Driven by Fire

by Anne Stuart

  She took the handkerchief from his hand and examined it briefly. If it had been dirty she actually would have considering taking off her underwear, but it looked clean enough, and she wrapped it around his bicep as far as it could go. “Your muscles are too big,” she grumbled.

  His laugh wasn’t entirely devoid of humor. “First time I’ve been told that.”

  She pressed the handkerchief hard against the wound, expecting him to curse in pain, but he didn’t even take a deep breath. He was watching her out of those blue eyes, wolf eyes, she reminded herself. The eyes of a predator who feels nothing, not mercy, not sorrow, not love.

  She peeled off a strip of duct tape and wrapped it around his arm, holding the handkerchief in place, then followed it by rows and rows of the stuff. “There,” she said, sitting back to admire her handiwork. “You look steampunk.”

  He gave her a look of disgust. “Just in case I get shot again, if you’re not going to donate your panties, then you can always close a wound temporarily with just the duct tape.”

  “You’d end up looking like the Tin Woodman in The Wizard of Oz.”

  “If I only had a heart,” he said briefly, and the knife in her stomach twisted again. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “How far is it to Puerto Claro?”

  “Depends on what route we take, how many stops we make, whether we have to hide out for a while. We can’t drive main roads, people will be looking for us. Sooner or later I’m going to have to find us something to eat or we’ll never make it, and this thing is going to run out of gas. So we’ll get there when we get there, sweetheart.” The endearment was a cynical slap in the face, and she wanted to kick him. “So shut the hell up and let me drive.”

  It must have been later than she thought. Even though it was the middle of the summer, shadows began closing in around them in another hour, and the temperature began to drop. She was starving, she had to pee, and she was freezing to death in her thin cotton cargo shorts and braless T-shirt, but the last thing she was going to do was complain. Sooner or later he was going to have to answer nature’s call—despite all evidence to the contrary, he was only human—but he seemed content not only to keep driving but also to hit every bump imaginable. It was almost dark when he turned off the barely recognizable road and drove the jeep into the underbrush.

  “We’re stopping here for now,” he announced.

  She looked around her. “No Motel 6?” she inquired sweetly.

  “Sorry, gorgeous, but we’re roughing it. Go find yourself a tree—you’ve been squirming in your seat for the last hour.”

  She was past the ability to be embarrassed. “If you knew I had to go, then why didn’t you stop sooner?”

  “You didn’t ask,” he said simply.

  Jenny made a growling noise in the back of her throat. At least the post-twilight shadows afforded her more privacy, and she didn’t have to go too far from the jeep. By the time she came back he’d grabbed a duffel from the back and dumped it on the ground in a clearing a ways off from the jeep. She tried hard to control her shivers, but as usual Ryder was ahead of her, tossing her his blood-soaked jacket.

  “Put that on,” he ordered. “You’re freezing to death.”

  “It’s not b . . . b . . . bad now that we’ve stopped driving,” she said, trying to disguise her chattering teeth.

  “We’re not having a fire, so you’re going to have to figure out some other way to warm up. You can have my jacket or me.”

  She grabbed the jacket. “You think the rebels would see the fire?”

  “I think anything’s possible. We just need to get through the night. There’s a small village a mile or two to the left, and I’m going to see if I can get us some food and gasoline.”

  She stared at him. “Have you been here before? How do you know there’s a village nearby?”

  “I can smell smoke and farm animals on the wind.”

  Jenny took a tentative sniff. “I can’t smell anything.”

  “You don’t have my training. Just sit tight and I’ll be back.”

  “You’re leaving me?” she shrieked.

  “For God’s sake, lower your voice! You never know who’s around,” he said irritably.

  “And again I say, you’re leaving me? To those mysterious marauders?”

  “I’ll leave you my gun.”

  “No!” she said in horror. “I’ve already killed one person today—that’s about my limit.”

