Wild Orchids

by Karen Robards

  He stopped. His body was tense beside hers. Lora noticed that sweat had reappeared on his upper lip.

  “Yes?” she said weakly. Did she really want to know anymore?

  “We killed them all,” he said simply, staring out into the night. “Every living soul in that village. We killed them all.”

  “Dear God,” Lora breathed with instinctive horror. Her mind shied away from picturing the scene that he was obviously recalling so graphically, but she could not stop the images from forming. Blood and death—and children. . . .

  “Dear God,” she said again. She had wanted to know about Max, and she was well served that what she had learned was ugly, ugly. But then, war was ugly, it was hell they said. How could she, who had never been in one, make judgments? She didn’t want to. She didn’t even want to think about it. Her eyes refocused on Tunafish, who was sweating profusely as he stared unseeing out into the night. He looked like a man who was picturing unthinkable horrors . . . Her conscience smote her. She had forced him to recall this. Her arms went instinctively around his shoulders. He patted her arm.

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  Lora slowly withdrew her arms and they sat without speaking for a long while. Then she asked slowly, “Is he married, Tunafish?” The question seemed to come out of nowhere, but as she said it she realized that the possibility had been troubling her for some time. And now she needed to know.

  Tunafish’s face recovered its customary good humor. “I ain’t sure I should answer that. You better ask the boss.”

  “Please, Tunafish! Tell me. I—need to know.”

  “No, he ain’t married. He was, a long time ago, but he got a divorce. He was kinda messed up for a while there after ’Nam, and I guess she couldn’t take it. Anyway, somethin’ went wrong, and she left.”

  “They didn’t have any children?”

  “No. No kids.”

  A ticklish feeling that Lora eventually identified as relief curled round and round in her stomach. She had been afraid, really afraid, to get an answer to her question. What would she have done if he had had a wife and half a dozen children tucked away back in the States? Nobly tried to forget this sexual attraction that pulled her to him despite the best efforts of her common sense? But she had tried that already, and it hadn’t worked. Two dozen wives with six kids each probably wouldn’t have made any difference to the way he affected her.

  “So how did he—and you—get into this line of work?” Her tone was considerably lighter as she asked that, and Tunafish too seemed to relax, leaning back against the curving wall and reaching into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

  “From very different roads,” Tunafish said, chuckling as he lit the cigarette. “After ’Nam, after he’d recovered a little, Max went to work for the government. Undercover DEA. There came a time when he needed an expert to help him with a bust, so he came lookin’ for me. See, I went into the family business when I got out of ’Nam. My granddaddy was a burglar, my daddy was a burglar, and I was makin’ a pretty decent livin’ at it myself. But then Max—uh, persuaded—me that crime doesn’t pay, and I went to work for him. Doin’ the same thing, burglin’, only it was legal. Then this fool kid we were watchin’, hopin’ he would lead us to the big boys, got busted in Mexico for smugglin’ in a trunkful of pot. He was only seventeen, and if you ain’t never seen a Mexican prison you don’t want to. Max felt bad about that—we could have busted the kid ourselves a month before and our court system wouldn’t have done much to a kid his age. Max felt kind of responsible, so we went in and got him out. And word kinda got around, and people started offerin’ Max money—big money—to get their kids out of jail. And here we are.” Tunafish looked around, looked down at his leg, and then looked at Lora before grimacing comically. “I shoulda stuck with burglin’. At least then I ate good.”

  “Quit yer bitchin’, Cassaroli.”

  The voice was Max’s, and Lora looked up with surprise as he walked into the cave and dumped a pile of gear on the floor. She had been so absorbed in what Tunafish was telling her that she hadn’t heard him approach. “I’ve got some good news; Ortega did put a homing device on that plane. I found it in the right engine. So we should be found before too long. And I got something for us to eat. There’s a banana grove out there.”

  “Bananas!” Tunafish said, groaning, while Max grinned.

  “Unless you’d rather eat a monkey. I’ve heard they’re pretty tasty.”

  “You’re joking.” Lora was afraid he wasn’t.

