by Zoe Dawson
Then it was a quick swipe down the backs of his legs. “Hang on,” she said, her voice as breathless as he felt. Warm water cascaded over him from the handheld as she rinsed him thoroughly back to front.
She was gone for a brief moment, then a heavy, warm terrycloth rubbed his body dry. She led him back to the chair as she towel-dried his hair. He was exhausted by this point.
“Come on, big guy,” she said, slipping her arm under him, and he got another dose of those gorgeous breasts and tight nipples as she rose from her crouch.
He favored his ankle as he limped while she steered him out of the shower and back to the clean bed. While he lay there reeling from the effort to move, she wrapped his ankle again, then set ice against the joint.
A cool sheet settled against his legs, groin, hips, and waist.
“Now for the fun part,” she said. She peeled off the bandage, and he gritted his teeth. “I need to examine it, then give it another antibiotic wash.”
He nodded as she pressed against his wound.
“It’s draining at least, but it’s still swollen and inflamed.” She turned to the bedside table and a small bag, pulling out a syringe and a vial. After lifting the plunger, she expelled the cool liquid against his side, catching the runoff in a small hand towel. Then she repeated the process as he closed his eyes and endured the pain. “Your stitches look good.” She turned back to the bag and extracted two bandages, pressing the smaller one over his stitches and the larger one over his throbbing wound.
She opened the bottle of Gatorade on the bedside table and handed him three pills. “Antibiotic, analgesic, and anti-inflammatory from your first aid kit.”
He threw back the pills and then drained the Gatorade bottle, closing his eyes.
“Do you need to void?”
“I already did in the shower,” he admitted.
“How’s he doing?” Carolina asked as she came back into the room. When he opened his eyes, she was carrying a tray, and the delicious aroma of broth made his gut cramp.
She set the tray down on the bedside table.
“He’s doing great,” Renata said. “Clean as a whistle.”
“Hi there, Mr. Keegan,” Carolina said in perfect accented English.
“Max,” he croaked and gave her a lopsided grin. Her features softened, and she clasped his shoulder, dipping her chin.
Carolina stuffed pillows behind him, propping him up. She left, then returned with a chair she set next to the bed.
“We’re good now,” the doc said. “I can get some of this delicious smelling broth into him. Go on back to bed, and thank you so much for helping me with him.”
“It is my pleasure. Sleep well, Max,” she said as she left.
Jugs padded back into the room, and he jumped onto the bed and settled at his feet, giving him an anxious look before he set his head onto his paws.
“Is he doing all right?” Max asked, his voice rusty with disuse. “Eating?”
“He’s eaten and had a bath. He’s doing great.” She laughed then shook her head. “Except for stealing my helmet and hiding it in the bushes.”
Max chuckled, then opened his mouth for a spoonful of broth. The liquid exploded in a combination of rich flavors on his tongue. She dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.
“I’m sorry about that. What did you do?”
“Oh, I found this neon green dog toy in your pack, and I threw it for him to hopefully stop him from focusing on the artifact.”
He groaned and laughed again. “You didn’t.”
She frowned. “Why? He loved it.”
“That’s what we call a Kong. We use it for reinforcement.”
She winced. “So, I just—”
“Taught him that if he hides your helmet, he gets his favorite thing on the planet besides me.”
She looked over her shoulder at him and sighed. “Oh, Jugs, how stupid am I?”
Jugs raised his head and made an inquisitive noise, cocking his head.
She turned her attention back to him. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got shot and fell too many feet to a hard jungle floor,” he said deadpan, that irrational anger surging again.
“Right,” she said wryly, and his heart turned over in his chest at her sheepish look. The tenderness in her eyes made him mushy, and he didn’t do mushy. He freaking hated mushy.
She shoveled in another spoonful of broth, and before he knew it, he’d finished all of it. There was a round biscuit near the bowl, and she broke off a piece, slipping it into his mouth, her fingers brushing his lips. His body ramped up again, his mouth sensitive and aching.
“That’s good,” he rasped.
“It’s called chipa and is the most common food in Paraguay, made with cassava flour, lard, and anise. It comes from the native Guarani people, indigenous to Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay.”
