Damian (The Caine Brothers #3)

by Margaret Madigan

  When they finally made it over to the pilings under the boathouse she was tense, drenched, and freezing. He was cool as the proverbial cucumber.

  “Okay, let’s take a look under here,” he said, inching them under the building.

  The limited space tended more toward claustrophobia than cozy. The riverbed sloped up to the bank, and the water lapped within a couple of feet of the underside of the building. A ledge in the bank above the water line gave them a somewhat dry area, but it didn’t leave much space to squeeze them both in. It was a great hidey hole, but cramped. She doubted the guerillas would even check under the building, but if they did, the darkness of the space would keep them hidden.

  Before she could voice her concerns about the tiny space and if they’d even fit into it, she heard voices filtering through the trees and down the road.

  In Spanish, they chattered about the car crashing into the river. They milled around the wreck nattering for a bit about the prints, sounding excited that she and Damian would be so stupid as to leave them. They debated about it being a trap, but the majority opinion was that the prints led upriver, not downriver or into the boathouse. Finally, the voices became more distant as they followed the prints, heading upriver. They didn’t even check the boathouse.

  “I can’t believe they fell for that,” Elena said.

  “They haven’t fallen yet. They’re just following the lead. They may catch on and come back. In the meantime, we should get comfortable.”

  “Is that even possible here?”

  He clambered up into the muddy ledge, laying on his side and scooting back to leave space in front of him, then patted the dirt and waggled his brows at her. “We can make it comfortable.”

  She laughed despite herself. “You’re incorrigible.”

  She climbed up on the ledge with him, stretching out in front of him. When their bodies touched, it was the fireworks from the barbecue all over again, but with an undercurrent of fuzzy warm. He made her feel safe—something she’d never before experienced from another human being. She’d spent her adult life independent. The nature of her career required her to push people away, and for the most part she’d been fine with that.

  Now, Damian made her question that choice. Maybe—the nature of his career being similar to hers—he was someone she could be honest with; be herself with. It was a novel concept.

  At the moment, lust superseded the warm fuzzy safety of having him with her. Maybe it was the excitement or the danger, but it didn’t matter that their little niche smelled like a musty algae-filled fish tank, or that it was muddy, or that they were both drenched from head to toe, or that God knew what kind of bugs lived on the ledge. The fact that Damian’s hard body formed itself to hers had her all kinds of hot and bothered.

  This definitely was not the time or place to be getting horny; yet she couldn’t help wiggling her ass backward until it fit against his pelvis. She smiled when the hard bulge of his erection nudged her ass.

  He groaned and bent over her neck to whisper into her ear. “Be careful there, Perry.”

  She snorted. “I’m impressed you know who Perry the Platypus is.”

  “That’s what you took from that?”

  “I’m not too worried. It’s not like we’re going to have sex here on a muddy ledge under a boathouse with a bunch of drug cartel guerillas scurrying around searching for us.”

  “Are you saying we can’t or we shouldn’t? Because I’m pretty sure we can.”

  He brushed her wet hair away from her neck and leaned down to plant his lips there. Their warmth against her cool, wet skin sent a delicious shiver down her spine, settling as a warm glow between her legs.

  She cleared her throat and tried to keep her voice from sounding husky. “I’m sure we could manage the sex just fine. I meant we probably shouldn’t. It’s not really the best timing.”

  “Chicken,” he whispered against her neck just before sliding his hand up under her shirt and caressing her belly.

  No coherent response came to mind, especially when his hand moved up and discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra. A deep, warm chuckle—evil and intensely erotic—vibrated from his lips into the skin behind her ear. Given how her body reacted—her nipples hardened into lusty pebbles and her core clenched like greedy kid hands begging for Halloween candy—all arguments against sex had been shelved. This would definitely go on the weirdest-things-she’d-ever-done list.

  She gave one last valiant effort to be the practical one in the situation. “I’m not chicken. I’m sane.”

  “Sanity’s boring.”

  Okay, he had a point there. He tweaked her nipple and the point became slippery in her mind. What had they been talking about?

  A needy sound escaped her lips and she rolled onto her back so she could reach up and grab a handful of his hair and pull him down into a kiss. Maybe she was just happy none of the hundreds of bullets whizzing through the air had hit her or Damian, maybe he was just the sexiest man she’d ever met, or maybe somewhere inside she’d decided he belonged to her, but suddenly the idea of sex was the best one ever. Who cared where they did it as long as they did it together?

  She kissed him like she couldn’t get enough. He kissed her like they’d never kiss again and he needed this one to be enough to last the rest of his life.

  She had a feeling Damian had already ruined her for any other men, ever—and she was okay with that.

  “Damn, Elena…” he said.

  She agreed. Damn.

  She fumbled with her sweats, but he rested a hand on hers, stilling it. “Let me,” he said.

  He loosened the tie then slid his hand under the waistband. Her body vibrated with the anticipation of his touch. When his fingers reached her clit, she about came unglued. In the cramped space, she adjusted her position, opening her legs the best she could to give him access.

