Just a Kiss Away

by Jill Barnett

  She froze at the sound of his voice. Focusing on his back, she moved her gaze upward. One black leather eye patch and one amused brown eye stared at her from the mirror. His gaze wasn’t fixed on her face, but lower. She followed his stare, down, where her corset cover gaped open so far that she could see clear to her waist.

  With a gasp she clasped her hands to her chest. A big mistake . . .

  Her hands had been the only thing that kept her from falling. She fell forward, right over the wall and head first into the water.

  She wiggled her arms while turning over so she could try to stand up. Water burned up her nostrils. His arm clamped around her waist and jerked her up. The first thing she heard was deep male laughter.

  She coughed and sputtered against his bare chest, and when her hands rested against the skin she’d wanted to touch, her palms felt warm, no more itch.

  “Enjoy yourself, did you?” His voice was threaded with humor.

  She could feel a hot blush stain her face. “Put me down.”

  One brief glance at his face and she read his thoughts. “Not here!” she quickly amended, knowing he was going to drop her back into the deep water.

  He grinned down at her, then walked the few steps to her rocks and set her on the top of the rock wall.

  Embarrassed, she began to wring out her hair. Then finally, unable to stall any longer, she looked at him, wondering what she could say. There wasn’t anything, no excuse to cover up what they both knew: she’d been watching him, and after making a big to-do about her own privacy. It was one of those moments when she wished the earth could swallow her up and spit her out somewhere, anywhere—else.

  He’d waded back across the small pool and lounged against rocks near the mirror, crossing his huge arms, a confident male smile on his face as he let his gaze move to her chest. “Nice. Very, very nice.”

  She like to died! She hugged her chest instead.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Miss Lah-Roo? Maybe”—he turned and stretched his arms up in an embarrassingly slow manner, as if posing for a sculptor—”this angle?”

  “I came to get your knife,” she stated, unable to look him in his amused eye.

  “You came to get the knife?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, why doesn’t that make sense?” He looked around at the high rocks surrounding the small pool. “Funny, I don’t see any coconut palms. Where do you plan to fling it this time?”

  “At your rotten heart, but I doubt the knife could pierce it,” she shot back, knowing she shouldn’t have been ogling him, but with his attitude she’d be crazy to admit it.

  “Besides,” she added, “I came to borrow the small knife.” She pointed to where his belt and knives lay next to the rock ledge with the mirror, something else she wanted to borrow, now that she knew he had it. “I’d like the mirror, too, please.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.” He waded toward the knife belt.

  “What do you mean, no, I wouldn’t? I know what I want.”

  “You don’t want the mirror,” he said sounding as sure as Moses at the Red Sea. His confidence annoyed her, and she felt as if she were at home being told by five older brothers exactly what she should do, want, and think.

  “I am all-fired sick and tired of men telling me what I want.”

  He grabbed the small knife and turned, giving her a long and amused one-eyed stare. With a male smirk that should have sent warning bells off in her head, he plucked the mirror off the ledge and waded back toward her, stopping when he was a mere foot away. She kept her eyes on his face.

  “Here you are, Miss Lah-Roo. Your wish is my command.” He held out the piece of mirror and the knife, then gave an exaggerated bow.

  She glared down at the top of his black head and gathered the knife and mirror tightly to her chest, swinging her legs around to her side of the wall. She stepped down and heard his laughter echo from behind her. It just made her move all that much faster. With her chin pride-high, she stepped off the rocks, careful not to slip and further embarrass herself. She walked with purpose along the sandy edge of the shallow end of the pool, making her way to the waterfall curtained ledge where she could finally pick the jerky out of her teeth in privacy.

  He was still watching her. She could feel it. When she reached the ledge she looked back. Sam leaned over the rock wall, elbows resting on its rim. He gave her a grin and a quick salute and then began that infernal counting- one, two, three—which only made her that much madder.

