The Stealth Commandos Trilogy

by Suzanne Forster

  A low moan caught in her throat as he broke the kiss and began to draw up her shift. “I know you never take this off,” he said. “But I want you naked when I make love to you.”

  Annie knew vaguely that the shift was her last defense, her only remaining protection against the feelings that were overpowering her. Removing it would strip her of all reason and resistance. She knew that, but the knowledge didn’t help her when he asked her to raise her arms.

  “I can’t.”

  Her arms felt too heavy to lift, but she must have done what he wanted, because a moment later the shift was gone, and he was taking her breasts in his hands again. She felt the coil of desire tightening inside her. It clutched at her sharply, sweetly, and yet everywhere else, her body was weak and melting. She felt as if a tropical fever were washing over her, burning her skin with heat and spiraling her down into sweet and total oblivion.

  His hands were at her waist, and then he was lifting her hips, pulling off her jeans. She moaned as he dragged her down on the bed, opening her legs. And then suddenly he was above her, his dark eyes boring into her dazed and dizzy thoughts, and there was an unfamiliar pressure between her thighs.

  Chase had to light back some demons as he gazed at the naked creature lying beneath him. She was a child-woman, innocently wanton, abandoned enough to ruin any man’s intentions, no matter how good. He could easily have got rough and possessive with her. Hell, he wanted to get rough and possessive. He was potent, throbbing. All of his impulses were telling him to show no mercy, but he knew the pleasure would come in pleasuring her, and Annie Wells was tiny. He wanted her to have every exquisite sensation he could give her, and that meant slowing things down to a crawl.

  Once he’d stroked open her thighs and positioned himself inside them, he rocked forward gently, sliding his hands under her hips and scooping her up as he pressed against the sweetest, tenderest part of her body. She threw her arms around his neck, her fingernails digging into his back as he entered her, easing into her with the tip of his shaft, probing and pushing, penetrating a little at a time.

  Chase closed his eyes at the grabbing, clutching pleasure of it all. Now he knew what it was like to be a powerful engine with the brakes on—a locomotive throttling down. It was hell going slow with a hungry woman. Glorious hell.

  At her writhing insistence he inched a little deeper, and felt a tightness that made him pause. At first he thought it was her muscles holding him back, but as he probed further, he knew it was something else, a physical barrier. The awareness came slowly at first, and then the shock of it caught him all at once. She hadn’t made love with him before. She hadn’t made love with anyone. Ever!

  A wrench of sexual longing hit him, hardening to steel that part of him that was pulsing inside her. He wanted to say the hell with it, to finish what he’d started. His body wanted that satisfaction, too, no matter what the consequences. But even in his state of need and confusion, he knew there was too much at stake. It wasn’t merely her virginity, although that alone would have been enough to stop him. It was what the act would mean now that he knew it was her first time.

  “Annie,” he said, cupping her face in his hands in an attempt to make her listen. “Why did you let me think—Annie, why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  She stared up at him, bewildered. “What?”

  “That you’ve never been with a man before.”

  She averted her eyes, but not quickly enough to hide the emotions that stormed through them—love and longing, guilt and despair. “What does that matter now. Chase? I’m here, and I want to be with you.”

  “Annie, for God’s sake, you’re a virgin.”

  She caught at his hands, a note of anguish in her voice. “Why does it matter that we didn’t actually make love? We did get married. We said the vows.”

  Chase studied her flushed, urgent expression, the stab of longing in her eyes—and knew he had to call an immediate halt to the proceedings. If he stayed inside her for one more heartbeat, he was going to make love to her. Fully, totally, passionately, in every way, all the way, in as deep as he could get. And it wouldn’t stop with her body, he knew that. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he had all of her, every beat of her heart, every sigh in her soul.

  He touched her face, regret surging through him as he withdrew from her. She flinched but made no attempt to stop him. Their knees bumped, and it was painfully awkward as he moved around her, but neither of them spoke. A moment later he was sitting on the cot, his back to her, wondering what in the hell to do.

