by Anne Stuart
“Close your mouth, Carlie,” he murmured. “You’ll catch flies.”
She closed her mouth, still staring. He had a very tempting mouth himself. Wide, mocking, narrow lipped and sensual, it curved into a mocking smile at her trancelike state. “Better close those beautiful blue eyes of yours, as well,” he added. “I’m about to get dressed.”
She whirled back to the window just as he began to reach for the towel at his waist. She could feel the color flood her body, and she could only thank God the room was dark enough that he wouldn’t see her embarrassment.
She stood there, staring mindlessly out the window, listening to the sound of clothes rustling. The snap of elastic, the rustle of cotton, the unnerving rasp of a zipper being pulled. That zipper told her she was now safe from future embarrassment, and she started to turn back.
He was directly behind her, dressed, thank God, though he hadn’t bothered to snap the faded jeans he wore, and he’d left the khaki shirt loose and unbuttoned, bringing his smooth, bare chest unnervingly close. “Even your ears are blushing,” he said, reaching out and pushing a damp strand away from her face.
There was a shattering tenderness in the gesture. She didn’t want tenderness from this man, from any man. “Why would I blush?” she said in what she hoped was a suitably offhand voice. “I’ve seen hundreds of naked men.”
“Besides which, if you’re going to prance around in nothing but a towel, you’re going to have to expect me to follow suit,” he murmured. He was no longer touching her, but he was dangerously close. She could smell the soap on his skin. Toothpaste on his mouth. Danger in the air.
“I wasn’t prancing,” she said in a strangled voice. “And I wasn’t blushing.”
“You’ve spent too long at that convent,” he said, closer to the truth than he’d ever know. “Some of the sisters’ modesty must have worn off on you.”
She stiffened. If she had any sense she’d ignore him. But she wasn’t feeling very sensible. “Are you accusing me of trying to entice you?” she snapped.
“Not likely. You’ve been giving off that touch-me-not look for days now. I would have thought Caterina Mendino would have been more interested in cementing her right to protection, but you seem to take my nobility for granted.”
“You’ll protect me for Billy’s sake,” she said, certain at least of that.
“Wrong.” He touched her again, with both hands this time, pushing her damp hair away from her face.
“You won’t protect me?” Her voice wavered slightly. It wasn’t the fear of his withdrawing his protection. It was the feel of his long, hard fingers on her skin.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll protect you. But not for Billy, and not for the baby. Not for the sake of those beautiful, lying blue eyes of yours.” He ran his fingers across her cheekbones, and her eyes fluttered closed for a brief, dangerous moment.
“Then why?”
“Because I don’t like to see the bad guys win. I don’t like bullies, I don’t like it when weaker people get hurt.”
Her eyes shot open. “Who says I’m weak?” she demanded.
“Oh, you’re not. Not in spirit. But a strong man could snap your neck in an instant. If you pushed him far enough. And you’re a pushy broad.”
The notion was so bizarre she had to smile. Meek, gentle Sister Mary Charles was a far cry from a pushy broad, but as long as he believed it, so be it. But one more thing was troubling her.
“Why do you say I have lying eyes?” she asked, wishing he’d take his hands from her face. Afraid of where else he might put them.
That cynical smile broadened. “They look so innocent. So sweet, and honest, and shy. But I know damned well Caterina Morrissey de Mendino doesn’t have a shy, innocent bone in her body. You’re a barracuda, lady. You may not look the way Billy described you, but I imagine your soul is just as twisted.”
This was dangerous ground. About the only thing she had in common with Caterina was dark hair. Caterina had been tall and shapely, even in the advanced stages of pregnancy. Her eyes had been brown, Carlie’s were blue. Her feet were big, her manner imperious, her tastes extravagant.
She raised her eyes and looked at him, for a moment hiding nothing. “Maybe you should believe my eyes,” she whispered, “and not what you’ve heard.”
