Книга - The Mercenary

The Mercenary
Allison Leigh


Spanish interpreter Marisa Rodriguez didn't buy Tyler Murdoch's "I work alone" line or his feeling of superiority over the human race. When she was assigned to accompany Tyler on his covert mission in Central America to rescue his former commanding officer, Marisa vowed not to fall for another domineering Neanderthal.But hot nights and life-threatening danger brought Marisa and Tyler into close proximity and made their smoldering passion hard to resist. Soon they were at high risk of falling deeply in love…and never letting go!







CLUB TIMES

For Members’ Eyes Only

Tyler Murdoch meets Mickey Mouse—fact or fiction?

I’m still in shock over the wedding of Fiona Carson and Clay Martin. Most of us have been wearing black for weeks now that another bachelor is off the market, but survival is our middle name here at Lone Star Country Club. We’re sure that Grace Carson gave darling Fiona some cooking lessons, but it’s going to take a lawman to keep that filly from wandering all over the stables at night. Not that I’m implying anything by this….

We’d like to wish LSCC-hunk-of-the-month Tyler Murdoch a fabulous journey. When probed over his impending departure, he quirked his handsome brow and said to woman-about-town Maddie Delarue Bridges that he was “going to Disneyland.” Say hi to Mickey for us, Tyler! Wait, now that I think about it, do you think he was pulling a fast one on us?

Grace Carson wanted me to drop a little line about our annual “shake-and-cake” dance marathon at the club. You bring a cake, then go out on our ballroom dance floor and shake. We’re awarding the winners of the shake-and-cake contest a sumptuous dinner in our Empire room followed by a serenade by our own club manager, Harvey Small (who’s been taking Irish Tenor lessons). Don’t forget the ear-plugs!

In good weather or bad, make you best stop of the day right here at the Lone Star Country Club!




About the Author







ALLISON LEIGH

began her career early by writing a Halloween play that her grade-school class performed for her school. Since then, she’s delighted to say her tastes have turned from ghosts and goblins to happily-ever-afters. She loves having her characters enter her life for a while, and freely admits that the true highlights of her day as a writer are when she receives word from readers that they laughed, cried, or lost a night of sleep with those characters. Born in Southern California, Allison has meandered her way through several states, finally settling in Arizona with her family, where she maintains a love-hate relationship with the pizza-oven summer heat and the beautiful days that masquerade as winter. She loves to hear from her readers, who can write to her at P.O. Box 40772, Mesa AZ 85274-0772 or Allison@allisonleigh.com.

“I thoroughly enjoyed participating in the LONE STAR COUNTRY CLUB series. Working with the other authors whose work I’ve so enjoyed as a reader was a particular honor for me. Living for a time with the adventures of Tyler Murdoch and Marisa Rodriguez was a true pleasure. I hope you’ll enjoy the ride and feel some of their excitement, passion and love, too.”




The Mercenary

Allison Leigh







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Welcome to the






Where Texas society reigns supreme—and appearances are everything.

A steamy jungle, danger at every turn, two complete opposites…sparks are bound to fly!

Tyler Murdoch: He’s a vital member of a covert military agency, willing to go where most wouldn’t dare. The last thing he needs on this mission is the “help” of a feisty Latina who makes his blood boil and his alpha male libido beg for release. The harder he tries to ignore the smell, the feel of her, the more he knows he’ll do anything to make her his….

Marisa Rodriguez: Once burned by love, she refuses to be vulnerable again. But she cannot ignore the passion that smolders between her and the all-too-male mercenary she’s been ordered to assist. And as the hot jungles begin to heat up, Marisa knows her resolve is crumbling when it comes to resisting someone she wants so badly.

Missing from Mission Creek: When baby Lena is kidnapped from the Carson ranch, Flynt Carson and the town of Mission Creek embark on a desperate search for the missing infant. The clock is ticking…but they’ll stop at nothing to bring the culprit to justice.













This book is dedicated to Judy, who saw a spot for me when I needed it;

to Ben, gifted with words, wisdom and “knowing it all”

Deb for all those morning walks and great talks; and the talented women, fellow writers all, of “SSE01.”

If it weren’t for all of you, this one would never have been finished on time. Thank you.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue




One


“Oh, hell, you can’t be serious.”

Tyler Murdoch muttered the words aloud even though there was no one to hear.

He squinted against the sunlight—particularly bright and unrelenting as it reflected against the limitless expanse of arid, tan dirt surrounding the minuscule airfield—and focused on the woman who’d just stepped outside. There was only one small patch of shade afforded by the utilitarian building that served the so-called aeropuerto and she’d paused in it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t see her just fine.

He wished he couldn’t see her just fine. Then he could pretend that she wasn’t the person he was there to meet.

Despite the checklist in his hand, he looked her way again. No way could she be the linguistics expert he was to hook up with before flying down to Mezcaya. No damn way.

But he had a bad feeling in his gut that she was.