  She broke the silence. “Yes,” she said, touching his shoulder, her fingertips cold. “I am a virgin, Chase. I’ve never made love before. But that isn’t a bad thing, is it? I’ve never been touched by anyone since you touched me.”

  Never been touched by anyone since you ...

  Sweet Jesus, Chase thought, what the hell was happening? He rested his head in his hands, painfully aware of the throbbing condition of his body. And the heavy thud of his heart. One way or another, Annie Wells was going to be the undoing of him. He’d sensed that the moment he set eyes on her, and now it was all coming true. There was only one way to solve this problem. He had to get away from her. He had to get out of this house. And get out now.

  Eight

  “LIVING,” Annie said, a sigh in her voice, “is like licking honey off a thorn.” She wasn’t sure where she’d heard that particular proverb, probably not the convent, but she’d never been more aware of its meaning. Even if the honey was as mouthwatering as you dreamed it would be, there was always the thorn....

  Chase was gone. He’d left two nights ago, right after their disastrous attempt at lovemaking. He’d packed up his clothes, his gear, and driven off in the Bronco, without telling her where he was going, or when he was coming back.

  Annie’s own sense of guilt had kept her from saying a word to stop him. She had misled him, there was no denying that, but she hadn’t done it maliciously. All along, she’d held out the foolish hope that by the time they made love he might care about her enough that her virginity wouldn’t matter. She’d even imagined that a man might be flattered by the fact that a woman had waited her whole life for him, and him alone. Not Chase. He’d done everything but run naked and screaming into the night.

  Annie felt the nudge of a wet nose, and she draped an arm around the solemn dog who was sitting next to her. Shadow was her mainstay these days. Her one-sided conversations with the dog had become long, involved discourses on the pitfalls of trying to deal with a man who didn’t want to be dealt with. It didn’t occur to her to feel awkward about talking at such length to an animal. The indigenas of the rain forest had always believed in the existence of animal spirits, and Annie had no one else to talk to anyway.

  She’d even confided her most guarded dream, the one she was afraid to let herself dwell on too much for fear that it might never come true. Only in the loneliest of the moments when she needed something to sustain her did she allow herself to fantasize about the moment when Chase would finally realize he cared.

  “So, what’s the answer?” she said, massaging the dog’s neck as if bringing him comfort might bring her some. “Is this mission of mine a lost cause?”

  Shadow graced her with one of his melancholy looks, and Annie felt as if she had a burr stuck in her throat as she hugged him. He seemed to be confirming what she already knew. That Chase wanted her out of his life, and there was nothing she could do to change his mind. Every attempt she’d made to get closer to him drove him further away.

  Though it wasn’t in Annie’s nature to admit defeat, the harshness of her life in Costa Brava had taught her many lessons in survival. She knew there came a time when you had to let go of things beyond your control. Holding on to what was hopeless only compounded the pain for everyone concerned.

  Had that time come for her? She rose to go inside, inexpressibly sad. Back in the cabin, she gathered up the few things she’d brought with her, trying to decide what she would do if she
left.

  As she glanced around at the kitchen she’d worked so hard to brighten up, she remembered vividly the way Chase had taken her into his arms, the way he’d kissed her. He wasn’t immune to her physically. And if the emotion in his eyes wasn’t longing, it was still breathtakingly intense. She’d seen passion, need, tenderness. He’d even shuddered when she’d rested her head on his chest. “Those weren’t the reactions of a man who didn’t care,” she thought aloud.

  The significance of those words didn’t hit her until a moment later while she was walking down the hallway to the bathroom for her toiletries. She stopped short in front of the bathroom door, the realization still tugging at her, urging her toward an awareness that left her slightly thunderstruck when it finally hit. Maybe that was exactly the point. He did care. Only he didn’t want to. He was fighting the feelings. And if the intensity of his reactions was any indication of the depth of his feelings ... maybe he cared a great deal.

  Her pulse broke into a gallop. No, she told herself instantly, afraid of the tumult building inside her. That kind of thinking was absurd—wish fulfillment, at best. She was inviting more pain.

