by Anne Stuart
He was hot and hard and heavy against her, but she wasn’t going to let him stop. “Now,” she whispered. “Please.”
He cupped her face with his hands, looking down at her, as he slowly began to fill her. His face was taut with tension and he was big, huge, pushing into her. She knew a moment’s panic, that it wasn’t going to work, that he was going to pull away and leave her like this.
“Relax,” he whispered against her mouth. He started to withdraw, and she clutched at him, desperate.
“Don’t leave,” she cried in a broken voice.
“I can’t,” he said, his voice full of despair and triumph. “Take a deep breath.”
She did so, automatically, but before she could release it he’d pushed against her, breaking through the frail barrier of her innocence, filling her.
She screamed, more in shock than actual pain, but his hand was already against her mouth, muffling the sound.
She closed her eyes. She could feel the dampness of tears seeping down her cheeks. “That’s enough,” she said in a strangled voice. “I’m satisfied.”
“No,” he said shortly. “You’re not.” And he began to move, pushing into her, his hands cupping her hips and pulling her up to meet his strong, steady thrusts.
She struggled, for one brief moment. And then she clung to him tightly, and it took her only a heartbeat to catch his rhythm.
It all began to fall away—the jungle, the stillness around them. Her body was sick with sweat, and his was, too. He put his mouth against hers, kissing her hard, and she kissed him back, her legs coming up to wrap around his hips, her breath sobbing in her lungs, as she reached for the darkness once more, the endless oblivion she craved.
It hit her, fast and furious, but it was no oblivion. He was with her all the way, his body rigid in her arms as he pushed in deep and filled her with the pulsing heat of life and death.
She wept then, clinging to him, pulling him tightly against her as the spasms racked her body. She could hear his breath rasping in her ear, the shudders rippling through his big, slick body. He collapsed on top of her, his heart banging against hers, and she trembled, holding tightly, as errant waves of reaction scattered through her.
It seemed as if everything she knew, everything she believed had been shattered by his hands, his mouth, his body. She felt adrift, helpless, floating on a dangerous sea with no land in sight, nothing to cling to but the strong, tough body covering hers.
But he would disappear, as well. At any moment she’d be alone again, as she had been for so very long.
His breathing slowed, and she wondered whether he’d fall asleep. The women who came to the mission, bringing their children for Carlie to teach, would joke about their husbands when they thought Sister Mary Charles wouldn’t hear.
What would they think if they saw her now?
She waited for the shame and misery to wash over her. They didn’t come. Despite everything, there was a tiny burst of joy bubbling inside of her. And she knew that no matter what happened, she could never regret what she’d done. What she’d shared. Who she loved.
Reilly, it seemed, was a different matter. He began to curse, low in his throat, a tapestry of foul language that would have made her blush a few short days ago.
He pulled away from her abruptly, and she let him go, knowing that she couldn’t hold him.
He yanked his jeans up, still swearing, then bounded off the back of the truck without looking at her.
So much for romance, she thought. She was wet between her legs, and blood stained her thighs. She’d have to wash, but for now it took all her energy to pull the big T-shirt over her head and wrap it around her body.
Timothy slept. The bottle had fallen to one side, drained, and she squashed the vision of guilt that danced through her mind. He would survive. They all would.
She leaned her head against the truck, weariness fighting with her odd exhilaration. She couldn’t hear any trace of Reilly, and for a moment she wondered if he’d abandoned them.
She quickly discarded that notion. He wouldn’t have brought them so far, only to leave them.
He’d return, sooner or later. In the meantime, all she could do was wait.
And remember the feel of his body against hers, and the sure, undeniable knowledge that she loved him.
Chapter Fifteen
This day, thought Reilly, had definitely gone from bad to worse. He’d just deflowered a nun in the back of a pickup truck, then abandoned her, cursing a blue streak. By the time he’d walked to the edge of the burned-out village street and realized she might need…something, it was too late. He’d come face-to-face once more with none other than former general Endor Córdoba Morales. Better known as the Butcher of La Mensa.
Morales was alone this time, which was a small blessing. He was also armed to the teeth and pointing a particularly nasty Luger directly at Reilly’s gut. “I thought you might turn up sooner or later,” he said pleasantly. “Though I must admit I thought you’d be a little better prepared. Didn’t you realize we’d catch up with you?”
It didn’t help, Reilly thought grimly, that he was shirtless and unarmed. And that he was scared to death that Carlie might take it into her head to follow him.
“We passed your men about ten miles down the mountain,” he said with deceptive calm. “How come you’re alone?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Reilly,” Morales said pleasantly. “I can handle an ex-soldier like you and the little nun without any help.”
Hearing his name didn’t help Reilly’s pessimism; neither did the fact that Morales knew who Carlie was. “I assume Dutchy was the one who filled you in on those little details.”
“Dutchy was a very useful man when his head wasn’t clouded with liquor.”
“Then why did you kill him?”
Morales shrugged. “My wretched temper,” he said with a disarming smile. “When I heard he’d let you get away, I’m afraid I reacted…hastily. Where’s your little friend, the good sister?”
