Anne Stuart's Out-of-Print Gems

by Anne Stuart

  She didn’t look like a hothouse orchid. For all her slender bones she looked tough and strong. They might even make it out to the plane in three days.

  He hoped so. She was distracting as hell. He wasn’t interested in spoiled rich girls, in new mothers, in heiresses or in the tangled politics of San Pablo. He just wanted to get the hell out, so that he could get back to his place in Colorado. And get on with his new life.

  She was right—the kitchen wasn’t hard to find. And the food supply was pretty damn pathetic. Red beans, rice, a hunk of hard cheese wrapped in a damp cloth and canisters of formula. He picked one up. It weighed a ton, and he cursed beneath his breath. Why the hell couldn’t she have nursed her own baby? It would have made life a hell of a lot easier.

  She probably didn’t want to ruin her small, perfect breasts. The cotton terry of the huge towel had been thin, worn. He had seen the shape of her breasts quite clearly the moment she’d walked into the room, and he’d found himself envying the baby. Apparently there was no need. That baby wouldn’t get to taste those breasts any more than he would.

  Still, there was no harm in fantasy, as long as he remembered that was what it was. He could dream all he wanted about Caterina Morrissey’s breasts. He just wasn’t going to touch.

  IF THERE WAS ONE THING Carlie was unused to, it was men. Tall, young men. Men with dark, arresting faces, bold eyes and a lethal, unconscious grace. Not to mention the gun he carried. It was no wonder she was unnerved.

  She wasn’t used to swearing. The words hell and damn held a more literal meaning for her during the past nine years—they weren’t used for punctuation.

  And she certainly wasn’t used to the clothes Caterina had brought with her to the Convent of Our Lady of Repose.

  She stuffed the habit under the bed, squashing her instinctive guilt as she did so. Caterina’s clothes still lay in the drawers, and Carlie searched through them in growing dismay.

  Most of them, of course, were maternity clothes. Caterina had been a wealthy young woman, spoiled, self-absorbed, who possessed only the finest in clothing. Unfortunately most of that clothing was provocative, flimsy and huge on Carlie’s smaller frame.

  There was no bra that came even close to fitting her, so she had no choice but to dispense with one entirely. The silk shirts were fuchsia and turquoise, dangerously bright colors, and the pants were all miles too long. Fortunately her wardrobe came equipped with a number of fine cotton knit camisoles, and she could take a pair of scissors to the jeans and make herself cutoffs. When she finished she couldn’t bring herself to look down at her body.

  It had been so long since she’d worn jeans. So long since her arms and throat and head had been bare. She felt naked, exposed, vulnerable.

  And cool.

  She walked barefoot across the stone floor to look down at Timothy. He was sleeping still, worn-out from the night before, and she pulled the thin cotton coverlet over his little body, brushing her hand against his wispy blond hair. He had no father or mother, no one to love him and care for him.

  No one but her. Caterina, her once-pretty face flushed with the fever that had ravaged her body, had clung to her hand during the last hours. “Take care of my baby,” she’d whispered.

  And Carlie had promised. She wasn’t about to go back on that deathbed vow. Timothy was hers now, and she wouldn’t relinquish him until she was certain she was doing the best thing for him.

  She left the door open so that she could hear him as she made her way down the empty corridor to the kitchen. She could smell the food, and her empty stomach churned in sudden longing, her hunger overriding her nervousness.

  Reilly was sitting at the table, eating slowly, steadily, his gun in front of him, close at hand. There was another place set across from him, a plate full of food and a mug of steaming liquid. She paused in the doorway, feeling faint.

  “Coffee?” she whispered. “I used up the last of it two weeks ago.”

  “I brought some with me.”

  She moved slowly across the room, forgetting her exposed legs, forgetting her bare arms, forgetting everything but the food waiting for her. “What is it?”

  “What you had. Beans and rice and cheese.”

  “Then why does it smell so good?”

  “I can cook.”

  She paused by the side of the table, staring at him curiously, her self-consciousness evaporating beneath his impassive gaze. He was barely aware that she was female, a fact that brought her nothing but relief. It was hard enough being around a man like this. It would be even worse if he was aware of her as a woman.

  “Not very many men can cook,” she murmured.

  “You just haven’t met the right men, lady.”

  Lady, she thought. In her entire life no one had called her lady. Certainly no one had spoken to her in that drawling, cynical tone.

  “I suppose not,” she said, taking the seat opposite him. The coffee was hot, black and strong. She took a deep, scalding sip and felt courage race through her bones.

  He’d already finished his meal, and he leaned back in the straight-backed chair that used to be reserved for Reverend Mother Ignacia and watched her. She was too hungry to be self-conscious at first, but gradually the coffee and the good food began to take effect.

  “You’re a cool one, aren’t you?” he drawled.

  She jerked her head up. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have expected any less. Given your jet-set life-style.”

  Treacherous ground, Carlie thought, reaching for her coffee. “Just how much do you know about me?”

  “Not much. I never was one to read gossip columns, and you’re a minor celebrity. Hell, I don’t think you even get fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “I’d prefer it that way.”

  “Really?” He sounded disbelieving. “Don’t you have any questions to ask me?”