  Ignoring him, she set the things down and climbed up on the ledge, grabbing the knife and mirror and gladly disappearing behind the curtain of water.

  “Seven!” he shouted out, obviously making sure she heard him over the falling water.

  She sat down and propped the mirror at a good angle. “Twelve!”

  She looked in the mirror

  “Fourteen!”

  —and screamed.

  His voice pierced the little cave. “Found those spots, huh? Only fifteen seconds. Not bad!”

  Sam watched, waiting . . . .

  Her head poked out from behind the waterfall. “Oh, my Gawd!” Her hands were plastered to her cheeks—the same cheeks that had been covered with bright red spots for a couple of days. “How long have I had these?”

  “A while.” He smiled. “Are you sure you weren’t eating those berries?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I did.”

  “You did not!”

  “I told you not to eat too many of them.”

  “But you didn’t say anything about spots.”

  “I warned you.”

  “Not about the spots!”

  He shrugged. “A warning’s a warning. I didn’t feel I had to get into specifics.”

  She held the mirror up and winced, poking a few of the welts with her finger. “When will they go away?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’ve never known anyone who had them.”

  “They will go away, won’t they?”

  “Probably.”

  “What do you mean, probably? Don’t you know?”

  He shrugged again.

  “You knew enough to tell me not to eat them!”

  “I was warned and not stupid enough to test that warning.”

  Her head whipped back behind the water and although he couldn’t hear her, he was sure he’d just been dubbed a damn Yankee again.

  “Hurry along there, Lollipop. Finish what you’re doing and get dressed. We need to get moving.”

  She didn’t answer him.

  “Did you hear me?” he shouted.

  “I heard you!” she returned equally as loud.

  He laughed to himself, wading back over to his things, feeling thoroughly entertained. He got out of the water and put on his pants and shirt. He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone quite like Lollie LaRue. Harebrained and a little too innocent, gullible and more stubborn than a team of old livery mules, she was a woman on the run in the jungle, far away from home, and so completely out of her element that even Sam couldn’t have abandoned her if he’d wanted to, which he didn’t. He wanted that ransom and she was still a hostage, but she didn’t know that and probably wouldn’t find out until after her father ransomed her.

  Just yesterday he would have said the past few days hadn’t been worth the money, whatever the amount. No man needed a whiny, pigheaded woman when he had miles of jungle, filled with Spanish soldiers and deadly snakes and counterguerrillas, all anxious to kill him. But he was a soldier for hire, had been known to do what he had to do if the price was right. This was no different, since there was money involved here, probably a good amount, too. And he did need some compensation for the past few days.

  But now, after today, he saw something different about her. He’d originally pegged her for a rich snob, but he’d been wrong about that. Remembering the way she begged for something to do, then carried those silly coconuts as if they were the United States Treasury. She had an odd sense of pride, an emotion he
could understand. What he’d first assumed was arrogance and an inflated sense of self-worth had turned out to be just the opposite. She had no sense of worth. She was a bundle of insecurities.

  He strapped his belt on, ramming the end hard through the buckle when he realized that he had suddenly felt the need to analyze her. He didn’t want to analyze her because she was trouble, female trouble with a head that was three bullets short of a full round.

  He donned the pack, grabbed the rifle, and made his way across the rocks to the Lollipop’s side. “Are you ready?”

  She stepped onto the ledge, put her shoes, the mirror, and the knife in her pockets, and jumped into the shallow water near the edge of the pool. She held the wet pink skirt of her ragged dress in her fists, like women did when they wanted to keep it dry.

  He stifled a laugh and shook his head, waiting while she joined him. She slipped her shoes on and straightened, handing him the mirror and the knife. He put the mirror in the pack and slipped the knife into its sheath.