“You know a lot about the food here?”
“I’m part Brazilian on my father’s side. My mom is American. So I’ve learned about both of my worlds.” She broke off another piece and he opened his mouth. She placed it inside and he closed his lips too fast, catching part of her index finger inside. She gasped and swallowed, pulling her digit free, her eyes going molten. “Um, the cassava starch and lard make the exterior of the bun crunchy, and the anise gives it a licorice-like taste. Either you like it or hate it.”
“I love it,” he said, his tone low and husky, as intimate as a caress.
Her eyes were shining, warm and lovely. She lifted her hand and tucked some of those springy curls behind her ear and he saw the palm of her hand.
He reached out and captured her wrist, turning her palm. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. “Damn,” he whispered at what had to have been painful blisters that had scabbed over.
He looked up at her, his gut tightening at what she had endured bringing him here. “These are from pulling me on that litter?”
She caught her full lower lip between her teeth as she looked from her palm to his eyes. “Yes, but it was worth it. It saved your life.”
Her skin was so smooth on her wrist, her warmth making him melt. More freaking mush. He was at a loss, not used to being the one rescued, saved. It made him feel weak. It didn’t matter that’s not what the doc…damn, Renata, that was her name…thought. It didn’t matter she did what she had to do because she was a healer. He just saw her as a civilian, and he should be the one doing the protecting, not laying on his ass while he was dragged through the jungle, stripped, sewn up, and put to bed like an invalid. It was his own stupid Navy SEAL attitude, alpha male mindset. A beautiful woman with lovely hands now scarred for him.
She pulled away and stood, leaning over and trying to tuck him in. He grabbed the sheet and pulled it away from her.
“I’m not a child!” he snapped, the anger he was feeling at himself spilling over into the space between them.
Her eyes flashed. “I know you’re not, but you’re acting like one right now. Big, bad SEALs don’t need help unless it’s from their own kind…their medic? Well, I was the only one there, and my training took over.”
“Your bedside manner sucks, doc.” Max growled.
“Sticks and stones…” she said and gave him her best patronizing doctor smile.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to work,” he growled. Renata had his back, and she was capable of standing her ground. He liked that about her. What he didn’t like was being injured, and that certainly wasn’t her fault.
“I get it. You’re badass and in charge most of the time. But in this instance, you needed me. There’s no shame in that. Even though you’re being a dick, I would do it all over again.”
He closed his eyes. He was being a dick. He had to chalk it up to mostly the irritability from the pain and the fever.
“I am grateful. It’s just all jumbled up with my irrational anger at the circumstances.” He reached for her hand again. “Renata, I’m sorry,” he whispered, and her gaze softened from anger to understandin
g.
“Not your fault,” she murmured. “So, stop feeling guilty.” She tugged, but he couldn’t seem to let her go. He said nothing, just held her gaze for the longest moment, feeling so damn grateful and angry at the same time. He pulled her hand to his mouth. He kissed each callus, then let her go. She didn’t say anything, just closed her fingers over her palm.
He looked down the length of him. Jugs was out, his body prone, ears akimbo and belly exposed as he snored softly. If only his life was as uncomplicated as Jugs’s.
“Can I get you settled or are you going to bite my head off again?”
He grunted.
“I’ll take that as a white flag of surrender.” She removed the pillows.
As soon as his aching body slid down onto the mattress, he dropped into a soothing limbo. He felt her settle next to him on the bed. He reached for her hand, and other than finding his breath, he didn’t move. His hunger and thirst were sated, the painkiller soothing the sharp spikes of discomfort, his fever down a bit, and his body ready for more sleep. His muscles twitched with oncoming slumber, his mind floating in the ozone of total physical and mental exhaustion.