  He came over to her, and she’d forgotten how very large he was, how intimidating he could be. “You’re going to sit your sweet little ass down over there, wrap yourself in the jacket, and keep my gun in your hand. If anyone shows up and it’s not me, you’re to shoot first and ask questions later.”

  “What if you don’t come back?”

  “Don’t make me think you care one way or another, gorgeous. And you may as well accept the fact—I always come back. You can’t get rid of me until I’m ready to let go. You’re going to have an hour or two of sitting alone, and then I’ll be back and you can entertain yourself hating me.”

  “I don’t hate you,” she said in a very small voice.

  “Oh, yeah? You could have fooled me.” He shoved her down on the ground, wrapped a jacket around her shoulders, and put a gun in her hand. It was the same gun she’d had before, but back then it had simply been a tool. Now she could see Soledad’s face as she’d gone over the balcony, and she wanted to throw it at him.

  He must have sensed her rebellion. “You want the Guiding Light to have a crack at you?” he said in a cool voice. “I’ll be back in time to kill them before they could finish with you, but if they happen to find you, you’d be in for a very unpleasant time.”

  She tightened her grip on the gun. “Don’t be long,” she said.

  For the first time in the entire horrid day, he smiled at her, and even though it was tinged with cynicism, she felt some vague stirrings of hope. “One might almost think you cared, Parker.” And then he’d melted into the underbrush as if he’d never been there in the first place.

  One or two miles, he’d said. One or two miles through this dense foliage, following the scent of something she couldn’t smell. And then one or two miles back, following nothing but whatever kind of path he made on his way out.

  He was never coming back for her. He hated her for doubting him, hated her for all the trouble she was. Traveling on his own would be a lot easier without her tagging along—he could hike or hitch a ride to the port city and fly out from there, complete with the sad tale of how she’d been murdered by rebels. Her father would probably breathe a sigh of relief as he made a substantial contribution to the church in her memory. If there was one thing you could say about her villainous father, he was a devout Catholic.

  Who else would mourn her? Daisy, her paralegal, might be more worried about where her next paycheck was coming from. Her two older brothers wouldn’t give a damn.

  As for Billy . . . she still didn’t know what to believe, and at this point she didn’t care. She’d gotten herself into this unholy mess because of a misguided need to save him, save someone who’d done something unforgivable, and her act of covering up for him was unforgivable in itself. Maybe she deserved all this.

  It had all been for nothing. Ryder hadn’t seemed the slightest bit discomfited by the loss of the phone, but then, he’d already known about it, had already hacked it. Which meant there had never been the need for her to come with him, never been the need for him to hurt her. He’d already known most of the answers to what she’d been hiding, and he’d hurt her anyway, the sadistic bastard.

  Except he hadn’t hurt her since. When they’d had sex he’d been almost tender with her, if such a strong man could be tender. She would have thought he’d feel wracked with guilt, but Ryder wasn’t the kind of man who let guilt faze him. Then again, what did she know about what kind of man he was? She was an idiot when it came to people—Ryder might be a secret saint or a sociopath, and whichever she guessed
would probably be wrong.

  She drew her knees up to her chest, huddling under the blanket, as his cruel words came back to her. “You fuck like a virgin,” he’d said. She could think of a thousand comebacks now that it was too late, but in truth she just wanted to put her head down and cry. She hadn’t really liked sex, had never liked it, until Ryder had crawled into her bed, and his touch had been such a revelation she’d been foolish enough to think it was mutual.

  He wasn’t going to come back for her. Why should he? She’d destroyed his piece of evidence, she’d lied to cover up for her brother, she fucked like a virgin. What possible use would he have for her? He’d know well enough her father wouldn’t be grateful for her return, particularly since Ryder was going after Billy. So what possible use would he have for her? He’d be much better off on his own.

  He was probably lying when he said he could smell civilization a few miles away, just using it as an excuse to get away from her. There were wild animals in the jungle, jaguars and pumas and . . . and snakes.