  “About what?”

  His smile was far from pleasant. “Why, about the death of your husband? Don’t you care what happened to Billy? Or do you believe there’s no use crying over spilt milk?”

  A wash of color flooded her face. “I care. I just…that is…I—”

  “He died in a car accident,” Reilly said in his cool, emotionless voice. “He was in D.C. visiting his parents. As a matter of fact, he’d gone to tell them they were about to become grandparents, and to prepare for a daughter-in-law. Unfortunately he always drove like a bat out of hell, and this time the roads were too icy. He slammed into a concrete wall and that was it.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh,” he echoed, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I was lucky to be near enough to make it to the hospital before he died. He asked me to make sure his kid was safe. You know anything about deathbed promises?”

  The memory of Caterina’s dark, fevered eyes still burned a hole in Carlie’s brain. “A bit,” she said faintly.

  “Then you’ll know that I’m bringing the baby back. And if you behave yourself, do as I say, then you’ll get to the States, as well. But if I have to choose between you and the kid, the kid wins.”

  “As it should be,” she said.

  A flash of surprise lightened his eyes for a moment. “I imagine you’ll find life in Washington to your liking,” he said. “There are lots of parties, shopping, that sort of thing.”

  “What makes you think I’d stay in Washington?”

  “That’s up to you. But that’s where the baby stays. With his grandparents.”

  “You think his grandparents have precedent over his mother?”

  “I think you’ll probably be ready to get on with your life. You’re young enough, used to parties and having a good time. Why would you want a baby holding you back?”

  “If you don’t know, Mr. Reilly, I’m not about to explain it to you,” she said in a furious voice.

  “You might be marginally safer from your father’s enemies in Washington, as well,” he added in a noncommittal voice.

  “I beg your pardon?” />
  “You know as well as I do that you’re in danger, no matter where you go. People have long memories, and not very fond feelings for your stepfather.”

  “What makes you think Hector Mendino’s enemies are interested in me? Wasn’t killing him enough?”

  “Not for a true fanatic. They’ll be after you, and they’ll be after your kid.”

  She stared at him, aghast. “And that’s what you’re taking me back to?”

  “You think you’re safer here?”

  “No.”

  “As long as you’re with me, no one will get to you.”

  For some odd reason she had no doubt of that, but she fought against such implicit, uncomfortable trust. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “I know my job,” he said, his voice noncommittal. “Once you’re in the Capital District the professionals can take over. I’m not interested in playing hero anymore. I’ve done my time. This is just a last favor to an old friend. I’ll see you and the kid safely to the States, and then I’m gone. You’ll never have to see me again. Understood?”

  “Understood,” she said, wondering why the notion of never seeing this man again should both relieve and disturb her. She’d met him less than an hour ago, she knew next to nothing about him, and he made her nervous.

  She jerked her head up at the soft cry echoing down the corridor, a sound so faint most people wouldn’t have heard it. He turned at the same time, caught by the same distant sound. “The baby’s awake,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “You have good hearing.”

  “It comes with being a soldier. So do you.”

  “It comes with being a mother.” It was amazing how easily the lie tripped off her tongue. A sin, one of many, and all so very easy.

  He nodded. “I’ll find some place to bed down. We’ll be out of here by first light.”

  “I’ll need to pack some supplies…”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “But you don’t know what the baby needs….”

  “Lady, I’ve got a total of twelve nieces and nephews, ranging from two months to twenty-three years, and I helped raise my brothers and sisters. I know about babies.”

  She believed him. At that moment she was ready to believe he knew about everything. Except who and what she was.

  She nodded, rising. “I trust you.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she wanted to call them back.

  She’d never thought she would trust a man, especially one who had been a soldier, again. But this time she had no choice. Not for her own sake. But for Timothy’s.

  He didn’t seem surprised. He simply nodded, leaning back in his chair and looking at her, as the faint thread of sound grew louder as the baby decided he was tired of waiting. “Smart of you,” he murmured.

  It was no wonder women chose to live such peaceful lives, cloistered away from men, Carlie thought as she rushed back toward the baby’s room. She’d forgotten, or perhaps never realized, how vastly irritating men could be.

  To be sure, they had their uses. Reilly would have no trouble shooting that gun he carried, and he would see them safely out of San Pablo, she had no doubt. He could also cook, and he came equipped with coffee. Things could be worse.

  He also came equipped with an attitude, and presumptions, and a condescending manner that made her want to use those very words, and worse, that he dropped so casually into his conversation. And the fact that he was huge and undeniably good-looking didn’t help matters. Particularly since he was probably all too aware of how his size affected people.

  No, she didn’t like him. But she didn’t have to like him to trust him. By the time she reached Timothy he was wailing with unrestrained fury, and she scooped him up, holding him against her breast and murmuring soft reassurances.

  “You’ll never grow up to be a pig, will you, sweetie?” she cooed.

  And Timothy, settling down into a watery snuffle, socked her in the eye with his tiny fist.

  REILLY DRAINED THE LAST of his coffee. He’d given up cigarettes more than ten years ago, and there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t miss them. But right now had to be the ultimate. He would have killed for a cigarette.

