by Linda Howard
But he wanted to touch her, to feel the softness of her flesh beneath his hand. He wanted to fold her within the warm protection of his body, tuck her in close, curl around her and keep her there with an arm draped around her waist. Only the knowledge that the last thing in the world she would want now was a man’s touch kept him from doing just that.
He wanted to hold her. He ached to hold her.
She was dwarfed by his shirt, but he’d seen the body hidden by the folds of cloth. His night vision was very good; he’d been able to discern her high, round breasts, not very big, but definitely mouth-watering, and tipped with small, tight nipples. She was curvy, womanly, with a small waist and rounded hips and a neat little triangle of pubic hair. He’d seen her buttocks. Just thinking about it made him feel hollowed out with desire; her butt was fine indeed. He would like to feel it snuggled up against his thighs.
He wasn’t going to be able to sleep, after all. He was fully aroused, desire pulsing through his swollen and rigid flesh. Wincing, he turned onto his back and adjusted himself to a more comfortable position, but the comfort was relative. The only way he would truly find ease was within the soft, hot clasp of her body, and that wasn’t likely to happen.
The small room grew brighter and warmer as dawn developed into full morning. The stone walls would protect them from most of the day’s heat, but soon they would need water. Water, food, and clothes for her. A robe would be better than Western-style clothing, because the traditional Muslim attire would cover her hair, and there were enough traditionalists in Benghazi that a robe wouldn’t draw a second glance.
The streets were noisy now, the waterfront humming with activity. Zane figured it was time for him to do some foraging. He wiped the camouflage paint from his skin as best he could and disguised what was left by smearing dirt on his face. He wasn’t about to go unarmed, so he pulled the tail of his T-shirt free from his pants and tucked the pistol into the waistband at the small of his back, then let the shirt fall over it. Anyone who paid attention would know the bulge for what it was, but what the hell, it wasn’t unusual for people to go armed in this part of the world. Thanks to his one-quarter Comanche heritage, his skin had a rich bronze hue, and in addition he was darkly tanned from countless hours of training in the sun and sea and wind. There was nothing about his appearance that would attract undue notice, not even his eyes, because there were plenty of Libyans with a European parent.
He checked Barrie, reassuring himself that she was still sleeping soundly. He’d told her that he would be slipping out for a while, so she shouldn’t be alarmed if she woke while he was gone. He left their crumbling sanctuary as silently as he had entered it.
It was over two hours before he returned, almost time for the designated check-in time with his men. He had a definite talent for scavenging, he thought, though outright thievery would probably be a better term. He carried a woman’s black robe and head covering, and wrapped up in it was a selection of fruit, cheese and bread, as well as a pair of slippers he hoped would fit Barrie. The water had been the hardest to come by, because he’d lacked a container. He’d solved that by stealing a stoppered gallon jug of wine, forbidden by the Koran but readily available anyway. He had poured out the cheap, sour wine and filled the jug with water. The water would have a definite wine taste to it, but it would be wet, and that was all they required.
While he had the opportunity, he disguised the entrance to their lair a bit, piling some stones in front of it, arranging a rotted timber so that it looked as if it blocked the door. The door was still visible, but looked much less accessible. He tested his handiwork to make certain they could still get out easily enough, then slipped inside and once again braced the door in its sagging frame.
He turned to check on Barrie. She was still asleep. The room was considerably warmer, and she had kicked the blanket aside. His shirt was up around her waist.
The kick of desire was like taking a blow to the chest. He almost staggered from it, his heart racing, his breath strangling in his throat. Sweat beaded on his forehead, ran down his temple. God.
He should turn away. He should put the blanket over her. He should put sex completely out of his mind. There were any number of things he should do, but instead he stared at her with a hunger so intense he ached with it, quivered with it. Greedily his gaze moved over every female inch of her. His sex was throbbing like a toothache. He wanted her more intensely than he’d ever wanted a woman before. His famous cool remoteness had failed him—there wasn’t a cool inch on him, and his desire was so damn strong and immediate, he was shaking from the effort of resisting it.
