Midnight Rainbow

by Linda Howard

  “It’s the snake’s blood,” he said, thinking to reassure her, but she stared at him with uncontrolled revulsion.

  “Oh, God!” she said in a thin, high voice, scrambling to her feet and staring down at herself. Her black blouse was wet and sticky, and big reddish splotches stained her khaki pants. Both her arms had blood smeared down them. Bile rose in her throat as she remembered the wetness that had splashed her face. She raised exploring fingers and found the horrible stickiness on her cheeks, as well as smeared in her hair.

  She began to shake even harder, and tears dripped down her cheeks. “Get it off,” she said, still in that high, wavering voice of utter hysteria. “I have to get it off. There’s blood all over me, and it isn’t mine. It’s all over me; it’s even in my hair… It’s in my hair!” she sobbed, plunging for the stream.

  Cursing, Grant grabbed for her, but in her mad urgency to wash the blood away she jerked free of him, stumbling over the body of the snake and crashing to the ground. Before she could scramble away again, Grant pounced on her, holding her in an almost painful grip while she fought and sobbed, pleading and swearing at him all at once.

  “Jane, stop it!” he said sharply. “I’ll get the blood off you. Just hold still and let me get our boots off, okay?”

  He had to hold her still with one arm and pull her boots off with his free hand, but by the time he started to remove his own boots she was crying so hard that she lay limply on the ground. His face was grim as he looked at her. She’d stood up to so much without turning a hair that he hadn’t expected her to fall apart like this. She’d been pulling herself together until she’d seen the blood on herself, and that had evidently been more than she could bear. He jerked his boots off, then turned to her and roughly undid her pants and pulled them off. Lifting her into his arms as easily as he would have lifted a child, he climbed down the bank and waded out into the stream, disregarding the fact that his own pants were being soaked.

  When the water reached the middle of his calves, he stood her in the stream and bent to begin splashing water on her legs, rubbing the blood stains from her flesh. Next, cupping water in his palms, he washed her arms and hands clean, dripping the cooling water over her and soaking her blouse. All the while he tended to her, she stood docile, with silent tears still running down her face and making tracks in the blood smeared across her cheeks.

  “Everything’s all right, honey,” he crooned soothingly to her, coaxing her to sit down in the stream so he could wash the blood from her hair. She let him splash water on her head and face, blinking her eyes to protect them from the stinging water, but otherwise keeping her gaze fixed on his hard, intent features. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and wet it, then gently cleaned her face. She was calmer now, no longer crying in that silent, gut-wrenching way, and he helped her to her feet.

  “There, you’re all cleaned up,” he started to say, then noticed the pink rivulets of water running down her legs. Her blouse was so bloody that he’d have to take it off to get her clean. Without hesitation, he began to unbutton it. “Let’s get this off so we can wash it,” he said, keeping his voice calm and soothing. She didn’t even glance down as he unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it off her shoulders, then tossed it to the bank. She kept her eyes on his face, as if he were her lifeline to sanity and to look away meant a return to madness.

  Grant looked down, and his mouth went dry as he stared at her naked breasts. He’d wondered how she looked and now he knew, and it was like being punched in the stomach. Her breasts were round and a little heavier than he’d expected, tipped by small brown nipples, and he wanted to bend down and put his mouth to them, taste them. She might as well have been naked; all she had on was a pair of gossamer panties that had turned transparent in the water. He could see the dark curls of hair beneath the wisp of fabric, and he felt his loins tighten and swell. She was beautifully made, long-legged and slim-hipped, with the sleek muscles of a dancer. Her shoulders were straight, her arms slim but strong, her breasts rich; he wanted to spread her legs and take her right there, driving deeply into her body until he went out of his mind with pleasure. He couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman so badly. He’d wanted sex, but that had been simply a physical pleasure, and any willing female body had been acceptable. Now he wanted Jane, the essence of her; it was her legs he wanted wrapped around him, her breasts in his hands, her mouth under his, her body sheathing him.