Before he knew what he was doing, he turned his head and met her sultry gaze. Max sank like a stone, his defenses shot to hell. He swore he could feel her body against his, her presence more than physical. She lay stock-still, her breathing quick, and he saw longing in her eyes. He reached out as if he were pressing his limb through quicksand, his mind reeling, and he was on her in a heartbeat, pulling her flush against him, the dull pain flaring at the contact. He didn’t have to seek, she was there, and he took her mouth, then took more. His relief swelled, and he unleashed it, his hands mapping her contours as the kiss turned raw, primitive. Her mouth did amazing things to his, her tongue delicious as her fingers sank into his hair. His mouth molded savagely over hers, her passion flooding him. Up until this moment, he hadn’t realized how amazing this could be. It sent him into a tailspin.
God, the consequences.
He pulled back with a soft groan, and from the look in her eyes, she could tell it was his side. Instantly contrite, she smoothed her hand over his jaw. “Sleep, Max.”
Seconds passed before he could raise his heavy lids. Narrow beams of moonlight spilled from the cracks in the blinds. She scraped her hand through her hair. He wondered if she was as wrecked as he was as he drifted into sleep.
6
Inside the safehouse, Dodger could hear the sirens. The drive through the older part of the city made it clear the structures had taken the most damage, but it had been a powerful quake. The country would be a mess.
Talk about bad timing. SEALs weren’t about to let a natural disaster stand in the way of saving their teammate and taking down the biggest terror threat since Bin Laden. They were sure to get the intel later. One thing about The Company, there was always someone out there watching. Dodger sat in a chair near the bed where Anna was asleep. She’d come to once, then went back to sleep. The doctor they’d sent confirmed what Saint had already diagnosed. She didn’t have a concussion and needed only a couple of stitches, which their medic was more than capable of handling. He said her body just needed rest. He needed to wake her up so he could see for himself she was okay.
He bowed his head, tired and dirty, and didn’t want to think about how Anna had gotten on the other side of his armor. He’d kept his relationships superficial. Just like the Artful Dodger, he was good at escaping entanglements. It had even become a game with him.
But Anna wasn’t so easy to dodge. Whenever he zigged, she seemed to zag right into him. He felt almost raw around her, and it was damn hard to focus when her smile took his breath away. He experienced emotions so caveman primitive it scared him and reminded him that’s why he was zigging in the first place.
But as with any specimen of the opposite sex, she was more than unpredictable.
Damn if he didn’t love that as much as he hated it.
He’d made no secret of the fact that he hadn’t wanted her here or in the jungle.
But she often showed him that strong women were resilient, often tougher than men. She was Max’s sister, after all.
He looked back at her and wanted to touch her but kept his hands firmly to himself.
She turned her head, and he watched the dark strands of her hair slide along the stark white of the pillow. He’d been scared for her, he admitted, and had to get a handle on this need to protect and take her away from any perceived danger. She wouldn’t allow it for a second, and The Company, for whatever lamebrained reason, believed she was the woman for the job.
He was so not on her good side and it would be a moot point to voice his opinions on the matter again. He thought it would be to his advantage to stay on her bad side, no matter how much that hurt him.
He rose and left the room. The guys were in different phases of getting cleaned up. Someone was in the shower, someone just out, others in the kitchen taking advantage of the well-stocked fridge.
His LT was getting the lowdown on the intel to get them closer to moving out. Dodger was more than ready to go after Max. Get his teammate back and get Anna out of the jungle. Win-win.
“How is she?” Saint asked.
“Still sleeping.”
He nodded. “You doing all right?”
Dodger smiled and looked at the man whose responsibility it was to take care of them on the battlefield. As a combat doc and warrior, no one did it better. He’d sure taken some ribbing when he’d first joined the team with his thick West Virginia accent, but Dodger felt a connection between them. Some would say that West Virginia was a foreign country, yet the two of them had the accent thing in common.
“Why? Don’t I look brilliant, mate?”
Saint laughed softly. “You look like hell, boy.” His arm came out, his big hand landing in the center of Pitbull’s chest as he headed toward the bathroom to take his turn. “Go,” Saint said as Pitbull scowled.
Dodger held up his hands. “I’ll take mine in the master.”
He backed up and went back into the bedroom where Anna was. She was still asleep. He figured he’d have time to get his absolutions done before she woke up. Grabbing his duffel, he slipped inside and closed the door softly.
