CHAPTER EIGHT

MacGowan dumped the girl’s body down on the cot near the stove. She was a woman, not a girl, he reminded himself, remembering the unexpected feel of curves beneath his hands, and she was over thirty, wasn’t she? Still, she felt like a girl. Still innocent enough not to realize the way the big bad world worked.

Dylan trailed after him, sullen and exhausted, and collapsed on a pallet in the corner. He didn’t have enough energy to glare, he simply stretched out on the wood floor of the tiny house and immediately began snoring.

“Gracias, abuelita,” he said to the old woman who’d shown them in. It had been blind luck stumbling on this ramshackle cabin on the edge of the jungle. He could see the distant lights of a small village a few miles in the distance, but even that seemed a little too crowded right now. He needed time to sit back and come up with a plan, a time without two civilians whining at him. Not that Sister Beth whined. She was as stalwart as any of the nuns who’d taught him in elementary school, if not as mean. Dylan more than made up for it, but even so, MacGowan was constantly aware of the woman, and it wasn’t simply because she was the first relatively available female he’d been around in years. He glanced over at her, passed out or asleep on the narrow, sagging bed, and tried to picture someone he wanted more. He couldn’t.

The old lady took the money he offered her, the grease-stained pesos part of the poker winnings he’d been amassing, and then disappeared, leaving the three of them alone in the rude hut. MacGowan pushed away the uneasiness that always stalked him. The years had taken their toll – he could no longer trust his instincts. Everyone seemed suspect, including the harmless old woman who’d disappeared into the night, tucking his money into her blouse. She’d taken one disapproving look at them, the disapproval fading as he brought out the money, and then she was gone.

The night air was cool, even down at these lower altitudes, and he grabbed an extra blanket from the bed and spread it over Dylan’s gangly figure. The kid was starting to sprout whiskers – maybe he was older than Finn had thought. He was still a brat.

He looked around the room. He’d slept on hard wood floors before - in truth, he was more used to it than Dylan would be. He’d slept on worse, and there was a quilt he could roll up in.

He wasn’t going to do it. None of his little chickens had eaten anything, and abuelita had left some savory mixture of meat and beans for them, with fresh tortillas to mop it up with, but he figured they needed their sleep more at this point.

So did he.

He closed and locked the flimsy door. Not that it would keep anyone out, not anyone determined to get in, but it might slow them down a few seconds. He doused the lights, so that only the glow of the cooking fire lit the shabby room. He shouldn’t do it, he knew he shouldn’t.

And he knew he was going to.

He kicked off his boots and went to the bed, lowering himself down beside her, pulling her into his arms as he settled into the narrow space. She was dead to the world, and he moved against her, surrounding her body with his. Even after falling into the river he figured he wasn’t smelling too sweet, but that was the least of their worries. For some damned reason he wanted to put his arms around her, bury his face in her blonde hair, and breathe in the pure animal smell of her.

He’d been too fucking long without a woman. And here she was, the antithesis of every woman he’d gotten near in the past few years. Blonde, pale, almost ethereal in her beauty. She’d be a trophy for anyone, and he’d never been the kind of man to collect trophies. His job was to get her safely back to her millionaire lifestyle, collecting a healthy reward in the bargain. Enough of a reward that he could take his time and find half a dozen blonde-haired gringas who wouldn’t react like a frightened virgin every time he came near her.

He almost might have thought Izzy and his friend had gotten to her, but he’d overheard their arguing and knew that no one had raped her. Yet. That was probably one reason he’d decided to bring her with them. And it all worked out for the best, didn’t it? Hans Froelich sold him out, and MacGowan’s reward went south with him. He could use the money the Pennington Foundation would pay him for the return of their precious heiress.

And he got to spend a few hours wrapped around a soft, female body. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of her hair. It smelled like the jungle, it smelled like flowers. He slept.

It was the pain and stiffness that woke her, and for a moment Beth didn’t move, disbelieving what her senses were telling her. She’d been dreaming for what seemed like hours. She had heard the soft rumble of MacGowan speaking in liquid Spanish, a woman’s voice answering him, and the smell of something divinely delicious on the air. Either she’d been dead or dreaming, and either way she wasn’t going to do anything to change things. She was lying on something soft, not the hard ground, and there was a roof over her head, and if anyone tried to drag her back into life she was going to kick and scream and fight them every inch.

“Gracias, abuelita,” MacGowan had murmured. Grandmother. The very word warmed her. Between MacGowan the soldier and the old lady, she would be safe. One to defend her, the other to comfort her. And she gave herself up to sleep once more.

When she woke again it was pitch black, even the dim light of the fire was out, and yet she felt safe, warm, wonderful. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to wake, she wanted to stay there forever in the safety of his . . .