He didn’t bother denying Carlie’s identity. “I left her downriver. She was heading for La Mensa—she wanted to rejoin her convent.”
Morales’s smile broadened, exposing blackened teeth. He was an ugly man, with a pitted face, a short, stocky body and dark, tiny eyes radiating malice. “No,” he said. “You just came from her—I know the look. You have scratch marks on your chest. The good sister must be a real tigress. Where is she?”
“I told you—”
“Don’t anger me,” Morales said. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a nun,” he added in a musing voice. “I like being the first, but then, she’s prettier than most of the nuns I’ve raped. Tell me, Reilly, was she willing?”
“She’s on her way to La Mensa,” he said again.
“And did she take el presidente’s grandson with her?”
He didn’t even flinch. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“I must say, you impress me,” Morales murmured. “Cool as a cucumber, don’t they say? I will admit, part of the reason I killed Dutchy was that I was angry with myself. I didn’t realize you were attempting to ferry the last Mendino out of San Pablo when you arrived at Dos Libros. If I had, I could have saved myself some time and trouble. And my men would have enjoyed Sister Maria Carlos.” He shrugged, and the gun never wavered. “They will get their chance, though. They’re off looking for you. I don’t know how you missed passing them when you made your way up here.”
“I know how to keep a low profile.”
Morales frowned. “My men are the best.”
“They’re not good enough.”
Morales considered the notion, the light of cruel madness dancing in his eyes. “Apparently not. Get on your knees, Reilly.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re too damned tall, like most yanquis. If you want to die fast and painlessly you’ll get on your knees so that I can reach the back of your neck.”
Reilly just looked down at the l
ittle pip-squeak. “I’m not going to die on my knees,” he said calmly.
“I can shoot you in the eye, then. It’ll take longer, but you’ll be just as dead.” Morales cocked the pistol. “Where are the nun and the baby?”
“There’s no baby, and I left the nun outside of Dos Libros,” he said stubbornly. There was a shadow moving behind the burned-out shell of the nearby building, and he hoped to God it was something bigger than a rat. A jaguar, perhaps, looking for a tasty military treat. Though if he got a sniff of Morales’s pungent odor he might have the good sense to run in the opposite direction.
There was nothing Reilly could do. Morales was too far away; if he dived for him he’d have a bullet in his brain before his feet left the ground. It just went to prove what he’d always known—once he started thinking below the belt he was doomed.
Lust confused a man, at least temporarily. Love killed him. Facing his own imminent death, he considered the possibility of love, something he’d managed to avoid in all his sexual relationships. It seemed to have crept up on him when he wasn’t looking.
“I’ll have to kill the nun as well, of course,” Morales continued. “Though chances are my men will see to that—they’re not very civilized, and few whores have survived their combined attentions. But there’s the question of the baby. I can’t afford to let a member of the Mendino family survive. He could disrupt my own plans. Should I feed him to the crocodiles? Or perhaps just leave him here, alone, for the jungle cats to find?”
“There is no baby,” Reilly said stubbornly.
Morales fired the gun.
It hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him to the ground. Morales moved to stand over him, an ugly smile on his ugly face. “I’ll go for the knees next,” he said. “I can keep it up for quite a while, until you tell me what I want to know. I’m certain you know I’m enjoying this. It’s up to you. You can deprive me of my fun and make it easier on yourself. Or we’ll do it my way.”
“There is no baby.”
Morales cocked the pistol again and aimed it at Reilly’s zipper. “Then again, there are other places we can start.”
Reilly didn’t flinch. “There is no baby,” he said again.
And in the distance, floating toward them from the hidden pickup truck, came the unmistakable sound of a baby crying.
Morales jerked his head around, momentarily startled, though the gun never wavered. Reilly coiled his muscles, ready to kick at him, when the figure emerged from the shadows. Carlie.
Morales whirled around, but he wasn’t fast enough. She had a huge section of burnt timber in her hand, and she sent it crashing down against his head with all her might.
He went down like a felled tree, and the gun scattered in the dust of the deserted village. He lay there, dazed, panting, as Carlie stood over him.
He started to rise, reaching for one of the guns tucked into his waistband. Carlie crossed herself, muttering something and whacked him again. This time Morales stayed down.
She looked across his fallen body to Reilly. To the blood streaming down his arm, soaking into his shirt, and he half expected her to faint.
She didn’t. “Have you got a first-aid kit?” she demanded. “I can take care of that for you.”
He shook his head, wondering if he’d imagined the past few minutes. “It’s just a flesh wound,” he said, struggling to his feet, the blood running hotly down his arm.
“I know that,” she said calmly. “I’ve had medical training—I’ve dealt with far worse.”
He believed her. He believed her capable of anything.
“In the plane,” he said. “It’s just beyond the end of the street.”
Her eyes closed for just a moment of pain. “Near the graveyard,” she said.
“Yes.”
She nodded, and he could see the visible effort it cost her. She looked down at Morales’s comatose figure. “Is he alone?”
“For now. His men will be here soon enough.”
“Then we’d better get out of here, hadn’t we?”
“I’ll get the baby.”
“You’re wounded….”
