"How the devil would I be—" He broke off as he met her blazing eyes. His lips tightened. "Okay, I'll take the helicopter."
"And you won't nag me to go along?" she persisted.
"Why should I waste my time?" He got up and turned away. "I give you my solemn promise I'll not make the slightest damn attempt to nag you to save your own neck."
FOUR
The helicopter hovered and then landed with a soft thud on the grassy plateau.
"Come on." Ronnie grabbed Gabe's arm and started running toward the aircraft. "We have to get you out of here. Those lights can be seen for miles."
Gabe's long legs were easily outdistancing hers. "Leaving you right on ground zero," he muttered savagely.
"The sooner you take off, the sooner I'll be on my way too."
The door of the helicopter was opening and a slim, wiry man wearing a leather flight jacket jumped down.
"Bredlowe?" she asked as she came within calling distance.
"Right."
She reached into her bag, drew out her camcorder, and told Gabe, "You go ahead. I want to catch a shot of you two together."
"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Nevertheless he sprinted forward and grasped the man's hand.
Bredlowe's eyes were glistening in the lights of the helicopter as he said something to Gabe. She couldn't hear over the roar of the rotors, but there was no mistaking either the emotion or the drama of the greeting between the two men.
Gabe turned to her. "Put the camera down and come meet my friends." His voice was gruff and his eyes as moist as Bredlowe's. She reluctantly switched off the camera and hurried forward. It was great stuff, but she had enough footage and Gabe needed to get under way.
"Dan Bredlowe, Ronnie Dalton," Gabe said. "Ronnie tells me you've already met by phone."
Bredlowe's hand enveloped Ronnie's. "Lord, I didn't think you could pull it off. You're a bloody miracle."
At closer range he looked to be in his late twenties, with a shock of curly brown hair and hazel eyes that gazed at her as if she were Mother Teresa and Michelle Pfeiffer rolled into one. It made her uncomfortable. "Hi," she said awkwardly. "You'd better get him out of here." She turned to Gabe and thrust out her hand. "It's time for you to go. Good-bye."
He took her hand and warmth flowed through her as it had the first time he had touched her.
He was staring at her, his face impassive, but she could sense the storm of emotion in him. He didn't like this. Well, she didn't either, but she didn't have a choice.
"Oh, will you do me a favor?" She withdrew her hand, opened her camera, and took out the cassette. "Will you keep this for me? I'll send for it as soon as I'm safe."
"So you won't get caught with it?" he asked caustically.
"I won't get caught. It's just safe practice to guard the story. Will you?"
He took the cassette and jammed it into his jacket pocket. "Come with me."
She shook her head, a tremulous smile on her lips. "Not possible. And you promised not to nag me."
"I won't nag you." He gestured to the pilot in the plane. "This is David Carroll, my pilot."
She turned her head to see the brown-skinned pilot, his wide smile gleaming in the lighted dash of the cockpit as he leaned forward to offer his hand.
"A pleasure," he said softly. "Nice to meet—" Pain exploded in her jaw! Blackness followed.
Dan gasped. "Gabe, what the hell are you—"
"Grab that camera," Gabe rapped as he caught Ronnie's slumping body. "She'll castrate me if anything happens to it."
Dan grabbed the camera as it fell from Ronnie's lax fingers. "She might do it anyway. A right to the jaw isn't the way most people show gratitude for saving their lives."
"It was that or let her risk her neck again trying to reach the border." He carried Ronnie to the helicopter, settled her in one of the backseats, and fastened her seat belt. "No way was I going to let that happen. Let's get the hell out of here, Dave."
The pilot watched him climb into the seat beside Ronnie and fasten his seat belt. "Is she okay? She's out like a light."
"You hit her pretty hard," Dan accused.
"Shut up and get in the helicopter," Gabe said through his teeth. He was feeling enough guilt; he didn't need any more heaped on him.
