TWICE A HERO

by Susan Krinard

  He'd snatched the watch from her hand before she could complete her sentence. "You found this where we were attacked?"

  "Yes. It must have snagged—"

  But he wasn't listening. He backed away and sat down on the cot, hard, his knuckles white as he gripped the watch.

  "Perry," he said. "Was this what you wanted?"

  Mac crossed the tent and knelt beside Liam. He looked stricken—tormented in a way that scared her, that drained him of his potency and life more surely than any injury.

  "What is it? Liam, what's wrong?"

  "This is Perry's watch," he rasped. "The one I gave to him five years ago." He opened the cover that protected the crystal.

  The inscription inside was fine and small but readable. Faithful are the wounds of a friend.

  Words of friendship. Words of trust, of gratitude. Words Liam had given to a man he'd considered a close and loyal companion.

  A companion who'd abandoned him in the jungle, and then—

  "Oh, God," Mac said. "One of the guerrillas had it."

  "As payment, perhaps?" The shock was gone from Liam's voice, and his eyes held only a blank acceptance—a silver shield erected between him and the rest of the world.

  Mac didn't have to ask him what he thought. She'd seen Perry's letter, his guilt… and then a damning piece of evidence left on the scene of the crime.

  "No," she said aloud. "Maybe he lost it, or it was stolen."

  Liam stood and grabbed a bottle on the desk. The watch and its chain fell with a dull rattle and thump to the earthen floor.

  Mac stared at the abandoned timepiece. "What happened between the two of you?"

  He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank. Mac caught the whiff of potent liquor and shot to her feet.

  "Hey, you shouldn't mix alcohol with those pills—"

  "No?" He drank again, long and deliberately. "Could it kill me?"

  "Stop it!" She grabbed his arm and hung on, trying to pull the bottle out of his fingers. "Whatever you may think about your friend, I saved your life, and I'm not going to see my efforts go to waste!"

  He laughed. There was a chilling indifference in the sound. "Like Perry's did?"

  He let go of the bottle. Mac glanced around the tent, trying to decide what she should do with it. Pour it out somewhere…

  A large, warm hand drifted across her cheek, wiping all thought from her mind.

  "You did save my life, Mac. And you brought me the watch."

  "I guess that… sort of proves I wasn't working for Perry, doesn't it?"

  "It must prove something." Callused fingers cupped her chin. His touch was turning her legs into something out of a Jell-O mold.

  She met his gaze. The cold metal barrier had begun to give way, soften, become molten again. Was it possible to drown in liquid silver, or would you burn to death first?

  "Uh… if those guerrillas are still around, maybe you should set up a guard or something—don't you think?"

  "I'm not worried." His thumb hooked her lip, moved on. "You wouldn't betray me, would you, Mac?"

  Betray him? She couldn't even move, not when his knuckles were making a survey of her jawline with such tenderness.

  "We hardly know each other," she said. "Don't you have to know someone well to, um, betray them?"

  His hand slipped to the nape of her neck. "We could know each other much better, darlin'."

  That crazy endearment again. "I was on my way out of here."

  "And you were going to leave without saying goodbye."

  "I did say—"

  "When I was sleeping." He caressed the short hairs behind her ear. "You were going to leave then. But you talked to me, didn't you? And you touched me."

  Mac was certain any reply would come out as an undignified squeak. Or a moan.

  "Admit it. You were touching me. When you thought I was asleep."

  "I was just making sure you were—"

  "—and you want to touch me again."

  Her mouth went dry. "No."

  "There's no need to fight it."

  "I'm not fighting anything."

  He chuckled, low and quiet. "You're a fighter by nature, darlin'."

  Somehow or other she'd gotten very close to him. Somewhere along the line the liquor bottle had fallen from her hand. She could smell the spilled alcohol. Liam's gaze was locked on hers, pulling her in, sucking her into a whirlpool of desire.

