by Anne Stuart
The dreams grew stranger as the night wore on, which was only to be expected. She opened her eyes to see a huge pig standing a few feet away, looking at her out of mad, dark piggy eyes. At least she assumed it was a pig. She heard a voice, rumbling against her chest so that it seemed to come from inside her, telling the pig that they were no danger to him, and that he could go away and leave them alone.
And after a moment the pig left, and Libby closed her eyes again to ponder this new absurdity. Had she been talking to the pig, or had it been the voice of God? What had the pig symbolized in her life—she couldn't begin to imagine.
And stranger still, the rough voice spoke French with an Australian accent.
She gave up then, drifting back to sleep, snuggling closer to her imaginary protector, reveling in the heat of his smooth, strong body. Nothing was going to harm her, not French speaking pigs, not Richard with his casual rejection, not Edward J. Hunnicutt and his haphazard grants and jobs and revenge.
The thought of Hunnicutt almost woke her up, but sleep won out. She should remember something, beware of something, but it eluded her, and in the end she slept, safe and sound, in a pleasant state of perfectly innocent desire for the imaginary man beside her.
It was broad daylight when she opened her eyes, and she blinked, trying to focus on the green mist in front of her. It took her long moments to realize she wasn't in a bed, and longer moments to realize she wasn't alone. Someone was holding her, a strong body was behind her, and when she tried to sit up in sudden panic his hold tightened on her, keeping her still.
It came back to her with such a rushing force that she almost passed out again. She'd drugged Mick and Alf, and set the wild man free. Except that he'd decided to take her with him, carting her off into the middle of nowhere, and now here she was, curled up with him like a kitten.
She couldn't quite remember how she'd gotten to this particular place. She remembered he'd carried her for what seemed like hours, and then they stopped for the night. She had another memory, but it couldn't have been real. It must have had something to do with the French pig. Surely a wild creature like John couldn't have kissed her. Couldn't have even known what kissing was.
She'd dreamed it, she decided flatly. Along with the pig and the strange voice. Maybe it had been the pig speaking, though its mouth hadn't moved. Maybe it was the voice of her guardian angel, though why her angel would have the raspy voice of a barfly and speak French with an Australian accent was beyond her comprehension.
"I need to get up," she said in a low, firm voice. He didn't move. Of course he didn't—he didn't understand a word she said. She tugged against his encompassing hold, trying to demonstrate. "I need to get up," she said again.
After a moment he released her, and she scrambled away from him. Her body didn't seem to want to obey her commands—it felt stiff, sluggish, and belatedly she remembered the spiny dart in her hand. If she remembered that, maybe her memory of the kiss had been real as well.
She looked at him, but he looked the same. Remote, expressionless. If he had any understanding beneath that face she had yet to reach it.
She started to stand up, and he reached for her, to pull her back down. He caught her wrist, the bruised one, and she let out an involuntary yelp of pain. Enough to startle him into releasing her.
"I have to go to the bathroom," she said. "In the woods. Alone."
He didn't blink. For the first time she could see his eyes in bright light, without the drugs and artificial darkness. They were brown, a rich, chocolate brown, and even without expression they were as decadently seductive as a box of Godiva chocolates. Libby had spent her life resisting any sort of temptation. Her one failure was Godiva chocolates.
She took a step back, and he didn't grab her. "I have to go…" Words failed her. She wasn't about to act it out for him, and she certainly wasn't going to squat in the woods with him watching.
"Stay there!" she said firmly, holding up her hand in a halting gesture, once more thinking of Lassie. Though sitting there in the sunlight, John looked a far cry from a faithful canine companion. A wolf, maybe, but nothing tame.
Thank God he didn't move. She wasn't sure what she would have done if he tried to stop her, or follow her. She dove through the underbrush, careful not to go too far, finding a small, private spot and relief.
Only for a minute did she consider trying to take off, escape from her captor. The problem was, she had no idea which direction to go. If she ran, he'd probably catch her, and if he did, he'd never give her a scant moment's privacy again.
She thrashed her way back to the clearing, making as much noise as she could, only to find the place deserted when she got there. So much for her worries, she thought, kneeling down at the stream and cupping her hands for a drink. It was cool and clear and delicious. Almost as delicious as when he'd held it for her last night.
"Stop it," she said out loud. "Too many erotic fantasies." The words were no sooner out of her mouth than John reappeared in the clearing, once more bearing those strange, breadlike fruits. "And thank God you don't understand a word I say," she added, sitting back on her heels. "You don't need to know I'm having ridiculously lustful feelings. Obviously I've lost my mind. Maybe it's the Stockholm syndrome, where the victim falls in love with her kidnapper. No, I don't think that's it. To be perfectly honest, I've been having unprofessional fantasies since I first saw you, and I don't know if I can keep blaming the time difference. All I can do is thank God you don't understand a word I say."
He handed her one of the fruits that they'd shared last night, and she bit into it, savoring the salty-sweet taste of it. "You know, this is very good," she said, as he sat down across from her and began to eat. "A far cry from an Egg McMuffin, but very nice."
