Tempted Into Danger

by Melissa Cutler

  “Do they know we’re here right now? I mean, could they be watching us?” She glanced around, like she actually expected to see people in the trees staring at them from the encroaching darkness.

  “I’m sure they heard the helicopter explode, and they probably went to investigate, but I’d like to think they have better things to do than watch us hike. I’ve been coming up here off and on for nearly a decade, so they know I’m not going to bother them.”

  She still didn’t look totally convinced that there weren’t a dozen tribesmen in the shadows with guns trained on them, especially when she rubbed her forearms and did one of her signature full-body shivers that tightened her muscles and skin everywhere.

  Eyes on her face, horn dog.

  Blood was pumping fast to certain spots on his body again, so he whirled around and busied himself slicing away at the vines on the edge of the trail. “Look, here’s what you’re going to need to get through your head—I know what I’m doing. I chose my Leroy location deliberately. And I keep the Nobu flush with weapons because it suits my purpose. Think about it. If anyone comes up the mountain looking to bother us, the tribesmen will stop them.

  “That extra level of security is priceless, and today it might mean the difference between life or death, especially since the Panama army followed us halfway here in their chopper, so they have a general idea of the direction we were headed. But they can’t get to us up here because it’d be a political nightmare for them to go charging through a protected indigenous people’s territory.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry I questioned you.”

  He was sorry she kept questioning him, too, but he waved off her apology and kept walking. They were close to the cabin, and he wanted to take a good look at it while there was still a faint glow of daylight.

  They reached the bottom of the ridge that marked the eastern edge of the cabin’s clearing. He scaled the cliff of crumbly soil and reached a hand to her, hoisting her up without even trying to avoid looking down her shirt. A man could only resist so much temptation.

  Atop the ridge, she shook the loosest pieces of mud from her clothes and set her hands on her hips as she took stock of the cabin made from synthetic planks nestled beneath a rock overhang, set two feet off the ground to keep the rot, bugs and water out.

  “Wait here while I check it over, make sure nobody or nothing’s waiting to surprise us.”

  With that, he drew his gun and stalked toward the cabin, oddly anxious about her opinion of the place he’d built from the ground up nine years earlier, which was stupid. Sure, a woman like her deserved a four-star hotel room to recharge in after a long day of nearly getting killed over and over, but after the impressive way she’d sucked it up on the hike, he felt confident that she wouldn’t surprise him by turning into a spoiled princess all of a sudden.

  After all, they’d trekked uphill through thick underbrush in the rain, her clothes drenched and covered in mud, for nearly an hour, and she hadn’t voiced a single complaint. Not even a groan of discomfort or sigh of fatigue. Hands down, she was the most badass civilian he’d ever met. Now that he thought about it, Diego didn’t know many soldiers who could pull off a day like she’d had with half as much composure.

  If he were to rank all the things he liked about her, her suck-it-up determination would edge out everything else, even the fact that she’d created a revolutionary anti-crime algorithm simply because she liked a challenge. Even the way her body curved and jiggled inside that wet, white T-shirt.

  Well, that was a close second, but still, he stood by his ranking.

  He approached the door of the cabin cautiously, his Sig ready for action. The possibility that any hostiles—from Chiara operatives or poachers, to rogue tribesmen—had breached his cabin was incredibly remote, but a false sense of confidence had felled better men than Diego and he refused to take any kind of chance with Vanessa’s security.

  Windowless, and with its rear wall flat against the rock face behind it, the door was the cabin’s only access point as long as no one bulldozed through the wall or floor. He checked that first, then set his ear to the door, listening, before opening the combination lock chained to the bolt that served as a doorknob.

  The darkness inside smelled musty, as usual. It’d been a month since his last visit. Whenever his schedule lightened up, he stole away here. It was one of the few places in the world he could scrounge a decent night’s sleep anymore. Funny how living within striking distance of the scum of the earth messed with a man’s ability to catch some z’s.

  Sleep, though, was nothing more than a pipe dream for the next few days. No way he’d leave an asset vulnerable by falling asleep. When they caught up with his crew, he’d succumb, but not a minute sooner. Good thing he was nowhere near drowsy.

  Reaching his left hand onto his belt, he withdrew his flashlight and had a look around. The feather he’d set on the floor pointed south exactly as he’d left it and the synthetic floorboards were coated with a layer of undisturbed dust.

  “We’re clear. Come on in.”

  Without waiting for her, he lowered mosquito netting over the open door and crossed the ten-by-twelve space to flip on the electric lantern hanging on the far wall. The light made the space glow golden.

  He kept it simple here: a cot, supplies loaded in plastic bins and two wooden crates he used as a chair and table. And tucked in a secret compartment between the wall and the rock behind it, an arsenal extensive enough to outfit a small country and enough rations to last a month.

  He heard Vanessa enter as he shuffled plastic bins, digging for his stash of spare clothes, and that same ridiculous anxiety fluttered in his gut again. He’d never let another person into this place, much less a woman who set all his bells ringing like Vanessa did.

  “This is the best-looking cabin I’ve ever seen.” Her voice radiated relief, without the slightest hint of sarcasm. “You know what I like most about it?”

