by Lowe, Anna
It was going to be a wedding surprise for Cara: him buying into a local ski hill and settling down. The plan had pretty much self-imploded six years ago, as he had. And yet there it was again, dancing in the shadows of the rain forest. His business plan.
Yeah — him, Tobin Cooper, with a business plan.
He’d had it all figured out. The place he’d learned to ski as a kid had been abandoned for years. It wasn’t much — just a single bunny hill with a rusty T-bar. But it didn’t have to be much. The place was close enough to the outer Boston suburbs to guarantee business, even in tough economic times. A lift pass at a place like that cost about as much as a Happy Meal, so it would be cheap, close, and convenient. Customers guaranteed, and a lot of joy for a lot of people. Just the kind of business venture Cara had always encouraged him to explore.
He’d planned it, A to Z. Even got a bank to okay a loan. On the way from the wedding to the honeymoon, they would stop by Beech Tree Hill so he could show Cara the place, reveal his plan, and watch her swell with pride. They’d look out over the hill and laugh and hug and picture their own kids learning to ski there someday.
His thoughts skidded to a halt there. So, okay, that would never happen. But the rest… It would be a good business. Small enough for him to keep a handle on, big enough to make a living off. The clients would be happy. And him, he’d be happy enough.
Squeaks and squawks came from the jungle canopy, reminding him where he was. Why.
Cara. Everything he’d ever wanted, and still did.
Her hand was there, just asking to be held, so he did. Held it the rest of the way back into the village, in fact, and reveled in every second that ticked by with her fingers laced through his. His mind jumped time and place, hopping between a wintery New England and this Central America jungle, and he wondered. Wondered a bit too much for his own good.
Then a mosquito buzzed in his ear and he mug-slapped himself back to figuring how far they might run and how fast. Because tomorrow was the day. Friday.
Tomorrow he had to get her out of here. All they needed was an early start and a little luck.
Until then, they had what was left of the afternoon and a very long night. How the hell was he going to be able to crawl into bed next to Cara and not do all the things his body craved? Like kissing her senseless, then making his way down her perfect body and kissing some more. Relearning every inch of Cara until she was moaning, begging for him to let her come. Then he’d slide inside and the two of them would soar like a couple of birds—
“Butterflies, señor?”
He blinked. They were nearly back at the village. Rodrigo stood before him, asking about…what?
“Did you see any butterflies?” Rodrigo asked, scrutinizing him for any hint of a lie. Yeah, he knew Tobin was up to more than just vacationing with his almost-wife.
So he told the truth. Or a half-truth, anyway. “Honestly, I kind of lost track. Spent more time watching my beautiful wife.”
My wife. It had a ring of rightness to it.
Forget the bugs, the humidity, the rain shower just starting to trickle through the thick canopy above. He had his woman. His wife.
Okay, his almost-wife.
Their walk became a run as little sprinkles of rain turned into heavy drops and then solid sheets, putting the rain back in the rain forest and urgency back into their step. They sprinted into the village and ducked under the open-sided building that served as communal space. He skidded to a halt, laughing, and caught Cara in a hug. Let the water drops slide between their bodies. Let the rain pound down. He had her and—
Cara pulled back with a sharp breath.
“Ca—” he started to protest. Why did she have to fight something that felt so right?
But her eyes weren’t on him. They were wide and frightened, focused on a distant corner of the open space.
The hair on the back of Tobin’s neck stood up and he whirled, instinctively stepping in front of Cara.
“Buenos días,” said a gritty, greedy voice.
Nobody answered. Not any of the village elders, huddled pensively to one side. Not the hunters, who eyed the newcomer like a venomous snake. Not even Rodrigo, who’d stepped into the shelter behind them and came to a sudden halt.
Except for the rain, there was no noise at all. Not the friendly chatter of women at work, nor the lilting voices of children at play. Not even curious faces peeking out of doorways. The entire village was hushed.
“Buenos días,” the newcomer repeated. Not a greeting. A command.
“Buenos días,” a few voices murmured on cue.
Tobin glared. Who was this jerk?
Che Guevara on a very bad day didn’t begin to describe the man. Scrappy beard, unruly locks of hair. Dark, darting eyes. His jungle camos weren’t just soaked; they were filthy. A cigarette drooped from his lips, the rancid odor so out of place in this lush, green space. He sat on a log in the shelter, a rifle slung at his side. He shifted a leg and the barrel swung right at the elders. A carefully calculated move, or sheer carelessness?
“Alfonso,” Rodrigo muttered between clenched teeth.
Tobin curled an arm backward, keeping Cara behind him. Wrong move, because the movement caught that man’s gaze and focused it right on Cara.
“Buenos dias.” The man’s voice rose, buttery and soft. His eyes, though, were that of a cobra, studying its prey.
Cara stiffened behind Tobin’s back, and her fingers clenched his so tight, it hurt. Not that he was planning on letting go anytime soon. Not with that asshole hanging around.
Tobin narrowed his eyes and channeled jungle warrior at the intruder. It was obvious the intruder wasn’t welcome in the village. The men all stood stiff; the women chewed their lips and shot uneasy looks at one another.