  “I’m not. If we’re here long, we may be eating monkeys. Tunafish here won’t last long on a diet of bananas. Neither will I.” To prove his point, Max reached down into the bundle at his feet and tossed a banana to Tunafish, who caught it, and another to Lora, who didn’t.

  “You’ll just have to find something else. Than monkeys, I mean. They’re almost human,” Lora said firmly as she scrambled after her banana. It was small and green, but it was surprisingly good, she thought as she finished it in a few quick bites. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Tunafish, too, for all his groaning, finished his quickly. So did Max. Then they all ate another. When the fruit was gone, and a comfortably full feeling had replaced the hollowness in her belly, Lora went to help Max sort out the gear he had brought back with him.

  By the flickering firelight Lora was able to see that he had brought three blankets, two pillows, an unopened bottle of whiskey, a carton of cigarettes, the first aid kit, and a flashlight all wrapped up in a fourth blanket. Max stood as Lora sorted through his booty, running his hands over the stubble on his chin and looking around.

  “We need more fuel for the fire,” he said, and before either Lora or Tunafish could say anything he turned and left the cave again, returning moments later with an armful of brush and a few branches, which he proceeded to pile to one side of the cave’s mouth.

  “Any more matches?” he asked, displaying a nearly empty pack which he removed from his jeans pocket. Tunafish wordlessly displayed his lighter.

  “Good. Here’s water.” He displayed an empty whiskey bottle filled with clear liquid, which he set beside the pile of brush.

  “Looks like we’re in business,” Tunafish drawled.

  “Not quite,” Max replied, while out in the jungle a jaguar screamed. Lora shivered, and moved a little closer to Tunafish, who was closest. The dangers they faced were only just now beginning to come home to her.

  Max went out again to gather more branches to make beds. He was gone more than half an hour, by Lora’s calculation, and she was imagining all kinds of horrible fates that might have befallen him when he returned, the blanket on his back filled with cut tree limbs and leaves.

  “Check those for ticks,” he said to Lora, indicating the leaves as he dropped the bundle on the ground and proceeded to extract several of the cut branches. Lora stared at the jumble of leaves, horrified. The thought of ticks in her bed made her shiver. While Tunafish steadily sipped at Clemente’s bottle of whiskey—Max had warned him to ration it, because the quarter that was left in there and the other bottle Max had found on the plane was all the alcohol they had—Lora shudderingly checked the bedding for invaders and Max made three pallets of branches, leaves, and blankets. When that was done he joined Lora and Tunafish, who were sitting against the wall near the fire.

  “I’m going to bed for a while. Lora, you wake me in a couple of hours. I’ll take the first watch. Tunafish, you can have the second.”

  “What about me?” Lora asked, indignant that she had been left out. It had never occurred to her that someone would have to stand guard all night, but now, with Max’s words, she wondered that it had not. If all three of them slept at once, what was to stop Minelli and DiAngelo from creeping into the cave and blasting them as they slept—or that ravening jaguar she had heard from turning them into a midnight snack?

  “I told you, you’re on for the next two hours. But if you see or hear anything, you wake me up. Don’t start shooting. From w
hat I’ve seen so far, you shoot worse than you drive, if that’s possible.”

  “Oh, shut up.” She glared at him.

  Tunafish grinned wanly. His leg in its makeshift splint stuck out stiffly before him; his face was drawn and gray. Even his eyes were tinged with gray. He was suffering, and his face showed it even if he refused to say so.

  “Come on, pal, let me help you to bed. You need to get some sleep, if you can.” This was addressed to Tunafish, who slanted a look up at him.

  “Yeah, all right,” he grunted. Then he looked at Lora. “Got any more of that aspirin?” In answer, she scrambled to her feet and went to fetch the bottle of tablets from the first aid kit. Tunafish grimaced as she shook two tablets out onto his palm. Before he could swallow them, Max tossed one of the plastic bags of dope in his lap.

  “Smack is the best painkiller in the world,” he said matter-of-factly. “Just use a little when you have to.”

