by Linda Howard
He caught her fist and jerked her to him, holding her to him so tightly that she gasped, his face buried against her hair.
She was still struggling against him, beating at his back with her fists and crying again. “Let me go! Please, just let me go.”
“I can’t,” he whispered, and caught her chin, turning her face up to him. Fiercely he ground his mouth down on hers and, like a cornered cat, she tried to bite him. He jerked his head back, laughing, a wild joy running through him. The torn blouse had fallen away, and her naked breasts were flattened against him, their soft fullness reminding him of how good it felt when she wasn’t fighting him. He kissed her again, roughly, and cupped her breast in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the velvet nipple and making it tighten.
Jane whimpered under the onslaught of his mouth, but her temper had worn itself out, and she softened against him, suddenly aware that she’d gotten through to him. She wanted to hold on to her anger, but she couldn’t hold a grudge. All she could do was kiss him back, her arms sliding up to lock around his neck. His hand burned her breast, his thumb exciting her acutely sensitive skin and beginning to tighten the coil of desire deep in her loins. He had no need to hold her still for his kisses now, so he put his other hand on her bottom and urged her against him, demonstrating graphically that she wasn’t the only one affected.
He lifted his mouth from hers, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I swear, that temper of yours is something,” he whispered. “Do you forgive me?”
That was a silly question; what was she supposed to say, considering that she was hanging around his neck like a Christmas ornament? “No,” she said, rubbing her face into the hollow of his throat, seeking his warm, heady male scent. “I’m going to save this to throw up at you the next time we have a fight.” She wanted to say “for the rest of our lives,” but though his arms were hard around her, he hadn’t yet said that he loved her. She wasn’t going to dig for the words, knowing that he might not be able to say them and mean it.
“You will, too,” he said, and laughed. Reluctantly his arms loosened, and he reached up, removing her arms from his neck. “I’d like to stay like this, but we need to get to Limon.” He looked down at her breasts, and a taut look came over his battered face. “When this is over with, I’m going to take you to a hotel and keep you in bed until neither of us can walk.”
They got back in the car, and Jane removed the remnants of the blouse, stuffing it in the backpack and pulling on Grant’s camouflage shirt that she’d put in the pack that morning. It would have wrapped around her twice, and the shoulder seams hung almost to her elbows. She rolled the sleeves up as far as they would go, then gathered the long tails and tied them at her waist. Definitely not high fashion, she thought, but she was covered.
The Ford rolled into Limon in the early hours of the morning, and though the streets were nearly deserted, it was obvious that the port was a well-populated city of medium size. Jane’s hands clenched on the car seat. Were they safe, then? Had Turego been fooled by the abandoned truck?
“What now?”
“Now I try to get in touch with someone who can get us out tonight. I don’t want to wait until morning.”
So he thought Turego’s men were too close for safety. Was it never going to end? She wished they had remained in the jungle, hidden so deeply in the rain forest that no one would ever have found them.
Evidently Grant had been in Limon before; he negotiated the streets with ease. He drove to the train station, and Jane gave him a puzzled look. “Are we going to take the train?”
“No, but there’s a telephone here. Come on.”
Limon wasn’t an isolated jungle village, or even a tiny town at the edge of the forest; it was a city, with all of the rules of a city. He had to leave the rifle in the back of the station wagon, but he stuck the pistol into his boot. Even without his being obviously armed, Jane thought there was no chance at all of them going anywhere without being noticed. They both looked as if they’d come fresh from a battle, which, in effect, they had. The ticket agent eyed them with sharp curiosity, but Grant ignored him, heading straight for a telephone. He called someone named Angel, and his voice was sharp as he demanded a number. Hanging up, he fed more coins into the slot, then dialed another number.
“Who are you calling?” Jane whispered.
“An old friend.”
The old friend’s name was Vincente, and intense satisfaction was on Grant’s face when he hung up. “They’re pulling us out of here. In another hour we’ll be home free.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Jane asked.
“Don’t ask too many questions.”
She scowled at him, then something else took her attention. “While we’re here, could we clean up a little? You look awful.”
There was a public bathroom—empty, she was thankful to see—and Grant washed his face while Jane brushed her hair out and quickly pulled it back into a loose braid. Then she wet a towel and painstakingly cleaned the wound on Grant’s arm; the bullet hadn’t penetrated, but the graze was deep and ugly. After washing it with a strong-smelling soap, she produced a small first-aid kit from her backpack.
“One of these days I’m going to see what all’s in that thing,” Grant growled.
Jane uncapped a small bottle of alcohol and poured it on the graze. He caught a sharp breath, and said something extremely explicit. “Don’t be such a baby,” Jane scolded. “You didn’t make this much fuss when you were shot.”
She smeared an antibiotic cream on the wound, then wrapped gauze snugly around his arm and tied the ends together. After replacing the kit, she made certain the pack was still securely buckled to her belt-loop.
Grant opened the door, then abruptly stepped back and closed it again. Jane had been right behind him, and the impact of their bodies made her stagger. He caught her arm, keeping her from falling. “Turego and a few of his men just came into the station.” He looked around, his eyes narrowed and alert. “We’ll go out a window.”