Her eyes flew open in the darkness and she tensed. She was lying in his arms, and she had no doubt as to who he was. She could feel his long beard at the back of her neck, the strong arms wrapped around her, holding her against his body. Not that he had any choice in the narrow little bed – it was scarcely big enough for one. His body was curled around hers, and she realized with sudden panic that he was hard. There was no mistaking the feel of it beneath her butt, and for a moment she thought of Carlos and his hands, his eyes.

A child, and he was dead. She wanted to weep, and would have, if she hadn’t remembered the vicious cruelty in his touch, his words.

“Go back to sleep, Sister Beth.” His voice was only a breath of sound in her ear, but for some reason it calmed her. She had no illusions about Finn MacGowan – he could be fully as dangerous as any of the men who’d kidnapped her. Perhaps even more so. So why was she feeling safe?

“Stop calling me that.” Her voice wasn’t any louder than his. “And what are you doing in bed with me?”

“Didn’t fancy the floor, love,” he replied, using the Irish to try to cajole her. It didn’t work.

“You’ve slept worse places.”

She heard him laugh. “How right you are. But not by choice. If there’s a hard floor and a soft bed I’ll go for the soft bed anytime.”

“It was already occupied,” she said, starting to pull away from him. “I don’t mind the floor.”

She was hauled back against him, his hands making her struggle useless. “Stop being a baby about it. I’m hardly going to fuck you in full view of young Dylan, who doubtless would be more than happy to watch. Your virtue is entirely safe with me. I just want warmth. And the feel of someone by my side. No ulterior motives, saintly one. I just need someone to hold on to.”

For a moment she said nothing, remembering the dead men in the last few days. The men MacGowan had killed. After so much carnage it was little wonder he needed to hold on to something. Someone.

“All right,” she said. “But does it require your hands on my breasts?”

She could feel the soft rumble of laughter in the chest pressed up against her back, and his hands slipped down to wrap around her waist. “Three years, remember?”

“There’s only so long you’re going to be able to coast on that, MacGowan. It’s getting old.”

The vibration of laughter increased, and for some reason it did even more to warm her than the heat from his big, strong body. “You know, Sister Beth, you’re a dangerous woman.”

“You said that before, and I assume you’re being sarcastic.” She was too sleepy to come up with a real argument, too warm and safe for the first time in days to bestir herself. “I can’t imagine anyone more pathetically weak than I am. What could I possibly do to you?”

“Sweetheart, you could make me fall in love, and that’s fatal.”

His voice was soft and cajoling in her ear, and she didn’t bother responding to his absurdity. “Go back to sleep.”

Again that warming laugh. “Just tell me one thing, Sister Beth. If you’re so uninterested in the lure of the flesh, why were your nipples hard in my hands?”

“I was dreaming about Brad Pitt.”

“Woman, you are truly evil.”

“I thought I was a nun.”

“You forget, I grew up in Catholic schools. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Are we going to keep chatting or are you going to let me sleep? We’ve been running for our lives for the last forty-eight hours, and I wasn’t any too comfortable before that.” Determinedly she shut out the vision of Father Pascal, his hand still clutching his rosary. “If you want to talk, go curl up with Dylan.”

“And you seemed so meek and mild when I first saw you.” His voice was faintly mocking. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll watch over you.”

She should have protested, kicked him off the cot. She couldn’t. She felt too safe. “I am meek and mild,” she said firmly. “Just not when people are trying to kill me.”

“That works.”

She wouldn’t have thought he could get any closer, but he did, his body so close he was almost inside her, his body heat radiating into her. “You’re too bony,” she complained, settling back against him, unconsciously aiding him.

“The Guiding Light doesn’t believe in generous rations for prisoners.” He must have felt her laugh. “That amuses you?”

“I can’t help it. What self-respecting rebel group takes their name from an American soap opera?”

“It’s a soap opera? I wouldn’t know. I don’t watch television.”

“It’s been cancelled anyway.” She felt the warmth of his breath on her neck, and felt a blossoming of heat in her body, in inexplicable places. She knew full well that any feeling between her legs was extremely dangerous. “Stop talking.”

He nuzzled her neck, and against her will she felt another odd, answering flare. “You started it this time,” he said. “Complaining about my bones. Can’t help it, sweetheart. Any of it,” he added mischievously.

And she wasn’t going to think about that particularly hard part of him, pressing up against her butt. “Go to sleep.”

And for a short, blessed while, they did.

She felt him shift, moments before his hand clamped over her mouth, and her eyes flew open in sudden terror. He’d rolled on top of her, immobilizing her, but there was no slumberous lust on his face. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, so quietly it was more a suggestion of sound. She nodded, and he removed his hand, then slid off her, leaving her cold and alone and frightened.

The early morning light was just beginning to filter into the small shack they were in. She couldn’t even remember clearly how they’d gotten here, and she looked around in sudden panic to see Dylan on the floor, MacGowan looming over him, waking him a little more roughly than he’d done with her.

