Hunter lay awake, holding her, feeling the softness of her bare skin against his, listening to the steady drum of rain on the tin roof, drinking in the musky scent of her sex. He felt himself stir again with a soft, pulsing need. He could have her all over again right now. Just the thought made him harder.
She shifted against him, her head nuzzling into the crook of his armpit, her messy curls tickling his face. He tangled his fingers through them, playing with the light spring in them as they curved around his hand. She began to make soft little snores and he smiled into the dark. Who would have thought a sound like that could make him feel so complete? Who’d have thought that lying naked with an American nurse in the ruins of a colonial French mansion, on an abandoned rubber plantation in the heart of equatorial Africa—with a lethal bioweapon at their side—could feel so absolutely right, so natural, so normal? A soft laugh escaped him. It sure beat a regular date.
A gust of wind swished the banana leaves against the building. The rain was dying down, the scent of wet soil was rich and the air felt cool. He reached for his shirt, pulled it over Sarah’s shoulders, careful not to wake her. She needed her sleep. Tomorrow was going to be rough. The militia would be watching, waiting for them to try and make a run for the border. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer that he’d manage to get her through alive—and shock speared through him.
His eyes flashed open and he stared up at the rusted roof. Wow. A prayer? Hunter McBride hadn’t treaded there in fifteen years.
The rain stopped shortly before dawn, and the whole jungle rustled with the sound of fat drops on thick leaves. As light seeped into the sky, he watched rainwater leak down through a rusty hole in the tin. He hadn’t been able to sleep all night. This place, he thought as he stared at the roof, was like a symbol of the husk that was himself. Once solid, once full of love and the promise of life, but now in a cursed no-man’s land, abandoned, empty, getting a little older, crustier, meaner each day, crumbling one piece at a time while the world passed him by.
Sarah stirred in his arms, her breast a soft warm weight against his chest. He stroked her hair. She filled this space. With her candles and beauty and nurturing warmth, she’d managed to create a sense of home in the middle of nowhere. She filled him, made him feel alive. She made him want to live. Really live. She made him want more than what he had right now.
He closed his eyes. Right now he was free. He had nothing to lose. And that’s the way he’d wanted it since the day he’d lost everything. That’s why he’d joined the French Foreign Legion. Falling for Sarah meant losing that freedom. It meant he once again had something to lose. And a man with something to lose had fear. It was not something he needed in his line of work. Part of his success as a warrior lay in his complete lack of fear, his willingness to take risks daily that could cost him his life.
She stirred again and her eyelids fluttered open. “Hey.”
He stroked her cheek. “Hey to you, too.”
A sleepy smile crept over her lips.
No. He was wrong. He wasn’t free right now. That was forty-eight hours ago. He’d already crossed the line. He already had everything to lose. He just didn’t know what in hell to do about it now.
Sarah propped herself up on her elbow, her breasts brushing against him, her hair wild and lustrous over her bare shoulders, her eyes sexy with sleep.
She traced his lips with her fingers. “Why are you smiling?” Her warm brown eyes were full of soft light. What would it be like to wake up to that beautiful face every morning? To lose himself in her each night, to make babies, to give her the children he knew she’d love? Could he make it happen? Did he want to?
Hesitation flickered through those eyes. “Hunter? Come on, tell me what you’re thinking. What’s making you smile like that?”
He filled his lungs. What the hell, why not just say what was on his mind this very second? It wouldn’t kill him, would it? Push yourself, you jackass. What have you got to lose? Nothing you haven’t lost before.
“I was thinking about you. And I was thinking about this house, about what it must have been like, full of life, laughter and…you know, children. I was thinking about how much you love kids.” He rolled over, dragged his knuckle softly across her cheek. “I was thinking what a wonderful mother you’d make.”
Her smiled faded. Hunter wavered. He had a sudden sinking feeling he was heading down a one-way street about to meet an oncoming bus he couldn’t see.
“And?” she asked.
He noted in some part of his brain that his pulse rate had just increased. “And…and I was thinking what fun we could have making those babies.” There, he’d hung his heart right out for the first time in fifteen years.