He was ignoring her as he concentrated on his breakfast, and she stretched out her legs in front of her. "God, I feel grimy," she said with a sigh. "I'm wearing twice the clothes you are, and I'm not cut out for running through the jungle. I do realize you carted me for hours, but I'm still feeling achy and grungy. I would kill for a hot bath, a good bed and a Big Mac."
He kept eating. "You aren't really that different from Richard, you know," she continued in a conversational tone. "He never paid any attention to anything I said, either. Except, of course, for my theory on the tribesmen of Whachua. Did I tell you Richard and I were in the same field? Unfortunately Richard never had an original thought in his entire life, so he simply borrowed mine. And I, stupid idiot that I am, was honored that I could contribute to his work. All without credit, of course."
John had finished his breakfast and was looking at her from those still, watchful eyes. But for some reason Libby couldn't stop talking. The silence was driving her nuts.
"I should have realized when the sex was bad," she continued chattily. "I suppose it might have improved with practice, but after the third or fourth time I just gave up. I've never been particularly lucky when it comes to sex. I don't think I'm a very sensual person." She licked the last taste of the fruit off her lips with a small, satisfied sigh. He was staring at her, and she smiled.
"And you don't understand a word I'm saying," she said with surprising cheer. "And a good thing, too. This is like therapy—I can tell you my darkest secrets, get them off my chest and no one will know but me."
He rose, indifferent to her chatter, waiting for her to rise, too. She figured she had no choice, and she wasn't sure she wanted him to touch her. His touch was unnerving. "Are we going?" she asked brightly. "I suppose so. Well, you lead the way and I'll tell you all about my childhood while we walk. After all, I might as well get some use out of this trek apart from the physical exercise. Then we'll get to my neurotic adolescence, ending up with my lousy sex life. And then I'll start fantasizing about how you spent your life."
He'd started to walk away, but at that point he turned back to her, and for a brief moment she thought she saw the glimmer of an expression in his eyes. So brief that it vanished before she could even begin to deciph
er it.
"I'm coming," she said, following after him. "But you might answer me one question."
He'd turned and started walking, and she ran to keep up with him through the dense greenery. It was too thick to walk abreast, so she stayed behind him while he pushed the fronds out of the way.
"You don't have to answer me, of course. And you won't. But I just wondered if it was my imagination, or did you really kiss me last night?"
As she expected, there was no answer. He just moved deeper into the jungle. And she followed after him, lapsing into silence, remembering.
Chapter Nine
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If there was one thing John Bartholomew Hunter couldn't abide, it was a chatty woman. And yet here he was, tromping through the rain forest with someone who couldn't stop talking, who seemed determined to share every intimate detail of her life with her supposedly uncomprehending companion, and on top of that, he was fascinated. From her activist parents who'd adored her, through her high school and college years when she was always at least five years younger than her classmates. No dates, no proms, though she didn't seem particularly saddened by their lack. She seemed more disturbed by the lack of sex in her life. Whoever Richard was, he certainly hadn't done right by her.
And of course she blamed herself. She was too intellectual to be passionate, she said reasonably as she scrambled behind him through the foliage. It was amazing that she'd developed such a healthy case of lust for him, and she was enjoying herself immensely, just watching him, secure in the knowledge that he had no idea she was having erotic fantasies about him, probably had no idea what erotic fantasies were in the first place. If he'd lived a life in the jungle, without other people around, he probably didn't even know what sex was.
And John wondered how long he'd hold back before he jumped on her and showed her exactly how mistaken she was. At least it would silence her for a bit.
The drugs must have had a longer-lasting effect than he would have thought. There was no reason for him to be contemplating having sex with Dr. Elizabeth Holden, and he was doing a lot more than contemplating. He was using all his concentration to keep from touching her, because he knew once he did it would be all over.
They should reach the coast by late afternoon if they were lucky. If not, it would still be by midnight, and he had excellent night vision. They could leave, and then he could get rid of her, somehow or other, all without saying a word. He was good at disappearing, and she'd be able to find her way back to the States, to the cities and the fast food that she needed.
If he could keep his hands off her.
Eventually she stopped talking, and while the silence was more restful, it left him free to think too much. About her. About how he'd gotten to this place. And about how he was going to deal with Edward J. Hunnicutt and his thugs.
Something had to be done. He was free, and no one would touch him again. But a man like Hunnicutt thought rules didn't apply to him and living beings were simply put on earth for his curiosity. He needed to be taught a hard lesson in life. And his minions as well.
Besides, if he didn't, they might very well go after Libby. For all she seemed ready to give up her career, he knew perfectly well that was not a viable option. He didn't want Hunnicutt wielding his dollars to destroy her life. He needed to protect her as much as he needed to protect the other helpless things that might cross Hunnicutt's path.
Not that Libby was particularly helpless. She could probably talk him to death. John felt a small, reluctant smile tug at his mouth at the thought. She had a nice voice, slightly husky, though nothing compared to the ravaged croak he managed to make. God help him, he'd begun to miss her chattering.
