by Cindy Dees
He turned to her gratefully, eager to draw everyone’s attention to her and away from his gaffes. “I’m just doing my job, Sister. Someone has to do it, so why not me?”
“You provide weapons that kill people,” she stated.
“How is what you do any different?” he demanded.
“I heal the people your guns shoot!”
He shrugged. “Same difference. You patch these men up so they can go back to war and kill some more. You’re helping the rebels as much as, or maybe even more than, I am.”
The rebels laughed and commenced ribbing the nun about whose soul needed the most praying for, and he let out a careful breath. That had been close. Too close.
As men started drifting away to their tents, Ted noticed to his disgust that Enrique and a few of his top lieutenants were eyeing the pretty nun again. He leaned over to ask her under his breath, “You don’t happen to have a tent in that satchel of yours, do you?”
“No. It’s all medical supplies.”
He swore quietly. In a louder voice, he announced, “The sister will take my hut. I’ll sleep outside.” And guard her.
Enrique’s expression fell as he caught Ted’s unspoken warning to keep his paws off the nun. Pervert.
He waited for her to return from the latrine pit and held the canvas flap of his half tent, half wooden shack for her. “Don’t come out until morning if you value your virtue or your life,” he murmured as she passed close to him.
She glanced up at him, her eyes positively doelike. He jolted. A guy could lose himself in eyes like that. Hello. Nun, here. The lady was strictly off-limits. Even he wasn’t that big a scumbag.
“Thank you for your protection,” she murmured back.
So. She wasn’t that dumb, after all. She’d realized the mortal danger she was in, and furthermore, she was aware of the delicate dynamic between him and Enrique. He dared not challenge the man’s dominance of this cell lest the rebels turn on him, but Enrique needed his weapons and dared not piss him off, either.
He set up a camp cot across the doorway of his makeshift hut and listened to the little noises of the nun settling down for the night. Something about the sounds women made was just sexy. It was easy to envision her peeling off those frumpy clothes and rinsing the mud off her legs with the washcloth and pitcher of water he’d put inside for her.
She’d be brushing out her hair now. How long was it, anyway? Did nuns shave their heads or something under those wimples? Except he’d seen a lock of it peeking out earlier. It had been dark and smooth and touchable. The whole woman was so damned touchable. And yet, she was totally off-limits. Such an odd little nun.
He’d done his damnedest through the day not to let his thoughts go there, but as he sank toward sleep, his formidable mental control slipped. It was no stretch to imagine what she looked like under that god-awful dress. Her waist had been tiny, her shoulders slender, the bones delicate. She’d be a looker, all right, all feminine curves and soft seduction.
He jolted back to full alertness. Stop. It. She was a nun. Hands off. End of discussion. No matter how long it had been since he’d seen or had another woman, he was not even going to contemplate any shenanigans with Sister Mary Elise.
The gentle rise and fall of her breathing came from the other side of the thin canvas wall long before he finally followed her into unconsciousness.
A scream tore Elise from a surprisingly deep sleep sometime in the wee hours of the night. Her nose was cold, and Drago’s blankets were pulled practically over her head. Groans and more screaming were forthcoming.
She’d worked the trauma unit in a New York City hospital long enough to know someone was badly injured out there. She went into action automatically. She grabbed her sweater and threw it on, and glancing around, grabbed a pair of sweat pants wadded up in the corner. She dragged them on, jammed her feet into the black bricks without tying them, snatched up her medical bag, and stumbled outside.
“Where is he?” she demanded without preamble.
Drago was kneeling on the ground, shirtless and entirely glorious. He pointed across the clearing. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
She raced to the fire, where a man thrashed on the ground in the midst of several other men. “Step aside,” she ordered in her no-nonsense, E.R. nurse voice. The insurgents leaped out of the way.
“What happened?” she asked tersely as she dropped to her knees beside the mound of blood and torn flesh that had once been a man’s gut.
“Jaguar attack,” someone offered up.
The jagged tears in parallel lines across the man’s midriff seemed to confirm that. She yanked out scissors and began cutting away the remnants of the guy’s shirt. At least his innards were still mostly in place. The peritoneum was compromised, though. Without massive antibiotics, and soon, the man was a goner. But first things first. She had to stop the bleeding and sew him back together enough to make it to a hospital and good drugs.
“I need someone to hold this pad here.” Strong brown hands materialized in her line of sight. She glanced up to see Drago’s grim face. She nodded, and he took over applying pressure to the worst of the other wounds as she started sewing on the patient.
Thankfully, the victim passed out quickly. Whether from blood loss or shock or overwhelming pain, she didn’t know. But at least he’d stopped that screaming. She’d learned in her job to block it out, but it was nice not to have to.
When the life-threatening bleeding had been stopped, the tedious business of quilting the guy’s gut back together commenced. Shockingly, Drago picked up a suture needle and pitched in, doing a darned credible job of setting sutures on his side of the guy’s belly. She’d lay odds the guy had some sort of formal medical training.
Eventually, she sat back on her haunches. “Done. I’ve given him all the penicillin I’ve got, and that should hold him through the night. But in the morning, he needs to get to a hospital and have a whole lot more antibiotics if he’s going to have any chance of pulling through.”