Fifteen minutes later, he was at the sink brushing his teeth and thinking about shaving when the door opened. He turned his head to find Anna shuffling in. She headed for the loo, dropped her pants and did her thing.
Then she moved toward the sink and ran right into him. He reached out and steadied her.
She looked up at him and blinked a couple of times. Completely unaffected, she mumbled, “I need to wash my hands.”
She was obviously groggy and a bit out of it, but even dirty, disheveled, and cranky she was a force of nature. A piece of work with a slender nose, the softest skin he’d ever seen on a woman, built like a centerfold, dressed like Lara Croft, and with the face of an angel. She had that perfectly silky, perfectly straight, perfectly maddening dark brown hair that went all the way to her butt.
His brows rose, but he didn’t say anything as she turned on the tap and washed her hands, then shuffled to the door.
“Hurry up,” she threw over her shoulder. “I need the shower.”
The door closed with a decisive click. He stood there for a moment contemplating opening the door, getting her against a wall and….dammit! He spit, rinsed, dressed quickly, and got the hell out of the bathroom.
When he passed through the room, he refused to look at her sitting in the middle of that big bed being so delectable—he had to avoid her or lose his mind.
In the living room, half his teammates had showered. Fast Lane was still on the phone, dusty and dirty with blood on his face. Hemingway, Shea, and Professor were talking near the window, 2-Stroke must be in the bathroom, and Pitbull and Saint were eating at the small table while Dragon was making up another pan of eggs. There was a half-full plate of bacon on the counter along with a mountain of toast.
Dodge
r never denied his appetite…well…at least not his stomach. He walked over and picked up a plate and set some bacon and a few pieces of toast on it. Dragon, showered and in clean clothes, smiled and dished out a generous portion of the hot eggs, then poured a cup of coffee, adding in just the right amount of cream.
“Thanks, mate,” Dodger said as he accepted the mug.
He took a seat in one of the chairs near the couch where Fast Lane was growling into Anna’s satphone. Dodger’s boss wasn’t happy about what he was hearing.
The door opened and Anna emerged. Dodger stopped eating, something he thought was impossible. 2-Stroke came out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, and Anna’s gaze turned to him. Damn that bastard. He was young, built with converging layers of ironbound muscle, sinew, and bone, and it was easy to see why the ladies flocked to him everywhere they went.
To top it off, he was completely oblivious to his attractiveness to the opposite sex, tending to be more of an introvert, but wholly a SEAL. When 2-Stroke moved on the battlefield, there was nothing but lethal carved into his soul. He was a gunslinger, door kicker, and warrior.
Jealousy, a sensation Dodger hadn’t experienced since Hermione, grabbed him before he could even identify the emotion. His temper flared, a possessive, unwelcome response he refused to act on. 2-Stroke would never touch Anna. His hand curled into a fist, and the muscles in his arm bunched with tension.
“Damn, Dodge,” Saint muttered, crouching down next to the chair and cutting through his unbecoming dark thoughts. “Would you stop glaring at 2-Stroke? That ninja will kill you in your sleep, man.”
“I don’t know what you’re prattling about.” Through a narrowed gaze, he watched as Anna looked his teammate over. 2-Stroke, oblivious as usual, headed to the empty bedroom and closed the door.
Saint grinned with keen insight. “Oh, it’s like that, is it? Tough spot to be in, my friend,” he murmured and rose.
“Listen up, you knuckleheads,” Fast Lane said as he finished his conversation. “We’re going to be royally fucked in the transportation situation. They can’t get any birds up in the air right now. But there’s a good news slash bad news situation. That grounds our HVT Angar Said as well and makes moving across this region difficult.” He shifted back, his face impassive, but Dodger knew he was feeling the loss of their teammate as acutely as the rest of them were. “The roads are ripped up, some impassible. Anna’s friends think that Angar Said is going to head for the nearest working airport, Guarani, which is the only other international airport in the country. It’s located in Minga Guazú which is a stone’s throw from Ciudad del Este. Anna’s friends believe he’s going to pick up a private flight out. We can’t let him board that plane.”