And Tyler Murdoch trusted his gut instincts. They’d kept him alive too many times in his thirty-five years of life to be disregarded now just because he didn’t like the way that woman looked standing over there in that patch of shade. Besides, he’d checked the airfield from east to west and knew that the site was secure. The dust-coated SUV that had arrived and had hastily departed only minutes ago had been exactly the vehicle that Tyler had been watching for. There was no reason for anyone else to be here at this carefully and deliberately abandoned airfield other than the person he was there to meet.

He managed not to swear a blue streak and looked away from her to focus on the clipboard in his hand. But he knew the checklist of supplies by heart and all he saw in his mind was the woman.

No, he didn’t like the way the woman looked. The last thing he needed was to be distracted by some female on an op this important. Westin’s life depended on Tyler. There was no damn way he’d fail his former commander; he owed the man too much.

None of which alleviated the impatience rising in him, or his annoyance with his superiors for sticking him with that woman. Everyone knew he didn’t like working with females. He didn’t care what kind of statement that made about him. He wasn’t interested in being politically correct, nor was he particularly concerned with equality between the sexes. As far as Tyler was concerned, a woman could sell out her country just as easily as a man.

God knows Sonya had.

He reached through the open door of the plane and tossed the clipboard into the cockpit where it landed next to the captain’s seat. His seat.

He might be in charge of this expedition down to Mezcaya, but he was well and truly stuck with Miss Universe over there standing in the shade.

He’d been told his linguistics expert was a native of Mezcaya who’d been in Embassy service for a while, but Tyler was damned if he could see how. From this distance, she looked too young to have done much of anything. Except maybe graduate from college. Maybe.

But then, Sonya hadn’t exactly been decrepit with age, either, and she’d managed to cause plenty of damage.

Disgusted with thoughts that were too old to be plaguing him now, Tyler spun on his heel and deliberately strode toward the building. He had a mission to accomplish, and no one, particularly a beautiful woman, was going to get in his way.



It was the heat, Marisa told herself, that made her feel unsteady on her feet. The heat. And maybe a touch of nervousness over the opportunity she’d been presented. It was just so important. If she could only succeed at this, so much could be changed.

The heat and nervousness. Yes, that was all.

She kept her hands folded loosely over the handle of her slender briefcase by sheer willpower. What she wanted to do was run a hand over her hair; make sure that the unruly waves were still neatly contained in the chignon at her nape. She wanted to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun that even the small overhang above her could not soften.

She watched the dirt cloud up in small puffs around the man’s heavy, laced boots as he approached, and told herself firmly that she did not want to turn tail and run. She’d endured things far worse than that steady, grim glare of his. Much worse.

The thought ought to have steadied her. It unsettled her that it didn’t. So she schooled her expression and stared right back. Right up until the moment when he stopped, a mere yard away. If it was possible, his hair was even darker than hers. No glints of red, no strands of chestnut, or even silver. It was jet-black. Not quite military short, but definitely an uncompromisingly no-fuss cut. And it suited the blade of his nose, the sharp cheekbones and hard jaw. There was nothing at all about his hard appearance, including the camouflage pants and khaki T-shirt that strained against his broad shoulders to suggest he was anything but what he was—a warrior.

Pressing her lips softly together, she inhaled deeply and kept her leather-shod feet firmly planted. She’d been warned that Tyler Murdoch might be somewhat difficult to work with—his expression certainly indicated just that—but she was on this mission whether he liked it or not.

She stuck out her hand in greeting. “Mr. Murdoch.”

His eyes, as darkly brown as the coffee her abuela had fixed every morning of her childhood, flickered disinterestedly over her outstretched hand. “They didn’t tell me that M. Rodriguez was a woman.”

As a beginning, it could have been worse. It also could have been better. “Marisa,” she supplied, aware of the difference between his softly drawling speech—pure U.S. of A—and her speech that still held a trace of her homeland no matter how many diction classes Gerald had foisted upon her.

She finally lowered her hand and took a slender envelope from the pocket of her briefcase. She held it out. “A letter from the former ambassador to Mezcaya.”

He took the envelope from her, sliding it in his back pocket without a second look. “Do you have any other ID?”

“Um, well, yes.” She unzipped another pocket and pulled out her wallet, flipping it open. She thought he’d just look at her license, but he took the wallet right out of her hands and began removing cards, not even studying them first.

“What are you doing?”

He handed her back the wallet, sans license, insurance cards and anything else that personally identified her. “My job,” he said flatly and moved past her through the door.

She shifted, hurriedly following him into the shadowed interior. “Don’t you want to verify my credentials? You didn’t even read the letter from Ambassador Torres.”

He slowly turned his head, looking at her over his shoulder. And Marisa couldn’t prevent the tremors that skidded down her spine. “If you weren’t M. Rodriguez, you’d hardly be here at this miserable excuse for an airfield. What happened to the driver who brought you?”

“He headed back to the city.” A fact she felt sure the man already knew. Since the moment she’d accepted the invitation to participate in this “expedition,” her life had become a whirlwind.