  Her dress was still torn, but cleaner and she’d ripped off more of the lace and used it to tie back her hair, which was drier, lightening to blonde from the dark whiskey color it had been when it was wet. Now it hung, shiny-clean and a lot paler, in a silky-straight hank that fell past her pink-spotted shoulders. Her face, neck, and shoulders were a mass of pink welts. He said his thoughts aloud, “Your dress matches your spots.”

  She stiffened like a day-old corpse, then drew back her arm, just like she had when she threw his machete to Kingdom Come.

  He grabbed her swinging fist and jerked her up against his chest to keep her from throwing another one. “Stop it!”

  She glared up at him, her lips drawn into a thin line of anger, her face flushed with that same emotion. He had the sudden urge to wipe the anger off her face. He lowered his head. Her mouth was barely an inch away. He could taste her breath.

  A bullet shot past them.

  Chapter 12

  Sam hit the ground with Lollie still clasped to his chest. They lay there, on their sides, their hearts throbbing in double time. He adjusted the rifle between them. Ready to fire, he waited for another bullet. None came. The soldier in him knew they were better off if the bullets were still coming. The silence told him that their sniper had moved to a better position.

  Glancing to his right, he scanned the area, praying the sniper was Spanish. The Mauser guns they used were notoriously inaccurate. If the sniper was Spanish, they’d have a chance.

  The rock wall was about ten feet away, but they were ten open feet. The ledge where the water fell was an equal distance, but he didn’t want to be pinned into that grotto. There might be three stone walls of protection with only one way in, but more importantly, there was only one way out—a tactical mistake made by many men—dead men.

  The trajectory of the bullet had angled downward, which meant the sniper was on higher ground. He scanned the small area of jungle. They had to try to find some cover. He looked at Lollie. Her drained, spotted face reflected pure fear.

  “Listen closely. We’ll have to run for the small patch of jungle behind me.”

  She started to raise her head, trying to look over his shoulder.

  “Don’t look at it!” he whispered the harsh order. “You’ll give our direction away.”

  Her head froze mid-motion.

  “Now I’m going to roll over and up.” He moved the rifle from between them and held it behind her back. “I have to keep the rifle aimed and ready so you’re going to have to hold on to my neck when I roll. The second I’m up, you let go and head straight for that bamboo. Understand?”

  She nodded and repeated quietly, “Hang on, let go, run.”

  “Okay. On three we go. One . . .”

  Her arms tightened around his neck.

  “Two . . .”

  He held the rifle poised over her lower back, his finger on the trigger.

  “Three!”

  He rolled with her, rifle up. A second later they stood. She let go and took off. A round of bullets tore up the sand around them.

  Sam returned fire, running after her. Mauser bullets splattered in the sand like hail. Suddenly another sniper cross-fired. The shot angled downward, past Sam. He spun and shot up at the ridge trail. A Spaniard fell. Peripherally, he saw another replace him.

  Three more shots and he hit the bamboo, watching Lollie’s pink dress move ahead. Five steps and he’d caught up with her, passed her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her along, running in time with his heartbeat.

  He jumped the bushes, hauling her with him. She fell; he jerked her up, never once breaking speed. He cut north, running uphill to throw them off.

  The air grew heavy. We’ll get to the river, he thought, dragging her through palm after low palm to only an occasional whimper.

  A wall of bamboo met them. Sam swore. The crack of a machete would draw the Spaniards like flies to the stockyards. He stopped, catching Lollie as she barreled into him. “Quiet!” He gripped her heaving shoulders to steady her. “We’ll move through the bamboo slowly, quietly. If I cut the bamboo they’ll hear us.”

  She nodded. He took her hand and wormed into the wooden forest, snaking through, stepping over the hemp grass that grew thick as spring hay around the tall green bamboo. No light broke the sea of green. It was slow going, but it was quiet. On and on it went in a seemingly never-ending field that felt like a prison but might easily become a coffin.

  Jungle color broke through the light green bamboo ahead. The bamboo ended only a few short feet away. He still held his breath, not knowing what lay beyond or who waited. He tried to see ahead, but it was like looking across a cell through prison bars. He couldn’t get the full picture.

