The Mercenary
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But a man who hated her, nonetheless.
She’d fallen asleep.
If she had a concussion, that wasn’t a good thing. But Tyler was equally concerned about putting as much distance between them and the crash site as possible.
Still, he let off on the throttle. When she didn’t stir, he reached for the black duffel bag and unzipped it. Inside were several other smaller containers, some locked closed, and he methodically checked each one, keeping an eye out for Marisa to stir. She didn’t. And when he was satisfied that all of the contents had come through undamaged, he pulled out the first-aid kit and closed the bag once again.
Then he knelt beside her, freezing for a moment at the pain that seized his ribs. He waited, mentally counting off the seconds until he could breathe again. And when he could, he carefully pulled the loosened hair away from her forehead where she’d taken that gash.
The hair that had come free from her bun had dried into unruly waves and the slick black strands curled around his callused fingers with a gentle caress. He pulled away as if he’d been burned, and had to count off another few seconds until the pain eased. Then he just sat there, staring at her upturned face, while he called himself ten kinds of a fool.
Her lashes were long, thick. If she’d had any of that black stuff that women wore on them, it would have long worn off. Which meant they were naturally that soft and dark.
Her forehead was already turning a vivid shade of purple, but the cut wasn’t as large as he’d first thought. More like the skin had simply split when she’d smacked her head against something during the impact.
He slowly unwrapped an antiseptic wipe as he studied her. Could she really be as innocent as her sleeping face suggested?
Without difficulty, he conjured a memory of Sonya. Even after he’d had his hands on evidence damning her for all eternity, she’d stared up at him, blue eyes wide as a child’s.
He crumpled the foil wrapping from the moist wipe and tossed it onto the pile of stuff he’d salvaged from the plane. Dammit. He hated working with women.
Marisa jerked and gave a fretful moan as he dabbed her wound. When he smeared some ointment over it and pressed the adhesive bandage into place, she opened her eyes.
He was glad that they looked clear, steady. Her pupils were the same size, contracting equally against the lengthening sunlight.
He held up his hand. “How many fingers?”
“That’s pretty rude.” She pushed away his hand and the age-old one-fingered salute. “And remarkably unimaginative.” She ran her fingertips over the square bandage on her forehead. “I’m surprised you didn’t leave it open to fester. Maybe I’d be taken with infection and then you could leave me to rot in the jungle.”
He sat back, sitting on the only plank of a seat the boat possessed. “Who needs imagination? You’ve got more than enough for both of us.”
Marisa eyed him warily. He looked surprisingly at ease as he sat there, leaning over slightly, his arms resting on his wide-spread thighs, fingers loosely linked together. But then, he was part of some secret military group, so for all she knew, this was just a typical day on the job for him.
He possessed his share of scrapes, as well, mostly on his arms. One sleeve of his T-shirt was torn, baring the hard thrust of his shoulder, and he had smudges of what looked like grease down his chest.
She decided his arms were a safer focus than his chest. There were four or five thin scrapes down his right arm. A particularly nasty one circled down around his wrist. “You should clean up your own cuts,” she murmured.
Of course, being the big, macho military giant that he was, he made no move to do so. Rolling her eyes, she picked up the first-aid kit that was sitting by her feet and plucked through the contents until she found an antiseptic wipe. She tore it open and reached for his hand.
She didn’t think too much about it, just swabbed the cloth firmly, rapidly, over the slash along his wrist. She turned his hand over and continued cleansing the cut. She knew the wipe had to sting furiously, yet he didn’t so much as twitch.
His hands were remarkably graceful for such a large man. She’d have thought he’d have big, meaty palms and square fingers. But no. Sinew defined his tanned forearms, his wrists were well-shaped and his fingers long.
A vision of a well-manicured hand raised in anger accosted her and she stared, hard, at the hand she was tending, forcing the memory from her thoughts. Tyler’s nails were clipped short, and calluses roughened his palms, as if he were more used to wielding a sword than a pen. If this man had ever subjected himself to a manicure, she’d eat her hat.
If she had a hat.
She suddenly pushed the wipe into his palm and sat back on her heels. Touching him hadn’t been a good idea. He could finish cleaning his own scrapes.