Dan jumped into the helicopter, taking the other front seat, and slammed the door. "Take off, Dave." As the helicopter became airborne he turned back to look at Gabe. "I suppose you had a reason for this. Why didn't she want to come with us?"
"Something about not wanting to be in the limelight." He gendy tilted Ronnie's head so it lay more comfortably on the headrest. The bruise was already showing on that exquisite peaches-and-cream skin. He felt like one of those creeps who battered women. When she woke up he'd be lucky if she didn't use that .357 Magnum on him. Hell, maybe he'd let her. "How bad is the reception committee going to be at Marasef airport?"
"There will be our own reporters, of course." Dan made a face. "And we had no choice but to tell the CIA you'd been released so they could pull their men out of the danger zone. That means there will probably be leaks to other news services."
"So we can expect a media circus."
"But with our own network in the center ring," Dan said quickly. "And once the officials whisk you away to Frankfurt for medical tests, we'll be the only ones permitted to—"
"No Frankfurt."
"You know all hostages go to the hospital there for medical assessment."
"That doesn't mean I have to go." He turned back to Ronnie. She looked as fragile and breakable as one of the porcelain dolls in his aunt's collection.
I'm not going to let you mess up my life.
Ronnie had known the risks of staying, but she had been willing to take them for reasons of her own. He had not been able to leave her, but he had no right to judge the consequences of her plan of action when he was ignorant of the nature of those risks.
He leaned forward and spoke to David. "Change direction. Head south, we're not going to Marasef airport."
She was being carried down a gleaming ivory-and-gold tile hallway, passing magnificent paintings, priceless panels with intricate frets . ..
"A museum?" she muttered. "What the devil-am I doing in a museum?"
"Not a museum. A palace," Gabe said. "Open the door, Dan."
A palace?
Gabe strode into a chamber as magnificent as the corridor through which she had been carried. "Thanks, Dan. Now get out of here before the fireworks start."
"Gladly," Dan said. "See you later."
She was being placed on something silken and cushioned, a chaise lounge. Then Gabe was gone.
A moment later an ice pack settled against her jaw. She flinched, her eyes focusing on Gabe's face a few inches from her own.
"Easy," he said quietly. "Let me hold it here. The ice will bring the swelling down."
"Why should I have—" Her eyes widened in realization and outrage. "You hit me!"
"How else was I to—" He gasped when her fist connected with his stomach and the breath left him.
She jumped to her feet, glaring at him. "Damn you!"
He straightened painfully. "At least you didn't use the gun."
"I should have," she said with ferocity. "You deserve it. What gave you the right to interfere? I told you I couldn't come with you to—"
"Hold it!" he interrupted. "I agree I deserve any reasonable punishment you care to dish out. Do you want to hit me again? I won't even put up a fight."
Her hands slowly unclenched. "You shouldn't have done it. You had no right."
"And you had no right to put me in a position where I felt helpless to do anything else. Do you think I like beating up on women?"
"How do I know?" She gingerly touched her jaw. "You certainly hit me hard enough."
"I had to knock you out." He grimaced. "But I had no idea you had the proverbial glass jaw. I thought you'd wake up in the helicopter."
"You shouldn't have done it," she repeated. She lo
oked around the huge room. The decor was a cross between Mediterranean and elegant French Provincial. The couch was pure turquoise-cushioned opulence, the floor white marble tile covered by a delicate cream-and-blue Aubusson carpet, and the French doors might have graced a harem in ancient days. "Is this a hotel?"
He shook his head. "The palace."
She vaguely remembered him saying something about one. "What palace?"
"The royal palace of Sedikhan. You seemed so adamant about avoiding the spotlight, I had Dave land us on the palace grounds instead of the airport. I radioed ahead and got permission from Sheikh Ben Raschid, the reigning head of state, and he'll run interference for us until we get our bearings."
A flare of hope shot through her. She might be able to salvage this disaster yet. "Then nobody knows I'm here?"
"Not yet." He paused. "But I'm not going to lie to you. We had to tell the authorities I'm here and Dan said your name was mentioned to the CIA as the instigator of the rescue attempt."