  “Thanks, man.” Tunafish looked from the bag to Max’s shadowed face. “For now, I think I’ll try the aspirin.” He swallowed the two in his hand, then tucked the bag of dope between two rocks. They said nothing more about it as Max caught Tunafish under his armpits and half-supported, half-carried him to one of the beds he had made of branches and leaves. Wrapped up in a blanket, his injured leg carefully supported by a strategically placed pillow, Tunafish still looked miserably uncomfortable. He was in pain, Lora knew.

  “Here.” Max handed her his pistol. She took it gingerly, careful to keep it pointed toward the mouth of the cave. “Like I said, don’t try to fire it unless it’s an emergency. If you hear or see anything the least bit suspicious, yell and I’ll be right beside you. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lora said, snapping him a mocking salute. He gave orders like he was born to it, which was fine, as long as he didn’t think she was born to take them. In this particular situation, she was willing to do as he said to a certain extent, but she didn’t want him getting the idea that he could bark orders at her like a drill sargeant.

  He eyed her grimly, clearly not much liking her flippant response, but all he said was: “And don’t forget to wake me in about two hours.”

  “I won’t. Sir.”

  This earned her a scowl as he turned away to wrap himself in a blanket and lie down on the bed he had made. The three beds were close together, with not more than two feet of space separating one from the other. Max had chosen to sleep closest to the entrance, and his bed was not far from where she sat by the small fire. The bed in the center, complete with blanket and pillow, was empty, and Lora presumed it was for her. Tunafish lay on his back with eyes closed on the other side of the empty bed. Lora doubted that Tunafish was asleep, but from the soft snores that were already assaulting her ears, Max was. The man seemed to have a positive genius for falling asleep whenever and wherever he chose.

  Lora stared at the long form that lay curled with its back to her. Shoulders hunched, rough black head pillowed on a bare forearm, the rest of him shrouded in a nondescript brown blanket, and snores rattling from his throat every fifteen seconds, he still appealed to her. She wanted nothing so much as to crawl over to that bedroll and curl up beside him. . . . Lora remembered how his hands had felt on her body, how his lips had felt on hers, and shivered. What would it be like to make love with him—really make love with him, with both of them naked and her free to touch him as she liked? The very thought made a frisson of heat quiver up from her loins. It would be heaven—but the heaven would, eventually, lead to hell. For her, not him. She knew herself well enough to know that an affair based on nothing more than sex, however passionate, however longed for, was not for her. She needed more than that. She needed to know that he cared for her as a person, not just a female body, and the only one around at that. He was attracted to her, she knew, but she feared that his attraction might have its roots in nothing more than proximity, his hormones responding instinctively to the only game in town.

  Lora thought over what Tunafish had told her about Max. He was divorced, he had served in Vietnam and been profoundly affected by the experience, he had worked for the government as an undercover agent, and had gotten into his present line of work because he felt responsible for some boy. And he hated drugs, yet he had given Tunafish a bag of heroin to ease his pain. Taken all together, the facts added considerable shadings to the tough-guy image he projected. They pointed to a sensitive, caring man hiding beneath a macho shell. Lora pondered that at some length, comparing all that she had learned during her experience as his captive with that conclusion. And, she decided, it fit pretty well. He had frightened her, but he hadn’t really hurt her when she had provoked him a dozen times. Most men would have floored her if she had punched them in the nose—to say nothing of wrecking the car, kicking him in his bad knee, and trying repeatedly to escape. The kind of man she had thought him to be would have raped her, she thought. Max hadn’t even taken advantage of her obvious attraction to him to so much as make a pass. She was honest enough to admit that she had instigated that encounter in Ortega’s bed. . . . Even after that, he had not taken what another man might have decided he had earned. In all honesty, she almost wished he had. If he had taken her, then, she could have told herself that it was against her will. And that was much safer than admitting how much she wanted him. . . .

  Something had changed. Lora frowned, alert now. She didn’t know what it was, but something had changed in the atmosphere around her. Had her subconscious sensed a sound that she hadn’t consciously heard? Or . . . Her hand tightened on the gun, and she turned her head to call for Max. He still slept with his back to her, huddled into his blanket. As she looked at him, loathe to wake him for what might be no more than a foolish fancy, it struck her that he was no longer snoring. That was what had changed. The cave was now silent except for the harsh rasp of Tunafish’s breathing. Looking over the bedrolls at Tunafish, Lora thought that he might now be asleep.