A drug runner? What else could this grub of a man be? He wasn’t one of the bridge guards, that was for sure. Latino, not indigeno, like the villagers were. An outsider.
A dangerous one.
“Alfonso!” All heads snapped right, to where Lefebvre wandered in and gave the intruder an encouraging slap on the back. His eyes were glassy, his gait not quite right.
Tobin looked from one to the other. The anthropologist was buddies with a drug runner?
Alfonso, the newcomer, handed Lefebvre a tightly wrapped bundle. Pot? Cocaine? Whichever it was, it explained their unlikely friendship. A dangerous friendship, Tobin decided. Even the poker-faced villagers scowled, observing the two.
An older women shuffled forward with a liquid-filled gourd, but Alfonso pushed it away, snarling. “Chicha! Chicha fuerte!”
The old woman kept her eyes down and beat a hasty retreat as a spirited protest ensued. Rodrigo, the elders, and the trio of village huntsmen all started talking at once. Tobin didn’t have to speak their language to get the message. No chicha. No way.
He’d tried a swig of the stuff once, back in Catalina, and he could still taste the burn in his throat. The last thing this unwanted visitor needed was a shot of alcohol in his system. Tobin could smell the dope on him, see it in his bloodshot eyes.
The eyes that had stopped roving and settled squarely on Cara. Appraising. Hungry. Crude.
Tobin shifted right and socked the man with the evil eye. Just mess with me, asshole. Just try.
The man stared right back and slid a hand to his gun.
Chapter Sixteen
Alarms sounded throughout Cara’s body, ringing, blinking, and whooping. It seemed as if every man in the village glared at Alfonso from the shadows. The women were on guard, and every young girl was conspicuously hidden away. Even if this stranger hadn’t been in her field of vision — or had been, until Tobin moved to block him out — she would have felt him there. The way you felt a stranger walk behind you on a dimly lit street, or a mean mutt eye your ankles, calculating how far his chain might let him reach. That’s what the man was doing now. Calculating.
One gun against a dozen visitors — plus Tobin, who stood before her like a brick wall. H
e seemed to have doubled in size, a silverback gorilla ready to defend his turf.
The terrifying thing? She was the turf, and a fight could mean death.
Part of her wanted to huff, flip the intruder off, and put these posturing men back in their places. Who did this Alfonso guy think he was, looking at her like that? And who did Tobin think he was, playing knight?
Another part of her, though, shrank away. The scene playing out in front of her wasn’t just posturing; it was the prelude to a fight.
Something tugged at her hand. The old woman, motioning her away. Urgently. Insistently.
Come with me. Now. Get out of this bad man’s sight.
Nothing she’d like better, but she wasn’t going anywhere without Tobin. She pulled his hand, and he turned.
Her breath stuck in her throat, because it was a Tobin she’d never, ever seen before. Gone was the generous charm, replaced by a fierce, intent warrior, ready to lay it all on the line. For her. Nostrils flaring like an angry bull.
She tightened her grip. If fingers could talk, hers would be begging. Tobin, come with me.
His eyes flashed. You go. I stay, as long as this shit stays.
No way. Not without you. No way was she leaving him in a stare-off with an armed man.
His eyes flickered, softened, and then closed briefly. When they opened again, he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. The lapis blue eyes gazing into hers were full of promises and hopes, and something inside her melted as her heart begged for permission to love him again.
A second ticked by, and in it, an eternity. The intruder and the village and the rain forest all blurred out of focus until it was just the two of them.
Then something moved at the periphery of her vision, and she snapped back. Rodrigo and his uncle — bless them — had stepped in front of Alfonso, continuing their protests.
“No chicha! No!”
That gave her the break she needed. Cara pulled on Tobin’s hand, and this time, he followed her back out into the rain.
It was a cleansing rain that scrubbed the doubt and desperation away until she’d never been as sure of anything in her life as she was sure of him. Of them. A rain that chased them right across the clearing, splattering mud as they ran for the bungalow that felt surprisingly like home. She ducked into the doorway. Tobin was right on her heels, so close that his chest covered her back like a sheet of armor.
He pushed the door closed and they stood looking at each other. Chests heaving, water dripping, with a thousand unspoken words hanging in the thick air.
Tobin dragged his eyes off hers and stooped to look out the tiny window cut into the woven-mat wall.
She gulped away what she was about to say and peered outside.
“What do you think?”
The sinews of Tobin’s throat flexed and strained. “A drug runner, for sure.” He turned back to her. “Jesus, Cara, what was your company thinking, sending you up here alone?”
When he put it that way, it did sound pretty careless. She bit her lip. “I had a guide. I was expecting it to be in and out. Just one afternoon.”
Tobin shook his head and stared out the window. The rain hammered on the roof as she sorted through it all. How a single afternoon had somehow become a week. How a business trip into the jungle had somehow turned into a voyage through memories, emotions, and regrets. All the things she’d kept locked up, suddenly thrust into daylight, begging to be resolved. Here, of all places — this tangled, primal place.
Without thinking, she dropped her head to Tobin’s shoulder and laid a hand flat on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart, and closed the world away. Listening.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
His breath was a whisper on her cheek, his body solid steel. She, meanwhile, was a melting, soggy mess.