"Damn, they might as well have broadcast it by satellite." She drew a long breath, trying to mink. "It may still be okay. I can take off right away. If I'm not here, they can't ask questions." She looked around the suite. "Where's my camera bag?"
"Still in the helicopter," he said. "And there's no sense you running away yet. I don't deny there will be leaks, but no one is going to be able to reach you while you're here."
He made it sound so easy. He didn't realize her only chance was to get away before— She was lying to herself, she realized. It was already too late."
"That won't help," she said dully. "They have my name and they'll start to dig. You should have left me in Said Ababa."
"It's done. You're here now. Stop bellyach-ing."
She blinked and then said reluctantly, "You're right, no use crying over spilled milk. I'll just have to clean it up."
"No, I'll clean it up," he said. "But I have to know how much damage control is needed. Why are you so afraid of—"
"It's my business," she said. "Stay out of it."
"Not likely. I brought you here and I'm not—" He stopped as he saw her set expression. "Okay, I'll drop it for now. You could use a good night's sleep and so could I."
She glanced at the king-size bed across the room that was draped with gauze curtains. She had a sudden memory of the chipped headboard of the bed they had shared last night at Fatima's.
As if he had read her mind he said softly, "You can't say I don't provide better for you than you did for me."
She felt a surge of heat. He had not mentioned leaving her. Did he mean to share this suite and that bed with her tonight? Her gaze flew back to his face and she saw him shake his head.
"I'll find my own bunk. I need to get some sleep myself."
The emotion that cascaded through her was a confused rush of relief and disappointment. She tried to make her tone casual. "I didn't think anything else."
"Yes, you did, and so did I. It was as disturbing as hell." He turned away and walked toward the door. "I'll join you here for breakfast at ten and we'll talk."
"I get up early. Six at the latest."
"Then cultivate the luxury life until I get here. Right now I have to go pay my respects to His Majesty and ask a few favors. But tomorrow I'm going to put a hell of a lot of questions to you and I'm going to get some answers."
She scowled. "Maybe."
"Answers," he repeated.
"What would you do if I told you to go jump in the lake to find your blasted answers?" She lifted her chin. "Punch me out again?"
His compelling gaze met her own. "No, but I'll find another way to get them."
Lord, he was determined, she thought with a shiver of apprehension as she watched the door close behind him.
Well, so what? She had fought determined men before and come out on top.
But she didn't want to fight Gabe Falkner. She respected him and admired him and—
She pulled back sharply before she could complete the thought and moved forward to the French doors. She stared out at a lovely courtyard that was crowned by a mosaic-tiled fountain illuminated by strategically placed lights. This place was a vision of peace and beauty, a balm to her frazzled nerves after those weeks in Said Ababa. She should really go find her camera and get out of here, but she knew she wasn't going to do it. It would do no harm to stay in this lovely place for a night. She could leave in the morning. She was tired and needed a bath and—
None of that mattered. They were all excuses. The truth was that she couldn't bear to break from Gabe Falkner with this discord between them. He had been part of her life too long. She wanted the separation to be clean and without anger.
"It's about time you got here," she said as Gabe walked into the suite at eleven the next day. "I hate people who aren't prompt. I've been up since six and prowling around in this— You look terrible. What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. I'm just a little tired. I couldn't sleep last night. I guess I'm suffering from aftershock." He made a face. "I never thought it could happen to me. I'm not exactly the sensitive type."
But he was sensitive in his relations with others, she wanted to say. He seemed to possess a sixth sense, an empathy she had seen in few men. She felt a surge of sympathy mixed with guilt. He was so tough outwardly she had almost forgotten the ordeal he had just gone through.
"Well, what are you doing standing there?" she asked. "Sit down and eat something." She settled herself at the table the servants had rolled into the suite over an hour ago, uncovered the warming dishes, and spooned eggs and bacon on a plate. "Protein, that's what you need. Energy food. When I was held in Kuwait, I used to pet this terrible hunger for bacon. Sometimes I thought I could smell it. What did you get a yen for?"