Her body tensed and something shuttered instantly in her eyes. She sat up, stared down at him, didn’t say a word.
A pang of uneasiness speared through him. The wind stirred, leaves clattered against each other. A cry echoed in the jungle. He knew it; he should never have spoken his mind. He didn’t know how to do this stuff anymore. He should have stuck to what he knew best. “Sarah, what’s the matter?”
She looked away. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He sat up. “Sarah—”
She grabbed for her shirt, shoved her arms into the sleeves and fumbled with the buttons. He noticed her hands were trembling.
“Sarah, talk to me.”
She spun around, glared at him. “You’re messing with me.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I had no intention…” He reached for her, but she moved out from under his touch.
“You…you said we were different.”
He frowned. He wasn’t sure what he’d said. Different. The same. It didn’t the hell matter to him anymore. “Where are you going with this, Sarah?”
“You—you said…” Her eyes glimmered. “You said you would go on to the next job. And now you’re thinking of children…of…” A tear leaked out of the corner of one eye and trailed down her cheek.
He blinked. His mind reeled. He was confused as all hell. Here he was thinking maybe they could take a shot at a future. Just maybe he could make some changes, try to figure it out so that he could be with her…and she didn’t want it. What was this? A one-night stand? Was that what she wanted? To prove something to herself? To validate herself as a woman, or something? Did she have any idea what she meant to him?
He dragged both his hands through his hair. This had been a mistake. A big mistake. He’d known in his gut it was the wrong move.
“Look, Sarah, you asked what I was thinking, so I told you.” He got up, pulled his pants on. He was angry, no, furious, at himself. Afraid. Hurt by her odd rejection, the notion that she might really have meant it when she’d said that she didn’t want anything from him, that she wanted to try and exist only in the now. He didn’t want to believe that. It was out of character. There was something else going on here, and he’d be damned if he could see what it was. He cinched his belt tight, stared down at her. “I was thinking about how much I want to be with you. You wanted things from me straight, well, that’s about as bloody well straight as it gets.” He grabbed his shirt.
Her bottom lip began to wobble. Tears ran down her face, but the look in her eyes was angry. “Why have you never had kids, Hunter? Why didn’t you get married and do it? Why don’t you want to tell me about Ireland? What the hell are you hiding from?” She was shaking now.
He stared right into her eyes. “I did want to get married, Sarah,” he said slowly, quietly, the cold mist of that memory circling his heart. “I was engaged. Things went wrong.”
Uncertainty flickered across her features. “And…and you wanted kids?”
“I did, very much.”
“And now?”
He felt a little ill. “Sarah, kids don’t have anything to do with this—”
“And now?” she insisted.
Tension tightened the muscles around his throat. “I just told you I was dreaming about kids. I just spilled my guts, for chrissakes.” The sun bu
rst over the forest canopy, exploding yellow light onto the veranda.
“What happened in Ireland, Hunter? Why won’t you tell me about it?”
He cursed softly. Ten seconds ago he would have. He’d finally been ready to go there. Now? He just couldn’t do it. He’d read her wrong. He’d read himself wrong. He was better off the way he was. Past buried. Dead. Gone. Forever.
He tightened his jaw. “Ancient history, Sarah. It would serve no purpose now. Get yourself together while I scrounge up some breakfast. We leave ASAP.”
He turned, stalked off the veranda, took two crumbling stairs at a time, his brain spinning sickeningly. He stopped for a second at the bottom of the steps and caught his breath. What in hell had just happened back there? He swore again. This was his fault. He should never have slept with her. He was all too aware of the uncharacteristic things people did under stress. Sleeping with him had probably been one of them, something she was already regretting.
Whatever was going on in Sarah’s head, she was going to need time after this mission to decompress. There was no point in pushing her now. And he’d be better off focusing on getting out alive, and then just letting this whole thing go. Who had he been trying to kid, anyway? He’d been absent from mainstream life for way too long to even begin to think he could give Sarah what she needed.
He steeled himself.
