Reckless Honor

by Tonya Burrows

  …

  Claire couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was different about Jean-Luc since he’d woken up. It was expected that he’d be wrestling with survivor’s guilt. Anyone would in his position. The other survivors were struggling with it, too. But his dark mood seemed to come from somewhere else, somewhere deeper inside that enigmatic mind of his, the place that he hid behind smiles and charm and jokes. Was it depression? Did he have a history of it? She had no idea, but she knew exactly who to ask.

  She found Marcus standing just outside the mess tent in the rain. He stared intently out across the dark water of one of the many tributaries that made up the Niger Delta. “Marcus?”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. She reached out to touch his arm, but thought better of it before making contact. In Martinique, she’d seen how deadly Jean-Luc could be, and had no doubt Marcus was just as highly trained. She didn’t want to startle him.

  Instead, she stepped up beside him. “Marcus?”

  Still no response. He seemed to be holding his breath, as if waiting for something significant to happen.

  She followed his gaze to the opposite shore of the river. “Did you see something over there?”

  He shook his head like he was trying to shake off a bad dream. “I thought I saw…” Another head shake. “It’s not possible. Never mind.”

  Now she touched him, placing a gentle hand on his upper back and turning him toward the mess tent. “Why don’t you come in out of the rain?”

  The tent was crowded as other doctors and staff grabbed a quick lunch before heading back to work. Claire found a table that a pair of nurses had just vacated and sat Marcus down. He was pale, and the hand he rubbed over his face shook. Like he’d seen a ghost. She left him long enough to pick up a couple bottles of water, but paused on her way back when she saw the tears streaming silently down his face. She set the water in front of him, then took the seat across the table. She said nothing. Only waited there, sipping her water, until he acknowledged her presence again.

  He finally moved, reaching out to pick up the water. “I think I’m losing my mind.” He took a long drink, draining half the bottle in one breath. The knuckles on both of his hands were bruised and scabbed. She’d noticed other wounds and contusions on his arms and legs as well, all at different stages of the healing process. Marcus hadn’t been infected like Jean-Luc, but he’d also had to fight to survive after the militant attack separated them. She wondered what had happened to him during that week or so he’d been on his own, but wasn’t about to push for an explanation. Jean-Luc had said Marcus had his own demons, and he was obviously battling them now.

  “You both have been through so much,” she said gently. “You’re allowed a moment to break down every now and again.”

  And maybe that was also what had happened to Jean-Luc back in the hospital. He was having his own breakdown moment. A more than plausible explanation for his sudden distance with her and, still, she couldn’t shake the feeling it was something more.

  Either way, Marcus wasn’t going to be much help right now. He needed a friend, not questions.

  Marcus rested his head on the table, knocked his forehead lightly against the wood a couple times. “Are there tests you can run on me, doc? Tell me if I’m losing my mind.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “I keep seeing him,” he said, his words muffled by the table.

  “Who?”

  “Danny. He was my best friend. No, more like a brother. He was family. We went through the FBI academy together, rose through the ranks together. I saw him every day until I left the FBI and joined HORNET. He died in Martinique.”

  Oh, so many people had died that night, and all because of her research. How could he not blame her? “I’m sorry, Marcus. It’s inadequate, but I truly am sorry for what happened that night.”

  “It’s not your fault, Claire.”

  “It certainly feels like it is.” When he lifted his head and she saw his expression ravaged by grief, she shook off the self-pity. She’d drown that later in some palm wine. Right now, he needed help, and she was a doctor. Okay, not a head doctor, but she was all he had. “Is that when you started seeing Danny? After Martinique?”

