by Anne Stuart
She was deeply drugged, her head in his lap, her eyes closed. She had pretty eyes too, and he’d plenty of chances to stare blankly into them while he had been lying there drugged.
By tomorrow most of the drugs should be out of his system. By tomorrow it would have been long enough since they last took blood that he’d probably be close to full strength. Just being free had energized him, but his strength was beginning to fade. She was small, but even lugging an extra hundred pounds through the jungle after a long stretch of limited activity had unexpectedly worn him out.
He tilted his head back, looking at the night sky through the canopy of trees, breathing in the fresh, humid air as a ripple of pure pleasure ran through his body. He’d always known he needed freedom and the thick tropical wilderness at regular intervals to keep him balanced. He’d never realized just how necessary it was for his very sanity. A few more weeks in that prison and he might not have been able to come back from that dark place in his mind.
He leaned down, breathing in the scent of her skin. When he first stepped outside that prison he thought he could run forever. Now his energy had disappeared, and there was nothing he could do but lie down and wait until it returned.
He stretched out on the soft, spongy ground, taking her with him, wrapping his body around her to protect her against the night. She wasn’t made for this, more’s the pity. She belonged in her cities, not in his jungle. He’d have to see she got back there.
In the meantime, though, he’d lie with his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her skin, tickled by her short, curly hair, aroused by the deceptively fragile bone and muscle of her. She’d done better than he would have expected in keeping up with him. She was stronger than she looked.
She was also stubborn, distrustful, and she had absolutely no idea what she was dealing with when she looked at him and started reeling off things she wouldn’t have told her therapist. In English, the language of his birth, in French, his mother’s language and his own second tongue. He’d listened to her litany with his stalwart expression, trying to resist the impulse to kiss her.
In the end he’d given in to that impulse, which was probably a major mistake. Missing links didn’t kiss, did they? She’d probably start wondering where he’d come up with notion, and then she’d remember he’d spoken to her, and then there’d be questions that he wasn’t about to answer. He didn’t trust her. It was that simple.
She made a soft, moaning sound in her deep, drugged sleep, and he wrapped his arms around her, cradling her. “Go to sleep, love,” he whispered in his raw voice. “It’ll be morning soon enough, and you can hate me all over again. You’ll like that, won’t you? Gives you reason to feel something.” His voice was getting stronger all the time. He didn’t know if it would ever be the same as it was before some bastard had wrapped a rope around his throat and nearly choked him to death, but at least he was getting better.
She snuggled against him, seeking warmth in the tropical night, and he pulled her closer. In her own way she was as shut off as he was, and now they were thrown together, running…Were they running for their lives? It was entirely possible, and he wasn’t about to take any chances. The sooner he got off this island, and took the woman with him, the better.
He was so damned tired. He’d lost track of time long ago, but he was guessing they’d held him captive for more than a month. He would have thought that a month of drugged sleep would have been enough to last him, but right now he knew he couldn’t move a step further, particularly not carrying a hundred plus pounds of dead weight. And even if he could, he didn’t want to.
He wanted to lie with a woman in his arms, breathing in the cooling air of the jungle night. He wanted to close his eyes and know that when he woke up he’d still be free. For now, that was enough.
Libby was having the oddest dreams. She knew they were dreams, even as she was having them, so she didn’t let them disturb her too deeply. After all, how ridiculous could it be, to think she’d be lost in a jungle, sleeping with some kind of nearly-naked, god-like savage? She didn’t bother fighting the strange visions that flitted through her heavily sleeping mind—it would have done no good, and maybe there was something to be learned from the fantasies. Her sweet, mildly flaky mother had always insisted that dreams were a message from the spirits.
If this was a message she couldn’t even begin to understand what it was trying to tell her, but she dutifully let the dreams come, trying to remember them for the morning when she’d wake up in her own safe bed and try to figure out what they meant.
She knew what the nearly naked man meant—that part was simple. Lust. It was a subject she was relatively unfamiliar with, and obviously her subconscious decided she needed a little erotic stimulation. The living, breathing body wrapped around hers was an undeniably potent fantasy, and since he wasn’t real she might as well enjoy it, enjoy the unfamiliar feeling of someone protecting her, taking care of her. A fantasy creature who was as arousing as he was imaginary.
The dreams grew stranger as the night wore on, which was only to be expected. She opened her eyes to see a huge pig standing a few feet away, looking at her out of mad, dark piggy eyes. At least she assumed it was a pig. She heard a voice, rumbling against her chest so that it seemed to come from inside her, telling the pig that they were no danger to him, and that he could go away and leave them alone.
And after a moment the pig left, and Libby closed her eyes again to ponder this new absurdity. Had she been talking to the pig, or had it been the voice of God? What had the pig symbolized in her life—she couldn’t begin to imagine.
And stranger still, the rough voice spoke French with an Australian accent.
She gave up then, drifting back to sleep, snuggling closer to her imaginary protector, reveling in the heat of his smooth, strong body. Nothing was going to harm her, not French speaking pigs, not Richard with his casual rejection, not Edward J. Hunnicutt and his haphazard grants and jobs and revenge.