  She tried to still the chaotic pace of her thoughts, but propelled by her racing heart, they heaped example upon example in support of her crazy conclusion. The way he’d insisted they were rushing things, the way he’d stormed outside when she was undressing, his smoldering fury when he caught her coming out of the shower. It was all beginning to come clear, like shutters opening on a bright morning. More and more of Chase’s erratic behavior made sense as she pondered it in the light shed by her insight. It even seemed possible that was why he’d run off. He couldn’t deal with the force of his feelings.

  As the next bombshell hit her, she threw out a hand, propping herself against the doorframe for support. Mother of Mercy, was it possible? Was there any chance, even the slightest, that he might be falling in love with her?

  Chase Beaudine in love?

  When cows climb trees, she thought. But she made a complete turn in the hallway and stared at the cabin’s front window, entranced by the silvery moonlight streaming through the sparkling clean windowpane. What if everything Chase had done to prove he didn’t care only proved that he did? What if all of that anger and denial, all of that surliness, was a manifestation of his internal struggle? If that was true, and if his obnoxious behavior was any indication of his real feelings, the man surely was in love. Passionately. Maybe even madly.

  Annie walked to the front door and threw it open, staring out through the darkness at the road that had taken him away. She didn’t want to delve too deeply into her realizations at that moment. They were too new, too fragile. And yet they’d come upon her so forcefully, she wanted to think they’d been inspired by divine guidance. It seemed the insights in themselves were a sign. She’d been seeking an answer, and she’d been given it.

  If she was right—and with every breath she felt more confident that she was—then what she had to do now was find a way to explain all this to Chase. She had to help him understand what she herself was just beginning to understand.

  “You got yourself a case of the Wyoming flu, partner?”

  Chase gave the bartender a nod that succinctly communicated his state of mind. Yes, he did have himself a case of the Wyoming flu—which was also called a hangover in these parts; he needed some hundred-proof care, and he wanted to be left alone while he drank it.

  “Looks like you could use some t’rantula juice,” the bartender said, chuckling. “Shame I ain’t got any.”

  Chase glared at the man, who quickly poured him a double Jack Daniel’s and pushed it across the counter. The whiskey seared a path down Chase’s throat like a blowtorch and ignited a fiery furnace in his gut. A moment later the alcohol’s blue heat had numbed his throbbing forehead, and even thawed his icy heart a little.

  An auburn-haired barmaid sidled up next to him, resting her chin on her palm and wrinkling her nose. If that was meant to be a smile, she needed some practice, Chase thought. But he did nothing to encourage her. He’d come to the Prairie Oyster to escape women and their interfering ways.

  Chase downed the rest of his drink and pushed the empty shot glass back to the bartender for a refill. Women. They messed with men’s cars and froo-frooed up their houses. They invaded a man’s privacy, disordered his thinking, and stole away his dog’s affections. A woman couldn’t leave life the way she found it. She had to screw around with the natural balance of things.

  “Women are creating a new endangered species,” he said, directing his damning prediction toward the barmaid. “Men.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Chase concentrated on his fresh drink, ignoring both the woman and the commotion that had just broken out near the entrance of the bar.

  “Would you just look at that,” the barmaid murmured, indicating the fracas Chase was trying to ignore. “Shame on them bullies, picking on that cute young fella. I’ll bet he doesn’t have himself such a jackass attitude about women.”

  Chase swung around to look, more to get the barmaid off his case then because he was interested. The commotion had moved to the center of the room, where a half-dozen cowpunchers down from one of the local ranches had encircled the newcomer. Chase eyed the young man in question, noting his outsized Stetson and denim jacket. He was a skinny kid with dirt smeared all over his beardless face and a jawful of chewing tobacco.

  “You old enough to be in a bar, junior?” one of the cowpunchers asked, tapping the kid’s Stetson.

  The kid nodded, chewed hard on his tobacco, and spit out a wad of bug juice. The brown stuff landed with an impressive splat on the sawdust-strewn floor. A murmur of approval rippled through the room. And the kid kept chewing, vigorously.