  “No. It was after Jean-Luc and I got separated here in Nigeria. I was trudging through the jungle, trying to find civilization, and I didn’t know if I was gonna make it. I have survival and combat skills but I’m no Rambo. I was in bad shape. I’d whacked my head hard when we were attacked and I wasn’t quite with it. I fell, passed out for a while, and when I opened my eyes, I saw Danny in the distance, like a mirage. I crawled over to the spot, and found a road. Some workers from one of the oil companies scooped me up and took me to their facility, had their doc bandage me up, then put me on a flight to Lagos. I thought I saw Danny because I hit my head, but that was weeks ago and…”

  “And you saw him again,” Claire finished and nodded in the general direction of the river. “Outside just now, on the opposite bank.”

  “Like a mirage.” He looked defeated as he sat up and screwed the cap back onto his water bottle. “Am I bonkers?”

  “No,” she said flatly. “You’re grieving.”

  He sniffed hard and swiped at his eyes. “How’s Jean-Luc?”

  And that, she knew, was the end of that conversation. She took a sip of her own water before answering. “He’s…not himself. He’s…” She searched for the right word. “Sad.”

  “Grieving?” Marcus said with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

  She didn’t let it bother her. He was snapping at her because she was the only person available, just like how Jean-Luc had snapped when she found him wiping blood off that poor girl’s face. “Maybe. Was he also close with your friend Danny?”

  Marcus shook his head. “They were friends, sure. But not like—” He stopped. “It hurt everyone on the team when Danny was killed. He’s the first man we’ve ever lost.”

  So Danny’s death probably hadn’t affected Jean-Luc the same as it had Marcus. Maybe his sour mood had been just survivor’s guilt, after all. “Has Jean-Luc ever suffered from depression?”

  “The Ragin’ Cajun?” Marcus laughed, though there was little humor in it. “To hear him tell it, he’s the happiest man on Earth.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “Listen.” Marcus sighed and stood up. “Jean-Luc avoids. It’s what he does best. He learns new languages so he doesn’t have to think about anything too deep, and when that doesn’t work, he uses alcohol and sex. And, word of warning, he’ll use you too if you let him.”

  He’ll use you, too.

  Marcus’s words replayed through her mind as she watched him leave. She stayed seated for a moment, then shook her head and shoved to her feet. It was only midday, but after getting so little sleep this week, she was beyond exhausted. Could barely keep her eyes open, not to mention work through the messy entanglement that was her growing attraction to Jean-Luc. She needed sleep, but Sunday caught her before she could escape the mess tent.

  “Claire!”

  Suppressing a groan, she turned to face her friend. “Is everything okay?”

  Sunday thrust a tablet into her hands. “I just saw Jean-Luc’s last blood test.”

  She glanced down at the test results, but nothing had changed since she’d examined them earlier that day. “What’s wrong with it? Everything looks good to me. If his test tomorrow comes back like this, I’ll release him from the hospital.”

  “Exactly. Cured.” Sunday pulled the tablet out of her hands and stared at her with wide, astonished eyes. “What the hell did you give him?”

  Oh. That. She never told Sunday about Akeso.

  She rubbed the back of her aching neck. “It’s something I’ve been working on. An anti-viral. Can we talk about it tomorrow? I’m beat.”

  Sunday opened her mouth, no doubt to protest, but then closed it without uttering a sound. Her scowl softened. “Yeah, you look it, love.” She tilted her head toward the doo
r. “Go on, get out of here. Take tonight off. But tomorrow you owe me an explanation over breakfast.”

  “And you’ll get one.” She started out. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Hey.”

  She glanced back and Sunday grinned.

  “You saved his life, Claire. Just like you said you would. You should be proud.”

  She was. Maybe. Except even having had Marcus’s permission, using Jean-Luc as a guinea pig still sat like lead in her gut. And, God, what if there were horrible side effects that just hadn’t manifested yet?

  Oh, she didn’t know. She was too tired to think straight.

  She left the mess tent and sprinted through the rain to her quarters. Without undressing, she collapsed face-first on her cot and expected to fall asleep instantly.

  She didn’t.

  He’ll use you, too.

  Marcus’s words snaked back into her mind, a refrain that kept her tossing and turning in the muggy heat. Frustrated, she sat up.