The thought of Hunnicutt almost woke her up, but sleep won out. She should remember something, beware of something, but it eluded her, and in the end she slept, safe and sound, in a pleasant state of perfectly innocent desire for the imaginary man beside her.
It was broad daylight when she opened her eyes, and she blinked, trying to focus on the green mist in front of her. It took her long moments to realize she wasn’t in a bed, and longer moments to realize she wasn’t alone. Someone was holding her, a strong body was behind her, and when she tried to sit up in sudden panic his hold tightened on her, keeping her still.
It came back to her with such a rushing force that she almost passed out again. She’d drugged Mick and Alf, and set the wild man free. Except that he’d decided to take her with him, carting her off into the middle of nowhere, and now here she was, curled up with him like a kitten.
She couldn’t quite remember how she’d gotten to this particular place. She remembered he’d carried her for what seemed like hours, and then they stopped for the night. She had another memory, but it couldn’t have been real. It must have had something to do with the French pig. Surely a wild creature like John couldn’t have kissed her. Couldn’t have even known what kissing was.
She’d dreamed it, she decided flatly. Along with the pig and the strange voice. Maybe it had been the pig speaking, though its mouth hadn’t moved. Maybe it was the voice of her guardian angel, though why her angel would have the raspy voice of a barfly and speak French with an Australian accent was beyond her comprehension.
“I need to get up,” she said in a low, firm voice. He didn’t move. Of course he didn’t—he didn’t understand a word she said. She tugged against his encompassing hold, trying to demonstrate. “I need to get up,” she said again.
After a moment he released her, and she scrambled away from him. Her body didn’t seem to want to obey her commands—it felt stiff, sluggish, and belatedly she remembered the spiny dart in her hand. If she remembered that, maybe her memory of the kiss had been real as
well.
She looked at him, but he looked the same. Remote, expressionless. If he had any understanding beneath that face she had yet to reach it.
She started to stand up, and he reached for her, to pull her back down. He caught her wrist, the bruised one, and she let out an involuntary yelp of pain. Enough to startle him into releasing her.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. “In the woods. Alone.”
He didn’t blink. For the first time she could see his eyes in bright light, without the drugs and artificial darkness. They were brown, a rich, chocolate brown, and even without expression they were as decadently seductive as a box of Godiva chocolates. Libby had spent her life resisting any sort of temptation. Her one failure was Godiva chocolates.
She took a step back, and he didn’t grab her. “I have to go…” Words failed her. She wasn’t about to act it out for him, and she certainly wasn’t going to squat in the woods with him watching.
“Stay there!” she said firmly, holding up her hand in a halting gesture, once more thinking of Lassie. Though sitting there in the sunlight, John looked a far cry from a faithful canine companion. A wolf, maybe, but nothing tame.
Thank God he didn’t move. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if he tried to stop her, or follow her. She dove through the underbrush, careful not to go too far, finding a small, private spot and relief.
Only for a minute did she consider trying to take off, escape from her captor. The problem was, she had no idea which direction to go. If she ran, he’d probably catch her, and if he did, he’d never give her a scant moment’s privacy again.
She thrashed her way back to the clearing, making as much noise as she could, only to find the place deserted when she got there. So much for her worries, she thought, kneeling down at the stream and cupping her hands for a drink. It was cool and clear and delicious. Almost as delicious as when he’d held it for her last night.
“Stop it,” she said out loud. “Too many erotic fantasies.” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than John reappeared in the clearing, once more bearing those strange, breadlike fruits. “And thank God you don’t understand a word I say,” she added, sitting back on her heels. “You don’t need to know I’m having ridiculously lustful feelings. Obviously I’ve lost my mind. Maybe it’s the Stockholm syndrome, where the victim falls in love with her kidnapper. No, I don’t think that’s it. To be perfectly honest, I’ve been having unprofessional fantasies since I first saw you, and I don’t know if I can keep blaming the time difference. All I can do is thank God you don’t understand a word I say.”
He handed her one of the fruits that they’d shared last night, and she bit into it, savoring the salty-sweet taste of it. “You know, this is very good,” she said, as he sat down across from her and began to eat. “A far cry from an Egg McMuffin, but very nice.”
He was ignoring her as he concentrated on his breakfast, and she stretched out her legs in front of her. “God, I feel grimy,” she said with a sigh. “I’m wearing twice the clothes you are, and I’m not cut out for running through the jungle. I do realize you carted me for hours, but I’m still feeling achy and grungy. I would kill for a hot bath, a good bed and a Big Mac.”
He kept eating. “You aren’t really that different from Richard, you know,” she continued in a conversational tone. “He never paid any attention to anything I said, either. Except, of course, for my theory on the tribesmen of Whachua. Did I tell you Richard and I were in the same field? Unfortunately Richard never had an original thought in his entire life, so he simply borrowed mine. And I, stupid idiot that I am, was honored that I could contribute to his work. All without credit, of course.”
John had finished his breakfast and was looking at her from those still, watchful eyes. But for some reason Libby couldn’t stop talking. The silence was driving her nuts.
