by Zoe Dawson
He shot her an intent look. “Unless you want to watch me get dressed.”
She lifted her chin, her gaze direct. “Why? Do you have something I haven’t seen yet?”
He stopped in front of her and gave nothing away. “No, ma’am. I believe you’ve seen everything I have. So much for privacy.”
She wondered if he knew how somber he sounded when he called her ma’am. “I was checking out a noise.”
“Is that your story?”
“You think I wanted to ogle you?”
He stepped closer, nothing but bare man, one flimsy towel between her and some pretty acute danger, smelling fresh and delicious. “Didn’t you?”
“Are you asking me if I think you’re completely, mind-numbing magnificent, Russell?”
“No. I am asking if you like looking at me, Neve.”
“A woman would have to be blind or swing the other way not to want to look at you.”
“I’m not asking about any woman. I’m asking about you.”
“No.” The lie was barely a whisper. A tremor went through her. He couldn’t miss the shaking in her shoulders, and she wasn’t at all convincing with her voice low and husky.
A small smile ghosted across his lips. He tilted his head and leaned in as if he were going to kiss her, but he didn’t. He just stood there, the chemistry between them sending the jungle heat up a notch. As if she wasn’t sweating enough. This conversation was putting her into heated overdrive.
“That didn’t sound very convincing. Are you sure?”
The only time they’d kissed, she’d been the initiator and she had an ulterior motive. She closed her eyes, seeing that knowledge there. It was clear he was taunting her. Years of fantasizing about Russell’s kiss, of imagining how his lips would feel, his body pressed into hers, had cross-wired her brain, and suddenly there was nothing but regret. She was ashamed of how she’d acted, and now she really wanted him to close that last bit of space between them. For him to want to kiss her.
In her fantasies, she hadn’t imagined his mouth being so hot, or that the sheer physical heat of his kiss would wash down her body like a flood tide and make her ache for more. She hadn’t known her breath would catch and her heart would race, that her hips would rise toward him and her body would yearn for his before her mind had even registered the facts, let alone analyzed them and formulated a plan.
“What was the question?” she asked, disoriented by his presence, aching for him to make a move and frustrated when he just hovered there like the tantalizing bastard he was.
Suddenly she really wanted his forgiveness. But he had refused to talk about the whole ordeal. She could see that he hadn’t changed his mind.
Stubborn, it seemed, was Russell’s other nickname.
But she grumbled to herself. She wasn’t at all blameless. She had manipulated him, and he had every right to be angry. She wanted to have the discussion, argument, fight, and get all the pent-up feelings out in the open.
His chest was so close, and she wanted to touch his flexing muscles; it was difficult not to move toward him.
“Weren’t you paying attention?” he murmured. There was an edge to his voice. He couldn’t be nice here and give her an out. Her hope sank. He was still very angry. The man could carry a grudge. You did handcuff him to a bed! You drugged him when he was only trying to help you!
Nice? What the hell was she thinking?
No. Nice was not a word she associated with him. Dangerous, devastating, an explosion going off in her life, a rock-hard wall of granite—that’s what he was, not nice.
The waterfall pounded behind him, nothing but a swath of fire-engine red microfiber covering him. But she didn’t have to envision what he looked like beneath the insubstantial towel. She’d seen Russell in all his glory, and it was everything she could do not to let her jaw drop.
“Um…what?”
“I think that’s all the answer I need,” he said, then leaned in, and her whole body softened, but all he did was take the gun out of her hand. A thick lock of dark hair fell to his forehead, and it was all she could do to keep her hand at her side. “You better get to it. We need to eat and get some shut-eye before the next trek.”
He moved away and set the weapon on a dry rock where he had his clothes. He went to unknot the towel but before he removed it, he looked at her. She turned away and started to unlace her boots. When she looked back around, he had his pants on, but no shirt. He checked the pistol and chambered a round, his biceps flexing. Then she glimpsed ink on the inside of his right arm on the edge of the firm muscle.
He gave her another edgy look, and this one didn’t have anything to do with seduction. It was pure badass Marine. Russell was rock solid, honed by the corps’ finest into an elite combat weapon, trained to think two steps ahead of the enemy while under fire, underwater, outgunned and outmanned. Nothing had changed.
Except apparently when she’d overcome all that training and guarded warrior. It hurt to think he’d given in, his response a direct result of how much he trusted her…and how much he wanted her.
He folded his arms over his chest and stared at her, daring her to say a thing. Without wasting any more time, she reached for the buttons of her shirt and peeled it off. Underneath was a sports bra. His smoldering eyes watched her without any reaction. He was so damn controlled. He was starting to piss her off. She crossed her arms over her chest and pulled the bra off and dropped it. His jaw rippled and his eyes ignited. She reached for her waistband, unbuttoned and unzipped, stripping off her pants and her underwear.
Stark naked, she picked up the body wash, turned her back and headed into the spray. The water was cool, and she gasped softly as it pounded down on her head and shoulders, a refreshing relief after the smothering heat and humidity of the jungle.
