Carlos unholstered his weapon and placed it on a boulder close to the river's edge. "I'll leave the Beretta with you. Just in case."
"There might be rats in that tree," she reminded him. "Won't you need it?"
Another shudder rippled the muscles under his black T-shirt. "I'll take the machete."
"But…"
"I'm not leaving you unprotected. But be careful with the gun. It doesn't have a safety. You just point and shoot."
"Got it," she snapped, struggling with the contradictory emotions his protectiveness always raised in her.
Carlos took another look at the fruit dangling high above his head. With a little grunt, he planted his boots against the scaly bark and started walking up the trunk.
Margarita watched his ascent for several moments, riveted despite herself by the play of muscle under his ragged T-shirt. Strange. Why hadn't she ever noticed the raw power in those wide shoulders and mud-streaked arms before?
Probably because she'd only seen them covered in expertly tailored serge wool. Clingy black cotton altered the image considerably. Frowning, Margarita set about tearing feathery branches from ferns almost as tall as she was. She'd gathered one armful and was working on the second when a small crunch sounded above the river's tumble and fall.
She whirled. Her gaze flew upward first, searching for Carlos, then to the tangle of fallen tree limbs and dense growth along the riverbank.
Another crunch lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. Whoever or whatever was making its way through the underbrush moved heavy on its feet. The image of a scarred face leaped instantly into her mind. Dumping her armload of ferns, Margarita whipped over to the boulder where she'd laid the Beretta.
She didn't dare call to Carlos for fear of alerting the stalker in the undergrowth. Her heart pounding, she decided on a flanking maneuver. Moving silently on the springy earth, she melted into the ferns.
A moment later, a sharp crack split the air.
The shot caught Carlos just starting down, a stalk of green plantains dangling from a vine looped over his shoulder. Instant pandemonium erupted above him as parrots and toucans and quetzals burst from the branches, wings flapping. Monkeys screeched and took flight.
Carlos reacted instinctively. With the sound of the shot still reverberating through the jungle, he swept the area below him for signs of Margarita, kicked away from the tree trunk and swung with a skill Tarzan might have admired toward the dense undergrowth. He released the vine at the bottom of its arc, dropped a good twenty feet and hit the spongy ground running. Silent as a shadow, he knifed through the undergrowth with murder in his heart. If anything or anyone had harmed Margarita…
The sight of her denim-covered backside stopped him cold. She was facing away from him, bent almost double as she dragged something through the brush. His heart still pumping pure stimulant, Carlos searched the area beyond her for possible dangers. Nothing moved in the shadowy green…except Margarita. Grunting and wiggling, she backed toward him.
She didn't appear to be under duress, but until he knew exactly who'd fired that shot and what the hell she was dragging through the brush, he wasn't taking any chances. He called to her, his voice low and urgent.
"Margarita! What is it?"
Twisting her upper body, she aimed a grin over her shoulder. "Dinner."
"What!"
She straightened, puffing. Only then did he see the furry gray carcass of a javelina at her feet.
"I heard him in the brush and went to investigate," she said with a cheerful unconcern that had Carlos grinding his jaw. A dozen different scenarios had flashed through his head during his wild swing on that vine. None of them included a grinning, tousle-haired huntress bagging a wild pig for supper.
"I don't know who was more startled when we came face-to-face," she confessed, laughter dancing in her violet eyes. "But when he charged, I decided I wasn't going to argue with those tusks."
The spearlike canines protruded a good five inches. Observing their razor-sharp tips, Carlos felt sweat pool at the small of his back.
"Dios! Did you bring him down with a single shot?"
"I got lucky," she said with a modesty belied by her smug expression. Bending, she grabbed a hind leg. "Help me haul him back to camp. Then you can cook our supper while I wash up."