"Well, I have to admit my primary yen wasn't for food." He went on immediately, "Big Macs." He started to eat the eggs. "I'm a fast-food junkie. I acquired the taste when I became a correspondent. There was almost always a McDonald's in any country I visited. It was like a little piece of home, as American as apple pie."
"Yeah," she said wistfully. "I guess it is."
His gaze raked her face. "That bruise is still pretty evident."
She shrugged. "I've had worse." Grinning, she added, "And given worse."
His hand went to his stomach. "You did last night. Do you want to see my bruise?"
Powerful shoulders gleaming in the lamplight, muscles rippling in a washboard-firm abdomen.
"I don't believe that's necessary." Her hand was trembling a little as she poured coffee into his cup and then her own. "I know my own power."
"I don't think you do." His gaze was fixed thoughtfully on her face. "You pack a punch that doesn't show up on the anatomy." He suddenly chuckled. "Or not in the usual places."
He was speaking of arousal, sexual response. She was used to much more graphic terms and yet she could feel the heat in her cheeks. "I think you need to get home to Mora Renord. Have you called her yet? I'm sure she'd come flying to your bed."
"To 'take the edge off'? I told you I don't use women." He leaned back in his chair. "And I don't want Mora here."
The explosive satisfaction that tore through her was a shock. She looked down at her coffee cup. "Why not?"
"Maybe I prefer Orphan Annie."
She looked up in confusion. "What?" She caught her breath as she met his gaze. "Me?"
"Oh, yes," he murmured. "Most certainly you."
He wanted her. It probably stemmed from propinquity and the provocativeness of their situation last night, but it hadn't ended at Fatima's. He still wanted to go to bed with her. She could feel the swelling of her breasts, the same tingling between her thighs she had experienced in that bed at the bordello.
"Well, aren't you going to say anything?" he asked softly.
"Sure." She lifted her cup to her lips. "You're probably so horny that Godzilla would look good to you, and I'm not Orphan Annie."
He chuckled. "And you're not Godzilla either."
"Nope." She s
hrugged, feigning casualness. 'But I have no intention of crawling into your bed to assuage a year of sexual drought." She sipped her coffee. "I only stuck around to say good-bye. After breakfast I'm on the road."
His smile vanished. "No way."
She ignored his words. "It's been an experience I won't forget. I hope everything goes well for you. Oh, and I'll need my camera and that cassette I gave you."
"You couldn't forget that," he said, acid in his voice. "Shut the door and walk away, but remember the camera."
"It's all I have," she said simply.
The grimness was wiped from his face. "Lord, what am I supposed to say to that?"
"Nothing. Just give me my camera."
He slowly shook his head. "I'd be a fool to do that. I obviously have a valuable hostage. That camera is almost a person to you. I'll trade you."
"For what?" she asked warily.
"Information. I'll give you your camera if you tell me what you're afraid of."
"No deal. I'll get another camera."
"But not like this one. It's been with you for such a long time, it's become almost a part of you."
He was right. She had saved for over a year for the money to buy that camera, and she loved it. "You bastard."
"Tell me," he coaxed. "What do I have to say to convince you that I won't betray you? For Lord's sake, don't you see I want to help you?"
"You can't help me. You blew it when you brought me here."
"Then I'll put it back together. What the hell do you think I'll do? I'm not going to hurt you, Ronnie."
He couldn't help her either, and she had never told anyone, not even Jed. She should keep her silence. She felt a surge of frustration at the thought. Lord, she was weary of that silence, of not being able to share.
"Ronnie?"
"I don't have a passport," she suddenly found herself saying.
"Is that all?" His expression cleared. "Did you eave it in Said Ababa? No problem. We'll get you a replacement. All we have to do is report the one you lost."
"That's not it. I didn't lose my passport. I still have it. It's just—" She stopped, then blurted out, "It's a phony."
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