by Kay Hooper
“I—Yes.” Tyler watched him stow his boots in the backpack, and felt her throat tighten when he rose to his feet. “I know you’ve done this before. You have done this before?”
“Sure.”
“So you’re just going to climb using nothing but your fingers and toes. Right?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I thought this was a democratic partnership.”
Kane looked at her, half guarded and half amused. “It is—as much as possible.”
She ignored the qualification. “Then I vote we go down into the ravine. The shooter’s gone.”
“And maybe waiting up ahead for us. It’s an easy climb, Ty, and we need to move to higher ground anyway. We should climb toward the coast and then head south.”
Tyler didn’t have to ask if Kane knew what he was talking about; he did. He probably had a map of Colombia imprinted on his brain, and she knew he spoke Spanish like a native. But Tyler wasn’t exactly ignorant of the geography herself, never mind that she knew little Spanish. “Why the coast? It’ll be murder traveling through those swamps and forests. Why not stick to the mountains and just head south?”
He studied her for a moment. “I get the feeling you’re arguing the way a kid whistles in a graveyard—just to hear yourself.”
His perception annoyed her. It also disturbed her in a way she didn’t want to think about. She fought a brief silent battle with her pride and lost. “I’m not very good with sheer drops, that’s all.” She looked at him defiantly, daring him to make some smart crack about her phobias.
Kane glanced down at the drop below them, then back at her. “You hide it well, I must say.”
In a put-upon tone, she said reasonably, “I’m standing on a ledge of rock; it may not be much, but it’s solid. You expect me to dangle at the end of a rope. I don’t like ropes. I don’t trust them.”
Matching her tone, he said, “Look, Ty, if we go down, we’ll have to either take our chances there isn’t an ambush ahead, or else follow the ravine about eight miles north before we can get to higher ground the easy way. In this terrain, that’ll cost us a day at least. You really want that?”
After a moment Tyler sighed, picked up the rifle and held it ready for anything, and then leaned back against the rock. “All right, damn it. Climb.”
He winked at her, solemn, then began climbing.
The morning air was chilly; Tyler told herself that was why she shivered as she watched him scale the cliff with the ease of a mountain goat. He never seemed to put a foot wrong, testing the placement of each finger and toehold with exquisite care before allowing his weight—and his life—to depend on it. He obviously knew what he was doing. And Tyler watched, her head tilted back against rock, her eyes fixed on him always.
Her mouth was dry and her heart seemed to have lodged in her throat, choking her with its pounding. She wasn’t worried about him, she assured herself fiercely. After all, he thought too much of his own hide to risk it unnecessarily; he wouldn’t have begun climbing if there had been any great danger. No, it was just that it was getting lighter, and they didn’t know where their friendly gunman was.
It was eerily quiet, as it always was in the dawn hours, and Tyler’s anxious sense of urgency grew as the light strengthened. Even in his khaki shirt and jeans Kane was obvious against the cliff, she thought, his thick black hair shining in alien darkness against the light-colored rock. If the shooter was still around, and chanced to look up . . .
She jerked her gaze from Kane and began searching the ravine, eyeing each jumble of rock suspiciously. Nothing moved, and there was no sign of anyone save themselves. It didn’t reassure her particularly. The ravine was deep and wide. Rocks, brush. There were so many places someone could hide—
A rock nearly as big as her head bounded downward suddenly, striking the ledge not a foot from where she stood. Forgetting the gunman, she looked swiftly up to find that Kane had nearly reached the top; he seemed to be having no difficulty at all, but the khaki shirt showed damp patches indicating his task wasn’t nearly as easy as it appeared.
Tyler felt dizzy as she watched him pull himself up over the top, realizing only then that she had held her breath, and her lungs were aching. She allowed herself to breathe normally now, faintly irritated by her reaction to his danger. She certainly wasn’t worried about the man, it was just that this was a lonely area and it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if the someone was Kane. If he hadn’t made it, she would have been forced to talk to herself.
But once she got up there . . . It occurred to her only then that she herself would be a dandy target while he pulled her up—and that neither of them would be able to hold the rifle ready to return any gunfire.
The nylon line snaked downward, and she knelt to tie the backpack securely, her mouth twisting ruefully as she remembered who had taught her to tie a decent knot. Kane. In North Africa during their first meeting—and first clash.
She watched the backpack ascend, then slung the rifle across her back as the line dropped down again. She tied the end around her waist loosely, making certain not to use a slipknot, then waved to Kane to signal she was ready. The line tightened immediately, and she kept her feet braced against the cliff, “walking” upward as he pulled the rope. She didn’t look down. She didn’t look at anything at all, in fact, and realized that only when Kane hauled her over the top and spoke.
“You can open your eyes now.”
He was laughing, and all Tyler’s misgivings about the situation suddenly exploded within her. Her reaction, she knew, was excessive, but knowing that did nothing to lessen it. She dropped the rope and swung at him furiously and accurately, missing his jaw only because he ducked with a fighter’s lightning reflex.