  Fortunately he wasn’t given that choice—a deserted convent in the middle of a jungle was not the best place to find cigarettes. He would simply have to do without.

  At least it might distract him from the memory of Billy’s widow. Caterina—the name didn’t suit her one bit. Granted, she was only half Spanish, but she looked more Irish than anything else, with her pale skin and blue eyes. Carlie suited her. Though he was better off thinking of her simply as Mrs. Morrissey.

  He pushed away from the table and began packing tins of formula in a backpack. He hoped that tiny little creature in the crib was tougher than she looked. The next few days would be rough on the adults, including a woman who’d given birth not that long ago.

  It was just too damned bad he couldn’t afford to wait a couple of weeks, till the baby got bigger, till Carlie got stronger. Though she certainly looked strong enough, despite the unexpected paleness of her arms and legs.

  But the soldiers were moving down from the north. The rebels were moving up from the south. Reilly had learned to trust his instincts in these matters, and he knew the whole place was about to go up like a firecracker. He needed to get those two safely out of here before it happened.

  Why the hell did Billy have to fall in love with the daughter of a political hot potato? It would be tough enough if this was just any woman, any baby. But Mendino’s only grandchild made it impossible.

  Reilly didn’t pay much attention to the word impossible. Not when there were no other alternatives. He was going to get Carlie and her baby out of San Pablo, safely back to the States, and then he was going back to his mountaintop, alone.

  But before he left, he might give in to temptation and see whether her wide, pale mouth tasted as innocent as it looked.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Hell!” He whirled, the gun already drawn, as her voice startled him out of his faintly erotic reflection. “Don’t ever do that.”

  She stared at him, at the gun pointed directly at her, and her huge eyes were even wider as she shifted the baby against her shoulder. “Are you always this jumpy?”

  He shoved the gun back in his belt. “Let’s just say I’ve got good reason. We’re in the middle of a war zone, and no one around here is particularly fond of your family. What’s wrong with the kid?”

  “He’s hungry.”

  “He?”

  “I mean she,” Carlie corrected herself, shifting the squirming baby in her arms. “I keep forgetting.”

  “There’s a fundamental difference between boys and girls, Carlie. Or haven’t you been changing the baby’s diapers?”

  “You’d know if I hadn’t,” she snapped, heading for the row of freshly washed bottles. She grabbed one and tossed it to him. “Maybe you’d better get used to doing this. Two scoops of powder, then fill it with the filtered water and shake it.”

  She must have expected him to refuse. Hell, he could rise to that challenge, and any other she wanted to throw at him. He caught the plastic bottle deftly, mixing up the formula. “Sure would be easier if you were nursing,” he murmured, handing it to her when he was finished.

  The baby obviously thought so, too. She was rooting around at Carlie’s breast, making loud sucking noises. She made do with the bottle, however, when her mother tucked it in her mouth.

  “I would if I could,” she snapped.

  He leaned against the table. He liked making her mad, he decided. She had too much of an otherworldly calm that she kept trying to pull around her. He didn’t believe in other worlds. He didn’t believe much in serenity, given the circumstances.

  He liked watching her feed the kid, too, even if it was with a bottle. She was a natural mother, and the look she had as she bent over the baby was a far cry from her uneasy glares in his direction.


  Maybe she wouldn’t leave the kid with Billy’s parents. Maybe she’d learned there were other things more important than parties and fancy clothes.

  But that was none of his business. He was a courier, delivering his package safely. He needed to remember that.

  Before it was too late.

  Chapter Three

  Carlie was used to the silence. She’d been virtually alone in the old building for the past three weeks, with only the baby and the jungle noises outside to keep her company. For all that Reilly was a large man, he moved with just as much silence as the most discreet Sister of Benevolence.

  But she knew he was there. Even if she couldn’t hear him, she could feel his presence, permeating the very air she breathed. Man, the invader, in this house of women.

  She lay on the narrow bed, sweltering in the humid night heat. There wasn’t even the hint of a breeze to cool her, and the jungle birds kept up their ceaseless chattering, while Timothy slept on.

  She would be leaving this place in the morning, the only home she had known for the past nine years. Sometimes it seemed like the only real home she’d ever had, but she knew that wasn’t the truth. There’d been other places, other homes. The first ten years of her life had been spent in California, where her parents had ministered to migrant workers. The next seven had been in a variety of places, always in her parents’ footsteps, waiting for them to remember her existence among all the needy who ruled their lives.

  Reverend Mother Ignacia said they died in grace. It didn’t seem like grace to Carlie, hidden down behind the trees outside the small mountain town in the north where they’d been living. They had died in blood and pain, in a hail of bullets as they tried to bring their own version of God’s words to the villagers. And Carlie had watched, frozen in horror and denial, crouched down with her fist shoved in her mouth to still her screams.

  It was the harried relief workers who’d found her, who’d taken her down to the jungle convent of Our Lady of Repose, where Mother Ignacia and the others had clucked over her and soothed her and brought her reluctantly back into the sheltered world they lived in. As the years passed, no one seemed to remember she was there, and Carlie had grown secure, even as the country grew more explosive.