Her heart pounding, Jane stared in dismay at the row of small, high windows that lined the restroom. They were well over her head. “I can’t get up there.”
“Sure you can.” Grant bent down and grasped her around the knees, lifting her until she could reach the windows. “Open one, and go through it. Quick! We only have a minute.”
“But how will you get up—”
“I’ll make it! Jane, get through that window!”
She twisted the handle and shoved the window open. Without giving herself time to think about how high above the ground on the other side it might be, she grasped the bottom edge of the frame and hauled herself through, jumping into the darkness and hoping she didn’t kill herself on a railroad tie or something. She landed on her hands and knees in loose gravel, and she had to bite back a cry of pain as the gravel cut her palms. Quickly she scrambled out of the way, and a moment later Grant landed beside her.
“Are you all right?” he asked, hauling her to her feet.
“I think so. No broken bones,” she reported breathlessly.
He started running along the side of the building, dragging her behind him. They heard a shot behind them, but didn’t slow down or look back. Jane stumbled and was saved from falling only by his grip on her hand. “Can’t we go back for the Ford?” she wailed.
“No. We’ll have to get there on foot.”
“Get where?”
“To the pick-up point.”
“How far is that?”
“Not too far.”
“Give it to me in yards and miles!” she demanded
He dodged down a street and pulled her into the deep shadows of an alley. He was laughing. “Maybe a mile,” he said, and kissed her, his mouth hard and hungry, his tongue finding hers. He hugged her fiercely.
“Whatever you did to Turego, honey, he looks like hell.”
“I think I broke his nose,” she admitted.
He laughed again. “I think you did, too. It’s swollen all over his face
. He won’t forget you for a long time!”
“Never, if I have anything to do with it. We’re going to tell the government about that man,” she vowed.
“Later, honey. Right now, we’re getting out of here.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
A HELICOPTER CAME IN low and fast, and settled lightly on its runners, looking like a giant mosquito. Grant and Jane ran across the small field, bent low against the wind whipped up by the rotors, which the pilot hadn’t cut. Behind them people were pouring out of their houses to see what the uproar was about. Jane began to giggle, lightheaded with the triumph of the moment; by the time Grant boosted her into the helicopter, she was laughing so hard she was crying. They’d done it! Turego couldn’t catch them now. They would be out of the country before he could mobilize his own helicopters to search for them, and he wouldn’t dare pursue them across the border.
Grant flashed her a grin, telling her that he understood her idiotic laughter. He shouted, “Buckle up!” at her, then levered himself into the seat beside the pilot and gave him the thumbs-up sign. The pilot nodded, grinned, and the helicopter rose into the night. Grant put on the headset that would allow him to talk to the pilot, but there wasn’t one in the back. Jane gave up trying to hear what they were saying and gripped the sides of her seat, staring out through the open sides of the helicopter. The night air swirled around her, and the world stretched out beyond the small craft. It was the first time she’d ever been in a helicopter, and it was a totally different sensation from being in a jet. She felt adrift in the velvet darkness, and she wished that it wasn’t night, so she could see the land below.
The flight didn’t take long, but when they set down, Jane recognized the airport and reached up to grab Grant’s shoulder. “We’re in San Jose!” she yelled, anxiety filling her voice. This was where it had all begun. Turego had plenty of men in the capitol!
Grant took off the headset. The pilot cut the rotors, and the noise began to decrease. They shook hands, and the pilot said, “Nice to see you again! Word filtered down that you were in the area, and that we should give you any assistance you asked for. Good luck. You’d better run. You have just enough time to get on that flight.”
They jumped to the asphalt and began running toward the terminal. “What flight is that?” Jane panted.
“The flight to Mexico City that’s leaving in about five minutes.”
Mexico City! That sounded more like it! The thought lent her strength.
The terminal was almost deserted at that time of night, because the flight for Mexico City had already boarded. The ticket clerk stared at them as they approached, reminding Jane once again of how they looked. “Grant Sullivan and Jane Greer,” Grant said tersely. “You’re holding our tickets.”
The clerk had regained his composure. “Yes, sir, and the plane,” he returned in perfect English, handing over two ticket folders. “Ernesto will take you directly aboard.”
Ernesto was an airport guard, and he led the way, running. Grant held Jane’s hand to make certain she kept up with them. She had a fleeting thought about the pistol stuck in his boot, but they bypassed all checkpoints. Grant certainly had connections, she thought admiringly.
The jet was indeed waiting, and the smiling stewardess welcomed them aboard as calmly as if there was nothing unusual about them. Jane wanted to giggle again; maybe they didn’t look as outlandish as she felt they did. After all, camouflage clothing was all the rage in the States. So what if Grant was sporting an almost black eye, a puffy lip and a bandage on his arm? Maybe they looked like journalists who had had a rough time in the field.