  She hugged her knees tightly. Maybe she was going to die from one of those snakes, maybe that explained her lifelong, irrational fear. Deep inside she’d always known they’d bring about her death, and she’d been terrified, knowing those coils would wrap around her, slowly, squeezing the life from her, crushing every bone in her body so that he could swallow her whole . . .

  “Stop it!” The sound of her voice in the jungle was a shock. Her throat hurt from Soledad’s clawlike fingers—if she hadn’t shoved her away Soledad might have killed her. But she hadn’t meant for Soledad to go over the ledge—it had just happened. If only she didn’t keep seeing Soledad’s pale, surprised face as she went spinning, gliding downward to smash against the sharp rocks of the ravine. She would see that face in her nightmares when she was in her eighties, she knew it. She’d killed a woman. A woman who’d already been shot, an evil, murderous woman. None of that made a difference. In the end she’d taken a life, and she felt forever changed.

  “Come back, Ryder,” she whispered out loud. “Please don’t leave me here.”

  Only the sound of the night birds answered her, but that was its own comfort. If someone else was moving around in the jungle the birds would grow still and silent. She didn’t have to worry about the Guiding Light sneaking up on her, she didn’t have to worry about anyone surprising her . . .

  “Wake up, gorgeous,” Ryder said. He was squatting down beside her, and she could just manage to see him in the darkness.

  “I’m awake,” she said, certain she couldn’t have been sleeping.

  “Sorry it took so long, but we’re getting out of here. There’s a bigger road just ten miles away, and then it’s straight on to Puerto Claro. Get up. I’ve got food in the jeep.”

  “Okay,” she said sleepily, shrugging off the jacket and struggling to stand up. Her legs didn’t feel like holding her, and Ryder caught her as she stumbled, holding her against him for a long, breathless moment.

  He was so big. So hard, so warm—no one could possibly hurt her if he was looking out for her. He let her go, and she made her way back to the jeep, walking carefully, knowing he was following her with his eyes.

  It wasn’t until she was safely buckled in that she spoke. “Thank you.”

  He barely glanced at her. “For what?”

  “For coming back.”

  If she thought that would ease the tension between them she was mistaken. “Rather than abandoning you in the middle of the South American jungle? It was tempting, but I figured if I did that it might piss off your old man.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come back. He cares a lot more for Billy than he ever did for me, and I don’t think you’re going to keep your hands off my baby brother.”

  “No, I’m not.” He put the jeep in gear. “So I guess I should have left you behind.”

  His tone was flippant, but she was in no shape to know whether he was serious or not. “I guess you should have,” she said wearily. “Why weren’t you angry that I destroyed the phone?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “We have enough information downloaded from it to put your brother away for the rest of his life. The important thing was not to let it fall into the wrong hands.”

  “I see.”

  He turned to look at her. “Come on, gorgeous. Don’t sound so defeated. You’ll have plenty of time to fight with me once we get to the plane.”

  “Stop calling me that. And I am defeated. If you’re looking for a fight you won’t find one from me,” she said, leaning her head back against the seat and closing her eyes.

  “That’ll be a refreshing change,” he said, concentrating on the road as he maneuvered his way through the dense greenery. “Just keep your head down if we come to a town. One norteamericano driving alone wouldn’t garner that much attention. A pretty woman would get everyone talking.”

  She looked over at him, trying to read his expression. He looked older somehow, bleaker than when she had first met him. No, that wasn’t true—he’d looked just as grim when he’d scoured the container ship for bad guys. His long dark hair was pulled back from his face, his dark-blue eyes were hooded and unreadable, his mouth flat. He hadn’t shaved in several days, and she could still remember the feel of his stubble against her sensitive skin.

  “What are you blushing for?” he demanded irritably.

  “It’s almost pitch dark—how can you tell I was blushing?” she shot back.