  The joyful lilt in her voice snuffed his nervousness and tugged a smile onto his lips as he hauled the clothes bin onto the cot. “What?”

  “That it’s here and not another kilometer from here.” She tapped her chin in mock consideration and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “And the waterproof roof’s pretty awesome, too.”

  “I built this roof myself. The rest of it, too.” He registered the swagger in his admission and gave himself a hearty mental smack.

  Did you seriously go there, man? As if the ability to erect a jungle shanty could possibly stir the interest of a woman with a PhD in applied mathematics from Princeton. Like construction skills were what she looked for in a man.

  He swallowed hard, shocked by the direction of his thoughts. How had he allowed his lust to turn into fantasies of something more with her, when he knew good and well that was an impossibility?

  Biting her lower lip against a smile that said she found his macho bragging amusing, she cocked an eyebrow at him. “Your Batman belt holds a hammer and nails? That is impressive. Now all we need to do is work on the belt’s tissue-carrying capacity. You know, for all the ladies you steal away with to your bachelor pad in the jungle.”

  And there was his answer—because Vanessa Crosby was one of a kind. The smartest, toughest, prettiest woman he’d ever come across. With a sense of humor she held on to despite the trip she’d taken that day to hell and back.

  He popped the lid on the bin. “It’s time for you to get out of those wet clothes.” Before he stroked out from the sight.

  Her body tensed, not exactly a shiver, but a tightening everywhere, and he wondered if he’d gone and scared her again. He froze, replaying his words in an effort to figure out what he’d said wrong, but couldn’t come up with anything, and so decided to proceed like he hadn’t noticed. “None of these clothes are going to fit you worth a damn, but they’ll do until yours dry out. Pick whatever you want and lay your wet cl
othes out on the cot. I’ll string up a clothesline later.”

  “What about first aid for your neck? It stopped bleeding, but it needs to be cleaned.”

  “We’ll do that next. You get dry first.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than his inner horn dog got to wondering whether she’d leave her wet bra on or take it off to dry. With a low growl he prayed she didn’t hear, he willed his feet into action and hustled through the door as fast as his legs could take him.

  Chapter 7

  From its place on the wooden crate next to the first aid kit, the lantern shone brightly against Diego’s back, adding a glossy shine to his short, dark hair and glinting off the bits of glass and shrapnel peppered in his skin and scalp.

  He sat on a second crate, hunching with his elbows propped on his knees, and didn’t seem at all nervous about what was going to happen.

  Unlike Vanessa.

  She stood behind him, clad in a loose black T-shirt and the boxer shorts she’d settled on because of the heat and humidity, working to calm her nerves and steady her shaky grip on the tweezers. Having never been around blood much, she hadn’t developed the stomach for it. Heck, she got squeamish when Jordan used a needle to pop a zit.

  She picked gently at one of the larger pieces of glass right under his hairline, but it didn’t budge.

  “Don’t be afraid to dig. You can’t hurt me.”

  She paused, marveling at the statement. What would it be like to lose the capacity to be hurt—or at least the capacity to be afraid of it? Thousands of times over the course of her life, her decisions had been governed by fear of being hurt. How would her life story be different if she could’ve taken fear out of the equation?

  She wouldn’t be in Panama, that was for sure. And, though it wounded her pride to admit it, she might’ve been more successful in love, maybe married by now.

  Sinking her fingers into his hair, she tipped his face down to improve access to the back of his scalp. She couldn’t hurt him, he’d said. Why, then, did the idea of digging into his skin frighten her?

  What a wimp.

  After a fortifying breath, she chose a wound to begin with. And while her mind screamed in protest, she dug the first bit of glass from his neck.

  Working steadily, methodically, she picked debris from the wounds and dropped each in the tin cup he’d placed on the crate. His neck and shoulders were tight with corded muscles, perhaps the only indication he felt any discomfort at all.

  His earlobe caught her attention. Even on this iron-willed, ice-blooded man who risked his life for strangers, his earlobe was fine-honed, perfectly shaped. She wanted to skim it with her finger—or better yet, her tongue, to taste the sweetness in the delicate curl of skin, the only place of softness on his body she’d found besides his lips.

  Those she’d noticed when he’d saved her from hitting the ground when she’d tripped over the log. Her body heated at the memory, not only of his lips as his breath fanned over her neck, but his body all around her. His strong hands on her, his hard, flat stomach under her palm.

  If she thought too deeply about what had happened to her—and what else could’ve happened had Diego not been there—she’d be paralyzed with fright. To cope, she’d hang on to whatever positives she could, and Diego’s body and testosterone-fueled confidence topped her list.

  She picked the final shard of glass from his neck, then dropped her gaze to his shirt. Holes speckled the cotton from his shoulder blades to midback. More glass and shrapnel.

  “You have to take off your shirt so I can clean the wounds on your back.” Her voice was breathy. God, she hoped he had no idea how being this close to him was making her feel, the heat that had blazed to life inside her at the idea of seeing more of his bare skin.

  He didn’t make a move but stared at the ground beyond his feet, his hands clasped in a tight fist.

  “Your shirt, Diego.”

