by Anne Stuart
Except that he wasn’t her baby. She needed to remember that—she’d be giving him up soon enough. By tomorrow they’d reach the plane, and then they’d be out of San Pablo. Reilly would take Timothy to his rich grandparents, and Carlie would go back to Mother Ignacia. But she already knew she wouldn’t go back to stay.
The night was silent, warm, and yet Carlie’s skin was chilled. The dream still haunted her. Dutchy, his eyes dark and empty, blood pouring from his wounds, had held out his hands to her, begging for help.
There was no way she was going to get back to sleep without confronting Reilly. He might decide to take a gun to her, as well—so be it. If he’d killed Dutchy, then some of that guilt rested on her head. She needed to know.
She had no idea where she’d find him. There were no clocks in Simeon’s house, few clocks in San Pablo, but Carlie knew well enough that it had to be around three in the morning. She crept down the narrow stairs. An empty whiskey bottle lay on its side on the rough table, two glasses, one empty, one half-filled, beside it. There was no sign of Reilly in the rough-and-tumble room.
Maybe he’d decided to abandon them after all. Or maybe he’d simply gone off with Simeon’s well-endowed lady friend. She couldn’t second-guess where he’d gone, and she didn’t want to go too far in search of him. She could still hear the baby if he happened to wake up, as long as she went no farther than the porch.
The porch was what she needed. She picked up the half-full glass of whiskey, knowing instinctively it had been Reilly’s, and took a tentative sip. It was burning, foul tasting, sending tendrils of warmth through her chilled limbs. She took another sip, wandering out onto the front porch in the moonless night.
It took her a moment to realize she wasn’t alone. Reilly lay in the hammock, seemingly asleep.
She almost turned and went back inside. The idea of confronting Reilly no longer seemed quite so smart. Not when he turned her insides into a roiling mass of confusion.
But she wasn’t a coward. The past three days had taught her that much. And when she moved toward the hammock she saw that his eyes were open, and he was watching her.
“I should have known I couldn’t sneak up on you.” She was resigned.
“You’re lucky you didn’t try. I might have cut your throat before I realized who you were.”
The words hung heavily on the night air, and Carlie shivered once more. “Why did you lie to me?”
“About what?”
“About Dutchy. You killed him, and then you told me—”
“I didn’t kill him.” His voice was flat. “When I left him he was unconscious, tied to his bed but very much alive.”
“I heard the gunshot.”
“I’m not going to try to convince you,” he snapped. “You can believe me or not. I have no reason to lie to you. I’ve killed before in this life, and I’ll probably have to do it again. But I didn’t kill Dutchy.”
The realization hit her then, astonishing as it was. Reilly was offended that she didn’t believe him. Even hurt. As ridiculous as it seemed, Reilly was angry that she didn’t trust him.
Carlie shook her head, wondering if the small sip of whiskey she’d taken had rattled her brain. “I do trust you, Reilly,” she said softly, carefully.
“I don’t give a damn whether you do or not.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, suddenly sure of herself. “If you say you didn’t kill Dutchy then I believe you.”
“You didn’t before.”
“I do now.”
“Why?”
For a moment she couldn’t answer. He was lying stretched out in the old rope hammock, his feet bare, his shirt open to the night breeze, his eyes dark and derisive. He looked dangerous and very strong, and the longing that washed through her made her soul tremble.
She managed what she hoped was a cocky half smile. “Maybe because I know you wouldn’t lie to a nun.”
He was not amused. He stared at her for a moment, as if considering the possibilities. “Come here,” he said.
She ought to go right back upstairs, she knew it. “The baby might—”
“You can hear the baby if he cries. Come here.”
Her body didn’t seem interested in listening to her mind. She found herself standing beside the hammock, dangerously close to him. There was a soft night breeze, and it ruffled her T-shirt, danced through her hair. “I suppose you want me to say I’m sorry I lied to you,” she said nervously. “And you want to know why I entered the convent and why I didn’t tell you the truth. And you probably want me to tell you that—”
“I don’t want you to tell me a damned thing,” he said. He reached out and took her wrist in his big hand, and pulled her into the hammock.