While it went a long way to cooling her skin, it did nothing to quench the fire that burned inside her. She leaned her head back and squeezed a small amount of the concentrated wash into her palm, then lathered up her hair, washing away the grime and the sweat in the clear, clean, cascading water.
After that task was done, the sensation of his eyes boring into her back, watching her, made her shiver. She soaped up a cloth and sent it over her body. If he wanted to watch, she was going to give him a show. She moved it over the skin of her arms, up and around her neck, then across her breasts, her nipples puckering and sensitive to the touch, over her hips and buttocks, then down her legs.
She paid attention to her feet, noticing that she luckily had only two small blisters, when she felt his presence very close to her.
“Neve,” he said very softly, “keep still.”
She dared to raise her head a fraction of an inch and came face-to-face with a jaguar. The cat was huge, a male, his eyes a feral but gorgeous tawny gold. He stared at her just at the very edge of the light, the reflection of his eyes flashing with a predatory gleam.
The touch of Russell’s hand on her arm made her jump. Very cautiously, he gripped her around her bicep, pulling her out of the rushing water, and deliberately put her behind him.
She grasped his tight shoulders and pressed her upper body against him, her breasts flat against his back even as she looked over his shoulder.
The cat rose, making a soft growl in his chest. She wasn’t sure if he considered Russell a rival for her as his meat or for territory—the watering hole—or as a male he was just being aggressive.
Russell carefully brought his free hand up to grip the gun with both hands.
She gasped as the cat charged toward them.
Chapter Eight
Neve flinched as the gun discharged. But the animal didn’t stop. Rock spread his arms and started shouting and waving. The jaguar skidded to a halt and regarded him. Rock just waved harder and shouted unintelligible things, making himself as big as he could. Finally, the cat turned and ran off into the jungle.
Now that the danger was over, he felt every inch of the creamy skin that was pressed to his back, especially th
e globes of Neve’s generous breasts. She was trying to kill him. He gritted his teeth against the onslaught of sensation. They weren’t out of the woods yet, and she needed to finish her shower.
Why didn’t he put a damn shirt on? Because…he liked her looking at him the way she’d been looking at him. She didn’t pull any punches, this woman who had discovered a way to generate a rage in him he’d never even realized he’d had.
She had a hold over him, God knew that. But this game they were playing was like live ammo, and it would explode in their faces. But what a rush it was to defy death.
He definitely should have looked away, but he hadn’t been able to. Hadn’t wanted to, was more like it.
“Are you all right?” he asked, both of them so still they could have been statues.
She took a breath, let it out, and the warmth of it feathered his skin. “I swear, Russell. You are the bravest, most badass, scariest dude I have ever met.”
He wasn’t sure that was a compliment.
“Let’s not tempt fate. You need to finish, and we have to get back to camp.”
“Does it make you feel more in control when you’re issuing orders?”
“I issue orders and expect they’ll be carried out when I’m the best bet you have of getting this White Falcon job finished. I want him dead, Neve, and you safe.”
“Don’t say that.”
He turned and grabbed her upper arms. “That’s the unvarnished truth. War is hell, Neve, and there’s only one outcome here. We’re going to be the ones to walk away alive. That’s the only win I’m going to accept.”
“I wish it didn’t have to be so.”
“It is so. What did you think was going to happen when you came out here? A walk in the park? A nice, leisurely jaunt through the jungle?”
“No. I’m just determined to save my family.”
He took a breath because he couldn’t have this conversation with her right now. He was too close to the edge with both his anger and his feelings for her.
His voice softened and he said, “I know. I’m all for that.” God, she felt so good against him.
He loved her, and he was going to make the world as safe for her as he possibly could, no matter the cost.
With the iron will he’d used in his missions, he let her go. She stepped back into the flowing water and he kept his eyes off her and on the jungle around them.
When she was finished, she dried off and dressed. She walked past him, then stopped and gave him a coolly artless look over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”
“Off you go,” he said.
She didn’t hesitate, leaving him to follow behind her in those snug-fitting cargo pants, behind the languid movement of her booted feet and the smooth, rolling motion of her hips. But the image of her beneath the falls was burned into his brain. Miles of bare, naked legs, high, firm breasts tipped with mouthwatering dark nipples, and the most perfect ass he’d ever seen—perfectly curved, perfectly tight. And he was dying, the awful, wonderful feeling from the first moment he met her rearing up again and swamping him in one big crashing wave of want.
Pure lust had never come close to dropping him to his knees. Never. He could handle lust; this was love. And love didn’t relent, not all the way from their bathing area to the dense jungle and finally to their tent. It was like a fist around his heart, a heated knot in his stomach.
They made quick work out of the meal, this time Hurry Curry Seasoned Chicken with Rice. He kept the weapon on his lap, and he noticed how she kept giving him glances all through the meal.
Now they were settled in the tent, all zippered up and cozy. “I’ll take the first watch, Russell.”
“You handling me, babe?”
“No, I’m just offering. You have had enough for tonight. It feels like you’re going to jump out of your skin.”
“That has nothing to do with jaguars, EDL or any number of other dangers in this godforsaken place.”
She was concerned, and even as he liked it, he didn’t want her to see him like this. There were a couple of times yesterday when he’d been wild-eyed. “I’m not too complicated, Neve. Right, wrong. Good guys, bad guys. Cut. Dried.”