  He jerked his gaze away from her, bending to dip the handkerchief in the water again. That was even worse; his eyes were level with the top of her thighs, and he straightened abruptly. He washed her breasts with a gentle touch, but every moment of it was torture to him, feeling her silky flesh under his fingers, watching her nipples tighten into reddened little nubs as he touched them.

  “You’re clean,” he said hoarsely, tossing the handkerchief to the bank to join her blouse.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, then fresh tears glittered in her eyes, and with a little whimper she flung herself against him. Her arms went around him and clung to his back. She buried her face against his chest, feeling reassured by the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his body. His very presence drove the fear away; with him, she was safe. She wanted to rest in his arms and forget everything.

  His hands moved slowly over her bare back, his calloused palms stroking her skin as if he relished the texture of it. Her eyes slid shut, and she nestled closer to him, inhaling the distinctly male scent of his strong body. She felt oddly drunk, disoriented; she wanted to cling to him as the only steady presence in the world. Her body was awash in strange sensations, from the rushing water swirling about her feet to the faint breeze that fanned her wet, naked skin, while he was so hard and warm. An unfamiliar heat swept along her flesh in the path of his hands as they moved from her back to her shoulders. Then one hand stroked up her throat to cup her jaw, his thumb under her chin and his fingers in her hair, and he turned her face up to him.

  Taking his time about it, he bent and fitted his mouth to hers, slanting his head to make the contact deep and firm. His tongue moved leisurely into her mouth, touching hers and demanding a response, and Jane found herself helplessly giving him what he wanted. She’d never been kissed like that before, with such complete confidence and expertise, as if she were his for the taking, as if they had reverted to more primitive times when the dominant male had his pick of the women. Vaguely alarmed, she made a small effort to free herself from his grasp. He subdued her with gentle force and kissed her again, holding her head still for the pressure of his mouth. Once again Jane found herself opening her mouth for him, forgetting why she’d struggled to begin with. Since her divorce a lot of men had kissed her and tried to make her respond. They’d left her cold. Why should this rough…mercenary, or whatever he was, make shivers of pleasure chase over her body, when some of the most sophisticated men in the world had only bored her with their passion? His lips were warm and hard, the taste of his mouth heady, his tongue bold in its exploration, and his kisses caused an unfamiliar ache to tighten within her body.

  A mindless little whimper of delight escaped her throat, the soft female sound making his arms tighten around her. Her hands slid up to his shoulders, then locked around his neck, hanging on to him for support. She couldn’t get close enough to him, though he was crushing her against him. The buttons of his shirt dug into her bare breasts, but she wasn’t aware of any pain. His mouth was wild, hungry with a basic need that had flared out of control, bruising her lips with the force of his kisses, and she didn’t care. Instead she gloried in it, clinging to him. Her body was suddenly alive with sensations and needs that she didn’t recognize, never having felt them before. Her skin actually ached for his touch, yet every stroke of his hard fingers made the ache intensify.

  Boldly cupping her breast in his palm, he rubbed the rough pad of his thumb across her tightly puckered nipple, and Jane almost cried aloud at the surge of heat that washed through her. It had never been like this for her before; t
he urgency of the pure, brazen sensuality of her own body took her by surprise. She’d long ago decided that she simply wasn’t a very physical person, then forgotten about it. Sex hadn’t been something that interested her very much. The way Grant was making her feel completely shattered her concept of herself. She was a female animal in his arms, grinding against him, feeling and glorying in the swollen response of his body, and hurting with the emptiness deep inside her.

  Time disappeared as they stood in the water, the late afternoon sun dappling them with the shifting patterns of light created by the sheltering trees. His hands freely roamed her body. She never even thought of resisting him. It was as if he had every right to her flesh, as if she were his to touch and taste. He bent her back over his arm, making her breasts jut enticingly, and his lips traveled hotly down her throat to the warm, quivering mounds. He took her nipple into his mouth and sucked strongly, and she surged against him like a wild creature, on fire and dying and wanting more.