Despite the blood still thundering through his veins, he couldn't miss the cocky note of command. His brow hooked, but he didn't argue. She'd made the kill. It was only fair that he clean and cook it.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Margarita licked a dollop of grease from her fingers. For the tenth time in as many minutes, her eyes strayed from the man across the fire toward the mosquito net draped from a low-hanging tree branch.
Just the sight of that small white tent was enough to make her pulse flutter. Resolutely, she pulled her gaze away from the net and forced herself to concentrate on the present instead of the future that loomed closer with every passing moment.
Really, all things considered, they'd done pretty well so far. For the first time since that plunge down the mountainside, they were both full and relatively safe. Margarita's stomach rumbled contentedly as it digested roast pork and stringy plantains baked with the wild berries that had given them a sweet, tart flavor, all washed down by clear water.
Beyond the radius of the little fire Carlos had so carefully built, inky blackness blanketed the jungle. Unless Simon and his cohorts possessed highly sophisticated night-vision equipment and extraordinary tracking ability, they couldn't possibly follow a trail at night.
Nor could anyone else, Carlos's men included.
A single glance was enough to see that uncertainty about the fate of the squad chafed at its leader. He'd spoken little while he worked his way through his meal. Once or twice, she'd caught him frowning as he searched the blackness outside the small circle of firelight.
It was an eerie, pulsing sort of darkness. Strange green objects flickered against the black velvet backdrop. Fireflies and beetles, Margarita supposed. Some object she chose not to examine too closely glowed almost phosphorescent a short distance away.
"How many of your men came with you?" she asked, breaking into his thoughts.
He glanced up, his face cast in different shades of gold by the tiny, glowing fire. "Eleven, including Lieutenant Carreras."
"Miguel?"
A hollow feeling curled around her heart. The vicious exchange of gunfire she'd heard right before she plowed through the vines at the mouth of the cave indicated the squad had run into trouble. Big trouble. Pray God, Miguel and the others survived. She liked the stocky, taciturn officer who served as Carlos's aide. Moreover, she sympathized with his undeclared love for her flighty young cousin.
A sudden image of Anna laughing at her partner as they floated to the strains of the "Blue Danube" formed in her mind. Was it only last night Margarita had watched from the shadows of the balcony while her cousin flirted with Carlos? It seemed like another lifetime!
A flicker of irritation accompanied the memory. It wasn't jealousy. How could she be jealous because her cousin gazed so adoringly into the face of the man Margarita had refused repeatedly to marry? Yet that inexplicable niggle of annoyance prompted an observation.
"Miguel's in love with Anna."
Still preoccupied with his thoughts, Carlos nodded. "I know."
"But she, I think, fancies herself in love with you."
That got his attention. Lifting his head, he studied her enigmatically through the heat waves shimmering above the fire.
"Does Anna's infatuation bother you, querida?"
"Not at all," she lied. "Does it bother you?"
He parried the question with consummate diplomacy. "The attentions of such a beautiful young woman must flatter any man."
"Spoken like a true politician. No wonder my uncle is so anxious to have you stand for the vacant senate seat. Are you going to do it?" she asked, as much to delay the inevitable as to hear his answer.
; "I haven't decided. My background is in the military. It's what I know. What I love. I think I can do more good at the Ministry of Defense, but…"
His glance met hers. She knew without being told what he was thinking. Her uncle hoped to fill the seat vacated by a member of the opposition caught taking bribes with someone he could trust. Someone who would support his programs. Someone related to him by ties of marriage.
"Is it a package deal, Carlos? Am I supposed to come with that senate seat?"
His mouth kicked up. "If I thought your uncle could deliver on a deal like that, I would have already declared my candidacy."
That wasn't exactly what Margarita wanted to hear. It didn't help that she wasn't sure what she did want to hear. Certainly not the words he uttered next.
"We'd better get some sleep. I want to travel at first light tomorrow."
Her pulse hitched again, harder this time. Her voice cool, she suggested an alternative arrangement. "Shouldn't we take turns keeping watch?"
"I sleep lightly," he answered with a shrug. "The frogs and other night creatures will give sufficient warning if someone approaches."