It was logical enough. None of his captors had spoken a word to him. He could hear them talking among themselves through his drugged daze, more than they could ever have imagined. But until she put her hands on his body, spoke to him in her soft, husky voice, he hadn't had anyone treat him like a human being.
He heard the sounds of the waterfall in the distance, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Not that he'd doubted his instincts—normally he could have found his way across the island in pitch-black and pouring rain. But right now he wasn't trusting anything to be as it should, and it was a consolation that at least he knew where he was going.
The waterfall and pool were only a few hours inland from the beach—if their luck held they'd be out of there by nightfall. He glanced back at his companion. She was starting to limp slightly, and she looked exhausted. That unexpected dose of the tranquilizer dart hadn't helped her energy level, though it had at least ensured a good night's sleep. If she'd started chattering about her unsatisfactory love life last night he might have done something about it. Something they'd both regret.
Her senses weren't nearly as attuned as his were, but even she began to realize they were approaching water. She moved faster to catch up with him, and he half expected her to take his hand. She stopped herself in time, and he knew why. She wanted to avoid touching him for almost the same reason he wanted to avoid touching her. She was afraid of where it might lead. He knew exactly where.
"Is that water?" she asked. "It smells like water. Are we near the ocean?"
He didn't answer, he just kept plowing onward through the thick growth, surreptitiously holding the greenery so it wouldn't thwack her in the face. In her state of exhaustion even a palm frond might knock her over. She needed a chance to rest, she needed cool water to swim in and drink, she needed something to eat. And she needed him to keep his distance so he wouldn't see that confused, longing expression in her blue eyes.
That was another thing. He didn't like blue-eyed women, either. He liked his woman tall, curvy, exotic and mysterious. Not a little puppy dog who blurted out the intimate details of her life and speculated on his with disarming candor.
Of course, she had no idea she was being candid with anyone but herself. And he wasn't sure whether he was going to tell her or not. By now he had almost decided she wouldn't betray him, but he'd been through too much in the last unknown period of time to trust lightly. Besides, the less she knew the better. It would probably be best for her if he simply faded into the rain forest. That way she could still have her erotic fantasies unsullied by the usually less-than-satisfactory reality.
Though he couldn't help thinking that at least he could provide her with a better reality than Richard, whoever the hell he was.
Dangerous thoughts, he reminded himself, keeping his expression stoic, and he pushed through the last bit of clearing to the pool. He heard her hushed intake of breath, and suddenly he was transported back, almost twenty-five years ago, when he had first found this place. His reaction had been the same, wonder and delight, at a time when staying alive had been his full-time occupation.
"Oh, my God, it's beautiful," Libby said. He glanced down at her, but her attention was on the wide expanse of lagoon, the waterfall sending ripples across the smooth surface.
"I don't care what you say, I'm going swimming," she said, pushing past him. She paused at the edge, turning back to look at him. "Of course you're not going to say anything, are you? But I imagine you'd know whether this lagoon is filled with piranhas or water moccasins or the like, and you'd stop me from going in if it was dangerous. Wouldn't you?"
He didn't answer. Instead he dove into the water, straight past her, deliberately splashing her.
From under the water he heard her shriek, and then her splash as she followed him. She was either a lousy diver or she'd done a cannonball, he thought, kicking his legs and skimming beneath the surface. One small woman shouldn't have been able to make that big a splash. He'd better keep an eye on her in case she was a lousy swimmer. He surfaced, but there was no sign of her, and he knew a moment's panic. He dove back under immediately, only to come face-to-face with her under the water as she moved silently through the clear blue.
He froze, as did she, in that silent underwater universe. And then she kicked to the surface, and he moved away, to make cer
tain that when he came up for air he wouldn't be anywhere near her.
He'd underestimated her effect on him. A few inches closer in that warm, sweet water and he would have… might have…
It was absurd. After all these years he knew himself and his body very well, and his self-control and self-will were phenomenal. If need be he could go without food, without water, without rest, without sleep. The thought of giving in to temptation with a woman who was disaster for him was unthinkable.
And he couldn't stop thinking about it.
The water was doing little to cool him off. She was over by the waterfall, and he could see that she was a strong, good swimmer. She didn't need him hovering, making sure she didn't drown. On land he needed to stay near. In the water they were on equal terms. He had no reason to go anywhere near the waterfall.
She'd found the bit of ledge and climbed out on it, so that she stood beneath the stream of water, head tilted back, letting it pour over her body. He'd tried very hard not to pay attention to her body, but right now that was proving impossible. She'd been wearing a baggy pair of khakis and a white T-shirt when he'd dragged her out of the house. And a bra—he could see that quite clearly through the soaking, stretched-out T-shirt. A lace bra that hooked in the front. And she was curvier than he'd realized.
The khakis had sagged down low on her hips, and she grabbed the tail of her T-shirt to wring it out, exposing her stomach. John made a little moaning sound in the water that was thankfully covered by the sound of the falls. Determinedly he tried to think of other women, but nothing could distract him. He simply treaded water, staring at her.