Moving slowly, stiffly, he set his purloined goodies on the floor. His breath hissed between his clenched teeth. He hadn’t known sexual frustration could be this painful. He’d never had any trouble getting a woman whenever he’d wanted one. This woman was off-limits, though, from even an attempt at seduction. She’d been through enough without having to fend off her rescuer, too.
As warm as the room was now, if he spread the blanket over her she would only kick it off again. Gingerly he went down on one knee beside her and with shaking hands pulled the shirt tail down to cover her. With slight disbelief he eyed the fine tremor of his fingers. He never trembled. He was rock steady during the most tense and dangerous situations, icily controlled in combat. He had parachuted out of a burning plane, swum with sharks and sewn up his own flesh. He had ridden unbroken horses and even bulls a time or two. He had killed. He had done all of that with perfect control, but this sleeping, red-haired woman made him shake.
Grimly he forced himself to turn aside and pick up the radio headset. Holding the earpiece in place, he clicked once and immediately heard two clicks in response. Everything was okay.
Maybe some water would cool him down. At least thinking about it was better than thinking about Barrie. He dropped a couple of purification tablets into the jug, in case the small amount of wine that had remained in it wasn’t enough to kill all the invisible little critters. The tablets didn’t improve the taste any—just the opposite—but they were better than a case of the runs.
He drank just enough to relieve his thirst, then settled down with his back to a wall. There was nothing to do but wait and contemplate the walls, because he sure as hell didn’t trust himself to look at Barrie.
Voices woke her. They were loud, and close by. Barrie bolted upright, her eyes huge with alarm. Hard arms grabbed her, and an even harder hand clamped itself over her mouth, stifling any sound she might have made. Confused, disoriented, in sheer terror she began to fight as much as she could. Teeth. She should use her teeth. But his fingers were biting hard into her jaw, and she couldn’t open her mouth. Desperately she tried to shake her head, and he merely gathered her in tighter, tucking her against him in a way that was oddly protective.
“Shh” came that toneless whisper, and the familiarity of it cut through the panic and fog of sleep. Zane.
Instantly she relaxed, weak with relief. Feeling the tension leave her muscles, he tilted her face, still keeping his hand over her mouth. Their eyes met in the shadowed light, and he gave a brief nod as he saw that she was awake now, and aware. He released her jaw, his hard fingers trailing briefly over her skin in apology for the tightness of his grip. The barely there caress went through her like lightning. She shivered as it seared a path along nerve endings throughout her body and instinctively turned her face into the warm hollow created by the curve of his shoulder.
The arm around her had loosened immediately when she shivered, but at her action she felt him hesitate a fraction of a second, then gather her snugly against him once more.
The voices were closer, and added to them were some thuds and the sound of crumbling rock. She listened to the rapid, rolling syllables of Arabic, straining to concentrate on the voices. Were they the same voices she had heard through yesterday’s long nightmare? It was difficult to tell.
She didn’t understand the language; hers had been a finishing-school education, su
ited to an ambassador’s daughter. She spoke French and Italian fluently, Spanish a little less so. After her father’s posting in Athens she had made it a point to study Greek, too, and had learned enough that she could carry on a simple conversation, though she understood more than she spoke.
Fiercely she wished she had insisted on lessons in Arabic, too. She had hated every moment she’d spent in the kidnappers’ hands, but not speaking the language had made her feel even more helpless, more isolated.
She would rather die than let them get their hands on her again.
She must have tensed, because Zane gave her a light squeeze of reassurance. Swiftly she glanced at his face. He wasn’t looking at her; instead he was concentrating on the fragile, half-rotted door that protected the entrance to their sanctuary, and on the voices beyond. His expression was utterly calm and distant. Abruptly she realized that he did understand Arabic, and whatever was being said by the people picking through the ruins of the building, he wasn’t alarmed by it. He was alert, because their hiding place could be compromised at any moment, but evidently he felt confident of being able to handle that problem.