Tyler had gone into the minute office in the rear of the building. “Didn’t it bother you to be left here, alone?” he asked. “This place is a long way from civilization.”

She couldn’t see what he was doing in the office. She raised her voice a little. “I wasn’t alone. You were here.” She simply would not admit to any unease even though it was greater now than it had been when the driver tore off in a flurry of dust. Tyler would undoubtedly take her unease as weakness, and she’d learned long ago to keep displays of weakness to a minimum, particularly when dealing with tall, formidable-looking men.

Another leftover from Gerald.

Tyler came back out of the office. He barely spared her a glance as he headed for the door. “What makes you think I’m safe?”

Her lips parted and she blinked. The driver had assured her that the man standing by the sleek plane was indeed the one she was to meet.

He was just trying to frighten her.

She headed after him. Her briefcase bumped her knees so she slid the long strap over her shoulder. “Mr. Murdoch—”

“We’re wheels up in five,” he interrupted flatly. “If you’re gonna back out, do it now. We’ve got several hours of flight time ahead of us. If this place seems rough, it’s only going to get worse.”

Her chin lifted. “You forget, Mr. Murdoch, I come from Mezcaya. I grew up in worse.” And she had dreamed for years of leaving it.

His lips twisted, making his hard features look even harder. “I don’t forget anything, honey.”

The words seemed like a challenge, and anger sparked inside her. But she couldn’t afford to lose her temper over this man’s arrogance. “Nor do I, Mr. Murdoch,” she assured.

Tyler looked down at her, noting the perfectly oval face and the delicate golden-toned skin strikingly offset by her drawn-back hair. Even in the dimness inside the building, it held the gleam of onyx and for a second she reminded him of someone, though he couldn’t quite place whom.

He’d freely admit she was an honest-to-God beauty, but it was the glint in those almond-shaped golden eyes that piqued a reluctant interest deep inside him. He reined it in. He was on duty. She was a woman and he was stuck with her. “Four minutes.” He walked through the doorway.

“My suitcase is by the corner of the building,” she said after him.

“Then I guess you’d better get it,” he suggested blandly, and headed toward his plane. He almost smiled as he heard the soft word she muttered behind his back. He’d been called far worse.

He’d flown to this bit of nothing in Guatemala and had been on the ground less than two hours. Still, Tyler did a quick walk around the plane. He climbed up and took a last look in the fuel tanks because every pilot worth his wings knew that fuel gauges were notoriously inaccurate, even in as sweet a honey as his Pilatus. When he was satisfied that all was as it should be, he looked beyond the wings of the plane and wondered how a runway could be so damn bad and still be called a runway.

He climbed inside the plane and watched Marisa haul her suitcase over the hard-packed ground toward the plane. She had to lean back against the weight of it, and he could only imagine what she’d packed. Hair stuff. Makeup. Every single useless thing imaginable, he figured, considering the place they were headed.

She was still grumbling under her breath when she hefted the case through the passenger door and climbed in after it. Tyler wasn’t so language-challenged not to know that she was seriously besmirching his ancestry in Spanish. Frankly, as far as he was concerned, she was pretty much on target.

Amused despite himself, he looked back through the opened cockpit door to watch her settle in one of the four passenger seats. Behind the seats, the rest of the cabin was used for cargo, of which Tyler had plenty. For anyone curious enough to look, Tyler would appear to be an American very anxious to get lost in another country.

Marisa was wiggling in the spacious leather seat, and her cheeks turned pink when she realized he was watching her. “It’s a nicer plane than I’d expected,” she admitted.

“My plane isn’t run-of-the-mill enough for the casual drug-runner?” It was spacious, but he still had to bend over to move around as he secured the passenger door. He’d already checked the cargo door.

“Is that what we’re supposed to be? Drug runners?” Her eyes had gone wide, making her look every bit as young as the twenty-five her license had divulged.

“The only thing we’re supposed to be is inconspicuous,” he said as he belted himself back into his seat and cranked up the engine.

“And being dismissed as a drug-runner is safer than being suspected of something else,” she concluded, raising her voice to be heard above the engine.

“It’s Mezcaya.” What else was there to say? The particularly turbulent little Central American country was torn between a terrorist group known as El Jefe, and the rebellious natives who neither honored El Jefe’s rule nor the ineffectual leaders who governed the land. It would be better to be mistaken for drug-runners than what they really were.

Which was one of the reasons he was using his private plane. Made it even more removed from military operations.

Marisa swallowed the unease that ran through her as Tyler donned a pair of headphones and set the plane rolling slowly across the rutted runway.

Mezcaya. Her homeland. Would it even welcome her back?

Don’t think about that.

The plane was gathering speed, admirably skimming over the ruts, but still it was rough going. She leaned over and slid her briefcase more firmly under the seat, then sat back and closed her eyes. She’d never been terribly fond of flying but had learned to tolerate it, first for her duties with the Embassy, then later because of Gerald.

