by Anne Stuart
And yet he was. Just because he carried a gun, because he was willing and able to kill, didn’t mean he was one of them. He looked out for the innocents of this world. For Timothy. And for her.
“Reilly,” she said, her voice husky and still in the darkness. She half expected he’d be asleep already—he didn’t strike her as the sort of man who let a little thing like sleep disobey his command.
But a moment later he answered. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For scaring Dutchy off. For bringing us out of the jungle. For letting me cry all over you. For putting up with me….”
“Don’t get maudlin on me, princess,” he drawled as his long fingers gently stroked her bare shoulder where the loose top had slipped down. It was a simple gesture, meant no doubt to reassure. So why did it strike a hot spark deep within that dark, evil part of her? Why did it make her want to move closer still, to wrap her body around his and soak up his strength, his heat, his very being?
She froze, terrified at the rush of longings surging through her. She needed to get away from him. He was seducing her simply with the force of his presence, seducing her away from the safety she’d longed for and worked for. And he didn’t even want her.
She needed to be strong. She needed to remember her priorities. Get the baby safely out of the country, on his way to his grandparents. And then join Mother Ignacia and the others, older but wiser.
“If you don’t relax,” Reilly whispered in her ear, “I’m going to figure out a way to tire you enough to make you fall asleep. Right now I can only think of one way to accomplish that, and while it seems like a fine idea to me, you’ve already said no. So if you want me to respect your wishes, you’ll stop wiggling around and sighing. Unless you want that wiggling and sighing put to good use.”
Carlie froze. He breathed a loud sigh and began to rub the tight muscles in her back with his strong hand. She tried to will herself to go limp, but she simply couldn’t. Not surrounded by the heat and the scent and the feel of him.
“All right,” he said in sudden exasperation. And before she knew what was happening he’d spun her over, onto her back, and he was straddling her, his big, strong body covering hers. “We’ll do it my way.” And he covered her mouth with his.
She struggled, but it was useless. He was so much bigger, so much stronger, so much more determined. Mother Ignacia had counseled her about rape. When they had first brought her to the Sisters of Benevolence she had scarcely been able to speak, so deep was her shock, and for the first few months it had been assumed that she had been raped. Even when part of the truth came out—that she was from a village destroyed by war—Reverend Mother was very matter-of-fact about the dangers of living in a country where their faith and their habits sometimes couldn’t protect them. She had escaped, physically unscathed. There was no guarantee her luck would continue.
It was no sin, Reverend Mother had said. When faced with rape, don’t put your life in danger, trying to fight. If you can’t escape, submit. God has already had enough martyrs.
Submit, she reminded herself, lying stiff and straight as a board beneath him, waiting for his hands to paw at her. It would be over soon enough. Perhaps this was the price she had to pay for her sins, to suffer this base degradation….
Except it didn’t feel like degradation. His mouth danced across hers with the lightness of a butterfly, brushing against her tightly closed lips. He held her pinned with his body, but with one hand he began pulling the loose cotton shirt from the waistband of the skirt. His warm hand was on her waist, sliding up to cover her breast, and she squirmed, trying to buck him off.
She might just as well have tried to dislodge a boulder. He was slow, deliberate in his caress of her breast, and she opened her mouth to cry out in protest.
He slid his tongue inside her mouth. She arched again, but it seemed to push her breast against his rough-skinned hand, and the sensation was…disturbing.
Not nearly as disturbing as what he did next. He rolled to his side, taking her with him, and her skirt was bunched up around her thighs. And his hand was between her knees, sliding up toward the center of her being.
Submit. She heard the words in her head again, but she couldn’t make them echo in her heart. She didn’t want to lie back and let him do this, she didn’t want him to break his promise. She had trusted him—if he took her by force he would prove himself no better than Morales’s men, or Dutchy. He just happened to smell better. And taste better. And feel better.
As she realized the way her mind was going, she panicked. Submission was all well and good, but not if she was going to enjoy it. There was no way Reverend Mother would countenance that.
She hit him, catching him on the side of the head with her fist. He barely seemed to notice. He simply caught her flailing arms with one strong hand, pinning them to the sagging mattress beneath them. And he pushed his other hand up under her skirt, between her legs, where no one had ever touched her before.
It was shocking, it was sinful, it was disgusting, it was…Carlie’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as he touched her, intimately. A faint shimmer of pleasure danced along her nerves, and her eyes opened again in outrage.
“Relax, Carlie,” he murmured. “It’s better than a sleeping pill.”
She tried to jerk her hands free, but he was too strong. She opened her mouth to protest, but he simply put his own mouth over hers, as she let him kiss her, knowing it was wrong, unable to help herself.
She was wet between her legs. His hand was making her wet. It astonished her, as the tremors and trills of reaction amazed her. She considered begging him to stop, but she knew that would be a waste of time. She considered praying for deliverance, but quickly ruled that out. She didn’t want to be delivered. Besides, the sinful, wonderful feelings that were lashing through her body were entirely incompatible with the stern God she’d followed for the past nine years.