  Panic shot through her. She jerked away. Liam tried to keep his hold and failed. She retreated and he followed, his boots sliding in newly-formed mud. As the back of Mac's knees hit the cot, Liam lost his balance, careening forward.

  She barely caught him in time, pushed backward by his solid bulk. The cot's thin mattress sank under their combined weights. Mac worked her body sideways to avoid being crushed and found herself entangled with him—limb with limb, chest to chest.

  She came to rest on top of a warm, hard-contoured, breathing male body. Every inch of him burned through her thin clothing, fever-hot. Hooded gray eyes made a study of her face. His lips curled in something like triumph.

  Heat pooled between her legs, in her breasts, filling up the space where her brain ought to be. She planted her hands on the cot and pushed up. "Your shoulder—"

  "No pain," he said. He worked his arm between their bodies, brushing her oversensitive breasts. "I think I've found the cure."

  Where's your snappy comeback now? Mac asked herself. But it wouldn't come. Her mind had detached itself from her body.

  "Mac," he said, caressing her name. "You know what it's like to be close to death—feel it brush by you and leave you untouched."

  "Yes," she whispered.

  "Something always happens then, darlin'. It's when you know you're most alive."

  Yes. The admission hummed through her, a first inevitable surrender. She felt more alive now than she had in years.

  His mouth was so close, his body so unapologetically masculine. Right down to the unmistakable thrust of his pelvis under hers. She felt… womanly. Soft. Almost beautiful, all the things she'd never been and never could be. Didn't want to be. Except he made her want it.

  He made her want him.

  He cupped her cheeks in his hands. "We're alive, Mac. Now more than ever. Life calls to life. It demands repayment."

  Secret shivers racked her from head to toe. Why fight it? She was independent, mature; she could choose what she wanted. She could prove that not all Sinclairs were alike, that they could save instead of betray, give as well as take.

  She could choose to give herself.

  His hips lifted, probed, demanded. "Prove what you said by the lake," he said. "Prove you're a match for me. Teach me."

  She heard the challenge and knew it must be met without fear. The old MacKenzie Sinclair fell away like a snake's molted skin.

  She braced herself over him, closed her eyes, and gave him his answer.

  Chapter Nine

  This time is out of joint;

  O cursed spite,

  That ever I was born to

  set it right!

  —William Shakespeare

  SHE WAS EVERYTHING she'd been by the lake and a hundred times more. Her mouth descended on his with an abandon that startled him before he gave himself up to the exultation of victory.

  For he'd been right. She was like a banked fire, a tempest locked in an improbable body. And now that tempest descended on him with unanticipated fury.

  A fury in which he could lose himself, a flame to consume the rage and the pain he'd sworn never to feel again, the anguish that was nothing but impotence and weakness.

  Mac was burning life to remind him that Perry hadn't succeeded. That loss and betrayal were not all that existed in the world…

  There was no hesitation in Mac's kiss, though it lacked the finesse of experience. Her tongue darted out to brush his lips and ventured no further. She acted now in half-fearful defiance, to prove herself his equal.

  But she was a woman. He could bury himself in he
r, and forget for a while. There was nothing between them but desire. Nothing to make him weak again.

  He had wanted her, not understanding why. He admitted that now. But now it didn't matter, because the wanting was all there was. In this moment out of time he was free, liberated from every chain of reality. He wanted to pour his seed into the hot core of her body, to feel the swell of life in every nerve and let his blood shout defiance to very death itself.

  And she wanted him. He was certain of that. She'd saved his life and come close to losing her own. The need in her was as strong as it was within him.

  His mouth held hers with flicks and forays of his tongue as he maneuvered her about, rolled with her on the narrow cot until they lay side by side. Her slender thighs were trapped under his, her breasts puckered against his chest. He felt her try to speak, but he trapped her words with a deeper kiss and worked her beneath his body.

  Soft. She was so much softer than he'd realized. He kissed her chin, her jaw, the hollow of her cheekbone, the slight arch of her dark brow. She gasped a little when he lifted himself and pulled the buttons of her shirt open with one hand.