Still, this plane, as nice as it was, was considerably smaller than the jets she was accustomed to, and her fingers curled anxiously around the armrests when the nose lifted from the ground and the sharp ascent pressed her back into her seat.

There were a dozen questions she wanted to ask Tyler Murdoch. But through the narrow cockpit opening she could see that he still wore his headphones, and even if not for them, she knew he wouldn’t welcome any questions or comments from her.

His attitude couldn’t be clearer. He didn’t want her to accompany him to Mezcaya. The only thing she wasn’t sure of was whether he’d heard about her, and his lack of welcome was because of that, or whether he had other reasons.

She knew he was part of some special unit with the military. The former ambassador had told her that, along with a few other, scarce details. Though unlikely, she supposed it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he might have met Gerald and heard the rumors surrounding her.

It had been four years, yet even now, Marisa had to consciously release her anger over Gerald’s lies. He’d claimed to love her. But he’d ruined her. Left her career in tatters. And her family—

Don’t think about that.

It was a much too frequent mantra.

The plane leveled off, and Marisa’s ears stopped popping. She reached for her briefcase and drew out a file. Among other things since she’d “left” embassy service, she’d found work as a freelance translator for a few small-press publishers. The latest project was a paper on the long-term effects of video game usage by myopic users. She was translating it from English to Italian.

A few hours later, she’d made little progress on the dry project, because her eyes kept straying to the oval windows on the other side of the empty seat beside her. She sighed and put the file back in her briefcase, unclipped her safety belt and slid into the window seat to look out.

The landscape below was lush, green…and surprisingly close. Startled, she jerked back and stared at the cockpit. Surely they weren’t supposed to be flying so close to the ground. The treetops looked so close that it was a wonder they weren’t hitting the wings!

All the nervousness that she’d ever felt about flying climbed into her throat, leaving one choking knot. She slid out of the seat and hurriedly made her way forward to duck into the cockpit.

Tyler knew she was there before she could say a word. He pulled off the headset that held little more than static. “Head’s behind that door there.”

She blinked. “What? Oh. No, no, I don’t—I—” Her lips firmed and she leaned closer. “What are you doing flying so low? Surely that’s dangerous.”

“Everything’s been dangerous since takeoff.” He didn’t want her up here in the cockpit. It was close enough without adding her shapely self to the mix. If he moved his arm two inches, he’d be brushing against the curves contained within that scoop-necked jacket. It buttoned all the way up the front, but still exposed the hollow at her throat, the golden creamy neck—

His head filled with curses that some forgotten sense of decency kept him from mouthing. “Either sit down here, or go back to your seat and buckle in.” He sounded like a grouchy old man, and he didn’t much care. Better that than a red-blooded male way too aware of a female he didn’t want around, anyway.

She confounded him by taking the seat beside him. And he couldn’t help but appreciate the view when she arched her back a little, reaching for, then fastening, the safety harness. Her knuckles were nearly white as she clenched them together in her lap.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Her nose went up in the air. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

His jaw ached. He focused on the view beyond the nose of the plane.

He was flying low for a reason, but he had no intention of explaining himself. And when they got Westin to safety, he was going to have a talk with TPTB of Alpha Force. Apparently they didn’t take his no-women rule quite seriously enough.

He tuned out his companion and her white knuckles, and focused on the heavy forest below. This corner of Mezcaya near the border of Belize was mostly uninhabited. He wanted to make sure he didn’t show up on any radar and he wanted another look at the terrain while he had the chance. His last foray into Mezcaya had been too brief to suit him.

He’d studied the maps, of course, well enough to memorize them. But maps were one thing; seeing the land for himself was another. Soon enough, they’d exchange the plane at a designated place just across the border in Belize for a less conspicuous mode of transportation, and he wanted every advantage he could get before then.

Her knuckles were still white.

He stifled a sigh. “You were born in Mezcaya?”

She didn’t look at him. “Yes.”

And she’d been in Embassy service. Probably the pampered daughter of some dignitary. No wonder she looked like Miss Universe. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Thirteen.”

Definitely one of the privileged few from Mezcaya. The average family didn’t school their sons, much less their daughters, beyond primary. “Impressive.”

Her head slowly turned toward him, her golden eyes skeptical. “Why do I doubt you mean that?”

“I don’t say what I don’t mean.”

Her expression didn’t change. “Perhaps we’d be better served by discussing the task ahead of us.”

“Task.” The word felt as insubstantial on his tongue as it did to describe the operation. “Weren’t you briefed?” If she hadn’t been told too many details, he’d come up with a way to keep her from accompanying him all the way to the compound.

“I know we’re to try to rescue an American officer named Phillip Westin.”

“I will get him back.” Tyler corrected flatly. “There’s no ‘try’ about it.”

“El Jefe has him.”

“That won’t stop me.”

“Us.”

His jaw ached even more.

“Others have failed,” she persisted.

