“In four years. I even—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together.
“Even what?”
She shook her head, her gaze following a trail of ants on the jungle floor.
He cut a strip of gauze, cleaned her wounds with gentle swipes and dabs, applied the antibiotic and started wrapping her foot.
“If you give it an extra layer or whatever I could make it,” she said. “It already feels a lot better.”
“Your socks are bloody rags.” He looked up. “I have to send you back.”
“You can’t!” She shot forward and grasped his wrist. Her dark eyes were pleading. The kind of eyes that could make a man do anything. He turned his gaze down. “You don’t know what he’ll do to me.”
He pulled his wrist away. “Your choice. You went with him.”
She reached for her pack and dragged it close as he wrapped her other foot with less gentleness than the first, needing to get her away from him. But God, how could he make her walk on these feet?
“You’re not going to leave me all by myself?”
Damn, she was about to cry.
“We’ll find a village. I’m not going to leave you in the middle of the jungle. But even that won’t be easy.” He held out his hand. “Give me that.”
She pulled her pack closer, protective, wary.
“I need to stuff the toes or something so your feet won’t have room to slide around.”
“I don’t have anything.”
He tugged the pack free, frowning at her determination to hang on to it. What was she hiding? “I already saw the vibrator. Not that you’re likely to be embarrassed by something like that.” He unzipped the pack and pulled out a brightly colored silk dress, something fine and expensive, something Rebecca would never wear. No, she liked soft colors and cotton, and had probably never paid more than fifty dollars for a dress. This garment was probably worth four times that, at least.
The goddess whimpered, her gaze focused on it.
He grabbed the garment by the shoulders, took just a moment to imagine how the fabric would mold to her body, and ripped it in two.
You would have thought he’d stabbed her in the heart, the way she cried out and reached for it, trying to pull it from his grasp, too late.
“What the hell?” he demanded, holding it away. “It’s a dress.”
But the woman who’d refused to cry when she was in a truck on fire, or hanging off the side of a mountain, was sobbing over a dress. Jesus.
He snatched up her boots, one at a time, and shoved the fabric inside, wadding it in the toes. Then he held out each boot expectantly. Lower lip trembling, she took them, eased her sore feet inside and laced them up.
He stood, backing away and grabbing his pack, not taking his gaze off her. Goddamn, he’d never understand women.
She didn’t speak as they trudged through the jungle. Pissed about the dress, no doubt. She’d stopped crying, though. She was making an effort to keep up. After seeing the state her feet were in, he knew what an effort that was. He couldn’t quite make himself admire her for it, though.
“Are you going to sulk about the dress till we get to the extraction point?”
She didn’t respond.
“Saldana bought you that dress? That why you’re so upset?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Her tone was dull, different than before.
“I bet. I don’t get women who sell their bodies to scum of the earth for pretty things.”
That put her back up and her tone sharpened. “I’m not going to explain myself to you.”
“Explain this to me.” He fell back to walk beside her. “How did you end up in Central America?”
“Studying.”
Right. “Studying drug lords? Terrorists?”
She tossed her ponytail, strands of hair coming loose every which way. “Spanish. Immersion.”
Shepard turned, incredulous. “Yeah, I hear Saldana has a real thing for linguists.”
“I danced to pay my tuition.”
She didn’t even blush at the admission.
“Stripped, you mean.” Why was he surprised? Maybe he was just surprised she was so open about it. And surprised that the image of her in a G-string hanging on a pole came so easily.
Goddammit.
Isabella knew they were approaching a village because the trees cleared out. The path in front of them was wide enough for a vehicle. In fact, she could see wheel ruts. Not a car, but four wheels.
Amazing what you could see on the ground when you didn’t have the energy to lift your head.
The pain was constant now, each step sending shocks of it through her system. Each time she lifted her foot, the weight of the boot pulled it downward, rubbing the boot across her raw toes. The insides of the boots were soggy. She didn’t think it was from the rain. The wetness only added to the friction.
When she got home, she would only wear flip-flops, no matter how mangled her feet looked.
When she got home. The hope was even farther away now than when she was in the compound. She hadn’t thought of all the obstacles to cross in escaping Santiago, in getting out of the country.
Now Sergeant Shepard wanted to leave her in this village so she could go back to Santiago. Clearly he didn’t want her blood on his hands.
He’d just as soon leave that responsibility to Santiago, which is what would happen if she went back to him. She’d seen what he was capable of, firsthand.
Ahead of her, Shepard halted, motioning for her to stop as well.
Stopping hurt worse than walking, and she swallowed a whimper.
Okay, maybe not, if the look Shepard shot her was any indication.
They drew back to the trees, Shepard pulling her with him. Her muscles were so stiff, she staggered at the movement.
Her heart thudded as Shepard palmed his pistol and moved forward, his lean body at once taut and graceful as he moved into the village. She’d never seen anyone so focused. But of course their lives depended on that skill.
She wondered what had him worried and hoped he didn’t shoot a villager by mistake. He was that tense.
