THE MARINE & THE DEBUTANTE

by Maureen Child

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  THE MARINE & THE DEBUTANTE

  Maureen Child

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

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  Chapter 1

  ^»

  "If I get shot saving some spoiled little rich girl," Travis Hawks muttered, "finish the job and kill me."

  "Deal," J.T. whispered.

  Travis sent the other man a quick look. In the darkness, all he could see of his friend's face were the whites of his eyes—and his grin. Camouflage paint disguised his features, just like the other two men on the recon team.

  "You agreed to that mighty damn fast," Travis said with a wry smile as he checked the load in his rifle for the third time.

  "What're friends for?" he asked. "You'd do the same for me, wouldn't you?"

  A slight rustle from the bushes had them both spinning around, alert and ready. Deke poked his head through, whispered, "Travis, go get the girl and let's get the hell outa here."

  "Right."

  "Your charges set?"

  "You need to ask?" he asked, already dropping to his belly for the crawl to the squat, stone house just fifty feet from them. Hell, Travis was the best damn explosives man in the Corps and everybody here knew it. Most days, he was even better than Jeff Hunter, the Gunnery Sergeant who led their team, though Travis wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud. And when it came right down to it, his expertise was probably what had gotten them roped into this mission.

  Which just went to show that pride in your work could get you into all kinds of trouble. But it wasn't time to think of things like that now. Instead he focused his concentration on the job. Flattening out on the dirt, rifle cradled in his arms, he used his elbows to drag his body across the open ground between the team and their target.

  Voices drifted to him on the still night air. And though he didn't exactly speak the language, the tone told him the men guarding the woman were relaxed. Good. He hoped they stayed that way.

  Sweat pooled at the base of his neck despite the near-freezing temperature. It got damn cold in the desert at night. His knees and elbows propelled him quickly to the stone house, and as he slowly came to his feet alongside the blacked-out window, he quietly released the breath he'd been holding. So far, so good.

  Just as he'd expected, there were no guards posted on the perimeter. Apparently, these guys felt pretty secure. Bad for them, Travis thought, good for us.

  He lifted the window sash and prayed that the intel they'd received before starting this mission had been completely accurate. If there were guards in the room with her, then all hell was about to break loose. Travis paused for a heartbeat or two, to listen. When he was convinced that it was still safe, he slipped into the darkened room, moving as quietly as combat boots allowed.

  His vision already adjusted to the blackness, Travis had no problem locating the woman. She was lying on her back upon the only piece of furniture in the room—a narrow cot. Her deep, even breathing told him she was asleep. In a few steps he was beside her. Clamping one hand over her mouth to keep her quiet, he waited for her to wake up.

  Instantly she did just that.

  And he almost wished she hadn't.

  She fought against his hold on her like a tiger coining out of her cage looking for dinner. Arms, legs, teeth joined the fight, and Travis was hard-pressed to contain her. Keeping his hand over her mouth, despite the teeth digging into his palm, he pinned her to the cot beneath his own body and muttered, "U.S. Marines. Knock it off, lady. I'm here to get you out."

  She stopped fighting just as quickly as she'd started.

  He stared down at the whites of her eyes and watched them narrow dangerously. Then very deliberately she reached for his wrist and yanked his hand from her mouth.

  Finally, he thought. A little gratitude.

  "It's about time," she snapped, and shattered his little hero fantasy.

  A flash of anger shot through him, followed by a blast of sheer fear. He threw a glance at the door across the room, then looked back at the woman who was about to blow this whole damn thing.

  Keeping his voice no more than a whispered threat, he ordered, "Lady, shut up and get moving."

  "Fine," she said softly, already swinging her legs off the cot and standing up. "But for heaven's sake, you people took your own sweet time about getting here."

  "Oh, for the love of—" He didn't even finish the oath. Didn't have time. Had to get moving before her captors took it into their heads to check on their little pot of gold. "Follow me," he said, and headed for the window and escape.

  "I need my purse."

  "Forget it," he muttered, peering out into the darkness before turning to help her across the sill. Stunned, he saw she hadn't followed him at all. Instead she was flat on her belly, reaching under the damn cot for her damn purse.

  He stalked back across the room and grabbed her elbow. "There's no mall here. You don't need daddy's credit cards. And there's no time for this, princess," he muttered.

  She yanked free of his grip, then, meeting hostility with pure venom, she said, "I've waited two weeks for you. You can wait another minute for me."

  Short of hitting her over the head and dragging her ass out of there, he didn't have much choice. Through his headset, he heard a whispered question come through loud and clear. "Where the hell are you?"

  Scowling, Travis touched the black band at the base of his neck, pressed the sensitive throat mike to his larynx and muttered, "Waitin' on princess. Comin' right out." He kept one eye on the closed door and mentally ticked off the seconds as they passed. There were too many of them. They were asking for trouble, he told himself. This couldn't be good. "Move it, lady."

  "Got it," she said, and stood up, holding a white leather saddle bag dangling from what was probably a real gold chain. She slipped it over her head so that the chain lay across her chest and the purse settled at her hip. Then she nodded at him, and Travis grabbed her and propelled her toward the window—and freedom.