With reason, no doubt. From what she’d seen, she thought he was capable of handling just about any situation. She would trust him with her life—and had.
The voices went on for a long time, sometimes coming so close to their hiding place that Zane palmed that big pistol and held it aimed unwaveringly at the door. Barrie stared at that hand, so lean and powerful and capable. There wasn’t the slightest tremor visible; it was almost unreal, almost inhuman, for any man to be that calm and have such perfect control over his body.
They sat silently in the warm, shadowy little room, their breathing for the most part their only movements. Barrie noticed that the blanket no longer covered her legs, but the shirt, thank God, kept her reasonably decent. It was too hot to lie under the blanket, anyway.
Time crept by at a sloth’s pace. The warmth and silence were hypnotic, lulling her into a half dream state of both awareness and distance. She was ferociously hungry, but unaffected by it, as if she was merely aware of someone else’s hunger. After a while her muscles began to ache from being in one position for so long, but that didn’t matter, either. Thirst, though, was different. In the increasing heat, her need for water began to gnaw at her. The kidnappers had given her some water a couple of times, but she’d had nothing to drink in hours—since she had learned they expected her to relieve herself in their presence, in fact. She had chosen to do without water rather than provide them with such amusement again.
Sweat streaked down Zane’s face and dampened his shirt. She was perfectly content to remain where she was, nestled against his side. The arm around her made her feel safer than if their hiding place had been constructed of steel, rather than crumbling stone and plaster, and rotting wood.
She had never been exposed to a man like him before. Her only contact with the military had been with the senior officers who attended functions at the embassy, colonels and generals, admirals, the upper brass; there were also the Marine guards at the embassy, with their perfect uniforms and perfect manners. Though she supposed the Marine guards had to be exemplary soldiers or they wouldn’t have been chosen as embassy guards, still, they were nothing like the man who held her so protectively. They were soldiers; he was a warrior. He was as different from them as the lethal, ten-inch black blade strapped to his thigh was from a pocketknife. He was a finely honed weapon.
For all that, he wasn’t immortal, and they weren’t safe. Their hiding place could be discovered. He could be killed; she could be recaptured. The hard reality of that was something she couldn’t ignore as she could hunger and cramped muscles.
After a long, long time, the voices went away. Zane released her and walked noiselessly to the door to look out. She had never before seen anyone move with such silent grace, like a big jungle cat on velvet paws instead of a battle-hardened warrior in boots.
She didn’t move until he turned around, the faint relaxation of his expression telling her the danger was past. “What were they doing?” she asked, taking care to keep her voice low.
“Scavenging building materials, picking up blocks, any pieces of wood that hadn’t rotted. If they’d had a sledgehammer, they probably would have dismantled these walls. They carted the stuff off in a wheelbarrow. If they need more, they’ll probably be back.”
“What will we do?”
“The same thing we did this time—hunker down and keep quiet.”
“But if they come in here—”
“I’ll handle it.” He cut her worry short before she could completely voice it, but he did it with a tone of reassurance. “I brought some food and water. Interested?”
Barrie scrambled to her knees, eagerness in every line of her body. “Water! I’m so thirsty!” Then she halted, her recent experience fresh in her mind. “But if I drink anything, where will I go to…you know.”
He regarded her with faint bemusement, and she blushed a little as she realized that wasn’t a problem he normally encountered. When he and his men were on a mission, they would relieve themselves wherever and whenever they needed.
“I’ll find a place for you to go,” he finally said. “Don’t let that stop you from drinking the water you need. I also found some clothes for you, but as hot as it’s getting in here, you’ll probably want to wait until night before you put them on.”