“I—we won’t.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because we’re not going in the way they’ll expect.” His friend Luke Callaghan had already been injured and was even now recuperating at a hospital in Texas. Tyler still had a hard time believing his old friend wasn’t just the millionaire playboy they’d all believed him to be. And if it weren’t for the fact that Luke had been blinded during his battle to save Westin, Tyler would probably still be pissed about the revelation that Luke was an operative with a covert civilian agency, involved in tasks eerily similar to those in which the Alpha Force engaged. But Luke’s methods had still been of the traditional bent.

“You mean, we’re going in as domestics.”

He slid the plane in a slow bank, then dipped into the valley between two mountains. A river snaked below them, glittering like a strand of diamonds. They were no longer skimming the treetops. It was so damn beautiful it was hard to believe anything bad ever happened in this country. “Yeah.” He glanced her way. “We’ll have to go in as a married couple.”

That seemed to startle her. “Why?”

“Because you’re a woman.”

“And you’re none too pleased about that.”

“If M. Rodriguez had been a man, we could have posed as brothers.”

“Even though one wouldn’t be able to speak Mezcayan, much less Spanish.” Her voice dripped disbelief.

His inability to fully master foreign languages was something Tyler had long ago accepted. People had different gifts. His was more along the lines of blowing things up than conjugating verbs. Which didn’t mean that hearing her observation did not rub him wrong. “I don’t need to do much speaking,” he said flatly. “That’s what they gave me you for.”

“Then I’ll be your sister instead of your brother,” she said reasonably.

“You’ll be my wife.”

His words seemed to float around the cockpit, blurring into the sound of the wind outside the plane, the steady drone of the engine.

He saw the way her shoulders stiffened, as if the statement was as abhorrent to her as it was to him. “What if I don’t agree to that?”

“Then I’ll leave your butt in Belize when we land in a few hours.”

“And you’ll never make it from there across Mezcaya and into El Jefe’s compound without me.”

“Don’t be so sure about that.” He would make his way to Fortaleza de la Fortuna whether she accompanied him or not. He would infiltrate the infamous compound, locate the damned cave that Luke had spoken of, free Westin and get the hell out of there, even if he had to blow up the entire compound and everyone in it in the process.

As far as he was concerned, destroying El Jefe’s compound was just fine with him. The world would be a better place without the terrorist group. Only he’d been ordered not to incite an international incident. Which meant he had to use some finesse, exercise some restraint and get it done in the time he’d been allowed before the Brits took over and did God knew what.

“El Jefe runs that entire region of Mezcaya.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” That was one of the reasons they were flying into the opposite side of the country.

She rattled off a stream of incomprehensible words. Mezcayan, he assumed. “Your point?”

She smiled faintly, looking superior enough that he wanted to hand her a parachute and show her the door. “I said that you’ll never make it through the gate of la Fortuna, unless you can speak Mezcayan or are very closely tied to one who does. That’s how El Jefe ensures some modicum of loyalty from those who live there.

“El Jefe may be scourge to the rest of the world, but to a great many citizens of this country, it is their savior. It feeds and clothes them. Provides for their children. Its compound isn’t merely a well-secured estate, Mr. Murdoch, it is virtually a state of its own. The language isn’t taught in schools. The government has decreed Spanish to be the official language, quite possibly as a direct statement against El Jefe. There are some that believe the language has been kept alive for the past few generations strictly because of El Jefe’s influence. Mezcayan is handed down from parent to child and so on, and only those who are natives of the land are likely to speak it well. Which means that you need me to get you through the door.”

Everything she said was true. But she’d left out one detail. And much as he didn’t want her there with him, he wouldn’t be responsible for harm coming to her, something his damned superiors had to have known. But as much as Tyler hated feeling manipulated, he was more concerned with his obligation to Westin. “We won’t go through unless you have the protection of being a married woman.”

He saw unease ripple through her eyes. Her lips parted, then closed.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

She looked away. “There have been rumors.”

“Unless you’re a nun or married—which El Jefe seems to have an unusual respect for considering everything else—women are fair game. Willing or not, El Jefe doesn’t care. If you’ve been raised in the compound, you’d possibly be taken as a wife or mistress by one of the officers should one take a shine to you. Gain their disfavor and you’d be sold off to the highest bidder. Or worse.”

“Rumors.”

“You want to take a chance that they’re not just rumors? Come on, M., look in a mirror. They’ll be lining up like hungry coyotes to see who gets the first taste. First tastes probably go to senior officers. The generals of El Jefe. Remember that British reporter a few years ago? She managed to infiltrate the compound, even managed to keep her cover intact. But she was—”

“Stop.” Marisa didn’t need him to go any further. He could have no idea how close his words struck. No idea, whatsoever.

It was just that he, like so many others in the free world, had probably seen the news story. It had been splashed across every paper for days. The woman, barely a reporter at all, had been raped then abandoned outside of the compound. When she was found, she was taken to a hospital in Mexico where her story came out.

What the news stories hadn’t said, however, was what happened after the hospital. The woman eventually committed suicide, unable to withstand the effects of her encounters with El Jefe. She’d left behind a child and a lover beset with grief.