He stared for a moment, unmoving, his hands cupping her upturned face, and she wondered if he’d kiss her again. Instead he backed away, suddenly, as if he’d looked into the face of a bushmaster. For a moment he looked dazed, and her sense of disquiet grew.
She lifted a hand to call him back, but he’d already turned from her. “I’ll find some food for us,” he said brusquely. “If I were you I’d stay put. I put the fear of God into Dutchy, and Morales and his men have left, but I don’t trust them to have gone that far.”
“What about the baby?”
“I’m going to check on him right now. In the meantime, sit tight. It’s not safe around here, and I’m not in the mood to play hero.”
“You don’t really have the right qualifications,” she said sharply.
He paused by the door, buttoning his shirt. “Oh, yeah? I would have thought I’d be perfect hero material. I’m big, a number of women have told me I’m handsome, and I fight on the side of law and order.”
“You’re a conceited oaf,” she said, shocked at herself.
“Now you, on the other hand, don’t quite qualify as a damsel in distress. You’re too strong, and you lie too much.”
There it was again, that trickling of unease. One she quickly squashed, as she realized he was about to abandon her in this Spartan hotel room. “Can’t I come with you? I want to make sure the baby’s all right.”
“You can stay put. I’m going to check out a few other things while I’m at it, and I don’t want you trailing around behind me, getting in my way.”
“I can be very quiet….”
“No,” he said, his voice sharp. And he closed the door behind him before she could utter another protest.
She stared at that door, remembering. She’d promised to do as she was told, no questions asked. She needed to keep that promise, to sit on the bed and wait until he deigned to return. She needed to ignore her empty stomach, her anxiety, her curiosity. She needed to remember the vows she wanted to take. Vows of obedience. Poverty. Chastity.
But she hadn’t made those vows yet—Mother Ignacia hadn’t let her. And she certainly had made no vows of obedience to Reilly.
Nor vows of chastity, either. She wasn’t going to sit alone in that room, in the middle of the bed she’d be sharing with him, waiting for him to return. She was hungry, she was edgy, she was out in the world, for a short, dangerous time.
She wasn’t going to spend that time cloistered in a hotel room as if it were her cell.
She opened the door and went after him.
Chapter Eight
Blue eyes, Reilly thought. Innocent, lying blue eyes, staring up at him. With a soft, tremulous mouth that needed to be kissed. Blue eyes, and a firm, slender body, with small, high breasts.
Billy Morrissey had had blue eyes, as well. Two blue-eyed parents, and the tiny baby Carlie carried strapped to her slender body had eyes that were already turning brown.
His knowledge of genetics wasn’t that exact, but he somehow doubted that two blue-eyed parents would have a brown-eyed child. So who was the real parent? Carlie? Or Billy?
It made sense that Caterina Morrissey de Mendino had lied about the father of her child. After all, the Morrisseys were wealthy Americans who could provide a decent home for a baby. The real father could be anyone—a decadent member of the jet set Caterina used to pal around with, or one of her stepfather’s bodyguards. Or anyone in between. No, her estranged husband was the most convenient choice, and whether he was anywhere near San Pablo ten months ago probably didn’t matter.
He could hardly blame her. She was doing what was best for the baby, and if that included lying to everyone, so be it. He could find a certain gru
dging respect for a mother willing to risk it all for her child.
There was only one problem with that scenario. She didn’t have the body of a woman who’d given birth less than a month ago. She might love that baby with a fierce, maternal passion, but she certainly hadn’t given birth to him.
Of course, there could be any number of reasons for her masquerade. She could enter the United States as the widow of a citizen, but as the mother of a U.S. citizen, as well, her residency would be assured. She’d also have claim to the Morrissey money, which would be hard for anyone to resist. Chances were she was some friend of the real Caterina’s, with the same expensive tastes.
Odd, he thought, moving silently through the shadowed street toward the Shumi encampment. She looked a lot younger than Caterina should have been. A lot more innocent. It must be part of her stock-in-trade. Along with an indefinable ability to make people want to believe in her. And he, the cynic of all time, was finding it far too easy to believe in her, as well.