She was too astonished to do more than put up a token struggle. Before she realized what was happening he’d tucked her up against the warm length of his body, cradled in the comfort of the old hammock. He held her there, lightly, his arms around her, her face nestled up against his shoulder. “Now go to sleep,” he said gruffly.
She lay there, frozen, astonished. She waited for his hands to move, to stroke her once more, but they remained decorously still, and his body was calm, relaxed against hers, his breathing even, his heartbeat steady against her racing one.
It was probably close to ten minutes before she accepted the fact that that was all he intended to do. Simply hold her. The realization brought a rush of relief. And a surge of shameful frustration.
She knew he wasn’t asleep, despite the evenness of his breathing. He lay peacefully beside her, but his body and mind were tuned to the night, to the creatures of the darkness that were an unbidden threat to their safety. Just as his body was tuned to hers.
“You don’t want to know why I joined the convent?” she said finally, in a very quiet little voice.
He didn’t answer for a moment, and she wondered whether she misjudged him, and he slept. And then his hand moved, long fingers threading through her shaggy hair. “I imagine it had something to do with seeing your parents killed.”
She took a sharp breath. The words were so simple, and so painful. “They were missionaries, you know. Not Catholic, but when the relief workers brought me down out of the mountains and took me to the Sisters of Benevolence, it seemed as if it were God’s will that I follow in my parents’ footsteps. To take their place.”
“So that’s what you did,” he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. His skin was warm, sleek against her cheek, and she resisted the urge to push against him like a kitten seeking pleasure. “You took their place. How long have you been there, Carlie?”
“Nine years. It’s been so peaceful. I never wanted to leave. I wanted to stay with the sisters, take my final vows and never have to deal with the real world. But then the revolution came. And Caterina.”
“And me,” he added.
“And you.” Her hand had slid under the open khaki shirt, crept up to his muscled shoulder. She could smell the tang of whiskey on his breath, mixing with the thick smell of the rain forest.
“So what are you going to do now?” he murmured. His mouth was close to her ear, and she could feel the warmth of his breath as they rocked together in the narrow hammock. She was safe enough, she thought. Despite her limited knowledge of procreation, she knew people couldn’t make love in a hammock. Could they?
“I’ll go back and join the others,” she said, trying to ignore the fluttering in the base of her stomach, the faint, clenching feeling between her breasts. “They’ve gone to a convent in Brazil. When we arrive in the States I can get in touch with the nearest diocese and they’ll help me. That is, if you’re still willing to take me back.”
“If I wasn’t?” The words were even, suggesting nothing other than mild curiosity.
“Then I’d find my way there myself.”
“I’ll get you there,” he said, his voice deep and unreadable. “Once we get the baby to his grandparents I’ll make sure you end up where you should be.”
That
promise should have comforted her. For some reason it didn’t. She let out her pent-up breath, trying to will herself to relax against him. It wasn’t that she couldn’t get comfortable. Reilly’s body fit hers all too well.
“Just tell me one more thing, Carlie,” he murmured against the side of her face. “You’ve been in the convent for nine years. You’re how old—twenty-three? Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-six,” she said.
“Then how come in all that time you haven’t taken your final vows? That’s what you said, isn’t it? You’re still an apprentice nun, right? How come you didn’t graduate?” he drawled.
“I’m going to. As soon as I join up with the others,” she said.
“How come you haven’t already?”
She actually considered lying, astonishingly enough. The only lies she’d told so far had been to protect a helpless infant, not herself. If she were to lie now, to him, it would only be for her own selfish sake, and there was no way she could justify it.
“Reverend Mother Ignacia didn’t think I was ready,” she muttered, hoping he’d leave it at that.