  Unfortunately, no matter how many times she turned it over in her head and dissected it, it rang true. Jean-Luc would use her to dull whatever psychological pain he was trying to avoid. And maybe she’d let him use her. After all, he couldn’t break her heart if she never gave it to him, right?

  Too late, a small voice said in the back of her mind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jean-Luc’s first thought when he spotted Claire in the doorway of the exam room the next morning was: She’s not wearing any protective gear. His second: Jesus, she’s beautiful.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Like a pin cushion.” He scowled over at the nurse preparing to stick another damn needle in his arm. “You like poking me, don’t you?”

  The nurse, a local woman from Port Harcourt, gave an ultra-sweet smile. “You’ll feel a little pinch now.”

  He hissed out a breath and looked away as the needle slid into his vein. Claire smothered a laugh and he turned his scowl on her.

  “You’re enjoying this,” he accused.

  Her smile faded into what he thought of as her serious doctor face. “Of course not. You’re the first human test subject of Akeso. We’ll have to check your blood regularly for a while, but if the test comes back like your last one, you’re cured.” She waited until the nurse finished up, nodded and smiled her thanks. After the nurse left, she looked at him with a pained expression.

  Merde. She had bad news. There had been some kind of unanticipated side effect, or the drug wasn’t doing its job anymore and he would get sick again. He’d awakened in a good mood, which had dampened when he found out he had to be poked again. Now it vanished completely.

  He pulled the edge of his T-shirt over the bandage the nurse had left on his arm. Between that one and the large bandage over his stitches on his other arm, he really was starting to look like a mummy.

  He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “What is it, doc? Let me hear it. I can handle whatever you’re about to lay on me.”

  To his surprise, her cheeks pinked. He’d never seen her blush before, and found it strangely appealing. With her face all rosy, she looked sweeter, softer. Not his usual type of female, but for the first time in months, his cock stirred in response.

  Well, there you are, mon ami. You checked out for half a year, but the pretty doc blushes and now you’re all ‘let’s play’? You’re such a dick. Literally.

  Claire sucked in a breath through her nose and he realized he’d been scowling at her again. He tried to smooth out his features and gave an encouraging smile. He had to focus. She had bad news, and here he was with his brain firmly lodged in his cock.

  She pushed back her shoulders as if fortifying herself, then reached into the pocket of her lab coat and held out a little jar to him. “I need a semen sample.”

  Annnd his mind went right back to his dick. The stirring became a full-blown hard-on.

  “That so?” He smiled slowly and knew it was more predatory than intended when her hand wobbled. He sat back in the chair and let his legs fall open just enough that it’d be hard for her to miss exactly how her words had affected him.

  “Y-yes.” She cleared her throat, strode forward, and shoved the jar into his palm. “We have to test it for the virus, just like your blood. So don’t take all night. I’ll be waiting outside.”

  He caught her wrist as she made to turn away. “Or you could stay and watch.” The thought of it solidified his erection to near pain and deepened his voice to a growl. “Or…help.”

  She stared down at him for a long moment, her lips parted slightly. It wasn’t embarrassment flooding her cheeks with color this time. No, he knew women, knew their bodies, and that was want. Lust. Need. He wasn’t alone in this attraction, which made him feel less dirty for wanting her as much as he did.

  Holding her gaze, he pushed down the borrowed scrub bottoms and freed himself.

  She didn’t move away. Her gaze flicked down and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. She probably didn’t even realize she’d done it, but the act had him aching with need.

  “Oh, envie. You give me the frissons when you look at me like that.” He closed a hand around himself and started an easy up-down rhythm.

  She lifted her gaze to his. Her eyes were dazed, slightly out of focus. Her lips soft, wet, and inviting. He wanted to kiss her.

  They couldn’t, though. Not yet.

  “Envie?” she whispered.

  “A craving.” He continued to work himself and stared at her mouth, imagining how her lips would feel against his. Imagining how she’d taste. “A desire. You’ve been mine since I first laid eyes on you.”