He indicated the black bundle beside his gear, and she realized it was a robe. She thought of the modesty it would provide, and gratitude flooded her; at least she wouldn’t have to face his men wearing nothing more than his shirt. But he was right; in the heat of day, and in the privacy of this small room, she would prefer wearing his shirt. They both knew she was bare beneath it; he’d already seen her stark naked, and demonstrated his decency by giving her the shirt and ignoring her nakedness, so there was no point now in swathing herself in an ankle-length robe.
He produced a big jug and unstoppered it. “It’ll taste funny,” he warned as he passed the jug to her. “Purification tablets.”
It did taste funny—warm, with a chemical flavor. But it was wonderful. She drank a few swallows, not wanting to make her stomach cramp after being empty for so long. While she was drinking, he unwrapped the bits of food he’d procured—a loaf of hard bread, a hunk of cheese and several oranges, plums and dates. It looked like a feast.
He straightened the blanket for her to sit on, then took out his knife and cut small portions of both the loaf and cheese and gave them to her. She started to protest that she was hungry enough to eat much more than that, but realized that what he had would have to last them all day, and perhaps longer than that. She wasn’t about to complain about the amount of food she did have.
She had never been particularly fond of cheese, and she suspected that if she hadn’t been so hungry she wouldn’t have been fond of this cheese, either, but at the moment it was delicious. She nibbled at both bread and cheese, finding satisfaction in the simple act of chewing. As it happened, she had overestimated her appetite. The small portion he had given her was more than enough.
He ate more heartily, and polished off one of the oranges. He insisted that she eat a couple of the juicy slices and drink a bit more water. Feeling replete, Barrie yawned and refused the offer of another orange slice.
“No, thanks, I’m full.”
“Would you like to freshen up now?”
Her head whipped around, sending her red hair flying. Amusement twinkled in his pale eyes at her eager, pleading expression. “There’s enough water?”
“Enough to dampen a bandana.”
She didn’t have a bandana, of course, but he did. Carefully he poured just enough water from the jug to wet the square cloth, then politely turned his back and busied himself with his gear.
Slowly Barrie smoothed the wet cloth over her face, sighing in pleasure at the freshness of the sensation. She hadn’t realized how grimy she felt until now, when she was able to rectify the si
tuation. She found a sore place on her cheek, where one of the men had hit her, and other tender bruises on her arms. Glancing at Zane’s broad back, she quickly unbuttoned the shirt just enough that she could slide the handkerchief inside and rub it over her torso and under her arms. After she fastened the garment, her dusty legs got the same attention. The dampness was wonderfully cooling, almost voluptuous in the sensual delight it gave her.
“I’m finished,” she said, and returned the dark bandana to him when he turned around. “It felt wonderful. Thank you.”
Then her heart leaped in her chest, because he evidently felt the same need to cool off as she had, but unlike her, he didn’t keep his shirt on. He peeled the snug black T-shirt off over his head and dropped it on the blanket, then sat on his heels while he moistened the bandana and began scrubbing it over his face.
Oh, my. Helplessly she stared at the rippling muscles of his chest and stomach, the way they flexed and relaxed with the flow of his movements. The dim light caught the deep bronze of his skin, gleamed on the smooth, powerful curve of his shoulder. Her fascinated gaze wandered over the slant of his shoulder blades, the diamond of black hair that stretched from nipple to nipple on his chest. He twisted around to reach for something, and she found his back equally fascinating, with the deep furrow of his spine bisecting two muscular planes.
There was an inch-long scar on his left cheekbone. She hadn’t noticed it before because his face had been so dirty, but now she could plainly see the silvery line of it. It wasn’t a disfiguring scar at all, just a straight little slash, as precise as a surgeon’s cut. The scar along his rib cage was different, easily eight or nine inches in length, jagged, the scar tissue thick and ridged. Then there were the two round, puckered scars, one just above his waist, the other just below his right shoulder blade. Bullet wounds. She’d never seen one before, but she recognized them for what they were. There was another slash running along his right bicep, and God only knew how many other scars there were on the rest of his body. The warrior hadn’t led a charmed life; his body bore the signs of battle.