  He took advantage dipping his fingers into the wetness of her folds, then sliding them up to find her clit. She arched her back like a taut bowstring as he caressed, stroked, flicked, pinched, and fondled, and when her orgasm gathered deep inside and rushed to explode under his fingers she bit her lips to keep from groaning shamelessly and alerting the guerillas to their presence.

  As she floated back to herself and calmed her breathing, it occurred to her that someday she’d like to be in their own bed after having had sex and say, remember the time we did the sexy stuff while running from guerillas? That would assume something long term, which they’d both made clear didn’t fit into their lifestyles.

  But what if it could?

  She brushed the thought aside. Stupid. But the thought was stubborn and refused to go away. It lingered, teasing her with possibility.

  Instead, she said, “Your turn.”

  CHAPTER 8

  As hip as Damian was to a hand-job from Elena—and it took a lot of willpower to resist—they needed to get moving while the guerilla patrols were elsewhere.

  “It’s going to have to wait,” he said. “We should get moving to the secondary extraction site.”

  “But that’s not fair. It won’t take long.”

  He kissed her forehead, then pulled back enough to look into her eyes. “So you’ll owe me.”

  “Okay. I can live with that,” she said.

  He grinned. “Good. Don’t think I won’t collect.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Elena was growing on him in an uncomfortable way. He liked her in a way he’d never liked a woman before—because she was smart, funny, and tough as hell. He even liked her stubbornness. Nothing bored him more than meek, compliant women. He liked challenge and surprise, and Elena offered that in spades.

  He pushed aside the sentimental bullshit to focus on the job at hand. It wouldn’t matter how he felt about her if he didn’t get them out of the jungle. They’d have plenty of time to think about dating—or whatever—later.

  “Okay, let’s go,” he said, giving her a little push to let her know she should slide off into the river.r />
  “In broad daylight? Won’t it be easier for them to see us? Shouldn’t we wait for night?” she asked, her face tight with anxiety.

  “It’s only an hour or so past dawn. We can’t stay in one place that long. They won’t see us now if they’re off chasing us elsewhere. Besides, we’re not just going to dive out into the river. I’m going to do a little recon first.” He slid off the ledge to join her in the calm water at the edge of the river. “You stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  He kissed her forehead again, then swam to the upriver edge of the building before ducking underwater and swimming to where the front bumper of the Rover hung over into the river. Using the vehicle as cover he pulled himself up to eye level so he could see the riverbank. He cocked his head to listen, but all he heard was the rush of the river, monkeys in the trees, and the buzz of millions of bugs. No human sounds.

  He took the chance and crawled out of the river and squatted near the rear bumper of the Rover to scan the perimeter. There was no unusual movement among the trees, and nothing on the road. He circled to the other side of the car and watched downriver. Nothing.

  “Damian?”

  Elena had poked her head out from under the boathouse. He could see her shivering even from the shore, which meant swimming was out as a means of escape.

  “It’s clear for now. Come on out.”

  He met her at the edge of the river and offered a hand, then pulled her up next to him. She looked like a drowned rat—soaking wet, muddy, and shivering—and he almost laughed, but he probably didn’t look much better. Besides, even bedraggled she was gorgeous, which reminded him of how her body had responded to his fingers, her soft moans, and that look of ecstasy he’d put on her face.

  Suddenly his pants were too tight.

  “Okay, Mr. Expert,” she said, her teeth chattering. “How do we get out of here?”

  He gave her a once over and smiled. She’d crossed her arms under her breasts, but her tight, dark nipples showed through her wet shirt. His cock throbbed against the zipper of his fatigues. Jesus. She had his head so fucked up he couldn’t concentrate on doing his job.

  “I don’t think several miles in the freezing river will do either of us any good, and since the car is out of order we’re going to have to walk.”

  “We could check the boathouse for a boat,” she offered.

  “A boat with an engine is going to draw attention, but if they have a canoe or kayak…”

  “Okay, maybe not. Water makes me nervous, and this river is moving too fast for me.”

  “You really can’t swim?”

  “No. I can’t. I can bob and splash in a pool. I can dog paddle and do a passable breast stroke. But I’m not comfortable in the water.”

  He took her hand in his to reassure her. “When we get home, I’ll teach you how to swim.”

  The words slipped out before he could stop them. The last thing he needed was to insinuate some future between them when neither of them could really afford such a thing. There was no house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and two point five kids in their future. They did their jobs so other people could have that.

  “I’d like that,” she said, a genuine desire flashing in her eyes that made him wonder. “But for today, water still scares me.”

  He didn’t like the idea of her scared. It didn’t fit who she was. “I’d never let anything happen to you, Elena. You’re always safe with me. Even in the water.”

  “Still. I’d rather walk.”

  “Then we’d better get started.”

  Damian still had his SIG P226, and removed it from the holster to have it at the ready. A shit lot of good it would do against a bunch of guys armed with AK-47s, if it came to that, but it felt better than having nothing. Elena’s weapon wasn’t meant to be submerged, so it was useless.

  He still had some grenades—which he hoped were still viable despite being dunked in the river—and his knife, but all in all, it would just be better if they could avoid the enemy altogether.