“As you said, it’s just a flesh wound,” Reilly said. “You’ve seen worse, I’ve had worse. I’ll get the kid. Keep an eye on Morales. If he moves, mash him again. Though I expect I don’t need to tell you that.”
“No,” she said. “You don’t.”
SHE WATCHED HIM GO, steeling herself not to panic at the sight of his blood. She knew it was only a slight wound, but the sight of it still tore at her. This wasn’t a stranger’s blood, a stranger’s gunshot wound. It was Reilly. The man she loved.
He disappeared into the greenery, and a moment later Timothy’s howling stopped. He was a good man, Carlie thought. A good father. He was just what the baby needed.
She looked down at the evil creature lying in the dust. She hadn’t killed him, though she almost wished she had. It hadn’t been him that day, nine years ago, but he was part of the whole evil society that lived on blood and killing.
She lifted her head and looked down the street. It looked so different, and yet the same. The houses were burned to the ground, and the jungle was encroaching. No one lived here, no one had come to take over the abandoned lands. The place was haunted.
She knew where the cemetery was. Where the plane would be waiting. Down at the end of that narrow road.
She was still barefoot, as she had been most of the two years that she’d lived there. The dust caked her feet, and she remembered the blood that had pooled there. She looked ahead, down toward the plane, and saw that she wasn’t alone.
They were there, all of them. The ghosts of Puente del Norte, watching her.
For one brief moment she wanted to run away and hide. Back to that secluded spot where she’d huddled behind a tree and tried to blot out the screams. The place where they’d found her, days later, numb with shock and horror.
But she held her ground. There was nothing to be frightened of. There was her best friend, Maria, smiling at her, red ribbons in her thick black hair, a fiesta dress swirling around her bare ankles. And Maria’s parents, Amana, who’d been a second mother to her, and Carlos, the patriarch of the village, the stern, strong man who’d been the first to die.
They looked happy to see her. Smiling at her, waving to her as she started down the empty road.
Her parents were there, as well. Slightly distracted, as they always had been, more concerned with the well-being of mankind than the well-being of one small child, they nevertheless looked at her with love and pride.
It’s not your fault, they said with their eyes. We’re glad you survived. That you lived. You live for all of us. Forever.
She walked. Past friends and family, the old medicine man, the babies, the children and the ancients. Past their smiles and nods and love. And when she reached the end of the village path, and there were no more ghosts, she turned to look at them.
They were fading now. Almost into nothingness, and she realized she was letting them go. At last.
“Goodbye,” she whispered. Barely the breath of a sound.
Goodbye, they called to her. And they were gone.
REILLY’S SHOULDER HURT like bloody hell. He’d flown one-armed before, in shock, and he’d managed to land the plane safely. He had no doubt whatsoever he could do it again, particularly since Carlie had managed to bandage the flesh wound with surprising dexterity.
He couldn’t take any pain pills, though, and for that he was grateful. The constant throbbing in his shoulder kept him alert through the long hours of night flight. And it helped keep his mind off Carlie, asleep beside him.
But nothing could keep him distracted forever. Not when she was so close, her newly tanned legs stretched out beside his in the small cockpit. She’d be covering up those legs soon enough, draping them in long robes. It was wrong, he thought. Wrong that those beautiful legs would be covered. Wrong that her maternal love would be stifled. Wrong that she’d never lie in a
man’s arms again.
And most wrong that she’d never lie in his arms again.
He was flying into Hobby Airport in Texas, the closest, safest place for them to land. Wait Morrissey would be seeing to the paperwork, getting them cleared through customs, arranging for a proper birth certificate for his grandson. Would he mind not having a daughter-in-law? Probably not—it made the balance of power simpler. And Wait Morrissey was definitely into power.
He glanced over at Carlie. She was dozing, the lights from the instrument panel reflecting on her pale face. She looked tired and infinitely sad. He probably looked like hell himself.
But the baby sleeping in her arms appeared peaceful and healthy. He looked as if he’d gained weight over the past few days, while they’d fought for their lives. Kids were resilient, he’d always been told. Well, Timothy Morrissey was proof of it.
He was going to miss him. It was an odd notion—he loved his nieces and nephews, but he’d never felt the particular lack in his own life. He did now. The past four days, with the three of them forced together into their own nuclear family, had had a disturbing effect on him. All his carefully formed ideas about who and what he was, and what he needed in this life, had been shot to hell.
He’d do the right thing, of course. He’d give Timothy to his wealthy, powerful grandparents, he’d send Carlie back to the safety of her convent and he’d go home to Colorado, back to his mountaintop, alone. At peace.
Like hell. Peace wasn’t going to have anything to do with it. It was going to be utter hell for the next few weeks. Maybe even a month or two. But sooner or later he’d forget her. Forget the kid. Get on with his life.
It was a good thing he’d already gotten out of this game. He could have killed them all, thinking with his hormones instead of his brain. He hadn’t expected Morales to have separated from his men, but survival depended on expecting the unexpected. If it hadn’t been for Carlie he’d be lying in a pool of his own blood, his extremities shot away. And God knows what would have happened to Carlie and the baby.