Somehow his arm had gotten underneath her, and his hand curved around her waist, dangerously close to her breast. He wasn’t touching her, but she could feel the heat and the weight of his hand on her rib cage, near her racing heart.
“Why weren’t you ready?”
“She wasn’t certain if I had a calling.”
“Are you certain?” he murmured, his mouth against her earlobe.
She was having a little trouble breathing. “Absolutely,” she said in a strangled voice, waiting for his mouth to move, to settle against hers. Waiting for the dangerously sweet oblivion he could bring her, so easily.
He didn’t move. For a moment time seemed to stand still. And then his hand fell away, to rest on her hip, and his body relaxed against hers. “It’s always nice to be sure about what you want in life,” he said in a deliberately neutral tone of voice.
She felt his withdrawal, even as his hand claimed her hip. He was letting her go, she realized with surprise and relief. And some other strange emotion she couldn’t begin to identify.
It shouldn’t have surprised her. He’d slept with her, stripped her clothes halfway off her, kissed her, caressed her, and yet she still remained as virginal as the day she was born. He’d told her he simply wanted to relax her into sleep last night, and that’s exactly what he’d done. He hadn’t seemed the slightest bit interested in…in making love to her, any more than he did right now.
He probably simply didn’t find her attractive. Or if he had, finding out she was a nun put an end to his roving lust, and for that she could thank God. Couldn’t she?
“Reilly?”
“Yeah?”
“How’d you find out I was a nun?”
“Dutchy told me. He remembered where he’d seen you before. It didn’t seem to bother him that he’d almost raped a nun, and I guess he thought I’d think it was pretty funny. I didn’t.”
“But you didn’t kill him.”
“Carlie…” His voice carried a very definite warning.
“I’m not asking,” she said hastily.
“I wanted to kill him,” he said. “I was tempted. But I decided I’d seen enough killing to last me.”
“Why did you want to kill him? Why then?”
“It was a question of shooting the messenger. I didn’t like what he had to tell me. I didn’t want to hear you were a nun and I’d just done my level best to despoil you.”
She couldn’t help it—she smiled against his shoulder. “That couldn’t have been your best effort,” she said, nestling closer to him, her hips up against his. He seemed a mass of tight, hard bulges and muscles, and she tried to imagine the male anatomy with her limited knowledge. “I can’t imagine you not succeeding at anything you set your mind to, and I’m only slightly despoiled.”
“Carlie.” His voice was low, warning. “Watch it.”
She felt safe, secure. He didn’t want her, he wouldn’t hurt her, he’d take her back to the convent and this would all be a wild dream. “Watch what?” she murmured, rubbing her face against the smooth heat of his skin.
He moved so fast the hammock swung wildly as he pulled her underneath him, pushing between her legs so that she cradled him against her hips. He was hard, pulsing, alive.
“There’s a limit, Sister Maria Carlos,” he said in a tight voice, a deliberate reminder to both of them. “I’m a man, with a man’s body and a man’s needs, and if you push me you’ll find out just what that involves.”
She stared up at him in surprise. “Don’t be ridiculous, Reilly. You don’t really want me. You could have had me at any time when you thought I was Caterina, and you didn’t. You…”
Her voice trailed off as he began to curse. She didn’t even understand half the things he was saying, but she knew enough to know they were vile and heartfelt.
“I don’t want you?” he muttered, half to himself. He took her hand in his, dragging it down between their bodies, pushing it against the straining zipper of his jeans. He was rigid, pulsing beneath her hand, and he held her there, forcibly. “If I don’t want you, what the hell do you think that is?”
She looked up at him. “I’ve been in a convent since I was seventeen,” she said quite frankly. “I don’t know.”
He froze as the simple truth of her words penetrated. And then he cursed again, but this time the words were directed at himself, as he released her hand from his iron grip.
She didn’t move it. He felt strange to her fingers, hard and mesmerizing beneath the thick denim and the heavy zipper, and she traced her fingertips against the length of him, curious.