“Damn it, woman—”
Tyler lunged at him, both fists doubled and her legs tangling with the rope trailing from her waist. She told herself that rope gave him the advantage, told herself it was because of that Kane was able to wrestle her to the ground. Her pride wouldn’t admit how pathetically easy it seemed to him.
He didn’t make the mistake of allowing her to get a knee anywhere near him; she had used that trick before. Roughly pinning her hands to the ground above her head, he threw a leg across her and sat astride her hips, his two hundred pounds easily holding her still despite her best efforts to throw him off.
And she tried, bucking beneath him furiously, her impotent rage and sudden panic growing because he was holding her down and she felt smothered, helpless.
She never wanted to feel like that again. Never. “Damn you, you son of a—”
“Tyler!” He glared down at her, his handsome face less humorous than she’d ever seen it, his mouth hard. “Just what the hell is wrong with you?”
“You laughed at me!” she practically screamed, panic clawing at her mind. “I hate that, I hate being laughed at!”
His flying brows drew together. “And that’s why you attacked me like a wildcat? For God’s sake, Ty, I wasn’t laughing at you. You might have been scared to death, but you climbed the damned cliff. I happen to think that took a hell of a lot of courage.”
“You laughed,” she insisted between gritted teeth, fighting to hold the anxiety at bay.
He was still frowning. “Honey, I was laughing because I admired your guts.”
She didn’t want to believe that, but his steady green eyes were honest. And she believed him. Her rage drained away, leaving her shaking and oddly bereft.
With anger gone, there was nothing left to insulate her from those other disturbing feelings. He was sitting on her and she was more helpless than she could bear, but the clawing panic was fading with astonishing speed. The rifle beneath her jabbed into her back, but she hardly felt it. Instead she felt the warmth of him, the heavy weight of him, and he was leaning down so close she could see his oddly expanding pupils blocking out the green, and smell the musky male scent of his big body. Her wrists were held together by one of his hands, while the other lay on her
shoulder just inches from her breast, warm and heavy.
The abrupt urge to feel that big hand close over her breast washed over her in a dizzying wave, and she could feel the tight prickling of her nipples in response to the astonishing burst of desire. Her belly knotted, and beneath his heavy weight something flamed inside her, heating her loins.
Her own response shocked her, not the least because helplessness had always been a fear and she knew only too well that sexual helplessness was the greatest fear of all. How could he make her feel this way? How?
She almost moaned aloud, and her teeth gritted while she tried frantically to control the insane impulse of her body. Dangerous. Dear God, it was dangerous!
“All right,” she said in a small, husky voice. “I believe you. Now let me up.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea,” he said whimsically, his eyes darkening even more. “You’re an unpredictable lady, Tyler St. James. And I’ve had cause to be sure of that. I remember it well. After North Africa—and Budapest—I ached for days.”
Tyler could feel heat sweep up her throat, and with an effort she kept her gaze on his face. “That was your fault. You tricked me. You made me furious; I struck out without thinking. And I could have done worse.”
“I suppose you could have used that knife you carried. Instead of being bruised and sick, I would have been a total eunuch. I’ve heard about places in the world where a woman does that to her man in revenge for betrayal.”
“You’re not my man. Get off me!”
“I’m comfortable,” he murmured wickedly. “I may make a day of it. D’you still carry that knife, by the way? You didn’t have it on you last night when I took your bra off.”
Tyler gritted her teeth in helpless rage, welcoming the return of anger because it overwhelmed those other feelings. “Maybe I’m just hiding it more carefully these days!” she snapped.
“Shall I search you and find out?” he asked softly.
She watched his gaze move considerably over her chest, where khaki material was pulled taut by her position and the rifle and canteen straps cut diagonally between her breasts. The khaki was thin, like the silk of her bra, and neither hid the jutting response of her nipples.
A different kind of panic swept over her. In a desperate, mindless need to stop this before something irrevocable happened, she fed her anger wildly, and a snarl tangled in the back of her throat. In such a situation as this, unable to match his strength, she knew that only words could serve as her weapons. And Tyler had learned in a number of very hard and dangerous situations to use every weapon available to her.
Keeping her voice low and even, she said, “Is this the way you get your kicks, Kane? The old macho domination routine? Well, you weigh nearly twice what I do and you’re strong even for your size, so I’m defeated from the start. I can’t possibly win. Satisfied? Or d’you want me to cry and beg? I’m not very good at begging, Kane, but if that’s your game, I’ll play. Because I’m very good at surviving.” And the flat, fierce truth of that was in her voice like a knife pulled from its sheath to gleam starkly in the sunlight.
Curiously blank green eyes met her wild amber gaze, and Kane was still and silent for a long moment. His mouth was hard again, his face expressionless. Without a word, he freed her wrists and lifted his weight off her, leaving himself vulnerable to an avenging knee for just an instant.
Tyler didn’t take advantage of that. She sat up and untied the rope at her waist with shaking fingers, then got to her feet as he coiled the line and returned it to the backpack. He didn’t look at her as he sat down on a boulder to put his socks and boots back on. Then he shrugged into the pack, his face stony, and started moving east into the forest.