Enrique nodded, not looking particularly concerned. Death was apparently a common and fairly casual affair for these men.
“I’ll drive him to town in the morning,” Drago announced quietly.
She glanced over at her impromptu assistant. “Thank you.”
He shrugged and offered a hand down to her. She straightened painfully, her legs cramped from two hours of kneeling on the cold ground.
As they walked back toward the ramshackle structure that passed for his quarters, he commented, “There’s nothing more you can do for him tonight. Let’s catch a little sleep before we go.”
She stopped. “You can go back to town. But I’m staying here.”
“No. You’re not.”
The words were uttered quietly, but with unmistakable authority. Obviously, this was a man used to having his orders followed. Tough. She didn’t work for him, and she had a job of her own to do out here. She had yet to make contact with the insurgent whose family was hiding the Garza children. And until she found those kids, she wasn’t going anywhere.
She commenced walking again. “I’m not going to argue with you—”
“Good. We leave at first light.”
“You leave at first light. I’m not done here.”
He made a sound of disgust. “You have no idea how done you are here.”
She paused in the doorway of his shack. “I’m not kidding—”
He interrupted her yet again. “Neither am I. There’s no way I’m letting you stay in this camp without me here to run interference. You’d have been dead, or worse, several times already if I hadn’t intervened on your behalf.” His voice dropped to a bare thread of sound. “These men are brutal. Violent. No respect for your vocation. I won’t let you stay.”
“It’s not your call,” she muttered back.
He must have sensed her stubbornness because he huffed and finally retorted, “I’m bigger than you. I’ll throw you over my shoulder and haul you out of here by main force if
I have to.”
“You wouldn’t.”
His golden eyes glittered in the faint flicker of the fire. “Try me.”
There were any number of things she’d like to try with him, but being hauled out of here over his shoulder was not one of them. Clearly, there was no reasoning with the man. And standing here arguing with him wasn’t doing any good. She’d explain things to him in the morning when they’d all had some rest.
But how she was going to convince him she had to stay with this bunch of murderous cutthroats without mentioning the Garza children, she had no idea. She’d cross that bridge tomorrow. Right now her eyes were burning, her shoulders ached and she was cold. She just wanted to crawl into the bed that smelled deliciously like this man’s aftershave and crash.
A light touch, stroking through her hair, woke Elise gradually. The night sounds of the jungle had given way to a chorus of chirping and squawking, birds mostly. It must be morning. Although she couldn’t tell with her face completely buried under the blankets. She inhaled the intoxicating scent of the man who normally slept in this bed and sleepily imagined him draped over her like a warm blanket.
The fingers stroked her hair again, slowly. With sensual appreciation. She started to turn into the caress before she woke enough to remember. Nun. Cursing under her breath, she threw the covers off her head and rolled over to protest the intimate wake-up call.
Drago towered over her, a perplexed frown on his handsome features.
“Did my patient make it through the night?” she asked.
“Yes. But he’s feverish. Sweating. Swelling and abdominal pain.”
“Peritonitis,” she announced. “I was afraid of that.”
Drago shrugged. “It was inevitable.”
“He’s going to need massive infusions of antibiotics,” she replied. She left unsaid the part where, even then, the man’s survival was going to be a dicey thing.
“The sooner the better,” the arms dealer replied. “Regardless of your objections last night, I’m going to need you to ride to town with me to watch your patient. He’s getting delirious and we can’t have him tossing around and tearing his stitches. Then he’d die for sure.”
She scowled and sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest. She wore only a camisole under the covers and, nun or no nun, wasn’t about to flash him a bunch of skin way out here in the jungle by herself. Darn him, he’d struck upon the one argument she couldn’t refute. If the injured man needed her nursing skills, she couldn’t very well deny him her aid.
“You’re taking advantage of my duty as a nurse,” she grumbled.
He held out her dress and turned away so she could throw back the covers and shiver into it. “Of course I am. I play to win, Sister.”
She glared at his back. Jerk. She yanked on her sweater, thankful for its meager warmth and uncaring of its bread-mold color this morning. By the time she got back from the latrine pit, Drago was supervising the loading of the unconscious man into the back of his Jeep.
Elise eyed the moped, which had been brought into the camp overnight, with regret. “I really need to return that to its owner.”
Drago rolled his eyes and muttered rapidly to one of the revolutionaries. “It’s taken care of. Now get in the car. We’re leaving.”
Her gaze narrowed. She never had dealt well with high-handed men. “Don’t give me orders, buster.”
Enrique cackled from the other side of the injured man’s stretcher. “Oh! The little nun has claws! Be careful Drago, or you’ll get torn up like Robson here.”
She knew better than to rise to the revolutionary’s bait and merely climbed in the back of the Jeep beside her patient in grim silence. It annoyed the hell out of her to have gotten so close to her goal, only to have to retreat now. But she’d be back, by golly. Those children, and Father Ambrose, were counting on her.
Chapter 3
Ted glanced in the rearview mirror yet again and grinned at the thunderous scowl on the nun’s face. Didn’t like being manipulated against her will, did she? Feisty little thing. “How’s he doing?” he asked.