Which all went to prove he’d been right in getting out. Not re-upping when his last tour of duty came to an end, heading out for his mountaintop in Colorado, away from danger and distractions. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was marginally more vulnerable than he liked. He had to be, falling for a lying little tease.
Except she hadn’t kissed like a tease. One thing was for sure—she was lying to him, lying through her teeth, and he intended to find out the truth. In that small, concave bed tonight, he had every intention of finding out exactly who and what she was.
He’d be gone a couple of hours. He’d check on the kid, though he had no doubt Timothy was in the lap of baby luxury among the Shumi women, then he’d scout out the village, quietly, assessing the danger. That should give Carlie just long enough to start worrying whether he was coming back or not. Just long enough to panic and be ready for the slightest bit of extra pressure.
Oddly enough, he didn’t find the notion appealing. He didn’t want to scare her. Didn’t want to terrorize her into telling him the truth. He wanted her to offer it, freely.
Another sign of dangerous weakness, he thought with disgust. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up as dead as Billy Morrissey. And he wasn’t quite ready to die.
The night was still and marginally cooler than the heart of the jungle they’d just traversed. The slow-moving river that ran through the village was deep and brown, the currents sluggish, but he thought he felt his first hesitant breeze since he’d landed in this miserable country. The heat, the rebels, the murderous black-shirted soldiers, the presence of Morales himself, the jungle, all added up to dangers that were scaring the hell out of him. The sooner he got those two out of here and safely back to the States, the sooner he could retire to his mountain and pull himself together.
Oddly enough, he had no hesitation about taking them both back. One of them didn’t belong, maybe both of them. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to leave a helpless baby in this war-torn country, not when he had the means to get him out. And whether Carlie had given birth to him or not, she truly loved him. He was sentimental enough to figure that counted for something.
In the distance he heard the faint scream of a jaguar, deep in the jungle. And like a great jungle cat himself, he slipped into the shadows, on the prowl.
IT DIDN’T TAKE CARLIE long to regret her decision to follow Reilly. Even though the old building seemed deserted as she tiptoed downstairs, she could feel eyes, watching her. Male eyes, hungry eyes. She’d felt those eyes on her ever since she’d arrived at this place, she admitted to herself.
The bar downstairs was deserted, thank God, the soldiers gone. She took a good look around through the murky lamplight. Cigarette smoke still hung in the air like a noxious cloud, and she could smell whiskey and chiles. The latter made her stomach growl in longing.
Surely someone like Dutchy would employ a cook. The Shumi were noted for their cooking as well as their family values—with any luck there’d be someone in the kitchen, eager to feed her.
Luck, however, was not with her. The kitchen was nothing more than a back shed, the stove was cold, the stores almost negligible. There was a bowl of eggs of doubtful vintage, a hunk of hard cheese, some plantains. And three cans of Campbell’s soup.
She stared in disbelief. She had forgotten the existence of canned soup. Centuries ago, when she’d lived in the States, it had been a major part of her sustenance. Looking at those red cans, she could suddenly remember her mother—vague, preoccupied, opening a can with the assurance that this would provide a decent meal for a growing girl. She could always taste the toast and butter.
It seared through her with a sharp pain. Memory. Grief. Shock. She thought she’d put that all behind her, found a safe new life with the sisters, protected from harsh, unbearable time. And just as easily it came rushing back, simply by looking at a can of soup.
She was shaking all over. She could smell the blood once more, pooling beneath the beating sun. The screams were gone, but the shouts of the soldiers still echoed. They were searching for her—they knew she was somewhere in that mountain village, and they weren’t about to leave a witness behind. And she’d backed down, curled into a fetal ball, and waited for them to come and finish her.
But they’d never found her. She’d been brought out safely, that time of horror locked safely away in the back of her brain. It had been so long since she’d even thought about it.
Until Reilly had dragged her back into life. And the memories came flooding back as well, crushing her.