Her clothes were no longer dripping water, but were distinctly damp and definitely uncomfortable. The items they’d taken from the plane were jumbled together beside her at the front of the boat. “Where’s my suitcase?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Suitcase heaven?”
Her jaw dropped and she forgot all about the feel of his hands. “You managed to get all this.” She shoved at the pile and something encased in a slick nylon bag slid off the top and landed by his boot. “But not my suitcase?”
“You’ll live.”
She wanted to hit him. So deep was the impulse, in fact, that she had to tuck her hands under her thighs to keep from doing so.
“Don’t look so stricken,” he drawled. “You’re supposed to be a poor Mezcayan native. That doesn’t extend to makeup and suits from Saks.”
T-shirts and jeans for her sister and toys for the children. Books for her father and entertainment magazines for her mother. So many things that she’d collected to take into Mezcaya where she could talk Franco into delivering them for her to their family. She didn’t like thinking of the items as a peace offering, though that may have been part of it. Mostly she had simply thought how much they might enjoy the items that they didn’t ordinarily have. Things they couldn’t obtain, or couldn’t afford.
And now they were all gone. If they weren’t destroyed by the water flooding the plane, they surely had been finished off by the charge that Tyler had set.
She hated the tears that burned behind her eyes and resolutely turned so that she didn’t have to look at him. “Mezcayans don’t arrive at la Fortuna wearing ruined linen suits, either,” she said. His cammies wouldn’t necessarily be out of place, but she’d stick out like a sore thumb.
“It’s a long way from here to la Fortuna. We’ll get clothes.”
But she couldn’t hope to replace the things that had been lost in her suitcase. Not now, not when she’d used the remainder of her meager savings on them. She sighed and furtively dashed away the tears.
She could find another reason for Franco to stop his madness, and she, herself, would begin again. Once she had her career back.
It was that reason she needed to remember. That reason she needed to focus upon. Tyler wasn’t letting anything as minor as a plane crash get in the way of his plans. Neither would she.
“Here.” He tossed a white bundle toward her and it landed on her lap. It was a T-shirt.
“I don’t want to wear your shirt. I want to wear my own shirt.”
“And people in hell want ice water. Your clothes are gone, princess.”
“I am not likely to forget.” The soft fabric crumpled in her fist. “Your clothes are wet, too.”
“So?”
So, naturally, Mr. Macho could stand the discomfort, whereas she, Miss Princess, couldn’t. “Turn around.”
His lips twisted. “On a boat the size of a minute? Come on, M. After all—” his voice dropped hatefully “—we are supposed to be married.”
As he watched her expression go from unbearably sad to angry, Tyler wondered if he’d hit a new low. All he knew was he was glad when Marisa’s eyes went from liquid sadness to hot fury. If she was spitting mad, it was a lot easier to remember that he couldn’t afford to trust her for a second.
If her expression was any indication, it was probably safer for him not to turn his back on her right now. Or he might find himself with a leather-shod foot being planted square in the center of it.
Her lips tightened and she lifted one slender hand to the top gold button on her suit. She flicked it free. And the next. The limp fabric sagged, displaying a narrow wedge of gold-toned curves and a glimpse of shining ivory fabric.
She wore a delicate gold chain. The cross at the base of it was minuscule. Her fingers touched the third button. Her eyes snapped with anger. He almost expected her to do it. To unfasten that third button.
Then she huffed. “Pig.”
He didn’t disagree with her.
She pivoted on her knees, facing away from him. She yanked off the jacket of her suit and swiftly tugged his T-shirt over her head. It caught on what remained of the knot at the back of her head, preventing her from sticking her head through. She muttered under her breath and pulled the shirt off once again to tear the pins out of her hair.
It slowly uncoiled, helped along by the breeze created by the boat as it skimmed the water, and sprang free into a riot of waves. She yanked the shirt over her head and flipped her hair loose.
Then she turned around to face him, her finely shaped features set into defiant lines. “I hope you’re satisfied.” Her accent was more pronounced.
“I’m not even close to being satisfied, M. But when I am, you won’t have any doubts about it.”
Three
Could a person go insane from being cooped in a boat that provided, possibly, eight by three feet of space? Most of which was taken up by a very long-legged, very annoying man?
Marisa thought that she very likely could. It seemed they’d been on the boat for hours, but she knew her sense of time was skewed. At least the T-shirt he’d given her was dry. She wished she could say the same about her slacks, socks and shoes.