The knot in Marisa’s throat had extended down to her stomach. She couldn’t let fear stop her from following through on this. There were too many reasons why she needed to succeed. “So, I’ll be a nun.”

“Nobody with two eyes in their head would believe that.”

She bristled. “Why not? Is there something…heathen about me, Mr. Murdoch?”

His gaze roved over her, making her feel hot and cold all at once. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like him. Knowing that this arrogant stranger could have any kind of effect on her was simply unacceptable. And being told in that unrelenting manner that she would portray his wife was just too close to orders that Gerald had once decreed. “I could act the nun well enough. For a little while, at least. I was raised as a Catholic and—”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I couldn’t pass as a priest, and there would be no other reason for me to be accompanying you.”

“Of course you could pretend to be a priest. For a little while. We could say…well, that your vocal cords were injured so you can’t speak, or something.”

“Unless my eyes were bandaged they’d still see the way I look at you.”

Marisa flushed.

“Besides,” he went on, as if regretting his admission, “there’s no reason why a strange priest and nun would gain access to la Fortuna. But they’re constantly taking in servants. It’s the only way.”

Silence hung between them for an endless moment. Then he spoke again. “Come on, Marisa.” Tyler’s voice was low, gentle. And she immediately distrusted it. “There’s nothing important enough for you to want to do this.”

Distrust, indeed. Her voice cooled. “My reasons are important, Mr. Murdoch, so please don’t make the mistake of dismissing them. Why is it so important to you to find this man?”

“Because I owe him. I was a hostage once and if not for Lieutenant Colonel Phillip Westin, who lived, ate and breathed for his men and didn’t give up on us, my friends and I would all be dead by now. I’m prepared to lay my life down for that man.”

Whatever Marisa had expected, it wasn’t that. However, Tyler wasn’t finished.

“But I’d just as soon get out with us still alive,” he added. “Which means that you don’t make one move without my say-so. I don’t care how well developed your Mezcayan heritage is, or what your reasons are for horning in on this op. There’re two people in Mezcaya that I trust, and one of them has been held captive for months now. So do what I say, when I say, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll come out of this with our skin intact.”

“And the other person you trust?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

Tyler was no longer looking at her, but out the window beside him. “Isn’t you.”




Two


Well. That was clear enough.

Tyler didn’t trust her. She didn’t particularly trust him, either, so she supposed that made them even.

“You’ve got different clothes?”

The absolute and utter change of topic surprised her. She looked down at her linen pantsuit. It had been excruciatingly expensive, but necessary, if she was going to make it back to the life she’d once had. She couldn’t show up as a representative of former Ambassador Torres in the polyester uniform she wore at the restaurant.

He’d made no sound whatsoever, but she could sense his impatience. “Yes, of course I have different clothes with me,” she answered.

“So you’ll look like a local? A likely candidate for a servant?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God for that,” he muttered.

Oh, she really didn’t like this man. “You don’t exactly look the part of a servant, either,” she retorted. What he did look like was a one-man military unit who’d never taken orders from anyone in his life.

If he took exception to her tone, she didn’t know it. “We’ll both change when we land,” was all he said.

She realized her teeth were worrying the inside of her lip and made herself stop. She didn’t want to pretend to be anything with this man, but if she had to, she’d do what was necessary.

“When will that be?”

“Soon enough.”

Her lips tightened. “Mr. Murdoch, things might run more smoothly if you’d just tell me what your plans are.”

“I’ll tell you what you need to know when you need to know it.”

She blew out a noisy breath, then unsnapped her harness.

“Where are you going?”

“To sit back there with the cargo. It’s friendlier than you are.” Her annoyance was a bristling, physical thing as she brushed past him through the cockpit door.

The bare skin of his arm tingled from the contact. He looked back at her. He was acting like an ass. He knew it. She knew it. She was beautiful, sexy as hell with her hair tied back in that tight knot, and he didn’t want to need her help. He didn’t trust her but he had to work with her.

Damn El Jefe!

He ran a practiced eye over the instrument panel, then looked back at her.

She was just fastening her seat belt, her head lowered as she fumbled with what should have been an easy task. A long strand of hair had worked free of her knot and clung to her cheek. She dashed it away with an angry motion, her gaze meeting his.

She looked away, but not quickly enough.

He thought he was immune to crocodile tears. Sonya had been able to summon them at the drop of a hat.

Hell. A conscience was mighty inconvenient, sometimes. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Why?” She was suspicious.

“Only making conversation.” He turned back around, automatically checking his panel.

After a long moment, she answered. “I have a sixteen-year-old-sister and…”

He glanced back at her when she paused.

“Three brothers,” she finished flatly. But at least her tears were nowhere in sight. Then her eyebrows rose and with extreme politeness, she said, “And you?”

“I’m one of a kind.” Though, really, he had no way of knowing whether the man who’d fathered him had sired a dozen other offspring, since Tyler never even knew the guy.

“Indeed.” Her tone was dry. “What a pity the world doesn’t have more just like—” She gasped when the plane shuddered and suddenly lost altitude.