Tyler followed. Her breasts felt heavy and achy, and she could still feel the imprint of him against her lower stomach and hips. She could feel his hand on her wrists, and looked at them vaguely, wondering why there were no marks. There should have been marks. Absently she adjusted the rifle so that she carried the strap on one shoulder. She had the feeling that Kane had deliberately allowed her to keep the gun. To make a point? She didn’t know.
Her legs felt shaky and she had the curious urge to cry. Her eyes were hot, and she thought something had torn loose inside her. She didn’t know what it was. Gazing steadfastly at the middle of Kane’s broad back, she trudged along behind him.
HIS MOOD DIDN’T bother her at first, but Tyler soon discovered that Kane’s silence was inexorably stretching all her nerves as taut as bowstrings, and she wasn’t a nervous person. It would take days for them to find the cache even if there was no trouble; the thought of days filled with his brand of silence was enough to make her forget the childish determination not to be the first to break the deadlock.
“How far to the coast?” She addressed his back, since he was still leading the way.
Kane said nothing.
“He’s obviously mad at me,” Tyler told the surrounding forest, keeping her voice light. “I must have bruised his pride.” No reaction from Kane. She gripped the rifle’s carrying strap more tightly. “So now I’m getting the silent treatment.” Nothing. Tyler began to feel seriously alarmed. She hadn’t realized it until then, but in the days it had taken her to get this far, she had missed the sounds of human companionship.
Even the voice of an enemy was welcome, she told herself miserably.
Falling silent, she stared at his back and thought about their confrontation. So he resented what she’d said? Because she’d hit too close to home, or because what she’d said had been an insult to him? Curiously enough, she thought it was the latter. Kane wasn’t the type to sulk because his ego was bruised.
No, his reaction was something else. Did he believe she had meant what she’d said? Had his perception failed him this once so that he hadn’t realized she had said the most hurtful thing she could think of—
She felt an odd jolt. The most hurtful thing? Had she been that certain of him? Some men would have taken her own words and used them to taunt her, proving their truth. But not Kane. And she had known that.
She wondered then, uneasily, if that was why her usual panic at being helpless had been brief. Had she known instinctively that her fears would always be groundless where Kane was concerned? Was she sure of him in a way she had never been sure of any man for ten years? She didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to consider what it might mean.
Swallowing hard, she said, “I’m sorry, Kane. I didn’t mean—I knew you weren’t trying to dominate me.”
Kane paused for a moment, consulting the compass that was a part of his multifunction watch. Then he continued. Silently.
Tyler bit her lip and followed.
By midday they were descending, leaving the mountains behind as they moved toward the coast. The forest grew more dense, slowing them; at times they had to force their way through underbrush. Kane halted at last near a narrow stream, and Tyler sank thankfully onto the trunk of a fallen tree. She took the rifle from her shoulder and leaned it against the tree, watching him shrug off the backpack.
“We’re moving again in half an hour,” he said flatly.
At least he said we. Sighing, Tyler moved to the stream and followed it a little way until she was out of sight. She knelt on the bank and pulled a big linen handkerchief from her pocket, wetting the cloth and wringing it out before washing her face and neck. It was when she was wiping her hands thoroughly that she noticed the KP monogram on one corner. She stared at it for a moment, shaking her head unconsciously. His. His, and she hadn’t realized she had it?
She stood up, waving the handkerchief gently to dry it. It was hotter now; they were closer to sea level, nearer to the hot, flat land of the eastern plains. The linen dried quickly, and she watched it, bothered by the small indication of his persistent presence in her life.
But—no. That was nonsense, of course. She just happened to have his handkerchief, and she’d kept it and carried it only because it looked like one of her own large li
nen squares. Would he laugh, she wondered vaguely, if she were to confess that she carried large handkerchiefs always because of an old and popular movie? Would he think it amusing that a thirteen-year-old girl had gazed at a huge screen and listened to the hero tell the heroine that never in any crisis of her life had she had a handkerchief while he dried her tears with his own?
Odd the things one remembered. Tyler loved Gone with the Wind now, but then she had only despised Scarlett because she hadn’t had a handkerchief and hated Rhett because he’d shot the pony.
And she was determined to always dry her own tears.
Shaking her head again, Tyler folded the dried linen square neatly and returned it to her pocket. Then she headed back to Kane. Back to her silent enemy.
He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, eating from a package of trail mix. He tossed another package to Tyler, watching her with unreadable eyes. She sat on the fallen tree again and began eating, enjoying the mixture of granola, dried fruit, and nuts partly because she was hungry and partly because she liked the stuff. She returned his steady gaze as long as she could, then looked away.
“Damn it, Kane, I apologize! How much longer will I get the silent treatment?”
“Sorry.” He didn’t sound it.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Without looking at him, she said, “Doing the kind of work we do, I’ve run into plenty of men who used muscle as a—a sexual weapon. If you had been that kind of man, you would have loved my recognition of that. It would have been a turn-on. But you aren’t that sort of man, Kane. And I knew that. So I used it as a weapon, because I felt helpless and vulnerable. It’s—it’s almost a phobia with me, feeling like that. I can’t take it, and I strike out. Do you understand?”