  Without a word, he sat straighter. Grabbing fistfuls of material, he tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it next to the first aid kit.

  His back was a darkly tanned map of muscle and scars. Vanessa set the tip of her finger inside a puckered patch of skin near his shoulder. “Were you shot?”

  “Fourteen years ago. I took a bullet for Ryan, my second-in-command, while we were in Afghanistan.”

  Farther down, nearer to his spine, was a long, thin scar. “What’s this from?”

  “Knife fight with a pair of tribal leaders in Tunisia. I won, by the way.”

  “All that and a broken nose, hmm? That’s one dangerous lifestyle you live.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, a sly grin on his lips. “Aw, now you’re jumping to conclusions. How do you know I wasn’t born with this ugly nose?”

  “Call it instinct.”

  “I’ve broken it twice. First time was during training as a SEAL. Too much hooyah, the instructor said. I dove so fast into the pool I used my face as a brake when I hit the bottom.”

  “And the second time?”

  “The second time, I got in a fight with my younger brother.”

  “That must’ve been a bad fight,” she said. “Did you win that one, too?”

  “No. I could’ve, but that would’ve upset our mom more. Plus, the family consensus was that I had it coming.”

  Her mood lightened, picturing a family of tough guys like Diego, with a no-nonsense mama at the middle of it all. “Did you?”

  “From their perspective? Pretty much.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Nope.”

  She hadn’t thought he would, but it didn’t hurt to ask. She looked lower. Near his tailbone were four raised, crisscrossing scars like slashes that hadn’t healed correctly, the skin roped and gnarled. She skimmed her fingertips over them. “What about these?”

  “Those you don’t need to know about.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re going to have enough nightmares once this ordeal is over without me adding to them any more than I already have.”

  That wiped the smile from her lips. “You’ve been through some bad stuff.”

  He sniffed. “And I’ve come out fighting strong, so no harm done, all right? Why don’t you get busy on the last of that debris? I’m starting to feel modest without my shirt on.”

  She got the message loud and clear and pulled over a crate to use as a chair so the cluster of shrapnel in his midback would be at eye level. She allowed her legs to fall open so she could scoot as close as possible, and in the process accidentally pressed her knee into his outer thigh.

  His gaze slid from the wall to where her bare knee touched him, a silent acknowledgment of her nearness that sucked the air from the room. Vanessa’s breath froze in her lungs as they both stared at the point of their connection.

  When she spread her legs wider to sever the contact, his arm shifted, and for a split second she thought he might drag her knee back up against him. Crazy, given everything that had happened to her, but she wanted him to touch her. She wanted his strong, capable hands on her body and those soft lips locked with hers. She wanted to be held tight and kissed until she could forget—if only for a few precious minutes—that her life as she knew it had evaporated in a cloud of smoke and flame and violence.

  Maybe that wasn’t the correct response to having her life threatened, but so what? Fantasizing about the gorgeous, half-naked warrior assigned to protect her was a far better coping plan than cowering in a corner crying or shaking her fist at God.

  Clearing his throat, he jerked his gaze back to the wall. “I know it must’ve been in your file, but I can’t remember reading about where you grew up.”

  She carefully worked the tweezers around a bit of metal. “I was born and raised in Nebraska.”

  “Nebraska? As in, Children
of the Corn? That movie scared the crap out of me when I was a kid.”

  She dropped the extracted metal in the bowl and started on the next one. “Me, too. I was only three when the first movie was released, but when the second movie came out, the theater near my house played a midnight double feature. My best friend, Jordan, and I stayed for the whole thing. We were twelve.”

  “Hold on.” He twisted to give her a skeptical look. “Your parents let you go to a midnight double feature of horror movies when you were that young? Unsupervised? Wish my parents had been that lax.”

  “My dad didn’t exactly know about it. My mom died when I was two, so growing up, it was just me and my dad. He coached defense for UNL football—well, until he got a better offer from UCLA—so he was too busy to pay much attention to what I was doing. I snuck out all the time.” She dropped another metal shard into the cup. “Didn’t you ever do that?”

  “I wish. I grew up in a typical, huge Puerto Rican family. Five kids. We couldn’t get away with nothin’. We were lucky to get a minute of privacy in the bathroom. Forget about sneaking out of the house.”

  She’d done all right picturing him surrounded by family as an adult, but she couldn’t imagine such a larger-than-life person as Diego being a child. She tried to visualize him sitting in a classroom or learning how to ride a bike but couldn’t reconcile the image with the man before her.

  She bent lower and studied his wounds. “I think I got all the pieces back here. Do you want me to bandage them?”

  “Nah. Use that rag on the bin to catch the drips while you flush them with water, then we’ll let them air-dry. These kinds of explosion rashes are better off breathing.”

  Explosion rashes? As in, this sort of thing happened often enough in his world to be given a nickname? Unreal.

  After cracking the lid on the new bottle from his stock in the corner, she dribbled water over his neck and back. The towel didn’t quite soak up all of it, and drops raced down his back, trailing the curve of his spine. She loved that curve, framed on either side by ripple after ripple of muscle, and she especially loved the way it dipped in at his waist before flaring into his perfect, rounded backside.