  "Liam," she cried. His name from her lips was urgent and sweet. But this was no time for talking. He wanted none of it—only feeling, sensation, taking. Her breast fit perfectly in the palm of his hand. He teased her nipple into a delicate knot and stroked it with his fingertip. Her back arched, pushing the hollow between her thighs against his groin.

  It was hot, like the rest of her. He knew she'd be wet, ready for him when he took her. No thinking. No questions. Only this.

  The pulse in her neck throbbed under his tongue. He licked the little hollows under her slender collarbones and inched his way down to the exquisite treasures of her breasts. She made little sounds as he tasted one and then the other, lingering until each nipple puckered under the laving of his tongue.

  Black, thick lashes shaded her gaze, but he knew she watched him, watched everything he did with fascination. Her breath was rapid and hoarse with excitement, her fingers worked into the cloth of his shirt. Grasping, urging him on.

  She was his, completely his, holding nothing back, innocent and wild in a combination like to drive him to madness. Her body was supple as a sleek and exotic animal, taut under silky skin. He pushed her shirt aside and laid his palm on the flatness of her belly. It quivered like the velvet coat of a highbred horse.

  The bones of her hips were distinct, but there was a sweet curve to them. He learned her body with his hands, and then with his lips. He unbuttoned her trousers—so loose and oversized around her waist—and eased them down. She helped him, wriggling her body until he thought he would burst the seams of his own pants.

  She wore nothing under the trousers. And she was wet. He slid his fingers through the snugly curled hair at the base of her stomach, lower still. Her fingers clenched and unclenched in his shirt like the claws of a sensuous cat being stroked. He accommodated her. She arched again and shuddered under his caresses. And when he tested her with a finger, pushing gently inward…

  He stopped. She must be all but a virgin. He could feel her tightness, the subtle resistance. Ready as she was, she had no skill at seduction, or the ease of a woman who'd taken many men into her body.

  She had nothing to teach him. He was guide, and master, and teacher.

  And protector. She was no innocent, not out here alone in the jungle, but there was an inexperience, an uncertainty that called to the last dwindling spark of reason trapped within his desire. She's only a woman, and you're using her, just as they used Siobhan…

  No thinking. With fumbling haste he worked open the buttons of his trousers. The release of imprisoned flesh was an ecstasy in itself. He slid against her slick thighs, higher, probing and eager. She'd spread herself for him. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted and glistening. He watched her as he made the first foray, heard her moan in pleasure.

  Then he saw her eyes. Wide open now, fixed on him. And under the glaze of excitement and pleasure was something else. It was nothing so simple as fear. It was sudden, overwhelming knowledge of a threshold to be crossed, of life forever changed.

  The knowledge Siobhan must have held in her heart when she'd taken her first lover and sold her honor for survival.

  The knowledge Liam would see in Caroline's eyes on their wedding night.

  He tensed, holding himself rigid above the woman he had resolved to take with so little thought. The past was there in bed with him, and the future stood watching, ready to condemn.

  Condemn Liam O'Shea.

  Mac's face held no condemnation. It was real, warm, trusting, wanting. Asking more than he could ever give.

  Because he'd been wrong. He couldn't take Mac and feel nothing, take nothing, pay nothing.

  He heaved himself off of her, the muscles in his arms shaking with knotted tension. In his hunger and need to forget, he could put a child in her body, become responsible for her. Responsible for a woman who could have no place in his future or in his life. A woman whose recklessness and bold nature—the very nature that inexplicably drew him—would make it impossible for him to protect her.

  And as those thoughts crystallized in his mind, the chill of them worked through his body and doused his lust to ashes.

  Mac's gaze, blank with bewilderment and desire, followed him as he rolled away on the cot. He grabbed the edges of her shirt and closed them across her chest, covering her thighs with the long shirttail. With an awkward motion he tucked himself back into his trousers and buttoned them again. Only then did he reach over the side of the cot and grab the whiskey bottle Mac had dropped. There was still one sip left.