  "Come on, now," he prodded. "Climb out and let's get gone."

  She sat on the window ledge, gathered up her skirt and started to swing her legs through. Then she stopped. "You know," she said softly, "you could be a little nicer, here. I am the victim, remember?"

  Travis sucked in a gulp of air. He was seriously beginning to doubt that. In fact, another few minutes of this and he was going to start feeling some real sympathy for her abductors.

  He bent down, put his face just a breath away from hers and whispered, "Listen up, princess. We got about a minute and a half to get clear of this place and still have time to make the chopper pickup. Now, you want to move that pretty ass of yours before I kick it into gear?"

  Her eyes widened and for a second, there, it looked as though she might argue. Then apparently she changed her mind. Swinging her legs over the window ledge, she dropped onto the desert floor and waited for him to follow.

  There was just no time to throw her to the ground and try to slink out the way he'd come in, Travis told himself. Instead he took a tight grip on her upper arm and dragged her along behind him as he made a run for cover.

  Stumbling and muttering under her breath, she managed to keep up. Barely. And as soon as he hit the low clump of bushes where the others were waiting, he dropped into a crouch, pulling her down beside him, then released her.

  Deke glanced at her before fastening his gaze on Travis. "Jeff's at the rendezvous point. Let's move."

  "Move where?" the woman asked.

  "Right behind ya," Travis muttered, ignoring her and her question.

  In seconds Deke and J.T. had melted into the low-lying bushes, and
Travis pushed the woman after them. "Get going," he said, then added, "and keep low."

  Thankfully, she kept quiet and did as she was told. Travis threw one last look at the stone hut behind them, then moved silently off after her, guarding their escape. His mind blanked out as it always did at times like this. He did what he had to, when he had to. He didn't think. Didn't question. Just moved on instinct.

  His gaze swept the landscape, back and forth, but kept drifting back to the woman in front of him. Her stupid full skirt snagged on every bush she passed. He shook his head and clenched his teeth together to keep from shouting at her to hurry up. Already the others were too far ahead of them. She was slowing everything down.

  "Damn it," he muttered under his breath. "Can't you move any faster?"

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  Lisa Chambers stopped dead and glared at him over her shoulder. She'd had just about enough. Two weeks of sitting in that cramped little hot box, surrounded by men who wore bandoliers of ammunition with the aplomb her father's friends wore cummerbunds; and now this. She was hot, tired, hungry, cranky and she'd gone way too long without a bath. She for darn sure wasn't going to stand for some Southern-fried Marine cursing her for walking too slowly.

  Cold night air crawled over her skin, sending bone-deep shivers to every inch of her body. The gold chain across her chest chafed her neck and the solid slap of her purse against her hip was beginning to throb.

  Hard to believe that in the span of a few minutes a person could experience so many different sorts of emotions. When she'd first awakened to the feel of a man's hand across her mouth, her first reaction had been sheer terror—followed, naturally, by the instinct to defend herself. For one brief, horrifying moment, she'd thought her captors had finally decided to do more than keep her isolated and afraid.

  Then the very next instant, relief had crashed down on her as she'd heard that purely American voice drawl the words, "U.S. Marines." The "cavalry" had been so long in coming, she'd about given up hope.

  Tears she didn't have time to shed stung her eyes, and she blinked them back with practiced ease. She hadn't shown her captors any weaknesses, and she wouldn't let her rescuer see any, either.

  "You know," she said, sarcasm dripping from her words, "a little sensitivity wouldn't be out of line here."

  He didn't even look at her. Well, she was pretty sure he didn't. In the moonless dark, he was almost indistinguishable from the night, so it was hard to be sure. Unlike her. In her sunny-yellow dress, she probably stood out like a spotlight on an empty stage. And that thought gave her a cold chill deep enough to have Lisa give the surrounding darkness a quick, wary look. When she turned back toward him, she saw the whites of his eyes narrow dangerously at her.

  "Lady," he said and his slow, menacing Southern drawl drifted in the air, "you want sensitivity, call the Navy. You want help, call the Marines." Then he dropped to one knee and pulled something from under the closest bush. Flicking her another quick glance, he ordered, "Get a move on, darlin'."

  "Darlin'?" she repeated, but her voice was lost in the blast of a nearby explosive.

  Lisa gasped and staggered back a step or two. Her gaze locked on a fireball that roared up as if thrown from the bowels of hell by a demon bent on destruction. Light showered down on them and the area, but before she could do much more than notice that the Marine was running at her, he had hold of her arm and she was moving, too.

  His hand made one warm spot on her body, but his grip was anything but tender. The fabric of her skirt caught, then ripped free as he half dragged, half pushed her along the path. Her high heels sank into the sand as if the desert itself was trying to hold her back. The delicate pumps were perfect for a day of shopping or even a night of dancing. But they weren't exactly prime jogging equipment. Her feet ached, her head was pounding, and she wondered absently if she would survive her rescue. Her "hero" stayed just a step behind her, obviously guarding her back, but she almost wished he was in front of her so she'd know where to go. She had no idea. Only knew that she wanted out of this place. Now.