  Max was moving his head, and then his arms and legs, in small jerky movements that made Lora wonder if he was dreaming. Then he rolled over on his back, his head, no longer pillowed on his arm, tossing on the blanket beneath it. She frowned, watching him. He was scowling in his sleep, and a muscle was working at the corner of his mouth. And then, as she watched, he sat bolt upright. His eyes opened to stare blankly at nothing. The muscles in his arms clenched beneath the short sleeves of his t-shirt.

  “No!” he cried, his voice hoarse. “Oh, God, no!”

  Lora jumped at his cry, staring at him. He was shaking . . . It was a nightmare, she realized as she abandoned her post and the gun to rush to his side.

  “Max!” she said, taking hold of his shoulder and giving it a hard shake. “Max, wake up!” His face turned toward her as she knelt beside him, and for a moment she thought she had gotten through to him. But his open eyes were still blind. . . .

  “Max!” she said again, and then his arms were coming around her, pulling her onto his lap, and he was hugging her to him as if she was the only warmth in a cold world. His hold was rough and painful, the strength of it threatening to crack her ribs, but she didn’t care. Her heart ached for the pain that had caused him to reach for her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him close, her hands coming up to stroke that rough black head. It burrowed into her shoulder. To her horror, she thought she heard the ragged indrawing of a sob.

  “Max, darling,” she whispered into his hair. “Max, it’s all right. It’s all right, darling. Shhh.”

  He continued to hold her so tightly she could hardly breathe, his arms imprisoning her like a straitjacket, the muscles of his thighs hard beneath her. Over his head she saw that Tunafish had awakened, and was watching them from beneath beetled brows. Lora held a finger to her lips when he would have spoken, and continued to stroke Max’s hair. A tenderness like nothing she had ever known crept over her as she held him, this big, hard, rough-and-tough man, like a child in her arms. He needed her. . . .

  “Shhh, now . . . ” She was crooning t
o him when he suddenly stiffened. She felt the change in him with every nerve in her body. Abruptly, he sat up, half a head taller than her even though she sat on his lap, and stared right into her eyes. He was awake, she saw, and started to smile at him, all gentleness and concern. He glared at her, those obsidian eyes crystal hard beneath ferocious brows. Lora stared back at him in surprise.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

  “You had a nightmare,” she said, thinking that he still did not understand.

  “So what the hell is it to you?” he demanded roughly, his arms coming to remove her suddenly limp ones from around his neck and almost fling them back at her. He moved, practically dumping her off his lap, and got to his feet. His eyes as they moved over her looked like they hated her.

  “Max . . .” Hurt surprise was in her voice, and his face tightened.

  “I’ll stand watch now. Go to bed.” And with that he scooped up the gun and strode from the cave, leaving Lora to stare after him with wounded eyes. Tunafish whistled softly, and Lora turned to look at him.

  “What did I do?”

  He shook his head. “You comforted him. There are times when a man just can’t take comfort, especially from a woman. And especially from a woman he likes like Max likes you.”

  XVI

  He was in trouble. Max sat on a stone near the edge of the small, spring-fed pool he had found, and skipped a much smaller rock across the gleaming blue surface of the water as he faced the fact. It was just after noon of the following day, and he had been out looking for food when he stopped to quench his thirst with a couple of handfuls of water. As he stared down into it, the damned fathomless quality of the pool had reminded him of Lora’s eyes. He cursed softly, hating the poetic thought. He never had poetic thoughts. They were as foreign to his nature as curses were to hers. He couldn’t understand what was happening to him. She wasn’t beautiful; he hadn’t even thought she was more than passably attractive when he had first climbed into her car. And most of the women who had, in one way or another, left their mark on his life were pretty, at least, and exciting. He liked his women exciting. Lora certainly couldn’t be described as exciting, not by any stretch of the imagination. She had a great body, granted, a body that he would give quite a bit to have naked and writhing beneath him at that precise moment, but though physically it was the match of any he’d possessed, Lora herself did not match her body. She was about as exciting as homemade bread. And he was a man used to a steady diet of chili sauce.