Fortunately she was wearing relatively flat leather walking shoes. Unfortunately she didn’t dare remove them lest they shrink as they dried, making her unable to wear them at all.
She pulled her fingers through her hair. It was unforgivably tangled now, thanks to being whipped into a mess by the breeze. She sat in the front of the boat facing Tyler. She caught her hair in her hand and held it down. “Do you—” She stopped to clear her throat. She would not be intimidated by a man, she reminded herself. “Do you really think it was El Jefe who shot at us?”
His hooded eyes studied her. “You tell me.”
She bristled. “I’ve had enough of your implying I had something to do with this.”
“I did more than imply it, M.”
She swallowed. “You really do have quite an opinion of me.”
He didn’t bother to deny it.
“How can you even be sure the plane was shot? Maybe there was something else wrong with it.”
“Believe me, I know.”
Unease rippled through her and she turned to look over her shoulder in the direction they were traveling. The river was still narrow, highly congested in some places with boulders and reed, causing him to slow down to a crawl in order to maneuver the boat.
The small outboard droned on steadily, and though it was a comforting sound after the nightmare on the plane, it still sounded frightfully small in the vast silence around them. She sighed and turned toward him again. “Do you even know where we are?”
“I have a good idea.”
Not that he would share the knowledge with her, she figured. Her head was throbbing and she scooted down more comfortably, stretching out her legs. She was careful to stay well away from him, however.
He leaned over, holding out a canteen. “Here. There’s aspirin in the first-aid kit.”
She hesitated, not sure she liked the way he seemed to read her mind. But common sense overruled, and she took the canteen, then found the packet of aspirin and swallowed them down. The water was cool and blessedly sweet and she wanted to guzzle it right down, but managed to refrain. She replaced the cap and handed it back to him. “Thank you.”
His fingers brushed hers as he took the container and she sat back, rubbing her hand down her thigh.
“Trying to wipe away the germs?” He pulled off the lid and lifted the canteen to his mouth, drinking right where she had done.
Wipe away the tingling charge from his touch was more like it. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was,” she answered coldly. She shut her eyes. Crashing was exhausting work.
Eventually she felt him moving about in the minimal space in which there was to move. The motor was humming softly but they were doing little more than drifting in the congested water. She could hear him shifting the cargo, but kept her eyes resolutely shut.
When she heard a muttered oath cut short, however, she couldn’t help but look to see what he was doing. He was sitting there, uncommonly still, head bowed, arms braced. Then he lifted his head, and she hastily closed her eyes again. The last thing she wanted him to do was find her studying him. Goodness only knew what he’d make of that.
Eventually the aspirin must have done the trick, for Marisa dozed off a little, and awoke only when she became aware of the sunlight, vivid and bright, on her face. She sat up, her muscles moving stiffly. While she’d slept, Tyler had secured the cargo beneath an odd sort of net. The river had widened, and they were fairly flying along the surface.
Her breath caught in her throat at the inescapably wild beauty of the landscape. Looking past Tyler, her gaze clung to the sight. This was the land of her birth. God, it had been so very long. She knew they had to be miles and miles away from the little mountainous piece of land her family had farmed for generations. But that didn’t stop her from feeling a tug deep inside her.
“How long will it take for us to get there? To la Fortuna?” Maybe she wouldn’t be going home, but if there was any chance at all that she could make sure that Franco did, she had to take it.
“Long enough.” He was eyeing the river closely. “A week or so, on the outside. Assuming I’ve figured our location accurately enough.”
She nodded. A week. She could handle that if she had to.
“Aren’t you going to pitch a fit?”
Her eyebrows rose. “Should I?”
“Most women would.”
She objected to that, but knew there was little point in saying so. He was just like Gerald. He would think whatever he chose to, regardless of the circumstances. It wouldn’t matter whether he was miles away from the truth, or he—
“Hold on.” Tyler’s command was terse and it effectively jerked her out of her memories. “We’re coming up on some rough water.”
She whirled around to see the rapids were nearly upon them. “Rough?” She nearly choked. The water churned white and vicious among the rocks. “Why can’t we—” She broke off the rest of the question. They couldn’t go on land and carry the boat around the rapids because the banks on either side went nearly straight up. “I don’t like traveling with you!” She curled her fingers around the hard, rubbery handles incorporated into the boat’s design.