  His hand swept downward, his fingers curving between her legs to caress her through the silk of her panties. The boldness of his touch shocked her out of her sensual frenzy; automatically she stiffened in his grasp and brought her arms down from around his neck to wedge them between their bodies and push against him. A low, gutteral sound rattled in his throat, and for a brief, terrified moment she thought there wouldn’t be any stopping him. Then, with a curse, he thrust her away from him.

  Jane staggered a little, and his hand shot out to catch her, hauling her back to face him. “Damn you, is this how you get your kicks?” he asked, infuriated. “Do you like seeing how far you can push a man?”

  Her chin came up, and she swallowed. “No, that’s not it at all. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have thrown myself at you like that—”

  “Damned right, you shouldn’t,” he interrupted savagely. He looked savage; his eyes were narrowed and bright with rage, his nostrils flared, and his mouth a thin, grim line. “Next time, you’d better make sure you want what you’re asking for, because I’m damned sure going to give it to you. Is that clear?”

  He turned and began wading to the bank, leaving her standing in the middle of the stream. Jane crossed her arms over her bare breasts, suddenly and acutely aware of her nakedness. She hadn’t meant to tease him, but she’d been so frightened, and he’d been so strong and calm that it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to cling to him. Those frenzied kisses and caresses had taken her by surprise, shaken her off balance. Still, she wasn’t about to have sex with a man she barely knew, especially when she didn’t quite know if she liked what little she did know about him.

  He reached the bank and turned to look at her. “Are you coming or not?” he snapped, so Jane waded toward him, still keeping her arms over her breasts.

  “Don’t bother,” he advised in a curt voice. “I’ve already seen, and touched. Why pretend to be modest?” He gestured to her blouse lying on the ground. “You might want to wash the blood out of that, since you’re so squeamish about it.”

  Jane looked at the blood-stained blouse, and she went a little pale again, but she was under control now. “Yes, I will,” she said in a low voice. “Will you…will you get my pants and boots for me, please?”

  He snorted, but climbed up the bank and tossed her pants and boots down to her. Keeping her back turned to him, Jane pulled on her pants, shuddering at the blood that stained them, too, but at least they weren’t soaked the way her blouse was. Her panties were wet, but there wasn’t anything she could do about that now, so she ignored the clammy discomfort. When she was partially clad again, she squatted on the gravel at the edge of the stream and began trying to wash her blouse. Red clouds drifted out of the fabric, staining the water before being swept downstream. She scrubbed and scrubbed before she was satisfied, then wrung out as much water as possible and shook the blouse. As she started to put the blouse on, he said irritably, “Here,” and held his shirt in front of her. “Wear this until yours gets dry.”

  She wanted to refuse, but she knew false pride wouldn’t gain her anything. She accepted the shirt silently and put it on. It was far too big, but it was dry and warm and not too dirty, and it smelled of sweat, and the musky odor of his skin. The scent was vaguely comforting. There were rust-colored stains on it, too, reminding her that he’d saved her life. She tied the tails in a knot at her waist and sat down on the gravel to put on her boots.

  When she turned, she found him standing right behind her, his face still grim and angry. He helped her up the bank, then lifted their packs to his shoulders. “We’re not going much farther. Follow me, and for God’s sake don’t touch anything that I don’t touch, or step anywhere except in my footprints. If another boa wants you, I just may let him have you, so don’t push your luck.”

  Jane pushed her wet hair behind her ears and followed obediently, walking where he walked. For a while, she stared nervously at every tree limb they passed under, then made herself stop thinking about the snake. It was over; there was no use dwelling on it.

  Instead she stared at his broad back, wondering how her father had found a man like Grant Sullivan. They obviously lived in two different worlds, so how had they met?

  Then something clicked in her mind, and a chill went down her spine. Had they met? She couldn’t imagine her father knowing anyone like Sullivan. She also knew what her own position was. Everyone wanted to get their hands on her, and she had no way of knowing whose side Grant Sullivan was on. He’d called her Priscilla, which was her first name. If her father had sent him, wouldn’t he have known that she was never called Priscilla, that she’d been called Jane from birth? He hadn’t known her name!

