyed the man opposite him lazily, as if debating whether or not to challenge him. Jake didn’t alter his own easy stance, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. His .45 was nestled in the holster attached to his web belt. He’d left his automatic rifle propped against the wall inside the hut, however. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “Have you heard from him?” Jake asked casually. “Che said he’d radio in as soon as he arranged a new drop.”

  “No, but we should hear from him soon. Unless the patrón was not there when he arrived. Then Che must wait until he returned.”

  Jake’s mouth twisted. For too many years, the great landowners had oppressed the people of this region, paying them slave wages for backbreaking labor on their coffee and banana plantations. Now a new generation of powerful barons had gained financial dominance—the drug lords who operated the processing plants hidden in Cartoza’s deep, protected valleys. They were slowly gaining a stranglehold over the economic fabric of the country that was more pervasive, more devastating, than that of the old landowners. Even Che, a man dedicated to overthrowing the current government in favor of a people’s democracy, depended on a “patrón” for funding. So much for the revolutionary’s political purity, Jake thought cynically.

  “Let me know when you hear from him. I’ll be around.”

  “So will I, gringo,” the man replied, his eyes on the nun.

  Pig-face would take some watching. Close watching.

  Jake shepherded the sister back toward the children. “I think we need to review a few of the ground rules here, Sister Sar—” He stopped himself, remembering her objection to the way he said her name.

  She waved an impatient hand. “Oh, just call me Sarah. It’s…it’s permitted in most orders now, you know.”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  Jake frowned, not at all sure he wanted to drop her title. He hadn’t realized that he’d been so patronizing when he used it, but at least it had kept a nice, neat barrier between them. Sarah sounded far too…human.

  “Why don’t you just join the kids by the stream?” he suggested curtly, uncomfortable with this business of names. “I’ll go see if I can find something other than beans for lunch.”

  He recrossed the clearing some time later, juggling two cans of tuna fish that had cost him an infrared starlight rifle scope. The scope’s loss wasn’t critical, since Jake had another that slid onto the special grooves in the barrel of his .45. With a little modification to the mounting, it could be fitted to the automatic rifle, as well. Still, he was running through his equipment at almost as fast a clip as Sis—as Sarah was running through his personal possessions.

  He tossed a can in the air, then almost missed catching it as he halted in midstride. Eyes narrowed, Jake searched the shadowed spot beside the stream where he’d left his charges. They weren’t there.

  Spinning on his heel, he strode to the hut and yanked open the door. Even before his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the interior, Jake knew they weren’t inside. No little girl’s giggles echoed in the silence. No little boy demanded that Sarita take him in her lap. Tossing the cans aside, Jake grabbed his automatic rifle. In a movement so swift and instinctive it took less than three seconds, he pressed the magazine release, checked that the clip carried a full compliment, then snapped it back in place. Jaw clenched, he headed back out the door.

  He hadn’t heard any screams. There hadn’t been shouts. Any muted laughter or disturbance among the men. A swift, gut-wrenching fear rose in him that Sarah had decided to carry her unexpected streak of independence to the extreme. Despite his warnings, she might have taken the children and tried to slip out of camp. It would be easy enough. The rebels didn’t mount much of a guard. They didn’t need to. One of the skills Jake had “sold” them was how to arm the ultrasensitive intrusion detection devices that now ringed the camp’s perimeter. The motion sensors concealed tiny built-in computers that differentiated between sizes and shapes and body heat.
Small animals wouldn’t set the sensors off, but humans would. Even humans as slender and slight as Sarah….

  A cold sweat chilled Jake’s body. If detonated, those devices wouldn’t leave a whole lot of Sarah and the children for the jungle scavengers to feast on. He cursed silently, savagely. He shouldn’t have left them alone. Even for a second. He shouldn’t have—

  “Señor Creighton! Señor Creighton!”

  At the sound of Teresa’s high-pitched shriek, Jake dropped into a crouch and whirled. The scampering girl stumbled to a halt a few paces away, her mouth dropping at the sight of the gun leveled at her. A short distance behind her, three other faces registered varying degrees of surprise and shock.

  Jake’s breath hissed out. He raised the barrel skyward and straightened slowly. His eyes blazed at Sarah, searing her small, delicate face, her incredible eyes, her high cheeks and full, pink lips, into his mind, to replace the image that had knotted his stomach just moments before.

  “Where the—?” He bit off the blistering words he would’ve used with any other person in similar circumstances and tried again, spacing each furious syllable for maximum emphasis. “Where…in…the…hell…have…you…been?”

  She blinked, clearly taken aback at his vehemence. “We’ve been with Eleanora. At her lean-to.”

  “With Eleanora. At her lean-to. Who in the hell is Eleanora?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. What’s gotten into you?”

  Jake rubbed his hand down his mouth and chin, feeling the rasp of bristles against his palm. He couldn’t tell her what had gotten into him. Not yet. The stomach-twisting, heart-pounding fear he felt for her had been too raw, too intense. Too far outside the range of emotions he’d allowed himself to experience for too many years. Jake wasn’t quite sure how his emotions, not to mention his life and his mission, had seemed to spin out of control from the moment he parted those damned palmetto bushes and found her crouched behind them.