Tyler had already pulled in the outboard and was using the oar to help guide the suddenly rocking and plunging boat. Her heart rate escalated so fast that she felt dizzy with it. The roar of the water filled the air and she wondered why she hadn’t been aware of it sooner. “What do I do?”
“Unless you want one really rough swim, stay in the boat.”
She looked back at him, only to find his eyes lit with an unholy gleam. “You’re enjoying this!”
His teeth flashed. “Gets the blood pumping, doesn’t it?”
She frowned, then couldn’t help the startled scream when the boat went into a nearly vertical plunge. One of Tyler’s black bags—the one that he was nearly rabid about keeping near him—started to slide out from the net and she made a grab for it. She barely caught it with her fingertips even as she fell forward when the boat leveled for an all-too-brief moment. Water poured over the side and her arm felt nearly yanked out at the shoulder from where she still held on with one hand.
“What the hell are you doing? I told you to hold on!” Tyler’s fingers dragged her back by the shirt.
“Then hold on to your own bloody bags! Ahh!” She shoved his precious black bag at him and was scrambling to get a good grip on the side of the boat once again. But it was too wet, too slippery, and the boat seemed to be free-falling again.
Tyler’s fingers caught at Marisa’s shirt, but he wasn’t fast enough and like a rag doll tossed aside by a careless hand, she disappeared over the side of the inflatable. She screamed, her arms waving as the rough water dragged her under. Tyler cursed a blue streak, leaning over with the oar. “Grab it!”
She was close enough for him to see the terror in her eyes, close enough for him to hear her coughing as water clogged her nose and mouth, but not close enough for him to pull in.
He yelled at her again to grab the oar, could see that she was trying. But the boat was spinning one way and she the other. In the back of his mind was another boat, years ago that had capsized.
In an instant, he made the decision and pulled the oar in. He wasn’t going to get to her. Not this way.
He ran a practiced eye over the riverbank, picked a spot heavy with overhanging trees. Muscles straining against the power of the ferocious water, using the oar as a rudder, he started inching the boat toward the spot. Before he could get close enough to the boulder-strewn bank to batter the inflatable to pieces, he dropped the oar and grabbed one of the tree branches, nearly getting ripped out of the boat as he fought the momentum of the river.
Hand over hand, legs wedged in the boat, he pulled through the churning water until he was past the worst of the rocks. With one hand wrapped around the thick branch, he grabbed the one duffel that he didn’t dare lose, and heaved it far up onto the bank, scrambling up after it.
Free of its human anchor, the boat shot past the rocks, tearing off down the white, frothing water. He didn’t spare a moment worrying about it, but ran after Marisa, slipping and sliding over the sharply inclined riverbank. “I’m Alpha Force, for crissakes,” he muttered. “Not the flippin’ Coast Guard.”
Come on, Marisa. Open your eyes.
The voice seemed to come from a long way off. Marisa struggled against the weight in her chest. Maybe, despite her sins, God had invited her to heaven after all.
You’re okay. Come on, baby, that’s it. Breathe.
She coughed. Her lungs burned, her throat was on fire. She coughed again and felt her head being tilted as water dribbled past her lips.
“Good girl.”
It was Tyler, she realized weakly. Most assuredly not The Father. She started to speak, but couldn’t as she coughed up more water.
“Shh. Take it easy. We’re not going anywhere just now.”
She forced her eyelids up, looking at him through her water-spiked lashes. He was soaked to the skin, too. “No soy muerto.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Muerto. Not muerto. Definitely not muerto.” He smoothed her hair away from her face. “You’re not dead. You’re gonna be all right. Just rest.”
Closing her eyes was a relief. The coughing spasms began to slow. Only then the shivers began. And she felt his presence leave for a moment, but then he was back and she recognized the crinkling sound of that silver blanket as he wrapped her in it and pulled her right onto his lap, holding her close there on the bank of that deceptively peaceful river.
He was so warm. So solid.
He made no annoying comments. No accusations that she’d brought the incident down upon herself through her own stupidity. He didn’t shift her around as if he couldn’t wait to get her away from him. He didn’t try to cop a feel.
He didn’t do anything but hold her securely, until the shudders racking her body started to ease.
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