Troubleshooters 04 Out of Control

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I’m not any kind of saint, but yes, there are things I believe in, completely, with all my heart. I believe that the sin lies in not taking precautions to prevent an unwanted baby. Sin is in not using protection against AIDS. Sin is the dishonesty with which so many people—both men and women—get other people to sleep with them.”

  They were approaching Jones’s airfield, and she waited until he brought the little plane in before she continued. She wanted his full attention.

  The landing was bumpy—no doubt on purpose. He was, after all, scared to death and trying to scare her, too.

  But they taxied toward the Quonset hut that Jones called home, and he cut the engines. The silence was remarkable.

  “If you want to be friends with me,” she told him quietly, “I’ll welcome your visits with a cup of tea and a smile. If you want to be intimate friends, and I think you want that as much as I do, we’ve got to be regular friends first. I need you to be completely honest about what you want and who you are. I’m not looking for you to share all your secrets with me—just a few. I know you don’t really want to marry me. Believe me, neither one of us is looking for a lifetime commitment here.”

  “I thought all women wanted to get married.” It was the most honest thing he’d said to her today.

  “You thought wrong,” she informed him.

  He was holding on to the funny-shaped steering wheel with both hands, as if he didn’t trust himself to sit so close to her without touching her. Molly could relate.

  She reached out, even though she knew she shouldn’t, and brushed his hair back from his face. It was as soft to touch as she’d imagined. “I suspect a woman would have to be a saint to spend the rest of her life with a man like you. And as I said, Mr. Jones, I’m no saint. But an occasional night or two with you might be exactly what I need.”

  He turned toward her, but she unlatched the door and slipped out of the plane.

  “Have a nice day, Mr. Jones.”

  “Molly.”

  She stopped walking but she didn’t turn around.

  “I can’t do this,” he said tightly. “I can’t be your friend.”

  It was something she’d already considered—that it was possible that Jones was simply too scared of this powerful pull between them. Lord knows it frightened the hell out of her.

  He could very well just pack up and leave. There was a large chance that once she walked away, she was never going to see him again.

  It took every ounce of faith Molly had not to turn around and beg him not to go. But she knew that that probably would scare him into running.

  “Too late,” she called back to him as cheerfully as she could manage, then headed down the trail to the village without looking back.

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Six

  “You’re wearing that for a flight to Jakarta?”

  Ken. Savannah nearly dropped her attaché case as she spun to face him. It really was him. He was really here in the airport.

  He must’ve heard the message she’d left on his machine. He must’ve forgiven her. It took every ounce of control she had not to burst into tears.

  “Where’s your luggage?” he asked. “Because the first thing you’ve got to do is change out of that shit. Forget about the fact that you’re going to be traveling for twenty-three hours straight and you’re going to be as uncomfortable as hell. That skirt’s too short, and you need to wear something that buttons all the way up to your neck.”

  Savannah looked down at her pale yellow suit. The skirt was by no means too short. “Why?” It was not really the question she wanted to ask him, but it was all that came out.

  His mouth turned into an even more grim line in his angular face. “Because I say so. If I’m coming with you, I’m going to make goddamn sure you don’t get yourself kidnapped or killed. And that means you’re going to do exactly what I say, without question, or I walk, is that clear?”

  What was clear was that he hadn’t forgiven her. Now the tears that threatened were from disappointment.

  Yet somehow he’d decided to help her, to come along. That was something, wasn’t it? It was a start.

  “I’ve already checked my luggage,” she told him, careful not to cry—not for any reason.

  He swore, obviously no longer bothering to watch his language around her. “Okay. Then the first thing we do when we hit Jakarta is claim your bags—provided they make it there. Of course, there’s a good chance they won’t. But if luck’s on our side, once we get there, you can change into something more suitable in the ladies’ room.”

  Savannah nodded, willing to play by his rules. “All right. Although you’re going to have to give me a bigger hint about what you mean by more suitable. Because I’m not exactly dressed like a stripper, so . . .”

  He didn’t even crack a smile. It was as if he’d had a sense-of-humor-ectomy between last night and right now.

  “Chances are your uncle got himself into trouble with the locals, and the money is some kind of payoff. The majority of Indonesians are Muslim—I’d be willing to bet that’s who we’ll be dealing with when we get there. The more religious sects have tougher rules about what a woman can and cannot do—down to the clothes you wear. It’s a good idea for you to go in covered—ankle to wrist. That way you can’t offend anyone and make things worse for your uncle.”

  Ankle to wrist? “But isn’t it really hot there?”

  “Yeah,” he told her. “This way I won’t be the only one uncomfortable.”