Neve had a certain innocence about her, a purity of purpose—not that she would ever see it that way. But Rock knew it, just like he figured she knew what buttons to push.
He rose and crowded her back against the tent. “You know what set me off yesterday. He had a knife on you. His intent was clear.”
Her face fell, her skin turning even paler than normal, her soft mouth softening even more.
“Geez,” she said, swallowing. “I was sure nothing would push you over the edge.”
Except you, he thought, dragging his gaze away from her. Other than not heeding his warning, cuffing him to that bed and cutting him out of the action, she’d been amazing out here, held up her end, done what needed to be done. It wasn’t lost on him that she knew her way around hand-to-hand combat and could shoot. She’d handled the Glock like a pro. “Yeah. Exactly. Seeing you like that would push any guy a couple of degrees into a wild-eyed maniac.”
He knew the signs of going off the rails. It was a warning he needed to heed, right damn now. This ache he had for her, it needed to go away.
He could use some sleep, but instead of capitulating, he took her hand in his, caressed the back with his palm, so smooth and strong, yet delicate.
This hand had saved lives, sometimes in wind-tossed waves, gale-force winds and frigid temperatures. She did a job that would tax a man and did it damned well. He knew she had the courage.
He wasn’t going to kiss her.
He gritted his teeth. Right.
He was so glad he made that clear. Ever since he’d broken down her door and saw her trying to hold off that assassin, so little was clear to him.
“All right. Take the first watch,” he said. He lowered his forehead to hers and just rested a moment, letting the quiet and the warmth seep into him. At the snick of the cuffs, a boatload of tension drained out of him.
She stiffened and opened her mouth. Then closed it, a sadness coming into her eyes. After a couple of seconds, she leaned back and let out a soft breath. “When are you going to trust me again?” she whispered.
Watching her, his eyes slowly adjusted to the dark night. A full moon was visible in the clearing sky, but he felt it in his bones that rain was on the way. The sound of free-running water, a lot of it, coming from the distance, was unmistakable and soothing.
“I don’t know,” he whispered back. The anger, the pure-hot rage, had never really left him. He’d just disarmed it for now and buried it, like an unloaded weapon much too close to the ammo. But there would have to be a reckoning. He just wasn’t sure when or where, just that it was inevitable.
He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand and let out a heavy breath. His gaze drifted over her face in the moonlight like this was a romantic getaway instead of a fortified camp. He didn’t miss a thing when it came to Neve—her thick lashes brushing her cheeks when she closed her eyes briefly, the softness of her breath, the rich beauty of her dark skin and the racing of her heart, and he wanted her.
He also wasn’t ready to trust her. Not quite sure whether she was paying lip service to needing him or just waiting for the moment to leave him behind. He couldn’t take any chances with this woman.
He pushed the longing, the lust and the out-of-control sensations deep, as deep as the wrath. That lost feeling he kept with him to remind him that he couldn’t find his way with her. Even a Marine knew when he was beaten. He let her go, removing the cuffs. Taking the chance that she wasn’t going to leave him behind again, he bedded down and dropped off into slumber, his dreams a feverish jumble of chasing her and just barely brushing his hands against her, getting burned like she was on fire, only to have to chase her all over again, the sense of foreboding looming heavier and thicker as he ran.
He woke up completely when it was time for his shift. It was something that was ingra
ined in him, and in the field, he adapted as easily as breathing. Combat naps were second nature.
Her warm lap was beneath his cheek, her arm wrapped around him, across his chest. He enjoyed the moment, like a thief stealing something inordinately precious. He lay still, listening to her breathing, the barely discernable movements as she scanned for danger.
He rose and climbed over her as she scooted to the side and settled down. She yawned and stretched.
“It’s been very quiet,” she murmured.
He looked out into the darkness, the land alive with red and orange. He scanned beyond the mesh openings. The forest was nearly soundless except for the whisper of a breeze coming through the trees. Not even a monkey or bird moved out there.
He heard the rumble of thunder in the distance, then a flash as the red-orange glow faded into a murky gray.
It was going to be a wet, miserable day.
And it was. He knew all about jungle rain—big, fat drops that drenched you in seconds, making the ground muddy, sucking at their boots. Even with ponchos, they were soaked.
When it just got too murky with water and mist to see, they pitched the tent and crawled inside, changed into dry clothes and waited out the rain. They couldn’t cook, so they consumed MREs and drank the water.
“Did the EDL know where you were headed?”
“No. Ugly was too busy trying to get me to give him my name.”
“And that name was?”
“Sister Mary Agnes.”
He chuckled dryly.
“Hey, I can pass as a nun.”
“Not from where I’m sitting. I’ve never seen a nun like you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He ignored the question and countered, “Who came up with this cover?”
“My source in Panama—”
“Marco de Cruz. A resourceful guy.”
“Very. Marco is wonderful—he knows the area very well, has a lot of contacts. He found out that Ammon Set and his wife, Lizeth, have a fortified compound deep in the Darién. She’s the daughter of Raúl Torres.”