He had a job. Focus. They’d be out of the Blacklands within two hours. Then he couldn’t afford to think about another goddamn thing until he’d gotten her and the biohazard container over that border and into Cameroon.
His mind firmly back in the zone, Hunter stomped off into the bush to find breakfast.
Sarah stood at a broken window and watched Hunter stalk into the jungle. The dripping vegetation and haunting river mist seemed to swallow him whole. She looked up at the sky. It was clear above the shroud of fog, but in the distance, to the north over Cameroon, strange dust-orange clouds were mushrooming again. She shivered in spite of the steamy morning warmth and clutched her arms around herself. She was afraid. Afraid because she was falling for him. And her fear had pushed him away. She wasn’t a fool. Sarah knew even as the stupid words had come out of her mouth that her subconscious was trying to sabotage her. Because deep down she knew it could never work. She’d already been through it all in her mind. You just didn’t change a man like Hunter McBride. You couldn’t take the mercenary out of a man. And she couldn’t change who she was for him, either.
But that hadn’t stopped her wanting him, and it didn’t stop her wanting him now. God, she wished she’d never seen that look in his eyes when he’d told her his thoughts. It made her want his children in such a deep, primal way it hurt. She tried to tell herself it was the jungle, it was everything she’d been through, it was the fact she’d been stripped down to her raw emotional core.
Sarah shoved her hair back from her eyes with both hands and tried to force some logic into her brain. She still really knew nothing about Hunter’s past, about why he’d joined the Legion, about what he was running from. And it was better that way. She needed a home in her future. A man on the run didn’t.
She bent down, began to roll up the hammock. A scorpion scattered over the stone and disappeared into the cracks.
09:32 Alpha. Congo.
Thursday, September 25
Hunter’s eyes had gone hard. Even his face seemed carved from granite. He was once again the fearsome and implacable man she’d first seen back on the banks of the Shilongwe River. It was as if the Hunter she’d come to know in the Blacklands had never existed.
He was leading her along a narrow path. The red dirt under her feet was packed hard and this alone was unnerving. It meant the path was well-traveled, and it meant they could encounter someone at any time.
He spun round suddenly, grabbed her arm and yanked her down into the thick bush along the trail. The movement was so harsh and quick she opened her mouth to cry out in surprise. He clamped his hand hard over her lips before she could, muffling her shock. His eyes bored into hers, fierce with warning. He waited for her to calm down before he removed his hand, then he lifted his finger to his lips and pointed into the trees. She saw and heard nothing at first. Then she caught snatches of voices growing louder, more distinct. Several men speaking Lingala were coming their way. She could hear the boots now, thudding along the trail of packed dirt, coming closer.
Sarah turned to look at Hunter. He glared at her, his eyes telling her not to move a muscle. She saw the hunting knife ready in his hands.
The sounds grew closer. A man spoke loudly and others laughed in response. They rounded the bend in the trail and came into view. Her heart began to palpitate as she recognized the uniform of the man she’d killed. There were seven, no, eight militia soldiers with maroon berets and red armbands marching right toward them.
They came so close she could smell them, and a panicked part of her brain wondered if they could smell her, too. She held herself motionless as the dust-covered boots thudded inches from Hunter’s and her hiding spot. She could see them clearly, high black webbing around the ankles. Sarah could barely breathe. Then she saw the blood on one man’s boots and gasped softly. The soldier stopped suddenly, listened. Hunter tensed instantly, moved the knife forward.
The soldier slowly scanned the trees behind him. Then he turned his attention to the bushes along the trail. He was so close Sarah could see the beads of perspiration on his brow under his beret, and she could see there was blood on his machete. Her heart went stone-cold. His eyes moved gradually toward them. One of his comrades called back to him. He paused, seeming to look right at her. Then he turned and answered loudly in Lingala. One of the men up ahead laughed and yelled something. The soldier chuckled quietly in response, turned on his heels and began to follow the others down the path.
Sarah started to shake. Oh God, she couldn’t go through all this again. Hunter placed a hand on her shoulder. “Be strong,” he whispered. “And Sarah, do everything I say and we may stand a chance of getting out of here.”