He snapped around just in time to see a piece of cowling fly from the nose. Fury followed hard on the heels of disbelief at the sight of his plane damaged. Wounded.

Under his hands, the stick jittered. His adrenaline shot through the roof as he struggled to maintain his heading. “Come on, baby,” he whispered. “Keep it together for me.” He raised his voice. “Get up here,” he ordered.

Marisa was already slipping into the right seat, fastening the harness. “Take those binoculars, there,” he ordered.

She immediately reached for the leather case. “What am I looking for?”

“Anything,” he said flatly. It took some doing, and the execution was hardly textbook, but he turned the plane, changed headings. Coaxed some precious altitude from the reluctant controls. Keeping one eye on the instruments, he looked out the window. “He’s probably got a truck. A Jeep, maybe.”

“He?”

“Whoever shot at us.”

“Shot!” She swallowed audibly. Holding the small, powerful lenses to her eyes, she peered out the side window. “Dios. All I see are trees!”

At least she wasn’t screaming in hysterics.

She wasn’t screaming in hysterics.

Tyler grabbed her arm and yanked her around. The binoculars tumbled out of her hand and bounced with a clank off the instrument panel to fall on the floor near her feet.

She stared at him like he was mad. “What is wrong with you?”

“Who’d you talk to?”

“What?”

“Come on, princess, spill.”

Realization dawned. Marisa’s fingers curled against her palms, wishing that they were clawing out his eyes, and the strength of that desire horrified her to her soul. “You think I had something to do with this?” She yanked against his grip, but he merely tightened his fingers. “Let me go!”

“Tell me, Marisa. You know so much about la Fortuna. Maybe you’re already one of the El Jefe whores. They’d consider you expendable to keep me from getting to Westin.”

She saw red. Literally saw a haze of it come over her vision. Gerald had called her a whore. He’d been wrong, too. “You are vile,” she snapped, and yanked again at her arm. She succeeded in breaking from his hold only because he suddenly turned back and had both hands on the stick as he crooned—there was no other word for it but crooned—to the plane.

It chugged, it jerked, it shuddered.

Then all was silent.

The wicked-looking prop slowed until it turned lackadaisically, like some exotic wind decoration.

Her heartbeat sounded loud in her ears.

She could hear Tyler’s breath.

She stared at the prop, wishing with everything inside her that it would turn, whip into the revolutions that were so fast, they seemed invisible. Wishing she was once again near deafened by the hum of the engine that could be felt all around them.

But nothing.

She swallowed, not daring to look at Tyler, because if she did, this would all seem too real, too desperate.

Then she realized it wasn’t really all that silent, after all. And she did look across at Tyler.

The ominous sound of wind rushing outside the plane grew to a roar as the plane bulleted through the sky with no power and only a grim-faced Tyler at the controls.

She stared again out the nose of the plane, seeing the damage, feeling dizzy. “We’re going to crash,” she said faintly. All she’d wanted was to undo the damage that had been set into motion by her leaving Mezcaya. Was this, then, to be her final punishment?

“We’re not going to crash,” Tyler gritted beside her, as if by willpower alone he could prevent that from happening.

She looked at him, saw the tendons in his arms stand out as he struggled with the controls, the sheen of sweat on his face. “I didn’t do this to us,” she whispered.

“You better hope to hell I don’t find out differently, or I’ll finish off the job that shooter didn’t.”

She believed him.

Tyler didn’t have time to worry about Marisa’s pale face or the way she was staring out the window. There was no mistaking the abject terror in her face, whether she knew about the attack beforehand, or not.

He needed a place to land and he needed it yesterday. Had El Jefe somehow tracked them? Or was this an act by one of the natives, the ones who were determined to protect their way of life even if that meant shooting at a suspicious plane circling over their territory?

They were losing altitude. He’d been heading back toward the river, and he could just spot it in the distance. If he could just coax a few more…

“Brace yourself,” he ordered.

And then they were tearing through the trees, heavy branches crashing against them, toppling over beneath them. He barely had time to cover his own face with his arms after they cleared the rest of the trees and headed straight into the river.

Marisa screamed.

Water splashed up and over the nose of the plane.

Eerie moans filled the air and metal screamed as its momentum was abruptly stopped.

Marisa and Tyler, strapped in their safety harnesses, bounced around like rag dolls in the grip of a rambunctious, cartwheeling child.

Cargo broke free, tumbling, bouncing, breaking.

Then all motion ceased, jerked to a cruel, bone-bruising stop as the plane settled, tilting crazily against some immovable force.

Dazed, Tyler gingerly shook his head. He realized water was lapping higher and higher against the side of the plane. He ripped off his harness and leaned toward Marisa, gently tipping back her limp head. She’d struck something when they’d hit. Her forehead was bleeding. But she was breathing. And when he said her name, her mouth moved in reply.

Then her eyes opened slowly and stared, glassy, at him. “You’re bleeding,” she murmured.