He disappeared, and her pain disappeared as she held her breath, waiting for him to return.
She was alone in the silent jungle. Quiet jungles meant danger. Her legs were water, her boots planted in the mud, as every nerve in her body screamed for her to run after him.
Her muscles finally heeded her nerves and she stumbled in the direction she’d seen Shepard go. She rounded a hut only to be yanked back against a hard body, a large hand over her mouth.
Before panic choked her, she realized the hand was rough and bandaged.
Shepard.
Still, he’d scared the hell out of her. She plowed her elbow into his stomach—his hard stomach—and threw her weight forward but he held fast.
“Hold still.” The words brushed against her ear.
It was then she realized they were in the shadows, and that there was no movement in front of them. Over the scent of Shepard’s sweat, she smelled something else, more acrid.
Behind her, she felt Shepard working to control his breathing, though she could feel his heart thundering against her back. What had him so uptight? The silence?
Then he eased his hand from her mouth, turning her at the same time so she could see his finger over his lips.
Desperate to know what was going on, she opened her mouth, but she stopped herself before the words came out, his razor-sharp look casting a warning. Once he was sure she would be quiet, he edged her behind him, training his gun from side to side in stiff-armed sweeps.
God, were those—she choked back a cry of despair when she realized—
She must have made some sound because Shepard turned his head infinitesimally in warning. What did it mean that she understood him?
Bodies. God, bodies everywhere. The smell she hadn’t been able to identify was blood. Everywhere.
This time she had to stifle a gag, because now she understood he t
hought whoever did this might still be there.
She twisted her fingers in the back of his shirt as she moved behind him. To the side, she saw a woman sprawled on her stomach, her back ripped and bloody. Beside her lay a small body.
She turned her head, pressed her face between Shepard’s shoulder blades. He stopped, mid-step, his muscles tight. Understanding he couldn’t move freely with her plastered against him, she eased away a little. Still, she didn’t take her eyes from the back of his neck, where sweat trailed from his neat hairline to the collar of his T-shirt. She stumbled after him, afraid to look at her feet to see what she might be stepping on.
Finally, she felt his tension ease, and he lowered the gun.
“They’re gone,” he said, keeping his voice low, sounding disappointed. Disappointed.
“What happened?” she asked, her own voice rough.
“Automatic weapons.” When he turned to look at her, his eyes were hard, flat. That hate again. “Know anyone with automatic weapons in these parts?”
Santiago. “But why?”
“My guess? A message to you, sweetheart. That he won’t let you go easily.”
“But how does he know where we’re going?”
“I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, looking uncertain for the first time since she’d seen him.
That was scarier than his angry, hot eyes.
Which flashed at her as if the moment of weakness had never happened. “But clearly this was a warning, to you, to us, to anyone who might help us.”
She staggered a step back. “You think these people are dead because of me?”
“Would Saldana’s men be out of the compound if they weren’t looking for you?”
Oh God. Her stomach heaved but nothing was left. Still, the bile burned her throat, her mouth, and she turned her head to spit it out, holding her hair back as her body, her soul turned inside out.
Her life for these people. Could she survive knowing that these people had died because of her? She wanted to ask Shepard, but he was looking at her with such disgust.
The same disgust she felt for herself.
Chapter Three
“We have got to go.” Alex grasped her arm, but her resistance surprised him. He knew she hurt, but he thought her will to survive was stronger.
He turned. Her gaze was riveted by a kid sprawled on his stomach, arms stretched out toward a woman—his mother?
The goddess stared. Damn, was she going to break down on him? Last thing he needed was a hysterical female.
“We can’t just leave them like this,” she said through lips that didn’t move. “We need to bury them.”
He felt sick about it, but said, “Right, and Santiago’s men will just hang back and wait for us to finish our good deed. We’re moving on.”
She dug her heels into the soft earth beside one of the smallest victims. Neither of them looked down. Instead, her eyes burned into his.
“I hate you.”
“I’m hurt.” He headed off into the jungle, hating himself pretty much as well.
Isabella followed, barely able to see him through the tears of sorrow and anger that blurred her vision. Each step took them from the people who needed their help, and she couldn’t forgive him for it.
Finally, she couldn’t go any farther. They’d left the village an hour ago, maybe longer. Her muscles were watery and her feet screamed in a symphony of pain. She was dizzy and she was thirsty and she was hot. But she hadn’t spoken to Shepard since they’d left the villagers lying in the open, waiting for the jungle to reclaim them.
He hadn’t spoken to her, either, had gotten as far as twenty feet away before slowing to wait for her. She’d thought he meant to leave her, like he had the villagers, and part of her was relieved. She couldn’t go on much longer.
He was ahead of her again, standing, waiting, every line of his body telegraphing his impatience. She didn’t hurry to catch up—couldn’t—but when she reached him, he swung his pack to the ground and said, “Break,” without looking at her.
Why was he mad? Oh, yes—he thought it was her fault those people were dead.
He might be right. She couldn’t care just now.