His mouth left hers, trailing across her cheekbone, but she could no longer fight him. It was too late—her will, her honor had been sapped. He had no right to do this, no right at all, holding her there, forcing her…
“Let it happen,” he said in her ear, a deep growl. “Stop fighting it, Carlie. You want it, you need it and I can give it to you. Just let it come.”
She had no idea what he was talking about. She was cold, and hot, her brain had ceased to function and her entire body was racked with tremors. She wanted to cry out but she couldn’t, she wanted to hit him, she wanted to put her arms around him, but her hands were trapped, her mouth was silenced by his, her body was imprisoned, and there was nothing she could do beneath the sleek, devilish onslaught of his hand between her legs, his fingers pushing deep inside her innermost being, his thumb pushing, pressing, sending shards of shimmering delight through her.
And then it happened. One moment she was trembling in helpless reaction to the terrible things he was doing to her, in the next her entire body convulsed. Releasing her hands, he shoved her face against his shoulder, muffling her hoarse cry, but she was beyond noticing. Blackness closed in around her, a timeless, deathless eternity, shot with a pinprick of stars dancing in front of her eyes, as everything stopped, her heart, her breathing, the world on its axis.
It lasted forever. And then she was suddenly dropped back, into reality, into the small, stuffy room at the edge of the tropical jungle, lying in bed with a professional soldier, her skirt up to her waist, her blouse shoved up to her armpits, her entire body a shaking, quivering mass of exhaustion.
Now he was going to do it, she thought distantly. He was going to rape her, and she couldn’t bring herself to argue, or to care. She felt as if she’d run twenty miles, and her entire body was so limp she let her eyes drift closed, content to just let it happen.
He pulled her skirts back down around her legs with gentle hands. He pulled the shirt back down, as well. He stretched out beside her, pulling her up close to him, and she was too weak to do anyt
hing but curl up next to him. Now he’d hurt her, she thought sleepily. Now he’d force her.
And within moments, she was sound asleep.
REILLY LISTENED to the sound of her deep breathing with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He’d accomplished just what he’d set out to accomplish, by force, no less. If a small, selfish part of him had hoped she’d get into the spirit of things long enough to return the favor, he should have known he’d be squat out of luck. He’d been through a streak of purely miserable misfortune for the past year and a half, starting with his realization that he just couldn’t hack the army anymore, his falling-out with Billy, followed by Billy’s crazy marriage and then his death. All ending up in this stupid trek through the jungle with a newborn infant and a woman who had no connection to either the Morrisseys or Reilly. A woman who didn’t know how to kiss, seemed as out of touch with her own body as a puritan, and made him so damned horny he thought his insides would fall out.
How could anyone so small, so unpracticed, turn him into the human equivalent of Jell-O? He’d spent his entire military life following orders and giving them, but the bottom line had always been the most good for the most people. His priorities were very clear here. He needed to get Timothy Morrissey home to his grandparents. Carlie Forrest was just an unnecessary complication.
Her breathing was deep, even, drugged with sleep and satisfaction. The sound made him smile sourly. Lord, he was turning into a regular knight, rescuing damsels in distress as well as babies, and even providing safe sex when they needed a little cooling off.
But what about him? He could do with cooling off, or safe sex, or the hot, slick feel of her around him. And instead she fell asleep in his arms with as much trust as the third member of their odd little party.
The smart thing to do would be to leave her behind. She was good with the kid, but he could handle the little guy, as well. Timothy slept most of the time, drank formula, and Reilly had no problem with diapers.
What he did have a problem with was Carlie. More exactly, he had a problem with himself. She distracted him, and when he was distracted, they were all vulnerable.
He’d come too far, the stakes were too high, to risk everything because suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking with his zipper.
She made a sound in her sleep. A wet, shuddering sound, a stray remnant of her crying jag. She’d seen her parents killed, she said. By the black-shirted soldiers of the San Pablo army.
Which was in direct odds with her story about making her first visit to San Pablo to visit an old school chum.
She’d been lying to him again, which came as no surprise. He could shake her awake, demand the truth from her and maybe precipitate a confrontation that would slake the burning thirst he had for her. Any excuse to touch her, to push her, to have her.
But he wasn’t going to do it. Any more than he’d leave her behind for Dutchy’s tender mercies. He’d find out the truth from her, sooner or later.
In the meantime, he’d indulge himself in the painful delight of sleeping with her soft, slight body pressed up against his. And he’d think of the look in her eyes when she came.
Chapter Eleven
“Fifteen minutes.”
The words, gruff and abrupt, ripped through Carlie’s sleep-dazed brain. Her face was pressed up against the pillow, and she was alone in the bed. However, the man she’d shared the bed with stood directly over her, and she wasn’t particularly ready to face him after last night. Any more than she was ready to face herself.
She lifted her head, keeping her gaze on the pillow. The room was still fairly dark—only the faint light of sunrise pierced the gloom, sending mauvy-pink shadows against the cracked walls. “Fifteen minutes?” she echoed.
“We’re meeting the Shumi down the river a ways. They’ll be bringing the baby. Dutchy’s passed out on the barroom floor, but when he wakes up I imagine he’ll be going after Morales. We need to be long gone by then.”