  As they walked, he kept Elena on his river side, since she had no body armor. If the guerillas surprised them from out of the jungle he wanted to be between them and her.

  The riverbank near the boathouse had been cleared of foliage, but as they moved farther east, the brush and plant life grew nearer the river—at some points right up to the edge—forcing them to walk single file and climb over and through all kinds of branches, fronds, and bushes. A few times they had to step into the river and walk in the shallows just to get around the overgrowth.

  They walked for what he figured to be a couple of miles. The sky became brighter, and the air hotter and filled with typical tropical humidity. Their clothes dried of river water only to become wet again with sweat.

  The river made a gentle turn, but another leafy green obstacle blocked their path. Damian reached his arm under the big leaves and lifted them for Elena to pass. She slipped under the leafy arbor and he followed only to ram into her back a few steps on.

  “Elena, what the hell?”

  “Damian…”

  He looked over her shoulder to find a half dozen or so guerillas on a bridge over the river, all with AKs pointed at them.

  “Fuck.”

  A tall-ish man with dark skin, black hair, a cheesy mustache, and dressed in fatigues stepped up. “Good morning, Miss Mitchell.”

  “That’s Romero Camacho, Ramos’s lieutenant,” Elena whispered over her shoulder.

  “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” Camacho asked. His heavy accent made it difficult to understand him.

  “Why should I?” Elena asked. “What do you want?”

  Camacho nodded and a couple of his men peeled off and headed for Damian and Elena. He could try a grenade and hope it worked, but the movement alone would draw attention. He’d never be able to shoot them all from this distance without getting Elena killed.

  “I want you to do as you’re told,” Camacho said.

  Damian doubted that would ever happen.

  The two men approached with their weapons up and ready. One of them grabbed Elena by the arm and pulled on her. She yanked her arm away. “No me toques, asshole.”

  “Don’t cause trouble, Miss Mitchell.”

  “Fuck you, Mr. Camacho,” she said.

  She kicked one of the guerillas square in the gut, earning a loud oof in return. As the man doubled over and toppled to his ass, his trigger finger twitched on reflex and the AK rattled off several bullets, one of which slammed into Damian’s chest, knocking him off balance.

  His chest plate stopped the bullet, but the impact punched the wind out of him and he stumbled a few steps and tripped into the river, landing on his back in the swirling current. While he struggled to get his breath back without choking on water, the river latched onto him and dragged him away.

  The last thing he saw before he passed under the bridge was the other guerilla seizing Elena and shoving her in front of him with the gun at her back. She struggled and screamed his name, over and over.

  It occurred to him she must think he was dead. He couldn’t do anything about that since he wanted the bad guys to think he was dead, so she’d just have to suck it up for now.

  On the other side of the bridge he looked up into the barrels of more weapons. Instead of testing how many bullets the chest plate could handle, he rolled onto his belly and submerged as far as he could, doing his best to move out of the center of the river since that’s where most of the fire would be concentrated.

  The muffled report of gunfire came as he expected, and from his vantage near the edge of the river, he watched the bullets slice through the water and bury themselves in the riverbed. A few came uncomfortably close, but as predicted they assumed he’d continued swimming down the middle of the river.

  He could hold his breath for a long time, but even he had to breathe sometime and just as white sparkles invaded his peripheral vision, the gunfire stopped. Damian took a chance and rolled to his back, just barely allowing hi
s lips and nose to break the surface. He sucked in sweet oxygen, hoping he wouldn’t earn a bullet to the face as reward. But nothing happened, so he chanced a look around.

  At the opposite end of the bridge he caught a glimpse of the guerillas loading Elena into the back of a van.

  Damian climbed out of the water and crept into the trees. No way would these assholes get away with this shit. Elena belonged to him. She was his responsibility, and by damn he’d rescue her if it was the last fucking thing he did.

  ***

  Elena woke suddenly, in a fog of pain. Assholes hadn’t used drugs this time. They’d gone with the good old-fashioned knock-out blow to the head.

  She opened her eyes to get a look at her surroundings. Pain lanced through her head, and she squeezed one eye shut against it. Camacho’s meaty fist packed a wallop, she’d give him that. Her head hurt enough that her teeth throbbed with the pain.

  Then she remembered Damian. Being shot in the chest. Falling into the river and washing away. SEALs wore body armor, right? He couldn’t be dead. If he wasn’t, she’d hunt him down and kill him for letting her think he was.

  When she managed to ease her other eye open, she took in her surroundings. They’d tied her to a chair and dumped her in an office. One wall consisted of windows which gave her a view out onto a warehouse full of crates and a bunch of other stuff she couldn’t readily identify.

  How original. Trapped in a drug lord’s distribution warehouse.

  She struggled against the bonds, but from the way they bit into her wrists and ankles she assumed them to be plastic ties.

  The office was on the second floor, but from her vantage she made note of men with guns guarding all the visible exits, and patrolling the walkway in front of the office.

  Why hadn’t Camacho killed her already?

  She had no illusions about surviving this escapade. She knew too much about them and their operation, now she’d seen their warehouse, and she’d brought down a swarm of American military onto their compound. They’d have to move their headquarters, and God knew how many men they’d lost.