Later, he might wonder over the relief he felt. But for now he didn’t have time. “So are you,” he said, and pushed himself painfully out of the cockpit. “We’ve gotta get out of here before the plane floods.” He kicked her briefcase out of the way as he made his way to the passenger door. It was buckled, and no amount of muscle would get it open.

He headed through the mess of supplies for the cargo door toward the rear of the plane. That opened, but it also let in a wave of cold water. He swore. “Marisa!”

Marisa had stumbled out of the cockpit behind him. “Tell me what to do.” She still looked unsteady.

“Get that duffel there. The black one. Grab anything you can carry from the box underneath it.”

He stepped into the swirling water, and rapidly inflated the Zodiac. They’d hit a sandbar. It was both a blessing and a curse, because, though it gave them a bit of dry ground to work with, it had also torn off the right wing of his plane.

Marisa, arms full, followed him, and he helped her from the plane, onto the bar, holding the cargo high, out of the water. “Stay there.”

She nodded, looking ill. He wasn’t surprised when her legs gave out, and he caught her before she fell back into the swirling river. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, her hand pressed to her forehead. “I’m so dizzy.”

He grabbed the duffel and stuffed it behind her. “Lean against that. And don’t let go. Can you swim?”

Marisa nodded weakly and sincerely hoped she wouldn’t be called upon to actually do so. Every movement made her head swim. She curled her fingers into the black canvas of the bag with a death grip and drew her legs up the sandy surface, out of the water.

They’d crashed.

But they weren’t dead.

She closed her eyes, aware of Tyler’s rapid movements as he went back and forth between the boat he’d inflated and the plane.

Then he was talking to her, telling her to get in the small boat. She moved, feeling clumsy, and he ended up just lifting her over the side, tossing the duffel in after her.

She was shivering. The air felt colder than it ought to have for February. If she could just get warm…

Her fingers closed on the duffel and she fumbled for the zipper. He probably had clothes inside—

“What the hell are you doing?” He jerked the bag out of her hands and she’d have pitched forward onto her nose if he hadn’t planted a hard hand on her shoulder first. “Stay out of there.” He shoved the duffel as far away from her as it could go. Which wasn’t far.

She didn’t want to cry. She wouldn’t cry. Not in front of him. “I’m cold.”

“You’re soaking wet. We both are. That, plus a little shock.” He shook his head and pulled a thin, silvery film from a small package. With a flick, he opened it out like a blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. Then he tilted her head back and looked at her forehead. “I’ll get that cut taken care of in a minute,” he said.

And Marisa’s eyes flooded simply because his voice had been so gentle.

She was glad when he rolled out of the boat and headed back to the plane. She ducked her head and wiped her eyes. The nausea was subsiding. By the time he returned to the boat, she was sitting up, more or less steadily. He pushed the boat off the bar, walking alongside it until he was practically swimming. Then, with a slick motion, he slid over the side and flipped a small outboard into place. A moment later the motor was running with a reassuring sound.

But he didn’t head up the river as she expected. Instead, after several yards, he let off on the throttle, leaving them to drift with the current. He was looking back at the crash, holding something in his hand. “Cover your ears.”

Unthinkingly Marisa did as he bade. And then nearly jumped out of her skin at the short, sharp crack that blasted through the air when he pointed the small device and pressed a button.

She looked back. The front of the plane was engulfed in flames.

The front of the plane where the radio and all that wonderful, high-tech equipment was. She whirled on him. “How could you do that? What if they can’t find us?”

“Who?”

Her teeth chattered with chills. “Whoever is g-going to rescue us!”

He’d opened the throttle of the outboard, and now they were moving fast down the river. “We are the ones doing the rescue. This is just a temporary hitch in the plans.”

Marisa looked up at the afternoon sky. It seemed like hours had passed since the moment the plane had begun its tumble from the sky. But her logic told her it couldn’t have been long at all. “I still don’t see why you had to completely destroy the plane.”

“Would you prefer the shooter to know that we got out alive? Or would you prefer him to find completely burned wreckage?”

She felt dread slice through her. How silly of her not to realize the person who’d shot at the plane might not be finished with them. “Why does El Jefe hate this Westin so badly?”

“Don’t you know?”

She raked back the pieces of hair that had come loose from her chignon. “What do I have to do to convince you that I am not in league with El Jefe!” She realized she was yelling, and closed her mouth with a snap.

“I’ll let you know.”

She shook her head, wincing at the pain in her face. At least her swimming head had cleared. And being wrapped like a hot dog in tin foil had done the trick of settling her chills. “You’d have been right in style with the witch trials,” she told him.

For some reason, he found that amusing. His lip curled in an entirely unexpected and terribly brief grin.

Marisa looked away.

The river had narrowed from where they’d crashed to only about fifteen, perhaps twenty feet. The banks were steep, congested with heavy root growth from the trees that towered over them, nearly blocking out the sky above. As the small, tough boat skimmed steadily along the surface, Marisa couldn’t help the feeling that she’d been left all alone in this world with a man whose smile could transform his face.

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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