“In shock. But at least he’s not flailing around.”
“Think he’ll make it?”
She shrugged like a seasoned medical professional. “I give him about even odds. It’ll depend on how strong and healthy he was before and how well his system fights the infection.”
“The locals are tough. Surviving this jungle is not for the weak.” And speaking of which, now that he had her by herself, he demanded, “What were you really doing out there? Why did you want to march into that camp? There was no way you were getting out alive without me. Do you have a death wish?”
“Do you always ask so many questions?” she replied blandly.
Irritation flared in his gut. “Answer me.”
Her dark gaze met his in the rearview mirror. She stared at him for a long time as if measuring him. She stared for so long he actually began to worry that she might be seeing more than he wanted her to. She was a nun, after all. And people of the cloth were in the business of knowing human nature. Did she see through the ruse? Horror washed over him. She mustn’t blow his cover! He broke the eye contact and focused on the dirt road before him.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He swore under his breath. She knew he wasn’t what he appeared to be, dammit.
“My name’s Drago. Drago Cantori.”
“Where are you from, Drago Cantori? Why were you hanging out with the Army of Freedom? You’re not Colombian.”
“I’m French. Or more precisely, Basque.” Please God, let her not speak the Basque tongue. It was a thankfully rare language, but he’d been completely hopeless at mastering anything beyond a few of the most basic phrases of it in the few days he’d had to prepare for this mission.
“Hmm. I had you pegged for an American.”
He jolted and grasped the steering wheel more tightly to hide his shock. “Why’s that?” he asked cautiously.
“Your accent. There are shades of American vowels in your Spanish.”
She must have a hell of a good ear. He usually had no trouble passing for a native South American. Enrique had pegged him for a Peruvian. Of course, the insurgent hadn’t looked too far past the duffel bag full of weapons he and his men would give their right nuts to have.
“I spent some time in the States,” he explained cautiously. And please God, let her not ask for details.
Thankfully, she pressed him in another direction. “What were you doing with Enrique and his men? You’re not seriously planning to give them grenade launchers and missiles, are you?”
Thank goodness. Safe ground. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I was about to close a deal to sell them a supply of basic firearms and ammunition when Einstein, here, went and got himself hurt. Instead, I’m an ambulance driver now.”
“Ingratiating yourself to Enrique, are you? Was he reluctant to do the deal?”
He swore mentally. This woman was entirely too perceptive for her own good. “Not at all. He’s eager to introduce me to his superiors so I can do an even bigger deal for the entire Army of Freedom.”
She tsked. “And here you are, having to rescue the nun and the hurt guy, instead. It must gall you to have to play Boy Scout.”
“You could cost me a great deal of money if I lose this sale,” he allowed.
“I’d apologize, but I can’t say as I’m sorry that hundreds of people won’t be gunned down by your weapons.”
He sighed. “If the Army of Freedom doesn’t get the guns from me, they’ll get them from someone else.”
“You’re actually pulling out the ‘it’s not the gun, it’s the person using it’ argument?”
He scowled. “Yes, I am. The gun isn’t the thing. It’s merely a tool. The person pulling the trigger makes the decision to commit violence.”
“Without the tool, he couldn’t make the decision at all,” she shot back.
“If a person’s determined enough, they’ll u
se their fists. Or a rock. Or a stick.”
“Aah, but a gun is ever so much more efficient, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “How about we agree to disagree on this one, Sister?”
She fell silent and busied herself checking on her patient. But twin spots of red stained her cheeks. Didn’t like letting go of the argument, apparently. Must be a flaming idealist at heart. Which was no surprise, given her profession. But he was a pragmatist. He’d love for the world to be chock-full of peace-loving souls like her. However, until that day came, the world would continue to need people like him to protect people like her.
The dirt road had dried out a little overnight, and the trip back to Santa Lucia went relatively quickly, if still tooth-jarringly bumpy. He pulled up in front of the one-story building that was more regional clinic than hospital and jumped out of the Jeep. He fetched the doctor and lone nurse from inside, and with Elise’s help, the four of them horsed the wounded man to a bed inside. In short order, an IV drip was set up and antibiotics started pumping into the man’s arm.
Elise—why did he have so much trouble thinking of her as Sister Elise?—fussed over her patient until she was satisfied the doctor would take adequate care of the guy. Ted leaned against a wall, arms crossed, and waited her out. Finally, she fell silent.
“You done telling the doctor how to do his job?” he asked in English.
She scowled and made a distinctly un-nunlike face at him. “Let me just replenish my supply of penicillin and suture thread, and then you can take me back to camp.”
Over his dead body.
He waited until she was seated beside him in the Jeep to spell out the score to her. “Okay. Once and for all, you’re not going back to that Army of Freedom camp. You will die. I will take you anywhere else you want to go—” he amended quickly, given who he was talking to “—I’ll take you anywhere else safe you want to go. But I can’t in good conscience let a nun die.”
“Oh, so you have a conscience now?” she snapped.
Not a line of questioning he was eager to pursue. Instead, he pressed the automatic door locks to emphasize the fact that she was at his mercy and asked implacably, “Where can I take you?”