  He stopped. There was a clearing, surrounded by orchids and canopied by jade vines hanging from giant banyans arced like tunnels above them. He looked left, then right.

  “Run!” He pulled Lollie behind him.

  Louder than cannon fire, swarms of birds burst from the high black crowns of the trees. Their screeches pierced the air above, higher pitched than rifle shot, and their flapping wings sounded louder than a thousand flags in the wind. The blue sky turned black from the scattering of frightened jungle doves. A shout of Spanish blasted from behind them.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  “Oh, my Gawd!”

  They ran. Two minutes later a river stopped them, a wide, deep, flowing river, which Lollie couldn’t swim.

  He spun, hooked the rifle over her back and squatted, his back to her. “Lock your arms around my neck, your legs around my waist, and don’t let go, even underwater!”

  “But—”

  “Do it!”

  The second he felt her limbs gripping him, Sam dove in and swam to the middle, where he let the current carry them both downstream. A quick glance over his shoulder told him the rifle was still strapped to her back.

  “You okay?”

  Her arms tightened on his neck. “Yes.”

  “Good, then will you stop choking me?” he rasped, breathing with relief when the pressure against his Adam’s apple slackened.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  They moved down the river in silence, Sam working to keep them in the center of the river while he studied the jungle around them. The river twisted and turned, narrowing to only twenty feet wide, and he tried to judge the distance, mentally calculating whether it would be better to go by river or on foot.

  He never had the chance to make that decision. -

  They drifted around a bend, right into Spanish crossfire. Bullets hit the water.

  “Take a breath!” Sam shouted, and feeling her chest expand with a deep breath, he dove for the river bottom, the only place safe from the shower of bullets.

  He swam along the bottom, turning east toward the riverbank that had been the highest. He hoped it still was, but he couldn’t tell, the river was so murky. His lungs burned from the pressure of holding his breath. Her hands tightened to fists around him.

&nb
sp; He could take another minute of pressure. She couldn’t. He had to surface. He moved up, counting on fate, as he had a hundred times before. If it was still on his side, they would be close enough to the bank and hidden from the Spanish. He looked up and back as they floated toward the surface. A few bullets pierced the water behind them.

  Then he saw it—the shadow of a small boat, above them. He stroked toward the bank side. Then, still underwater, he pulled her struggling hands from his neck and turned so he faced her. He grabbed her cheeks in his palms. Her eyes shot open. He tilted her head back, mouth and nose up. They broke the surface, a scarce few inches from the boat. She gasped for air.

  His right hand still gripped her neck and head, his left hand pressed against her lips. “Shhh.”

  He nodded at the boat, scant inches from their bobbing heads.

  The sound of gunfire now came from behind them. Carefully he backed away a few inches to see into the boat. It was empty, its bowline sagging in the reeds along the bank. He turned back to Lollie, who now breathed fine and still held his shoulders. He looped her arms around his neck. “I’m going to turn and swim through those reeds. You hang on, okay?”

  She gave him her wide-eyed nod.

  He moved as silently as he could, keeping only their heads above the waterline. He followed the frayed rope through the tall cattails to a spot where thick mangroves edged the river and provided cover.

  As he edged toward the high bank he could see the rock anchoring the rope. He looked around. No one was nearby. He moved into the dark draping branches of the mangroves. Grabbing Lollie’s hands, he turned within the loop of her arms so they were face to face. He released her hands and held her waist while he kicked to tread water for them both.

  “Grab that branch.” He nodded toward a thick branch by their heads.

  She locked her hands over the branch.

  “Good. Can you hang on here for a few minutes?” She nodded. “Where’re you going?”

  “Back to get the boat. I’ll bring it into the trees, and then we should be able to take it downstream. You stay here. Don’t move. Don’t do anything but stay hidden and hang on. Got it?”