  She wanted to be back in the States. Back at her father's house. In that glorious, sky-blue bathtub that dominated the bathroom in her suite of rooms. She wanted freshly fluffed towels, lit candles sputtering on the sea-foam colored tiles and a chilled glass of wine at her elbow. She wanted running water, hair dryers and toilet paper. Oh, God, please help her to get out of this mess, she prayed frantically.

  "Damn it," he muttered, and she heard that curse with a sinking sigh.

  "What now?" she demanded, still moving, due to his hand shoving at the small of her back. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  "What isn't?" he grumbled, and stopped dead.

  Lisa stopped, too, waiting for him. He might be irritating, but as far as she was concerned, he was the rescuer and she was going to stick to him like glue.

  "Keep going," he shouted, the need for silence apparently lost with the first blast.

  "Where?" she demanded, not moving another step.

  "Son of a—" His voice broke off and he pulled another something out from yet another bush, and this time she was close enough to watch him. His fingers moved surely, efficiently. He flipped up a small, clear-plastic dome, flicked a silver switch and then moved his thumb to a bright-green glowing button. He punched it, and another blast rocked the desert night.

  This one was closer and Lisa stared at it, awestruck by the fierce beauty of it. But beneath the roar of the explosion, she heard shouts. Angry shouts.

  And she knew her captors were chasing them.

  "This can't be good."

  "Darlin', none of this is good," he muttered, jumping to his feet and grabbing her hand. "Let's get the lead out, huh?"

  They ran.

  And ran.

  And when she thought she'd drop, when she was wishing she could take her aching legs off and throw them away, they ran some more.

  "Runnin' late. Not gonna make it," he said, more to himself than to her.

  She swallowed hard, fought for breath and still managed to ask, "You mean the helicopter?"

  "Damn straight."

  "We have to make it."

  He threw her a worried look. "The extraction point's up ahead."

  Extraction? Sounded like a dental visit, which would have been more fun than this.

  From far off she heard the dull slap of a helicopter's blades whipping the air. Her heartbeat thundered in her chest. Close, she thought. So close. They'd make it. They had to make it.

  Every step was a trial.

  Every breath a victory.

  Behind them she heard voices. Shouts. And the occasional gunshot. Lisa winced and instinctively ducked her head as they ran forward. The wash from the chopper blades pushed at them. In the indistinct light she saw other men—two, then three—sprinting for the helicopter. A Marine stood in the open door, an automatic weapon in his hand, spitting gunfire, covering their escape.

  Then that Marine crumpled as if he'd been a puppet and someone had cut his strings. A moment later she heard a rifle shot, followed by several more in quick succession.

  "Get down, damn it!" the man behind her said, crouching and pulling her down with him.

  "Why are we waiting?" she demanded, looking up at him, trying to read his expression through the camouflage war paint he wore.

  "We won't make it," he said tightly. "Too much open ground. They'll pick us off."

  "We—we have to make it," she said, shifting her gaze back to the helicopter where another Marine had taken the place of the first one. He fired quick, staccato bursts from his weapon, and flashes of fire erupted from the barrel of his gun.

  "Can't."

  "No." She couldn't go back to that place. To being a prisoner. She wouldn't. Lisa half stood, determined to make a run for the only way out.

  But she didn't get a step.

  He yanked her back down with such force, her butt slammed into the ground. His grip on her upper arm tightened and he pulled her around to face him.


  "We can't make it. And if they sit here much longer waitin' on us, they won't get out, either."

  Panic reared its ugly head. He couldn't mean what she thought he meant. "What are you saying?"

  He didn't bother to explain. Instead he stood up briefly, hitched his rifle high over his head and waved it in some sort of silent signal.

  "No," she said, hoping he hadn't done what she thought he had. "Don't do that!"

  "Come on," he said tightly, dragging her off to the right, deeper into the shadows.

  Lisa looked back as the helicopter lifted off, taking her only means of escape with it.

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  Chapter 2

  «^»

  Travis kept a tight hold on the woman's hand and ran for it. He could only hope that their pursuers were still far enough away that some fast running and clever biding would do the trick. If they could get gone quick enough, the men still firing rifles at a now-disappearing chopper, would assume that their prey had escaped in that helicopter. If he could get the woman stumbling along behind him to shut up and move. As he'd already learned, that was no easy task.

  "Are you out of your mind?" she demanded.

  He had to give her credit. Even in her fury, she kept her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry across the desert.

  "It's been said," he agreed, darting a quick look back over his shoulder. No pursuit yet. Good. Keep moving, he told himself.

  "You waved them off," she continued, stunned disbelief coloring her voice. "I saw you. The helicopter was there. They were waiting for us. Our only escape and you waved them off!"

  He shot her a glare that would have terrified a lesser woman. Naturally, it didn't have the slightest effect on the one woman he wanted it to.

  "You're insane," she muttered.

  "I'm startin' to agree with you," he snapped. Who else but a crazy man would volunteer for such a mission? He could have been on leave back home. Of course, then his sisters would have been ragging on him. But at least they were family. "Now shut the hell up and follow me."