She scrambled off the narrow cot, leaving its remembered warmth with regret. The shredded remains of her sneakers were on the floor, and she shoved her feet into them, barely aware of the pain of her wounded feet. She stayed low, out of sight of the window with its rough burlap covering, and MacGowan turned back to look at her, the flash of approval in his eyes almost as warming as his body had been. He moved back to her, dragging the yawning but compliant Dylan with him, and they huddled together on the floor.

“That old bitch sold us out,” he said. “Either that or La Luz has become suddenly more efficient, which I doubt. They’re coming.”

“How can you tell? I don’t hear anything,” Dylan complained.

MacGowan cast him a withering glance. “I’m trained for this kind of thing, idiot. We need to get the fuck out of here. There are too many of them to take in a fight.”

“How?” Her word was simple – it was no time for them to argue tactics.

“La Luz is coming down the mountain and they were never any good at being quiet. We sneak out the back, through the underbrush. It’ll be rough going compared to what we’ve been doing, but it’s our only chance.”

Rough compared to what they’d been doing? She didn’t say a word as defeat swamped her. She’d barely survived what they’d been doing. And he wanted more of her? She couldn’t. She’d rather he just shot her.

But for some reason she nodded, and the approval in his eyes gave her more strength. “You first, Sister Beth, then Dylan. I’ll take up the rear, just in case they’ve sent out someone in advance.”

She looked at the narrow opening in the cabin. Beyond it she could see nothing but darkness and the strangling overgrowth of the jungle, and he expected her to take the lead. She swallowed her instinctive whimper – she could howl later. Right now she had no choice.

“Go!” he said, and she didn’t dare hesitate any longer, or she wouldn’t be able to do it at all. She dove out the window headfirst, the thick foliage cushioning her fall, and she rolled when she landed, ending up almost on her feet in the middle of a jungle so dense she felt trapped. A moment later Dylan was beside her, landing a little more clumsily, and she reached down and yanked him up while he shoved the fronds out of his mouth. They stood still and silent, waiting for MacGowan.

He didn’t come. Beth stood very still. The chill of the night was lifting, and the smothering heat of the day was moving over them with the growing sunlight. She was shivering anyway, from fear. There was no noise from the cabin, but no sign of MacGowan.

“How long do we wait?” Dylan whispered.

“As along as we have to.” Since when had she become the fearless leader? Then again, Dylan was younger than he seemed, for all his bravado, and she was, God, almost twice his age.

Had they managed to sneak up on MacGowan, slit his throat so quickly and silently that there’d been no struggle for them to overhear? Was he lying dead in a pool of his own blood, and it was a matter of moments before they were recaptured?

Or had he abandoned them, using the Guiding Light as an excuse, bringing them close enough to civilization to ensure they’d find help. But why – he wanted the money he could claim as a reward. No, the only reason he wasn’t there was because he couldn’t be.

She waited as long as she dared, and then stiffened her spine. “Let’s go,” she said finally. “MacGowan can catch up with us. He wouldn’t want us standing around like sitting ducks.”

“How can you stand like a sitting duck?” Dylan managed to reply.

“Stuff it,” she said, pleased with her gruff tone. She was channeling MacGowan, and she’d keep the two of them alive until he found them again. Because he would. They couldn’t have gotten that far only to . . .

No, she wasn’t going to think about it. Too many people she cared about had died. She couldn’t face the idea of one more. Not that she should care about MacGowan – he was alternately gruff and charming and about as sincere as an anaconda, not to mention as lethal. But he’d saved them, again and again, and he’d distracted her and made her laugh and she didn’t want him dead. Not him, too.

She pushed the heavy fronds out of her way, moving forward. The ground was too even, and she had no idea where the river was. The sun was rising to her left, which meant that was east, the direction they’d been heading as they moved down the mountain. Unfortunately that was where the cabin and the encroaching rebels were, so they’d head south, at least until the sun was high overhead and she lost all sense of direction, and . . .

He loomed up so fast it she couldn’t stifle her scream, as all she saw was a shadowy figure with the machete in his hand. She threw herself back at Dylan, flinging out her arms to protect him, and the two of them landed in a tangle on the jungle floor, Dylan using the opportunity to cop a feel as MacGowan loomed over them.

“Jesus, Sister Beth, you spook easily,” he said, pulling her up. “I had to find something to hack our way through the bushes.” He glanced down at Dylan. “You can get to your feet by yourself, boy-o.”

It was a good thing he’d diverted his attention to the kid. She would have flung herself into his arms in relief, and that would be very dangerous indeed. Not because he was wound so tight he was ready to explode, not because there was still a trace of wet blood on the machete, but because throwing herself in his arms was what she wanted to do more than anything in the world. And there was no room for that in his life or hers.

“We ready, my chickens?” he inquired in a deceptively mild voice.

“Ready,” she said, not hesitating. Exhaustion and safety were the best cures for the ridiculous feelings rushing through her. “Onward!”

His grim mouth, barely visible in the thick growth of beard, quirked in amusement. “Onward,” he said.