As he crouched and opened his pack, she swayed on her feet. He pawed through, then reached up toward her with a power bar in his fist. She took it, unwrapped the plastic and scarfed the crumbly bar, barely tasting it, before he stood, unwrapping his own.
His gaze flicked from the empty wrapper, then her, for the first time since the village. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hungry?”
Surely he was smart enough to figure it out, so she didn’t answer. When he rolled his eyes, she knew he’d made the connection.
“Still mad?”
She didn’t have the energy to argue with him about leaving those people, didn’t want to tell him about her fears that he’d leave her as well, so she said nothing.
“There was a reason you snuck out of the compound, right?” he asked.
His ability to form complete sentences stunned her. He had to be as exhausted as she was. She merely nodded.
“I figure you probably don’t want to go back or end up like those people.”
The memories of those people swamped her, choking her, and she shook her head. Her eyes burned. She was going to cry and he was going to hate her even more.
“If we die out here, no one’s going to bury us,” she whispered.
“No.”
Her breathing became faster as she swallowed her tears, then she whirled away from him, too tired to fight them anymore. Dizzy, she dropped to her knees, dug her fingers into the decaying vegetation and stopped resisting.
Terror, rage, sorrow gushed out in a torrent, monsters her body struggled to purge. Behind her, Shepard loomed, making no effort to quiet her, to comfort her, to chide her. He only stood, waited until she got control of herself.
Sitting on her heels, she wiped at her face. She couldn’t look at him, at his judgmental eyes. But once her vision cleared she saw the canteen he offered her. She took it silently and drank big gulps, passed it back considerably lighter.
He sighed and capped it. “You need to get some sleep.”
If he’d told her they would be airlifted into Air Force One, she wouldn’t have been more surprised. Or relieved. But… “Where?”
He pointed up, still looking at her. “There.”
She followed his finger. “In the tree.”
“Yep.”
“How are we going to get there?”
He swung his pack on his shoulder and grinned—the first smile she’d seen, and the flash of white teeth took her breath away. She had thought he was handsome before, sure, the lean planes of his face accented by his shorn brown hair and his body honed to perfection. But there had been nothing in his eyes but contempt.
Until now.
He was challenging her, probably his way of motivating her. A challenge, she could take. Except she’d never climbed a tree before, not even as a kid. She’d always been a princess.
“Why in the tree?” she asked.
“Because if Saldana’s men come, they won’t be likely to look in the trees.”
That made sense. “What about jaguars?”
“They’re nocturnal. We have a couple of good hours before we have to worry about them.” He followed her gaze up. “It’s not the featherbed you’re used to, but it will be safe enough. I’ll go first.” He moved toward the tree and inspected it for a moment, finding hidden footholds before muscling his way to the first fork, about ten feet off the ground.
Then he turned and reached for her.
Right. She secured her pack behind her and gripped the tree, trying to find the footholds he’d found in the slick bark. Her already throbbing feet protested as she clumsily bumped them against the trunk, searching for a way to get up.
“What’s the problem?” he asked.
“I’m not as closely related to my ape ancestors as you,” she muttered and hauled her weight ont
o the slight foothold she’d found, only to slide loose and hit the ground with enough force to have her feet screaming.
“Jesus, Goddess.”
“I’ve never climbed a tree before,” she said, frustration making her grit her teeth. “And quit calling me that. My name is Isabella.”
“I know your name.”
She tried again, with a different foothold, refused to see how far away he was.
“I know what yours is too,” she said, almost breathless with the effort of hauling herself up almost two feet from the ground. Her stupid pack made her off balance. “That A on your name patch? It’s Asshole, isn’t it?”
He chuckled softly, but his voice sounded close. She looked up in surprise to find his fingers closer than she thought, and she gave herself a heave until their fingers brushed, another till he could grip her wrist and pull.
When she was sitting beside him in the Y of tree branches, he turned to her and grinned. “You got it, sweetheart.”
The first fork in the tree wasn’t good enough for him. No, it was too close to the ground. So they had to climb to the next one. If he thought she was going to be able to fall asleep twenty feet from the ground, where one shift of her weight while she was sleeping could send her tumbling out of the tree and onto her head…
“Come over here.” It was a command, so she paused. They were in close-enough quarters but he wanted her closer.
Part of her hesitation was that, well, she was a little scared of him. He didn’t like her, had no reason to keep her safe, and she was slowing him down. He might well push her to the ground.
The other reason was that she smelled to high heaven, and she was still woman enough to worry about his reaction to that.
Not that he smelled any better.
Not that she noticed what he smelled like.
“Goddamn.” He stopped himself. “Isabella, get over here. Just treat me like your pillow, all right?”
Shepard as a pillow. That would be about as comfortable as a rock. But he would anchor her. Reluctantly, she edged closer so they were hip to hip. He shifted his arm so he could loop it over her shoulders, holding her against his side. She had no choice but to relax back against his shoulder. Hard, just like she thought.
Breaking Daylight Page 4