She had only to tune into the cacophony around her to know the truth of his observation. Now that their initial alarm had passed, the denizens of the jungle seemed to have accepted her and Carlos into their midst. The air vibrated with whistles and whoops and chirps. Bats whooshed through the trees. Night-feeding reptiles crunched with clearly audible delight on their prey. Margarita didn't doubt all these creatures would go deadly quiet, then burst into a frenzy of flight should new predators intrude on the scene.
"Just to be safe," Carlos added with offhanded nonchalance, "I rigged a few perimeter defenses while you were at the river."
"Like what?"
His smile didn't bode well for any unexpected late-night visitors. "Let's just say I sharpened a few more stakes than we needed to roast your javelina."
She had to admit a grudging admiration. The man certainly knew his way around a jungle. She was thinking about the extraordinary skills he'd displayed today when he stood and stretched like a lazy, replete panther.
Instantly, her mind emptied of everything but the hard planes and muscled curves displayed in such tantalizing detail by the firelight. Damn that black T-shirt, anyway. It left nothing to the imagination…and everything!
"I'm going to wash the mud off my face and arms," he told her. "I'll bank the fire and join you under the netting when I'm through."
The casual promise scraped on her nerves. Frowning, she watched him melt into the darkness beyond the meager light thrown by the campfire. When her gaze shifted from the spot where the jungle had swallowed him whole to the white drape hanging from its tree limb, the hitch in her pulse drummed into an erratic beat.
Oh, for pity's sake! How absurd to tremble like a nervous virgin at the mere thought of sharing a few square inches of bed space. As much as he'd disconcerted her this morning with that savage kiss, Carlos was still…Carlos. Rock solid. Dependable. Honorable. He wouldn't demand more of her than she wanted to give.
Or would he?
Yesterday, she would have laughed at the idea. Tonight, the oddest prickle of uncertainty hounded her as she cleaned the campsite. This Carlos bore only a passing resemblance to the man who'd courted her with suave finesse. The jungle had stripped away his sophisticated layers, baring a hard-edged stranger beneath.
He stirred her in ways the other Carlos hadn't. She was honest enough to admit that. He also made her just a little nervous. The deputy defense minister she could control. She couldn't shake the feeling that no one could control this bronzed jungle warrior.
The unsettling thought needled her as she completed the clean-up chores. There weren't many to complete. They'd already wrapped and safely stashed the leftover cooked meat they'd carry with them tomorrow. A quick toss disposed of the leaves they'd used as bowls. That basic task accomplished, Margarita crossed to the netting hung from a low branch.
Her heart thudding, she took off her boots and set them beside the mound of ferns, then crawled under the net and found a comfortable position on the leafy bed. The useful nylon vest made a lumpy pillow. The plastic water sack, unneeded with the river so close, protected her back and hips from the damp earth.
But nothing could protect her from the tiny shocks that jolted through her when Carlos lifted the net and stretched out beside her. She held herself stiffly while he draped the netting to his satisfaction and rolled into her, his front to her back. Hooking an arm over her waist, he spooned her body into his. Or tried to. Her rigid back refused to bend to his contours.
"Relax."
Uh-huh! As if she could relax with his breath warm on her cheek and her bottom planted squarely in the cradle of his thighs. She stared un-blinking at the fire's dim glow, her breath almost completely suspended. With every rise and fall of his chest against her spine, her senses inched closer to maximum overload.
Each twitch of his muscles set her nerves screaming. His clean, river-washed scent formed such a contrast to the jungle's dank earthiness that Margarita drank it in hungrily. Too hungrily. Distracted by the sensations crowding in on her, she gave a little start when his voice sounded low and husky in her ear.
"I'm not going to rip off your clothes and make love to you, if that's what has you so worried."
Wondering if he thought she would have nothing to say in the matter should he try, Margarita twisted in his arms.