  “I notice you’re not denying it,” he pointed out.

  “I’m not denying anything. How long till we get to the main road?”

  “How the hell should I know? I didn’t even know it existed. With luck it’ll be a couple of hours to Puerto Claro.”

  She didn’t allow herself to groan aloud at the thought. “In fact, we’d probably be better off heading straight for the plane,” she said finally. No time alone with a bed in between us, no watching eyes. “That would probably be the smartest idea.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But every time I get around you, I start acting stupid, and I don’t see that that’s about to change anytime soon.”

  She stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean every time we’re alone we end up in bed together, and that’s not a good thing. I get sloppy, you get emotional, everything gets fucked, including us.”

  “Am I supposed to laugh at that?” she said icily.

  “Better than crying. Close your eyes and try to sleep. I promise to wake you up if I decide to stop sooner.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said stiffly. “I’m fully able to take care of myself. I killed Soledad, didn’t I?”

  He was silent for a moment. “She would have died anyway. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  “I’m not,” Jenny said fiercely. “She was an evil, horrible woman who deserved to die, and I’m not sorry. I’m not.”

  He glanced at her, and before she realized what he was doing, he’d reached over and unfastened her seat belt, hauling her up against him as he drove one-handed, his arm around her.

  She didn’t fight him. She started crying, silent tears streaming down her face. She had no idea who she was crying for—whether it was for the sweet young woman she’d thought she’d known, for her own blind innocence, for the man who held her so comfortably and let her weep into his T-shirt. It was for all of them, and she lay against his shoulder and cried.

  She was in rough shape, Ryder thought, holding her trembling body against his as he maneuvered the jeep along the dirt track. It was a rare trick, steering with one hand and keeping the drive smooth enough that she didn’t bounce out of his arms, but he could do it, simply tightening his hold when he reached a rough section. She was holding on to him, her fingers clinging to his T-shirt, and he could feel the dampness of her tears soaking through the thin cloth. Funny, he’d never seen her cry before, not even when he was deliberately hurting her. She hadn’t even cried during sex, though he’d known she’d wanted to. Women had a habit of
crying after a really good climax, and he’d made sure she’d had several the two times he’d gotten her in bed.

  And then he’d taken it all away by telling her she fucked like a virgin. What had gotten into him? He wasn’t always such a bastard, but for some reason she brought it out in him, and he kept saying such cruel things to her.

  But he knew what had gotten into him. She had. She was the greatest danger to his peace of mind that he’d ever run into. She made him want things he couldn’t have, care about things that didn’t matter. She was . . . lovely, and there was no room in his life for lovely. Everything in his life was hard and gritty and lonely, and he’d made peace with that long ago. Every day he was with her he was offered a view of another kind of life, one he’d turned his back on, and no matter what he did he couldn’t put her out of his mind.

  She fell asleep before she even stopped crying, and she let out a few remaining shudders as she slept against his shoulder. The ride was rough, but she’d adapted. Sooner or later she’d get back to her elegant suits and her pro bono work and her safe life, and he wouldn’t have to think about her again.

  But he would. He had the gloomy suspicion he’d think about her every day for the rest of his life. The only consolation being that it was unlikely to be a long life—his profession didn’t lead to old-age pensions and retirement villages.

  He moved his head down and placed a soft kiss on her tangle of hair. She didn’t have to know she had somehow become his kryptonite. He’d get her back to New Orleans, hand her over to Remy, and deal with Billy Gauthier. And then she’d never want anything to do with him again.

  It was for the best. She needed to keep her distance—when she was around he made stupid mistakes like not taking Soledad’s gun away. She could have been killed because he’d been too worried about her reaction if he searched Soledad’s body. She’d resolved that, and lost part of her soul in doing so. You couldn’t kill someone and remain unchanged, and he’d done that to her. She would have to live with that for the rest of her life, and his memory would be inextricably tied up with the knowledge that she’d taken a life.