  Before he died, George had warned her not to trust anyone. She didn’t want to think that she was alone in the middle of the jungle with a man who would casually cut her throat when he had no further use for her. Still, the fact remained that she had no proof that her father had sent him. He’d simply knocked her out, put her over his shoulder and hauled her off into the jungle.

  Then she realized that she had to trust this man; she had no alternative. He was all she had. It was dangerous, trusting him, but not as dangerous as trying to make it out of the jungle on her own. He had shown flashes of kindness. She felt a funny constriction in her chest as she remembered the way he’d cared for her after he’d killed the snake. Not just cared for her, kissed her—she was still shaken by the way he’d kissed her. Mercenary or not, enemy or not, he made her want him. Her mind wasn’t certain about him, but her body was.

  She would have found it funny, if she hadn’t been so frightened.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THEY MOVED DIRECTLY away from the stream at a forty-five-degree angle, and it wasn’t long before he stopped, looked around and unslung the packs from his shoulders. “We’ll camp here.”

  Jane stood in silence, feeling awkward and useless, watching as he opened his pack and took out a small, rolled bundle. Under his skilled hands, the bundle was rapidly transformed into a small tent, complete with a polyethylene floor and a flap that could be zipped shut. When the tent was up he began stripping vines and limbs from the nearby trees to cover it, making it virtually invisible. He hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction, but after a moment she moved to help him. He did look at her then, and allowed her to gather more limbs while he positioned them over the tent.

  When the job was completed, he said, “We can’t risk a fire, so we’ll just eat and turn in. After today, I’m ready for some sleep.”

  Jane was, too, but she dreaded the thought of the night to come. The light was rapidly fading, and she knew that it would soon be completely dark. She remembered the total blackness of the night before and felt a cold finger of fear trace up her backbone. Well, there was nothing she could do about it; she’d have to tough it out.

  She crouched beside her pack and dug out two more cans of orange juice, tossing one to him; he caught it deftly, and eyed her pack with growing irritation. “How many more cans of this do you
have in that traveling supermarket?” he asked sarcastically.

  “That’s it. We’ll have to drink water from now on. How about a granola bar?” She handed it to him, refusing to let herself respond to the irritation in his voice. She was tired, she ached, and she was faced with a long night in total darkness. Given that, his irritation didn’t seem very important. He’d get over it.

  She ate her own granola bar, but was still hungry, so she rummaged for something else to eat. “Want some cheese and crackers?” she offered, dragging the items out of the depths of the pack.

  She looked up to find him watching her with an expression of raw disbelief on his face. He held out his hand, and she divided the cheese and crackers between them. He looked at her again, shook his head and silently ate his share.

  Jane saved a little of her orange juice, and when she finished eating she took a small bottle from the pack. Opening it, she shook a pill into the palm of her hand, glanced at Grant, then shook out another one. “Here,” she said.

  He looked at it, but made no move to take it. “What the hell’s that?”

  “It’s a yeast pill.”

  “Why should I want to take a yeast pill?”

  “So the mosquitoes and things won’t bite you.”

  “Sure they won’t.”

  “They won’t! Look at me. I don’t have any insect bites, and it’s because I take yeast pills. It does something to your skin chemistry. Come on, take it. It won’t hurt you.”

  He took the pill from her hand and held it with a pained expression on his face while she took her own, washing it down with a sip of the orange juice she’d saved. She passed the can to him, and he muttered something obscene before he tossed the pill into his mouth and slugged down the rest of the juice.

  “Okay, bedtime,” he said, rising to his feet. He jerked his head toward a tree. “There’s your bathroom, if you want to go before we turn in.”

  Jane stepped behind the tree. He was crude, he was rude, he was a little cruel—and he had saved her life. She didn’t know what to expect from him. No matter how rough he was, he would eventually disarm her with an unexpected act of kindness. On the other hand, when things were going smoothly between them, he would say things that stung, as if deliberately trying to start a quarrel.