  She looked at him. He was wearing cargo pants—the kind with lots of pockets, and an untucked green and brown Hawaiian-style shirt, open over an olive drab tank undershirt, sandals on his feet. He was dressed for hot weather—loose, cool, comfortable clothes.

  “Do you still have an airline ticket for me?” he asked. He was carrying a small duffle bag, and a day pack was over his shoulder.

  “Yes.” Savannah forced herself to hold his gaze. “I didn’t cash it in because I was hoping you’d change your mind.”

  “Well, shit, aren’t I predictable?”

  “Thank you so much for coming with me,” she told him.

  “Yeah, well, I got the time off and I didn’t have anything better to do.”

  “I’m prepared to pay you for your time.” Savannah knew the instant the words were out of her mouth that it was the wrong thing to say.

  “Oh, that’ll make it all better,” he replied. “Does that really work for you? To throw money at all your various problems?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m sorry—”

  “Screw your money,” he told her. “I don’t want your money. No, I’m accepting your original offer. I’ll take my payoff for this job in sex.”

  It couldn’t have stung more if he’d reached out and smacked her across the face.

  “Then you might as well go home, because I’m not sleeping with you ever again.”

  “Gee, last time you said something like that, you jumped me within two hours. Good thing I packed a lot of condoms.”

  Savannah lost her temper. “Why are you here?” she asked him. “If it’s to make me feel terrible, good job—you can go now. You obviously have no intention of forgiving me, you act like you hate me—”

  “I don’t,” he said. “I don’t hate you. Jesus.”

  “I’m not going to sleep with you,” she said again.

  “I know,” he said. “I was just . . . I don’t know. Trying to be an asshole, I guess.”

  “Well, you can stop trying. You succeeded.”

  Ken actually smiled. “Yeah, I’m told that’s something I’m particularly good at. Come on. I better get checked in.”

  “I’ll wait here,” she said.

  “No.” Ken shook his head. “Starting right now, you’ve got to get used to sticking close to me. Once we’re in Jakarta—once we hit Hong Kong for that matter—you’re not going to go anywhere without me making like your little shadow. You’re no
t going into the ladies’ room alone. I’m going to be inches from you, twenty-four-seven, and if we’re in a crowd or a situation where I don’t feel like I’m in complete control, I’m going to have to touch you. I’m going to have to hold your wrist or arm or hand or the waistband of your skirt, whatever—or if I need two hands free, you’re going to have to hold onto me. Do you understand?”

  She did. And she understood, too, what he’d meant when he’d spoken about not being the only one uncomfortable.

  This was really going to suck.

  Jones found himself standing stupidly outside of Molly’s tent.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  He’d intended to pack up and leave despite the fact that his airfield—his by squatters’ rights only—was a sweet little gem. It was the perfect base of operations, except for the fact that it was too damn close to the village where Molly Anderson and her friends were messing things up the way only true do-gooders could mess things up.

  But instead of packing, he lay down for a couple of minutes and took a nap. He hadn’t slept much last night, and a couple of minutes quickly turned into the entire afternoon.

  When he awoke, he found he’d made up his mind. He didn’t want to leave. He wasn’t going to leave. But he was going to make damn sure he didn’t run into Molly ever again. He’d stay far from the village, and if she came up to see him, he’d hear her coming and lose himself in the jungle.

  How hard could that be?

  Grimly happy with his decision, he thought about making himself dinner. But the next thing he knew, he was in the shower. Shaving.

  And when he dressed, he not only put on clean clothes, he put on new clothes. A silk shirt in a deep shade of blue he’d picked up in Hong Kong. A pair of pants he’d been saving for a special occasion.

  Like he was ever going to have a special occasion. What did he really think? That his mother was going to come visit him or something? She didn’t even know he was still alive.

  He even cleaned off his boots before he put them on.

  It was then, with the rag in his hand, that he knew. He was completely fucked. He had been from the first moment he’d caught sight of Molly, right after he’d found the airfield.

  He couldn’t stay away from her. He’d tried, and failed.

  Miserably.

  He sifted through the boxes of supplies he’d brought back from the city until he found what he was looking for. Three books—a mystery, a romance, and some old lady’s autobiography. All three were on the New York Times list as of two weeks ago, and they’d cost him a small fortune.

  He knew without a doubt that Molly was going to like the romance best. So he’d save it for last. He took the nonfiction book, wrapped it in rice paper, and tied it with a piece of twine.

  It looked nearly as ridiculous as he did.

  Jones slipped his handgun into the back of his pants, and, pathetic gift in hand, he headed down the trail to the village, cursing himself every step of the way.