"I'm not worried," she replied with a slight stretch of the truth. "But, just out of curiosity—why not?"
Ferns rustled as he propped himself on one elbow. He loomed over her, his cheeks and chin shadowed by a day's growth of stubble. Black eyes reflecting tiny pinpoints of light from the banked fire held hers.
"When I make love to you—"
"When?"
White teeth flashed in a smile. "Make no mistake, I will make love to you. But not on the ground, like animals, and not with one ear tuned to every whistle and hoot in the jungle."
There it was again. His iron control. Even here, in a spot so wild and remote it might never have seen the passage of other humans, he could still clamp a tight rein on the primitive side of his nature she'd glimpsed so briefly this morning.
Damn the man! He made her head swim with these switches in personality.
"You're very sure of yourself," she replied with a touch of acid.
"Yes, I am."
Her nails cut half-circles in her palms. A totally perverse need to prick his bubble of masculine complacency gripped her.
"What if I told you I've been lying here thinking about ripping off your clothes?"
"Have you?"
She made no effort to dodge the truth this time. She could hardly breathe for the constriction in her throat. Her nerves sizzled at every point they touched. Hip against hip. Thigh under thigh. Breast to chest.
"Yes."
At her blunt admission, his smile slipped, then disappeared completely.
Margarita stared at him, her heart leaping at the sudden, sharp cut to his features. For several seconds she considered following up on her frank acknowledgment of the desire arcing between them. She needed only to lift her hands a couple of inches. Edge them under his T-shirt. Feast on that glorious combination of warm skin and hard muscle for a moment or two, then slide her palms down to harder, hotter regions. Before she could act on the insane impulse, he bent his head.
"Not on the ground," he murmured, brushing her mouth with his. "Not like animals. But soon, mi amor. Soon."
Chapter 6
Carlos had spent more than a few uncomfortable nights in his lifetime. During his years in uniform, he'd bivouacked on sand so hot it blistered his skin through his clothes and laid his bedroll atop cold, sucking mud. Often, he'd stretched out on bare tarmac while he waited for airlift to the latest crisis spot. Once, he'd passed forty-eight hours wedged in the crook of a tree fifty feet above the ground, a dirty scrap of cloth knotted around the bullet hole in his thigh while
he monitored the activities of the murderous band of terrorists camped below. But as he cradled Margarita in his arms and waited for sleep to claim her, he suspected this night would top his never-do-this-again list.
Gradually, she relaxed. Slowly, her rigidity gave way to exhaustion. She twitched a couple of times and muttered once or twice as she slipped into a doze. Finally, she lay soft and pliant in his arms.
In direct contrast, Carlos hurt more with each passing moment. He couldn't breathe without drawing in her earthy combination of river-washed hair and smoke-scented skin. With every brush of her breasts against his arm, he felt his jaw tighten another notch. When she gave a little grunt and wiggled her bottom into his groin, he ground his teeth and cursed himself for a fool.
He could have had her. When she'd wedged herself around to face him, looked him square in the eye and admitted bluntly that she'd been thinking about ripping off his clothes, he'd almost lost what little remained of his control.
Dios! Did she think he was made of stone? Didn't she guess that he ached all over with wanting her? Every muscle in his body crawled with a need so raw it consumed him. Despite his fine speech of a few minutes ago, he was only a breath away from rolling her over, dragging down her jeans and thrusting into her smooth, slick depths. Right here. On the leafy earth. Like animals. Grunting. Grinding. Each losing themselves in the fury of the moment.
Only his gut-level need to protect the woman he now thought of as his own held him back. He was damned if he'd make love to Margarita for the first time with one ear tuned to the sounds of the jungle for possible danger. He couldn't risk her life by letting down his guard even for a moment. What's more, he suspected that one frantic joining wouldn't be enough for either of them. When the dam finally burst, the resulting flood would sweep them both away. Carlos fully intended to get them both to high, safe ground before that happened.
The Spy Who Loved Him Page 6