His arm curled around her waist, warm and tight. Right. The pounding of rain eased to a slap, then splattering drops. Tobin’s chest rose and fell with every breath.
“He’s leaving.” Tobin nodded, or maybe growled.
She cracked her eyes open and looked out. Back into the real world, where Alfonso sauntered off into the jungle as if there weren’t a dozen angry tribesmen ready to aim their blowguns at his back. She could swear his look said, I’ll be back, Terminator-style. His rifle bobbed with every step until the foliage swallowed him up.
“God, I wonder how often they have to deal with him.”
Tobin shook his head sadly. “Too often, I’d say.”
She shivered and he hugged her tighter. Like a cat who’d finally wandered home after being lost, she snuggled right into her old spot. Nose to his neck, ear to his cheek. Right there where problems fled and everything felt peaceful and safe. All the more when Tobin rested his head on top of hers and slowly let his stiff muscles loosen up.
“Mmm,” he hummed.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing,” he sighed. “Just mmm.”
She looked up and found him smiling at her.
She flicked her fingers along his forearm. “You’re wet.”
“You’re wetter.”
She laughed. A good, resounding laugh that felt like a million bucks. “Am not.”
“Are too,” he scolded. “It’s all this hair.” He ran his fingers through her locks, sending warm tingles through her body. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the feel of him, that close. His fingers massaging her scalp, tucking her hair back into place.
“God, I’m a mess.”
“I like you a little messy. It’s cute.”
Her heart skipped into a happy little dance. Maybe there didn’t have to be anything complicated about loving him. About letting him love her all over again.
“Only you would find this cute,” she murmured.
He looked at her, and his eyes danced. Yes. Yes, I do.
Chapter Seventeen
Tobin reached behind her. “Better dry you off.”
He dabbed at her with the towel he’d found. Gently, carefully, he chased the rivulets of water that streamed over her face and down her neck. When he rubbed under her chin, she couldn’t help but lean into him.
The rain tapped on the roof in urgent little bursts and splattered in the puddles building outside the thin walls. The whole rain forest hushed under the deluge.
She leaned closer and closer as he worked the towel over her shoulders and down her back. The sound building in her throat was part purr, part lusty growl, and the lean became more of a squeeze as she pressed her chest to his. Tobin’s hands were magic, just like his voice. Just like his smile, his touch.
Then she wasn’t just warm, but hot. Hungry. She smoothed her hands over his chest. Ran her fingers down until they found the hem of his shirt and worked it up. The wet cloth rolled reluctantly, and she could relate. If she were plastered that tight against his body, she wouldn’t go without a fight, either.
“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” she whispered, peeling the shirt away. Underneath was a wall of taut, tanned skin, and part of her sighed, being this close to him again. This intimate. No banter, no jokes. Just a couple of lovers pushed by the same primal desire.
“Cara.” His hands closed around hers, but she pulled free. Another inch of shirt gave way, revealing a flat, hard nipple backed by solid muscle. With it came the hot memory of the time they’d holed up in a Colorado ski hut and—
“Cara.” His voice was low and a little rough.
I want this, Tobin. I need this. She almost said it, but caught herself just in time. Tipped her forehead forward to his shoulder and took a couple of deep breaths.
Me, me, me. God, when had she become so selfish?
His hands massaged her shoulders, telling her it was all right. That was the problem: Tobin made it easy to take, and take, and take. He gave everything, asked for nothing.
“I’m so sorry, Tobin.” She shook her head against his shoulder — the next best thing to crawling into a hole and hiding in shame. Fightin
g back the tears welling up.
“Sorry for what?” he whispered. The man’s warmth was a drug, but she knew she had to resist. Had to finally get this out and get it right.
“Sorry for everything,” she mumbled. Truly everything. “Making you come out here to help me,” she started.
He smiled, and her hair shifted under his cheeks. “You could be in Timbuktu and I’d come for you.”
He meant it. God, he really meant it. She blinked, and the first tears made their escape.
“Not just that.” She clutched his shirt tighter. “For everything. For not believing you. For yelling. For saying all those terrible things.”
He went still, then rubbed his chin over her head. “I’ve heard worse.” He tried a little smile, but it didn’t fool her. What could be worse than what she’d said and done to him? All that, plus the things she hadn’t said. Like sorry and I love you and I never should have doubted you.
“I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” She was babbling a little now, caught in a mudslide of emotions that she’d locked away so long ago that she almost forgot they were there. Until Tobin brought them all back. The love, the laughter, the regrets. So many regrets.
God, if only she could go back and start all over again.
She looped her arms behind his neck and cried into his shoulder. Cried enough to put the rain cloud outside to shame, babbling the whole time. “I’m sorry, Tobin. So sorry.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, holding her close.
She shook her head. Six years, she’d denied him those words. It was time to make it up, or start making it up. Trying, at least. If only she could find something more powerful than words.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, running a hand over her back.
She shook her head. “It will never be okay.”
“It will if you let it.”
She looked up, jaw a little slack. There it was — one of those little tidbits of Tobin wisdom that popped out of nowhere and walloped her over the head.