  The silence was profound. Mac didn't move for many long minutes.

  "Well?" he said harshly. "The lesson's over, Mac."

  "What?"

  He rolled to his feet and sauntered to the desk, slamming down the bottle with deliberate force. "Please forgive me if I let it go a little too far."

  "The lesson, or the joke?" She paused, clutching her shirt to her chest. "It was a joke to you, wasn't it?"

  Strange. Her voice was subdued and flat, not angry or hurt. Not Mac's usual spirit at all. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched her, severing any emotion except indifference. The empty bottle taunted him.

  "Call it what you like."

  Her fingers were steady as she knelt on the edge of the cot and buttoned her shirt. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't been about to take her with her full cooperation.

  She was pale and composed, revealing no emotion. Just like that her passion was snuffed out. Instead of relief he felt an emptiness in his belly that was more than unsatisfied hunger, a flare of consternation that she'd pushed him away so easily.

  More easily than he'd pushed her away.

  "It was pleasant enough," he said, turning back to her, "but I got a little… carried away." That was all he would concede, all he could admit.

  Mac had drawn her knees up under the tails of the shirt so that all of her but her feet was covered. "You never had anything to learn, did you?" she said.

  Poker-faced. Not the Mac he knew. A stab of guilt thrust at him. "Ah, well, darlin'," he said. "No hard feelings."

  A flicker of something in her eyes. Anger? Humiliation? But she rose from the cot and quietly retrieved the trousers he'd thrown on the ground.

  "Turn around," she said.

  He did, trying to remember the retort he'd been about to make. Damn.

  "Well," he said, shrugging into his shirt, "you did say you thought you had a way back to… where you came from. I'll have Fernando prepare a meal, and then we'll go to the tunnel, or wherever you choose."

  She stood where she was, her back still turned. "Wherever I choose?" she repeated. "How generous."

  Flat. Cold. He ran his hand through his damp hair, wincing at the returning pain in his shoulder, and walked to the tent flap. "I pay my debts."

  "Oh, yeah." The shirt pulled against her shoulders as she hugged hers
elf. "That's what really counts."

  He didn't pause at the entrance to exchange another barbed sally. Just outside the tent he waited, his mind gone blank, for any sounds of rage or weeping. None came. He tried to remember the last time he'd felt so much the blackguard. And for what, damn it? He was doing the girl a favor. She was still as pure—or not—as she'd been before.

  If she was working for Perry—and Liam no longer knew what to believe—she was no worse off. And neither was he.

  Liam slammed his fist into his palm. The pain of realization was still sharp, but now it was overlaid by deep and bitter rage. If Perry had tried to have him killed, the betrayal was beyond comprehension. Nothing would stop Liam from returning to San Francisco now.

  He found Fernando with the single mule, speaking to her softly in an ancient Maya tongue; he looked at Liam as if he .knew everything that had happened in the tent. Damn him, he probably did.

  "We're leaving before dawn tomorrow for Champerico," Liam said in Spanish. "Did you get extra food from the village?"

  Fernando nodded as he examined the jenny's hoof. "And the señorita!"

  "Leave her to me."

  The corner of Fernando's mouth twitched, but he offered no further comment. Liam felt the muleteer's gaze on his back as he walked away. Walking was what he needed to do; a long, hard walk now that the sun was lowering and the worst of the day's heat was past. That or a good soak in the lake—but he wouldn't go there again.

  He grabbed a machete and got a few yards into the jungle before the pain in his shoulder returned. More punishment for his sins. He scowled and forced himself to keep going, pausing only to scrape sweat from his brows. For a time he imagined Perry's face in every hapless tree or bush he attacked. It was almost satisfying—until his thoughts drifted, inevitably, back to Mac.

  What was she doing now? Probably blasting him up one side of the Petén and down the other. She wasn't the sort to accept an indignity quietly. He could imagine the little hellion charging into the jungle with her strange collection of devices, getting herself lost or worse.