He yanked her hand away, shoving it against the hammock, and the look in his face as he loomed over her was full of fury and something else she wasn’t ready to comprehend. “That’s an erection, Sister Maria Carlos. It means I want you, so badly that it’s tearing me apart. It also means I’m not quite the bad guy I like to think I am, because I’m not going to take you. I’m going to send you back to the Reverend Mother in the exact same shape I got you. If you want to experiment with sex you’ll have to find someone else to cooperate.”
“I don’t want to experiment with sex,” she said in a muffled voice, aware of the deep color flooding her face. Aware that she wanted to reach down and touch him again through the thick material. She kept her hands to herself.
“Just as well. Virgins are a bore, and a hammock’s for the more advanced,” he drawled, his fury seemingly gone. A mask of cynicism had fallen over his face.
“What makes you think I’m a virgin?” she said hotly.
“It’s a fairly simple deduction. If the soldiers who wiped out that village had found you, you wouldn’t be alive. Since you’ve been in a convent since you were seventeen and you’ve never even heard of an erection, I imagine you’re probably the oldest living virgin left in San Pablo. Am I right?”
“You’re a bastard.”
“We’ve already agreed on that. Are you a virgin?”
“Yes, damn it.”
“I don’t know, Sister Maria Carlos. If your language keeps going the way it has been, the Reverend Mother might not let you back into your safe little hiding place.”
Safe little hiding place. That was exactly what Mother Ignacia had told her. She was hiding from life.
She tried to pull away, but he held her tight, his long fingers wrapped around her wrists. “I’m going upstairs to bed,” she said furiously.
“No, you’re not. You’re staying right here, with me. We’ll sleep in peaceful, celibate bliss,” he snapped.
“Why?”
“Let’s just say I believe in suffering the torments of the damned,” he replied, shoving her face against his shoulder.
She lay there fuming. She lay there plotting revenge, escape, anything she could think of. She lay there tucked against his big, strong body, his smooth skin, and she wanted to cry.
Somewhere in the distanc
e she could hear the sound of gunfire. Far enough away not to be a danger. The sky was growing light—they’d been arguing for hours. She closed her eyes, unutterably weary and sick of the battle. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her hair. The soft brush of his lips against her temple, but she knew it had to be her imagination. Reilly wouldn’t want to kiss her. He wanted to be rid of her, just as much as she wanted to get away from him. Didn’t she?
She sighed, letting her lips drift against the warm column of his throat, feeling his pulse beneath her mouth. Heavy, strong, hypnotic. She wanted to stay like this forever, safe in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart. As long as he held her, she was safe.
HE’D BEEN TOO HARD ON HER, and he knew it, Reilly thought as he felt her relax into a dreamless sleep. She’d been through so much in the past few days—it was no wonder she was confused. It wasn’t her fault that her infuriating combination of unawakened sexuality and courage ignited some impossible longing deep inside him.
It was sex, pure and simple, he tried to tell himself. He wanted to get between her legs, and knowing she was forbidden made him want her even more.
He wasn’t going to have her, but it wasn’t her fault. He could probably talk her into it—she was vulnerable, she was grateful when she wasn’t fighting him, and she was attracted to him, whether she knew it or not.
He could have her, and he’d be damned if he did.
Literally.
Chapter Fourteen
The sound of the noisy engine dragged Carlie from her sound sleep, and she awoke, startled, alone, swinging back and forth in the old hammock.
It was daylight, and Reilly had left her. It was only to be expected. By tonight they’d be out of the country, perhaps even out of each other’s company. Ready to go their separate ways.
She scrambled out of the hammock, wincing as her bare feet landed on the rough pine flooring, and leaned over the railing to look at the vehicle that had just driven up. The old truck had seen better days. Better decades, Carlie thought as Simeon jumped down from the driver’s seat. It took three attempts to get the driver’s door shut, and the passenger side was held together with chicken wire.