She couldn’t let it crush her. With sheer force of will she thrust the panic, the despair away from her. This time she couldn’t curl up in a weeping, helpless ball on the floor, waiting for someone to rescue her. She had a vow, to Caterina, to the baby, to herself, even if Mother Ignacia wouldn’t let her make a formal vow. She would see Timothy safely into his grandparents’ arms, and she would return to the sisters. There the past would safely recede, and she would find peace once more.
She reached for the can of soup, ignoring the tremor in her hands. It took her a while to find the can opener, longer still to use the rude contraption. And then she sat on one of the stools, took a spoon and began to eat out of the can, the cold salty stuff a far cry from the warm comfort her mother had provided her so long ago.
The stale corn bread didn’t taste anything at all like buttered toast, either. And yet she knew the flavors. It felt oddly like a kind of communion. Bread and wine. Cold soup and corn bread. In remembrance of her mother.
Would Mother Ignacia call it blasphemy? Perhaps. But to Carlie it felt like a sacrament. Remembering. And letting go, just a tiny bit.
“You eat my soup?” The heavily accented voice was deep with outrage.
Carlie looked up to see Dutchy standing in the doorway. He was a large, untidy man, with bloodshot eyes, several days’ growth of beard that didn’t look the slightest bit raffish, a pot belly and a stained, rumpled white suit. His gray hair stood up around his bald spot, and he glared at her for a moment, his small dark eyes cunning.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I was hungry, and I couldn’t find anything else. We’ll pay for it….” Belatedly she wondered if Reilly had any money with him. Of course he did—he was infuriatingly efficient.
Dutchy pushed into the room, an expression of false affability crossing his lined face as he pulled out a cigar. “No, no,” he said grandly. “You should have let me know. I could have had one of the Shumi cook you something. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to eat cold soup out of a can.” He cast a sorrowful look at the empty container, the spoon still sticking out of it.
“It reminded me of my childhood.” She said it on purpose, testing herself. There was no pain. Not at the moment.
“That’s why I keep it around. To remind me of civilization while I’m in this godforsaken place. It’s very hard to come by.”
“And I took one. I’m sorry.”
Dutchy moved closer, the cigar smoke wreathing around him
like an anaconda. “For a pretty little girl like you,” he said, breathing heavily, “I don’t mind. Where’s your friend?”
“He just went out for a walk. He’ll be back at any moment.” Alarm coursed through her, immediate, justified. There was no other exit to the kitchen shed. Just the door Dutchy was blocking. She slid off the stool, trying to summon up a cool smile. A Caterina, to-hell-with-you smile.
“That’s right,” Dutchy cooed, coming closer. “A nice, friendly smile. You be nice to Dutchy, and he’ll be nice to you. Morales and his men haven’t gone far, and they’re coming back. They wondered about you, and your friend. They’ll wonder even more about the baby you left with the Shumi women. You shouldn’t expect to keep secrets in a place like this. The Shumi won’t talk, but others will. And I’ve promised to report anything unusual to Morales. He wouldn’t like it one bit if I held out on him.”
“What baby?” she demanded, unable to hide her panic.
“Don’t be foolish. I found out, and so will Morales. But if you’re nice to me, and you play your cards right, I can keep them away from you.”
She backed away from him, surreptitiously, but he followed, until she was up against a wall, nowhere to run to, and he was far too close, his big belly pushing up against her, his cigar smoke wreathing them both. “You be friendly to me, little one, and I can be very helpful. People around here know that Dutchy is a good friend to have.” He reached out a hand to touch her face. His fingers were short, stubby, stained with dirt and nicotine, and as he brushed them against her cheekbone she couldn’t control her horrified shudder.
Dutchy’s grin widened, exposing dark, broken teeth. “You like that, do you?” he murmured, completely misinterpreting her reaction. “You’re a woman of discernment. Broad shoulders and a handsome face are all well and good, but there’s a lot to be said for age and experience.” His hand slid down the column of her neck, and her skin crawled. “Give me a little kiss, sweetheart, to show your good intentions.”