She nodded. She’d heard it all before, back on the Shilongwe. She suddenly wanted to get as far away from him as she possibly could, and from everything he represented.
“You ready?”
She nodded fiercely. She was more ready, more determined to get out of this place than he could begin to imagine.
The trail wound back down to the banks of the Sangé. The river here was wide and sluggish, the sandbanks a deep ochre color. The heavy morning mist had burned off and the air was oppressively still. As they moved along the water, they heard drums, soft at first, then growing louder, beating faster until they matched the rhythm of Sarah’s pounding heart. The sound echoed along the river and pulsated in the thick, hot air.
Sarah glanced at Hunter. There was no sign of emotion on his face, but she knew now the drums were not good. She recognized the unique rhythm of the beat from the Eikona River, the drumming that had sounded after the clinic and the village were burned, after news of the coup in the south. No matter how Sarah tried to calm herself, her heart kept beating harder, trying to match the rhythm of the drums. It made her body break out in a drenching sweat and it fed her fear.
When they reached a wide bend, Hunter motioned for her to move off the path and crouch down in the bushes. He left her like that while he crept along the bank, staying just under cover of the trees, his rifle ready in his hands. She had no idea what he was looking for, or what might have alerted him. He disappeared around the bend for what seemed like forever. Then all of sudden he was back, working his way along the bank. He made a motion for her to join him.
She edged over the sand. “What’re the drums about?”
“Trouble.” He pointed above the trees in the direction he’d just come. Faint wisps of black smoke snaked into the air and birds circled. Big birds. Vultures. Her chest constricted. Her eyes shot to Hunter.
“The Italian mission has been attacked.”
No. She shook her head. No. She started to
back toward the trees, tripped, stumbled. He shot his hand out, grabbed her wrist, his fingers curling around it like a metal cuff. “We have to go there, to see if they left a boat we can use.”
“Hunter,” she whispered, “please, I…I can’t. I can’t see anything like that again. Ever. Please.” She tugged against his hold. “I beg of you.”
His eyes remained fiercely cool, his grip firm. She glanced back at the jungle, a part of her wishing she could go back in there, go back in time, back to the Blacklands, just hide forever at the mansion on the white banks of the Sangé in lands protected by ghosts with the man she thought she’d met in there.
“Sarah.” His voice was as hard as his hold on her wrist. “It’s the only way.”
12:13 Alpha. Italian Mission.
Thursday, September 25
Hunter wouldn’t allow her to enter the riverside compound. He’d left her hiding among a cluster of straight-stemmed palms while he crept into the clearing to see if there was a canoe he could salvage.
Sarah crouched near the base of a palm and watched a snake slide through the leaves across the path from her. She didn’t move. She didn’t even feel any fear. In a part of her brain, she marveled at how much the snake’s skin resembled the decaying leaves it moved through, at how the little cluster of tiny horns on its nose looked like bits of twig. Before she’d come to the Congo she’d gone to several Aid Africa briefings in Washington. Among other things, they’d shown the recruits pictures of the snakes, insects and plants that would kill people very quickly. She couldn’t remember them all, so many things could kill humans in this area. The only reason she knew that she was looking at a Gaboon viper now was because of the funny rhinoceros cluster on its snout. Their fangs deliver fifteen drops of venom a shot. Four drops will kill you….
Funny the things one recalled. She’d never have noticed the viper if she hadn’t been sitting stock-still. Concentrating on the lethal reptile took her mind off thinking about what had happened at the Italian mission. The soldiers they’d seen along the path earlier that morning had come from this direction. The blood on the man’s shoe must have been shed at this mission…. She looked up, staring hard at the little weaver birds darting between woven nests that hung from the scruffy green-and-brown palm fronds. She focused on the nests to keep her mind from the vultures. She thought they looked like straw Christmas baubles, the way they hung in the trees. She tried to count how many weeks it was to Christmas, wondering where she would be—
The Heart of a Mercenary Page 17