  He didn’t stop walking until he got to Molly’s tent. And then he stood there, recognizing the total insanity of what he was about to do. Maybe Molly had been right about him having a—what did she call it? A Jesus complex. Maybe some part of him actually wanted to die this year.

  She opened the flap and stepped outside before he could walk away.

  “I thought I heard someone out here.” Her hair was down around her shoulders and she was wearing a sarong-style skirt that flowed around her as she moved. Her feet were bare, save for the pink nail polish. The smile she gave him was glowing. “Good evening, Mr. Jones. What a wonderful, wonderful surprise. Have you come for a cup of tea?”

  He wanted tea about as much as he wanted to be struck by lightning, and she knew it. She knew what he really wanted, and she knew he was going to do whatever it took to get it. To get her. But that seemed to be okay with her. In fact, she seemed pretty damn happy about it.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” she continued. As she touched the sleeve of his shirt, her fingers brushed his arm, and it was crazy the way his heart pounded. What was he, in high school again? “You clean up nicely, don’t you?”

  “Don’t be fooled,” he murmured. “Rotting wood looks great with a fresh coat of paint.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, her eyes dancing. “That’s very profound. And quite noble of you to try to warn me.”

  Noble? Not a chance. “Are you going to invite me in, or what?” Jones caught himself. “Please, may I come in.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Language!” Molly said.

  “Sorry.”

  Jones turned to see one of the missionaries—a tall, lanky, long-haired man with a beard, whose name was Bobby or Jimmy or something equally gee-whiz—stomping toward them, scowling. His scowl was aimed unerringly at Jones.

  “Mr. Jones is here for a cup of tea,” Molly announced. “Have you two met? Mr. Jones, this is Bill Bolten. Billy’s with the mission.”

  “Yeah,” Jones said. “I noted his warm Christian greeting.”

  Billy was carrying a bouquet of flowers and he gave them to Molly with a kiss. He would have planted it on her lips if she hadn’t turned her head at the last minute.

  “I’m glad you’re back safely,” he told Molly, gazing meaningfully into her eyes.

  Oh, come on. Billy couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old. Did he really think he had a chance with a mature woman like Molly?

  Except she was smiling back at him, with real warmth in her eyes. She brought the flowers to her nose. “Mmmm, thank you. These are lovely.”

  Shit. He should have brought flowers instead of some stupid-ass book. Books weren’t romantic. Books didn’t say “I want to do you,” quite the same way flowers did.

  He was on his way to shifting, so that he could hide the book behind his back, but it was too late. She’d already seen it.

  “Is that for me, too?” she asked him.

  So he handed it over.

  And great. She was opening it right in front of Jesus’s angry little brother.

  “It’s a book,” she said, feeling it through the paper. “Please let it be a book . . .” She took the paper off as if it were a precious resource as valuable as the gift inside. “Yes!” She quickly scanned the back cover. “This looks fabulous.” She hugged it to her chest as she gazed at him. “Thank you so much.”

  Jones wanted her to hold him the way she was holding that book. And if Billy hadn’t been standing there, he would’ve reached for her and made an attempt to kiss her. But no way was he going to give the kid the satisfaction of seeing him bounce one off of her cheek the way he had done.

  “Come in,” she said. “Both of you. I’ll put on a kettle.”

  The dead last thing Jones wanted was to go into Molly’s tent with Billy. But if he left, that meant Billy would be going inside alone.

  So Jones went into the tent.

  Billy followed on his heels, jockeying for position.

  It was pretty big for a tent, with a wooden floor and flaps that could be raised to let the breeze in and lowered for privacy. Molly opened all the flaps as Billy sat down at the table one of the villagers had made for her.

  There were only two chairs, so Jones headed for her bed. Before he sat, he took out his gun and set it on the crate she used as a bedside table, next to her lantern. That was where he’d kept it while he was sick.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” Billy said. “Did you ask Molly if you could bring a gun in here?” He looked at Molly. “Did you know he was armed?”

  “Everyone here is armed,” she replied evenly as she filled a real tea kettle—with a whistle and everything—from a container of bottled water. “You, me, Colin, Angie, and Father Bob are the only people on this entire mountain who don’t carry a gun. You know that.”

  Yeah, Billy. Don’t be stupid. Except, oops, guess you can’t help it. Being stupid comes naturally to guys like you.

  Jones leaned back on Molly’s bed, supporti
ng himself with his elbows, enjoying Billy’s obvious discomfort. He watched Molly light a can of Sterno and set the kettle above the flame while Billy watched him.