“I should have realized when the sex was bad,” she continued chattily. “I suppose it might have improved with practice, but after the third or fourth time I just gave up. I’ve never been particularly lucky when it comes to sex. I don’t think I’m a very sensual person.” She licked the last taste of the fruit off her lips with a small, satisfied sigh. He was staring at her, and she smiled.
“And you don’t understand a word I’m saying,” she said with surprising cheer. “And a good thing, too. This is like therapy—I can tell you my darkest secrets, get them off my chest and no one will know but me.”
He rose, indifferent to her chatter, waiting for her to rise, too. She figured she had no choice, and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to touch her. His touch was unnerving. “Are we going?” she asked brightly. “I suppose so. Well, you lead the way and I’ll tell you all about my childhood while we walk. After all, I might as well get some use out of this trek apart from the physical exercise. Then we’ll get to my neurotic adolescence, ending up with my lousy sex life. And then I’ll start fantasizing about how you spent your life.”
He’d started to walk away, but at that point he turned back to her, and for a brief moment she thought she saw the glimmer of an expression in his eyes. So brief that it vanished before she could even begin to decipher it.
“I’m coming,” she said, following after him. “But you might answer me one question.”
He’d turned and started walking, and she ran to keep up with him through the dense greenery. It was too thick to walk abreast, so she stayed behind him while he pushed the fronds out of the way.
“You don’t have to answer me, of course. And you won’t. But I just wondered if it was my imagination, or did you really kiss me last night?”
As she expected, there was no answer. He just moved deeper into the jungle. And she followed after him, lapsing into silence, remembering.
Chapter Nine
If there was one thing John Bartholomew Hunter couldn’t abide, it was a chatty woman. And yet here he was, tromping through the rain forest with someone who couldn’t stop talking, who seemed determined to share every intimate detail of her life with her supposedly uncomprehending companion, and on top of that, he was fascinated. From her activist parents who’d adored her, through her high school and college years when she was always at least five years younger than her classmates. No dates, no proms, though she didn’t seem particularly saddened by their lack. She seemed more disturbed by the lack of sex in her life. Whoever Richard was, he certainly hadn’t done right by her.
And of course she blamed herself. She was too intellectual to be passionate, she said reasonably as she scrambled behind him through the foliage. It was amazing that she’d developed such a healthy case of lust for him, and she was enjoying herself immensely, just watching him, secure in the knowledge that he had no idea she was having erotic fantasies about him, probably had no idea what erotic fantasies were in the first place. If he’d lived a life in the jungle, without other people around, he probably didn’t even know what sex was.
And John wondered how long he’d hold back before he jumped on her and showed her exactly how mistaken she was. At least it would silence her for a bit.
The drugs must have had a longer-lasting effect than he would have thought. There was no reason for him to be contemplating having sex with Dr. Elizabeth Holden, and he was doing a lot more than contemplating. He was using all his concentration to keep from touching her, because he knew once he did it would be all over.
They should reach the coast by late afternoon if they were lucky. If not, it would still be by midnight, and he had excellent night vision. They could leave, and then he could get rid of her, somehow or other, all without saying a word. He was good at disappearing, and she’d be able to find her way back to the States, to the cities and the fast food that she needed.
If he could keep his hands off her.
Eventually she stopped talking, and while the silence was more restful, it left him free to think too much. About her. About how he’d gotten to this place. And about how he was going to deal with Edward J. Hunnicutt and his thugs.
Something had to be done. He was free, and no one would touch him again. But a man like Hunnicutt thought rules didn’t apply to him and living beings were simply put on earth for his curiosity. He needed to be taught a hard lesson in life. And his minions as well.
Besides, if he didn’t, they might very well go after Libby. For all she seemed ready to give up her career, he knew perfectly well that was not a viable option. He didn’t want Hunnicutt wielding his dollars to destroy her life. He needed to protect her as much as he needed to protect the other helpless things that might cross Hunnicutt’s path.
Not that Libby was particularly helpless. She could probably talk him to death. John felt a small, reluctant smile tug at his mouth at the thought. She had a nice voice, slightly husky, though nothing compared to the ravaged croak he managed to make. God help him, he’d begun to miss her chattering.
It was logical enough. None of his captors had spoken a word to him. He could hear them talking among themselves through his drugged daze, more than they could ever have imagined. But until she put her hands on his body, spoke to him in her soft, husky voice, he hadn’t had anyone treat him like a human being.
He heard the sounds of the waterfall in the distance, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Not that he’d doubted his instincts—normally he could have found his way across the island in pitch-black and pouring rain. But right now he wasn’t trusting anything to be as it should, and it was a consolation that at least he knew where he was going.
The waterfall and pool were only a few hours inland from the beach—if their luck held they’d be out of there by nightfall. He glanced back at his companion. She was starting to limp slightly, and she looked exhausted. That unexpected dose of the tranquilizer dart hadn’t helped her energy level, though it had at least ensured a good night’s sleep. If she’d started chattering about her unsatisfactory love life last night he might have done something about it. Something they’d both regret.