As soon as they were seated, the plane began rolling. As they buckled their seat belts, Grant and Jane exchanged glances. It was well and truly over now, but they still had some time together. The next stop was Mexico City, an enormous international city with shops, restaurants…and hotels. Her body longed for a bed, but even deeper than her weariness ran the tingling awareness that Grant would be in that bed with her. He lifted the armrest between their seats and pulled her over so her head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder. “Soon,” he murmured against her temple. “In a couple of hours we’ll be in Mexico. Home free.”
“I’m going to call Dad as soon as we get there, so he and Mom will stop worrying.” Jane sighed. “Do you have anyone to call? Does your family know where you were?”
His eyes took on that remote look. “No, they don’t know anything about what I do. I’m not close to my family, not anymore.”
That was sad, but Jane supposed that when someone was in the business Grant had been in, it was safer for his family not to be close to him. She turned her face into his neck and closed her eyes, holding tightly to him in an effort to let him know that he wasn’t alone anymore. Had his nights been spent like hers, lying awake in bed, so achingly alone that every nerve in her body cried out against it?
She slept, and Grant did, too, exhaustion finally sweeping over him as he allowed his bruised body to relax. With her in his arms, it was easy to find the necessary relaxation. She nestled against him as trustingly as a child, but he could never forget that she was a woman, as fierce and elemental as wind or fire. She could have been the spoiled debutante he’d expected. It was what she should have been, and no one would have thought the less of her for being the product of her environment—no one expected her to be any more than that. But she’d risen above that, and above the crippling trauma of her childhood, to become a woman of strength and humor and passion.
She was a woman in whose arms a wary, battered, burntout warrior could sleep.
The sky was turning pearl pink with dawn when they landed in Mexico City. The terminal was teeming with people scurrying to catch early flights, a multitude of languages and accents assailing the air. Grant hailed a cab, which took them on a hair-raising ride through traffic that made every moment an exercise in survival—or it would have been hair-raising if Jane had had the energy to care. After what she’d been through, the Mexico City traffic looked mundane.
The city was beautiful at dawn, with its wide avenues and fragrant trees; and the white of the buildings glowed rosily in the early morning sun. The sky was already a deep blue bowl overhead, and the air carried that velvet feel that only the warmer climes achieved. Despite the odor of exhaust fumes she could smell the sweetness of orange blossoms, and Grant was warm beside her, his strong leg pressed against hers.
The desk clerk in the pristine white, high-rise hotel was reluctant to give them a room without a reservation. His black eyes kept wandering to Grant’s bruised face as he rattled off excuses in rapid-fire Spanish. Grant shrugged, reached into his pocket and peeled off a couple of bills from a roll. The clerk suddenly smiled; that changed everything. Grant signed them in, and the clerk slid a key across the desk. After taking a few steps, Grant turned back. “By the way,” he said easily, “I don’t want any interruptions. If anyone calls or asks, we aren’t here. ¿Comprende? I’m dead tired, and I get irritable if I’m jerked out of a sound sleep.”
His voice was full of silky, lazy menace, and the clerk nodded rapidly.
With Grant’s arm draped across her shoulders, they walked over to the bank of elevators. He punched the button for the nineteenth floor, and the doors slid silently shut. Jane said dazedly, “We’re safe.”
“Having trouble believing it?”
“I’m going to get that man. He’s not going to get off scot-free!”
“He won’t,” Grant drawled. “He’ll be taken care of, through channels.”
“I don’t want ‘channels’ to take care of him! I want to do it myself!”
He smiled down at her. “You’re a bloodthirsty little wench, aren’t you? I almost think you enjoyed this.”
“Only parts of it,” she replied, giving him a slow smile.
Their room was spacious, with a terrace for sunning, a separate sitting area with a dining table and a stunningly modern bath. Jane poked her head into it and withdrew with a beatific smile on her face
. “All the modern conveniences,” she crowed.
Grant was studying the in-house registry for room service. Picking up the phone, he ordered two enormous breakfasts, and Jane’s mouth watered at the thought. It had been almost twenty-four hours since they’d eaten. While they were waiting for their food, she began the process of making a phone call to Connecticut. It took about five minutes for the call to go through, and Jane sat with the receiver gripped tightly in her hand, taut with the need to hear her parents’ voices.
“Mom? Mom, it’s Jane! I’m all right—don’t cry, I can’t talk to you if you’re crying,” Jane said, and wiped away a few tears herself. “Put Dad on the line so I can tell him what’s going on. We’ll blubber together just as soon as I get home, I promise.” She waited a few moments, smiling mistily at Grant, her dark eyes liquid.
“Jane? Is it really you?” Her father’s voice boomed across the line.
“Yes, it really is. I’m in Mexico City. Grant got me out; we just flew in a few minutes ago.”
Her father made a choked sound, and Jane realized that he was crying, too, but he controlled himself. “Well, what now?” he demanded. “When are you going to be here? Where are you going from there?”
“I don’t know,” she said, lifting her brows at Grant and taking the receiver from her ear. “Where are we going next?”
He took the phone from her. “This is Sullivan. We’ll probably be here for a couple of days, getting some paperwork straightened out. We came in here without being checked for passports, but I’ll have to make some calls before we can get into the States. Yes, we’re okay. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out something.”