  She swallowed hard. “How could you have wanted me? I told you off the first time.”

  “Yes.” His cock bucked in his hand. At the time, he’d been perplexed and annoyed by her initial coolness, but now that he knew her, it was so fucking sexy. He kind of wished she’d talk to him like that more often. “Would you tell me off now?”

  “No.” The word was barely a breath of sound as she watched his hand move.

  “It turns me on when you shoot me down.” When her eyes snapped to his, he gave his best devilish grin. “I’m not used to rejection. I’ve always gotten more yeses than nos.”

  “I’ll just bet you have.” Her gaze cooled just a bit and she stepped back. “Glad to see the infection didn’t damage your ego, Mr. God’s Gift to Womankind. How’s this for rejection? I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

  He watched her go and groaned as his climax pumped from him. Having her speak to him in that cold, clinical tone shouldn’t make him go wild, but it was so different from any response he’d ever had from a woman.

  She was different.

  It was probably better that he goaded her back to that clinical distance. God knew he wanted her, but she was worlds better than him. For all of his womanizing ways, he knew and respected when one was out of his league. And Claire absolutely was.

  He looked down at himself. The turn of his thoughts had shriveled his cock. Or maybe that was the voodoo celibacy curse kicking in to torture him some more.

  Mais, at least she got her sample.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The militants weren’t hard to find, but they had traveled a ways in the opposite direction of the hospital and getting to them took longer than Mercedes liked. After hours of cruising through the labyrinth of mangrove-lined rivers and creeks in a boat, Sebastian finally spotted the camp. The militants had spotted them as well, and were already running toward the shore with weapons in hand.

  “This is crazy.” Seb shut down the boat’s engine and made sure his rifle case was securely hidden beside his seat. “What if they’re infected?”

  “We won’t get close enough to catch it.”

  “They might just kill us, you know? It’s what I’d do.”

  “They won’t.” Mercedes walked to the front of the boat and held up her hands as the militants swarmed out onto a dock and wadded into the wate
r, weapons aimed. They all wore masks made of beanies with holes cut out for the eyes, and they were all heavily armed.

  “Who are you?” one of the masked men demanded from the dock. All of the other men stepped back and allowed him to approach the front of their boat. If these were the Egbesu Fighters, then this man was their leader, Goodway “Goody” Igwe. He waved his weapon in a way meant to intimidate, but all she saw was a man with a happy trigger finger and no training. Yes, he probably was as deadly as her intel suggested, but in close quarters combat, he wouldn’t stand a chance against her. She could disarm him in two seconds, flat.

  “I’m an ally,” she called back. “A friend who believes in your cause.”

  “What do you want?” His gun wavered like he was debating whether or not to trust her. Definitely not trained. And if she wasn’t mistaken, he was high on something, probably the mixture of alcohol and liquid cocaine these guys drank to ward off spirits. His eyes were bloodshot behind his mask. Either that, or he was infected with the hemorrhagic virus Dr. Oliver came here for.

  The boat and dock came together with a clunk and he boarded.

  Please, don’t let him be infected.

  “What do you want?” he demanded again.

  “To talk,” she said very evenly. “I have information that may be of use to you, Mr. Igwe.”

  The gun steadied and pointed at her chest. Behind her, she felt more than saw Seb tighten up, readying for an attack. Oh, he hated this. If he had it his way, she’d stay safe at home while he went out and did the dirty work, which was exactly why their relationship had been doomed from the start. She wasn’t that kind of woman, and he wasn’t the kind of man to accept that.

  “Is your information worth more than I could get ransoming you?” Goody asked.

  “Yes,” she said, though she doubted it was true. Then again, Harrison Stead might not pay a ransom if she was sloppy enough to get herself caught. His fatherly love likely didn’t extend that far.

  The thought hurt, but she shoved it aside. “I know you’ve lost men recently. A whole camp.”

  “A prisoner, too. He’s worth a lot of money.” Again with the gun waving. “Did you take him and make my men sick?”