She still couldn’t meet his gaze. “Why would he go after Morales?”
“Because I knocked the crap out of him. Because he got a good look at you and knew you weren’t a camp follower. Because if he’s heard about the baby he’ll probably want to tell Morales about it. Don’t forget about the reward. So the sooner we get out of here the better.”
“I can make it in five.”
“You’ve got time for a fast shower. God knows when you’ll get another chance.”
She couldn’t avoid it any longer. She turned her head to look in his general direction, still determined not to meet his gaze. It was a mistake. He was wearing jeans and nothing else, and his hair was slicked back from the shower. He was big and wet and dangerous, and yet far too familiar. His mouth, his hands had touched her. Caressed her. Turned her wanton.
“Stop blushing,” he said irritably.
Of course, her blush deepened. For a moment, endless, eternal, her eyes met his. They were dark, brooding, filled with some latent emotion she couldn’t begin to understand. She’d seen lust in the faces of men, seen it on Dutchy last night, but this didn’t look as simple as lust. Besides, if he lusted after her, he wouldn’t have stopped last night. He wouldn’t have…done that to her, and then simply gone to sleep.
Though she suspected that she’d been the first to fall asleep. She’d lain there, waiting, and the next thing she knew it was morning, and she awoke feeling embarrassed, energized and achingly aware of life and all its possibilities.
“It’s getting closer to ten minutes,” he warned her.
She pushed back the covers. Her clothes were tangled around her, but she was still relatively decent once she yanked the skirt down around her legs. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t more acquainted with her body than any human being, herself included. But he’d only touched her body, not seen it, and she’d just as soon he didn’t.
The room was small and the bed took up most of it. She skirted around it, grabbing clothes from the open backpack and heading for the door. He was standing there, watching her, too close.
She wanted to run. She wanted to scurry away like a small, embarrassed rabbit, and he probably knew it all too well. She paused beside him, squaring her shoulders and meeting his cool gaze. “Don’t ever do that again,” she said fiercely, despite her blushes.
It was a mistake. His dark eyes lightened with real amusement, and his mouth curved. “Don’t do what?”
Her color deepened. “Just don’t,” she said in a strangled voice, wishing she’d had the sense to escape and keep her big mouth shut.
But she hadn’t. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her up against the wall, gently, inexorably, his fingers kneading her. “Don’t what?” he taunted again, softly. “Don’t make you come? I thought I was a perfect little gentleman,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against her ear, his breath tickling, disturbing her. “Ready to provide pleasure without asking a thing for myself.” His mouth traveled across her cheekbone, down to the corner of her lips. “I thought next time I’d use my mouth.”
If she turned her head, just a fraction of an inch, she could have kissed him. And the devastating thing was, she wanted to. She wanted his mouth covering hers again, taking, giving pleasure. She wanted him to push her back on that bed and show her that soul-shattering delight once more.
She started to tilt her head, to give him better access, when he whispered against her lips, “You’re down to five minutes now.”
She drove her fist into his stomach. Hard. He didn’t even flinch. He simply backed away, his expression enigmatic. “Better hurry,” he said, turning away from her.
He had a beautiful back. Long, graceful, with smooth, darkly tanned skin. She’d never realized a man’s back could be quite so lovely.
“I’ll be ready,” she said tersely.
REILLY DECIDED it might be wiser not to be in the room when Carlie came back. Just as he resisted the temptation to join her in the shower. The sooner they got away from this little outpost, the better.
There was
no sign of Dutchy when he reached the bottom of the stairs, and Reilly cursed beneath his breath. Last time he’d reconnoitered, Dutchy had been passed out beneath a table, snoring loudly, and Reilly had hoped his drunken stupor would last well into midmorning. Time enough for them to be long gone.
Apparently fate wasn’t about to be so kind.
He could hear noise in the back shed that passed for a kitchen—the clanging of pots, the loud, muffled curse. He could move out of there without Dutchy knowing—Reilly was good enough at what he did to ensure that. But he couldn’t count on Carlie, small though she was, being similarly light on her feet. Besides, he could hear the shower going overhead, and if he could, Dutchy could.
He had no real choice in the matter. He set the packs down wearily. He pulled the gun from his waist, checked the clip and then headed for the kitchen.
CARLIE WAS JUST PULLING on her clothes when she heard the sound of the gun. For a moment she didn’t know what it was—she was still concentrating on not envisioning what Reilly had meant when he’d said next time he’d use his mouth.
All sorts of disasters flashed through her head when she finally realized just what that muffled explosion was. The worst was Reilly, lying dead in his own blood, murdered by Morales’s soldiers.
She didn’t stop to consider the safety of her actions. She was out of the bathroom, still buttoning the loose cotton shirt, and halfway down the stairs when she saw him.
Reilly stood in the darkened bar, whole and unharmed. He looked grim, shaken, but he looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and she thought she could see the dark despair in his eyes.
“I thought someone shot you,” she said in a husky voice.
“No such luck,” he said after a moment. He sounded weary beyond belief. “You’re stuck with me.”