  “Damn poor velocity, kid,” a second cowhand challenged. “Hock it up big, if you can, and let that there wad fly.”

  The kid nodded again and made a disgusting noise, screwing up his face and spitting hard. This time the juice went wide, but it still managed to clear the first shot by a foot. There was another murmur of approval, and someone at the bar even suggested getting the kid a beer. But the cowpunchers weren’t satisfied.

  “Not bad for a drip-nose runt,” one of them sneered. “But the kid’s got no aim a’tall.”

  The barmaid sashayed toward the circle of men, batting her drugstore eyelashes at the kid. “Bet you can shoot straight when you want to,” she said, giving him the once-over. “That right, cowboy?”

  The kid swallowed, and went slightly pale.

  “You didn’t answer the lady’s question, boy,” the cowpuncher said, flashing his cohorts an evil grin. “Damn if this Twinkie ain’t impolite too.”

  “I’ll bet I can throw him furthern he can spit,” bragged another one. “Let’s shag his skinny ass out of here.”

  The cowhands began to close in on the kid when someone at the bar yelled out, “Hold it, boys! First, ask the kid if he’s a boy or a girl.”

  The saloon came alive with whistles and catcalls. Being called a girl was the ultimate insult to a macho cowboy. Now there was sure to be a fight, thought Chase, getting interested. He recognized the cowpuncher who was leading he fray as the man he’d caught “mending” fences. And the heavyset, mustached man at the bar was the foreman at the McAffrey ranch. He was drinking a glass of blue chalky stuff, and some of it had tipped his mustache white. But Chase was far more interested in the kid, who was also beginning to look strangely familiar to him.

  Chase swung all the way around and rested the back of his elbows on the bar, studying the scene. The kid worked his mouth ferociously, readying himself like a pitcher on the mound. Finally he dragged up a hock from hell and blew a blackish projectile that looked as though it were going out of the ballpark. Trouble was, there was an obstacle in its path. The foul wet wad caught the “fence mender” at close range, hitting his mail-order shirt with a sickening splash. Tobacco juice flew every which way, splattering several of the other men in the circl
e.

  “Why, you little lizard turd,” said the befouled man, grabbing the kid by the lapel of his jacket.

  A second man reached into his boot for a weapon, but before he could get the knife free, there was an earsplitting crack of sound, and the blade went flying out of his hand. The disarmed man spun around, astonished. And at the same time, the entire bar turned to look at Chase Beaudine. He was drawing back the rawhide thong of his bullwhip, a look of hellish calm and deliberation in his eyes.

  “Now that we’ve settled that matter,” he said, addressing the cowpunchers, “I’d appreciate it if you boys were to back off. I’d like to deal with this ‘Twinkie’ in my own way.”

  “What’s this got to do with you, Beaudine?” one of the cowhands said, a cigarette dangling from his fleshy lower lip.

  The whip flashed out, an underhand throw that cut the man’s cigarette cleanly in half not an inch from his mouth. “I’ve got a score to settle with the kid,” Chase said. “Any problem with that?”

  The room went silent as Chase yanked the whip back and wielded it one last time, wrapping it around the kid’s waist. The kid looked greenish at the gills, and completely stunned. He dug in his heels, not going anywhere if he could help it, which nobody would have blamed him for in this case. But Beaudine had other ideas. He tugged the kid forward with a hard jerk.

  Chase made no attempt to be gentle as he reeled in the reluctant fish he’d hooked. As soon as the kid was close enough, Chase caught hold of his jacket and dragged him close, letting the whip uncoil and fall away. “I hope you’ve got a damn good reason for pulling this stunt, Missy,” he said under his breath. “Because I’m not pleased.”

  Annie’s mouth was so stuffed with chewing tobacco, her voice was little more than a gurgle. “I can s’plain,” she managed.

  “Damn right you can,” Chase said, glancing around the room and gauging his chances of getting out of the place without a fight. “But not here.” The saloon’s back door was the nearest exit, and it opened onto an alley. “That way,” he said, gathering up the whip as he pushed Annie toward the door.